Throwaway Girls

by Andrea Contos

  Bianca waves me off and heads toward the kitchen, where the fridge makes a sucking sound when she pries it open, then she holds the water she’s offering me as far from her body as possible. I don’t want it but she’s already shut the door and this seems more of a directive than a question.

  The cold hits my palm and I can’t help but remember the last time someone offered me a drink while I visited their home.

  The plastic cracks as she cranks off the cap. “So he got sappy and gave her back the license.”

  It’s not a question, not really. She stares at an empty space near the ceiling and whispers his name. It sounds weird coming from her mouth. Too private somehow. Too personal a detail for a man I only know from behind the wall of his position.

  I clear my throat and say, “Anyway, he kept my license and made me promise not to get a new one.”

  “And did you?”

  We both know the answer so I don’t bother to respond. “I need to talk to Mr. McCormack.”

  “You need to talk to the cops.”

  “I can’t do that. And what am I supposed to say to them anyway?” The words are barely out of my mouth before I realize how badly I want her to answer. How badly I want someone to just tell me what to do.

  “Tell them the truth so they don’t think Landon is a child molester?”

  “I did. Literally, I said: Mr. McCormack is not molesting me. Literally, I laughed at the suggestion.”

  I need to know if that’s all they think. If this whole thing is about whether Mr. McCormack molested his students or whether he killed them. But if I throw out the concepts of kidnapping and murder and they’re not already on the table, Bianca may lose her shit.

  The water bottle crinkles in my hand, condensation pooling against my fingers. “They think he’s made me believe he’s not abusing me even though he really is. Want to tell me how I’m supposed to argue with that?”

  She rubs her temples. “Did you tell them the truth about the license?”

  “Did he tell them the truth about the license? It won’t help if we have different stories.”

  She swallows so hard it pulses in her neck, and that’s checkmate, boys and girls, because she doesn’t know what Mr. McCormack said either.

  “And what about you? Did you give him an alibi for the night of Madison’s disappearance, or were you too busy trying to save your reputation and your shit marriage?”

  A flush creeps into her cheeks. “Why did you come to see me?”

  “Do you have a pen?”

  She moves through his kitchen like it’s her own, grabbing a pen and paper before tossing them toward me.

  They slap against the marble before sliding within my reach, and she says, “Why aren’t you in class, anyway?”

  I rip the top sheet of paper free so the indent doesn’t show on the ones beneath it — just in case — and the pen glides across it, countertop cold beneath my palm. “I can’t go back to school.”

  “You’ll get expelled.”

  “Eventually.”

  “And Landon said you were smart.”

  “I’m trying to help us both.”

  I’m trying to salvage something of this life before I can move on to my next. I’m trying to find my friend.

  She sighs and plants her elbows on the counter, stiletto heel tapping against the floor. “Honey, I’m not sure you know what you’re trying to do.”

  My skin flashes hot, a million words poised on my tongue. How I need Mr. McCormack to be here so he can pull apart my arguments, counter them, tell me my logic is flawed and filled with false equivalences. I need him to tell me this isn’t all on me. That I’m not the only hope for his future and for Madison’s life. I need him to say this isn’t my fault, just so I can believe it, even if only for a second.

  I ask the question I should’ve demanded the answer to that day in the quad. “Someone said Madison texted Mr. McCormack right before she went missing. That he called her back.”

  I wait, because I can’t seem to ask what I want to know.

  For the first time, Bianca can’t look at me. “He said he didn’t recognize the number, and the text just asked for him to call, so he did. He didn’t talk to anyone. Just left a voice mail.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  She says yes, but her eyes betray her.

  I slam the pen onto the paper, then grope through my bag for the cell phone. When I toss it, it hits the counter and tumbles to the other side. “That cell phone is for Mr. McCormack. The only number programmed into it is for a cell exactly like it — it’s mine. On this paper is an email address and password. The one below it is mine. I need you to give these to him.”

  Her perfectly contoured eyebrow arches, and for the first time in this conversation, I feel something more than totally inadequate. Her hand closes around the cell phone and she weighs it in her palm. “Do you know how much worse this will look for him if he’s caught secret messaging you on a cell phone you bought?”

  “As opposed to us telling different stories to the cops? They already think he’s brainwashed me — they’ll think I’m lying to cover for him. I just need to talk to him. To have him —”

  I clamp my mouth shut so hard I draw blood on my tongue, because I was about to say to have him tell me what to do, and I don’t need Bianca thinking he really has brainwashed me.

  I hoist my bag onto my shoulder, the weight heavy and reassuring. “Just tell him not to get caught.”

  “Or I could pretend you were never here.”

  My fingers grip the counter so hard my knuckles blanch. “Are you in love with him?”

  A quick double blink is the only indication I caught her off guard. “I’m not discussing my relationship with you.”

  “There are three people who know what happened the night he took that license, and if I can’t find the third one, no one can. That leaves me as the only person who can clear his name. Think about whether you want to make me an enemy.” I’m choking on every word, betrayal to Mr. McCormack burning me from the inside out.

  Lately it feels like where before there were endless possibilities, now there are only last chances.

