Get Dirty (18 page)

Tammi paused and glanced up. “Actually, no. It wasn’t horrible. I mean, it was at the time. I was totally humiliated.” She smiled sheepishly. “But I was a bitch at school. Like, the worst. I don’t blame anyone for getting back at me. I deserved it.”

Bree’s jaw dropped. Tammi Barnes was taking responsibility for her actions? It was as if Bree’s world had changed in an instant. Before, DGM targets were criminals that had evaded prosecution, and DGM was the Mossad going after Nazis. It was almost impossible to wrap her head around the idea that Tammi might actually be a victim herself.

“So this event at your school . . . ,” Dr. Walters prompted.

“I think it showed me that people can fight back when they feel victimized. That
I
could fight back. So when I picked up that softball bat, it was like I was acting on behalf of others. I didn’t care what happened to my stepfather, I only wanted to make sure that he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again.”

“Thank you, Tammi,” Dr. Walters said. “I know it’s been a difficult few months for you, after your mom kicked you out of the house. How are things in the group home?”

Bree’s mind raced. This was their fault. As much as she’d been a bully at school, at home, Tammi was a victim, and the action DGM took against her had been a catalyst for her to take action. Tammi had only graduated from Bishop DuMaine a few months ago, and since then, had defended her family by braining her stepfather, been arrested, kicked out of her house, and sent to live in a group home. All because of what DGM did to her.

“Bree, did you hear me?”

Bree’s head snapped up. She was lost in her own thoughts, oblivious to everything else.

“Huh?” she replied lamely.

Dr. Walters sighed. “We’re giving our ‘I feel’ statements about Tammi’s story. How did it make you feel?”

“Oh, right.” Bree licked her lips, which had suddenly gone bone-dry. “I feel . . .” Guilty? Responsible? Like a total asshole? “I feel sad.”

It was the lamest response known to man. “I feel sad” was the therapy equivalent of “I’m good, how are you?” It meant nothing in the grand scheme of things because, hell, who in that circle didn’t feel sad?

And yet it was the best word to describe how Bree actually felt at that moment. Sad for Tammi, sad for herself. Bree realized that she and Tammi had more in common than she’d ever imagined. They were both bullies, and they were both victims.

“I think,” Dr. Walters began after scribbling some notes on her pad, “that we can all understand your ‘I feel’ statement, Bree. Since this is your first session, let’s talk a bit about why you’re here.”

Bree’s sadness vanished, replaced by white-hot panic. She was there because she’d admitted to being DGM. How was she supposed to talk about that with Tammi sitting right next to her?

“Go on,” Dr. Walters said. “Remember, everything you say here is safe. I don’t report to the courts or to your parents.”

That so wasn’t Bree’s concern.

“Right,” she said, trying to think how she could possibly get through this without mentioning DGM. “I’m here because—”

A trio of soft beeps emanated from Dr. Walters’s watch. “Ah, I see we’re at time already.”

Saved by the bell. Literally.

“Next session is tomorrow, and we’ll pick up where we left
off. Bree, be prepared to share your story.”

Well, shit.

Olaf was waiting in the exact same spot he’d been an hour before when Bree had walked into her therapy session. He didn’t say a word as she followed the other girls out of the room, merely held the door open for her and stepped aside, ushering her into the bright afternoon sunshine.

It was as if her therapy-mates had vanished the moment they left the building, so desperate were they to get the hell out of there. A flurry of car doors and revving engines, then Bree and Olaf were the only ones left. But as she followed Olaf to the car, she realized that wasn’t entirely true. Tammi stood at a bus stop in front of the medical building.

“Hey!” Bree said, flagging Tammi down. “Do you want a ride?”

She wasn’t sure why she did it. Guilt, curiosity, a sense of responsibility for Tammi’s fate. More likely, a deep, desperate need to know how Tammi’s life had turned out.

Tammi turned and stared at Bree for a few seconds, then her eyes shifted to the black SUV and the mammoth beast who drove it.

“Is that your dad?” she asked.

Bree snorted. “No. Just a driver.”

Tammi continued to stare at her. “You went to Bishop DuMaine.”

Tammi Barnes recognized her? That was about as surreal
as the Queen of England recognizing the fifth stable boy at her least frequented castle. Again, that didn’t gel with the stuck-up, self-absorbed bitch Bree remembered from school.

