Problem Child (ARC)

by Victoria Helen Stone

  with Kayla now. “I held her room for her! I stored all her

  clothes! Someone needs to pay for that.”

  “No one is giving you any more money, Mom. Least

  of all me. Maybe you can con some of your other grand-

  children, but I’ll warn Joylene about you, at least. God

  knows how many others there are at this point.”

  “You listen here, you little—”

  “No, you listen. I didn’t even tell Kayla that you gave Little Dog’s name to that thug. She doesn’t know about

  that. Do you want me to tell her?”

  Her face twists, freezing in an ugly mask for a mo-

  ment before she smooths it out into helplessness. “I didn’t know he was dangerous.”

  “That boy is dead, by the way, so your judgment is

  hopelessly skewed. You’d better drop it right now, lady.”

  Miraculously, she does. She takes two short steps to

  the trailer, then glances to me as if she’s worried I’ll steal everything if she turns her back. I’m not even sure what

  she’s going to try to pull with Kayla, but I remember

  now how she tried to sabotage my escape to college. She

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  threw away letters from Minnesota. Told me she got a

  call that I’d been rejected after all.

  Some sort of fear of abandonment, maybe. Who cares?

  My eye catches one last time on that crack in my old

  bedroom window. I remember the rage behind it. The

  bloodlust.

  “What was his name?” I ask.

  “What?” my mom asks, her hands fluttering. “Who?”

  “That man. Your boarder. He told me to call him Uncle

  Pete, but he wasn’t related to anyone I know. What was his

  name?” Maybe I’ll look him up. Maybe he’s still around. He

  seemed old at the time, but fifty could have been ancient

  to a little girl. He could very well be alive and kicking.

  “Pete? ” She scowls. “I don’t know. Low? Lowell?

  Something like that. Haven’t seen him around in years.”

  “Maybe he was sent to jail for raping little girls, Mom.”

  “Oh Lord,” she mutters. “You keep that filth to your-

  self. Climbing all over that man like he was your daddy.”

  My filth. The filth of a seven-year-old girl who just

  wanted to be safe and warm. Monster that I am, they’re

  lucky I didn’t burn them all alive in that goddamn trailer.

  I cock my head because … I still could. I stare at that

  window, which I cracked in that rage tantrum when I

  was ten because I hated everyone. It wasn’t my fist. I’m

  not that self-sacrificing. It was my brother’s stupid remote control for his stupid toy truck that he’d run straight into my back on Christmas morning.

  My parents had told me they didn’t have money for

  gifts and I was a nasty little bitch anyway. All I’d gotten was a set of cheap flavored lip gloss and a fake Barbie doll from the thrift store. My teenage brother, on the other

  hand, got the exact RC monster truck he’d wanted.

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  He ran it into me all day long, leaving bruises on

  my legs and back. Then he offered to let me “play with

  it” while pointing at his crotch. “Five minutes for five

  minutes.” My mother just laughed.

  The minute he went outside to sneak a cigarette, I

  stole the remote and threw it at the wall hard enough to

  break it. Then I threw it again. And again. Until it finally ricocheted off the window with a satisfying snap. At the

  time, I wished I’d cracked his head instead of the glass. I still do. I wish I’d cracked them all open.

  That old trailer is packed with trash and could easily

  ignite and spread flames to the brand-new trailer next to

  it, still stinking of flammable chemicals. Spread to the elderly woman inside and her stroke-victim husband, unable

  to navigate out in the smoke and heat. A clean slate. For

  me and Kayla and the rest of the goddamn world who’ve

  been subjected to these people for almost seventy years.

  But no.

  Not worth it. I have a real life now. A gorgeous con-

  do and a beautiful cat and a new car and a niece full

  of promise, not to mention a successful boyfriend who

  wants more. The fucking American dream. Everything

  my mother will never have.

  So when Kayla emerges with a duffel bag packed with

  belongings, I leave my mother behind, still screeching and

  cursing about what I owe her. I leave her behind because

  I don’t owe her shit except revenge, and she’s not even

  worth that anymore.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I watch her like I’m bingeing a fascinating new tele-

  vision show. She changes personality with her wardrobe.

  Today Kayla is wearing her traveling outfit: sleek black

  jean leggings and a stylishly slashed pink T-shirt. The girl is already hooked on shopping, but I’ve made clear she’ll be getting a job soon to cover some of those costs.

  “A real job,” I cautioned, and she smiled sweetly. Lord

  save me from the machinations of a child monster.

  She’s softened the twang of her accent as if she’s

  a wealthy Dallas teenager who’s accustomed to plane

  rides and airport smoothies, but I see her wide eyes. All

  the wonder of a five-year-old with none of the innocence.

  “This is business class,” I explain as we board the

  plane and find our seats.

  “Not first?”

  “First class is something you can discover on your own

  dime. I think these seats should be sufficiently comfort-

  able for your narrow ass.”