  I float toward the front door on legs that don’t feel like my own, and the second my hand wraps around the handle, I remember I didn’t drive myself here. I spin to face her. “If he finds out you hid this from him, he’ll never forgive you.”

  It takes until I’m three doors down for the lock to click into place behind me, and it’s not until then that I let out my first wheezing breath, because no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, Bianca is right.

  I don’t know what I’m trying to do.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A dollop of milkshake drips from the tip of Aubrey’s silver spoon and splats onto my open notebook. She gasps and grabs a napkin from the dispenser, apologies spilling from her mouth in a well-rehearsed chorus.

  The drip is barely wiped clean when she wads the napkin and throws it at me, then scowls when it tumbles to the table in a flutter of limp edges. “You know what? I’m not sorry, Caroline. Do you want to know why?”

  “Because you’ve reached the last conclusion of Fact Three?” Otherwise known as: Find out details of Madison’s disappearance. (Note: I have a plan for this. I don’t like it. Aubrey won’t either. Subject to change.)

  She leans across the table and hisses out a yes.

  It’s not the actual conclusion she’s upset about, it’s the plan I scribbled in the margin because I was too chickenshit to ask her. She’s already done so much for me, been a much better friend to me than I have to her. But Aubrey’s always been the person who has a compliment for every occasion, remembers everyone’s birthday and genuinely wants an answer when she asks how someone’s doing. She’s always there for everyone, when I’ve barely managed to be there for myself.

 
I certainly wasn’t there for Madison.

  But I still lured Aubrey with the promise of free dinner and a milkshake at Mamma Lou’s, where they have the best damn burger in town. It also has a corner booth where I can hide, and enough business to drown out both our conversation and Aubrey’s rage, which I think I’m about to experience.

  She cut practice short for me, then took advantage of her Special Senior privileges and raced to meet me. I can carry out my plan to visit Madison’s house alone — but it’ll be much easier with her help. If she chooses not to follow it with me, I won’t blame her.

  Aubrey’s long black hair was still wet when I climbed into her car earlier, and now it’s dried into shiny loose curls that brush the soft curve of her cheekbones before winding to rest on her slim shoulders.

  She’s mad at me and my world is falling apart, but the only thought in my head is a vision of her hair, tangled with mine, fanned out over my sheets, my mouth closing over hers.

  She snaps her fingers and I’m back to fluorescent lighting and red vinyl booths. “Focus, Lawson. This won’t work.”

  “Yes, it will.” That’s it. That’s the sum total of my argument, because all my thoughts are focused on how, for the first time since Willa left, I considered that someone else could take her place.

  The quarter pound of meat in my stomach turns to sludge.

  Aubrey’s spoon clinks against the fluted glass and she shoves the notebook back to my side of the table. “I’m not that good of an actress.”

  “You’re absolutely that good of an actress.” I drop two twenties onto the table, even though it’s way more than necessary and the money I withdrew has to last me until I can go home again. But our waitress deserted us and I can’t give Aubrey any more time to think this over. I scoot from the booth and gather my things.

  Aubrey follows but she’s also twirling her hair in that way I’ve come to recognize as DEFCON-level uncomfortable. Then she’s charging through the diner at warp speed, her voice low and vicious. “My mother is Hindu. Did you know that? Now you do.”

  Her fingers dig into my bicep as she steers me around a corner, then she shoves us into the night, where gray clouds line the sky and hold up the glowing moon.

  We’re alone in the lot but she doesn’t give her voice any more power than a whisper. “Karma, Caroline. I believe in karma, and I’d prefer not to be reincarnated as an ant or a slug or something.”

  She waits, staring expectantly.

  If she’s looking for answers or explanations, she’s come to the wrong girl. I don’t know the truth anymore. It used to feel like such a solid thing. Impenetrable and unbreakable.

  Now it feels like more people are trying to bury it than find it.

  To find the truth about Madison, we’re going to have to talk to the one person who might know more than anyone else — her mom.

  I stare past Aubrey to the empty road where a lone streetlight glares off the wet concrete, because if I look her in the eye, she’ll know exactly how much I want her to come. “You don’t have to come, Aubrey. I mean that. You can just drop me off.”

  It takes her so long to respond I start reformulating my plan.

  But when she finally speaks, it’s to say, “Tell me what you need me to do.”

  7

  Textured brick pricks my forehead and I press the pads of my fingers into all the sharp edges. The night air is cold against my lips, carrying flavors of crisp leaves and crackling fireplaces.

  It’s quiet outside the Bentleys’ house. All the reporters and news vans are stuck behind the vast iron gate of Madison’s community. And even if they made it through that, they’d be stuck behind the vast iron gate that belongs solely to the Bentleys.

  Any moment now, Aubrey will hurry up their front steps and ring their doorbell, and when Madison’s mom answers, that will be my cue.

  That is, if I can move from this spot when I’m stuck on a loop of the role-play Aubrey made me do on the way over. I had to play Madison’s mom so Aubrey had a chance to practice before she had to perform.

