Throwaway Girls

by Andrea Contos

  We ended the night with promises of another session tomorrow, armed with the research Livie had already done for herself, and my confidence still unshaken.

  We ended the night with a plan, and I went to bed with hope.

  One of my mosquito bites from that night scarred, leaving behind those memories in a perfect, faint circle just below my ankle. I prayed it would never fade.

  But hunger and fullness, love and loss, like all things, like everything, they come to an end.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It’s late when I get home. So late I refuse to look at the clock as I ease my car into the garage.

  I’m not sure I care anyway. I walked away from the last thing that matters when I set foot onto gravel in The Wayside parking lot.

  You don’t belong here, Caroline.

  I don’t belong anywhere. The person I really am is buried beneath layers of pretense, and the only person who’s ever known the truest parts of me — the only parts that matter — decided they weren’t enough to stay for.

  I’m a fraud and a stranger in this home that doesn’t feel like mine and the parents who need me to be something I’m not.

  I considered bringing Jake home with me just so my mom could watch him wave goodbye from the driveway. I could practically see how she’d sigh in relief, the tension at the corners of her eyes drifting away. She’s never brought up the conversion therapy she sent me to. Not once. It could be she feels guilty, that she wishes it hadn’t come to that.

  I’m trying to help you, Caroline. That’s the explanation that rings in my head every time I try to understand what she did. You’re making your life so much harder. Not everyone will understand. You’ll be ostracized. You’ll never know what it’s like to be a mother.

  I didn’t state the obvious counterarguments to that last one, because all her words blurred together in a mess that felt like a door slamming closed.

  She’s never settled for anything less than perfect: the drapes that had to be remade when they were a sixteenth of an inch too long, the custom-made chair that felt too firm, the smudge in the lacquer of her special-order dining table. And every time, Dad would tell her it was fine, to just let it go. Free your mind, Violet. And then her face would shade to crimson as she said, “We paid for this, Kyle.”

  She paid for me too. Her miracle baby. The one all the doctors told her she’d never have. And I swear all that time she spent waiting and hoping only elevated her expectations. Now there’s this part of me that’s smudged, and she can’t send me back to be remade.

  Maybe some part of her does feel guilty, but it rings empty against the truth — that she’s happy it “worked.” At least as she sees it. She gets to keep her social standing at St. Francis without worrying if people “understand.” She won’t have to explain me to her mother — not that you can explain anything to Grandma Caldecott. She’s too rich and too old to give a shit about changing any of her ways — she still hasn’t forgiven Mom for marrying Dad. That, however, works in my favor, because Grandma C has a regular habit of writing me checks without Mom’s knowledge, just because that father of yours is certainly not going to provide for you.

  Grandma wouldn’t be any happier than Mom if she knew her cash gave me enough freedom to make my relationship with Willa a reality. But until I can get out of here, until I don’t need any of them, I’ll work with whatever resources I’ve got.

  Denying Mom that moment of reprieve tonight — that flash of relief at seeing me with Jake — almost makes up for the excuses I’m going to have to invent to explain where I’ve been.

  He hinted I could stay with him again tonight, which I pretended not to understand, because my short answer is no and I don’t feel like giving him my reasons. I don’t feel like navigating the unspoken questions that come with spending two straight nights in someone else’s bed.

  Anyway, two nights away from home would just mean twice the questions and twice the number of lies to keep straight. And I don’t know whether it’s drugs lingering in my system, Marcel’s voice like a constant presence in my head or the gaping absence of Madison, but my brain is still too fuzzy.

  The garage door rumbles open, shadows swallowing my car as I ease it into the bay. I cut the engine and wait, conjuring the right mood and expression that I don’t check the mirror to see if I’ve managed.

  I tiptoe through the other bays with my palm hovering inches above the car hoods, but they’re all cold and unresponsive, keeping their secrets about whether Mom or Dad might be just coming home and awake, or if they’re both in bed, pretending to sleep.

  I don’t bother with quiet once I’m in the house, toeing off my shoes in the mudroom and slipping my coat into the closet. I hoist my backpack higher, and smother the panic that comes with the thought of how far behind I am on classwork. How close I am to getting expelled. How close I am to losing everything and spending my life imprisoned behind these walls.

  I’m past the formal living room before the light spilling from the kitchen brings hushed voices, and my steps slow until they stop.

  Someone says my name and I don’t need to turn to know who it is. I know I’ll see Detective Brisbane’s lumpy body marring the view of Dad’s baby grand piano in the bay window. And where Brisbane is, Harper is sure to be too.

  Before I can charge back to my car and beg Jake to let me stay the night, both my parents appear in the kitchen entryway.

  People always talk about a fight-or-flight response in a way that shames the person who chooses to flee. Sometimes, they’re the smartest one of the bunch.

  “Caroline, don’t.” Mom pins me in place and both our jaws set, because we’re a mirror image.

  “Don’t what?” We both know what. I also know she won’t say it because it leaves me the opportunity to deny I was ever thinking it. I leave my tone light, though. Mom won’t do with being embarrassed, especially not in front of detectives. Or Dad.

