Throwaway Girls

by Andrea Contos

  I mumble a thank-you, socialite instincts bred too deeply to fail even when all my attention is focused on Jake, who’s giving me an apologetic shrug.

  Mr. Monaghan releases me and motions toward a chair before pulling another to face it. He lowers into the seat, all athletic grace and practiced poise, while I stumble into mine, shoving it back a few inches to put more space between us.

  This is why they sent Aubrey — to lure me in.

  Mr. Monaghan’s eyes go soft as he says, “How are you holding up? I know you and Madison were close.”

  “Um … yeah. And I’m okay.”

  He doesn’t look convinced.

  He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice low. “I know this is uncomfortable, Caroline, but Jake and Aubrey are your friends and they’re trying to help.”

  He scans the doorway without pausing, and I’d guarantee it’s because Aubrey abandoned me at the first possible moment. When he turns back to me, all the softness has bled from his eyes. I know this face — it’s the one my mom gives me right before she tells me all the things I don’t want to hear.

  He says, “I, however, am not your friend. I’m an adult — one that’s concerned about his son’s safety, and yours too. And as an adult, it’s my responsibility to point out when your decisions compromise your safety. Like they did last night.”

  I don’t respond because my mind is spinning from all the déjà vu in this conversation, except I don’t have anything to blackmail Jake’s dad with.

  Jake finally speaks, but he doesn’t look the least bit motivated to join our little chair circle. “I told him about what we found last night. The lipstick.”

  His gives a look that tells me he didn’t get monumentally stupid and tell the whole story, so I force my fingers to unlock from the edges of my seat.

  Mr. Monaghan’s voice ticks up a notch and his words sharpen. It’s not difficult to picture him with a courtroom at his mercy, shouldering all his power and authority with practiced ease. “First, I want to make it clear I am not your attorney, and I have no knowledge of Madison’s case. But Jake tells me you’re not comfortable with the police, and truth be told, I don’t always like them so much either.”

  He gives me a smile so genuine I almost manage to return it, and just like that, he manages to marry the stern father with the approachable confidant. “But I know all of you want to do everything in your power to make sure Madison comes home safely, so I’m here to advise you as best I can.”

  I will kill Jake and Aubrey for this ambush.

  My body is frozen, but my brain won’t stop calculating all my very limited options. There’s no way out of this. The fastest, safest end to this conversation is to hand the lipstick over.

  I reach for my backpack and pull it free, but my fingers clench around it.

  This could be the last thing Madison touched. Letting go feels like letting go of her.

  I force my arm to move and the lipstick tumbles from my palm into the wide span of Mr. Monaghan’s.

  He tests its weight, delicate gold petals of the iris on the side catching the light. “What is this?”

  “Lipstick? Madison’s lipstick.”

  He tips the tube end over end like he’s looking for her name to be Sharpied on it like we’re in second grade. “This could belong to anyone.”

  “No. I saw her with it, before she disappeared, and it’s limited edition or not available or something. You should ask Aubrey.”

  I feel only nominally guilty about siccing him on her.

  Mr. Monaghan’s hand closes over the metal rose on top. “Where did you find this again?”

  Jake fidgets but I can’t look at him. Clearly this is a test to see if we tell the same story.

  It’s an easy test, because there’s no way Jake lied to his dad. He’s not like me.

  Mr. Monaghan leans closer. “Caroline.” He waits until I meet his eyes. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  I nod, but he has to see how little faith I have in his sentiments, how “okay” will never be a path for me. Not as long as my parents have control over who I am.

  He holds the lipstick between us like a sacred offering. “Thank you for giving me this. I’m afraid it’s a bit too late, not to mention outside the proper chain of custody, to be considered official evidence, but you never know what clue might be the thing that brings Madison home.”

  His eyes are so concerned, his tone so comforting, I have to choke down the confession forcing itself up my throat.

  It would be so easy to hand him the whole messy story. But I’ve learned what happens when you trust people without knowing their full motives. Last time, it ended with my mom’s signature on camp intake papers.

  I swallow. “I found a matchbook for this bar in my locker, so we went there to ask about Madison and there was this waitress. Anyway, we went to talk to her and we found the lipstick in the woods near her trailer.”

  I hold my breath while he assesses me, and at least some of that hyper-streamlined version must’ve matched Jake’s, because Mr. Monaghan nods.

  He holds out a hand and pulls me to stand, and then Jake is there and Mr. Monaghan’s arm is slung around his broad shoulders.

  I can’t remember the last time I didn’t flinch when my parents touched me.

  Mr. Monaghan gives my shoulder a tiny rub. “Thank you both for coming to me with this, and I want you to know I don’t take that trust lightly. This is hard on everyone, and it can be tough to go about your normal life in a situation like this. But as a parent, this is the kind of thing you hope to protect your kids from, so I know I speak for your parents, as well as myself, when I say your safety isn’t worth the risks you took last night.”

  He puts on his judge face to say, “Madison’s best chance relies on letting the professionals do their jobs. Got it?”

  Jake and I nod, neither of us daring to look to see if the other means it, before Mr. Monaghan asks if he can steal Jake for a chat in the hallway.

