Such a Pretty Girl Page 8

  “Of course I’m sure,” he says, deliberately misunderstanding my question. “I just dropped it there ten minutes ago. I may be a relic, but I’m not senile yet, kid.”

  “A matter of opinion,” I say, earning a dark look.

  Gilly prances as I make my way through the shabby living room to the kitchen. The place smells of coffee, cigarettes, and dog. Framed police commendations are mounted on the wall around an autographed black-and-white glossy of some leather-

  faced cowboy actor. It’s really old, so it might be John Wayne. Or maybe Clint Eastwood.

  Fuzzy white hairballs stir and drift along the hardwood floor as I pass through the doorway separating the living room from the kitchen. There are twelve more pictures hanging here, all scrawled with signatures, all black and white.

  “Nigel Balthazar, autograph hound,” I murmur, grinning. “Who would’ve thunk it?” I open the fridge and choose a Snapple grape and a raspberry iced tea. Bump the fridge closed, find Gilly’s leash, and lead her back outside.

  “Nothing like taking your time,” Nigel says. “What were you doing in there, sightseeing?”

  “I was star struck,” I retort, holding out both Snapples. He picks the raspberry iced tea. Good. I want the grape.

  He slams the bottle’s bottom against of the heel of his hand, breaking the internal suction, then twists off the cap with a muted pop. Taps it against the cardboard box settled on his lap. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night, how your father’s already started harassing you and all.”

  I open my mouth to say, Well, guess what? I don’t have to worry about that anymore, but something in his face stops me and sends my stomach into a familiar, downward spiral. “And?” I retrieve my cigarette and open my drink.

  “And I don’t like it.”

  “Join the club.” A yellow jacket circles my Snapple and I blow smoke rings at it until it flies off in disgust. I may die of cancer, but I haven’t been stung in years.

  “I’ll do better than that,” he says and sets the box on my lap. “Open it, but be careful. I had to call in a lot of favors to get my hands on this stuff.”

  I put my bottle on the table and wipe my damp hands on my overalls. I sit up straighter and carefully open the box flaps. Look at the contents, then at Nigel. “A teddy bear and a smoke alarm? I don’t get it.”

  “Look closer,” he says.

  The bear is brown, fuzzy, and has glassy black eyes. The cheap, white plastic smoke alarm is the same kind that hangs on my kitchen ceiling. “So?”

  “So,” Nigel says, “haven’t you ever heard of a nanny cam?”

  “Yeah,” I say and then my eyes widen. “Are these…?”

  “Yup,” he says, knuckle rapping a cigarette from his pack and wedging it into the corner of his mouth. He lights it and exhales. “We’re gonna do us a little covert surveillance, kid. Start building you a case so when the sh—er, crap hits the fan….”

  I want to say, Sorry, but that’s not my problem anymore because you see, I’m going to live at Leah Louisa’s now, but the words won’t come. I run a finger over the teddy’s rounded stomach. “So you think something bad is gonna happen.”

  “Don’t you?”

  I shrug and keep my gaze on the bear.

  “I know it sucks, but the problem is that we can’t do anything until he does something. No kid in town, including you, is gonna be safe until he’s back behind bars where he belongs.” Nigel shakes his head. “He’s not one of those guys who wants to change. I wish he was. He’s gonna start again, Meredith. It’s not if, it’s who and when and how many.”

  “I know,” I whisper because he’s right, it’s true, it’s everywhere in the heavy, choking air over this complex, but I still don’t want to be hung back on the meat hook and sent to the chopping block.

  In a better world, I think I would have chosen the rose room.

  He drags on the cigarette until the end glows and blows out a thick stream of smoke. “His being alone with you and all? We could probably grab him for a parole violation, but even if he’s sent back for it, he’s just gonna get out again. We’re nickel-and-diming our way through it, you see? But this way…” He pokes the bear. “Juries love video proof. Bingo-bango, conviction. Makes their job easy.”

  Conviction. The second sweetest word in the world. I look at the teddy and the smoke alarm, my two new best friends. “What should I do with them?”

