The Prized Girl
“Ooo, Carter,” Mallory whispered into Jenny’s ear. Her breath was hot, and Mallory let her lips brush Jenny’s ear before she pulled away. It was an unprecedented intimacy, not for Jenny’s benefit but for those fast approaching. Jenny wanted nothing to do with it. As the girls rotated to welcome the boys, Jenny used that as her escape.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said under her breath as she backed away from her friends and walked out of the cafeteria at a pace just short of a run.
JENNY BURST THROUGH the heavy glass door that led from the back of the cafeteria into a small courtyard where remedial students tended to a small garden as a course of study. She had held her breath as she left the cafeteria, praying a hand wouldn’t grab her by the elbow and yank her back into the pelvis of one of her friends or, worse, Carter. Once the door closed behind her, she let herself breathe, the first gasp of air heavy and overdone. It wasn’t much of a plan. Hide in the courtyard for two hours until it was time to go home? That would raise more questions than if she had just stayed home in the first place.
The anxiety was new for Jenny. Last year she would have craved an event like this. Something changed the day she quit the pageants, the day she watched her mother snap and imprison Benjy in that closet. She could see the fear in his face whenever she closed her eyes, feel his fists pounding against the door whenever she was too still, hear his screams whenever it was too quiet.
Jenny strained to hear the music, heavily muted but still audible in the courtyard if she focused hard enough on it. The grinding anthem transitioned to a slow song, and she was eternally grateful to not be standing in the center of the cafeteria at that moment, watching her protective ring of friends get picked off one at a time until she had nowhere to hide.
Once the slow song hit its second chorus, Jenny figured it was safe to go back inside. Any guy who hadn’t found a partner in the first thirty seconds had surely retreated to his fellow unsuccessful friends. She would take a spot by the snack table, and if she got desperate enough, she’d spill soda down the front of her shirt. Mallory would certainly understand how devastating that would be and excuse her long absence as she ran back to the bathroom.
Jenny grabbed the door handle and yanked it back. Her elbow almost popped as the door budged a centimeter before catching the lock and halting to a stop. Why was the freaking courtyard door locked? It was completely enclosed within the confines of the big brick school. Did they think someone would scale the walls, run across the roof, and rappel down into the courtyard to access the unlocked door?
She didn’t have many options. The music was too loud and the dance floor too far away for anyone to hear her bang on the door. Panic swept through her as she envisioned Linda coming to pick her up, only to find that her daughter was not among the hormonal creatures waiting on the curb. The cops would be called within minutes. Linda would be screaming. Jenny would finally be discovered by FBI helicopters circling the building with massive spotlights. SEAL Team Six would slide down ropes in seconds to scoop Jenny up and return her to the arms of her devoted mother.
Hyperbole maybe, but the panic was there all the same. She scanned her surroundings, setting her sights on a window across the courtyard she prayed would be unlocked. It was dark on that side. The cafeteria lights didn’t stretch much past the door, and with the rest of the school dormant, there wasn’t a lot to guide her way.
She shuffled forward with enough caution to keep her from doing any real damage to herself or the plants, but before she could reach the window, she froze. The volume of the music spiked, and she knew the courtyard door had been opened.
JENNY ROTATED SLOWLY to see who was there. As she turned, she crouched a bit to make herself more invisible in the pitch-black edge of the courtyard.
Ms. Willoughby stumbled forward from the fully lit doorway into the subtler shade of the courtyard. She was playfully fighting the advance as two hands gripping her waist scooted her forward. The hands were Mr. Renkin’s, which was obvious even before his green eyes peered over her shoulder. He kicked a rock over to keep the door from shutting all the way. Not his first rodeo.
Mr. Renkin was a notoriously “cool” teacher, and Jenny loved Ms. Willoughby. All she had to do was step forward into the light and announce her presence. They would ask if she was all right. She would say yes and make some excuse about having asthma or something that didn’t make sense, but they wouldn’t care, and she would scurry back to spill soda on herself. But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She watched.
“OK, OK.” Ms. Willoughby smiled, acquiescing to her boyfriend’s insistence on her going toward the nearest wall.
