Throwaway Girls

by Andrea Contos

  I’m too slow to stop the kick Jake takes to the stomach, and his knees jerk up to protect all his vital organs.

  I don’t make it in time for the second kick either, this one from the guy Jake must have whaled in the face earlier. Blood from his chin is splattered all over his shirt.

  Dexter lands a kick to Jake’s ribs, and the way Jake’s body twitches triggers my scream.

  Dexter freezes as his eyes meet mine, like he’s just realized actions might have consequences, and then he bails — much like the other person who could actually be of help right now. Preston and his folded sweatshirt are predictably missing.

  I lunge for the stomach-kicker and a girl screams, “Davis!” seconds before my arms and legs wrap around his body, latching on and yanking him backward. Baseball captain and rapper extraordinaire Davis Worth’s verse about being a “woke bae” autoplays in my head.

  We go down hard, rattling my spine, and Davis’s legs piston in the air as he tries to stand with me attached to his back.

  A female voice yells in my ear to let go as nails gouge my wrists, while the wail of approaching sirens spurs the crowd to run like cockroaches in the sudden flash of light.

  I release my grip and Snapchat Melissa is dragging Davis to his feet before I can shove him off me. I’m barely off the ground before Jake’s single punch sends Davis tumbling to the grass.

  The same voice that told me to let go now tells me to run, and this time I listen without hesitation because a kaleidoscope of red, white and blue twirls against the starlit background of the sky.

  She drags me from the stampede headed toward the front of the house and Jake runs up beside us as she says, “There’s a path through the woods that leads out the other side.”

  The police megaphone kicks on to tell all of us to remain where we are. I’m sure there are some people who listen, but we are not those people.

  We plunge into the darkness of the woods, barren branches crisscrossing in a patchwork canopy. Light flares across the path as Jake thumbs on his phone’s flashlight, then mutes it to a gentle glow so we’ll be harder to spot, but for that brief second, there’s something about this girl that’s familiar. A flash of memory I can’t quite place. And not just because she smiled at me earlier when I said hi to Melissa.

  I should be concentrating on not tripping over gnarled roots and fallen branches, but all my focus is on this faint memory. “Do I know you?”

  She gives a quick laugh. “Rational functions.”

  The memory snaps into focus. Sun slanting through the restaurant’s windows, Journey crackling through the speakers. Me, waiting for Willa, and the flame to my moth: the sound of soft sobs.

  Her name is Clara. Pre-calc is the bane of her existence. And I helped her understand rational functions.

  I never thought my mathematical abilities would help keep me from getting arrested, but it’s not the strangest thing that’s happened this week by far.

  The soft shine of the moon gives way to the harsh glare of streetlights as the woods transition into the two-lane highway. There’s no way to avoid walking alongside it until we can cut over to Jake’s car, and he won’t stop checking over his shoulder.

  Every minute or so, a new car or truck blows by us, ruffling my hair and whipping my clothes.

  Clara is the first to speak, and it’s only to ask where we’re parked so she can lead us behind a few stores and avoid the exposure.

  My entire life feels wrong and I don’t know how to fix it. A week ago, I had things figured out. I had a plan. A future. The promise of freedom.

  Now I’m hour-to-hour and second-guessing even the smallest decisions because every option feels some shade of wrong.

  Jake’s car sits untouched beneath the sharp light of the liquor store lot that holds far more empty spaces than when we parked.

  His interior lights flare to life and when Clara hesitates, he nods toward his car. “C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

  Tension melts out of her shoulders and I feel like a dick for not suggesting it earlier.

  We climb in and I gasp as the cold leather meets my thighs. Even through my jeans, my skin feels raw and tender. I twist to see Clara in the back seat, and she’s studying Jake, his car, and me, trying to figure out how we all fit together.

  I want to wish her luck in unraveling that mystery. “How’d you do on that test?”