  “Put ’em wherever it’s most dangerous. Each one has a pocket-size remote that’ll turn on the camera up to a hundred feet away.” He shows me how to work the remotes. “Run them every time you two are in the same room. We’ll nail him yet. Think you can do it?”

  “Yeah.” Despair cracks my voice. “I just don’t want to do anything wrong.”

  His wrinkles deepen and for a second I get the crazy idea that he’s near tears.

  “You’re fifteen years old, kid,” he says gruffly. “He’s the adult. It’s all on him.” Clears his throat. “Did I tell you he and I had a little chat this morning?”

  “No,” I say, closing the box. Four flaps, all interlocking. I move slowly because I’m back on familiar ground and there’s no hurry now. “How did that happen?”

  He leans back in his chair. “I was sitting here reading the paper when I notice some mope jogging around the complex. And there’s something about the way he’s moving that makes me wonder what he’s doing.”

  “He was looking for me. We had a situation and I christened that knife you gave me. No, I didn’t stab him,” I add at his interested look. “I cut through my window screen and took off. Why, what happened?”

  “Well, something about him doesn’t look right so I figure it’s time to do a little investigating, and just my luck, Gilly decides she wants to go for a walk.”

  “How convenient,” I say dryly.

  “Wasn’t it?” His eyes gleam. “So we head down the sidewalk and this guy’s jogging past Andy’s building, then back to your building, then to the one across from you, and around and around he goes.”

  “Did you know who he was by then?” I’m fairly sure of the answer.

  His mouth thins. “Yeah, I recognized that pointy head right off. Do you know what he had on? His old Estertown Middle School tank. Guy’s got nerve.”

  “You’re telling me.” My father used to wear that shirt teaching gym class. The only other thing he could wear out in public that would increase the attendance of his lynch mob would be his Boys’ League Coach T-shirt, and the way things are going I fully expect to see him wearing it tomorrow.

  “So anyhow, I’m just standing there watching him, and he spots me and starts jogging toward me.” His mouth slides into a faint grin. “We’re oh, maybe fifteen yards apart, and he yells, ‘Hey buddy, have you seen my daughter?’ and just like that,” he snaps his fingers, “he recognizes me. Slams on the brakes so hard he leaves a skid mark. Took off a good chunk of knee, too.”

  “He fell down?” I can’t keep the delight from my voice.

  “Made your day, did I?” Nigel says, amused. “So I say, ‘How you doing, Chuckie? Been a while, huh?’ and my tone is nothing but pleasant—”

  “He hates that name!”

  “You don’t say,” Nigel says and grins. “He gets all defensive and starts in with that ‘I haven’t done nothing wrong and you cops have no right to stalk me,’ sh—er, crap. I wait till he’s done ranting and say, ‘Been down to register as a chicken hawk yet, Chuck?’ Because of course I know that he hasn’t. And while he’s turning green, I follow up with, ‘So Meredith’s missing? How’d that happen?’ I’m asking because now I’m thinking maybe you two got into it and he’s putting on a big show for the neighbors like he don’t know you’re dead and laying in the Dumpster.” He crushes the smoldering butt under his heel. “Sorry to say it, but it happens.”

  My smile dies. “Yeah, I know.” My father can be charming, funny, a caring, good-natured guy always ready to help, a friend to the friendless and a sympathetic ear
to kids in need. It’s the perfect public persona, and the shock waves after his arrest, the neighbors’ absolute denial and disbelief, were a real testament to his acting skills.

  Gilly flops over in front of us, panting.

  I swirl my Snapple. “So what’d he say when you asked about me?”

  “Oh, he got up on his high horse and said, ‘I don’t have to talk to you! You poisoned my daughter against me,’ and I said, ‘Didn’t have to, Chuck. You did that yourself when you…’ ” He stops, looking embarrassed.

  “Never mind, I get the idea,” I say, studying my stubby fingernails.

