Those Girls
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For Piper, my favorite girl
Though there is a town called Cache Creek in British Columbia, my “Cash Creek” is fictional and in a different location. The town of Littlefield is also fictional. All other locations are real.
J
ULY
1997
We’d only been on the road for an hour but we were almost out of gas. The white line of the highway blurred in front of my eyes, my lids drooping. It was three in the morning and we’d barely slept for days. Dani was driving, her face pale, her long dirty-blond hair pulled under a baseball cap and out the back in a makeshift ponytail, her eyes staring straight ahead. Her name was Danielle, but we just called her Dani. The oldest at almost eighteen, she was the only one who had her license. She’d barely said a word since we left Littlefield.
On my right, Courtney was also staring out the window. When her favorite country song, “Wide Open Spaces” by the Dixie Chicks, came on the radio, she turned it off, then stared back out into the dark night. She brushed at her cheeks and I could tell she was crying. I gave her hand a squeeze, and she gripped it back. Her hair was down, one side pushed forward, trying to hide the burn that had left an angry red mark along her jawline.
None of us had ever traveled this far from home before. We’d found a map at the hardware store—Dani had stolen it while Courtney and I kept watch—and carefully planned our route to Vancouver. We figured we could make the drive in about eight hours if the truck held up. But we had to stop in Cash Creek first and borrow some money from one of Courtney’s old boyfriends.
It was the middle of July and so hot you couldn’t walk outside without feeling your skin cook. We were golden brown, freckles covering our faces and upper arms—a family trait. Forest fire warnings had been out for a month, and a few towns had already been evacuated. Everything was dried out, the fields pale yellow, the weeds in the ditches covered in gray dust. We were in jeans shorts and T-shirts, our skin sweaty even this late at night, and the air smelled hot.
I touched the camera hanging around my neck. My mom had given it to me when I was ten, just before she died. Dani hated it when I took her photo, but Courtney loved it—
used
to love it. I didn’t know now. I glanced over at her again, then down at my chewed nails. Sometimes I imagined that I could still see the blood under them, as if it had soaked into my skin like it had our floors.
“We’re going to need gas soon,” Dani said suddenly, making me jump.
Courtney turned back from the window. “How much money do we have?”
“Not enough.” Before we left town we’d siphoned a little gas from a neighbor’s truck and gathered what food we could, picking fruits and vegetables from the farm’s fields, taking eggs from underneath the hens and storing them in our cooler. Our cupboards were empty by then—we’d been living on soup, Kraft dinners, rice, and the last few pounds of ground deer meat in the freezer from the buck Dad had shot that spring. We pooled our money—I had a few dollars from babysitting and Dani had a little money left from when she helped during hay season, but she’d used a lot of it already that year trying to keep us afloat.
“We could get some money for your camera,” she’d said.
“No way!”
“Courtney sold her guitar.”
“You know why she really sold it,” I’d said. Dani had gotten quiet then. I’d felt bad but I couldn’t do it, couldn’t let go of my one good thing.
“What are we going to do?” I said now.
“We’re going to steal some gas,” Dani said, angry.
Dani always sounded pissed off, but I didn’t pay any attention to it unless she was really mad. Then I got the hell out of her way.
She had a right to be angry. We all did.
* * *
We found a gas station in the next town, an old Chevron with two ancient pumps and a lone shadowy figure visible through the window. Was he the only one working? We pulled around back, gravel crunching under our tires. Dani switched off the engine and we sat there while it ticked. I held on to my camera tightly.
“Jess, go in and make sure no one else is there,” Dani said.
I darted a look at her but her profile was rigid. “Okay.” I tried to sound confident, but we’d never done anything like this before—only shoplifted food and makeup, small items. Of course it would be me. Courtney was too pretty—she had the same dirty-blond hair we all had, but she used peroxide and gave it highlights and had our father’s blue eyes that looked even brighter against her tanned skin. And now, with her burn, people would remember her. But I was small at fourteen, with plain toffee-colored hair and green eyes. People forgot me.
The door jingled when I opened it. The guy behind the counter glanced up. He was young, maybe in his early twenties, with long sideburns and acne. I looked around, didn’t see anyone else working. The store was empty, and there were no security cameras or monitors. I cleared my throat.
“Can I have the key to the bathroom?”
