I was arrested once.
Jackson doesn’t know. I’ve never had the guts to tell him, but it’s true. Only three people were there when it happened, and one of them is dead.
The other is dead to me, which is basically the same thing.
I was in eighth grade, and as is so often the case at that age, I wanted to impress the older girls. Mary and Nicole. They were in tenth grade. The epitome of cool: Spaghetti straps. Clinique Happy. Body glitter and blue eyeshadow.
Mary lived next to my aunt, and Nicole lived two doors down from my grandmother—all on the same block. Most of Albany was like that, generational neighborhoods where children grew up but never left, buying houses and raising their own families on the same street they spent their childhoods. So, while we’d known one another our whole lives, they never invited me to hang out. Never asked me to join them when they rode bikes or celebrated birthdays in their backyards.
They had massive parties, too, bashes that made me ache with jealousy as a kid. Piñatas and ponies. Balloon-tying clowns. One year, they had an actual circus tent.
I watched from my stoop, pretending to be busy. Pretending I had friends.
I wanted so badly to be part of their group. I chalked their attitudes toward me up to the age difference. Three years makes all the difference when you’re a kid trying to prove how grown you are. I thought maybe if I could show them I wasn’t a little kid anymore—if I could prove I was one of them—they would accept me. I was thirteen by then, practically an adult, and having older friends—high school friends—was guaranteed to make me popular too.
Thinking back on it now, I have no idea why I was so determined to befriend them. They tormented me for years before that horrible night, and it started before I even understood the rules of the game.
When I was seven, maybe eight, I was on my porch building a puzzle while my mother unpotted marigolds for the planter. I was piecing together the fluffy pink ballgown when they appeared. They smiled sweetly and politely asked if I could come out and play.
A dream come true.
That would never happen today, by the way. Now it’s all playdates and dance classes and scheduled practices. I’m one to talk, I know. The Calendar Queen. But back then, we were left to our own devices, completely responsible for finding our own friends.
I still wore sticker earrings. They came on a cardboard sheet, like forty shapes for three bucks. Hearts, ice cream cones, diamonds, everything a girl could want to be fashionable in the early nineties.
That day I had chosen sparkly rainbows. I remember being super excited to put them on because I’d learned about ROYGBIV in school. But Mary and Nicole, they had pierced ears, something we couldn’t afford and I was afraid to get. So when Nicole asked me where I had gotten mine pierced, I lied. Instinct. Or self-preservation.
“Oh, um, I don’t remember the name of the place.”
“Was it in the mall?” Nicole asked.
“Uh huh.”
“Old Navy?”
“Um, yeah. That sounds right. Definitely Old Navy. I remember the sign now.” I didn’t even know what Old Navy was. We shopped exclusively at Walmart. My mother’s idea of splurging was two pairs of Jordache wide leg jeans.
They exchanged a look. I was too concerned with getting my story right to notice that I’d made a big mistake. Always keep your lies simple.
“I got mine at Claire’s,” Nicole said. “They gave me the choice of studs, and I picked pink for my birthstone. What did you get? You know. At Old Navy.”
I ignored the ridicule in her voice. “I got pink, too, but I lost them,” I explained.
I had never been to Claire’s. I knew some of the girls in my class went there for best friend necklaces and scrunchies, but my only scrunchie was a hand-me-down, an outstretched faded blue one that mother never wore. And the only jewelry I owned was made of string.
They laughed, but I was laughing, too, so I naively assumed that I’d gotten away with it.
They liked me.
Later that week, I sat on my front porch, legs dangling over the concrete foundation, staring up at the clouds, and they appeared again. Asked if I wanted to walk up the hill behind our houses to the field. The field was just that: a wide-open meadow straight out of a poetry book, with summery greens, long stalky grass, and fuzzy white dandelion buds dotting the brush.
It anchored a square mile of dense forest.
I eagerly agreed and followed Nicole and Mary up the hill, across the meadow, and through the woods to a clearing. It sounds like a nursery rhyme when I say it that way, but this place was far from idyllic.
The ground was littered with wrappers, broken bottles, and cigarette butts. Magazine pictures of celebrities I didn’t recognize were stapled to the tree trunks. This was where the older kids hung out, and Mary and Nicole wanted to bring me with them.
