Throwaway Girls

by Andrea Contos

  So now we’re friends who are the other’s biggest fans on the field and biggest opponents in the classroom, constantly knocking each other out of valedictorian contention.

  We’re the kind of friends who have had plenty of conversations but none of them the right kind of honest.

  We are not the kind of friends who talk to the school’s head counselor together.

  My gaze drops to the e-cig in his hand and I tell myself I’m not daring him to prove he’s more than his Snapchat photos and lacrosse trophies, to say the words he always holds in when we talk. But when he tilts the vape onto its side and focuses on the amber liquid as it levels itself, I know I’m a liar.

  He brings it to his lips and his eyes flare as he wheezes, cheeks puffing. He makes two hard coughs, his voice strained as he says, “Why does it taste like I’m smoking a cupcake?”

  I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. “It’s vanilla, you asshole, now give it —”

  He smacks away my reaching hand. “Wait your turn. I’ll do it better next time.”

  If I had a gold star I’d stick it to his forehead.

  I pull my coat tighter, but my tights do nothing to stop a rash of goose bumps over my legs. Because maybe I’ve been too afraid to be honest too. With everyone. And now Madison isn’t here to listen to all the things I should’ve said. “I’m going to see Dr. Hern because we have an agreement. She understands it causes me ‘undue hardship’ to have my mother on campus, so she sort of … makes her go away.”

  Behind him, the green and yellow ribbons hugging every tree and lamppost flicker in the force of the wind, a few already reduced to a knot instead of a bow. No one could find a final answer on which color represents missing children, and everyone pointed out that Madison hates the color yellow, but no one listened until the grounds crew had already tied half the campus.

  We’re not allowed to participate in the searches. St. Francis Preparatory Academy released an official statement. Our foremost concern is the safety of our students, and with the high concentration of boarders, we’re unable to guarantee that safety outside of school grounds. We have the utmost faith in the ability of law enforcement to bring Madison home safely.

  Jake takes another hit, and true to his word, he does better. “It could be worse.”

  “Doubt it.”

  I’ve barely finished speaking before I want to take it all back. Jake’s mom died when he was barely old enough to remember her. “Shit. I’m —”

  He shrugs a single broad shoulder. “It’s okay. I went to boarding school for elementary too. I had to with how much my dad travels. Then I was just like everyone else — no one in boarding school has parents.” He gives me a crooked smile, and it’s obvious I’m not the first idiot he’s had to deflect comments from.

  We’re nearly to the door when he hands me back the vape, but when I reach for it, he doesn’t let go. “Did you really use taking your vitamin as an excuse to bail?”

  This will be impossible to explain. “It’s a code word.”

  My hand curls around the frigid handle as I swing open the door to Henson Hall, the brass placard beside it proclaiming the famous Maryland explorer it was named for.

  I step inside, the soft hiss of radiators carrying musty heat, its warmth battling against the chill.

  “Are you gonna tell me what for?”

  I drop my voice to avoid the echo, my wet saddle shoes squeaking on the polished floors. “I take meds for anxiety.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t — I mean, you don’t seem like you have anxiety.”

  I raise an eyebrow that I hope translates to “do you not see a correlation there?” so I don’t have to say it and sound like a bitch.

  “Is that why …”

  He waits for me to fill in the blanks from the night we don’t talk about — when I led my team to nationals and scored the winning goal, when they carried me off the field and Jake ran on to help. There are pictures of that moment — pictures taken by Madison — that, years later, still hang in St. Francis’s halls. Me, smiling, radiating all the joy that propelled me to tell my mom the things I’d been holding back.

  Jake found me on the roof late that night, one of my last in the dorms, and I fell asleep sobbing into his arms.

  He never asked why. I never told him.

  I shake my head. “No. That’s not why.”

  This kind of honesty may be what I need, but right now, it’s more than I can handle. “Anyway, my mom has depression and she takes meds too, but my dad doesn’t know about any of that because he thinks big pharma is trying to turn us all into chemically dependent zombies, when instead we should be searching out our mind-body balance through holistic means. My mom claims she and my dad were never closer to divorce than when the subject of childhood vaccinations came up.”

  What I don’t say is my mother would never stand for divorce, not when she married Dad against her mother’s wishes — a fact Grandma Caldecott has never let her forget. And my dad would never be able to undergo the confrontation long enough to try it, not to mention it’s Mom’s family that has the real money.

  Sometimes I’m convinced they both want to keep me home forever because they’re terrified of being left alone with each other.

  Jake says, “Jesus, Caroline,” but I don’t hear any of the rest, because I’m frozen, steps away from Madison’s locker.

  I’ve autopiloted through this walk more times than I can count. Madison let me use her locker because mine is four buildings over, in a hall where I’ve had exactly two classes in four years, because I got last dibs on placement after Mom yanked me from the dorms middle of freshman year.

  But I can’t use Madison’s locker anymore, and not just because there’s a rainbow-colored collage of notes and messages tacked to the door. Or because of the haphazard mound of flowers and plushies covering the space beneath it.

