The Girl Page 2

  “I’m in the loop. I hear things. Christ, some of your classmates have even asked if I’d buy for them before.”

  “Seriously?” I eke out, completely flabbergasted.

  “Yeah. I’m your older sister, in normal families, you’d be the one begging me to buy for you. Just go to the party, Lotte. You’ll be happy you did.” She sounds tired. She probably is, because this conversation is a tired one we have often.

  Huffing, I plant my hands on my hips and I ask, “Oh yeah? When?” Because I have no desire, no interest in this party she conveniently found out about. It sounds like the worst way to spend an evening.

  “Trust me. You’ll look back on high school someday and be happy that you participated in the fun stuff,” she says, her voice a little softer.

  She ignores the pout I give her and resumes chopping up vegetables. The sizzle of them hitting the hot skillet briefly drowns out the music.

  Eve’s always talking about the future.

  ‘I know you don't care-know-want-or-need... but you will in the future, Lotte.’

  It’s always in the future. I'm so sick of it. I want right now. In the moment. She means she wants me to have the ‘normal’ teenage experience inclusive of friends, boys, parties, formals, summer camps and bad decisions. She worries that my future—see there’s that word again—will be stunted if I don’t allow these experiences to happen. But what she doesn’t understand is that outside of the kids at school, I am happy. I love learning. I just don’t love the idiots I’m surrounded by while learning. I march to the beat of my own drum, how can she expect anything less after everything I’ve—no we’ve—been through.

  “Fun stuff my ass,” I say, and roll my eyes at her.

  She shoots me a murderous glare for the curse word even though she has the vocabulary of a trucker and a pirate’s love-child.

  I’m standing in the kitchen near a girl who's always smack-talking someone or something. She’s three people away from a boy who's throwing up, already, because he can't handle whatever’s in his plastic cup. The majority of the masses are congregating near the refrigerator in the kitchen. Some girl I don’t recognize is talking nonstop about her latest cheerleading competition. I roll my eyes, followed by my shoulders. Clouds of marijuana smoke hang in the air, surrounding me, and music I don’t enjoy—violent rap— blares. Some of the popular girls grind and gyrate around their choice of boys. A few middle-class-in-social-standing students smile or wave at me. It makes me want to vomit a little in my mouth. They’re just curious, not truly friendly. Nora has always called me an old soul, and maybe she’s right. I definitely don’t define youth and fun the way these girls do.

  I have no business being at this party, but Eve basically told me she’d ground me if I didn’t come. I would rather be at home, curled up with a good book and mug of mint tea, than in this room with strangers who don't care about me, let alone even know me.

  I'm standing by a ridiculously oversized TV mounted to the wall, with the hand-knit beanie Nora made me pulled low on my head. I’d rather not be noticed. I mean, I came to make an effort for my sister’s sake, but attendance over participation is about all I can commit to right now. It’s usually easy to be invisible at these events when the majority are inebriated and have their eyes glued to their phones.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. A text from Nora. I swipe the screen to read the message.

  Step out of the abditory and smile at someone.

  I laugh quietly at her message. She knows me too well. Something hits my forehead before dropping onto my phone. A tampon sans packaging. Through my lashes I look up.

  “Thought you could use that,” Julie says. Everything Julie says somehow manages to be a purr, to sound seductive. Even when she’s mean. It’s infuriating.

  I tip my phone so the tampon falls to the floor. I’m staring blankly across the room when Mike Badger winks at me, and I want to curl up and die. Mr. Lacrosse himself. As if. He’s in three of my classes and he finds a reason to tug my braid in each freaking class, every stinking day. He approaches slowly, like he’s worried I might bite him. And all I can think is, good, you should be. Even though I’d probably never have the nerve to actually bite him. I’m not exactly the confrontational, violent type.

  “Hey cutie. You okay?” He lifts his chin at me in that cocky way only boys can, before giving Julie a nasty look. She doesn’t care. She smirks and walks away.

  I roll my eyes and glare at him. At least, I hope it’s a glare. Liam, Nora’s husband laughs when I get mad, insisting that even my meanest face is sweet and endearing. Resting bitch face is something I’ve yet to master—but I’m working on it.