  I’m tempted to hover near the doorway to see what advice he gives to Jake that he couldn’t give me — but I’m too busy crawling out the window to do exactly what he asked me not to.

  Chapter Nine

  It’s quiet in the back lot of The Wayside. Only the employees — and me — park here.

  I could go in. I still have my key.

  But I can’t risk the fallout from a conversation with Marcel right now, not when I have to get answers from Chrystal before she locks herself inside her house again.

  That means I’m standing in the darkened lot, covered in goose bumps I can’t feel because my skin went numb an hour ago.

  According to Tammy, the night-shift bartender who sneaks me energy drinks on major study nights, Chrystal’s shift was supposed to end forty-five minutes ago. Her car is still in the lot.

  I’m standing less than three feet from it.

  Yesterday I left without answers. Today I won’t.

  Light seeps from the edges of the back door as it swings open, and for a second, there’s only Chrystal’s thin frame outlined in soft yellow.

  The floodlights kick on and I blink three times before my eyes adjust.

  Chrystal scans the lot, her key fisted between her fingers.

  The door clips shut behind her, and when I step out of the shadows, her expression swings from terror to fury.

  She clutches a stack of books to her chest. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What the hell do you want? Gonna follow me home again?”

  I didn’t expect to get this far with her, and now I have no idea what to say. “I just want to ask you some questions.”

  “Questions.” She snorts. “What does the spoiled little rich girl want to ask me about?”

  Heat blossoms in my cheeks. “I want to ask you about Sydney.”

  “Get the fuck
away from my car before I call the cops.” She charges forward, her mouth pulled into a straight line, and I press myself against the side of her trunk.

  “Name your price.”

  She stops not six inches from me, shadows sinking into the deep lines on her face. “My price?” The corner of her mouth tilts. “Okay, get in the car.”

  I should’ve told someone my plans. I should’ve texted Jake back, or confessed to Aubrey, and I definitely should not have altered my phone’s location to make it seem like I’m on campus in the event my parents — or maybe the police, eventually — decide to check.

  Chrystal barks out a laugh. “Didn’t think so. Rich girl likes to pretend she’s slumming, but when it comes to —”

  “I’m getting in.”

  I am fully aware this could be a decision that leads to my death — especially when the first thing she says to me when I sink into her torn bucket seat is, “Figured you and your pretty-boy boyfriend learned your lesson yesterday.”

  She cranks the engine and it coughs before acrid gray smoke fills the interior. “Goddamn are you stupid.”

  7

  She’s not wrong.

  I spend the whole ride thinking how furious Marcel would be with me if he knew I got into a car with another stranger after his epic lecture the night I got into the car with him.

  Then I remind myself that yesterday he threw me out and told me not to come back.

  I ask Chrystal for one of the cigarettes she’s smoking, and she shakes one from her soft pack and into my hand, watching me from the corner of her eye. It’s the only words we speak the entire ride.

  By the time we step into the cold night air, my head is soft and fuzzy, my fingers tingly. The spot where Jake nearly decapitated a man lies in darkness, just beyond the dim glow of trailer lights. When Chrystal offers another cigarette, I don’t hesitate.

  Smoke curls in a thin stream above her head as she pushes inside the trailer, and when she thumbs on the lights and locks the door behind me, I’m not sure if I’m relieved or terrified.

  It’s a single-wide with a living room and kitchen that’s bisected only by a row of lower cabinets, a narrow hallway disappearing into a tomb of black. A faint water stain runs the length of the kitchen wall where Chrystal drops her stack of papers onto the counter.

  The faux-wood cabinet creaks when she pries it open and motions for me to sit.

  I nearly drown in the sofa that’s deeper and softer than any sofa has a right to be, and I try not to think how hard it would be to get out if I have to run. Except seeing her here, moving methodically through her kitchen, Chrystal doesn’t seem dangerous. She seems sad. The kind of sad that weighs a person down until they struggle to stay upright.

  But I can’t rule out Mountain Man’s involvement either, or that Chrystal really might have something to hide.

  Glasses clunk against the counter and Chrystal pulls a bottle of vodka from the cream-colored fridge, along with a tray of ice cubes. “Thirsty?”

  I nod because I can’t say no, and I’m too busy staring at the ice cube tray. I’m not sure I’ve ever used an ice cube tray, which I guess makes me every bit the privileged bitch Chrystal thinks I am.

  Vodka splashes against the glass and cracks the ice cubes when she tosses in a dash of soda. She crosses the worn carpet and holds out the drink, and fizzy bubbles tickle my palm when I reach for it.

  I take a sip, then a full drink, as she watches me above the rim of her own glass, vodka exploding on my tongue and oozing into my belly, all warmth and quiet.

  Her arms lock over her chest and there’s nothing but the tick tick tick of her manicured nail striking the side of her glass while she searches my face for something I’m certain I don’t have. “So ask.”

  “Why were you such a bitch to me in Marcel’s office?”

  She laughs, and for the briefest moment, I see the person she must’ve been before she realized life wouldn’t turn out the way she hoped.