  He shifts and the chair moans in protest. “Well, make a long story short, he takes off for your place and I’m just about to call in the boys on the force to do a Dumpster check, when I see you coming out of Andy’s and heading for the road.”

  “I didn’t see you,” I say.

  “I know. I couldn’t yell without drawing your father’s attention so I just let you go.” Nigel leans over, exhaling a grunt, and pets Gilly, sprawled at his feet. “Now I’m thinking maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’d be good for your old man to know you got friends around looking out for you.”

  That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. “So that’s why we’re sitting out here advertising our unholy union.”

  “Yup.” He sits up red-faced. “Think of it as a show of strength.”

  I fumble for his hand and press it to my cheek.

  Nigel clears his throat. “I say something right for a change?”

  I nod and release him. “Don’t lose any sleep over it, though.” I drain the now-warm grape drink, tuck the box under my arm, and rise. “Andy and his mom leave for Iowa tomorrow.”

  Nigel grips the chair arms, rocking and making the joints scream until he gains enough momentum to lurch to his feet. The chair is crooked and sagging, pitiful in its death throes. “You don’t want him to go.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I’m just jealous that he can.” I look away, blinking hard, because I could have run. I still can as long as I never look back, never think about my father prowling the complex for other innocent little kids who don’t know who he is or what he’s going to do to them. I could run back to Leah Louisa’s, but I realize now that even if I do there will have to be better locks on the doors, blinds on the windows, and a fence around the yard because I will never be free as long as he’s out there, watching and waiting for me.

  “Hey kid, listen. You think Andy’s running is really gonna solve anything?”

  “He thinks it will,” I mutter and meet Nigel’s steady gaze. “Do you?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” he says finally. “Andy’s demons chase him just as hard as yours chase you. The only difference is that instead of running, you met yours head-on and that’s pretty damn gutsy, considering.” He hesitates as if struggling with something and sighs. “That accident where he broke his back? Well, according to the doc, Andy wasn’t supposed to be crippled, he was supposed to be able to get up and walk again, but he never did.”

  I stare at him, knowing I should be more surprised, but instead a dull, steady ache begins at my temples. “Does Andy know? That he should be able to walk, I mean?”

  “Yeah, he knows, but you see, it don’t matter,” Nigel says, toying with his lighter and gazing absently at my father’s building. “He’s as paralyzed now as he was the minute it happened.” He shrugs. “You do what you have to do to survive, I guess. You know that better than anybody and what I think of it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.”

  It does to me, but I don’t say so, as the effort is suddenly too much. I shift the box under my arm. “I should get going.”

  He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “Look, your parents went out right before you showed up. You might want to get those cameras installed while they’re gone. Practice a little.” He hands me a battered business card from when he was on the force. “My home and cellphone numbers are there, but if something happens and you can’t get me, buzz 911 and get a cop out here ASAP.”

  “I hope I don’t have to.” My stomach is jittering again. “But thanks anyway.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he says. I look both ways, then step down onto the hot macadam and plod across the road.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The closer I get to home, the harder it is to keep moving forward. I think of Nigel reaching out and Leah Louisa closing ranks, of Andy, whose paralysis runs way deeper than the physical, and of his mother, who craves revenge but is waiting for God to sponsor it.

  I think of my father and sunny summer afternoons at the park, of playing catch with a battered old baseball we’d found and later dissected together, taking turns ripping out the stitches holding the worn cowhide closed, unraveling the prickly wool and flattened twine beneath until the hard, dark core was finally revealed. I’d gazed at the unremarkable sphere, hugely disillusioned, and said, “That’s it? That’s all it is?”

  “Well, yeah,” my father says, looking amused. “What were you expecting?”

  “Something better,” I say, and throw it away…

  Tires crunch and a car passes.

  My head jerks up and my eyes refocus, almost as if I’ve been asleep. Frantic, I survey the complex, but nothing else stirs. Oh my God, what am I doing? Forget the heat and the weight of the box. I need to get moving.

  My mother’s car is gone so I bullet in the front door and lock it behind me. Pause, listen to the silence, gauge its weight, sniff the air, and decide I’m alone.

