Dangerous Girls
Page 10
I’ll be okay.
NOW
Everyone is trying to make like it’s my fault. Prosecutors, her parents, reporters, TV. They say I led Elise astray; that I took a sweet, innocent straight-As girl and dragged her down to my level. That I coerced her into skipping school, and staying out too late, and drinking dollar shots in dive bars until she screwed strange guys in the bathrooms of clubs that should never have let us in.
That I made her this way.
It sounds bad, I know, but the truth is, we made each other, like we learned about in science class. Symbiosis. I was the partner-in-crime she’d been waiting for: a hand to hold as she ran, laughing, away from the ivy-covered gates she’d been gazing over her entire life. And Elise . . . She was my catalyst. The glint in my eye, the giddy thrill in my stomach, the voice urging me to be louder, bolder, to blend into the background no more.
We were both responsible for what we became, which I guess means we both have to share the blame. If Elise is the cause of everything that’s happened to me, then I’m to blame for her fate too. It’s both of our faults, equally.
Except she’s gone, and I’m all alone again. And so the blame—the great weight of it, the months of media speculation and fury and bitter, seething outrage—falls entirely on me. Some days, it’s like I’m drowning in it, like I’ll never see the surface again. She was always the one to pull me up, my hand to hold when it felt like I was going under. She saved me, and now she’s gone.
How am I supposed to get by on my own?
THE NIGHT
The first round of questioning is simple: “When did you last see Elise?” “What were you doing that day?” “Did you see anyone suspicious near the house?”
They take us one by one into the interview room, while the rest of the group slouches, tired and weepy on yellow plastic chairs in the lobby of the police station as people mill about us in a state of barely disguised panic. We’ve called our parents, stuttered through the terrible news, and now there’s nothing left to do but wait. Chelsea’s eyes are red and tired. She sits, frozen, clutching Lamar’s hand with both of hers, staring at the bloodstains on her jeans. Melanie huddles her small body into a ball, her arms hugging her knees, her voice raw from sobbing. I can hardly bear to look at them. Every part of my body feels wired with a terrible rush of shock and adrenaline, as if my atoms are about to break apart and spin out into the world.
I leap up. “Mel, you got any quarters?”
She blinks at me from behind straight black bangs.
“The machine, I need a soda.” I nod to the vending machine. Melanie slowly rummages in her purse, like she’s moving underwater, and passes me some change.
I go try the machine in the corner by the reception desk. The precinct staff look as shocked as I feel; over and over again we’ve been told this doesn’t happen here. This is a safe island. Some robbery, a few drunken traffic violations, but murder? The first patrol to arrive at the house didn’t know what the hell to do. One of them just stood there, staring blankly at the blood, while the other vomited in the hallway and stumbled back outside. It took another half hour for more police to arrive, and longer still for anyone to even approach the body. They trampled in and out of the room all night, and it was almost five in the morning before they finally bundled her up onto the stretcher and drove away.
I’ve been feeding the money in over and over before I see that the prices are listed in euros, not dollars. It doesn’t take American currency. I search my pockets, but there’s nothing. After everything, it’s the can of Coke that breaks me; out of reach behind the glass. I slam my hand against the machine and swear, loud in the silence of the room. Everyone looks over.
“Sorry,” I mutter, sliding back into my seat. Tate is sitting on the floor in front of me, his legs outstretched. I put a hand on his head, twisting my fingers in his hair. He turns and gives me a faint ghost of a smile, but it’s enough to calm me. It always is.
“He’s been in there forever.” Chelsea can’t keep her eyes from the interview room door. It’s Max’s turn now, and Chelsea pulls her sweatshirt around her, looking anxious for her brother. “Why are they keeping him so long?”
Silence.
“He was first, to see the body,” I offer. “He saw the room before we all came in. The open balcony door.”
“I still say we shouldn’t be talking to them.” Tate’s foot twitches again. “Not without a lawyer.” He looks to Akshay. “Didn’t your dad say he was finding someone?”
Silence.
“AK?” Chelsea nudges him gently. AK flinches. “Your dad, the lawyer?”
AK shrugs. He has a distant look in his dark eyes, like he doesn’t see any of us at all. Usually he’s the one with a joke and a quip, but now he looks wrung out. Detached
“We’re minors, too,” Tate adds. “We shouldn’t be alone in there.”
“They need to find out what happened,” I tell him gently. “So they can find the guy who did this.”
“What if he’s still out there?” Melanie turns to us, wide-eyed. “What if he comes back to the house?”
There’s a long pause. For the first time, I stop thinking about what has happened and look ahead, to what still may be to come.
“We’ll go to a hotel,” Lamar speaks up, his voice the only steady one. He takes Chelsea’s hand, reassuring us. “We’ll stick together.”
“But he could be after us!” Melanie’s voice cracks. “We don’t know why he came for her. It could be anything; it could be—”
“Mel,” I warn her. “Calm down.”
“How can you . . . ?” The tears are coming now, fast down her cheeks. “You saw—you saw what he did to her! She must have been so scared, and nobody was there, and . . .” She collapses into hysterics, hiccupping for air. “I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”
“Melanie.” Chelsea tries to reach for her, but Mel ducks away. She’s gasping, doubled over, hyperventilating. “Mel!”
“Get a paper bag.” I leap up. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? A paper bag?”
I get blank faces. AK is still spaced out, Tate looks lost, and Chelsea is helplessly searching through her purse for something. “Guys!” Melanie’s face is red; she’s wheezing desperately, her whole body shaking, so I cross the waiting area and slap her once across the face, hard.
