Throwaway Girls

by Andrea Contos

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  KCP Loft is an imprint of Kids Can Press

  ISBN 978-1-5253-0612-9 (EPUB)

  Text © 2020 Andrea Contos

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of Kids Can Press Ltd. or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance of characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Kids Can Press Ltd. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed in initial capital letters (e.g., Band-Aid).

  Kids Can Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through Ontario Creates.

  Published in Canada and the U.S. by Kids Can Press Ltd.

  25 Dockside Drive, Toronto, ON M5A 0B5

  Kids Can Press is a Corus Entertainment Inc. company

  www.kidscanpress.com

  www.kcploft.com

  Edited by Kate Egan

  Cover design by Jennifer Lum

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Throwaway girls / Andrea Contos.

  Names: Contos, Andrea, author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana 20190095733 | ISBN 9781525303142 (hardcover)

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.C65 T47 2020 | DDC j813/.6 — dc23

  Dedication

  To my daughters, Evangeline and Josephine, who will always be my greatest inspiration.

  And to my brother, Andrew, who was always meant to live amongst the stars.

  The Edges Of Things:

  An Unnamed Girl By An Unnamed Lake

  Everything started with the body at the edge of the lake. I know that now.

  But back then, all I knew was the rush and gurgle of water where the stream fed into the lake, the gentle sway of yellow irises as the wind lifted their downturned petals. And the way the body’s legs bobbed in time with the lap of water against the shore, like part of the girl’s spirit was still trying to run from whatever had brought her there.

  Left her there.

  Hastily pulled half onto the shore.

  Eyes closed. Mouth open. Full lips a watercolor blend of pink roses and the sky before a storm.

  I knew what dead bodies looked like — even then. I’d been the one to find Edna Drake’s body when she collapsed from a heart attack on the way to her mailbox when I was seven. By twelve, I’d seen two of Mom’s boyfriends OD.

  But this girl wasn’t like the others.

  I inched closer, careful to avoid the soggy spots where I might leave a footprint, and my shadow fell over the girl’s face, shielding her from the blaring sun. Her dark hair fanned in a halo around her pale skin, mingling with the grass.

  I didn’t know her. Hadn’t seen her around the estates.

  The estates. I choked back a snicker, and tears followed right behind. Leaning in, but not too close, I whispered, “Sorry. I’m sorry. That was wrong. Defense mechanism. Sometimes I laugh when things are terrible, like —”

  Like a beautiful girl with a necklace of bruises.

  I sucked in a shuddering breath. “Really though, who was the first idiot to tack ‘Estates’ on to the name of every trailer park?”

  My knees hit the ground before I realized I was moving, cold mud coating my jeans and seeping through the fibers. I whispered, “Who did this to you?”

  I wasn’t expecting an answer, but it felt right to ask. Like maybe some part of her would have the chance to scream out a name in a final shout of justice from her spot in the heavens. Instead there was only the creak of a heavy branch on a twisted tree.

  Her thin arm lay outstretched, her inner elbow marked with faded scars.

  I scooted toward her legs and yanked the sleeves of my shirt down to cover my hands, then I pulled her all the way onto the shore.

  She was still then. No more running.

  No more running. No more wanting. No more pain.

  Just a beautiful girl lying on the shore in a forever dream.

  I could’ve called the cops, but I’d seen the shows. How they’d stick her in a drawer after they cut her up. Gather their evidence even though no one would look too hard for a girl no one wanted to find.

  For some people, life begins too far behind the starting line to have any hope of crossing the finish.

  I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer — and an apology. Then I left her there to dream.

  At the time, I saw the peacefulness of death. A quiet slip into blissful stillness. A relief.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I know that now too.

  Chapter One

  Sometimes I try to convince myself Madison isn’t really missing.

  I decide she was brave enough to do what I couldn’t and left everything behind.

  But the delusion never lasts long, because I know she wouldn’t leave.

  I know she never wanted to leave.

  She loved everything about her life.

  She’s never been the girl who wanted to escape. And she isn’t the girl with all the secrets.

  I am.

  But it’s Madison’s mom on stage, positioned against a backdrop of fog-drenched hills and clustered trees, the sun blanching what color she has left in her face. She looks paler every hour, and it’s been thirty-six.

  She tugs her coat tighter against the rain-scented burst of wind as she says, for the third time, that someone must know something.

  Mr. Bentley isn’t up there with her. He’s not even on campus.

  He answered the phone when Mom called the Bentleys’ house the night Madison disappeared. She suggested this vigil. A showing of support, she said.

  His response carried through the phone and spilled into the hallway, because Mr. Bentley knew vigils wouldn’t bring Madison home.

  They’re nothing but a way for all the parents and students on this lawn to hide their fear behind the illusion of action. And to hide their guilt over how grateful they are it’s Madison and not them. Not their family.

