The Pretty Ones (7 page)

As the two groups puffed up their chests and hollered back and forth at one another, she picked out the largest rock from the palm of her hand. Reeled back. Let it fly as hard and fast as she could. It hit the leader of the bike gang square in the back of the head with a muffled thud. The guy's hand flew up to the point of impact. He spun around, his eyes as wide as a wild dog's. When he spotted Nell with the handful of rocks, he looked ready to fly into a rage. But then the black kids erupted into a fit of laughter. They slapped their legs and stomped their Dr. Js against the hot concrete.

She threw another.

It bounced off his shoulder with a smack.

“Bitch!” he roared, but she kept throwing, pelting him about the head and shoulders, stoning him in the middle of the intersection.

But his anger seemed to shift to low-level panic, punctuated by what must have been jabs of humiliation as the black kids howled. She could see the realization in his eyes—he'd never be able to live this down. He'd forever be the guy who got pelted with rocks by some penny loafer–wearing white chick. And his friends all looked to be suffering from a mild case of shock, either because Nell was fighting back, or because their dear leader was now shoving his feet onto his bike pedals and fleeing the scene.

Across the street, the black kids were dying of laughter. A ­couple of them were doubled over, clutching their stomachs. One cried out in what sounded like pain as he collapsed against the chain-link fence behind him. He wiped tears from his eyes, unable to catch his breath.

Nell's tormentors dispersed. One after the other, they pedaled after their alpha, yelling Spanish slurs into the distance. Nell imagined them comforting their ego-wounded friend before leaving him to nurse his injuries. They'd talk behind his back as soon as he was out of earshot.
Coward. Cobarde.
Perhaps now Mr. Banana Seat would get a taste of his own medicine. Maybe now he'd get a chance to see how it felt to be the pariah. The social outcast. The laughing­stock of the neighborhood. Hopefully the entire borough. The whey-faced baby of Brooklyn.

The remaining rocks rolled from Nell's hand, bouncing onto the sidewalk next to her feet.

“Fuck, man!” One of the black kids shouted at her from across the street. But rather than cajoling her, he lifted his right arm and made a fist in the air in salute. “The revolution has come!” he yelled, then dissolved into another bout of cackles, flanked by his friends.

Nell slowly turned back in the direction she had been walking. The throb in her head was subsiding, but it left her light-headed. Her nerves continued to crackle with adrenaline. But rather than being overwhelmed by furious anxiety, she hummed with carnal self-­satisfaction instead. Sure, the bike kid's mortification would take a violent shift. She knew that as soon as his bruised ego healed enough to let him think straight, he'd thirst for justice. But this possibility didn't bother her. If he did come back, she'd be ready for him. If he dared mess with her again, she'd
let
him pull her into an alley, maybe even tempt him to do it. She'd kick and scream and act helpless, if only to give him a few seconds of satisfaction. And then she'd whip out the knife or scissors or box cutter tucked away in the folds of her sweater and stab him straight through his stupid heart. Or maybe she'd just give him a pretty Glasgow smile to live with for the rest of his scarred, miserable life.

The idea of his blood flowing through her fingers felt salacious.

The thought ignited a dull throb between her legs.

But those wanton thoughts of bloodletting melted in the heat. By the time she reached the third floor of her apartment building, she was holding back her sobs. In her head, Mr. Banana Seat's shock was replaced by Linnie's look of disturbed surprise. His sneered insults meshed into Linnie's disdain.

Take a hint.

We're not friends.

Unlocking the door, Nell stumbled headlong into the apartment. She slammed the door behind her and dropped to the floor with her hands slapping the hardwood. Anger rushed out of her in a stifling wail.

Barrett stepped out of his room to investigate the noise, but he kept his distance. She could sense him hovering just over her shoulder, close enough to let her know that he was concerned, far away enough to give her space.