Mr. Renkin swiveled Ms. Willoughby’s body around, guiding her to the side of the courtyard and giving Jenny a view of both their profiles. He leaned in and kissed Ms. Willoughby, their choreography needing work as he pushed her against the wall, the contact separating their lips unexpectedly and leaving them both kissing air for a beat before reconnecting.
Ms. Willoughby wove her hands in between their bodies until she could place both on his chest and push him back. The shove was gentle, and when their lips parted, she was smiling. “We can’t do this here,” she whispered.
Mr. Renkin grinned. His torso pushed back against her hands, which weren’t putting up much of a fight, and kissed her again, this time so intense that it smacked her head back against the brick wall.
Ms. Willoughby winced and pulled her face away while reaching for the point of contact. “Ouch, damn it.”
“Sorry, baby,” Mr. Renkin said while pecking her cheeks with military precision until she recovered, dropping her hand from her head.
“What’s gotten into you?” she asked. “Let’s go back inside. We can finish this at home.”
Mr. Renkin puckered out his lower lip, pouting. She reached her hand to his cheek and gave him a simple kiss, but he took it as a green light and shoved his tongue back into her mouth. Ms. Willoughby practically choked as she pulled her head away.
“I’m serious,” she insisted. “If we get caught out here, we’ll both be fired.”
“I know,” he whispered into her ear before lowering his face to kiss her neck. Ms. Willoughby closed her eyes as her protest waned.
Jenny knew where this was going and knew it was too late to speak up now. She closed her eyes and did her best to stay perfectly still in the crouched position she found herself in.
She tried not to listen.
She tried to put her mind somewhere else.
Then her legs began to shake.
She held her squat for as long as she could, afraid to move, until she lost the battle and shot upright to avoid falling to the ground. She heard the wood chips beneath her crackle and adjust under her shifted weight. She opened her eyes, staring down. Was the sound as loud as she thought? Was it only in her head? There was only one way to know.
Jenny looked up.
Mr. Renkin’s eyes were on her.
Or so she thought at first. Could he see her? She couldn’t tell. He didn’t blink, but he didn’t stop what he was doing either. Jenny could feel her dinner curdling and rising toward her esophagus. She averted her eyes, fighting to keep her food down and her impression of Mr. Renkin somewhat intact.
When they finally left the courtyard, Jenny’s nausea abated, but she was sweating, only in her armpits, not from physical activity or nerves but from the intensity of it all. She felt a sense of power that she couldn’t wrap her head around. She felt older somehow. If Mallory had witnessed that, she would have made such a big deal about it. Jenny wasn’t like that. It was just sex. No big deal, she thought, trying to convince herself of her maturity.
Jenny slapped her palms against the window, said a little prayer, and scooted the glass up, confirming it was unlocked. She wriggled her fingers under the opening and lifted the window just enough to crawl her skinny body through and head back to the dance, where she had a date with a slippery cup of soda.
Chapter Nine
Virginia
I HAD ONE great love in my life. His name was Mark, and I met him when I was thirteen years old. We shared our first kiss when I was fourteen and it was messy. I didn’t know what I was doing; he did. I just tried to keep up. When he pulled away, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I’d never seen a movie where the heroine finally kisses her hero and then projectile vomits. We were special.
As long as we were together, Mark never made me puke again. The first time he reached inside my underwear, I definitely experienced some nausea, but it didn’t last. I’ve tried for years to pretend that my time with Mark was anything but perfect, to move on, to chalk it up as typical first love. I was a teenager, for Christ’s sake. How could it have been real?
It’s hard to explain how he opened me up. I had spent years perfecting my curt-little-bitch demeanor after my mother’s suicide, something my father, in particular, did not enjoy. I was distant and I was difficult. I didn’t even know what I wanted most of the time.
The other girls in my class were equally into Mark and soon forgot about me and my drama. We were at that age when a hot guy, especially one who wouldn’t give you the time of day, was infinitely more interesting than anyone else. I could have shown up with both of my arms missing and the conversation still would have been, “What kind of music do you think he likes?”
