Nice Girls(11)

When Madison’s father called her from work, even he had been disappointed.

That day, the city lost its chance at football glory. But there was still hope that the star quarterback, number twenty-four, would make it professionally one day.

“Do you know why Dwayne’s not playing college football?” I asked Jim.

He shrugged, leading us down the pet food aisle.

“You can ask him tomorrow. Poor kid’s out sick today.”

“He’s sick?”

Jim nodded.

A toddler began to wail from a shopping cart. Jim beelined for the mother, leaving my question in the air.



In one day, I learned how to use the cash register, how to properly bag items, and how to restock products. I memorized a rough layout of the store. The work was physical, monotonous. But it made the time pass. It was a luxury to not think—just do.

I ran into no one, except Ron. We finished our shifts at the same time. At the locker bank, Ron took out his backpack and an orange skateboard. They clashed against his green polo shirt. Ron was very pale.

He murmured something.

“What did you say?”

“How was your day?” he murmured louder.

“It was fine.”

Ron nodded. He lingered, as if he had more to say, but then he quickly walked out.

I shut my locker and checked my phone. No texts from school, nor updates on Olivia.

In the hallway, I passed by Dwayne’s office. He was the one person I wanted to see at work. We might have talked about Olivia. Back in high school, they’d been friends. They’d dated briefly. They still might have kept in touch.

It was strange to see an old friend on the news. But for Dwayne, it might have been surreal to see a close one.



At home, I sat in the living room and watched the search on TV. The police and volunteers were still canvassing Littlewood Park Reserve. This time, some of them wore neon safety vests.

Neither of Olivia’s parents seemed to be in attendance. Instead, the reporters interviewed a few of the volunteers.

“Just a beautiful girl, beautiful family,” said one woman. “And the weather’s nice, so that’s a sign that we have to keep looking.”

“I pray it’s not the lake,” said another man.

The volunteers were earnest. The concern on each face, as if they had known Olivia personally, as if they thought she would have cared for them just the same. I pitied them.

When Dad came home, he sank into his armchair. He opened a beer.

“I ordered pho for dinner,” he said.

“Sounds good.”

“It should be ready when you get there.”

I turned to look at him.

“Where’d you order?”

“Same as always.”

I felt a flicker of panic.

“I can’t go.”

Dad frowned. The lines showed on his forehead.

“Quit being so dramatic, Mary. Just say hi to her dad and pick up the food.”

“I can’t, I haven’t—”

Dad watched as I faltered.

“You haven’t told her?”

“It’s not the right time.”

“The sooner you tell her, the less it’ll hurt,” he said. “If you run into her dad, she’s gonna have questions. Might as well beat her to it.”

When I shook my head, Dad raised his beer. He took a long, slow chug.



Instead of taking the highway by the lake, I cut through residential roads. Pho Village sat in the center of the city, in a humdrum strip mall. The area was surrounded by industrial buildings and gray woods. It was a dull place, centered on blue-collar work.

“You should move the restaurant, Ba,” Madison had once complained. “You’d have more business in a nicer place.”

“But rent is cheap here,” he’d replied, shrugging.

Pho Village did well. Madison once told me that the best Vietnamese restaurants were the smallest and dinkiest ones, and that seemed to be true for Mr. Nguyen’s. The restaurant had been ranked as one of Minnesota’s top-five “Diamonds in the Rough.” Local politicians had a fondness for taking pictures there.

It was crowded for the dinner rush. Servers had to squeeze their way between the tables.

At the cash register, Mr. Nguyen was handing out takeout orders. He took off his baseball cap and wiped his forehead. There was a cross on the wall behind him and a laughing gold Buddha on the counter. The Nguyens were Catholic, but Mr. Nguyen said his customers liked the gold décor. They tipped less without it.

After a minute, he waved me over.

“Hello. Dine in or takeout?”

“Takeout,” I said.

“Under what name?”

He didn’t seem to recognize me. I could have lied if the food wasn’t under Dad’s name.

“It’s me—Mary,” I said quickly. “Madison’s friend?”

Mr. Nguyen blinked. Then he broke into a smile.

“Wow, is that you?” he asked. “You look so different. Tall and professional.”

I grinned. It was his way of saying that I’d lost weight.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You’re at Cornell, right?”

My mind went blank. I remembered Carly’s red hair and the way my nails had dug into my palms, trying to puncture the skin. The way my hands had moved on their own.