  It’s stupid, but I like tutoring, helping people understand something they thought they couldn’t, and the light that shines through when they prove to themselves they’re capable of more than they’d hoped.

  I’d offer it free to everyone, not just the kids on scholarship and the ones whose parents are barely shouldering St. Francis’s annual tuition, but I have to supplement Grandma Caldecott’s spite fund somehow.

  Clara’s gaze drops but she has a hint of a smile. “Only 89 percent but everyone did terrible, so he graded on a curve and I got an A.”

  “That’s awesome!” I hold my hand out and she slaps it — not without an eye roll though, so I add, “Don’t downplay your achievements. I’m proud of you.”

  She mumbles a thank-you and tucks her hair behind her ear, eyes cast down, but she’s smiling.

  She clears her throat and gives Jake directions, probably so I’ll stop embarrassing her. Then she says, “So she’s really gone? All the way to California?”

  There’s no small measure of awe in her voice, one that speaks to grand adventures in the City of Angels, but it’s a gnawing reminder of how much I need Willa to be here right now, so I can apologize for all the things I didn’t say when she left.

  I swallow. “Really gone. All the way to California.”

  “Wow. I’m sorry.”

  I wave her off because I honestly can’t talk about this now and I don’t want to give Jake anything else to question me about. “Sorry we ruined your party.”

  “That wasn’t your fault. Cops around here are just looking for a fight most of the time, except when there’s something to fight for, you know?”

  “Is there? Something happening that needs to be fought for?” It sounds stupid and clunky in my head, and it must be, because I can feel the pinpoints on my scalp where Jake’s gaze is fixed.

  Clara grabs hold of Jake’s headrest to pull herself forward and points a few houses down. “Third one on the left. With the light on.”

  She waits until we ease into the driveway and a light flicks on in the front window. “Listen, I heard you asking about Sydney Hatton earlier.”

  “Have you seen her? I heard her mom and aunt think she’s missing.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  I fight to keep my face blank. “There are missing person posters all over the place. Someone at The Wayside said she skipped town with her boyfriend.”

  She shrugs. “That guy is old news. I heard they broke up right before he ghosted. I don’t want to know why you’re looking, but I’ve heard some people say they’ve seen her down by The Bricks.”

  Jake says, “What’s The Bricks?” and her hand freezes on the door before she shoves it open.

  I blink against the sudden interior light and resist the urge to crawl beneath the seat in case anyone is looking out their window.

  A gust of wind tosses her hair over her face and she scrapes it away. “The Bricks is a row of houses that back to a brickyard. Mostly empty but lots of squatters. Lots of drugs. Sydney was cool for a while and then …”

  I finish for her. “One of those guys at the party talked about a new boyfriend?”

  A tight nod, tighter lips. “Max Edwards. Anyway, thanks for the ride.”

  The door slams before I can thank her, and Jake’s thumb taps against the steering wheel.

  I’m guessing he’s thinking the same thing I am: if Sydney’s alive, we may have this whole thing all wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Twor />
  The bottle of ibuprofen rattles when I pull it from the shelf and a mom with a screaming kid in her shopping cart hurries past me, two wheels squeaking off tune with a pop song playing in thin, scratchy notes, telling me to be happy.

  Jake is off shopping because his clothes are “covered in blood and dirt” from the fight earlier, which is an exaggeration, and I’m not sure if the new outfit is really just an excuse to buy pain meds or if he actually thinks he needs to look presentable to visit a drug house.

  Something smacks my shoulder and then clatters to the ground just as the mom yells, “Alexander!”

  I pick up the box the little brat just threw at me, and I’m seriously questioning the parenting and general personhood skills of someone who lets their kid play with wart remover. Just as I’m about to hand the box back to the hell spawn, I freeze.

  Detective Brisbane blocks the end of the aisle, looking so Hard-Ass Detective the mom shoves her cart fast enough to ruffle the shelves’ sales tags.