  His expression sours and he says, “Jesus Lotte, are you always such a snob? I was just checking on you.” My glare must have worked. He runs his hand from my shoulder to elbow. I jerk it away, finding nothing but repulsion in his touch.

  No. I think. Only pathetic punks like you and your friends bring out my inner bitch. I can’t help it. The boys at school just don’t do it for me. They’re self-absorbed, and for the most part, lack the seriousness and intelligence that I would find attractive. In short, they have no depth, among other things.

  “I’m not a snob. I’m just not interested.”

  “In what? Boys or me?” he snickers.

  God forbid you threaten a teenage boy’s manhood. I cross my arms over my chest and take a step backward. Mike takes a step forward. My stomach coils with sudden unease.

  Mike takes a slug of whatever his red plastic cup contains before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Gross.

  “Let’s dance. Julie will hate that.” He waggles his brows at me. As if making Julie feel anything appeals to me.

  “No thanks,” I choke out, my nerves getting the better of me.

  His hand reaches out toward me.

  “Maybe you should take your cue, man, and give up.” I turn to face a voice I don’t recognize, and tap my Converse-clad foot on the hardwood floor, which is sticky with spilled God-knows-what. Slightly dazed, I stare at Dallas Baribeau. Mr. Aloof himself. I’ve seen him, of course; he’s a year ahead of me but we have a couple classes together. I cringe when I realize Mr. Cobleigh’s class is one of them. He probably thinks I have scalpel PTSD and waddle like a lunatic who can’t hold it. A blush of embarrassment flashes across my chest.

  “Fuck off, Goth.” Mike’s expression changes from flirtatious to irritated with whiplash speed.

  “Mike,” I squeal in horror. I’m all for being a jerk, in my head, but firmly believe humans should be nice to each other in general.

  Mike stares at me a beat longer before walking away, and I heave out a sigh of relief. Dallas stays glued to the floor next to me. I’ve wondered about him before. Analyzed his look to see if it adds up with all the rumors that float around about him. He is all army boots, leather and tee’s, and James-Dean-esque hair. He smells good too, like gasoline and cinnamon.

  I side-eye him and say, “So.”

  “So,” Dallas says, his eyes never straying from mine.

  “Fun party.” My anti-social skills are really shining bright tonight. Pull it together, Lotte.

  Dallas busts out laughing and I feel irrationally offended. His reputation is as bad as mine in the damaged-social-pariah category but he has kind eyes. Still, I don’t like being laughed at.

  “Sorry. I just didn’t picture you like this.” He throws his hands up.

  “Like what?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He waves his hands around in wild circles in front of me. “All, awkward.”

  His leather jacket and solid black boots make him look meaner than he probably is. He doesn’t seem intentionally mean...so far. Still, I bristle at his observation.

  “Do you know who I am?” And this is how you continue to not have any friends. Keep them all at a distance.

  He stiffens before shaking his head looking like I’ve asked the most absurd question ever.

  “Yeah, the chick
who loves reading, gets straight As.” He taps his chin in mock thought. “Probably helps out around the house and never questions authority. You probably dance while making dinner. It’s a guess, but tell me I’m wrong.” He lifts his chin at me indignantly. A chill dances its way up my spine as my mouth hangs agape. My question has never received a legit answer before. Most of my peers resort to looking mortified and walking away whispering. It takes a moment before I’m able to recover, and he’s already stepping away from me. And it registers somewhere deep inside me that I feel...a loss. An irrational loss.

  I lift my chin and metaphorically pull my keep-them-all-at-bay mask on. “I’m the survivor of The Tutor—so screw off,” I call out.

  He doesn't respond. He doesn’t even look shocked or curious. He just smiles at me over his shoulder seemingly unaffected.