Even at seven or eight, I knew how important something like that was. When you’re a kid who doesn’t have friends, every chance to fit in becomes important.
They claimed the two stumps that served as chairs. In tandem, they crossed their legs, folded their arms, and locked eyes on me. Standing before them, I awkwardly tried to figure out what to do with my hands. On my hips? In my pockets? Behind my back? What did a cool girl do with her hands?
“Should we?” Mary asked, her high-pitched tone betraying her excitement.
“Oh yeah,” Nicole said. She reached behind the stump and pulled something out of a plastic bag. “You like Playboy?”
I didn’t know what Playboy was, but I figured it was another test. Like the earrings.
“Sure,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too eager.
Nicole handed the magazine to Mary. The corners were burned almost to the spine, like someone had lit it on fire but changed their mind at the last minute. “Have you ever seen someone naked before?” she asked, eyebrows arched.
I mean, yeah, I had. My mother used to change in front of me all the time. But I knew that wasn’t what she meant. She was trying to trick me into the wrong answer.
“Have you?” I asked.
Both of them smiled. Foxes in the henhouse.
“Here,” Mary said, holding the magazine out. “Have a look.”
“No thanks,” I said, taking a step back. “I think I should get home. My mom’ll kill me if I’m late for dinner.”
“Are you scared?” Nicole asked. She flicked her hair over her shoulder, and her earrings sparkled in the sunlight.
Those damn earrings. A shining reminder of my baby status. “No, I’m not scared.”
“Then take it.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Do it,” Mary said, and shoved the burnt papers into my chest.
The magazine crackled in my hand. That’s how it felt at the time. Wrong. Forbidden. I could see outlines of women, breasts pointing in the air, legs splayed open on beds of silk sheets. I held my arm out wishing one of them would take it back.
They snickered and ran around me.
“I can’t believe you, Jennifer,” Mary chided.
“What?”
Nicole, still smiling, every tooth on display. “Ugh, that is so gross.”
“What? What did I do?” I couldn’t hide the panic. I had done something wrong.
“Why would you show us that?” Mary asked, shouting now.
“I didn’t do it!” I shrieked.
But they were already running through the trees, a singsong rhyme echoing in their wake. “Pervert! Pervert! Jennifer’s a pervert!”
“I’m going to tell my mom!” Nicole said. “You’re trying to show us naked pictures!”
I dropped the magazine and ran after them. “You gave it to me! It’s yours!”
Not knowing how I messed up, I watched them run toward their houses and retreated to mine, proverbial tail between my legs. My mother was watching one of her shows in the living room, as usual. I rushed past, ignoring her questions and throwing myself onto my bed. If Disney movies are good for nothing else, they’ve mastered the art of teaching girls how to collapse and cry on cue.
It wasn’t ten minutes later that Nicole’s mother came pounding on our front door—which we never used. Front doors were reserved for salesmen and guests. We left the back door unlocked and used it accordingly. There wasn’t as great a concern for break-ins in the nineties. Lots of inflatable furniture.
Nicole’s mom was livid. Screaming at my mother that she didn’t know what kind of parent let their children run around doling out pornography, but she certainly wasn’t going to tolerate such abhorrent behavior. I was a terrible influence on her beautiful angel. She didn’t want me hanging around anymore, corrupting her innocent child with my smut.
There was no point defending myself. Even if she had believed me, the inconvenience of having to answer the door and deal with another parent was enough to have my freedom revoked. My mother is many things, but flexible has never been one of them. The rules were clear: be home when the streetlights came on, and don’t get into trouble.
I was grounded for two weeks. Nicole and Mary schemed the entire time about what their next “trick” would be, and it continued that way until I was thirteen. Until I stopped them. Innocent angels.
Girl-world is such a crazy place. I thought I was sparing Abby from it all, shielding her from that toxic mentality. I don’t let her read the comments section. Ever. That was one of my first rules when I started writing “CC and Me.” No reading the comments. She has some input over which pictures are posted, and she’s allowed to see the metrics—although lately, I’ve been keeping them from her when she asks. Putting it off until she forgets. Making excuses.