  She makes it past Brisbane but I’m still standing there, with a new appreciation for all the dumb animals that get themselves run over when they freeze in headlights. But I know how this works — I turn and run and Brisbane’s partner is waiting to catch me at the other end.

  Brisbane slides forward, a slow heel-toe step and an outstretched hand that might as well hold a gun. “Your parents are worried about you, Caroline.”

  “I left them a note.”

  “You broke into your own house and disappeared.”

  “Nope. Still here and visible.” The edge of the shelf cuts into my palm while I debate whether to climb the shelves to the next aisle or take my chances that Harper isn’t behind me. Maybe he’s hunting Jake.

  My stomach goes sour, because maybe Jake’s the reason they’re here. Maybe this little trip to the store was just an excuse to get away from me so he could call the cops, protect me for my own good. Just like my parents.

  My head swims with the force of his denials about Madison, how he was supposed to be with her the night she disappeared.

  But this is Jake. Nothing I know about him makes me think he’d be capable of hurting Madison. It’s strange though, how he hasn’t been questioned by the cops yet, even though I have and so has Mr. McCormack.

  Jake is the only one of us tied to Madison’s last night who hasn’t been treated as some kind of suspect. He’s also the only one with a dad who has the power to make the cops consider other alternatives.

  Brisbane’s other hand comes up and his head tilts, all fake submission and compassion. “Your parents want you home, where it’s safe.”

  His version of safety and mine don’t have much in common. “Maybe if you guys started worrying a little less about my safety and focused on all the other girls, I wouldn’t have to be doing your job for you!”

  I can’t stop the words from spilling out — for Sydney’s sake, and for the girl I found and forgot.

  His head rights itself, and for a moment, there’s a real Brisbane under that concerned-cop veneer, and he looks confused.

  Then a pink and purple Nerf ball blasts him upside the head.

  His eyes have barely finished widening before I’m climbing the third row of shelving.

  I scan the scene from my new perch and Harper is missing in action, but Brisbane’s got his phone to his ear while he tosses aside clothing racks looking for Jake.

  That’s when the playground ball with a smiley emoji nails him in the face.

  His phone pops free and Jake ducks behind the mirror. I am the worst friend for suspecting him. I highly doubt he called the cops just to assault them with playground equipment.

  I hit the ground before I can think how much it’s going to hurt.

  It hurts a lot. Pain radiates up my legs, but Jake’s already running toward me faster than physics should allow, even carrying my backpack. We could beat Brisbane and Harper in a race to the parking lot, but if they found us here, they probably know exactly where Jake’s car is.

  I steer us toward the back of the store, and every customer we pass jumps out of the way or stops to stare. I’m sure we’re going to end up on the news within the hour, but when the swinging double doors to the back stockroom come into sight and there are no cops standing in front of them, I couldn’t care less if they featured me on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

  Jake strong-arms the door and we nearly barrel over some poor bastard with a pallet full of toys, and then we follow the clean scent of light rain to the loading docks.

  We run through an open bay and jump to the concrete below, neither of us slowing until we’re far from the reach of the parking lot lights.

  We stop, waiting, but no one’s following.

  Jake breaths out, “I think we’re free.”

  But we also have no car, and no one to call, and freedom doesn’t feel like much of a victory.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “What the fuck, Caroline?”

  Jake is not pleased with me. He is also quite worried about his car, and a wee bit suspicious about the house we’re standing in. He can’t stop analyzing every bit of furniture and every picture on the walls like they might provide some clue that would make him feel better about standing here.

  I hold out my hand and wait. “Do you want me to dry them or not?”

  He pronounces the words slowly this time, apparently hoping the third time will be the elusive charm. “Whose house is this?”

  I managed to avoid this topic while standing in the rain, hiding behind the dumpster corral at the gas station until we found our new BFFs, Kurt and Mike. Then I was too busy negotiating the fifty-dollar fee for them to drive us away from Harper and Brisbane. Then I was trying not to breathe the whole ride since my first inhale gave me a contact high.

