Dietland (36 page)

When the formalities of the funeral were over, she sent her mother to Texas with her sisters and the rest of her relatives. Two of the young men who'd raped her daughter were out on bail and they were going to die, she was sure of that. She'd killed before, it was easy. She was only a medic, and a woman, but she'd been trained to kill the enemy. That's what she'd done and would continue to do.

Leaving the war meant crossing over. The mind of a soldier wasn't the mind of a mother, but she wasn't a mother anymore. When she was in Afghanistan, something had crossed over in her, and when she went home, it didn't cross back.

 

• • •

A QUIET SETTLED OVER CALLIOPE HOUSE
the day after the Jennifer revelations became public, as if we were holding a moment of silence for the mother who'd lost her daughter, which was at the root of everything. The story was still taking shape; some questions were answered, but many others remained. Information about Soledad stuffed the papers and airwaves, much of it speculation. There was no news about Leeta, but she hadn't been lying when she told her roommate she knew the identity of Jennifer.

After a morning engrossed in the news, I had the kitchen to myself in the afternoon. I slid a tray of cupcake batter into the oven. That Leeta was connected to me and also to Jennifer—Soledad—was unreal. I didn't know how to think about something that was so far removed from anything I'd experienced. For the rest of the day I wanted to pretend that they didn't exist, but as I went through the messages in my inbox, I discovered I didn't have that option.

The messages were mostly from new girls who'd sent their addresses, requesting books. One girl suggested a high school edition of
Fuckability Theory,
an idea I said I would pass on to Marlowe, amused at the thought of her replacing every occurrence of
fuck
and its variations.

Working my way to the top of the inbox, I found two names I recognized, Hannah and Jasmine. They'd written several times to discuss Marlowe's book, so it wasn't unusual to see email from them in my inbox, but these messages were different. The girls explained that they'd received weird correspondence in recent days, each time from a different, vague email address, with subject headings such as “Revolution!” and “Rise Up!” In one of the messages, the girls were advised to cancel their subscriptions to
Daisy Chain
and donate the money to Reproductive Justice, a nonprofit group. In another, they were encouraged to skip school and engage in acts of civil disobedience. Hannah forwarded the most recent one to me:

From: account7

To: Hannah_hannaH

Subject: Fight Back!

The police and the “justice” system don't take violence against women and girls seriously. If you've been assaulted or harassed, take the law into your own hands. Form vigilante groups with other girls. Sign up for self-defense classes, but don't just use the skills defensively. Go on the offensive!

Hannah wanted to know if these messages were from me. “Oh my God,” I said under my breath, slamming my laptop shut. I recalled Julia's response when I asked her why Leeta wanted the spreadsheet:
Maybe Jennifer's army is looking for new recruits.
No. I scoffed at my own wild thoughts. I was becoming paranoid like Julia.

And yet, something nagged at me.

As a woman being hunted by the FBI, Soledad had better things to do than email Kitty's readers, but her network was large and Leeta was out there somewhere. Maybe someone in the group wanted to reach out to these girls—at the heart of “Jennifer” was Soledad's own lost girl. There was a certain degree of logic to it. I wondered if this could be traced back to me or to Julia, and what would happen if it was.

“What's burning?” Sana was standing in the doorway, next to the refrigerator. I didn't know how long she'd been there watching my rising panic. I'd forgotten about my cupcakes and now opened the oven, a gush of smoke blinding me. I slid the pan of charred cakes onto the stovetop.

“Are you all right?” Sana said, a question she asked too often and not without reason. We were still slightly awkward with each other the day after our argument.

“I have a lot on my mind, you know, with all the stuff in the news.” I used a knife to flick off the burned top of a cupcake, then pinched a chunk of the moist part underneath, blew on it, and ate it. I was hungry and I didn't want to face Sana, so I stuffed my mouth. She took the tray away from me and dumped the cakes in the trash.

“Things aren't so dire that we have to eat ruined food, are they?”

I licked the crumbs from my lips. She was waiting for me to say something, to explain why I was acting odd, but I would have to lie and I didn't want to do that. I couldn't tell her about the messages until I had more time to think about the situation. If I mentioned it to Sana it would become a brouhaha, and I couldn't deal with that. I needed to keep a lid on this and Julia's book and my suspicions about her. The lid on the pot was already rattling, about to blow off. Everything I worried about was linked to Julia.

“I'm still concerned about you,” Sana said. “I'm just putting that out there, into the universe.”

I wrapped my arms around her, squeezing her tight, hoping this would convey how much I appreciated her. She squeezed me back. I rested my cheek against her shoulder, the yellow of her blouse and the citrus scent of her soap transporting me away from this kitchen and away from thoughts of Jennifer, to somewhere simpler, like the lemon trees in my mother's yard. I was reluctant to let go of Sana and this reverie. We continued to embrace, no line between us. “I'm sorry I haven't been myself lately,” I said, but this wasn't entirely true—I didn't know what it meant to be myself anymore.

When the hug ended, she didn't push me to say anything more, even though I knew that's what she wanted. She left the kitchen and returned to her desk, leaving me alone, my laptop on the table, unavoidable. I would have to open it again.

From: PlumK

To: JuliaCole

Subject: SOS

Julia,

I need to speak with you urgently. DO NOT IGNORE THIS MESSAGE!

—PK

Within minutes, I received a reply—an indication that something was wrong.

From: JuliaCole

To: PlumK

Subject: Re: SOS

Let's meet tonight at Café Rose. 10:00. I need another favor.

J.

Of course.