But never the comments. Never the horrible things people write when they can’t be held accountable for their actions. What better way to voice an opinion than lurking behind some generic username with a gray-box avatar?
There’s no short supply of trolls. They crawl out of the woodwork from all directions. Mom shamers. Religion shamers. Body shamers. Some perverts, but those are mutually hated by everyone in general. When our platform started exploding, I was genuinely floored by the sheer number of people who felt entitled to airing their two cents.
Stage mom. Fat kid. Gold digger. Slut. Momager. Ugly kid. Boring.
It’s one thing to scroll through Yahoo Celebrity and laugh at the Who Wore It Best comparisons and plastic surgery rumors. It’s quite another when you’re the subject of public scrutiny and the shit is directed at your children.
Imagine what they’d say if they knew I’d been arrested. The very foundation beneath our feet would quake and shatter.
Anyone can make a video. Hashtag their way into a split second of Insta-fame. But the ugly truth is that most vanish into the matrix, a blip on the algorithm radar. It takes thick skin and perseverance to maintain a presence in the online world.
I’ve protected Abby from what I could.
I couldn’t shield her from real life, though.
That’s the world we live in, and that’s what I hoped to keep out. Having a flexible homeschool schedule instead of trudging off to the local public junior high was one more way to buffer her from cruelty. Have you met teenage girls? That was a gift.
The Bow-tastic! box taunts me. See how happy it is in here! Rainbows and butterflies and cupcakes and YES!
So forking cheerful. Like everything I’ve worked for isn’t on the verge of catastrophe. Like Abby’s going to walk in any minute and pin a giant bow to her ponytail.
She’s not here, though. And as I drum my fingers on the kitchen table, I find the what-ifs invading my thoughts. What if I had listened more? What if I had given her way a chance? What if I were different?
If I had made different choices—left instead of right, forgiveness instead of revenge—would I be the person I am today?
Am I the reason this is happening?
Like I said, I’m no stranger to consequences.
Should I tell the officers about my past? Isn’t that how these things drag out in the movies? The main character hides some indecorous detail from the rest of the cast, when what she really should be doing, as the audience knows, is confessing it all. The seemingly useless detail is the key to solving the whole case.
My mother rants in my ear. Shrill, dog-decibels of grievances. I can’t take it anymore. Cutting her off, I promise to let her know when I know anything and hang up. She’s still ranting about the dangers of city living when I hit END. We’re in the suburbs, I want to tell her, but there’s no convincing Carol when she’s got her coat of righteousness on.
The doorbell rings. Pleasant chimes announce my worst nightmare as I pad to the foyer.
“Good morning, ma’am. Albany Police. We received a call about a missing child. Are you Mrs. Cates?” Two officers stand at attention, thumbs hooked into their belts like a hoedown is about to rev up. This, I know, is an unkind assumption, but their lackadaisical stance is irritating. How are they so nonchalant when my girl is missing?
“Jennifer, yes that’s me. Please, come in. I’ll show you to her room.”
Jackson and JJ appear on the landing, and I can tell they’ve been arguing. Jackson’s shoulders are tense, and his jaw is clenched so hard I think he’ll bite right through bone. JJ is red-eyed but trying to hide it.
“That won’t be necessary yet, Mrs. Cates,” the man says. “We’ve got a detective from the Children and Family Services Unit on the way. We’re here to take your statements and gather some information. We need to assess whether there’s just cause to issue an Amber Alert.”
“Amber Alert.” I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve gotten those buzzes on my phone a number of times. Never once did I think I’d be issuing my own.
“Yes, Mrs. Cates. The sooner we can work through your account of what happened, the better.”
“Jennifer. Yes, better.”
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Abigail,” Jackson says.
“Chloe.” I give him a death stare. “Chloe Cates.”
The officer on the right hitches a breath. She thinks I don’t notice, but I’m hyper alert. Her roots are overgrown, for one. The dull shade of brown is mousy in comparison to the richer chocolate pulled into a low knot. She’s also wearing too much perfume. Sweet Pea from Bath and Body Works, I think. Spit up stain on her shoulder and heavy bags under her eyes, pitifully disguised by the wrong shade of concealer. New baby at home, if I had to guess. And she recognizes my daughter’s name.
