Roxie

The halls of Saint Magdalene Preparatory Academy ring with the dulcet tones of well-­turned-­out girls. On the brink of rarefied womanhood, they leisurely make their way to class. Straightened hair, tidy uniforms. A hum like a content bass line. But beneath it all I can make out a sweet vibrato:

Scheming, backstabbing, and lying.

I like this sound. It’s the sound of money.

On this bright and normal Monday morning, Great-­Aunt Regina’s diamond necklace treasure hunt is fading into the background. I put in a few hours at the restaurant Saturday afternoon, but eventually Uncle Lenny clocked me out early. I’d protested weakly, then dragged myself home, gone to my room, and passed out like a rock.

We haven’t talked about the hunt since. I’m happy to let Uncle Lenny and Aunt Lori handle it. They’re heading to Mont­gomery House today, in fact, for a first go. They know how to play the game. They’ll find the necklace and we’ll all soon be a few million richer. Batty old rich lady gets a final chuckle. Happily ever after without me having to puzzle through that particular poetry again.

Meanwhile, I have plenty to keep me busy.

I wait tables as many weekends and nights as Uncle Lenny will let me, but my real bread and butter comes from being Saint Magdalene Prep’s resident snoop. My forte is finding things. Uncle Lenny doesn’t know about this. But I figure he doesn’t need to know everything, especially since most of the jobs are not so PG as finding lost puppies. Most involve looking at people’s hairy junk on the dark web.

In addition to lost dogs, Saint Maggie’s girls need me to find evidence of cheating boyfriends. They need me to find evidence of cheating boyfriends cheating with their best friends. Evidence of cheating boyfriends cheating with their best friends’ boyfriends. I’m not choosy. I’ll find jewelry, pets, money. But mostly what people need help with are the nudie photos and videos given in earnest to those same cheating boyfriends. Gifts that now need tracking down and obliterating.

What I do isn’t rocket science, but it takes a certain skill set that I spent the first half of my life unintentionally developing. That is,“being as sneaky as a greased copperhead,” as Pastor once put it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s my best friend, Nina.

Nina: Got a potential new client for you.

Me: Great. Who?

Nina’s been a Saint Maggie’s girl since kindergarten. She knows everyone and sniffs out a lot of jobs for me.

Nina: Kirsten Montgomery-­Wiggins.

I blink at the name.

Nina: Don’t kill me.

It takes me a second to find my thumbs. But when I do, my response is swift.

Me: Nope.

Nina: She seems desperate. Bet you could charge her double. Triple.

I start to restate my position in more colorful terms, but my fingers hesitate.

The problem is that actually I’m not busy at all. Normally I’ve got back-­to-­back jobs lined up, but since failing to find Chloe’s dog, three potential clients have ghosted me. I can only assume Chloe’s to blame. She really should be more grateful. The lost puppy wasn’t my first job for her. Freshman year I made a sticky situation with a photo of a grape Popsicle go away. (Literally sticky. Don’t ask.) But the loyalty of girls like Chloe is fleeting.

Nina: Sorry, I shouldn’t have even asked. Don’t worry about it. It’s not worth it. I’ll tell her no.

Me: Wait.

I chew the inside of my mouth. Kirsten freaking Mont­gomery-­Wiggins. Am I really that hard up? As I’m staring at my phone, words suddenly float through my mind like a bad jingle: Around four heads the angels flew. Silent in their keeping.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Nope. I need a job. Something to keep my mind from Great-­Aunt Regina’s word games and all their attendant PTSD.

Me: Fine. Triple rates. Up front.

Kirsten owes me at least that much. And she can afford it.

Nina sends a dollar-­face emoji and a devil.

Nina: Atta girl. When?

Me: Now. Tell her to meet me at my locker. I’ve got a free period.

A few minutes later, Nina writes back.

Nina: She’s headed your way. She’ll be the one who looks like she moisturizes with the tears of underclassmen. Debrief later?

Me: If by that you mean you’ll drive me to the Rusty Nail after school, yes,I will take that offer and raise you a basket of okra fries upon delivery.

Nina: Good. I can’t wait to hear what she’s lost. I hope it’s pics of her perfectly groomed muff. I bet it’s monogrammed. xox

I pocket my phone and head for my locker with mingled curiosity and dread. Kirsten has to be pretty desperate to stoop so low as to ask for my help. On top of that, she and Chloe are BFFs, and Chloe can’t have had anything good to say about my services.

Seriously, couldn’t anyone else in the world have lost something?