“Yeah,” Bree said. “I’m a junior.”

“I graduated in June,” Tammi said.

I know.

Tammi blinked rapidly. “I’m staying off Newbridge Street. Is that too far?”

“Nope,” Bree said, without consulting Olaf. “Come on.”

Tammi climbed into the backseat and gave Olaf the address. Without responding, he entered it into the GPS, and eased the SUV out of the parking lot.

“Nice car,” Tammi said, gazing around at the leather seats and top-of-the-line technology.

“It’s my dad’s,” Bree said, as if deflecting the ownership of something so ostentatious.

“Does the driver come with it?”

Bree smiled. “Package deal.”

“Oh.”

They fell silent. Only the sound of the local news radio station murmured in the background. Bree tried to think. She wanted to ask about Tammi’s family situation, about what happened to her after the DGM prank, about what was going to happen going forward, but she was at a loss how to begin. She knew more about Tammi than she could ever admit, which is what happens when you spend a week crouched in someone’s backyard, sifting through their recycling. But apparently, the one thing Bree didn’t find out was the most important of all.

“So what do you do now?” Bree asked, desperate to initiate conversation. “That you’ve graduated, I mean.”

“I’m on probation,” she said. “So I have to check in, and come see Dr. Walters three times a week.”

“Fun.”

“And I work at the mall. A little boutique place that sells accessories and stuff.”

The kind of place you would have spent all your money at a year ago.

“Sounds cool,” Bree said lamely.

“Not really. But I don’t mind. At least I’m not relying on anyone. I can take care of myself and no one can tell me what to do. It’s a good feeling.”

Bree nodded. She could appreciate the point. Never in her life had she felt free, not from the expectations of her father nor the shame of her mother. On the flip side, she’d never had to work, never had to earn her own money. Would it be liberating or terrifying to tell her parents to fuck off once and for all?

“That’s pretty brave,” Bree said with a smile. “Being on your own.”

Tammi raised an eyebrow. “Brave? Brave is when you have choices. I don’t have any.”

Olaf eased the car to a stop at a red light and Bree felt ill. Tammi was right. She didn’t have a choice. While Bree had all kinds of options, and what had she done with them?

“I guess you’re—”

“Could you turn that up?” Tammi interrupted, pointing to the radio on the dash.

Without a word, Olaf cranked the volume.

“The senior at St. Francis has been missing since yesterday. Wendy Marshall was last seen in the Menlo Park area driving a black 2012 Lexus IS 250, and the police are asking for anyone with information on her whereabouts to contact them immediately. This is Valerie Fujiyama for KGO News.”

“Wow,” Tammi said. “Do you remember her from school?”

“Yeah,” Bree said as she slumped back in her seat, her hands trembling. “I think so.”

Wendy Marshall, DGM target number one, was missing. That had to be a weird coincidence, right?

“Here’s my place,” Tammi said. Olaf stopped in front of an early-twentieth-century craftsman in desperate need of a gardener, some gopher traps, and a coat of paint. A rusted swing sat on the porch and the garbage bin on the side of the house was overflowing. A far cry from the four-bedroom ranch that Tammi used to call home.

“Thanks for the ride,” Tammi said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Bree said. “Tomorrow.”

When she’d have to spill her DGM story in front of Tammi. Great.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

OLIVIA WAS A PANICKED MESS BY THE TIME SHE GOT HOME
from school. Peanut, her usual ride home, had disappeared after school was dismissed, forcing Olivia to take the bus. Which was fine, except for the fact that every single underclassman taking public transportation home was watching either Rex’s birthday video or Amber’s fat-camp photo montage on their phones. She was literally surrounded by DGM. Her brain swirled with recent events: the new pranks, the warehouse fire, the envelopes. It was as if everyone on the bus was taunting her, and with every passing second, she became more and more desperate to escape. By the time she reached her stop, she wanted nothing more than to run to her room, dive into her stash of packaged baked goods, and hide under the covers for the rest of the night.

“Livvie!”

Her mom bolted across the living room and tackle-hugged Olivia the moment she opened the front door, squeezing her so hard, she had to gasp for air.