When I arrived at Café Rose, Julia was sitting at a table in a back corner, drinking espresso despite the late hour. She was the Austen version of herself, with flawless makeup and straight hair, pale skin, boots with heels. I couldn't see what she was wearing underneath the trench coat, but I assumed it was her Austen uniform. I thought of her chest under that fabric, covered in roses and thorns.

“What's with the eye makeup?” she said when I sat down. “Taking beauty tips from our favorite fugitive, are we? That would make a great article for
Daisy Chain.
‘Get the Jennifer look!'”

I was conscious of the server hovering nearby. “The T-shirt already exists, so why not?” I said quietly.

“Jennifer as fashion statement, stripped of all the violence and bloodshed, available at Neiman Marcus.”

“Camo will be in style soon.”

“No doubt.”

This banter seemed to be a relief for both of us. The server requested my order and when she was out of earshot, Julia and I both leaned in. “Someone is emailing
Daisy Chain
readers, telling them to revolt and rise up,” I whispered.

“It's not a problem,” she whispered back. When the server appeared with my wine, Julia and I straightened up, smiling at her pleasantly. I took a drink slowly, peeking at Julia over the rim of my glass.

When we were alone at the back of the café again, Julia continued, explaining that the Austen network had been under sustained attack for weeks. “Email accounts have been hacked, subscriber information downloaded, everything. This works to our advantage. They will never connect those email addresses back to you and me. Don't worry.”

I relaxed a bit, taking another sip. “But I've been emailing the same girls on my own. It might seem like an unbelievable coincidence.”

“There's nothing criminal about that. You worked at Austen for years. You developed a connection with the girls, blah blah blah. Trust me, this is the least of our worries.” That phrase—
our
worries
—was loaded with meaning. I didn't know why I was included in it.

“What about this favor you want?” There was no reason to lounge by the pool—I dived right in.

“Not yet.” She tapped her fingers on the table, surveying the café over my shoulders. I'd always laughed at Julia's paranoia, but now if she was scooped up in a net, I'd be scooped up too.

“Relax,” I said, glancing around.

“I can't relax. The heat has been turned up.”

“What heat?” She didn't answer but fanned herself with a menu. “What did you think when you heard the news about Jennifer?” I wanted to gauge her reaction.

“It's shocking,” she said, still peering around, not appearing shocked.

“Was it actually news to you, Julia?”

Her focus returned to me, her eyes narrowing beneath her smudged charcoal lids, her Bambi lashes. She moistened her lips with her tongue, amused. “I remember when I first met you in the Beauty Closet,” she said. “You were so timid. I remember you
blushing
when I asked you what color your nipples are. Now look at you.” She reached over the table and picked up my drink. My bottom lip was imprinted on the glass, a furry caterpillar in gloss, just below the rim. Julia drank from the same spot.

“I remember that meeting as well. You were shifty then, as you are now.”

She slid the glass back to my side of the table. “As much as I'm enjoying this conversation, it's time to discuss the favor.”

I considered taking another drink from my glass, but didn't. “You should have
I need a favor
printed on your business cards.”

“I trust you. I don't trust many people,” she said, seeming sincere. “Meet me in the bathroom in two minutes.” She stood up, straightening the collar of her trench and disappearing into the bathroom. I waited a couple minutes, then followed.

“At the end,” Julia said from behind a stall door. There were three stalls. The first two were empty. I opened the door to the third stall and squeezed inside, which wasn't easy. Julia and I stood chest to chest in the cramped cubicle.

“I'm in deep trouble, Plum,” she said, her usual swagger replaced with something like desperation.

I wanted to back away from her, but there wasn't room. “I'm not sure I want to know, Julia.” I had wanted to know before, but in this moment I was afraid.

“Please,” she said. “I need you to ask Verena for money, as much as you can get. Tell her it's for you. Make up a story. You can say you have debts.”

I felt my stomach tighten. “Why do you need money?”

“It's not for me.”

“Then who is it for?” I knew what she was going to say, but I needed to hear her say it.

“It's for
her.
”

If we weren't locked in the narrow stall, my emotions would have overflowed. “I knew it,” I said, trying to stay measured. “I knew you were lying this whole time.” I'd been on the margins of this, whatever it was, and now I was moving closer to the center. I reached past Julia to unlock the stall door.

“She needs your help,” Julia said, blocking me, reaching out and placing her hands on my shoulders.

I thought of Leeta regularly, never suspecting that she might think of me too. “Is she okay?”

“No, she's not.”

“Where is she?”

Julia shook her head. “It's better that you don't know. Knowing too much will put you in danger.”

“You mean
even more
danger than you've already put me in?” It wasn't only my stomach that had tightened—every part of me was contracting. I reached for my throat, placing my hand at the base of my neck. “Why does she need money?”

“She needs to escape, make a run for it.”

I leaned sideways, resting against the burnished metal wall of the stall, letting it absorb my weight. “Is this really happening?” I coughed a nervous laugh.
Wake up,
I said to myself.
This must be a nightmare.
I thought about my shoplifting, my brick, my arguments with strangers. That was the minor leagues.

“What has she done, exactly?” Everyone wanted to know the answer to this question. Cheryl Crane-Murphy alone had devoted weeks to the topic. Here I was, actually in a position to find out.

“Whatever she did, she did for Luz,” Julia said.

“Tell me.”

“I can't. It's better for you if you don't know. That's the truth.”

“But, Julia, I can't help you if I don't know. You're asking me to be part of this.”

The door to the bathroom opened and Julia placed her index finger on my lips. The sink turned on then off; the blower turned on then off. After a few minutes, the bathroom door opened then closed.

She removed her finger from my lips, the tip slick with my gloss. “Darkest Plum?”