Problem Child, page 18
“Okay. So why is Roy Morris after you?”
Her neck straightens from its slouchy curve and she turns her hard little eyes to me. “How the hell do you know that name?”
“I told you I was smart. And your life isn’t anything like The Da Vinci Code, sweetie.”
“The what?”
“Yeah. Exactly.” I take a seat on the sofa and face her. The couch smells like clean laundry. It really is a pretty nice place. “Look, Kayla, I’m not some social worker here to save you. Life is a bitch and the world is a terrible place, and the fact that we’re related doesn’t make your life more tragic than any other forgotten girl getting abused and destroyed on every street in this sick goddamn world. Got it?”
She rolls her eyes and takes another drag.
“You’re a sex worker, and that means no one gives a damn about you whether you’re eighteen or sixteen or fourteen. No one will help you. The cops will arrest you and send you to juvie as a criminal even if you’re not actually old enough to consent. Or, hell, they’ll arrest you and send you to jail as an adult. I’m the only person who’s even looking for you. You know that? Nobody cares. So I’d suggest you wipe that smirk off your face and tell me what you did.”
She ignores me, flicking her ash onto the hardwood floor.
I feel like I’m stalking her now, and I like it. “Did you blackmail them?”
Oh, she can’t hide these cards, because her pride won’t let her. A slow, wide smile spreads across that narrow face until she’s almost cute. Her eyes scrunch up into pleased little crescents. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, sure.” I smile at her. “Just tell me how you did it.” I know her ego can’t resist the prompt. I know because mine wouldn’t. “Come on. You worked those men. We both know it. Just tell me how.”
She enjoys her proud satisfaction for another silent moment, and then she gives in to the siren call of her ego with another flick of her cigarette. “They all knew how old I was, so don’t try saying I tricked them. Some of them thought I was even younger. One sick bastard kept insisting I was eleven until I played along and agreed. Wanted to pretend it was my birthday party. ‘I can’t believe I’m finally turning eleven! Did you get me a present?’”
“Gross.”
“Yeah. Gross. It was their fault, not mine.”
“I agree with that. I just want to know how you pulled it off.”
She sets both her feet on the floor now, and her eyes sparkle like emerald chips in dirty rock, though she’s still trying to keep her face blank. I’m fascinated watching her and wondering if this is what it’s like to watch me. “It wasn’t exactly difficult,” she says. “They all thought I was nothing. Nobody worth noticing at all. Just a victim.”
“Because you let them think that.”
She shows all her teeth in a grin, and I see that the bottom ones are crooked and spotted with cavities. No dental care or orthodontia for poor folks. I’d had to spend several thousand getting my teeth fixed in my twenties. And it was worth it. Good teeth are another point of access many people in the world are never granted. I made sure I punched that ticket.
“I gave them what they wanted,” she says. “A poor, helpless underage girl they could use and throw away. What a thrill. And why bother looking under the surface when the surface is exactly what you dreamed of?”
No, she’s not so dumb after all. My body tingles with the thrill of it.
“The best part is it’s all so exciting to them that it’s over in a few seconds. Easy money. But”—she pauses to wink at me—“video lives forever, of course.”
Aha. Not the least favorite of my own tricks. “So you recorded them?”
“Sure.” Another shrug as she relaxes back in the chair. “I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t record everything. Like, you hear about people being bullied or harassed, and, like, come on, record that shit! What the hell? That’s your first step right there.”
Wow. This is like hearing my own thoughts played back to me. A surge of pride rises inside me.
I’ve done plenty of my own recording, though oftentimes it’s just for my personal enjoyment. But, boy, those tapes do come in handy when you need them. Especially sex tapes.
Guilt doesn’t live on the same plane with erections, and neither does caution or common sense. You’d be amazed what people don’t notice in the heat of the moment.
“So,” I push, “the soccer coach?”
Another wide smile. “Yeah.”
“Youth minister?”
“Sure.”
“Were there others?”
“Not many. Half a dozen.”
“So you recorded them, and then what happened?”
“I’d email them a clip from the video and tell them that someone would be in touch. Then Brodie would collect the cash, usually a thousand bucks, and we all lived happily ever after.”
“And then you’d split the money?”
“Yeah, right! I’d throw Brodie a hundred. I was doing the hard work, after all. He was just there as insurance. If I showed up to collect the money on my own, they’d think they could kill me and toss my body in a ditch to fix the problem, right? There was nothing they could do to Brodie to make me go away. I’m not an idiot.”
“No, I guess you’re not.” There’s no guilt on her face. No self-consciousness. My nerves are alive with excitement like tiny waves of shivers. “So with all those plans in place, what happened with Morris?”
She blows a raspberry and I wonder if she learned that little tic from living with my mom.
“Jesus. I didn’t know he was related to the damn governor or whatever. I just thought he was another businessman with deep pockets and a perverted mind. That sick fuck had a little schoolgirl costume for me to wear and everything. He owned his own company, and the video was clear as hell, so I told Brodie to ask for five thousand instead of one.”
“Oh, you got greedy, huh?”
