Throwaway Girls

by Andrea Contos

  Only because of the vigil, but probably best to leave that out.

  “But not the day before and not today. Not last Thursday. And if I count the note with the forged signature from your mom from two weeks ago, you should be on third warning this month alone. You should be a step away from probation.”

  His hazel eyes are hard, and I’m suddenly desperate for them to soften while he feeds me the “I’m worried about you, Caroline” line like the other teachers before him.

  I tuck my hands between my knees. “So why aren’t I?”

  He sighs — exhausted, not irritated — and his voice loses just a hint of the edge. “I don’t know why.”

  We’re not being honest with each other. We both know why. It started with the day I showed up to school and he asked about the marks on my palms and I almost told the truth. It’s because of what he said to my mom after. It’s because for some reason he’s never explained, I’ve always been his favorite student — the one he expects the most from. It’s because he’s the best teacher I’ve ever had, and he’s never even tried to collect on the debt I owe him.

  Preston Ashcroft’s rumors are wrong. Mr. McCormack had nothing to do with Madison’s disappearance, and I’ll prove it when I find her.

  I force myself to look at him. “Attendance only counts for 5 percent of the grade in your class.”

  His eyes widen. “That’s your response? I’m supposed to be impressed with your manipulation —”

  “It’s not manipulation! It’s —” I snap my mouth shut.

  It’s not manipulation. It’s survival.

  I say, “I’m still getting over a four-point —”

  “Barely. Four-point-zero-seven. You missed a quiz today.”

  I wince before I can stop myself, and when I catch his gaze narrowing in on my hand, the one clutching the necklace that matches Willa’s, I jump from my seat. “I’ll be in class tomorrow.”

  He has no problem matching my strides down the cobbled path as we pass by the entrance to one of the dorms. “You’re well-liked. That’s probably the only thing that’s kept other students from reporting your absences — and my lack of discipline regarding them — to Headmaster Havens. This school is too competitive for that to last.”

  That’s not the only thing. People with secrets always find each other. That’s how I know Penelope Yi is dating the son of a St. Francis janitor even though her mom thinks she’s still with Edward Simmons, son of Wall Street guru Matthew Simmons. Or that Brock Olding sometimes goes to my favorite spot on the roof to smoke weed to manage his anxiety.

  And then there are the kids I tutor — the ones I meet in the most remote study room in the library, where they slip me cash like I’m handing out tiny bags of Molly rather than knowledge, at three times the rate they’d normally pay because they can’t let anyone — not even their parents — know they’re struggling.

  But it’s better if Mr. McCormack continues to think my classmates are so magnanimous because they like me lots.

  The sun is still being a coward, and I hug my arms across my chest to get some feeling back in my numb fingertips. Tendrils of black hair curl into the crooks of my elbows, and the misting rain sticks my white shirt to my skin. I suck in a breath and rip the fabric from my side, igniting sharp flares across my ribs where last night ravaged the parts of my tattoo that had barely begun to heal.

  Mr. McCormack steps right into my path and I have to pull up to avoid crashing into him. He ducks his head to meet my eyes. “Are you hurt?”

  “Let this go. All of it.”

  “One of your classmates came to see me this week. She’s worried —”

  I cut him off with a snort. “Which one? Sarah Ellis? Shondra Marks?” I pause, and get no response. “Aubrey then, right? How many buttons?”

  His brows furrow and I roll my eyes before pointing to my shirt. “How many buttons did she have undone when she arranged alone time with you under the guise of being concerned about my well-being?”

  “Caroline.” The edge is back in his voice. “You know I don’t think about any of you like that.”

  “I know.” I do know. He proved it months ago, when a lesser man wouldn’t have chosen to order me and Willa into his car at The Wayside and driven us home. Our homes. Not his. Because he wanted to make positively sure we got there safely. Or maybe because he didn’t trust me to make it home at all.

  I can’t meet his eyes when I say, “Did you really talk to Madison the night she disappeared? Did she text you?”

  It’s a betrayal, that I’m asking this at all. The suggestion I have even a hint of doubt.

  “That’s not something you need to worry about.”

  “She’s my best friend.”

  “And you know if I had any information that would help the police find her, I would give it.” He doesn’t give me time to say that I know. That I trust him. That I just want — need — to know what she said. If she was crying. If she was scared. How much I just want to hear she was okay.

  And if not, what clues she might’ve given that could bring her home.

  Instead he says, “I know Madison’s disappearance has been hard on you, but the issues here started well before that.” His gaze settles on the sprawling campus, and for a half-breath, it’s like he’s somewhere else, like he’s had this conversation before and is hoping this one ends differently.

  His hands reach to grasp mine and I freeze, and then his fingers twitch like he regrets it instantly, but he doesn’t let go. “If you’re honest with me, I could help.”

  I want to believe him. I want to unleash the tangle of thoughts and feelings inside me and exorcise them from my head.

  But I can’t risk falling apart now. Not when I’m so close to graduation. Not when I have to find Madison.

  I press my lips together to stop the words from fighting their way free.