  The chair groans as she drops into it, the flame from her lighter flaring high before the paper in her cigarette crackles. A plume of smoke snakes from her open lips. “Honey, you don’t have time for that answer.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  She points the scarlet tip of her cigarette at me. “I’ve seen you around. Pretending you belong. Almost had me fooled — until you brought that boy around yesterday. I know your type and I know his. I know the difference between you and everyone who has to work for what they get.”

  I slam my drink onto the scratched coffee table. “You know my type? I’m here, okay? I came here to ask about my friend, yes, but about Sydney too. A girl I don’t even know.”

  “And what are you gonna do if I don’t answer? Send the cops to come searching around the woods again?”

  I have no mace. No Jake with a tire iron. Her questions feel as much a threat as an inquiry. “The cops were here?”

  Jake’s dad had to have told the cops about the lipstick, but I can tell from the smug look on Chrystal’s face it didn’t exactly spark a county-wide search.

  She shrugs. “Didn’t find nothing. Not where they’re looking.”

  There’s only one way she’d know: she’s got Mountain Man to watch for her. Then, and probably now too.

  Outside, tires crunch over gravel, and twin beams of light pierce Chrystal’s thin mini-blinds, tossing the room into a whirl of light and shadows. My thoughts feel foggy, my movements sluggish. “Why did you get so mad when I asked about Sydney? I’m trying to help.”

  My voice nearly cracks and I hate that I let her hear it. But there’s something so goddamn familiar in the feel of this place. A sadness that coats the walls and bleeds into the fabrics.

  I haven’t been able to stop feeling it since Willa left.

  I miss her like the world stopped being the same place the moment she walked away. There’s a void where her smile used to be. Emptiness where my laughter used to be, when she’d pull from her endless catalogue of terrible jokes when I needed them, giggling before she’d barely started. How does a penguin build his house? Igloos it together.

  She let me be the version of myself that was truer than any other.

  And I was there for her too. The days her life got too heavy and she’d let me hold her, whisper into her hair. The days she’d smile and I’d realize I told her something I barely admitted to myself. Things only my therapist knows.

  I told her about camp, about the day I walked away from my dad with a bottle of pills and what I planned to do with them. She cried the tears I couldn’t, and then, her voice quiet and her eyes locked on mine, she said, “It was wrong, what your parents did to you.”

  I laid my head on her shoulder. “I know.”

  Her silence stretched. “Do you?”

  That was the day Willa taught me knowing something is different than believing it. I believe it now. Willa gave me that. And as the world before me blurs, I can almost feel her hand in mine.

  Chrystal’s cigarette flares violent red on her inhale, and her answer comes in a haze of smoke. “Sydney is my niece. The cops say she ran away with her boyfriend.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what they always say when they don’t think someone’s important enough to look for.”

  Not important enough to look for.

  They’re not looking for Sydney, not even trying to help her. Just like Detective Harper didn’t try to help me.

  She heads to her stack of papers and yanks one free. “You want to find your friend?”

  I move toward her on shaking legs, my brain too wobbly to control, carrying warnings I’m too fuzzy to understand. “Yes.”

  Footsteps rattle the stairs outside the trailer, and I know I should be scared, but the knock at the door seems far away, my body too light to stay fixed to the ground.

  “Well then, rich gi
rl, find Sydney. Then I’ll tell you what I know about your friend.”

  Chapter Ten

  My brain slices in half with even the smallest movement, and a cocoon of blankets drags me back toward sleep. I roll to my side, bundling the covers until I’m surrounded by sandalwood-and-spice-infused cotton.

  This is not my bed.

  I rocket from my once-cozy place and my legs tangle in the sheets. My scream starts but doesn’t finish as strong fingers wrap around my biceps.

  My shoulder wrenches when I rip my arm free, and then that same hand is cradling my jaw, gentle now, and someone whispers my name in the darkness.

  “Take a breath for me.” Jake’s voice is soft, concerned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to grab you. I just … I was afraid you were going to fall off and —”

  I employ all the deep breathing exercises I learned in the yoga classes Dad insisted I take.

  Voices murmur in the hall — normal students starting a normal day — and Jake’s steady arms remind me that, for now, I’m safe.

  I want to be mad at him for blindsiding me with his dad yesterday, but since I’m in his bed with zero recollection of what happened last night, it’s safe to assume I owe him for something.

  I clear my throat and slip out of his hands. “It’s not your fault. I just didn’t expect …”

  Any of this? To wake up in Jake’s bed when the only thing I remember is thoroughly avoiding him yesterday. He’s shirtless, his skin sticky and his hair wet like he just got out of the shower.

  Stupidly, my first thought is that Aubrey would kill me for not taking a picture, but I think that’s a defense mechanism because what I’m really doing is delaying the moment I have to look down and see what I am — or am not — wearing.

  “Caroline.” His smile starts slow, then twitches like he’s holding it back. “I prefer my sexual partners to be conscious.”

  “Oh, well, aren’t you just a fucking prince.”

  His smile evaporates and his brows draw down.

  I’m being a dick, even if maybe waking up in a bed you don’t remember climbing into is a pretty valid reason in my book. “Listen, I didn’t mean — I wasn’t trying —”