  Mom called back the next morning, when she knew Mr. Bentley would be gone. And now I’m standing at a vigil in broad daylight, holding a flameless candle so there’s no threat of melted wax on the new football field turf, and plotting to get my mother off campus before she has a chance to talk to anyone.

  Projected pictures of my missing best friend flash behind Mrs. Bentley as she says, for the fourth time, that someone must know something.

  Every time the words strike the air they feel less like a statement and more like a plea.

  I hold my breath, begging for someone to announce they know exactly where Madison is. That she’s not missing at all. Because there are moments when I can’t stop my thoughts from sliding into the horrors of where she could be. Places where she isn’t fine. And futures where she doesn’t come back.

  Mrs. Bentley is alone up there, bookended by cops and faculty but no one who actually cares, and pressure builds behind my eyes, caging the tears I’ve forgotten how to let fall.

  Madison would know what to do if she were here. She’s the daughter Mom wanted but definitely did not get. The one who felt at ease in any room, who always knew the right thing
to say and the right people to talk to during the outings, the fundraisers, the brunches and the dinner parties. When conversations turned to grades and accomplishments, futures and prospects, Madison always knew to turn it to me:

  Caroline’s in the running for valedictorian, you know.

  Her team won last year’s National Speech and Debate Tournament.

  Caroline’s already been recruited by Ivy League soccer teams.

  We made up for each other’s weaknesses.

  Not today though. Today I’m alone, wishing, just for a moment, that it were Madison’s feet frozen to the million-dollar turf that looks like grass but isn’t. Her hand strangling this ridiculous flameless candle whose light no one can even see because there’s a reason candlelight vigils are held at night.

  It’s the darkness and shadows, the way they hide the pain you don’t want others to see, and the way they shield you from the truths you don’t want to know.

  Like the way Mrs. Bentley’s fists clench every time her gaze finds mine.

  I need to leave. Right now. But Mom’s fingers dig into my arm, her elbow jabbing where my skin is still raw from the tattoo that will always remind me of Willa.

  Mom doesn’t speak, but in my head, I hear every syllable of my name. The way her tongue slides over every consonant of “Caroline” with a practiced ease that doesn’t sound like the reproach it is.

  It’s a language only the two of us understand.

  I planned this vigil. We’re in the front row. You are not leaving.

  Never make a scene. That’s one of Mom’s unbreakable rules.

  St. Francis is a family — that’s what all the brochures say.

  The trouble with families is they know your weak points. Mom makes sure we never show ours.

  Dad rubs my back, but it’s a false comfort and my skin prickles with the need to shrug him off.

  His arm falls when Mom glares at him.

  A gust of spring wind draws rhythmic clangs from the flagpole, and the crowd surrounding me stirs, like they’re grateful to focus on anything other than Mrs. Bentley.

  Her sobs are replaced by the soft notes of whatever song my mom picked for Aubrey Patel-Brennan to sing. Apparently, no vigil is complete without entertainment.

  It’s impossible to ignore Aubrey’s voice, but I’m doing my best. By the time it fades into the clouds, the field is filled with tears and sniffles.

  In an hour, all the cars will leave the grounds and all the students will be back at class. Restoring normalcy, they call it. Giving kids the comfort of routine. Besides, it’s not like she went missing from campus. She was on a home visit and told her mom she was going shopping. She was only twenty miles from St. Francis, only six miles from home. They still haven’t found her car.

  That all adds up to St. Francis being officially free from responsibility. But not from response, especially when news of Madison’s disappearance sent shocks through the community and the police launched searches right away.

  Rumors of a temporary St. Francis shutdown followed close behind. So even as tears fell to tile floors and stares remained vacant, there were phone calls to Headmaster Havens.

  It’s a terrible thing that’s happened to that poor girl, but …

  We pay a lot of money to attend this institution.

  My son shouldn’t be denied his education.

  My daughter has scouts scheduled to watch her next game.

  The resident-assistance council, the yearbook club, the party-planning committees, they’ve all set up shrines to Madison in their offices. Their members still stumble through campus with red-rimmed eyes, but in every one of them, someone has offered to step into Madison’s place. Just in case.

  They never say the rest. Just in case she never comes back.

  Headmaster Havens finally escorts Mrs. Bentley off the stage, the dome of his bald head catching in the glow of the sun, and then she’s gone, disappearing into the car Mom has waiting to escort her back to Olivet Hall, where trays of salmon tartare and chocolate truffles await. Like maybe hors d’oeuvres are the trick to bringing Madison back safely. She’ll just follow the fucking trail of smoked trout blinis straight from Grandmother’s house in the woods.

  Detective Brisbane steps toward the mic, his scuffed shoes thudding against the stage.

  I’ve watched those shoes clip against St. Francis’s marble floors every day since Madison disappeared, each echo a reminder that the world outside the manicured campus grounds can infiltrate ours.

