A Girl Undone (27 page)

Deeps exited the freeway, and the road curved around a power plant. The huge windowless building was sun-bleached almost white. Beside it stood a giant square of twisted black steel beams studded with steel coils like the guts of an enormous machine. The empty street was stripped of trees and not even a weed sprouted along the pavement.

Deeps steered us into a block of office and industrial buildings. Boys wearing jeans and worn tees, and who looked like they were only ten, were picking trash off the sidewalks and narrow strips of dried-out grass. “We’re here,” Hawkins said.

“This is it?” Calling this a ranch was a complete joke.

“What did you expect?”

I must have been na
ï
ve to expect barns for horses and cows. “I thought there’d be fields—a place to play soccer.”

Hawkins pointed to the top floor of the parking structure on the right. “There are basketball courts up top, and plenty of room on the other floors to ride skateboards and bikes or play indoor soccer.”

“What was this place?”

“A big animation studio. When they went bankrupt, the city bought the buildings quite cheaply.”

The buildings on the left were protected by ten-foot walls and iron gates, but the ones on the right weren’t. Anyone could have walked on or off the property.

“Is that the boys’ campus?” I said, pointing to the right.

“Yes.”

Of course it was. Who cared if a boy ran away or someone took him? One less orphan for the state to worry about.

Deeps turned left toward an arch covered in dead ivy. The studio’s name had been pulled from the painted stucco, but the shadow of a few letters was still visible. “DreamWo.”

Deeps halted at the guardhouse in front of the iron gate. Two dozen men carrying video equipment and camera bags were lined up single file along the sidewalk. One security guard was checking their IDs while another searched their bags.

The next thing I knew, the iron gate had rolled closed behind us. The small parking lot was paved in fake cobblestones, and Deeps pulled into a visitor space between a BMW and a Porsche.

“Do you remember your instructions?” Ho asked me.

I wanted to slap the self-satisfied look right off his face. “Smile. Act impressed. Agree with everything Jessop says.”

“Exactly.”

Hawkins took my hand and helped me out of the car, then smoothly kissed my cheek. I jerked back, startled, and caught sight of a cameraman snapping away. “Smile,” Hawkins hissed, still holding on to me.

I smiled up at him through gritted teeth. “I didn’t know you were going to kiss me.”

“We’re in public. Expect it.”

A white-haired man with a thick black mustache bustled past the photographer. “Mr. Hawkins, we’re so happy you came. And you must be Aveline.” He shook my hand. “Claudio Ramirez, superintendent. I’m delighted that you’ve taken an interest in our girls.”

“Of course I’m interested,” I replied, parroting lines Ho had fed me. “Jessop has told me all about your efforts to protect and nurture young women.”

Ramirez steered Hawkins and me toward the door. “Yes, Mr. Hawkins has been a generous benefactor and a powerful voice on our board.”

Deeps and Ho were wrangling the photographers who’d passed security. They were lined up in the reception area, and began snapping shots of us the second we stepped inside. I tried to look everywhere but at their lenses, tried to keep my face a blank.

I felt like Ramirez was setting up the shots, the way he invited Hawkins and me to admire a wall decorated with glossy, four-color photos of smiling girls of every color bent over pottery wheels, peering into microscopes, and waving trophies at a track meet. Then he told the media we’d meet them in the dining room, and led us through a glass door etched with the words
PLACEMENT OFFICE
.

Portraits of smiling couples, some holding babies, hung on the wall. There wasn’t one picture of a girl wearing a college tee or waving a pennant.

Ramirez waved a hand at the display. “These are only some of our success stories. We’ve broken new ground by placing girls in homes instead of releasing them when they age out of the ranch. We learned from the foster care system that releasing kids without a safety net results in high rates of homelessness, drug abuse, prostitution, and welfare dependence.”

“That’s great,” I forced myself to say. I’d heard all this crap in Vegas from Paternalist senators and congressmen slapping themselves on the back for saving the unfortunates.

Ramirez led us down a short hall. “Our counselors interview prospective matches for the girls, because our goal is to get the right ‘fit.’”

“I’m sure the girls appreciate how much you care.”