  Detective Brisbane says, “Caroline, I’m not sure if you remember me.”

  I turn slowly because I need the extra seconds to gather the shards of my temper and dull the edges.

  He is going to ruin everything for me. I have worked for years to build this house of cards I’m standing in — creating the perfect persona for each parent so I can make it to graduation, and then college, before they have a chance to decide I can’t be trusted. With everything else gone, this is my only path to freedom, and this asshole just busted into the middle of it.

  My jaw aches when I unclench it enough to speak. “I don’t get interrogated by the police without parental supervision or legal counsel often, Detective, so yes, I remember you.”

  Mom’s shoulders are probably to her ears, a vein bulging from the left side of her forehead. Dad is probably covering his mouth with his hand, eyes teeming with parental concern.

  He’s my best bet, I think. The best ally I’m going to get, even though I’d give him up if it meant doing this with only one parent present. So as much as I want to be the defensive and uncooperative Caroline the detectives met yesterday, I can’t let her fully loose. If I could make myself cry I’d have Dad throwing them out before I could get past my second sniffle, but that’s a solid no-go.

  Brisbane’s arm stretches toward the living room. “We’d just like to talk to you for a minute.”

  I follow, hugging my backpack straps across my chest like armor. Mentioning we talked already was stupid. I didn’t tell Mom or Dad, and now they’re wondering what else I haven’t told them, which is everything.

  Brisbane tugs at his pant legs and lowers into the couch, his outstretched arm telling me I should do the same.

  I shake my head and dig my heels into the plush carpet. Beads of sweat form along my spine as fury snakes its way through my system. He’s in my house, ruining my life, and I’m in fucking socks while he gets to keep his scuffed shoes on.

  The grandfather clock
breaks into its song, each note an extra second for me to decide how I’m going to play to a crowd where everyone expects me to be someone different.

  I wince as it hits its eleventh bong.

  Brisbane nods toward Detective Harper, who refuses to sit and who is also wearing shoes. Harper is the “good cop” so he smiles politely, and I want to punch the expression from his face.

  Since Dad is watching and I’m Vulnerable Caroline right now, I do my best to return a scared and overwhelmed smile. After what happened with Marcel, after what I saw at Chrystal’s, it doesn’t take much acting.

  Brisbane fidgets on the couch and my spirits float just a little because I know he’s regretting that he’s the only one sitting, but he can’t take it back now. He says, “I don’t want to take much of your time, Caroline, especially when it’s so late and you’ve got school in the morning.”

  Score one for Brisbane. A shot at my parents for their lax supervision, cloaked in the lie of concern.

  When no one answers his nonexistent question, he continues, “Was there a problem that kept you out so late?”

  “I was with a friend.” The tremble in my voice is just enough to draw Dad a step closer. “I’ve been — it’s scary, what happened to Madison. Anyway, I’ve been struggling with it.”

  I make sure to meet Mom’s eyes with that last part. It’s a dangerous game I’m playing here. A delicate navigation between parents and their secrets.

  Mom’s depression and her hidden stash of medication. The prescriptions she fills for me without Dad knowing.

  For that, I need her.

  Because the man who doesn’t suffer any mental illnesses prescribing sunshine and enough kale to bury the house in is not actually a substitute for a medical professional.

  But we’ve all given up on arguing. A family built on secrets and half-truths.

  Good Cop Harper steps in. “I can assure you everyone is struggling with this case. Madison is a bright young woman and we are working very hard to make sure we bring her home safe.”

  Right. Everything except looking into the other bright young woman who isn’t home safe, the one who may have been taken by the same person as Madison. I don’t know which possibility is worse: that they haven’t figured that out, or that they have and just don’t care.

  “Anyway, I’m really tired so —”

  “Just a few questions.” Brisbane again, and the house waits in hushed silence marred only by the grumble of the furnace beneath us. He’s watching me, studying, drawing this out to see the level of damage his next words will cause.

  I expect to hear that someone overheard my conversation with Aubrey, or they know what really happened with Mountain Man the night I found the lipstick. Or that someone tipped them off to my investigation. I brace myself to hear they know Chrystal is dead and they think I’m involved. I brace harder at the possibility they’ve found Madison’s body.

  The last thing I expect to hear is, “Can you tell me about your relationship with Landon McCormack?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The unexpectedness of the question is enough to finish what my albatross of a backpack started and my knee buckles, tipping me backward.

  Dad is there before I smack my skull against the end table, and when he slips the backpack past my fingertips, my shoulders weep with relief. But my little tumble has sent the wrong message to the entire room, and this time it’s Mom’s turn to blanket her mouth with her hand.

  Her concern looks genuine for once, not a performance meant to show the version of us she wants strangers to believe in, and the part of me I thought I’d buried wants to run to her. Like I used to do. Before.

  But tomorrow will still come and nothing will have changed, and I’ll have to gather all my broken pieces and pretend their edges aren’t capable of slicing me clean through.

  I massage my shoulder. “Mr. McCormack is my teacher.”

  I can’t call him Landon. It’s too weird. Is that what his friends call him? Landon? Lan?

  Brisbane’s elbows spike into his knees. “Seems like you guys are close.”

