Nice Girls(4)

The house was too quiet. I couldn’t hear any sound outside my own thoughts. I preferred the silence—the whole family did, even when Mom had been alive. But the silence was deafening now.

I needed some air.



In the garage, I climbed into Mom’s old black sedan. Dad rarely used it, but the car had a full tank of gas, ready to go. I felt the guilt gnaw at me as I backed out of the driveway.

At night, our corner of Liberty Lake looked like it always had—the same blocks of houses, parks, and retail areas where the housewives would congregate. I passed by the old elementary school and the sports field next to it, no children in sight.

Jittery, I started driving eastward to the lake. I had missed the water and the sprawling trees, the calm beaches, and the fresh smell of lake water in the air. It reminded me of Madison Nguyen.

When we needed a break in high school, Madison and I would go for long drives around the lake, listening to the radio. Sometimes we picked up pop and french fries. On the highway next to Liberty Lake, we would roll down the windows, letting the wind rough up our hair. Madison’s long black hair would snake around the driver’s seat as she cackled, the two of us screaming out the window. Venting our frustration, our fears, our fatigue.

Sometimes we parked by the lake. We stayed in the car, and we would sit there and watch the gray-green surface of the water and the people who walked in the sand. We liked to count all the plaid shirts we saw, the sports jerseys, and the odd deerskin jacket.

We talked about everything: school, grades, the latest boy that we liked. We ranted about the people around us and how we were destined for bigger, better things.

“I hate it,” Madison once said. “They take one look and think, That’s it, that’s how you are.”

I stayed silent in her car.

“After that one look, it’s over. You don’t get another shot,” she murmured. “That’s the worst part.”

I knew what she meant. We were both thinking about it—that look that happened on the first day of junior high school. It defined us for years in Liberty Lake. The irony was that it started our friendship.

That day, as the other seventh graders flocked to each other, I hid in the corner of first-period math. My summer had been lonely, friendless. After one look, the other kids seemed to stay away.

Madison was the last to enter the classroom. By then, the seats had filled up except for the one near mine. She stopped short when she saw me. I saw the disdain in her eyes, and I felt my own.

It was a look of mutual recognition: two girls who realized that they were the least attractive people in the room. I was the fat one with a rash of pimples across her face and a silence around her that was neither cute nor charming. She was the gawky Asian one. Her hair was greasy, draped over a dull hoodie that swallowed her body.

Two utterly unappealing girls, now trapped at the same desk. Madison sighed as she sat down next to me.

I wanted to melt into my seat.

In class, we were given a comprehension quiz. A few minutes in, I heard the sound of pencil puncturing paper, scraping against desk. It was a loud, relentless sound.

Madison was flying through her quiz, already flipping to the next page. Other heads turned back, staring at her as she worked. She was showing off.

When class was over, I clambered up from my seat, but Madison suddenly held down my arm. She was surprisingly strong.

“You wanna borrow my hoodie?” she asked.

I shook my head. But Madison kept holding my arm, leaning in with a whisper: “Maybe you should check your seat.”

I turned around, slowly squatting off the chair. There was a splash of blood at the center. I suddenly noticed the wetness between my legs.

I had just gotten my first period.

Madison handed me her hoodie. I stood up unsteadily, holding it around my waist to cover the back of my jeans. We said nothing to the teacher and walked out of the classroom.

“He can deal with it,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “But you should clean up before someone calls you ‘Bloody Mary.’”

I grinned as we ducked into a bathroom.

We stuck together after that. We were not pretty or well liked, but we were smart. Unlike everyone else, we were discontent with the milieu around us. The other kids were lazy, complacent, mediocre. We were better. We would get out.

In college, we did just that—she went to the West Coast and I went east. We grew busy with college, but still texted frequently. Last summer, I’d even gone to L.A. to see her. Madison was thriving in California. She glowed now, claiming it was all the kale, kombucha, and vitamin D. Madison was set to graduate summa cum laude.

A few nights ago, she’d texted me about her ex.

I hadn’t replied back. It was hard to care when I was getting kicked out of school.

And I had no plans of telling her. Everyone else hated me. Madison was the last friend I had left. Why would I risk losing her, too?

I found myself tearing up at a stoplight, my nose runny. I was winded. Everything had happened so quickly in the past few days. I was at school, and then I wasn’t. I was a student, and then I wasn’t. Now I was here, and I could barely comprehend why.

As the stoplight turned green, I saw a church steeple in the sky, only a few blocks away. The black steeple had a white cross at the top and a large bronze bell that rang twice a day.

Instead of going straight, I suddenly turned right—the car behind me honked angrily, but I kept turning. I was going to St. Rita’s.