  She shoots a squint toward the leather seats in front

  of us. “I thought they were going to be cool capsules

  anyway. Those just look like Grandpa’s ugly recliner.”

  “You’ve seen too many commercials,” I mutter, but

  she’s already ignoring me to poke around on the in-flight

  entertainment system. I feel like a real mom now.

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  Just kidding. This is much easier to do without guilt

  or worry. As soon as we’re in the air, I get out my laptop

  and get some work done on my new cases. I can’t wait to

  be back in the office, kicking some ass. It’s a new Rob-

  free era, and I’m ready to shine!

  She maintains her air of boredom as we take off and

  rise into the sky. When the flight attendant comes by,

  Kayla orders a Coke, then demands all three snacks when

  offered a choice. I feel tingles of affection when the woman grudgingly hands Kayla peanuts, pretzels, and a granola bar. Finally, someone I can actually relate to.

  Ninety minutes later, I reach past Kayla to open the

  window shade. “Look down,” I say.

  “Huh. What’s all that water? Flooding?”

  “Land of Ten Thousand Lakes.”

  She looks at me blankly.

  “That’s what Minnesota is called. The Land of Ten

  Thousand Lakes. You’ll like it.”

  “Whatever,” she says, but I notice her sneaking looks

  out the window as we turn into the descent. It’s new and

  different, and that will be enough to keep her interest

  for a little while. Then there will be a new house, a new

  school, n
ew people. This should be easy.

  “Do I really have to sleep on the couch?” she asks suddenly.

  “Just for a few weeks. I’ll find a new place.”

  “I could take your bed and you could stay with your

  boyfriend. I’ll be fine.”

  “Sure, invite over anyone you want and trash the place.”

  “I’d be good,” she promises with big eyes.

  “Girl, please.”

  “I need privacy.” Her voice rises a little. “I don’t even

  know you! You could be taking me out of state to traffic

  me! I’ve seen Dateline!”

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  I notice the woman in the next seat stiffen and turn

  toward us, so I pitch my voice higher too. “I know

  you’re scared, and this will be hard, but you’ll get the

  treatment you need at the institution and they’ll make

  sure you don’t start any more fires, Kayla. We can’t bring

  your parents back, but we can make sure you don’t hurt

  anyone else.”

  Kayla stares at me. I stare back. Finally, she breaks

  into loud laughter and I join in. This girl.

  “Don’t try that again,” I warn, and she gives me a

  thumbs-up. Teenagers like to test boundaries. Even I

  know that.

  “I don’t expect you to be normal,” I say more quietly.

  “I’d be disappointed if you were. Believe it or not, we

  can be friends.”

  She snorts in scorn.

  “I’m like you,” I say with less patience now. “That’s

  important.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I take a deep breath and remind myself that I don’t

  trust people either. It’s the only smart way to get through life. “Yes,” I say. “We’ll see.” I can be patient for a month or two. Probably. Maybe. She’ll learn to trust me. And

  then we’ll have each other.

  We’re off the plane and walking into the baggage

  claim area when I spot him. Luke.

  He’s holding two bouquets of flowers and a stupid

  balloon that says “Welcome Home!” What an idiot. He

  spots me, his worried mouth flashing into a happy grin,

  and I feel it. I feel it. A tiny bubble of pure joy that rises up unexpectedly in my chest.

  I’m relieved he’s here. I’m happy to see him. And it’s

  not even about sex.

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  “Jane!” he calls out, as if I weren’t looking straight at

  him. What an adorable dork.

  Rushing toward us, he hands me a bouquet of gor-

  geous dark red dahlias, and if that isn’t the perfect flower for me, I don’t know what is. Kayla, on the other hand,

  is handed a bouquet of brightly colored gerbera daisies,

  and I laugh in delight at the mismatch with her mean

  personality. She scowls down at her gift.

  “Kayla, I’m Luke. It’s so great to finally meet you.”

  “Yeah.” When I narrow my eyes in warning, she tries

  again. “Great! Hi, Uncle Luke!”

  His smile twitches the tiniest bit, but he nods. “How

  was the trip?”

  I shift my flowers to the other hand and put my arm

  around Kayla. “It was Kayla’s first plane ride.”

  “Exciting!” he says cheerily.

  “Yeah,” she responds. “Supercool.”

  I turn her slightly toward the baggage area. “Kayla, why

  don’t you go wait for your bag. It’s baggage claim three.”

  “Whatever you want, Auntie Jane.” She smacks her

  gum and flip-flops off toward the crowd.

  Turning back to Luke, I raise my eyebrows high. “A

  balloon and everything?”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” he scolds, but he’s grinning

  past his blush.

  “Never.”

  “It’s so good to see you.” And then he hugs me. A

  huge hug, pulling me tight into his arms, and for once I

  don’t pull immediately away.