  His voice releases on a sigh. “I know you’re struggling with what happened, but no one is worth throwing away your future for.”

  My gaze snaps to his, and for a moment, I’m not sure if he’s talking about Madison or Willa — and then he tips his chin in the direction of my necklace.

  He’s never asked about Willa, but he knows she’s gone. He has to. His pity is the only reason we didn’t have this conversation after my first missed quiz.

  The one he gave the day after Willa left.

  All my nervous energy calms into a rush of warm certainty. “She’s the only reason I have a future.” The only reason I lived past fifteen.

  He studies me, and when he crosses his arms over his chest my eyes fall shut. “Caroline, as your teacher, it’s my job to report any academic or personal concerns.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “If I don’t see immediate changes in not only your attendance, but your —”

  “Please, Mr. McCormack.”

  He sighs, and this time he’s both exhausted and irritated. “You’ve left me no choice here. I will have to tell your parents. Everything.”

  Everything.

  Except I’m not going back there. To that place in my life that left me holding a bottle of pills. To that place in my head that made me question who I was. Been there, done that, have the scars to prove it.

  And I won’t trade that prison for one in my own home while Madison is out there and I have the only leads to find her.

  I tell myself I did everything to avoid this, but that does nothing to ease the tightening in my chest as I raise my phone. Two quick swipes of my thumb and I meet his eyes again. “I sent you an email.”

  He pauses, undoubtedly waiting for the notification to sound on the phone he’s got tucked in his pocket. When it doesn’t come, he raises an eyebrow.

  “Not your school email, the other one.”

  I used the email he accidentally left open on his computer one day when I jumped on it to
google something after my phone died. He did me a favor by letting me stay in his classroom to study so I didn’t have to go home, and now I know he’s been shtupping the headmaster’s much younger wife for six months.

  As of twenty seconds ago, he’s got my copies of their correspondence in a nice, tidy email to that same account.

  To his credit, Mr. McCormack doesn’t react, even though it’s obvious he understands. “I see.”

  “Three months. Not even three months. And then you can forget I exist.”

  He keeps his voice level, but a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Who else knows about this?”

  “No one.”

  Maybe no one. I didn’t tell Willa. That part is true. But I wasn’t expecting Madison to come looking for me the day I discovered the evidence on Mr. McCormack’s computer.

  I didn’t ask if she saw, and she didn’t tell.

  He raises an eyebrow and I swallow — then again — because my throat is too thick to breathe quite right.

  I say, “Not even her,” and stumble through my next words before he can ask me to clarify. “I’m sorry. I know I owe you better than this. But you left me no choice.”

  I leave him standing there, wet leaves dragging near his feet as the wind kicks up again, but I barely make it ten feet before a familiar form blocks the path ahead.

  Headmaster Havens’s coat flaps at his thighs, fisted hands barely visible beneath his cuffs, tie strangling his jowly throat.

  His gaze shifts from Mr. McCormack to me and back, and it’s obvious he’s been watching for longer than either of us realized. Probably the entire time Mr. McCormack’s hands held tight to mine.

  From the way Havens’s eyes narrow, he doesn’t like what he sees: not a teacher and student discussing grades, or projects or anything remotely appropriate.

  We look like what we are — two people with too many secrets.

  His voice warbles across the ten-foot span between us. “Ms. Lawson, which class are you supposed to be in?”

  If Mr. McCormack is bothered, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he appears by my side, nudging me forward and putting himself directly into Havens’s path as we walk toward the building entrance Havens is guarding.

  Mr. McCormack’s voice is so low I strain to hear it. “Head up, shoulders back, Ms. Lawson. You just blackmailed me — now isn’t the time to get timid.”

  We walk in step, both of us nodding at Headmaster Havens as we pass him, and as we part ways to head to different buildings, I can’t stop my rush of gratitude for the man I just blackmailed.

  Chapter Seven

  Hell is being forced to sit through French translations when you should be investigating the disappearance of your best friend before it’s too late for her and before your favorite teacher ruins your entire life forever.

  The brick wall bites into my back while I scan the stream of students rushing to lunch. There’s a different energy since Madison went missing. Her posters still line the halls, as do the flyers for the search parties, the yellow and green ribbons.

  There’s no way to escape the reminder that even here, inside these stone walls of higher learning, we’re not safe. Safe is something most of us didn’t know you could take for granted.

  But there are still shouts of laughter, playful shoving, talk of the various sportsball games I missed last night. Some things haven’t changed at all, and that scares me more — how easy it is for life to go on, even with the most important people missing from it.

  Aubrey shoves her way upstream, slipping her tiny body between the gaps.

  She darts around a gaggle of freshman volleyball players, and I have to spring from the wall to catch her before she makes it into the bathroom.

  I loop my arm into hers just as she shoulders open the door, and then I’m choking on the potpourri of twelve different scented lotions while Tabitha Zhao and her entourage fall quiet.

  Tabitha makes a grand production of looking us over, pausing dramatically at our linked arms, and raises an eyebrow.

  Seriously. Fuck her. I’m sure her friends would love to hear about how I discovered she has a teardrop-shaped beauty mark well below her bikini line.

