The Truth Beneath The Lies

Kayla

“Get the cops. My baby’s missing!” the woman screams into a borrowed phone.

I step back from my register. My checkout line in No Limit Foods is frozen, their eyes locked on her. They won’t remember I’m here until the spectacle is over.

My manager, Albert, rushes over and tries to soothe the woman. Natalie on register three rolls her eyes.

This is our fifth missing child.

Like every other time this summer, Albert will get the woman on her feet, walk her back to the stupid “castle” he made from six-packs of cherry cream soda, point to the child-sized doorway, and magically produce her missing little one.

Paper crinkles in my ear. I turn around.

A guy a couple of years older than me holds a bag of peanut M&M’s. He wears a gray hoodie--and a smug grin.

I look away.

“The mom’s totally a tweaker,” he whispers, and pops an M&M in his mouth. He moves forward until he’s so close behind me that I feel the heat radiating off his body. He smells like sugar and the slightest hint of masculine soap.

“She does meth,” he clarifies.

“Ah,” I say. He probably thinks he has enlightened me with his retro-grunge-boy knowledge of the seedy. I know the carefully created illusion he sees when he looks at me. Dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail with the curled ends flowing out over my shoulder blades. Bright brown eyes surrounded by the perfect amount of liner and shadow to make them pop. Jeans that hug a toned body. In other words, someone who doesn’t belong in this part of town.

Albert can’t get the woman up on her feet. She’s too hysterical to follow his instructions. The automatic doors swish, and two cops enter.

They approach the woman and peer down at her dirty, stringy hair; rotting teeth; and stained clothes. One pulls out a notebook and asks a question I can’t hear. An anguished howl leaves the woman’s mouth. The second cop mumbles codes into her shoulder radio.

A customer walks from the back of the store holding the hand of a tiny crying girl. Albert rushes forward.

“Found her!” he announces, and straightens his manager’s vest.

Albert’s a dick.

The hysterical woman leaps up and pushes past the cops to reach her child. Her cheeks redden, and her eyes dart from face to face as she grabs the girl by the shoulders. “Where were you? You’re going to get me in trouble.”

M&M’s guy’s breath tickles the back of my neck. “No way are the cops going to let her take the girl home.” He chomps down on more candies.

The social worker is already waiting outside. The cops wave her in, and she enters holding a gently used teddy bear.

“No!” the woman yells. “You can’t take her. You can’t . . .” She dissolves into a heap on the floor again.

The girl accepts the bear but doesn’t cuddle it close to her chest. She reaches out for the social worker’s hand.

This isn’t her first time.

“Poor thing.” The candy wrapper crinkles in my ear as he shakes out the last of the M&M’s. “I bet she cries all night.”

I nod. But it’s a lie. She won’t cry. She’ll sleep soundly in a strange house in a strange bed, the teddy bear cast off onto the floor. I know because the second time I was taken away, I didn’t feel sad. I felt relieved.

“My name’s Jordan,” M&M’s guy says. I take two steps forward so that I can turn around without running my face into his. He’s medium height, with brown hair that curls and frizzes in the cold summer humidity. Muddy-brown eyes. He’s kind of good-looking, I guess, in a boy-next-door way. But that arrogance is enough to turn anyone off.

The cops haul the woman to her feet and move the whole scene outside. My customers rise up onto their toes to watch.

“Do you want to get coffee or something on your break?” He crumples the empty wrapper in his hand.

“Sorry, I don’t have any more breaks.” Lie. I’ve just started my shift. He doesn’t move. “I have to get back to work.” I point to the line of scowling people who are coming down from their misery contact high.

As I ring up the next customer, I glance over my shoulder. He’s gone. Like he melted into the walls.

Home is a fifteen-minute walk from No Limit Foods. In the daylight, you can see who lurks behind the trees. You can see the trash and syringes discarded in the wild grass along the sidewalk. In the dark, only broken glass glitters under the weak streetlights.

My shift ends at ten p.m. I wear a long, oversized black raincoat with the hood up to disguise my hair and figure. A cold, wet breeze carrying the heavy scent of rotting vegetation brushes over my exposed face. I keep my head down, eyes locked on the cement. Out here, I’m just another junkie looking for a score. I get left alone. Mostly.

Ahead of me, a black sports car tears around the corner. Its headlights bounce over my face as it hits potholes and debris in the road. I look away as it passes.

At the end of the street sits Bluebird Estates, a prisonlike, three-story chunk of battered brick and cement, where the government sticks those of us it takes pity on. Tonight, its dim, buzzing lighting is joined by flashes of red and blue. Masses of them. I break into a run.

Fire trucks, ambulances, and cop cars pack the cramped parking lot. The door to the side staircase is open and surrounded by flapping, yellow police tape. I sprint for the front entrance.

Before I make it, a pair of meaty arms grabs me around the shoulders and forces my head into a powdered, pillowy bosom.

“Kayla, honey, thank God. I thought that was you in there.”

Mrs. Lacey releases me.

“What happened?”

She raises one hand to the top of her head. The other rests on her hip. “I was going out the side”--she motions at Tippy, her little rat dog--“and, honey, I saw the blood. That girl’s clothes were torn right off her. Left her lying there on the stairs.” She peers up and shakes her head at the heavens.

At hearing the news, my breathing doesn’t speed up. My heart doesn’t race. My stomach doesn’t roll over. I should feel shocked. I should feel grateful that I’m standing in the parking lot with Mrs. Lacey and Tippy, yipping at my feet. I should feel something.

A team of paramedics crashes out the side door with a stretcher. She’s strapped down. Most of her body is covered with a blanket. An oxygen mask obscures her face. Mrs. Lacey cries out. Tippy barks.

A lock of her dark hair falls over the side. On impulse, I step forward to tuck it up neatly under her head, but Mrs. Lacey pulls me back.

I recognize the girl. We’ve waited at the bus stop together before school. She wore a navy-blue Northside High School sweatshirt. A silent understanding had passed between us. We weren’t meant to be friends. Her bus went one way. Mine, the other.

I know what happened to her. Dark stairwell, drunk guy, throwaway girl. I don’t feel anything because I’ve always known this would happen. I just expected it to happen to me.

The ambulance pulls away. Mrs. Lacey grabs me again and squeezes hard before leading Tippy off for his nightly potty break. In her eyes, I’m a nice girl. Quick with a smile. Keeps my nose clean. Helps an old lady with her groceries. Pets her horrible little dog. The other girl, the one who may or may not live, had to be broken and bloody on the stairs to get noticed.