  I take the box into my bedroom. Set the teddy on the corner shelf next to my stereo, propped up so the doorway and bed are in full view of the camera. Remove the remotes. Press the bear’s control. Green light on. Shut it off again.

  My heart flutters. Halfway there.

  I put the smoke alarm remote in my left pocket and the bear’s in my right. Take the alarm cam into the kitchen. Peek out the window into the court. Still deserted.

  I can hear myself breathing.

  Drag a stool over to beneath the smoke alarm on the ceiling. Lock my fingers around the plastic sides and pull, but it won’t come down. Brush my hair from my eyes. My hand comes away wet. How can I be sweating with the air so cold? “Come on.” I pry off the cover and spot the screws holding the back plate to the ceiling. Oh God, do we even have a screwdriver?

  A car door slams outside. I scramble off the stool and peek through the blinds. It’s only the Calvinettis across the court. I rip through the junk drawer for the screwdriver.

  I’m shaking so bad I almost fall off the stool.

  I take a deep breath and count off in fours. Four plus four is eight. Four plus eight is twelve. Four plus twelve is sixteen. And so on.

  My tremors fade. I replace the old alarm with the cam. “I’m building a case,” I say, and the four words become mantra.

  It steadies me now but it won’t forever. I’ve done my homework, read books, websites, and message boards, lurked on lists, and even questioned a social worker too exhausted to guard her words, and I know how bad the odds are for girls like me.

  We wait to be rescued, but for whatever reason, no one comes. We figure that if no one protects us then we must not be worth protecting so we become prey and are easily picked off. Our wounded, kicked-puppy gazes attract sly predators and we sell ourselves for clearance sale prices, mistaking screwing for caring.

  We binge, purge, sleep around. We drink too much and get too high, anything to blot out the past. We accept and endure beatings and humiliations because our fathers, our uncles, and our mothers’ twisted boyfriends said they loved us, too, right before they broke our bones and tore our tissue, right before they made us receive them.

  I tighten the first screw. Oh yes, I have done my homework.

  We have babies because we want them to love us, to make us important, but they only make us tired and fat and stinking of spit up because they’re babies, not saviors. Their fathers leave us, sick of crap and sour milk, sweatpants and tears.


  But the babies still need all of us, only there isn’t anything left to give because we based our worth on the lowlifes who knocked us up and around.

  So our babies end up screwed up and screwed with because now we’re single again, too, so we’re bringing home guys who secretly like pink satin baby skin more than our silvery stretch marks. We don’t see what we should see because having anyone is still supposedly better than being alone.

  I know the grim probability of my own future.

  The odds are high that the best of me has already been ripped away and that if I don’t keep hold of myself I will lose what’s left. Without the structure of my rules and rituals, I’m a free-for-all open to any guy who wants to hurt me.

  And I don’t want to be hurt anymore. I want to be someone who makes it through.

  I tighten the final screw. Test the remote.

  Put everything away. Slide the cardboard box under my bed.

  I’m sorry, Gran, but it has to be this way.

  I leave a message on her machine in case she misses the note, saying I had to come home again and that I’ll call her soon. Then I head over to Andy’s.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Mobile Mechanic’s truck is parked next to Ms. Mues’s car and the repair guy is leaning into the Caddie’s engine. He straightens and looks at me. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say, flustered. It’s been a long time since someone close to my age has been civil. I clear my throat and nod at the car. “Uh, think it’ll make it to Iowa?”

  He shrugs. “She runs okay, but the tires show some wear. I don’t know if I’d chance it. Kind of a wing-and-aprayer–type thing.”

  “Yeah, that’d be about right,” I say and head for Andy’s.

  “You going to Iowa?” he says.

  I stop and look at him. Tall, skinny, damp blond hair curling out from under a red bandanna. Curious smile. “Not me. My…them.” I point to the Mueses’ door and see Andy watching from behind the glass. “Well, I better get going.”

  “Hey.” He waits until I turn back to him. “What’s your name, anyway?”