I had one class with Mark every day from 10 to 11:15, and it became the only hour of my day that mattered. I watched the other girls fawn over him and I was jealous, but I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t a fawner. The grown woman in me is extremely proud of that little girl, but trust me, at the time, I hated my defiant self. How would Mark ever register my existence?
Well, he did. Slowly over the course of the year, he began to notice the girl who wasn’t noticing him, or so he thought. He chose me. We became infatuated with each other, but we were both too stubborn to say anything.
After nine months of purposefully standing close to each other, brushing against each other when we could, I committed the ultimate feminist sin. I failed a test on purpose and pretended I needed a tutor. Mark was amazing at math. I was a fourteen-year-old girl attracted to a guy’s math ability. That’s how messed up I was. And what’s worse, it worked. Those after-school meetings allowed us the opportunity to finally give in.
It didn’t take long, alone, both of us leaning over the same textbook. Things were happening in my body that I thought I might have to see a doctor about. Puberty, holy shit. Two weeks after my first tutor session, Mark kissed me, and I puked.
The next four years were a perfect blur. When I looked back, I couldn’t even remember things chronologically. All I had were moments that fired at me, unrelenting, until I had to lie down on the floor, close my eyes, and breathe like I was about to give birth.
That didn’t happen as much anymore. I was too numb to let myself feel like that. It had been eight years since the day Mark ended it. He wanted me to go out and experience what life was like without him, to find myself, to be sure of what I wanted. I will never forget the day; it was my eighteenth birthday. Mark Renkin was thirty-two.
If I had to label it, Mark was a pedophile; it was statutory rape. That fucking depressed me. I didn’t like to think about it that way. Pedophiles were gross bald skeeves in vans who raped little kids. Mark played soccer and looked like he could be in commercials. I had tits and pubes already. I’d seen enough TV to know real pedophiles lose interest once that stuff happens. I could tell myself whatever I wanted, but when my almost-fourteen-year-old sister was found raped, I thought of Mark.
He was never violent with me, but when people started asking, “Do you know any grown men who would want to have sex with a child?” I did.
IT WAS A SMALL TOWN. I saw Mark way more than I wanted to, but after years of trying to exchange pleasantries, we had stopped speaking. As soon as I saw him anywhere, I would immediately turn around, walk away, and count to thirty before I could stop and reenter the world.
I hadn’t exchanged a single word with Mark in five years as I approached his front door. He still lived in the same modest house on Sanford Hill that I used to visit for hours after school. It was within a half mile from my own home at the time, but the woods provided enough seclusion for me to feel like I was a world away from my family.
We would sit on his wooden porch swing most nights in the fall. It was my favorite season. He would sit all the way to the right, and I would take up the rest of the swing, leaning against his shoulder. I would cover myself in a warm patchwork blanket and throw a loose corner over Mark’s knees, my arm over his waist, my hand tucked behind his far side.
The swing was still there, but had suffered during the eight winters. The wood was splintered in several spots, and it wavered in the fall breeze as I ascended the steps onto his front porch. The days were growing shorter, and daylight was already scarce by five. I raced over to avoid arriving during the darkness. An afternoon visit somehow seemed more manageable to my psyche.
I stood in front of the door and recited my mantra under my breath: “His loss. His loss. His loss.” It was my depressing chant to create false self-esteem. It had started years ago as a long self-affirming speech that over time was abbreviated to a sort of slogan. I knocked, three solid knocks that stung my knuckles.
I heard movement inside the house, and my heart sank, my pep talk a waste. I wasn’t ready for this. It was too late to run. I could hide, but my car was in the driveway. I heard the lock turning and I thought of my sister. This was about her. I was the only one who would know to ask him these questions. It was not a time to be selfish. This man had made me selfish for eight years.
The door opened and there he stood. Just a man. His green eyes were tired, there was gray in his hair, but otherwise he was just as I’d left him. He squinted at me as if he didn’t believe it.
“Hi,” I said.
He took his arm from the door and shifted his stance. “Virginia,” he stated the obvious. “Hi.”
I waited to be invited in. I ran a million scenarios in my head, but they always started with him inviting me in.