A follower.
“Jen, we should use her real name.”
“It is her real name, Jackson. To everyone outside this house, she is Chloe Cates.”
“Mrs. Cates,” the spit-up officer says. “I’m a big fan.”
Nailed it.
“Call me Jennifer, please. Or at the very least, Mrs. Scarborough. Cates is a stage name, not our real name, as my husband so aptly put it. We usually try to keep a low profile.”
The second officer, a red-faced man with a sturdy no-nonsense demeanor dominated by burly black eyebrows, shakes his head and takes out a small black tablet. “Let’s start at the beginning. Chloe with a C or a K? And can one of you get me a recent photo?”
“C,” the other officer answers for me.
Why haven’t they told me their names? Rude.
I push the attitude away. They need a picture. They’re here to find Abby. I grab the 8 x 10 headshot from the gallery wall.
“This is the most recent, Detective, um?”
“I’m Officer Katherine Welsh,” she says. “And this is Officer Brian Downy.”
Downy and Welsh. What is this, a British period drama?
Officer Downy enters a description, snaps a photograph of the picture, and drags the image to a blank white box in the corner of the screen. She gazes out at the world. Brown hair styled in thick ringlets and pinned with a butterfly clip. Glitter around her blue eyes, glossy pink lips.
This used to be done on a milk carton.
Looking at the picture now, I can’t believe how vulnerable she looks. The timidity crawling behind her confidence. Her smile isn’t genuine. It stretches more than slides. How could I have missed it?
“Oh god.” I clap a hand over my mouth as if that could stop the emotions from pouring out. This is really happening.
JJ puts an arm around my waist and leans against me. “It’s going to be okay, Mom,” he says reassuringly. “We’re going to find her.”
I smile at his bravado, but I feel nothing, like I’m watching this unravel through frosted glass instead of living the moment firsthand. Part of my brain is categorizing these little details for the post. How to best describe this moment to our subscribers. The smells, the twitches, and quirks.
Because when they find Abby, we’re going to go viral again.
I don’t know if thinking all this makes me a genius or a monster.
“Mrs. Scarborough,” Officer Downy asks, “when was the last time anyone saw Chloe? To the best of your knowledge.”
“Um,” I say.
“Mrs. Scarborough?”
“I said goodnight to her around ten,” Jackson says, turning his attention from me to the officers.
“Nothing unusual? Did she seem off?” Officer Downy asks.
Our eyes meet briefly, then Jackson looks away, furrowing his brow and scratching his chin. “No. No, I didn’t think so. She was just listening to music.”
“What was she wearing?”
“Is that important?”
“We need an accurate description for the report.”
Viral.
“I . . . I don’t remember,” Jackson says, shaking his head.
“A pink sweatshirt and matching sweats,” I say. The voices around me unmuffle, the conversation suddenly up front, fast forwarding to the correct spot. “It’s one of her favorite sets. Light pink. SELFIE in block letters on the sleeve with a little red heart. She wore it every night before a big shoot. Kind of like a lucky charm.”
He taps on the tablet some more then looks to me again. “Nobody saw her after ten?”
What I don’t tell him is why I didn’t check on her. Why I avoided her.
“No,” I say instead. “I don’t know. Maybe JJ?” I turn to him with a questioning lilt.
“I, uh.” He looks from me to the officers. “No. By the time I got home, her light was off.”
I pause. “What do you mean, by the time you got home? When did you go out? I thought you were home all night.”
Officer Downy exchanges a look with Welsh, so brief I almost miss it. The same one those miserable women used to give me at the play groups. Bad mother. Bad mothers don’t know where their kids are.
“I was across the street at Ryan’s working on a global project.”
“You didn’t tell me you have a project,” I say. Immediately, I regret it. I’m making this worse.
“Would you have cared if I did?” he retorts. “When was the last time I had to ask permission to go anywhere?”
“JJ, go easy on your mom.” Jackson pats his shoulder, but I hear the strain in his voice.
“What time did you get home, son?” Officer Welsh asks.
“After midnight.”