NOW
Everyone is trying to make like it’s my fault. Prosecutors, her parents, reporters, TV. They say I led Elise astray; that I took a sweet, innocent straight-As girl and dragged her down to my level. That I coerced her into skipping school, and staying out too late, and drinking dollar shots in dive bars until she screwed strange guys in the bathrooms of clubs that should never have let us in.
That I made her this way.
It sounds bad, I know, but the truth is, we made each other, like we learned about in science class. Symbiosis. I was the partner-in-crime she’d been waiting for: a hand to hold as she ran, laughing, away from the ivy-covered gates she’d been gazing over her entire life. And Elise . . . She was my catalyst. The glint in my eye, the giddy thrill in my stomach, the voice urging me to be louder, bolder, to blend into the background no more.
We were both responsible for what we became, which I guess means we both have to share the blame. If Elise is the cause of everything that’s happened to me, then I’m to blame for her fate too. It’s both of our faults, equally.
Except she’s gone, and I’m all alone again. And so the blame—the great weight of it, the months of media speculation and fury and bitter, seething outrage—falls entirely on me. Some days, it’s like I’m drowning in it, like I’ll never see the surface again. She was always the one to pull me up, my hand to hold when it felt like I was going under. She saved me, and now she’s gone.
How am I supposed to get by on my own?
THE NIGHT
The first round of questioning is simple: “When did you last see Elise?” “What were you doing that day?” “Did you see anyone suspicious near the house?”
They take us one by one into the interview room, while the rest of the group slouches, tired and weepy on yellow plastic chairs in the lobby of the police station as people mill about us in a state of barely disguised panic. We’ve called our parents, stuttered through the terrible news, and now there’s nothing left to do but wait. Chelsea’s eyes are red and tired. She sits, frozen, clutching Lamar’s hand with both of hers, staring at the bloodstains on her jeans. Melanie huddles her small body into a ball, her arms hugging her knees, her voice raw from sobbing. I can hardly bear to look at them. Every part of my body feels wired with a terrible rush of shock and adrenaline, as if my atoms are about to break apart and spin out into the world.
I leap up. “Mel, you got any quarters?”
She blinks at me from behind straight black bangs.
“The machine, I need a soda.” I nod to the vending machine. Melanie slowly rummages in her purse, like she’s moving underwater, and passes me some change.
I go try the machine in the corner by the reception desk. The precinct staff look as shocked as I feel; over and over again we’ve been told this doesn’t happen here. This is a safe island. Some robbery, a few drunken traffic violations, but murder? The first patrol to arrive at the house didn’t know what the hell to do. One of them just stood there, staring blankly at the blood, while the other vomited in the hallway and stumbled back outside. It took another half hour for more police to arrive, and longer still for anyone to even approach the body. They trampled in and out of the room all night, and it was almost five in the morning before they finally bundled her up onto the stretcher and drove away.
I’ve been feeding the money in over and over before I see that the prices are listed in euros, not dollars. It doesn’t take American currency. I search my pockets, but there’s nothing. After everything, it’s the can of Coke that breaks me; out of reach behind the glass. I slam my hand against the machine and swear, loud in the silence of the room. Everyone looks over.
“Sorry,” I mutter, sliding back into my seat. Tate is sitting on the floor in front of me, his legs outstretched. I put a hand on his head, twisting my fingers in his hair. He turns and gives me a faint ghost of a smile, but it’s enough to calm me. It always is.
“He’s been in there forever.” Chelsea can’t keep her eyes from the interview room door. It’s Max’s turn now, and Chelsea pulls her sweatshirt around her, looking anxious for her brother. “Why are they keeping him so long?”
Silence.
“He was first, to see the body,” I offer. “He saw the room before we all came in. The open balcony door.”
“I still say we shouldn’t be talking to them.” Tate’s foot twitches again. “Not without a lawyer.” He looks to Akshay. “Didn’t your dad say he was finding someone?”
Silence.
“AK?” Chelsea nudges him gently. AK flinches. “Your dad, the lawyer?”
AK shrugs. He has a distant look in his dark eyes, like he doesn’t see any of us at all. Usually he’s the one with a joke and a quip, but now he looks wrung out. Detached
“We’re minors, too,” Tate adds. “We shouldn’t be alone in there.”
“They need to find out what happened,” I tell him gently. “So they can find the guy who did this.”
“What if he’s still out there?” Melanie turns to us, wide-eyed. “What if he comes back to the house?”
There’s a long pause. For the first time, I stop thinking about what has happened and look ahead, to what still may be to come.
“We’ll go to a hotel,” Lamar speaks up, his voice the only steady one. He takes Chelsea’s hand, reassuring us. “We’ll stick together.”
“But he could be after us!” Melanie’s voice cracks. “We don’t know why he came for her. It could be anything; it could be—”
“Mel,” I warn her. “Calm down.”
“How can you . . . ?” The tears are coming now, fast down her cheeks. “You saw—you saw what he did to her! She must have been so scared, and nobody was there, and . . .” She collapses into hysterics, hiccupping for air. “I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”
“Melanie.” Chelsea tries to reach for her, but Mel ducks away. She’s gasping, doubled over, hyperventilating. “Mel!”
“Get a paper bag.” I leap up. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? A paper bag?”
I get blank faces. AK is still spaced out, Tate looks lost, and Chelsea is helplessly searching through her purse for something. “Guys!” Melanie’s face is red; she’s wheezing desperately, her whole body shaking, so I cross the waiting area and slap her once across the face, hard.
