Nice Girls(10)

Even in a tragedy, people were nosy.

I had nothing to say. I was too raw.

Olivia just complicated things. She’d gone missing the night that I had come home. And I was home because of an act of violence at school . . .

The swing groaned as I kicked harder.

The incident with Carly, my arrival back home, my history with Olivia—all of that tainted me. I looked suspicious. And I’d had enough havoc in the last few days. I didn’t need to be poked and prodded about Olivia’s disappearance. I’d already had enough misery from her. I owed her nothing.

Dad thought I was callous, but I was just being smart.

He didn’t know who she was.

A high school teacher once sent me to check on her. Olivia had been gone in the restroom for over twenty minutes. I found her kneeling in front of a toilet in a back stall. She was clutching her blond hair as she retched. It sounded like she was hissing.

“Are you okay?”

The noises stopped. Olivia turned around slowly, a stream of orange bile dripping down her mouth. She didn’t respond, just stared at me coldly, her eyes wet and hard. We were the only two people in the bathroom.

With a piece of toilet paper, Olivia wiped her lips and walked back to class. She didn’t bother flushing the toilet. Olivia later told the teacher that she’d been having a panic attack over our math test. The teacher gave her a redo.

My father, her parents, the police, the volunteers—none of them knew her.

Olivia did whatever she wanted. Nothing fazed her. Maybe she’d run off with a secret boyfriend. Maybe she was high on someone’s couch. Maybe it was a publicity stunt.

With Olivia, it was hard to know.





6




A fist smashed into my eye.

I cried out, the world going black. Light suddenly drilled into my other eye, and I saw Carly above my left, her red hair covering her eyes. To my right, I saw Olivia’s blond locks. I couldn’t move at all—I was being pelted in the face, their fists raining down on me, smashing my skull, my teeth, my brain— I woke up sweaty beneath the bedsheets. I was alone in my bedroom.

On my phone, I had one new text: Rot in hell you stupid bitch. There were no updates about Olivia, but her story had been shared on CNN, MSNBC, Fox. Barely a day, and she’d hit cable news.

Downstairs, Dad was already packing his lunch box. During the fall, his contracting schedule was hectic as clients pushed for their projects to be completed before the winter.

He’d come home early last night. He’d spent hours searching in the cold. Dad said most of the volunteers stayed as long as he did. They found a kid’s broken sandal, beer bottles, a box of condoms, but nothing of interest. He went to bed right after dinner.

This morning, he had heavy bags under his eyes.

“Are you searching today?” I asked.

“Can’t. I have to make up the work I missed yesterday.”

I poured myself a cup of coffee.

Dad checked his phone, then took his thermos and lunch box.

“You joining the search?” he asked.

“No. I have training today.”

“Good. Don’t go searching by yourself,” he said.



At the grocery store, I met with Jim, Dwayne’s boss and the manager of Goodhue Groceries. Jim was thin, white-haired, and somewhere in his sixties. He carried a handkerchief in one pocket.

I was given a green polo shirt like Dwayne’s and a walking tour of the store.

“Dwayne speaks highly of you,” Jim said. He reached out and tapped a bag of chips as we passed by.

“Thanks,” I said awkwardly.

“I trust him. Dwayne’s the best assistant manager I have. Real sharp and reliable. Very popular with the ladies.”

I couldn’t help but smirk—I imagined a whole checkout line of women who swooned as Dwayne walked by.

“Real good guy,” said Jim, growing quiet. “Shame about the championship, though.”

“Wasn’t that four years ago?”

“It still hurts, Mary. I lost money on that game,” he said, sighing. “We never get anywhere in football, so that year was wild. Dwayne was a miracle. Maybe that was too much pressure for him, you know?”

I nodded.

Dwayne had carried the Patriots to the state football championship in our last year of high school. He even made the front page of the newspaper—there was a large picture of him in uniform, all muddied from the dirt and rain, triumphantly raising a fist to the sky. Dwayne Turner, number twenty-four, Liberty Lake’s star quarterback and hometown hero.

We were the seventh-biggest city in Minnesota, with a good school system and a well-funded athletic program. In theory, we should’ve had a good football team—we had the money for it. But the city never got anywhere in sports. We won bronze medals and consolation prizes, but nothing worthwhile.

Until Dwayne Turner brought us to the state football championship.

Madison and I had watched the game together at her house: Liberty Lake versus North Hamilton. Neither of us gave a shit about sports, but even we could sense that history was being made. The Liberty Lake Patriots dominated the first quarter, scoring 6–0. The blue-and-red faces in the crowd went wild, screaming and chanting in the stands.

Then, in the second quarter, the Patriots crumbled. It was a drastic change. Suddenly they were fumbling, getting blitzed. But Dwayne had it the worst. He was slowing down, bulldozing right into North Hamilton’s defense. The football slipped through his arms. The broadcast zoomed in on him as he got tackled over and over again, Liberty Lake’s dreams getting crushed along with him.