“I figured he’d pay a premium.”
“And did he?”
“No. When Brodie showed up to collect, that big bald guy got out of the car and pulled a gun on him. Ordered him to go get me and my phone and bring me back to the meeting place or Brodie would get a bullet in the head. He texted me as soon as he left and I took the hell off. Packed a bag and Brodie picked me up down the street and brought me here. I’ve been here ever since.”
“Smart.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
“But Brodie just went home?”
“Yeah. He told me I could chill here and he left; figured they didn’t know shit about him, not even his name. But they tracked him down. He gave them my grandparents’ address, but they already had that, I guess, because that bald guy beat the crap out of him. Told him it was his last warning.”
“Were you worried for your grandparents?” I ask out of curiosity, because if she’s like me, she doesn’t worry about anyone.
“Oh sure,” she spits. “As worried as they’ve always been for me. Dad in prison. Mom on drugs. But those assholes couldn’t even be bothered to invite me over for Christmas unless Daddy just happened to be out of jail in the month of December. Fuck them.”
She ain’t wrong. I don’t bother telling her my mom sold her out and gave the bald guy Brodie’s whereabouts. That was how they found his place. That fact won’t reveal anything she doesn’t already know about the world. “So do you have a plan? You don’t think Morris is just going to forget about you two, do you?”
Her face tightens up into a bitter little scowl. No, she hasn’t figured it out. She’s stuck. “Maybe I’ll stay here and work for a while. Start googling my clients before I take them on so I don’t run into any more surprise bullshit.”
A lifetime of that smokestack cloud really socked her in. If she’s truly like me, she can be so much more than a two-bit hustler, but she hasn’t yet seen beyond the stifling bubble of her environment. Maybe she got some dumb genes from her mama, or maybe she was exposed to too many drugs in utero and she can’t fight her way past the poisoned air she’s been breathing deep her whole life.
The question is: Why do I care? Is this just a fun flash of time travel back to my youth? Maybe. Probably. But I suddenly feel invested, and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that before, and I love the way my skin burns with interest.
Left to her own devices, she’ll be her father all over again, in and out of jail and useless. But she doesn’t have to be. She’s better than her father. Just like I was.
“What are your grades like?” I ask.
“Grades?” she sneers. “Who the hell cares?”
“I’m asking if you’re dumb.”
“Fuck off, you snotty bitch. I know you’ve always thought you were better than everybody else. Everyone says that.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve heard it a million times.”
“You’ve got that right. My dad really hates your guts.”
“The feeling is mutual. And look who hasn’t spent half her life in prison. Spoiler: it’s this snotty bitch out here showing off her freedom. Leaving his trifling ass behind in that visiting room a few days ago really warmed my bitchy little heart.”
That coaxes a small smile from her.
“Our family can’t think past their next hit or handout. That’s all they’ve ever been good for. ‘What’s going to happen tonight, and how can I get a piece of it?’ Is that the life you want for the next eighty years?”
“I’ll get the biggest piece of it, whatever it is.”
“Three-quarters of a shit pie is still just a giant piece of shit, Kayla. Do you get that? Or are you as dumb as the rest of them and that’s why you’re so angry and sneaky?”
“Screw you, I’m not dumb.”
“Then why are you still scrapping for your chance at that delicious shit pie?”
She’s mad, her jaw jutting out with stubbornness, but she stays silent, listening now, waiting to see what I want from her.
What do I want from her?
I cross my legs and sip my Coke, returning her gaze for a long moment before I pose the next question. I stay calm, though. If she knows this is important to me, she’ll lie. “Have you always felt different?”
“Like how?”
“Different from the people around you. Your mama. Your siblings. Your friends. If you have any friends.”
“I got friends,” she snaps, so I’m pretty sure she doesn’t.
“Do you feel . . . ?” I try to think of the best way to express it. I’m not exactly great at tapping into my innermost depths. “Do you feel removed from the world?”
She stares.
“Removed. Like the people around you are on a TV show that you don’t particularly like that much.”
“Sure. Why would I care about them at all? They’ve never cared about me.”
That’s just logic, as far as I can tell, but most people don’t seem to feel that way, even if they’ve been raised by monsters. Most people seem to want their mommy’s love despite cruelty and neglect. Or because of that. Most people raised in shitty environments are determined to find love, by proxy if nothing else. A daddy leaves, so the daughter falls in love with any screwed-up man who’ll tell her she’s a good girl. A mom drinks and whores, so the son shacks up with the drunkest floozy he can find.
Most typically, of course, a family is dysfunctional and it creates in them a sticky need to stay close, stay in touch, keep trying to make it better. We’ve all seen it a million times.
I’ve never understood it, though, because I don’t have any guilt or regret that makes me want to make things better. Maybe Kayla doesn’t either.
“You might be young enough to fix,” I say, testing her a little. Is she ashamed? Does she want to get better, whatever that means?
There are therapies for children edging toward this condition. Ways to learn how to behave empathetically even if you can’t actually feel that. If a baby sociopath is caught early enough, they can be trained to . . . conform. Maybe even to thrive. I’m not sure about sixteen, though. That seems a bit long in the neuropathic tooth.