“You won’t believe what happened today,” her mom cried.
She broke away and gripped her daughter by the shoulders. “I’ve been offered . . .” She let her voice trail off intentionally, her eyes wide as she prolonged the drama of her announcement. “A one-woman show off-Broadway.”

Olivia cocked her head. “But we’re in California.”

Her mom clicked her tongue. “I know that, silly.
The Lady’s Curse
is previewing in San Jose. Charles says—”

“Charles?”

She laughed. “The producer. Charles says they’re already guaranteed a month-long run at the HERE Arts Center in SoHo. Can you believe it?”

Actually, no. Olivia couldn’t believe it at all. “How?”

Olivia’s mom took her by the hand and dragged her to the sofa. “I was working the lunch shift and this guy approached me at the bar. Youngish, attractive. He said I looked familiar but, you know, that’s every guy’s line when they’re trying to pick up the bartender. Anyway, I was like, ‘yeah, whatever,’ but he was really persistent. Finally he snapped his fingers and said, ‘
Twelfth Night
at the Public, 1998. Am I right?’”

“He remembered you from like seventeen years ago?”

“Why is that strange?” her mom snapped. “It was a smash hit and my reviews were amazing. ‘June Hayes entranced as Olivia . . .’”

“‘A fantastic, exhilarating new face at the Public,’” Olivia said, completing the review. “I know. It just seems so . . .” Convenient? Unlikely?

“Don’t be jealous,” her mom said, pouting like a ten-year-old. “You’re not the only one in this family with acting prospects.
How do you think it felt to have Fitzgerald Conroy see us living in this dump, me heading off to my shitty bartending job? I was supposed to be somebody.”

Olivia recognized the frenzied tone of the voice, the way her mom’s eyes darted around the room. She was on the upswing of one of her manic episodes, probably ignited by Fitzgerald’s visit, and now the flame had been fanned by some hack producer promising the moon. Olivia would have to tread lightly.

“So, um, when do rehearsals start?” Olivia asked, trying to de-escalate the situation.

“Tonight!” She rushed to her bag and pulled out a thick, brad-bound script. “Then every evening for the next two weeks.”

Every evening? Alarm bells went off in Olivia’s head. “Did you permanently change to the lunch shift at Shangri-La?” she asked hopefully.

“Lunch shift?” Her mom laughed. “I don’t need that horrible bartending job anymore. This is our ticket to the big time, Livvie! Back to New York. Back to midnight cocktails at Bar Centrale after performances, then sleeping till three in the afternoon before doing it all over again.”

“Mom,” Olivia said slowly, as if she was afraid to say the words out loud. “Did you quit your job?”
Please say no.

“Of course!”

Olivia felt the room spin around her. Could this day get any worse? “How are we going to pay the rent?”

Her mom grabbed Olivia by the shoulders. “We’ll have plenty of money! Once rehearsals are over, I’ll be getting seven thousand a week. A week! Think of it, Livvie!” Her mom did a
little pirouette, then sashayed into the kitchen, where she poured a glass of water from the filtered jug.

Seven thousand a week. As much as Olivia wanted to share in her mom’s readiness to believe in the unexpected windfall, the entire situation seemed too good to be true. Which usually meant it was.

Olivia followed her mom into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. “So,” she said, trying to sound casual and nonjudgmental. “Have you seen the contract yet?”

“Please. This is a business based on reputation.”

Oh, boy. “So you haven’t seen a contract.”

Her mom whirled on her. “No,” she mocked. “I haven’t seen a contract.”

“Maybe you should ask Charles about it?” Olivia wanted to see this seven thousand a week and guaranteed run off-Broadway in writing before she let go of the tiny ball of stress forming in the middle of her heart.

“You know, Livvie, I don’t like your attitude.”

“
You
don’t like
my
attitude?” Olivia blurted out. Who was being the child and who was the adult in this scenario?

She was instantly sorry for her outburst. Her mom’s face turned beet red and her eyes practically sparked with rage.

“One standing ovation and you think you know more than I do?” she roared. “I clawed my way to the top of New York, honey, and then I sacrificed all of it for you. How dare you try and ruin my moment of success, you selfish little bitch!”

“Mom, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

But it was too late. Her mom stormed out of the kitchen,
picked up her script and her purse, and yanked open the front door.