  Cars line the quiet side street. The crispness of the air makes the tiny hairs inside my nose stiff. Sometimes I hurt so much, when everything builds up, I don’t know which way to turn to keep afloat. As if I’m traveling on a drowning boat. I pull my beanie lower and button my flannel up one more. I kick some stray leaves from last fall as I start heading for Main Street. It was stupid to bother coming tonight. I should have done what I wanted and stayed in. There is nothing wrong with being an old soul. In knowing your place in the world, liking the values and tradition and music of an era before you—of wishing you could have experienced it. I desperately wish I had been born forty years earlier where screen time wasn’t a thing, where reading and being outdoors were the entertainment. The music and chatter of the party disintegrate into the night air as I walk. I know what I like and what I don’t and I’m content to live my life confident in my perceived oddness.

  “Yo, City, wait up.” I dip my head lower, walk faster, hoping that the voice isn’t directed at me. A hand clamps on my shoulder and I stop. My head snaps up. I can’t read his expression.

  “I, um, I don’t want you to leave because of me,” Dallas says.

  I blink once, twice. Why is he here?

  “I’m not,” I tell him.

  He scratches his head. “I mean, okay. I just wanted to apologize. I say dumb shit sometimes.”

  “You swear a lot too,” I point out.

  He gives me a half smile and nods. “Yeah, that too.”

  I bite my lip so I don’t smile as well. There’s something different about him. Something different that I think I like. My gut isn’t screaming ‘beware’ or ‘run away’ or ‘distrust.’ In fact, it’s not screaming at all.

  “Why aren’t you in there?” I ask, nodding toward the house, slowly disappearing behind us.

  “Not really my scene. Should I walk you to your car?” he asks, scanning the street.

  Shaking my head I say, “I don’t have one. Also, no license. It’s not my thing either.”

  “Cars or parties?”

  Grinning, I say, “Parties.”

  “So why’d you come?” He kicks a rock, sending it scattering down the sidewalk.

  “Probably the same reason you did; to try and fit in once in a while.”

  He laughs. A howling laugh. It’s clamorous and deep and a little gritty, and I like it.

  “Want to do something else?” It’s too dark to really make out the color of his eyes, but the way they dart all over the place makes me want to inspect them. Instead, I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Probably not,” I say hesitantly.

  He nods and bites the inside of his cheek. And then, “Honesty. I dig it.”

  Feeling a little guilt for being such a twat I ask, “What’s your story?”

  “Why do you assume I have one?” He cocks his head at me.

  I raise my brows at him. “You look like a dude who knows how he’s going to take over the world already.”

  “I’m afraid I’m a disappointment then. I’m just trying to figure out how to get through today and possibly tomorrow.” He kicks another loose piece of asphalt.

  That might be the most interesting answer I’ve heard to a question all month. Without responding, I start walking again. He keeps stride next to me. A microscopic bubble of warmth blossoms in my belly.

  “Is it true?” I ask.

  “What?“ he asks, jamming his hands into his pockets.

  “You being in juvie for killing your entire family?”

  He snickers. Snickers. “Is that what they’re saying?” Pulling one hand from a pocket he pushes his hair backward from his face.

  “Among other things—yeah—but that’s my favorite iteration,” I say.

  “Iteration?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Look it up. Words are kinda my jam. So?”

  The leather of his coat makes a slight rustling every time his arm swings as he keeps my pace, which looks hard given the size of his boots. They look heavy. Daunting. Like they were made for one task; kicking.

  “Oh, again, sorry to disappoint, but no. I didn’t kill my entire family.” He scratches the back of his neck.

  I cock my head at him. “What about juvie?”

  He slows a little, his light-hearted expression darkening. “That part’s true.”

  “Hey,” I turn, walking backwards, “I’m not judging. Who knows, maybe I’m a killer too.” I almost laugh when his eyes bug out of his head. “Listen Dallas, I gotta get home. It was okay meeting you.”

  Dallas beams at me in a manner that causes my stomach to flip-flop briefly. “Have a good night, City.”

  “Why do you keep calling me that?” I ask.

  He doesn’t respond, and the fact that he doesn’t warms my belly even more and makes me grin. The rest of my walk home is silent and contemplative. I think Dallas Baribeau might just be the only interesting teenager I’ve met at school.

  2

  Charlotte

  Nora was frenzied. “Holden, stop it. She’s just a girl.”