  I like taking care of shit, and I’m good at it. I like be-

  ing in complete control. But it doesn’t hurt to know that

  someone could take care of me if I needed it, especially

  because I know I won’t need it.

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  He loves me. And I want to keep him, so maybe I

  truly love him too. After all, other people can be selfish

  and mean and do terrible things, and that doesn’t mean

  they can’t feel love.

  Am I so different?

  “She’s kind of a handful,” I say into his chest.

  “It’s okay. You’ll figure it out.” Then he pulls back

  and looks down at me. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

  Together. I’ve never had that. Even when my best

  friend was alive, we both knew that any plans made could

  be broken up by the arrival of the right man, whether

  that was a cab ride home for a quick lay or a long-term

  relationship arriving to mess up a lease. But Luke says

  we’ll figure it out together, and we will.

  I was running from that when I left. But now I want

  it. I want it all.

  I want to look at houses with him, pretending I’m the

  nervous wife and he’s the strong husband. He’ll try not

  to laugh when I go on and on about all the baking I’ll

  do for our three kids. He’ll blush when I whisper that we

  need extra space for our “adult playroom” just to watch

  the real estate agent’s reaction. The game will be so much

  more fun with him than it would be alone.

  I’ll leave our sullen teenager at home, don’t worry.

  She’ll get the house I choose for her, and I don’t need

  her selfish input.

  Maybe it can all be fun. Maybe I can play my way

  through suburbia, carving out exactly the path I want to

  walk as I teach Kayla what she needs to learn. And maybe,

  just maybe, my sharp and shriveled heart will be enough.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Are you settled in?” I ask, standing in the doorway of

  Kayla’s new bedroom in my new house.

  “I think I’ll survive,” she says flatly.

  It’s our first night here, though we spent a little time

  hanging around the empty rooms this past week, plan-

  ning out colors and furniture. She chose gray walls with

  purple accents, along with a matte black four-poster bed

  that looks like it belongs in a modern high-rise apartment, especially with the white comforter and piles of accent

  pillows. I would’ve killed for a room like this at her age.

  She’s put one thing up on the wall: a poster of Harley

  Quinn from some Batman movie. Her few moving boxes

  are still piled in a corner near the closet. I assume she’ll be living out of them for a while, because she hasn’t touched

  them in the three hours she’s been holed up in here.

  It’s a small house, not in the suburbs after all, but in

  a nice part of the city with a great high school. I stroll

  over to look out her window, but there’s not much of a

  view this time of year. A fence shaded by the neighbor’s

  evergreen, but the maple trees are bare.

  Her bedroom is near the kitchen, toward the front of

  the house. Our master bedroom, added in a renovation

  to the tiny 1940s home, is at the back of the house, we
ll

  away from her prying eyes and ears.

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  The house is mine, though Luke is here too. We de-

  cided I should be the one to buy, since I’m the one with

  a family to raise. I’m not charging Luke rent or anything.

  He’s my boyfriend, after all. He considered renting out

  his condo in St. Paul, but in the end he sold it. I’m glad

  he did. I don’t like the idea of him having an easy out. I

  want him here.

  I did keep him in mind when choosing my home. He

  really likes this neighborhood, and his brother’s house

  is only a five-minute drive away, so he can see his little

  niece anytime.

  Don’t worry. I’ve made absolutely clear that Kayla is

  not to be asked to babysit. That kind of trouble is the last thing I need. It’s been rough enough finally getting her

  settled into school. She accidentally tested into advanced

  math before she realized she should have thrown the test.

  Poor baby. She’s smarter than she wants to be.

  She’s also really hating Spanish class, but the counselor

  insisted that a language is essential for those “on the college track.” Kayla fought it, but there she is in Spanish class

  anyway, being actively resentful. The instructor is a man,

  so I’ll have to keep an eye on things so it doesn’t go off

  the rails. Otherwise she’s in all the normal classes, though woodshop seems like it will turn out to be a mistake. I’d

  hate to see this girl around power tools.

  Overall, the past month has been … dare I say nice?

  As if to support that characterization, my cat hops onto

  the windowsill in front of me and purrs, gazing out at

  the world beyond the glass along with me. She’s in cat

  heaven with empty boxes everywhere, so I think she’s

  enjoying the new family situation too.

  I take a moment to scratch her chin before glancing

  back toward Kayla.

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  It has been nice. I’m sure of it. She plays along with my cozy relationship with Luke, sending me secret smiles

  when he’s turned away. She doesn’t give a damn about

  him, of course, but she’s mostly polite or at least tolerant.

  Luke, on the other hand, is over-the-top friendly

  with her, like a friend’s dad from a sitcom. It’s funny to

  watch. He’s adorably eager and he’s doing his best. So am

  I, honestly, though I don’t have to try too hard. Kayla is

  fine. And she’s smart. And I’m a sociopath. I just don’t