“Mm-hm,” he nods. “And did you see or hear anything strange?”
He shakes his head, shaking off Jackson’s paternal hold in the process. “It was dark and I wasn’t really looking. I had my pods in and didn’t take them off until I got upstairs.”
“Mm-hm, and you, Mrs. Scarborough?” Officer Downy turns to me, vacant yet assessing. “When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
The memory flashes, a split second of pure rage, and I force it away before it takes hold. “Dinner? I’m not sure. I took a melatonin and went to bed early. Before Jackson. I had to be up first thing this morning and wanted to be well rested. We have—had—a super busy day planned.”
Shoot, what am I going to tell the Bow-tastic! team? I’m sure they’d be understanding given the circumstances, but not so understanding that they won’t turn around and hire an alternate by this afternoon.
“Can you think of anyone off the top of your head who might have a reason to hurt Chloe?”
Would flat lays work? Probably not, but I have nothing else to offer to keep them interested. I don’t even have test photos to work with. Shoot.
“Mrs. Scarborough?”
I feel Jackson glaring at me. Like this is my fault. “I’m sorry?”
Officer Downy clears his throat. “Do you have any reason to suspect someone might want to hurt Chloe?”
“No,” I say stiffly. “I mean, we’ve had some eccentric fans throughout the years but nobody that stands out. You think someone hurt her?”
A few more waves of letters enlarge and fade on his screen, and Downy taps a single word: CONFIRM.
“We’ve got to consider all options at this point, ma’am. A formality.” Tap, tap, tap. I could scream, why is he using one finger to enter this information? A toddler could do this faster. “Okay, ma’am,” he says, finally shoving the tablet into a carrying case on his belt. “We’re going to review this and look around a bit. If the CFSU detective determines there’s sufficient grounds to issue the Amber Alert, we’ll get that out and rolling. There won’t be a cell phone, radio station, or TV outlet from Vermont to Massachusetts that doesn’t sounds the alarm.”
TV outlets. Right. I need to put makeup on.
“We should also take your prints, if that’s okay,” Officer Welsh says.
My previous arrest heavy in my mind, I cast her a shrewd look. “Why?”
“We’ll cross-check them against any latents the guys might find. Helps us eliminate from the pool. Super easy. We use a mobile scanner now.”
Jackson gives me a “why not” gesture and nods.
“Okay then,” I say.
“Why don’t the three of you take a seat on the couch and I’ll get what I need,” Downy suggests. “CFSU should be here any minute and they’ll want to talk to you in more detail.”
Jackson looks like he’s about to speak but remains quiet. He ushers JJ to the beige sectional, and they sink into the cushions together. It would have been a darling photo op under other circumstances. Soft natural light filtering through the windows. Jackson with his arm around JJ. The practice jersey prominent against the neutral background. There’s such love in their one-armed embrace.
“Mrs. Scarborough, can you show us Chloe’s room?”
“Her name is Abby,” Jackson repeats.
“Knock it off, Jackson,” I snap. I pivot to Downy and Welsh, who are missing monocles, pipes, and tweed, and gesture to the stairs. “Right up the stairs. Can’t miss it. The one with her name on it.”
“Thank you, Jennifer.”
“Sure, Officer Welsh.”
“Please, call me Katherine.” She dips closer. “I know this is hard. Everything is going to be just fine. Most of these cases resolve on their own very quickly. I’m sure Chloe will turn up soon.” We stand a foot apart, but I feel her desire to reach out. That eager energy seeps through.
The doorbell rings and Katherine excuses herself. Are you supposed to be on a first-name basis with the officers charged with finding your child? Seems wildly unprofessional.
Another squad car has arrived. More uniforms crowd into the room. The noise increases tenfold—beeps, clicks, heavy footfalls—sensory overload. I plop down next to JJ and watch the madness begin. Even without an Amber Alert, they’re taking it seriously. They’ll find her.
A flurry of radios. Badges. Pitying stares.
“Mom, I need to tell you something,” JJ whispers in my ear.
I squeeze his hand.
We just had the carpets cleaned, I think, staring at the shoes trampling wet leaves and dirt through the foyer.
You’re terrible, that voice in my head mutters. I don’t disagree.