  It’s not a question, so I don’t answer, even though words shove themselves up my throat. Ironically, it’s a debate technique Mr. McCormack taught me.

  When I stare mutely, Brisbane says, “What were you two talking about in the hallway after the vigil?”

  “Nothing. You can ask Jake Monaghan if you don’t believe me.” Not that I want them to talk to Jake about Mr. McCormack, since he seems so willing to buy into all the rumors, but the suggestion feels like it strengthens my argument.

  “What about in the quad?”

  Goddamn Headmaster Havens. “My grade in his class.” True enough.

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s over a four-point.” I say it because it’s absolutely true, and with Headmaster Havens teaching the class now, it won’t be for long.

  Harper’s voice is soft, soothing, meant for lullabies. “I want you to know, Caroline, that we’re here to help you. If you tell me something, I will believe it.”

  My muscles tense to grab my laptop, first to use St. Francis’s servers to prove my grades are legit, and then to hit Harper with it if he uses my name one more time. “You think I’m lying about my grades? Because I can —”

  “No, no. Nothing like that, Caroline. We know you’re an excellent student, and that’s why it wouldn’t be surprising if Mr. McCormack took a special interest in you. If he cultivated a relationship with you that might leave you vulnerable to his influence.”

  The air around Dad charges, his entire body bristling. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

  Dad doesn’t swear. He’s all peace and love and vegan diet because animals are people too. My gaze bounces between him and Mom, whose eyes are glazed with tears.

  I get it then, what the detectives are really saying: Not just that my scores in Mr. McCormack’s class are biased because he calls on me all the time. That I’m his favorite. I’ve been fielding those complaints from other students for years.

  He’s not even saying that Mr. McCormack seduced me and I’m willingly screwing my teacher for my grade or some other reason.

  What he is suggesting is ludicrous: that Mr. McCormack is forcing me, and I’m too stupid to realize it.

  Instead of being indignant like a normal person, I laugh.

  Mom looks horrified. Dad rubs my back in stuttering strokes, like he doesn’t know if he should be comforting me or holding my wrists for the cops to bind for my own protection.

  I step forward so everyone can see I’m capable of standing all on my own, even in my socks. “Mr. McCormack is not molesting me. He’s never forced me to do anything against my will. And I have one, you know. Also, a brain.”

  Harper alternates between Mom and Dad, concerned puppy-dog eyes driving home every word. The Nice Guy who will say all the right things and do all the wrong ones. “Landon McCormack is a bit of a legend with the girls at Caroline’s school. There’s a fair bit of hero worship and vying for his attention. Meetings, emails, texts. It’s likely they’d consider themselves consenting participants —”

  “No.” I bite out the word so hard spit springs from my mouth.

  They’re not hearing me, not even seeing me. I’m standing right here, telling them they’re wrong, and my words mean nothing.

  If Mom weren’t here I’d point out that if I were going to bang one of my teachers, I’d be about 70 percent more likely to go with Mrs. Carter. “Mr. McCormack has never —”

  “He’s never said anything of a sexual nature to you?” Brisbane takes over the questioning, not trying for concerned or gentle.

  “No.”

  “He’s never looked at you sexually?”

  “No.” That’s a half-lie. Half, because he didn’t know it was me dancing with Willa that night. Until the moment, still breathless fr
om the feel of Willa’s hands, the taste of her tongue, that I turned to see who we’d been entertaining.

  “Have you ever met with him outside of school?”

  “No.”

  “Ever been in his car?”

  “Jesus! No.”

  “Caroline!” Both parents stare at me, their eyes wide. Like they know it’s a full lie.

  I don’t know how to interpret any of it. Not the look of horror on their faces or the way it feels like I’m hydroplaning through this interrogation and I want — need — something to grab on to.

  But there is nothing. Just me, free-falling off this ledge, too late to notice the jagged rocks at the bottom.

  Sometimes, flight really is the best response.

  I wheel on Brisbane. “Madison is missing. And you’re here asking pointless questions. And she’s not even —”

  I suck in a breath and stare at the puzzle of light the chandelier blasts onto the ceiling, pretending to blink away tears that aren’t there to cover that I almost revealed I know there’s another missing girl.

  Another girl that someone should be looking for, and now that Chrystal’s gone, there is no one. No one but me.

  There’s no way to admit I know about Sydney that doesn’t end with me locked in my room and my parents researching homeschool teachers. Maybe they’ll find a camp that’ll promise to reconfigure my brain so I never want to leave.

  There’s no way of explaining how I know about Sydney without explaining the matchbook in my locker, The Wayside, or Chrystal.

  Chrystal, who’s lying dead in her recliner right now. The people in this room are the last ones to whom I should be admitting a connection to Chrystal.

  I drag my gaze back to Brisbane’s. “Mr. McCormack has never done anything to me. He is my teacher. One of the best I’ve ever had. That’s it.”

  He rises from the couch, slow and steady like he’s pulling himself from some shitty lawn chair on the way to the cooler for another beer. The carpet muffles his footsteps and the world shifts to slow-motion as his hand slips into the inside pocket of his sports coat.