Ramirez puffed up. “I hope you are right,” he said, “because I see myself as a father with a thousand daughters to care for.”

Hawkins shot me a look to let me know he’d picked up on my sarcasm even if Ramirez hadn’t.

Ramirez stopped outside a counselor’s office. The door was closed, but the window to the hall showed three people inside. “Look here,” he said, “and you can observe a counselor conducting a ‘first meet’ between one of our girls and a placement prospect.”

We peered through the glass, and my body tensed, seeing the prospect and the way he sat, his arms spread wide on the chair, his suit jacket open, as he eyed a slender black girl in a tan jumpsuit standing beside the counselor’s desk.

Her hair was in a bun, and her face was scrubbed clean, but she was distractingly pretty with high cheekbones and intense black eyes. She stared at the ceiling until the visitor spoke. Then he twirled his finger, and I realized he was telling her to turn around. The jerk wanted to see how she looked from behind.

“How do you know he’ll treat her well?” I said.

“Darling,” Jessop warned.

Ramirez bent toward me. “Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said, Miss Reveare.”

“How do you know that man will be kind to her? That he won’t abuse her?”

“A very good question. Let me reassure you that all the candidates are carefully vetted with criminal, credit, and employment checks.”

Hawkins must have sensed I wasn’t satisfied with the answer, because he eased between me and Ramirez. “LAOR uses the same psychological assessments that the top private schools do, correct?”

“Yes, we make every effort to get a complete profile, but I must admit that many candidates are unwilling to submit to psychological assessments, and even if they do, we’ve found the results so subjective as to be worthless.”

The men started walking again, and I glanced at Hawkins, remembering the fury in his face when he shook me. My school prided itself on exhaustively evaluating prospects before recommending a match, but clearly he’d refused their psychological tests, probably along with a big fat No Thank You gift to the Masterson Academy endowment fund.

Ramirez put a hand on Hawkins’ shoulder. “I need to thank you for your recommendations regarding our profit model. Profitability is up thirty percent after we implemented a fifty percent deposit, and bad debt expense has dropped to seven.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but Jessop was smiling at his own brilliance.

“And that analyst you sent us?” Ramirez continued. “He refined our candidate-assessment algorithm so it weighs factors like expected career earnings, employment industry, educational level, and residential zip code more heavily. Now, we’re scoring candidates in each category and the highest-scoring candidate is selected for that specific placement.”

Heat filled my chest. This I got. The guy who scored the best, got the girl. It didn’t matter if she and he had anything in common, or she had even the least little interest in him.

I struggled to keep silent and not let my face reveal how I felt. Ramirez was another operator. No, not an operator, a pimp. I knew it and Jessop knew it. I couldn’t stop it, and Jessop wouldn’t.

“When can I meet the girls?” I asked.

“We’re going right now.” Ramirez led us through a back door down a long hallway into a huge open room where at least a hundred girls were bent over sewing machines. Stacks of orange cloth were piled next to each girl, and the
grrring
noise of the machines was deafening.

Girls across the room were sneaking looks at me, and I was suddenly conscious of how privileged and superior I appeared in my seven-hundred-dollar heels and Love bracelet coated with diamonds. I tucked my arms behind my back and gave them a nervous smile, hoping they’d see that I didn’t think I was any better than they were.

Ramirez shook out a folded garment, showing us a big orange jumpsuit. “This is what they’re working on.”

“Oh, the prison uniform contract,” Hawkins said. “How is that going?”

“Very well. We’re saving the state millions of dollars, and the girls are using their new skills.”

“Excellent!” Hawkins said.

A girl right in front with huge brown eyes and tight cornrows scowled at me, daring me to turn my pathetic smile on her. Her look burned so hot I wished I could shrink to the size of a bug and skitter out of there.

“I am proud that LAOR projects like this prepare girls to be productive contributors to society. Our students graduate with a strong education in reading, mathematics, and the domestic arts. We may not have the resources of a private preparatory school, but I like to think that we do well with what we have.”

I wanted to ask him how many hours these girls spent sewing uniforms as opposed to, say, going to classes. And oh, can I see the chem lab, and the pottery room? And what about the track?

It was obvious the photos we saw up front were lies, and that’s why Hawkins and I were on a private tour without any photographers in sight.