“You were right.” She choked on the words. “I was stupid to think . . . to think—” Cut off by a sharp intake of air, she curled her fingers against the floorboards, trying to sink her nails in, trying to find purchase to steady her dismay. She was desperate for release but didn't want to scream. She needed liberation from her own smothering anguish, but she wasn't going to beat her head against the wall. Met with the perfect solution to her hysteria, she got to her feet and scrambled to the kitchen. She shoved the set table aside in her wake.

Tearing open the refrigerator door, she pulled her perfect pink cloud of a cake off the top shelf. Her masterpiece, made from scratch. She placed it on the counter, and smashed it with two closed fists. Her breath came in gasps as she beat the confection into pink-and-white paste. She grabbed the cake plate, threw the entire mess onto the kitchen floor, stomped it beneath the heels of her shoes. The plate cracked beneath her soles. She skidded on the frosting, tumbled to the ground, left a long pink smear from where her leg had shot out from beneath her.

Stunned by her fall, she sat in a fulmination of whipped sugar and pastry. It was only then that she looked meekly at her brother. Barrett was staring, soundless, his gaze unwavering. After a long while he moved, approaching her with slow and deliberate steps. And once he was less than a few feet from his sister, he crouched down beside her, scooped up a handful of destroyed cake, and lifted a cake-smeared hand to his lips to taste its sweet destruction.

Nell blinked at him as he licked his fingers clean. A ghost of a smile sprouted across her face when he smacked his lips together to let her know that it was good,
really
good.

“Linnie didn't deserve it anyway,” she murmured. And then she laughed. It belted out of her as unexpectedly as her rage had, as wholeheartedly as the black kids had whooped and hollered across a four-lane street.

She fell back onto the sugar-smeared floor and cackled at the water-stained ceiling.

And Barrett grinned, amused by her lunacy. He grinned wider than ever before.

.   .   .

The weekend seemed to both race and crawl. One minute, Nell could hardly focus on the book she was reading. The next, it seemed as though hours had rushed by without her noticing at all. She slept a lot, trying to forget the goings-on of the week before, attempting to erase the malignant grins of Mary Ann Thomas and her gaggle of henchgirls. She tried to forget Linnie Carter existed, nursing the migraine that would swell behind her eyes at the mere thought of Linnie's lying, angular face.

Between bouts of hatred, she felt pity. She supposed that in their own way they were just as helpless against their shortcomings as she was. Could they help it if they had been born selfish and superior? Could anyone expect them to be kind and compassionate when, by nature, they were blind to the plight of a girl like her? Perhaps, Nell thought, she was as ignorant to their issues as they were to hers. Maybe their self-confidence, their too-loud laughter, and their compulsion to surround themselves with friends were all to cover up some deep-seated hurt Nell couldn't begin to understand. Perhaps everyone was broken in their own way.

By Monday morning, Nell felt better. She wasn't sure why, but it was as though a weight had been lifted. On the way to work, she decided that maybe friendship with her coworkers wasn't in the cards, but there was only one way to truly know. Sandwiched between a businessman and a priest, Nell squared her shoulders against the subway seat and decided to apologize to Linnie for acting so odd.
Creepy.
Perhaps Linnie would accept Nell's olive branch and apologize in turn for being so rude in her refusal. Or maybe they'd never speak again. Nell decided that it didn't matter. She'd forget the whole thing, leave it up to Linnie to decide. If Linnie didn't want to be friends after Nell said she was sorry, then Linnie was more of a bitch than she thought, and Nell certainly didn't need friends like that.

She got off at 42nd Street, avoided Bryant Park the way Barrett had warned her to, and rode the elevator up to the third floor of Rambert & Bertram with a handful of other girls. A few of them murmured Monday-morning complaints about the week they knew was ahead.

Rambert and Bertram, please hold . . .

But rather than the familiar call-center scene—girls seated in their chairs, the sound of phones being answered, the clickety-clack of typewriter keys—every desk was empty. The typewriters were still. Even the phones were unmanned, ringing off the hook despite there being no one to answer their incessant scream.