  I also sidestepped this conversation the entire walk here after I had Kurt and Mike drop us off a few blocks over and on the other side of the highway just in case the cops found them later — that way they wouldn’t give away our hiding spot.

  Except now we’re here and Jake doesn’t appear to be letting it go. In fact, his entire emotional state seems to hinge on knowing. If he’s going to the drug house with me later, I need him to have a somewhat stable emotional state.

  And it’s getting late — Mabel’s Swiss-themed cuckoo clock is dangerously close to the little sheep-herder belting out eleven yodels.

  I sigh. “Technically speaking, it’s my dad’s.”

  “Your dad keeps a shack house in West Virginia?”

  “It’s not a shack house. It’s a house. I’m not saying it’s huge but people raise families in houses this size, Jake.”

  “Jesus. Sorry.” He peels off his wet shirt and plops it into my waiting hand. “Why does he have it though?”

  “He’s in real estate, remember? Pants too if you want them dried.”

  His abs flex as he pops the button on his pants and I keep my eyes on his face for the rest. His smile makes it obvious he notices. “So he lets you stay here?”

  “Not exactly.” I grab the pants and take off toward the dryer down the hall, but he’s a step behind the whole way.

  “Are you squatting in your dad’s house?”

  “No.” The drum bangs against the dryer’s shell as I shove the clothes inside.

  The draft from beneath the side door snakes around my ankles. I should dry my clothes too but I’m not stripping in front of Jake. “My dad bought it from a nice old lady named Mabel. It was supposed to be a quick buy, fix and flip, make some money, except Mabel’s assisted care fell through, and she emailed my dad and begged him to let her rent it back at a monthly payment that still nets my dad almost two hundred dollars each month. My dad’s a sucker for a sob story as long as it doesn’t involve modern medicine, so voila! Here we are.”

  “So you’re squatting in Mabel’s house?”

  I tu
rn to face him. “I’m Mabel, Jake.”

  His hand moves toward his hair but makes a detour to scrub against the hint of stubble on his cheeks. “What?”

  “Mabel — the real one — is in an old folks’ home fifteen miles from here. She has dementia and she thinks I’m her daughter Suzie when I visit her sometimes. We were friends before that though.”

  He says, “Seems reasonable,” in a way that makes it clear it’s not.

  “Well, it’s true. We met when Dad was about to buy the place. I helped her email her daughter one day and then I used her email when I pretended to be her and wrote my dad so he thinks he’s renting to her when it’s actually me. I’m never late on any payments to him or the utilities or taxes, and I’ve actually really improved Mabel’s credit score, which wasn’t great, by the way, and I feed her soup when I visit, which the real Suzie won’t even do, plus I read to her.”

  Silence fills the tiny hallway until the furnace rattles awake — it’s the only thing that jostles Jake from stunned silence.

  His leans in, his voice so low it’s strained. “You stole a grandma’s identity so you could live in her house?”

  “I did not steal her identity!” Before I realize what my arms are doing, I’m yanking my shirt over my head, then the cami beneath it. “It’s not like I’m ordering TVs or opening credit cards with her social security number. I’m just borrowing her name for a minute and I asked her about it one time, you know. I told her what I was doing and she said it was okay!”

  “She has fucking dementia!” His voice booms and sweat springs out on my entire body, partly because maybe I feel a little guilty about Mabel even though I’m not doing anything to hurt her, and partly because without this house — without Mabel — I never would’ve had Willa. If I’d taken her to my real home — let her see the gated driveway surrounding massive walls, the gleam of objects that exist for display but not use, the echoes in the empty rooms — if I’d let her see the differences between our worlds, she never would’ve been more than a fleeting presence in mine.

  I knew it from the moment I found her again, the day of the disadvantaged youth soccer retreat. I saw the way she looked at my teammates while they rattled off drink orders, her head ducked, her voice small. I saw it in the way so many looked at her, like she was invisible.