I have to walk past old class photos on the way to my locker. Usually I avoid looking at my mom, but today I let myself linger in front of the class of 2005. She had short hair then, a dark bob with bangs. Her eyes are bright and she grins like I never remember seeing her grin. I barely recognize her. It’s hard to imagine her here among these short tartan skirts and worldly girls.

When the school first offered me a scholarship, I was hesitant. I’d had enough of religious institutions, thanks. But I was curious to see the halls that my mother had walked down as a girl, and after the visit with Uncle Lenny, I’d tentatively agreed. That was four years ago. It hasn’t always been peachy, but I like Saint Maggie’s. Really the only problem I’ve ever had here is currently heading straight for my locker, looking like a cross between a shark and a shampoo commercial.

All clear skin and long legs, Kirsten Montgomery-­Wiggins somehow manages to make the same uniform we all wear look chic and expensive. How does she do that? Mine always looks like I forgot to take the hanger out. On her way over, Kirsten passes Chloe. Oddly, Kirsten pointedly ignores her. Chloe’s face goes red but she doesn’t speak.

When Kirsten is a few feet away, I lift my chin and square my shoulders. My aunt Lori calls this a “power posture,” and insists that it suffuses you with some sort of mystical universe energy. I would never in a million years admit it to her, but it does sort of seem to work.

“I guess you know why I’m here,” Kirsten says. She folds her arms over her chest.

I swallow down my urge to kick her in the kneecaps and run. “Step into my office and tell me more.” I indicate the band room, only a few feet from my locker.

The sight of us coming in together raises interest in the girls sitting around fingering their instruments. More than a couple of heads bend together to whisper. I throw open the door of a supply closet at the back of the room and flip on the lights. “Out,” I tell the entwined couple, who are also busy fingering each other’s instruments.

The girls look up indignantly but shuffle their uniforms back into place and scram. They know better than to argue. I pay rent to the marching band for use of this closet.

I wave to the ancient sofa they’ve vacated. “Have a seat.”

Kirsten’s nose wrinkles. “No, thank you.”

“Wise,” I say. “That was definitely not the worst thing that’s happened there.” I pull a folding chair out of a corner, drape it with a choir robe, and sit. Make-­out seshes tend to not happen on rickety metal chairs, but you never know. I’d hate to be the only virgin at Saint Maggie’s with chlamydia.

“I heard your great-­aunt died. I’m sorry,” Kirsten says, still standing. The sentiment catches me off guard. This is not a side of Kirsten I’m familiar with. I keep my guard up.

“It’s okay,” I say. “She was old. We weren’t exactly close. How do you know about my aunt?”

She tugs at a gold cross on a delicate chain around her neck like it’s choking her. “She was my neighbor.”

I should have guessed. Regina’s wasn’t the only multimillion-­dollar residence on the block, of course. Biltmore Forest is probably the most exclusive neighborhood in a hundred-mile radius. “So. What can I do for you?”

Kirsten glances at the frosted glass on the door. “Are you sure no one out there is listening?”

I hold up a finger. “Wait for it . . .” A tuba blares, joined by a trumpet and then drums. “I’m sure.”

She’s forced to come closer to be heard over the noise. After draping another choir robe on the couch, she sits. Her legs are long and lean, sculpted by years of some sport. Probably one involving horses.

“People say you can find things.”

“People are correct.” I take out my notebook and a pen. “What is it you’ve lost?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Opening to a fresh page, I nod. Roughly fifty percent of these conversations start out this way. Zero points for originality, Kirsten. I realize my nerves have settled some. It helps that I’m on the better side of our power dynamic for once.

I trot out my normal spiel: “Listen, I know it might be embarrassing, but believe me, I don’t care. Think of me like a doctor, and you’re a patient who just needs to get your bum rash sorted out. Whatever you say doesn’t leave this closet. Frankly, at this point, you’d have to be pretty creative to shock me.”

I wait while Kirsten glowers up at the dim light bulb in the closet. I’m sort of afraid she’s going to make it explode out of sheer malice. “I know who has it.”

“Sounds like you don’t need me. I’m not a repo service. I just find.”

“I mean, I know, but I don’t know-­know her.”

I take another look at my old nemesis. Is this really the girl who once made me shiver in my sneakers? I almost feel disappointed. “Can you give me just a smidge more to go on?”

Kirsten huffs and takes out her phone. “I don’t know her name. All I’ve got is this.” On the screen is a picture of a pretty blond woman. Her eyes are closed. She looks either like she’s sleeping, or . . .

I recoil. “She’s not dead, is she?”

“No. She’s alive. As far as I know.”

“Good, because dead girls, while interesting, are probably a bit over my pay grade. Did you take this picture?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t, like, do something to her, did you?”