  But the other set, the ones that belong to Detective Harper, remind me of far more. Fake smiles and false assurances.

  Detective Harper is a liar. That score to settle goes back nearly three years.

  And if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s this: if things are ever going to be right again, it’s not Detective Harper who’s going to get them there.

  I wrench my arm from Mom’s grip and step back, making it impossible for her to recapture me without making it obvious.

  I mumble, “I forgot to take my vitamin,” and her jaw snaps shut, a flush coloring her face.

  I walk away, and when a voice whispers my name, I move faster.

  I’m nearly to the edge of the crowd when Jake Monaghan catches up to me and whispers, “Hey, wait up,” even though we’re standing in the same square foot of space.

  I glance back to my parents and find Mr. Monaghan sandwiched between them, arms draped around their shoulders, like they’re old friends and not just acquaintances who exchange pleasantries at St. Francis fundraisers. Mom’s practically beaming — the delight of garnering attention from one of the school’s most influential parents more than she can smother — and my anger toward her rivals my gratitude for him.

  The screen behind Brisbane and Harper pauses on a shot of me and Madison, our faces pressed together, her blond hair tangling with mine — we’re always the most extreme versions of ourselves when in contrast. But our smiles matched, because neither of us knew then what we know now.

  I remember that picture.

  Madison took it at the beginning of our fall outreach soccer camp for disadvantaged youth. She came with me in her official capacity as head yearbook photographer, and, as official co-captain of St. Francis Prep’s soccer team, I made sure she got on-field access.

  I know why my mom chose that picture, and it’s got nothing to do with Madison.

  It’s because of me. Because it’s been years since I’ve smiled like that in my mom’s presence.

  I want to tell her that smile wasn’t just for the kids we taught that day. I want to shatter all my mother’s delusions and tell her the other reason was because, after years of waiting and wondering, that was the morning I saw Willa again.

  But I’m too close to ruin everything now — only months away from graduation and leaving this version of my life behind forever. I’ve spent years giving each of my parents the part of me they can accept. All the rest is mine. And when I’m finally free of them both, I won’t have to pretend for anyone.

  A collective gasp rises from the field as the whine of a drone slices the sky — some desperate reporter trying to fill a five o’clock news segment. Then another drone joins the fray — from the team Mom hired — and they twist and tangle until they both whiz out of sight.

  The crowd murmurs, uncomfortable coughs a clear indication that no one knows the protocol for a drone-crashed vigil. Even Mr. McCormack looks confused, and he’s never confused about anything. He’s the most decent and competent teacher St. Francis has.

  A second later he regains his composure, murmuring something to the crowd of students surrounding him: Kids whose parents live too far, or couldn’t make it. Kids who feel more comfortable with him than with their families. Whatever he said, they all look calmer for having heard it. I should’ve stood with them.

  I shove my flameless candle into Jake’s h
and while he’s still too stunned to question it, and then I’m gone.

  He’s two steps behind, silent the entire walk past the dorms. I grab my vape from my coat pocket and take a long vanilla-flavored drag. All the happy-making chemicals hit my bloodstream in a dizzying swirl of relief, muddying my thoughts for a few blessed seconds.

  At least until Jake says, “Are you vaping?”

  “Clearly. But it’s embarrassing enough to watch myself do it, so please pretend you don’t see me.”

  “Then why —”

  “Cigarette smoke smells.”

  “No, why do it at all?”

  Self-destructive tendencies, my therapist says.

  I extend my arm, letting the vape dangle from my outstretched fingers. “Why did you follow me?”

  Weight lifts from my fingertips as Jake grabs the vape and narrows his eyes, like a single inhale will lead to his rapid descent into rampant addiction and a lifetime of broken dreams. “You seemed upset.”

  There’s nothing Jake Monaghan can do to fix all the things making me that way, so I say nothing, leading him past the chapel and around the back of Pearson Hall before he thinks to ask where we’re going.

  I say, “I am going to see Dr. Hern. I don’t know where you’re going.”

  “Why are you going to see Dr. Hern?”

  When I don’t answer, he slides in front of me so I have to stop, raking grooves through his mussed blond hair. “We’re friends, right?”

  The question hangs in the air as the wind sends leaves skittering across the cobblestone walk between us.

  We are friends. Have been from the moment I broke away from Headmaster Havens’s exceptionally condescending speech at freshman orientation. Jake found me on the soccer field and challenged me to score on him. When I said no, he assumed I sucked, so he promised he wouldn’t even move from his spot in the middle of the goal.

  He didn’t think I’d aim for his nuts any more than I believed he’d actually refuse to move. It was a good lesson for both of us, to never underestimate the other.

  We are friends. But we’re not friends who fill each other’s weaknesses, because we have the same strengths. And the one time mine faltered, my weaknesses on display, he never looked at me the same again.