Nice Girls(80)

“I do, okay? She and Olivia are linked, there’s a connection between them—”

“Man, you think I’m dumb as hell, don’t you?” Jayden stopped, turning to look at me, the whites of his eyes glowing in the dark. “I’m some meathead who does your dirty work.”

“No! It’s not like that, I—I don’t— You’re not—”

“Fuck you, Mary,” he said. “You’re on your own. You deal with your shit, I deal with mine.”

I watched as Jayden walked back to his car. He dumped Ron’s skateboard in the slush and drove away. I felt my blood boil, the fatigue and the rage rushing over me. I wanted to scream, and for a second, I imagined the satisfaction of hitting Ron in the face.

There was a faint thump coming from the car. I couldn’t see anything. But as I drew closer, I saw a pale face knocking against one of the back windows. Ron had somehow inched his way up onto the seat, banging against the car window for help. I saw myself standing there, watching Ron. And I suddenly knew what to do.

I climbed into the back seat through the other door. Ron squirmed as I unclasped the belt from his wrists. It was moist with sweat. Ron turned around slowly. I couldn’t see his expression, but I could hear his desperate, staggered breathing. And I knew the thought running in his head.

I leaned in.

“You do anything to me, and I’ll charge you with assault,” I said softly. “Your word against mine.”

Ron didn’t move.

“Now get the hell out of my car.”





38




When I woke up, I felt like I’d barely just closed my eyes. The previous night didn’t seem real. But as I rolled over, I felt my lower back start to throb, as if someone had left a permanent stamp there.

The back pain was from early in the morning. After I got home, I was bent over the car’s back seat, frantically brushing off any hairs or scraps that had been left behind. When that was done, I took some laundry detergent and warm water and scrubbed the back seat and car floors. I worked myself into a sweat, imagining all the drool and bits of skin left over. With Ron, I wasn’t taking any chances.

It had taken me around an hour and a half to clean everything up. It was nearly two in the morning when I finished, and I’d spent half that time glancing back at the door to the house, afraid that Dad would suddenly peer out.

In bed, I checked my phone. It was only at 40 percent battery—I was so tired that I hadn’t charged it. The screen showed it was a little past eight in the morning.

I still felt like shit.

Through the windows, I watched as the snow pelted down, angry and violent. As if chips of plaster were crumbling from the sky.



When I came downstairs, I found Dad sitting at the breakfast table. His hands were held together as if in prayer, his eyes focused on the steaming coffee mug in front of him.

“Morning.”

It took Dad an extra second before he stiffly looked up.

“You came home late,” he said.

I shrugged, pouring myself a cup of coffee at the counter. I pictured Dad lying awake in bed, listening as his kid creaked around the house at two in the morning. He probably thought I was out late with a boy. And he was right in a way—I was out late with two boys, both of whom despised me.

“It looks pretty bad out there.”

“We might get eleven inches,” Dad said, his eyes following me. The bags under his eyes looked dark and purple.

“That sounds bad.”

“It could be worse,” he said.

I realized that there was something in the air, as subtle as a heat wave.

“I’ll be careful on the road then.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Dad and I stared at each other. Passive silence was usually what we preferred. We could sit together and not talk for as long as we needed. We knew things would settle down on their own—they always did.

But today, the silence was loud. Hostile, as if the two of us were waiting for the right time to strike at each other.

“You’ve been hanging out with some people, Mary.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Thugs,” he spat.

The word seemed to crash down in front of us, as heavy as a slur. I could almost imagine the crater that it would leave through the table and the tiles on the kitchen floor. My mind raced back to the car with Dwayne, Jayden, Charice. They’d driven me home the day after the party, and Dad had noticed. He was talking about them, the contempt and the rage and the fear all threaded into one word.

And I didn’t know what to do except squirm.

“You’ve been doing God knows what with them.”

“I need to get ready,” I said, fleeing for the stairs.

“What for?” Dad asked. “You don’t have a damn job anymore.”

I turned around.

“Your old supervisor called earlier. He wants you to return your uniform.”

I felt my stomach drop. I couldn’t focus on anything except the flash across Dad’s face, the sheer anger in it.

“You lied to me, Mary,” said Dad, his eyes dark. “You didn’t quit that job, you were fired. And then you threw a goddamn tantrum in the store.”

I said nothing. I could think of nothing.