“Of course not.” Kirsten’s answer is sharp and quick. Too quick. “Can you find her?”

“What can you tell me about her?”

Kirsten hesitates. “She might be a . . . dancer.”

“I’m guessing you don’t mean ballet?”

“A stripper. Maybe a sex worker.”

“Gotcha. Well, that’s a start. Age?”

Kirsten shrugs. “Early twenties?”

“This thing of yours that she has—­is that what you’re really after?”

“It is and it isn’t.”

Annoyance plucks at me. “It would help if you gave me an idea of whatit is. Wanna play Bigger Than a Breadbox?”

While Kirsten glowers, I rest my chin on my hands. “I’ll just wait here until you’re ready to help me help you. Believe it or not, I’m actually good at this. You’re not doing yourself any favors, keeping stuff from me.”

For a second I see her waver. “I know you’re good,” she says. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need you. I have to find this girl. It’s important. I know you don’t exactly like me, but . . .”

“Like you?” I interrupt. To my own surprise I start to laugh. “You’re worried that I don’tlike you? Are you even serious right now?”

I wait but she doesn’t reply. She actually has the nerve to look sort of confused. I feel my blood kick up a degree.

“Oh, boy. Okay, let’s just get this out of the way.” I cap my pen. “Here’s the thing: You might not remember this, but I do. From the day I got to this school, you made my life a living hell. A solid year of H-­E-­double-­L. And frankly, that’s saying a lot, because between my family getting blown up and me being shuffled through four different foster families, it wasn’t the best year to begin with.

“But one thing about you, Kirsten Montgomery-­Wiggins, you are determined. You decided to make sure the poor girl who’d crawled out of the holler and dared to sit next to you in class knew her place, and absolutely nothing was going to stand in your way.

“Literally the first day I got to Saint Maggie’s, you opened up to page one inBullying for Dummies and started drilling.” I tick off on my fingers. “Tripping me in the hallway: check. Spreading rumors of bed-wetting: check. Calling me a, quote,inbred Jesus freak cross-­humper: check.” I can feel my face start to go red, but the words keep pouring from my mouth. I hardly know what I’m saying. I feel like Pastor when he used to get all caught up by the Spirit. “Calling me disgusting in front of the whole class when I got my first period during recess: check. My life was basicallyCarrie without any of the cool telekinesis stuff.”

I’m breathing hard. My hands have curled into fists. God, it feels good to be mad. I make myself take in a deep breath. One Jerusalem, two Jerusalem. Push air out through my nose, like I’ve been taught. When I speak again, my voice is level. “The only reason I’m still at Saint Maggie’s at all is that Nina Sanchez finally punched you in the face and ended your reign of terror.”

Kirsten looks down, mumbling something I don’t catch. The music from the band is getting louder.

“What’s that?” I demand.

“I said, I might have deserved that.”

“Goddamned right you did.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Now. All of that happened years ago. We’ve both moved on. Do Ilike you? No, not at all. Never will. You’re still a bully who gets off on hurting people who can’t do anything to stop you.” Sheflinches. “It’s fucking sad and you should really get some therapy or something, but frankly, do whatever you want, it probably wouldn’t help. People like you don’t change.”

She clasps her hands in her lap, tight enough to make her knuckles go white. Her fancy manicure can’t hide the fact that she’s been chewing her cuticles.

“Lucky for you,” I say, “none of that matters now. What matters is that I am a professional and you are my client. You will pay me up front and I will bust my ass finding this girl for you. And then we can go back to our normal existence of ignoring each other. Hello, are you even listening to me?”

“You’re right,” Kirsten whispers. She’s staring at her hands. “I’m just like them.”

“What?”

She looks up. Her eyes are red. “A phone,” she says. “An iPhone with my initials engraved on the back.” She stands to go.

“Hold on,” I say, thrown by the look on her face. Something I’ve said has penetrated Kirsten’s perfect armor. “I—­I have more questions.”

“Tonight. You can come to my house.”

Outside the closet the band picks up speed. Kirsten fumbles at the doorknob, letting in trumpets.

“I want my fee tonight,” I say.

She doesn’t deign to acknowledge the band girls’ stares as she sails through their midst.

“Do you hear me?” I go to the door to yell after her, making sure I’m heard over the music. “You have to pay. Tonight!”

She waves a hand that says, Fine. She doesn’t even look back.

“Good,” I say, but she’s disappeared out the door.

Everyone who’s been staring at her now turns to look at me, even as they keep blooting on their brass. A cymbal crashes.

“Show’s over,” I say, and slam the closet door.