Now I have the honor of meeting up with Marjolie and coaxing her back to Lotham’s vehicle, parked several blocks away, where we can all chat privately. I’m due for work sooner versus later, so I need this to go quick and easy. No pressure.
I hear the bell start its run. There’s a roughly five-minute delay, then the front doors of the academy heave open and the first wave of students pour out, hefting their packs and bolting to freedom.
Couple of minutes later, Marjolie appears, head bent close to Kyra’s as they descend the front steps deep in conversation. Once again I’m struck by the contrast between the two. Kyra, tall and stunning even from this distance. While Marjolie walks with her shoulders hunched self-consciously. Pretty to Kyra’s drop-dead gorgeous. Softer to Kyra’s hard-edged attitude. One leader. One follower.
I feel the first prickling of unease, just as Marjolie glances up and spots me. Across the street, rows of traffic and rivers of kids between us, she falters. So many expressions flicker across her face: shame, fear, regret. Guilt. A whole boatload of guilt.
She knows that I’m here for her. That finally, this is all about her, and that stupid summer program at the rec center, and all the secrets teenagers feel the need to keep.
She turns away from her friend, already debating her options. I lean forward, preparing to give chase.
Then Kyra spies me. She grabs her friend’s arm, totally missing the nuances. She tugs Marjolie forward, and after a final tense moment, the shorter girl gives way. She lets Kyra guide her across the street to me.
This is it. Eleven months later, it’s finally time for the truth.
* * *
—
“I have some questions for Marjolie involving the summer program she attended with Angelique at the rec center.” I keep my voice light, tone matter-of-fact as I rattle off the story Lotham and I had concocted to justify culling Marjolie from the herd.
“Okay.” Marjolie stares down at her feet, her fists tightly clenched around the straps of her backpack.
“Whatdya want to know?” Kyra prods.
“I think it would be better if we spoke alone. Don’t you agree, Marjolie?”
The shorter girl still won’t look at me, while beside her, Kyra blinks in confusion.
“Why do you want to know about summer camp? Did you learn something more about Angel?” Kyra leans forward eagerly. “Tell us! We’re her friends, we deserve answers.”
I keep my gaze on Marjolie. “Fashion camp. You and Angelique signed up together?”
The girl nods.
“And there was this other girl, Livia Samdi, also in the class? Prone to wearing a red baseball cap?”
A look of pure misery sweeping across Marjolie’s face. “Yes.”
“Come with me,” I say gently. “It won’t take long. I just have a few questions. Nothing special.” I glance at Kyra, while Marjolie nods.
“I’ll um, I’ll catch up with you later,” she tells her friend.
Kyra isn’t stupid. She looks from Marjolie to me to Marjolie.
“I’ll go with you—”
“No!” Marjolie, tone sharp, eyes wild.
“Marjolie . . .” Kyra, her voice pleading. She’s scared, I realize. But not about what she knows, but about what she’s now realizing she doesn’t know. And she’s worried for her friend.
“I’m sorry,” Marjolie whispers. But I can tell Kyra still doesn’t know who or what her friend’s apologizing for.
“She’ll call you later,” I intervene, then I place my hand on Marjolie’s shoulder and guide her away, before Kyra can continue pressing the issue.
Kyra lets us go. I can feel Marjolie shaking beneath my touch as I lead her down the first block. Then the second. We walk in total silence, tension building.
Lotham has his tricks, I have my mine.
Around the corner, to the unmarked car. I pop open the back door, just as Marjolie’s head snaps up.
“I didn’t mean it!” she exclaims wildly. “I swear I didn’t mean to hurt her! I had no idea!”
Then she bursts into tears.
“You’re welcome,” I tell Lotham, as Marjolie collapses in the back seat and the show officially begins.
* * *
—
It comes out in fits. Starting with a boy, because so many stories do. The basketball player. The one Marjolie followed to the rec center because she needed to protect her territory.
Lotham and I sit in the front seat of the car, Marjolie in the back. Forget driving to the station. Our target is already pouring out her sins. We don’t have time for traffic.
Lotham has his phone on, discreetly recording away. He’s looking at anything but the sobbing girl in his back seat, so I continue to do the honors:
“You convinced Angelique to sign up with you. Your wing man—or woman, in this case.”
“She wanted to work, earn extra money babysitting. But I begged and pleaded. That was the thing with Angel. She’d do anything for her friends, and we’d been best friends since fifth grade.”
“So you and her signed up for fashion camp. Except it was never about fashion camp.”
“DommyJ.” Marjolie sighs, sobs.
“Heartbreaker?” I ask.
“I thought he loved me. I thought . . . I should’ve known better.” Poor girl, I don’t think she could look any more miserable.
“How old’s DommyJ?” I ask.
“Seventeen.”
To Marjolie’s then fifteen. “Hot?”
Lotham gives me a look, but I stand by my question.
“Totally. All the girls wanted him. But he chose me. He said he liked my smile.”
I nod sympathetically. I already know where this story’s going, and I feel terrible for Marjolie. For all the vulnerable, self-conscious girls out there who dared to believe the cool guy wanted them, when really . . .
“What happened, Marjolie? You met DommyJ, convinced Angelique to sign up for fashion camp, and then . . .”
“Angel didn’t like him. She warned me. Worse”—Marjolie smiles bitterly—“she told me I could do better. But of course, who could do better than him? I didn’t want to hear it, I didn’t want to believe.”
Marjolie presses her lips together. More tears slide down her cheek. I whack Lotham till he belatedly produces a travel pack of tissues.