  It’s because her locker is empty, off-limits now. I know, because the coat and books I had in there when Madison went missing were confiscated by Detectives Brisbane and Harper.

  The next day, identical versions appeared on my desk, like replacing them might make me forget the reason they were gone.

  Jake whispers, “Do you think it’s true? What Madison’s mom said?”

  I should say something. Point out I don’t even know what part of what Mrs. Bentley said he’s talking about. But I can’t stop the vision of the cops with their hands in Madison’s locker, pulling out pieces of her life one by one. Searching for secrets she didn’t have, like it’s her fault she’s not here right now.

  She’s not even supposed to have a locker. Only day students are eligible since lockers are limited and St. Francis is 95 percent boarders. But when your family name is etched into the stone of the campus’s newest building and generations of your family are proud graduates of the academy, locker rules don’t apply.

  Jake finishes, “About someone out there knowing something but not saying it?”

  My gaze snaps to his. “Do you?”

  He doesn’t answer, but my thoughts are too busy tripping over each other to listen. And then I’m walking before I can put together the reason why.

  Madison knows my combination as well as I know hers. If she needed a place to hide something no one would find, my locker would be the perfect spot.

  It’s barely a theory, but I don’t slow down when Jake calls my name, and by the time I burst through the doors, I’m in a full sprint, racing through the hushed campus.

  He has no problem matching my speed, and neither of us let up, even as we climb the stairs to the second floor of Barton Hall.

  Our breathing fills the silence, my fingers trembling over the ridges of the lock I haven’t opened in months, and it’s all I can do to remember what number comes next.

  The metal creaks open and even the air smells emp
ty.

  Empty.

  Just like the locker with the shrine around it. Like the parking spot she used to claim, right next to mine, so we could leave each other stupid notes beneath the windshield wipers.

  Heat washes over my back as Jake steps closer, peering over my head and into the locker.

  He reaches inside but I block him, hoisting myself higher with the help of the locker’s bottom edge. Cold metal greets my palm as I run it over the top shelf, expecting a layer of dust and finding none.

  My finger snags on a sharp corner and I grasp tight to whatever it is, tugging it free from where it’s lodged along the shelf’s edge.

  I’m still wedged in the locker, my body shielding my discovery from Jake, which is good, because I have no idea how to explain this.

  The matchbook from The Wayside sits heavy in my palm, black background fraying at the worn edges to reveal papery white.

  This isn’t mine. My second life at The Wayside isn’t something I risk mingling with the one I have here. Too dangerous. Too many chances of someone seeing the wrong thing.

  The Wayside is my secret. The one not a single living soul at this school knows about. Not even Madison.

  Jake says, “What did you find?” and I hear myself respond that it’s nothing, but my hands are sweaty where they grip the edge of the locker, and I hold my breath as I flip the cover open to reveal a phone number I don’t recognize scrawled in handwriting I do.

  Looping, scripted. Madison is the only person I know who writes every number like she’s practicing calligraphy.

  Madison went to The Wayside. She talked to someone there, wrote down their number. And now she’s gone.

  A deep voice calls, “Ms. Lawson,” and I jump so hard my head cracks against the top of the locker.

  I stumble back and Jake catches my shoulders, propping me upright so I have no choice but to look at Mr. McCormack instead of running away.

  Mr. McCormack carries himself with the kind of confidence that comes from rarely being denied anything, and the kind of self-esteem that comes from being born with phenomenal genetics and the kind of pedigree St. Francis Preparatory Academy salivates over.

  I’d hate him for it if I didn’t owe him for more mercies and favors than I can track.

  He’s also the person I’ve worked the hardest to avoid the last few weeks.

  He’s planning to force me into a conference. I’ve learned the signs from the teachers that came before him. If he succeeds, it’ll be my fourth “I’m worried about you, Caroline” conference of the semester — holding at a steady two-per-month pace. The others were easy enough to pacify, but Mr. McCormack will be a challenge.

  And by challenge, I mean he won’t believe me when I lie to him. Which is a problem, because he could ruin everything for me. A single meeting where he tells my parents what he knows — everything he knows — and my years of planning toward escape will crumble.

  I rub my throbbing head with the pad of my finger, hoping I’ll need a few stitches so I can avoid this conversation.

  But I freeze when Mr. McCormack’s eyes narrow on what’s in my hand.

  He says, “I’d like to speak to you for a moment.”

  I was wrong about the whole “not a single living soul at St. Francis knows about The Wayside” thing. There is one person.

  Jake edges closer to me, his spine straightened to full height. “Caroline and I were in the middle of something.”

  Mr. McCormack raises an eyebrow and puts on his teacher voice. “Mr. Monaghan, I’m fairly certain ‘loitering in the hallway’ appears on neither of your schedules for third period. You’re dismissed.”

  I need Jake to stay so I don’t have to have talk to Mr. McCormack, but if Mr. McCormack is going to force the issue, I don’t want Jake around for whatever he’s going to say.

  I’d pray for divine intervention, but the smarter bet is to walk away and hope they’ll both be so busy staring each other down they won’t notice I’m gone.