He pushed the keys across the counter, then looked back down at his magazine. I browsed the shelves, then made my way outside around the back of the store, where a sign pointed to the restrooms. A laundry room for truckers was beside the washrooms. I pulled out the slots, checked for spare change under the machines—sometimes you get lucky, but nothing today. In the garbage can, I found a few cans and a pizza box with a couple of crusts. My stomach growled, but I left the box and went into the bathroom, used the toilet, and washed my hands. I glanced in the mirror. My eyes looked big, scared. The fluorescent light above my head was humming loudly, the bathroom seeming suddenly cold and empty.
I turned my face so I could see the bruise on my jaw. The makeup was smeared. I rubbed at it with my finger, spread it smooth. I stepped back, staring at my reflection. I tried to narrow my eyes and squared my shoulders, pulling my hat down hard, making myself look tougher, more like Dani. It didn’t work.
I returned the key and walked back to the truck.
“What did you find?” Dani said through her window.
“Just one guy at the counter—he’s reading a girlie magazine.”
She nodded.
“Now what?” I said.
“Courtney, you go talk to him.”
“Shit, why me?” Courtney said.
Dani gave her a look. Courtney heaved a sigh, undid the top button of her shirt, and got out of the truck.
“I’m going too,” I said.
“No. Stay in the truck, Jess.”
“But I’m hungry!”
“Jesus Christ.” Dani bitched all the time about my “hollow leg,” but she still gave me extra helpings.
I followed Courtney into the store. She leaned over the counter and began talking to the guy, who immediately put down his magazine and turned to face her. Through the corner of my eye, I saw Dani pull the truck around to the pump. Quickly, I walked down the aisles and shoved chocolate bars and snacks into my pockets. Courtney glanced out the window once in a while, waiting for the signal. I was also keeping an eye on Dani. Finally she lifted her hat and wiped her brow.
I left the store and jumped in the truck. Courtney took the pen the guy was holding out, wrote something down on a piece of paper. He was smiling big. She made like she was checking the pocket of her jeans shorts, then shook her head and nodded at the truck.
Now she was heading back to us, walking slow, letting her hips sway. I could see the guy inside staring at her, riveted. She got in the truck, made it look like she was reaching for her purse, then slammed the door behind her. Dani pounded the accelerator. The truck fishtailed onto the road, swerving on the dusty, dry edge. I watched behind as the guy ran out of the gas station, his hand on a phone, already calling the police. Our license plate was covered in dried mud, but my heart was still pounding. If we were caught, we’d be brought back to Littlefield and the cops would have questions—lots of questions.
I turned around and pulled out my chocolate bars. We ate, silent in the dark.
“Remember when Dad used to buy us Caramilk bars every Christmas?” Courtney’s voice was small, the memory big.
I chewed slower now, my eyes filling with tears. It had been years since Dad had brought us chocolate bars, not since our mom had died.
It had only been three days since I’d killed him.
L
ITTLEFIELD
T
HREE
D
AYS
E
ARLIER
Dad had been gone a month this time, working in Alberta on the oil rigs. Before that job he mostly worked construction around town and on the ranch where we lived. Littlefield was a small town near the Alberta border and it didn’t have a lot of jobs—mainly farming or logging since the mill had closed down—so a lot of men worked in Calgary, a couple of hours away. Dad said he’d make better money in Alberta, and maybe he did, but we never saw any of it. He worked three weeks in and one week out. He’d stop at a couple of bars on the way home from the rigs, then usually didn’t quit drinking until it was time for his next shift.
I was sure this time things would be different, though. My fifteenth birthday was coming up and he’d told me he’d bring me something special. I’d been thinking about it all week.
“He’s not bringing you diddly-squat,” Dani had said that morning.
“He promised
,
” I said.
“So?”
I didn’t look at her, just shoved another spoonful of scrambled eggs into my mouth. Across the table Courtney was practicing some chords on her guitar, scribbling into a little notebook. She gave me a smile.
“I’ll write you a song,” she said. “For your birthday.”
“That’d be cool.” I smiled back at her.
“Jess, I just don’t want you to be disappointed,” Dani said from the other end of the table.
“I know, but I’ve got a good feeling. I think he’s going to bring something for my camera—maybe a new lens.”
“You’re such a dumbass.” Dani was always telling me I was too hopeful, Dad would never change. But sometimes he went weeks without drinking. Maybe one day he’d quit for good.