“Can I come in?”
He looked over his shoulder into the house. It was more a gesture than an actual attempt to see anything. He looked back at me, uneasy. “Why don’t we talk out here?” He motioned to the swing, and I felt sick, not that I would throw up but that I might never eat again as long as I live.
I nodded. Power was everything. In that moment, I was Jenny’s great crusader, not a damaged old lover. I took a seat on the left side without thinking. It was muscle memory, I guess. He sat on the right, and we both worked to create as much space between us as possible.
“What’s going on, Ginny?” he asked. I hated when he called me that and he knew it. At least, I thought he knew it. I couldn’t remember if I had ever told him I didn’t like it. In love, I let a lot of things go.
“I …” Crap, I didn’t know where to start. “I … You know about my sister, Jenny?” I barely phrased a question.
“Oh my God, yes, I’m so sorry. I was surprised to see you. I wasn’t even thinking. I’m so sorry.”
“Did you know her?”
“I had her in class this year, but she was quiet and the semester just started. Hunter knew her better than I did.”
Fucking Hunter Willoughby. I hadn’t even thought about it. That’s why I couldn’t go in the house. He was dating fucking Hunter Willoughby. I overheard the news one day about a year ago while I was microwaving a Jimmy Dean sausage biscuit at the gas station. I had abandoned the sandwich and sprinted to my car. I scoured every detail of her limited social media presence until three in the morning. There was no evidence of Mark. It was new. It was fresh. It wasn’t serious. It wouldn’t last. Maybe it wasn’t even true. I told myself a lot of things so that I could continue to function.
Hunter was a senior when I was a sophomore. She was some kind of rich, white, small-town goth. She wore thick black eyeliner under her from-a-box black hair dye and drew anarchy symbols with a Sharpie all over her jeans and backpack. She ran with a small group of other seniors who looked down on everyone else because they had transcended to some higher plane of not giving a shit. Mark and I used to make fun of them all the time. I contemplated reminding him of it. Hunter went away to college and came back like she had gone through some sort of Banana Republic brain remapping. The return of her natural blonde hair must have had a memory-wipe effect on Mark. If he forgot all that shit about her, how much had he forgotten about me?
I was spiraling. I couldn’t afford to fixate on his relationship. To go there. I was at his doorstep for a reason. “They think they caught the guy,” I said for a reaction. It wasn’t even true.
Mark’s eyes widened. “Really? That’s great. I didn’t hear anything.”
“They haven’t announced it yet, so keep your trap shut,” I joked, then regretted it. It just came out. I wanted so badly to be cold.
“Is it the guy on the news? The pedophile from the pageants?” He threw the “pedophile” word around a little too easily.
“Yeah, but I’m not so sure. Things don’t add up.” Why was I talking so much?
“So, you’re on the case now?” His sarcasm was insulting. He was trying to assert dominance. To put me in my place. The place I had gladly filled for him in the past.
“She’s my sister, and if I think the killer is still out there, I’m not just going to sit around. Is that OK with you?”
He threw up his hands in surrender. “Of course. It just, I don’t know, doesn’t seem like you.”
“Because you know me so well?”
“I’m not trying to be combative. Why did you even come here?”
“Because she was thirteen, Mark. She was thirteen and she was raped.” I let my voice waver slightly on the word “raped.”
Mark stared forward for a beat, as if trying to follow my logic and make the connection. “What are you trying to say?” His voice lowered, serious, no longer cordial.
“I’m not saying anything. I just know teen girls are your type and maybe you knew Jenny more than you’re saying.”
Mark jumped to his feet, the force causing the swing to jerk me harshly back and forth. He turned to me, one hand in the air to conduct as he spoke. “You’re insane. That’s what this is about? You think I’m some pedophile? Is that really what you think? That I preyed on you? That I prey on and rape little girls?”
I had hit a chord for sure, but I didn’t know what it meant. I looked away. I wanted him to keep talking. I didn’t know if my motivation was for Jenny or myself. I figured it could be for both of us.
He did a slow spin to compose himself, then came back to the swing, stopping the jerking with his feet. He faced me and grabbed my hand, disarming me immediately.