  But my escape route collapses under the clip of familiar footsteps that draw closer with every second. When I turn, Detective Brisbane flashes me a shiny badge and says, “Are you Caroline Lawson?” even though he knows I am.

  Mr. McCormack’s voice sounds over my shoulder, cutting through the empty hallway. “Ms. Lawson is a student on her way to class. And a minor.”

  Except I wasn’t on my way to class, and sometimes the devil you don’t know is the lesser threat.

  I step toward the detectives. “What is it you need from me?”

  Detective Brisbane rocks on his heels. “Ms. Lawson. We’d like to speak to you about the disappearance of Madison Bentley.”

  Chapter Two

  Well, that went well.

  St. Francis doesn’t offer a ton of criminal justice classes, but I’d bet lying in a missing persons investigation is grounds for prosecution.

  I didn’t lie about anything that mattered, just about the things that would stop me from figuring out exactly what Madison was doing at The Wayside, and who the number in the matchbook belongs to.

  I’ve tried to call it, three times. Not a single answer. Generic voice mail.

  This entire morning has been a stream of questions without a single answer.

  Rain batters my windshield, cocooning me in the safety of my car as I let my head thud onto the steering wheel.

  My breath escapes slowly, almost a sigh, and I force my knotted shoulders to relax. Heat blasts from the vents, drying my clothes much too slowly. My tattoo throbs, but since my ibuprofen is in my backpack, which is inside the school I can’t go back into because I’m not that much of an idiot, I take another hit from my vape.

  I should go to class. I should’ve gone yesterday too. My sporadic attendance and generally sucky homework performance since Willa left means I’m handing over valedictorian and I can’t even bring myself to care.

  I should go back inside.

  Though that could mean running into Mr. McCormack again. Questioning me about my school performance will just be his warm-up. Then he’ll ask about the matchbook from The Wayside.

  That’s where things get tricky.

  I don’t know why he stood up for me years ago when everyone else looked the other way. Or why he didn’t tell my parents right away when he found me, with my girlfriend, in a bar. I’ll owe him for both those things forever.

  But he’s still my teacher, and I’m walking the finest of lines, with no way to tell when I might step a fraction too far. And if he tells my parents what he saw that night, I may never get to leave the house again.

  For my own good, of course. And I can’t figure out why Madison was at The Wayside if I’m confined to my bedroom.

  So. That’s settled.

  I slam my finger into the start button and the engine fires to life, fogging the glass within seconds, and I take one last hit.

  My passenger door flies open and my scream gets tangled in my lungs. I cough out mist and all the air in my body until my eyes water, while Jake Monaghan mumbles apologies for jumping into my car without warning or invitation.

  I blink the tears from my vision and glare at him. “So … what the fuck?”

  “Sorry. It was raining.” When I stare at him, he adds, “I wanted to talk to you, and I would’ve knocked and waited, but —”

  “It was raining.”

  “Yeah.” He pauses. “I can’t be in there anymore. Everyone’s crying or gossiping.”

  He nods toward the vape. “How often do you use that thing?”

  “Not often enough for this day.”

  This, too, is the detectives’ fault. It was like they knew I was headed toward the nearest exit after our “interview,” because they hand-delivered me to my next class, which gave gossip time to spread and Jake time to track me down. And now he’s in my car asking questions while I’m supposed to be
leaving.

  I try to mask the impatience in my voice. “Why do you want to talk to me?”

  “What did those detectives ask you about?”

  “Shit that’s none of your business.”

  “C’mon, Caroline, my dad’s a judge and …” He holds out his hand until I drop the vape into it. “She was my friend too. I want to help, not just hold a fucking candle, you know?”

  “Flameless candle. In broad daylight.”

  “Yeah, what the hell was that about?”

  His look of genuine confusion is enough to put me over the edge, and all the stress of the last few hours comes out in the form of highly inappropriate laughter. “It was supposed to be last night, remember? But it rained so it got moved to this morning.”

  Mom moved it because she couldn’t bear a low turnout for her event, and she couldn’t get canopies set up in time.

  “The logical thing to do would’ve been to nix the candles, but my parents got into a huge fight over them. My dad wanted locally sourced, organic beeswax — if you’re going to save the girl, you might as well save the bees too, I guess — and my mom disagreed because I don’t think she knows how to do anything else. And then everything fell apart because we had to move it to the new field since it’s farthest from the entrance and therefore inaccessible to lurking media.”

  It takes Jake several tries before he finally forms words. “So, she went out and bought a thousand flameless candles on some sort of principle?”

  I shrug, because I’m not sure I have the words to fully explain why my mom does the things she does, or if I even understand enough to explain them.

  It’s a full minute before Jake says, his voice low, “Do you know something, Caroline? About Madison, I mean. About her disappearance?”

  The question hangs in the closed-up silence of my car, the steady stream of rain pinging off the roof and draping us in curtains of glass and water.

  I didn’t an hour ago, but now I might. Except I’m not ready to share yet. “The detectives asked all the expected stuff. My name. Where I live.”