  “Just a girl? Do you know what I was subjected to at her age?”

  His eyes clouded as they morphed from vibrant green like the untouched mountain grass to black holes in his face. I shuddered.

  “Please, she understands. Don’t you, Lotte?” Nora looked to me. I nodded vigorously at them both.

  “I didn’t ask you to speak,” he said. Nora cowered and tried to tuck me behind her a bit. She protected me the best she could. Holden’s hand snaked out and tore me away from her. I tried not to yelp, but it snuck out anyway.

  Nora rushed Holden, pleading. Begging. For me.

  With a swift motion, he backhanded her. The force of it sent her crashing into the table. The crack of her body hitting the wood echoed in the small space. Terror built in my gut. Laura, Laura, Laura. All over again. Tears streamed down my face when Holden held me up by my shoulders, until I was eye level with him. With those black holes in his face where eyes should be. The monster was back.

  “We lost all the chickens, Lotte. There’s no meat, no eggs for the rest of winter because you forgot to latch the enclosure.”

  “I’m s-sorry,” I stammered. Holden set me down. His whole body vibrated with fury. I had never messed up this badly before. Terror’s icy fingers wrapped around me like tentacles, slowly squeezing the air from my lungs, the blood from my heart, the thoughts from my brain. I was frozen, superglued to my spot on the floor.

  “Don’t touch her!” Nora screamed clutching the side of her head. The sound was desperate. Like Nora was on the cusp of something she wouldn't come back from. Holden and I both looked at her. We both sensed a shift in her.

  “You are not the master of this house, Nora.” His black holes blazed malice. Before I knew what was happening, I was knocked to the floor with such force my head snapped back, hitting the floorboards, and everything went black like Holden’s eyes.

  I sit up in the darkness, a scream wedged in my throat, fingers clutching the sheets. Shaking slightly, my heart thrums in my chest. The relief at realizing I am in my bedroom is palpable. Just another nightmare. Black holes. That’s what strikes me deep in the core. Not green. Gree
n eyes were safe, but the black holes for eyes were the evil eyes. When those eyes took hold of him, I stayed away. I knew what black holes meant. When would he release his hold on me? Probably never. The past has a way of sinking its roots deep inside a person.

  Sweat coats the back of my neck. I haven’t dreamed of Holden in a long time. I haven’t dreamed of one of the only times he hurt me in even longer. It feels like a bad omen. An ominous foreshadowing of something rotten to come. Blindly, I reach out for my journal, the pen clipped to the spiral binding. I flip on my book light and slowly inhale and exhale to gather my thoughts.

  I do this, I write a word that I want to know better in my journal when I’m uneasy. I think I get that from Nora. Her words were so comforting for so long, that part of me just wants more words. I want all the words.

  Dear D,

  Thantophobia; the fear of losing someone you love.

  I am still scared of losing more than I already have. Terrified that I will lose Eve or Nora or Aubry. The sheer thought of attempting to live my life without them puts a pit in my gut, a lump in my throat and sets my heart racing. Thantophobia makes me nostalgic too. For the people I’ve already lost. Mostly for Nana. For oceans and swings, smiles and laughs.

  Frustrated that my thoughts are not turning into eloquent, relaxing prose, I close the journal and then my eyes. Nana. For me, she was life. She was everything. Love and light, laughter and adventure. It’s been so long since I really thought about her.

  The magic of Nana’s house was Nana. I can’t really picture her face any longer, but I can still hear her distinct laugh in the crashing waves at a beach. Summers were a special time. A time I could just be a kid—at least until my father screwed up. Nana and I drank tea infusions on her porch in rocking chairs that creaked. Caught frogs, explored island trails, swam in the salt water until our lips were blue. Spent hours flying through the air on a buoy turned swing. Sometimes Eve would even let me tag along with her. We went home in August with tanned skin, calloused feet from being barefoot, and white blond highlights in our hair. But that last summer was different. Dad came to pick us up instead of Mom. Nana yelled at him, thinking we couldn’t hear, and he yelled back. That was the last summer of magic.