Good Girl, Bad Girl(5)

“She clocked you straightaway.”

“Being perceptive doesn’t make someone a truth wizard.”

He lifts his eyebrows, as though he expected more of me.

“I think you’re trying to fob her off,” I say.

“Gladly,” he says, “but that’s not the reason. I honestly thought you could help her. Everybody else has failed.”

“Has she ever talked about what happened to her—in the house, I mean.”

“No. According to Evie, she has no past, no family, and no memories.”

“She’s blocked them out.”

“Maybe. At the same time, she lies, she obfuscates, she casts shade and misdirects. She’s a nightmare.”

“I don’t think she’s a truth wizard,” I say.

“OK.”

“What files can you show me?”

“I’ll get them to you. Some of the early details have been redacted to protect her new identity.”

“You said Evie broke someone’s jaw. Who was it?” I ask.

“A member of staff found two thousand pounds in her room. He figured Evie must have stolen the money and took it from her, saying he was going to hand it over to the police.”

“What happened?”

“Evie knew he was lying.”

“Where did she get the money?” I ask.

“She said she won it playing poker.”

“Is that possible?”

“I wouldn’t bet against her.”





3




* * *





ANGEL FACE




* * *



I enjoy the mathematics of smoking. Every cigarette takes fourteen minutes off my life, according to a poster I read in a doctor’s office. When I add the six minutes it takes to smoke each one, it makes a total of twenty minutes. An hour for every three. I like those numbers.

Unfortunately, I’m allowed only four a day, which I have to smoke outside in the courtyard while a member of staff watches over me, ready to confiscate the lighter afterwards in case I try to burn the place down.

Sucking hard on the filter, I hold the smoke inside my chest, picturing the toxic chemicals and black tar clogging my lungs, causing cancer or emphysema or rotting my teeth. A slow death, I know, but that’s life, isn’t it—a long, drawn-out suicide.

I’m sitting on a bench where I can feel the coldness of the concrete through my torn indigo-colored Levi’s. I slip a forefinger through one of the frayed holes and widen the tear as far as the seam. I press my thumb into the skin on my thigh, watching how the blood rushes back into the pale blotch. Although barefoot, I don’t feel the cold. I’ve been in colder places. I’ve had fewer clothes.

Pulling my foot into my lap, I begin picking off my toenail polish, not liking the color anymore. It’s too girlie. Dumb. I should never wear pastel colors—pinks and mauves. I once experimented with black, but it made my toenails look diseased.

I think about the group session. Guthrie brought a guest—a shrink with a strange name: Cyrus. He was handsome for an old guy—at least thirty—with thick dark hair and green eyes that looked sad, as though he might be homesick or missing someone. He didn’t say much. Instead he watched and listened. Most men talk too much and rarely listen. They talk about themselves or give orders or make decisions. They have cruel or hungry eyes, but rarely sad eyes.

Davina knocks on the window and shakes her dreadlocks. “Who are you talking to, Evie?”

“Nobody.”

“Come inside now.”

“I’m not finished.”

Davina is one of the “house mothers,” a title that makes Langford Hall sound like a boarding school rather than a “secure children’s home” by which they mean a prison. Secure because I can’t leave. Secure because there are locks on the doors and CCTV cameras watching over me. Secure because if I kicked off right now, a three-person “control and restraint” team would arrive within minutes and truss me up like a Christmas turkey.

Davina knocks on the glass again, making an eating motion. Lunch is ready.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

“I’m not feeling well.”

“Do you want another red card?”

Red cards are given for misbehavior and swearing at staff. I can’t afford another one, or I’ll miss our Sunday excursion. This week we’re going to see a movie at Cineworld. The world always seems better when I’m sitting in the dark with a warm tub of popcorn between my thighs, watching someone else’s life flash before my eyes.

Nobody ever gets a green card. You’d have to cure cancer or bring peace to the world or let Mrs. Porter look at you naked in the shower—girls only, of course; she doesn’t look at boys the same way.

Crushing the cigarette against the brickwork, I watch the sparks flare and fade, before tossing the butt into the muddy garden. Davina raps on the window. I roll my eyes. She jabs her finger. I retrieve the butt and hold it up, mouthing the word “satisfied” before popping it into my mouth, chewing and swallowing. I open wide. All gone.

Davina looks disgusted and shakes her head.

Back in my room, I brush my teeth and reapply my mascara and foundation, hiding my freckles. I won’t earn another strike unless I’m fifteen minutes late for a meal. When I arrive in the dining room, most of the other kids are finishing because boredom makes them hungry. The room smells of baked cheese and overcooked brussels sprouts. I take a tray and move past the hot food, collecting two pots of yogurt, a banana, and a box of muesli.