I turn to the next page in Abby’s journal and prop my head in my hand, the echoes of the past weighing me down, dragging me back to that night.
The night Jen became a murderer.
Jen shot a glance at her mother’s bedroom door as we tiptoed past to the liquor cabinet. She danced her fingers along the bottle tops before grabbing the vodka.
Liquor in hand, we headed to the field.
My recollection has probably skewed with time, but I don’t remember passing a single person. No cars or dog walkers. It’s strange how isolated this moment feels. The three of us alone, side by side, huffing as we crested the steep hill and arrived at the field.
The first official snow of the year hadn’t hit yet, but already the ground was frozen and unforgiving. Our footsteps crunched on the grass as we headed through the meadow toward the woods. I shivered in the open air, feeling exposed. We weren’t supposed to be there.
“Drink?” Jen asked, offering the bottle to Nicole.
“No,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked around as if we were about to get caught.
We fell into a single-file line as we approached the path, the ground softening the closer we got to the trees. Mud splattered the backs of our jeans, and we hitched up our legs to save the hems from being dragged. Nothing was worse than wet cuffs.
The past overlaps with the present, and I see the tree house ahead of us, the creaky structure brooding over our clearing with the stump seats. Logically, I know it wasn’t there that night with Nicole, but flipping to the next page of Abby’s journal, my mind combines the two locations into one gruesome slideshow.
The woods.
The chill.
The dead girl.
Cold wind kicked up leaves, swirling them around in the darkness. Nicole plopped onto the stump and curled her elbows around her knees for warmth. Jen stood in front of her and gulped from the bottle. The liquid glugged with each swallow and splashed out when she was done.
I realize now that she must’ve been sneaking liquor from her mother regularly, to be able to drink that heavily without crashing; but that night, I thought she was possessed.
Nicole cocked her head to the side and pinched her face into a condescending scowl. “Wow, chug much?”
Jen laughed, the titter of a witch in moonlight. “Nicky, do you remember the first time you brought me out here?”
“Don’t call me Nicky, bitch. That’s rude. We’re not that tight.”
“You’re right. You’re right. Yes.” Jen bowed, lifting imaginary skirts, and cleared her throat. “Your majesty, do you remember the first time you brought me here?” Cackle. Swig.
“My god, you’re so weird.”
“Can’t say that I do,” Nicole exhaled, feigning boredom.
A blustery gust raised the hairs on my arms, but that wasn’t the only reason I shivered.
Jen gawked at her. “The dirty magazine? The one you blamed on me?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Nicole said with a smirk. “You would look at porn, though. Everybody knows it’s the only way lesbians get off.” She knew she was pressing Jen’s buttons, but she didn’t care.
She couldn’t see Jen’s spine unfurling, another inch for every jab and jeer.
“I just wanted to be friends,” Jen said. The raw honesty in her voice scared me. Naked and unwavering. It was the kind of admission you save for your closest friends, your lover, your diary. It didn’t belong in the thickening woods with the rotting leaves. “We’re not going to be friends, are we?”
Not a question.
“Ha,” Nicole snorted. “Me? Friends with Henny Jenny? No way, loser.”
“You asked her to hang out,” I said. “Why are you here then?”
Scoff. “’Cuz I was bored.” She flipped hair from her shoulder. “Mary’s got, like, a stomach thing. Probably caught some of your grody germs, Henny Jenny. And I wasn’t ready to go home yet.”
“Eye drops, actually,” Jen said.
“I’m sorry? Did you say eye drops?”
“Why don’t you like me?” Jen asked, flat but laser focused.
“God, you’re pathetic,” Nicole groaned.
“I’m not,” she said.
“You are. I can’t believe you’d even think I’d consider being your friend. Poor and dirty and so freaking weird. Always hanging around us like a puppy—”
“I don’t—”
“—drooling over boys who will never notice you, never like you, never want you. Adam Carrington would rather get a handy with sandpaper than be seen with Henny Jenny. He wouldn’t go near you with a ten-foot pole. No one would. You’re the laughingstock of the whole school.”
Nicole’s bullet had clearly hit its target. Jen sucked in a tight breath and her chin quivered.
“Aw, poor baby,” Nicole laughed. “Are you going to cry now?”
Nicole’s voice floats forward as I read another random entry, Abby venting about how unfair her mother is. How off her behavior can be sometimes. Then I’m diving headfirst into the memory.
Jen sniffled and went blank. “Want some?” she asked Nicole, shoving the bottleneck into her face.
Nicole lurched backward and swatted Jen’s hand away. “I said no. Thanks.” She rocked on the stump and sighed. “This is so lame.”
Jen frowned at me, a curve of mock indignation. “She said no.”
“I heard.” My pulse escalated to a fever pitch.
Turning to Nicole. “You said no.” Shrug. Chuckle. “No.” Fake disbelief. Swig.
“Ohmigod, what is your—”
Crack.
What haunts me in the wee hours of morning, when the room is a bluish-black and cool air seeps from the vents, is not the secret. It’s the gargling. I hear it now, alone in my car with this red notebook open to another girl’s troubles. The thoughts of Abby Scarborough, daughter of a murderer, spilling over the edges.
Like the gargling.
Crack.
A second hit. Harder. A third, harder still.
Nicole, her head shattering on one side, choking on her own blood.
“Unggg,” she grunted. The whites of her eyes fluttered in and out of focus.
“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you when you’re mumbling.” Jen cupped a hand to her ear, the bottle slick with vodka and Nicole’s blood.
“Ung nnnn unggggg.” She clawed at the ground, but I don’t think she knew what her arms were doing by then. Blood pooled around her in an inky black arc.
“Oh. Yeah, right. Duh. You’re sorry for making up that nickname. Cool, yeah,” Jen said, like they were having a normal conversation. “No doubt. Apology accepted.”
I hadn’t moved since the first three blows. Jen brought the bottle down again. And again. The dull thud, thwump was enough to break me from my frozen stance.
I didn’t try to stop her. I didn’t help Nicole.
I sprinted aimlessly into the trees. Away from the path leading to safety and deeper into the cacophony of the forest. I heard Jen behind me, years away from CC Spectacular and the suburban life, a bull charging a matador.
I ran without direction, completely on survival autopilot, but I couldn’t escape the monster.
“Emme!” Jen shouted, chasing.
Farther from the path, the environment around me transformed. The faces, the same ones that have stayed with me all these years, I saw them earlier in the woods. Tree beasts opening their mouths to devour me whole.
Abby’s words jump off the page, and bile rises in my throat.
There’s something wrong with my mom.