Page 11

1995

When Orchid was released from the juvenile detention center, she was eighteen: an adult. There was no one there to collect her, no home to go to, and no phone to call a friend, even if she’d had any left. Her mother now considered her a murderer, a monster; she’d chosen her dead lover over her own daughter. But there was Tash, another delinquent getting out after beating her foster sister into a coma five years ago. Tash’s boyfriend, Jerome, was there to pick her up, and they offered Orchid a lift to the nearest town. Orchid didn’t like or trust Tash, but she had few options.

Shortly after they left the facility, Jerome suggested they grab some vodka to celebrate. “You’re free, bitches!” Tash’s response was an animal whoop, while Orchid stayed silent. She thought about the pep talk she’d received from her GED teacher.

“You’re smart, Orchid. Your record is sealed. You can still live a good life. A normal life. Stay on the right path, okay?”

She’d only been out of detention twenty minutes, and she was already being pulled off it.

With two bottles of Absolut, they drove to a double-wide trailer just off the highway, concealed from view by a copse of scrubby trees, their needles red with disease. The entire property emanated toxicity, from the rusted cars and broken-down appliances to the malnourished dog straining at its chain, flecks of foam flying as it barked and lunged. This would be Tash’s home until she turned eighteen, Orchid learned. It belonged to her cousin Melody and Melody’s boyfriend, Clyde.

Orchid followed Tash and Jerome into a haze of pungent smoke with undercurrents of stale beer and greasy hair. The pair on the plaid sofa were Tash’s guardians, pale, scrawny, and indifferent to their presence. They were intent on the first-person shooter game on the TV, their hands gripping the controllers like real weapons, their bodies taut with adrenaline. And maybe meth. Across the room, a girl sat on a broken-down love seat. She was fragile and birdlike, sucking on a beer though she looked to be eleven or twelve.

“We brought vodka,” Jerome announced, and led the way into the kitchen, where he filled three jars, added a splash of orange soda. Orchid took the drink and shuddered it down. She’d only tasted alcohol a few times before she was locked up for killing Trevor. But she remembered the feeling, the way the past and future went blurry and the present grew sticky, trapping her in the moment. The current scene was hardly ideal, but it was better than the fucked-up past or the unknown future, so she drank some more, trying to get to that liminal space.

Eventually, Melody’s avatar was gunned down, so she left Clyde to his gaming and greeted her guests. Someone put music on. More drinks were poured. Orchid accepted the joint they passed around, noticed that the little girl partook. Her name was Lucy, and she was fourteen; not the child Orchid had first thought she was. To some people, fourteen was young, but Orchid had killed a man at that age.

Hours later, when Tash was puking in the bathroom and Melody and Clyde had gone to bed, Orchid realized she was alone. Jerome and the little bird of a girl were missing. Orchid knew this meant nothing good. But Lucy was a stranger, and this was none of Orchid’s concern. She owed the girl nothing, certainly not her freedom or her fresh start. But a soft whimper traveled down the hallway, and it pulled Orchid to her feet. Without consideration, she staggered into the kitchen and fumbled through the drawers for a knife. They were small or dull, not up to the task. So she grabbed a bottle of vodka and smashed it against the counter.

With the neck of the bottle clutched in her hand, she went looking. She found them behind the second door she tried, a spare bedroom used for storing video games and workout equipment. There was a bare mattress under the detritus, and on it, Jerome pressed himself onto Lucy, her small body still and hard as stone. Orchid slipped into the room, grabbed Jerome by the hair, and pressed the bottle to his throat.

“What the fuck?” His voice was strangled.

“Did Tash tell you why I was in juvie?”

“No.”

“I killed a man for trying to rape me.”

“I wasn’t raping her. She came on to me.”

The glass broke the tender skin of his neck, the blood purple at first, turning red as it trickled to his collar. “Okay, okay… I’m sorry.”

Lucy scurried from the room then, adjusting her clothes as she fled. Orchid planned her next move. Jerome could overpower her, turn the bottle on her, and hurt, even kill her. She needed to extricate, quickly.

“Lucy and I are leaving. Let us go or I’ll tell Tash what you tried to do.” She pushed off him and scrambled away from the bed.

“You fucking cunt,” he growled, pressing his hand to his wound. But he didn’t grab for her, he didn’t come after her. His relationship with Tash meant something to him. With the bottle in her grip, Orchid sprinted from the room.

The girl was on the sofa, knees pulled to her chest, face pale but dry. She was in shock. Or else she’d already been through too much to summon tears for her recent assault.

“Come with me,” Orchid commanded. “You have thirty seconds to grab your shit.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” Orchid said, “but I’ll keep you safe.”

Lucy didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause to consider. She flew to the kitchen, where she grabbed a plastic shopping bag and hurried around the trailer, stuffing it with clothing and trinkets. Within moments, she was back, ready.

“Let’s go,” she said, and Orchid saw the blind trust in the girl’s dark eyes. She believed that Orchid could protect her. And Orchid would try with everything she had.

The two girls flew out the door.