“Ginny, I’m not a monster. I loved you. You have to know that. We were together for four years. You know me.” He stared into my deprived eyes.
Show no reaction, I told myself. I pulled my hand away with just the right speed to prove I was unaffected, a lie.
“I have a girlfriend. She’s thirty. I wasn’t with anyone else after you. You have to believe me. I never even spoke to Jenny outside of class.”
I did believe him. I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t a take-no-nonsense cop, or a hard-as-nails private investigator. I was a useless, floundering girl who, at twenty-six, still didn’t refer to herself as a woman. He was the man I had spent my formative years admiring wholeheartedly.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” I said as I stood. I was gentle. The swing barely moved. My face was showing my entire hand.
“It’s OK. It was nice to see you, to talk to you, even given the circumstances.” He smiled, and I hated him.
“Yeah,” I said, which was more in the affirmative than I would have liked.
I stepped away, and he grabbed my wrist, turning me back. “I’m sorry about your sister. I’m here if you need me.”
I pulled my hand back and walked to my car. He would be there on our swing if I needed him. He would be there, waiting for me to run to him for support, to remind him that after eight years, I still needed him. I couldn’t be that person. I had to be strong. If he wanted to feel needed, Hunter Willoughby could do it. I had bigger fish to fry. I was solving a fucking murder.
Chapter Ten
Jenny
THE SWIMMING HOLE was a twenty-minute walk from school grounds. Jenny wasn’t allowed to go to the swimming hole, but not because of one of Linda’s overbearing phobias, just good parenting. Most kids weren’t allowed to go. There was actually a town ordinance preventing kids under eighteen from swimming there. A rock formation caused the river to pool in one spot, and the rumor around school was it was a hundred feet deep.
Jenny followed JP through the tall grass on a thin path matted down to let them know they were going the right way. The blades tickled her legs, and she couldn’t help but swat at them, just in case there was even a chance it was a bug.
They hadn’t spoken much since they started on their way. Being new to town, JP had just learned about the spot, and his curiosity dwarfed any attempt at patience. They left right after his lunch period. He waited by her locker and extended her the offer to come along. Jenny exhausted a few subtle attempts to decline. She explained they were both under the allowed age, quickly realizing that only fueled his fire. She tried suggesting they wait until after school, but when he showed zero hesitation in going without her, she gave in.
The river became audible at the same point the flat ground turned to a steep decline and the tall grass gave way to a dark dirt, more defined by the thick and mangled roots dipping in and out of it than the trees they belonged to.
Jenny was methodic in her steps, more like sideways shuffles at this point. The last thing she needed was to trip and fall down the hill, rolling by JP like a total spaz. The first time he reached up to take her hand to help her through a spot of loose dirt that he himself had skidded through, she wasn’t sure if she should take it. Would he be more impressed if she waved him off?
“C’mon,” he insisted, in one word convincing her she was over-thinking it.
She didn’t hesitate again to take his hand, three times total before the dirt ended and the smooth surface of the massive rock began. They walked together to the cliff’s edge, laying eyes on the water below. The thin river poured into a still pool, a circumference of roughly fifty feet, before spilling over the back side and continuing on its way.
“It’s pretty cool,” JP announced, bestowing it with the rare approval of a teenager.
“Yeah,” Jenny agreed. It was cool. It was beautiful and quiet, and its perfection was only interrupted by several warning signs threatening all sorts of deathly peril.
JP allowed another second of romantic silence before pulling his shirt over his head and kicking off his boots. “It’s gonna be cold as shit,” he said, sliding his socks off as he undid the button on his jeans.
Jenny looked away as he undressed, unsure of the protocol here. She slowly removed her own boots to feign shared enthusiasm.
He was oblivious. Down to just his boxers, JP took two steps backward, rubbing his hands together, and crouching into a runner’s stance. He made eye contact with Jenny, throwing her a wink, before sprinting forward and leaping off the edge.
“Woo-hoo,” he hollered out while midair, waving his arms and legs, reminding Jenny he was just a kid too, before hitting the water and slipping below the surface.