My frustration was near boiling, but as I opened my mouth, Hawkins said to Ramirez, “What’s next on the tour?”

“Ah, our professional kitchen,” Ramirez answered. “I think you will be impressed, Miss Reveare.” He went to take my arm, and the girl in front shot me the finger behind his back.

My breath caught, and my cheeks got hot. I turned with Ramirez and walked out of the room, trying to keep my head up. That girl had nailed me as a fake, acting like I cared about the plight of orphans, when I’d never do anything to help them, because I was a powerless poser. A lapdog.

Ramirez walked us into a large lunch room where cartoon characters—singing penguins, a ninja panda, and a junk-food-crazed raccoon—capered across the lime-green walls. I had only a second to take in the scene before the three dozen photographers and reporters drinking coffee at purple-topped tables leaped to their feet. Shutters snapped and bursts of flash went off.

I focused straight ahead as Ramirez guided us around the tables to the open industrial kitchen. Deeps and Ho held the reporters and photographers back from the counters and eight-burner stoves where girls wearing dark green aprons over their tan jumpsuits were chopping apples and stirring pots.

When I saw the woman teacher showing two girls how to use an apple corer, my mouth fell open. Ms. Alexandra had hidden her gray French twist under a chef’s hat, and traded her perfectly tailored sheath for a chef’s jacket and cheap black-and-white checked pants, but I recognized her instantly.

I felt light-headed as she walked toward us. Part of me wanted to run into her arms, and another part wished I could hide. She’d probably seen me on TV telling Evan Steele how I appreciated Contracts now that I’d been in the outside world. Did she know I was acting or did she believe like Yates did that I’d turned?

“Miss Reveare, so nice to see you again,” she said, holding out her hand. “I don’t know if you recognize me. I’m Ms. Stohl. I taught seventh grade at Masterson Academy until I retired last month.”

I reached out, holding back a little as if I barely knew her. “Yes, of course, Ms. Stohl, how nice to see you again!”

She gave my hand a quick squeeze and our eyes connected. She really was happy to see me. “Let me give you the tour,” she said.

Hawkins hung back with Ramirez while Ms. A walked me over to a nearby workstation, where two girls who looked thirteen stirred bubbling pots. I tried to keep my smile in check as she asked me polite questions about what I’d seen so far, because Ho was watching me like he sensed something was off.

Ms. A gave one of the pots a stir. “Cooking jams and fruit butters,” she enunciated, “reinforces fundamental math and chemistry concepts while teaching critical domestic arts.”

I remembered her saying the exact same thing when trustees toured our kitchen at Masterson, where she secretly taught us subjects they had forbidden.

She introduced me to the two girls, and pointed out the design on the bib of the girls’ aprons. “Graciella here designed our new logo,” Ms. A said.

The words “Los Angeles Orphan Ranch” circled an embroidered fruit tree where a coded message jumped out: “I am not for sale.”

Being fired from Masterson wasn’t stopping Ms. A from trying to give these girls what she’d given me and my friends: a sense of worth beyond the price tag of Signings, and the belief that you could choose your future.

“It’s beautiful, Graciella,” I said.

She beamed, and Ms. A took another apron out of the drawer and snapped it open. “Here,” she said. “You don’t want to muss that beautiful dress.”

“No, you’re right,” I said, slipping it over my head. “This fabric is probably impossible to clean.”

I am not for sale. A few weeks ago, I’d have worn this proudly, but that was before I learned I could be bought. And the consequences of what I’d done could affect every girl in this place.

Ms. A waved at the photographers. “Let’s get a picture together.” She positioned me between the girls and whispered, “Let’s use your celebrity to get our message out.”

She hugged us from behind as we posed, and I leaned in, ashamed of how I’d failed her, and wishing I could somehow make things right.

She couldn’t save these girls from LAOR’s placement counselors and candidate-assessment algorithm, not with the Paternalists lined up against her. But that wasn’t stopping her from giving as much as she could.

Ms. Alexandra took me around, and as she introduced me, I saw how the girls had fallen in love with her just as I and my friends had. She cared for us like she was our mom. I dug my nails into my palms trying to keep my feelings under control.