  It’s a simple plan, really. Aubrey just has to go in, be Aubrey and ask genuine questions and say genuinely good things designed to comfort the other person. Talk to Madison’s mom about her daughter, share a few good memories and remind her how much people care. And maybe gather some intel about what sorts of things Madison might’ve been doing prior to her disappearance. Like hanging out in bars in West Virginia.

  Aubrey made it two questions into our mock conversation before she started crying. Three before she asked me why I never do.

  She didn’t pry when I didn’t answer.

  A light blinks on near the front of the house, its soft yellow glow spilling through the window panes onto the bed of frost-laden flowers sleeping in the dirt.

  It’s guilt that compels me forward, my fingers wrapped around the tree next to Madison’s bedroom window as I hoist myself onto the lowest branch. It bends beneath my weight, branches scraping against the window like a warning of all the ways this could go wrong.

  There are more than a few. Like how I might not even be able to get into Madison’s bedroom if she suddenly stopped leaving her sliding balcony door unlocked — or if her mom has locked it since.

  I reach for the next branch, and the bite of cold air leaches the warmth from my skin where my shirt rides up. I fight a shiver and heave my legs up after me.

  My ankles wrap around the branch, locking together until I can twist the rest of me to the top. The balcony sits so close I don’t have to reach to touch it.

  I force my hands to the railing and hoist myself up, locking my elbows above the railing. The metal’s so cold it burns, and for a moment, I’m back at camp, door handle searing my flesh on my way to freedom.

  My arms unlock and my ribs slam into the balcony, my legs dangling in the open air. My muscles burn as I pull myself upward until the tip of my shoe grips the balcony’s edge. I tip over the railing and before I can think too hard about it, my feet touch the wood-plank floor and I’m marching toward the door.

  My fingers grip the handle and I raise up on my tiptoes, hoisting the door upward in the frame so the lock doesn’t catch when I slide it open, just like Madison used to do. It swooshes in the track, slipping aside so I can walk into a place I’ve got no right to be.

  I snap on a pair of gloves and the tang of latex smothers the faint brush of peony lotion Madison wore every day.

  It would be helpful if I knew where I was starting.

  The cops must’ve gone through her room, but maybe there’s something they missed. Something they wouldn’t know to look for or wouldn’t recognize if they found. A note from the wrong person, evidence from the wrong place. Something that shows what she learned from Chrystal, or why she had her number in the first place.

  Something only I could see.

  I close my eyes and utter a silent plea: I’m trying. I’m trying to find you. Please don’t give up.

  And then, selfishly: Please don’t leave me too.

  I search through drawers, through closets, Madison’s desk, all while waiting for the warning buzz that tells me Aubrey’s leaving and I need to too.

  This is the second flaw in my plan: all the secrets Madison didn’t trust me enough to share are the ones I need to know now.

  That’s my fault too, the distance between us.

  My heart jumps with an idea I should’ve had hours ago, and I wrestle my phone from my pocket, then waste precious seconds working my fingers free of the gloves.

  Texting Jake doesn’t take long, and the string of moving dots that tells me he’s typing takes even less.

  His answer is useless. So is his immediate follow-up phone call that I decline with all the strength in my pointer finger.

  I respond: Details later. Just tell me if M had a hiding spot.

  Truth: I know she has a hiding sp
ot. It’s where she keeps all the stuff she doesn’t want her mom to see. When we were younger, she’d stash our stolen cigarettes or ill-gotten liquor in the sweatshirt cubby in her closet, until her mom went on a cleaning binge and found it. That was when we were fourteen.

  I already checked the heating vents and the zippered access panel beneath the chaise in the corner of her room.

  I know she has to have another spot, I just don’t know where. But I’m betting Jake does. If he lies, I’m in much bigger trouble than I thought.

  His message flashes onto the screen and I stuff the phone back into my pocket and heel-toe across the floor, keeping my footsteps light, until I can duck beneath the rows of clothes hanging in the closet.

  Silks and wools brush over my skin, whisper-light, and my fingertips search out the edges of the plumbing access panel. Splinters threaten my skin, but they’re too worn from use to do much damage, and the panel pops off, the holes wide and gaping. I set it aside and reach into the blackness.

  Smooth metal, the scrape of sawed drywall, the gritty sandpaper of the underside of the tub and the warm wood of support beams. Then, finally, my hand lands on a sharp edge.

  I walk my fingers across the expanse of it until I get to a handle that clinks as I take hold, dragging it from its hiding spot and into the pale glow of moonlight.

  The size of the safe doesn’t match its weight — it’s the length and width of a piece of paper but at least ten pounds, and I can’t fit my wrist through the handle.

  I rock it to its side, and whatever secrets it holds tumble against the walls. Before I can text Jake to ask him if he knows the password, my phone buzzes — once, twice, and a third — and that means it’s time to go.

  I yank a belt from a cubby and feed it through the handle, fastening it so I can loop it over my shoulder when it’s time to climb. Not perfect, but better than dropping it from the second story.

  I shove the panel back into place and wince as the ridges of the screws zip against the edges of the holes, but the time for careful was twenty seconds ago, before Aubrey walked out the front door.