The Nowhere Girls(98)

They meet one another’s eyes, one by one by one. They breathe. They swallow. They turn toward the door. Grace presses the button of the doorbell. They hold their breath and wait.

The sound of footsteps. Locks unlocking. The door creaking open to a tiny crack, just enough to reveal a girl’s face.

“Can I help you?” the girl says. Her voice quivers. She is already afraid.

“Cheyenne?” Grace says gently.

“Yeah?”

“Hi, I’m Grace. I’m here with my friends Erin and Rosina. We go to Prescott High.”

The door opens a little more. Cheyenne sticks her head out—pale skin with freckles; long strawberry-blond, curly hair. Her blue eyes are red rimmed. Haunted. She takes a long look at each of the girls.

“I don’t really know how to say this,” Grace says. “We’re here because . . . Well . . .”

“We thought you might need our help,” Rosina says, stepping forward.

A wave of recognition passes through Cheyenne’s eyes, then a tremor of surprise. She opens the door a little more.

“A friend of ours overheard a couple of guys talking,” Grace says. “Guys we already know have done bad things to girls. They mentioned your name. They were talking about something they did. Something horrible.”

Erin is trying to hide behind Rosina. She is no longer calm. All of a sudden she wants to run back to the car. She wants to curl up in the backseat, where she felt safe just moments ago, lock the door, and wait for this all to be over.

Cheyenne’s eyes dart between the girls. Erin knows that look. Erin knows that panic.

“We’re so sorry about what happened,” Grace says. “We want to help. We want to support you in any way you need.”

“Does everyone in Prescott know?” Cheyenne says. She sounds mad. “How many people know?”

“Just us,” Grace says. “The guys don’t know we know.”

Cheyenne takes a deep breath. “This is crazy,” she says. She closes her eyes for a moment. “What the hell? I guess I should invite you in.”

“Only if you want to,” Grace says.

Cheyenne looks Grace in the eyes. “I want to,” she says softly, almost too quietly to hear. She turns around and they follow her inside.

Erin thinks the living room looks like the kind of place where nice things are supposed to happen. Not things like this.

“Sit down, I guess,” Cheyenne says as she curls up in an armchair already draped with a blanket, a cup and crumb-dusted plate on the table next to it. Grace and Rosina sit on the couch, and Erin takes the matching love seat with the arms just high enough Cheyenne won’t notice her rubbing her hands.

“So how do you think you’re going to help me?” Cheyenne says.

“That’s up to you,” Grace says. “At the very least, we can listen. You don’t have to keep it all in.”

Cheyenne looks at them, one by one. Erin studies her face as it softens. She can see the moment Cheyenne makes the decision to trust them.

“It happened on Saturday night,” she says. “I got home early Sunday morning, before my parents woke up. They didn’t even know I missed curfew. I slept almost all day yesterday, and when I woke up, I told my mom I have a fever. She let me stay home sick from school today.”

“Your parents don’t know?” Rosina says.

Cheyenne shakes her head. “I was going to tell someone,” she says. “My mom, or the counselor at school or something. But I had no idea how to do it. I was waiting to feel like talking about it. But that never happened.”

“Can you talk about it now?” Grace says. “With us?”

“Yeah,” Rosina says. “Do you want to talk about something superintimate and scary with these weird girls you’ve never met in your life who just showed up at your door?”

“Honestly, I think it’s actually easier,” Cheyenne says. “Because I don’t know you, I don’t have to worry about your reaction. I don’t have to worry about how it’s going to affect you.” Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Plus, you’re the Nowhere Girls, right? So I know I can trust you.”

“How’d you know?” Grace says.

“You’ve heard about us?” Rosina says.

“Of course I’ve heard about you,” Cheyenne says. “Everyone’s heard about you. You’re like superheroes or something.”

“Wow,” Grace says, and Erin can tell she’s trying not to smile.

“I don’t even know their names,” Cheyenne continues.

“We do,” Rosina says.

“I don’t want to know,” Cheyenne says quickly. “Please don’t tell me.”

Erin wonders if Rosina was right—maybe they shouldn’t be here. Maybe they shouldn’t be pushing Cheyenne to talk. Maybe it’s not always a good idea to talk about it. Everyone is always saying “Talk about it.” But what if talking hurts? What if it does more harm than good? What if talking about it just makes you relive it over and over again? What if it just gives the pain more fuel?

Or what if talking about it burns it out? That’s the theory, anyway. But has anyone scientifically proven it? Do memories have a half-life, like carbon? Do they shrink over time until they’re minuscule, microscopic? Can you share something so much you give it all away?