“Fix what?” she scoffs. “There’s nothing wrong with me, lady.”
“You’re probably a sociopath,” I say simply.
For the barest moment she looks startled. Her eyes widen for a split second before she narrows them again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s some serial killer shit right there.”
“No. It’s not. It’s actually fairly common. One in a hundred people or so. Most of us don’t kill people; we just have great skills at getting through life.”
“‘We’?”
“Yes. We.”
“You’re some kind of psycho bitch?”
“Yes, I am,” I say with only the barest hint of pride.
She snorts and gets out another cigarette. She feels disadvantaged here and she doesn’t like it. I haven’t said what she expected me to say, and now she’s scrambling for a new plan.
“What do you want from me, huh?” she demands; then she leans forward suddenly, blowing a stream of smoke to the side so her mouth is free to offer me a coy smile. “You like girls?” she asks, running her gaze down my body. “Is that what all this is about? I’ve been with girls before.”
“Jesus Christ, you really are a one-trick pony, aren’t you?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Sex. It’s all you know. All you’re good for.”
“I mean, I’m great at it, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll do anything you want. Anything at all. But it’ll cost you. I need a little money to start over here, you know?”
I stare at her, flat-mouthed.
“If you’re scared, you can have my phone so you know I’m not recording it. Right here. Right now. One thousand dollars.”
Slapping my knees, I push up to my feet. “All right, I’m leaving.”
“Five hundred,” she says. “Family discount.”
“Good Lord. You can come with me if you want. We can have dinner. Talk.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I don’t even know you.”
“Are you waiting for your man Little Dog to return to your loving arms?” I ask.
“No, I’m just not getting in your car so you can drive me over to CPS.”
“Girl, I’d take you straight to the cops. Child Protective Services!” I laugh. “As I said, I’m no do-gooder.” I’m not, but I do need to turn her safely over to the authorities to get a nice, heroic ending to this story. I can’t let her know what I want, though, or she’ll run off again just to spite me.
“Whatever,” she mutters. “I’m fine here. Go back to wherever you came from.”
“Listen, Kayla, I get it. You’re tough. You want to take care of things yourself. Fine. But I’m going to rent myself a nice hotel room and stay in town for the night. You’ll be much safer if you come with me. You really managed to piss off the wrong guys.”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay, but we could have a nice chat about ourselves. Wouldn’t that be fun? Talk about what’s going on in that weird head of yours?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she snaps. “I’m just stronger than everyone else.”
True. Very true. “Yes,” I say, “you are. And you’re going to waste that strength. You’ve got a gig for now. You can use the thing that would normally make you vulnerable to men and turn it on them as a weapon. But that will only work for two more years, if you stay alive that long. After that, all you’ll be is an eighteen-year-old dropout with a long rap sheet and a body that’s worth the same dollar amount as every other whore over the legal age. You want to be queen of the state prison system? Or do you want something better than that?”
“Fuck off.”
“Got it. But here’s my number anyway.” I tear a scrap of paper off a coupon in the kitchen and jot down my cell phone number. “Little Dog might have decided to sell you out to Morris. They might already have this address. But I’m tired of you right now, so just call if there’s trouble. Or don’t. Your decision.” I head for the door. “Sleep tight.”
“Wait.”
I turn back, my hand on the cold doorknob, a little disappointed that she’s come to her senses so quickly. I was starting to look forward to a long soak in a nice bathtub and a few drinks at the hotel bar.
“Could I have twenty bucks? We’re out of food, and Little Dog took the car, so I need to order pizza.”
There’s plenty of food in the fridge, but I appreciate her attempt to scam me, so I flick a twenty at her and leave with a wave. It’s time to upgrade my accommodations and take a long night of luxury to consider the stupid idea squirming at the back of my mind.
Stupid . . . but it could be fun.
CHAPTER 18
A dull buzzing wakes me from a sound sleep. My body is cradled in a luxury mattress and warmed by a perfectly fluffy comforter. I feel amazing. Powerful and right.
When I crack my eyes open, I see that it’s morning, but the colorless light coming through the sheer white curtains indicates a fairly early hour. I ignore the buzzing and go back to sleep.
When it wakes me again, the light is yellow enough that I decide the hour is more civilized and turn over to grab my phone. Eight a.m. I got to bed before midnight, so I stretch hard and scroll through my alerts. Nothing from Kayla and nothing from Luke.
I’m not surprised about Luke. We had a long conversation while I was in the bathtub last night. I told him I’d found Kayla and he was so damn happy. Choked up, even, and that only inflamed my ridiculous idea.
“She’s a lot like me,” I told him. “I think I can help her.” I didn’t tell him how. I didn’t even hint at it. The idea is dangerous and I enjoy the secret rush of it.
“You absolutely should,” he gushed. “You should help her any way you can. Jesus, I can’t believe you found her. Actually, yes I can. I don’t know what I’m saying. You’re amazing, Jane. Just let me know if I can help.”