Nell followed the girls out of the elevator, trailing behind them as her eyes swept the disarmingly empty floor. It looked like a strange sort of graveyard, each desk a headstone for the girl who had once worked behind it, each typewriter an unwritten epitaph. Her attention settled upon a swarm of brightly colored polyester. A cacophony of patterns and styles. Stripes and checks mingled with skirts and cigarette pants. The entirety of the staff was grouped in a giant huddle around the break-room entrance. Harriett Lamont was nowhere to be seen—probably not in yet, or maybe in her office, calling the big bosses to tell them about the chaos outside her door.

Nell approached the backs that were turned her way, but she didn't dare get too close, imagining them all turning on her like a swarm of wasps. A couple of girls broke off from the group. They shook their heads, murmuring in low tones as they walked toward their desks. Their faces were drawn and pale despite their morning-­fresh makeup. They held their arms coiled protectively across their chests, as though they'd just been told to pack up their things and go home for good.

Nell paused at the thought. Could it be possible? Had they all lost their jobs? Successful corporations went out of business on a regular basis. Greedy CEOs and Wall Street missteps could undo even the largest corporate Goliath. Gathering her sweater so that it hid her stomach, she looked back to the congregation of girls. She dared step a little closer to the group, but was almost immediately shoved out of the way by a fleeing coworker. As the girl blew by her, Nell heard her despite the breathlessness of her statement.

“Oh my
God
.”

Nell frowned, her curiosity piqued. She moved closer to the huddle, paused when a second girl broke away and made eye contact. “What happened?” Nell asked. “What's going on?”

“More shootings,” said the girl. “The victims survived this time. They saw a dark-haired man running away from their car. But there was another murder. . . .” The girl faltered, momentarily unable to continue.

“What?” Nell pressed.

“It was Linnie Carter.” The girl looked into the distance, tears setting off the green of her eyes. “They found her in an alley a few buildings down from her apartment in Bayside.”

Nell gaped. Found her? What did it mean to find someone in an alley, and who had found her? She shook her head. It didn't make sense.

The girl shot Nell a look of contempt, seemingly aggravated by her poor comprehension. “She's
dead
.” Her delivery was harsh, impatient despite the obvious emotion pulling her expression tight. “Someone slashed her throat and stuffed her mouth full of dirt.”

The ground shifted beneath Nell's feet. She took a step away from her coworker, shook her head again, this time in disbelief.

“Oh no . . .” The words tumbled across Nell's lips.

Barrett.

“You two knew each other?” The girl dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, then raised a skeptical eyebrow at Nell's reaction. Her tone was doubtful. Certainly, Nell couldn't have had ties with the likes of Linnie.

“Yes.” Nell's response was quick, unflappable, toeing the line of insult.

Barrett.

She knew. It
had
to be.

Nell shot the girl a look, uncomfortable with the obvious suspicion drawn across her coworker's face. Why was she looking at her like that? Was Nell's terror that obvious? Was it blinking above her head like a cheap neon sign?

I know who did it.

I know.

I know . . .

“We were friends.” Nell spit out the statement. Friends, because now that Linnie was gone she couldn't protest. As far as anyone was concerned, Nell and Linnie were
best
friends. Hell, Linnie and Barrett had something going on. They were sweet on each other, and he would
never
have hurt her. Not in a million years.

She whipped up a story. Linnie had been due to visit Nell's apartment just that weekend, but she hadn't shown up and she hadn't called. Nell had been worried sick, pacing the length of her room for two days, wondering what had happened to her closest confidante while her brother scoured New York City's dirty streets. Thank God Nell had taken a photo of Linnie and Barrett together just before leaving for their most recent date. That, at least, had given Barrett something to flash at people after holding up his sad little cardboard sign.
Have you seen this girl?
And if the police asked about the photo? Stolen. Snatched right out of Barrett's hand by a homeless bum.

“Well, sorry,” Nell's coworker said, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, a stranger reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I'm really sorry,” she repeated, as though her first apology hadn't been enough. She said nothing more, just pulled her hand back and walked away. Except that, this time, Nell wasn't being abandoned because
she
was the one who was awkward. The girl simply didn't know what else to say.