The Girls I've Been(17)
“Okay, we need to change our plans,” I say, standing as Wes scrambles up on the chair.
There’s no time for modesty. Casey’s turned her back politely, but Wes and Iris are busy, and honestly, the two of them have seen me in my bra, so I tear my shirt off, shake it free of as much dust as I can, and flip it back right side out.
“What happened?” Iris asks as she hands Wes the vent cover.
“I called Lee with the office phone while I was in there. They’ve barricaded the front,” I explain as I tear off my pants. Shake them, too. Back on they go, and then I’m grabbing my boots and flannel. “We can’t get out that way. The only way out is through the basement.”
“The sheriff—”
“Can’t make a move until SWAT shows up.”
“That’s gonna be hours!” Wes hisses, pushing the vent back into place and jumping down from the chair. I hand him the scissors.
“Is there dust in my hair?” I ask, bending down so Iris can look. She runs her fingers through it, getting rid of any fuzz.
“What are we going to do?” she asks.
“We need to separate them,” I say. “Sow distrust.”
“How?” Wes asks.
Before I can answer, I hear a loud “What the fuck?” from down the hall. And then “Check the rooms, now!”
They’ve discovered the open office door.
“Get in the corner,” Wes says, tucking the scissors into his jeans and under his shirt. He almost picks Casey up in his haste to get her out of the line of sight. We huddle together as the screech of their makeshift blockade being dragged away fills the room. There’s a pause, silence that stretches, unbearable, and then Gray Cap stalks inside, red crawling up his neck and eyes burning.
A vein pulses on his forehead. I can see it throb under the shadow of the cap. Wes breathes deep, like he’s trying to take up more space to shield us, and I can feel Casey shaking, her shoulder pressed up against the back of my arm.
Gray Cap slaps the sticky note on the wall in front of us, my You’re welcome adorned with a little star instead of an apostrophe for extra flair.
“Which one of you did this?” he demands.
No one looks at anyone. Wes and Iris don’t know what to do. Casey’s terrified.
I lift my chin, then I lift my hand.
And I smile.
— 19 —
Samantha: Dainty, Delicate, Demure
Being Samantha is the first time my mom pulls a long con since I was born. I’m old enough now, she tells me. I’ve learned enough.
I’m proud that she trusts me. I don’t understand the consequences. The differences between being someone for a few weeks or months versus being someone for years.
Samantha is eight, and she wears her hair in double French braids, because mothers in the rich suburb Abby’s moved us into have the time to French-braid their daughters’ hair each morning. She has a tea set in her playroom and a mountain of stuffed toys. Sometimes I slip one of them into my own room and sleep with it like it’s something secret and shameful. I edge away from comfort without understanding why, already drawing the line between them and me. Why would Samantha’s stuffed bear soothe me when I slip free of her after the lights go out, and then it’s just darkness and the girl no one is allowed to know?
She is hard to escape. She is hard to hold on to, in the dark or the day. So I hold on to the bear instead.
Samantha is a test. A soft rollout, if you will. Abby needs to make sure I can play the perfect daughter before she twists her way into the life of a man who wants one. So she doesn’t target a man. Abby’s mark is a woman—the woman who lives next door, a mother named Diana, who has a little girl the same age as me. Her husband died, and the money he left her is what Mom wants.
Mom is Gretchen this time, a widow like Diana, which is true, but also it’s not. So many things are true, but not.
She spins a tragic story of a man who loved her, who died too soon, before he could even meet his little girl. It tugs at the heartstrings, and we slide right into place in the cookie-cutter house in the beige neighborhood, into playdates and ballet classes and fresh-baked brownies on the counter each Friday.
I go to school for the first time, and it’s easier than I’d expected and more boring than I could have dreamed. I don’t like it. I read under my desk, but my teacher calls me back after class when she catches me, and I know not to cause ripples like that, so I stop.
Samantha can’t cause ripples. Samantha has to be perfect. Dainty, delicate, and demure.
Mom gives me three words for each girl I have to be. Rebecca had been sweet, silent, and smiling.
The quieter I am, the more they forget I’m around. And people—men, especially, I will find—say and do the most secret things out loud when they don’t think you’re important. When you’re sweet and you fetch beers and slice limes and are never a bother. I wasn’t real to any of them, and when you’re not real, the things you learn are endless.
But the men are not important yet. Samantha’s mark is. Because I have a bigger role to play in this con than I ever had before.
Diana has no idea what to do with her daughter and no interest in finding out how to. I walk into the house for the first playdate, and by the time I walk out, I understand why Mom dressed me in patent leather shoes and lace socks and a neat, prim dress that goes with the double French braids hanging down my back, tied with ribbons.