  I wink as I pass her, dragging poor Aubrey into the stall with me.

  Tabitha calls out, “If you guys are gonna go down on each other in there, at least give us time to run away.”

  I flip her off over the top of the stall and shove the lock into place, and for a moment, the click slide click of metal is a shotgun being leveled at Jake’s head.

  I fumble for the lipstick I’m trying to dig out from my bag.

  “Are you okay?” Aubrey’s voice is nearly a whisper, and guilt slams into me for involving her in this.

  I stop searching and meet her eyes. “We can talk somewhere else if you’re afraid of what people will say.”

  She shakes her head, but there’s no hiding the blush in her cheeks, even with her brown skin. “No. But I actually do have to pee, you know. Anyway, fuck Tabitha.”

  I laugh for the first time all day, and the sound bounces off the tiled room. “Can I tell you a secret?” At her nod, I say, “I did.”

  Her brows knit together, and then her mouth forms the perfect little o. “You didn’t.”

  I shrug, because I don’t think Aubrey will tell anyone, and because I have to laugh about something so I don’t keep thinking about blinding a man with mace last night, or blackmailing a man with his secrets only a few hours ago. “Form your own conclusions. Listen, can you keep a secret?”

  “What kind of secret?” Her eyes are narrow and wary.

  We’re friends, but we’re from different circles. I’m sports and academics and she’s drama club. That’s not to say she’s not smart — I happen to know she beat me by four-hundredths of a point on our English lit midterm — it’s just that she makes blending in an art form. Until she gets on stage.

  I drop my voice. “It’s about Madison.”

  “Oh-kay.” Eyes narrower and warier. “Is that a vape?”

  I shush her because the last thing I need is Tabitha marching her perfect spiral curls down to the headmaster to report on my contraband.

  Aubrey’s having none of it. “You know vapes still contain nicotine, right? Did you know nicotine causes cardiovascular damage such as hypertension and heart disease?”

  “I’ll be sure to look out for signs of hypertension.”

  She glares at me. “You shouldn’t joke about your health. We’re young, not invincible, Caroline. And there have been no protracted studies on long-term usage or the impacts on the body in juveniles so —”

  “Okay!” I drop my voice to a whisper. “You’re right.”

  Of course she’s right. Her mom has probably supplied her with talking points.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles. “Sometimes I swear the Great Doctor Patel takes over my brain and I become my mother.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I don’t take it back, but —” She stares at the tile, an obvious attempt to avoid looking at me, because … it’s the bathroom floor. “I’ve seen people get sick, you know? I don’t want to see —”

  She coughs to cover her quavering voice. “It’s smart to take care of yourself.”

  The stall is suddenly much too small, like Aubrey’s genuine concern is crowding all the space.

  I’m probably supposed to hug her or say thanks but I can’t force myself to do either when all my emotions feel poised on the brink.

  “What can you tell me about this?” I shove my vape to the bottom of my bag and pull out the lipstick, one end of the matte pink tube tapered to a point and the other blooming into a shiny gold rose.

  She slaps her hand over her mouth to stop from squealing, all concerns about my hypertension risk swept away. “How did you get that?”

  “You don’t want to know. It’s expensive, though,
right?”

  “Yes, it’s expensive. Can I hold it?”

  “No.” I tuck it against my chest and away from her reaching hands. She’ll thank me when she finds out where it’s from and what it might mean.

  Her face falls, along with her shoulders. “Oh, well. Yes, it’s expensive. But not just expensive, it’s not available. Anywhere. It won’t hit stores until June. They all have the rose on top, but see that little iris on the side? Each color has a different flower.”

  I don’t have to look at it — I remember exactly what it looks like. I’ve got a replica of it etched into my skin.

  It has to be a coincidence. I didn’t even have my tattoo when Madison bought that lipstick.

  But it doesn’t feel like it.

  It feels like coincidences don’t exist anymore. “So there’s not a huge chance lots of people have this.”

  She rocks onto her heels and her arms fold across her chest like armor. “You said this was about Madison.”

  Like I said, not stupid. The heavy bathroom door bangs open and footsteps echo until they stop — at the stall right next to ours. Because of course.

  I rub my palm against the scratchy wool of my skirt to buy time until I can unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Right. See —”

  “Is that —” she mouths “— Madison’s?”

  “Probably?”

  She snatches the lipstick from my hand and flings open the door before I have the chance to blink, and then she’s storming out of the bathroom and down the hall.

  She’s ridiculously fast. Practically a blur of movement past a stream of open classroom doors where anyone can overhear.

  I keep my voice down while speed-walking toward wherever she’s headed. “I need that back.”

  “It’s evidence.”

  “Of nothing. What are the cops gonna do with it? There’s no way to even prove it’s hers.” Except I remember her putting it on after practice last week, her reflection staring at me in the mirror as deep red stained her lips with every stroke. And then she reminded me about our plans to work on our chem project — the plans that would’ve kept her far from the reach of whoever took her. She wouldn’t have left on her own. Her early acceptance letter to Yale’s art school has been tacked onto her board since the day she got it.