"Girls Just Want to Have Fun," Cyndi Lauper's child-like voice crooned from Emma's phone speaker, the song, a pied-piper call to teen girl angst. It was one of those days Emma loved. The promise of hot beach weather and hanging with her squad on a Saturday. They were all together—Emma, Cat, Nisha, and Cassandra.
Cat tossed the package of Oreos she brought onto Cassandra’s waterbed. It wobbled and slid toward Nisha’s bag of Cheetos as she shifted from a kneeling position to crossed legs.
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Emma opened her purse and dumped out twenty mini liquor bottles.
The girls’ eyes widened and Emma felt pleased. She’d been saving the liquor as a surprise, and her big reveal didn’t disappoint.
“Dude!” Cassandra crowed. “It’s, like, eleven in the morning.” She snatched up a bottle of Smirnoff vodka as more hands dashed forward to grab favorite liquors.
“Girl, where have you been all my life?” Nisha said.
“Damn, Emma,” Cat’s eyes widened as she unscrewed the cap from a Hennessy whiskey. “Where did you get all this?”
“Douche Bag gave them to me,” Emma said with a wide grin and guzzled half of a mini bottle of Patrón before sputtering and opening her mouth wide to exhale, fanning herself. “Hot—ugh that’s strong.”
“Duh,” Cassandra said. “You don’t drink hard liquor like it’s water. You’ve got to savor it.”
“Wait, wait.” Cat held up her hand. “Why did Douche Bag give you these?”
Douche Bag was Emma’s dad. Cat gave him the nickname when they were ten years old, after spending another day comforting Emma because he’d stood her up for the hundredth time.
Emma’s green eyes danced and this time she took a modest sip from her bottle. “He said I could have them if I didn’t tell what I saw in his closet.”
“But you’re going to tell,” Cat said with a widening grin.
“I don’t know.” Emma rolled her eyes, mouth jerking into a smile she tried to suppress.
“Spill the tea,” Cat said, raising her fingers to her lips as if she held a fancy teacup, and made a sipping sound.
“Spill,” Nisha demanded.
“Douche Bag doesn’t get to have any secrets,” Cat said.
Cassandra peeled back the plastic from the Oreos, took a cookie, and opened it, her tongue flicking over the cream filling.
“It’s really… ew.” Emma made a face.
“Spill,” Nisha said again.
“Spill, spill, spill,” Cat chanted, joined in by Nisha and Cassandra.
“Okay, okay, so, remember how I went to my dad’s last weekend?”
The girls nodded.
“I totally didn’t want to go. I mean, there’s, like, nothing to do at his place.”
“Nothing to do—girl, are you privileged, or what?” Nisha sighed. “He’s got, like, a mansion in Malibu.”
“It’s just… there’s literally nothing to do except stare at the ocean or watch movies or whatever. It’s not like he interacts with me, and half the time he has some slu*t staying with him who’s, like, twenty.”
“Was there a slu*t this time?” Cassandra asked, taking another cookie.
“No.” Emma opened the Cheetos and nibbled on the end of one, flecks of powdered cheese fluttering onto her top. “I woke up kind of late and my dad was out swimming laps in his ‘saline pool.’” She made air quotes, imitating her father’s British accent and arrogant tone. “After I ate breakfast, I was bored, so I decided to snoop around in his bedroom, get to know him better.”
“Oh, I know where this is going,” Nisha said.
Emma held up her hand. “Shh. Anyway, I started systematically making my way through his dresser drawers, night table… then—” Emma threw her hand over mouth.
“It was p*rn, right?” Nisha said. “Like, antiquated p*rn magazines?”
Emma shook her head. “No,” she spluttered. “It was a freaking sex doll with the mouth like a big O.” She made her lips in the shape and the girls stared at her before collapsing with laughter. “And, and the big hole here,” Emma motioned between her legs. “There wasn’t just one. There were two dolls!”
“Dang!” Nisha hooted. “Papa’s horny. What, he can’t get real women anymore?”
“I don’t know.” Emma gave her a look. “It was, like, so gross. And then, to make a worse situation worser—is that a word, worser?”
“Girl, get on with the story,” Nisha said.
Emma lowered her voice. “My dad came in and caught me, like, fondling one of the doll’s breasts.”
A shriek of laughter rose from the girls.
“What the hell, Em, why were you fondling its breasts?” Cat asked, taking another sip of whiskey, brown eyes scrutinizing her.
Emma shrugged. “I don’t know. I was curious.”
“What did it feel like?” Cassandra asked, her third cookie frozen on the way to her lips.
“Like heavy, squishy water balloons.”
The girls stared at her for a moment and then fell back, laughing again.
“And that’s the tea, folks,” Emma said when she caught her breath.
The door to Cassandra’s bedroom opened. The girls froze, but it was just her sister, Sam.
“Hey, uglies,” she greeted them in her husky voice, tossing her dark, luxuriant mane of hair over her shoulder. “Cassandra, can I borrow…” her question trailed off as her eyes landed on the pile of mini liquor bottles. “Oh my god, dearies, where hast thou received such an abundance of firewater?” She strode to the bed and leaned over the little group who had grown quiet in her presence, each girl sizing her up. The lean, shapely legs, always in shorts or a skirt. The tight tank top straining against perfect breasts, plunging into ample cleavage. The sharp angles of her face—high cheekbones, a defined jawline, pert nose, and almond-shaped brown eyes. Sam was everything they weren’t and, more than likely, never would be. They said nothing as she plucked three bottles from the pile. “Where’s your curling iron?” She asked Cassandra.
“In the bathroom, where else?” Cassandra said, her face blotchy red with quiet fury. Sam waltzed into the bathroom and reappeared with the iron.
“By the way,” Sam said. “Mom says you 're on kitchen duty today.”
“But we have plans,” Cassandra said.
“Not my problem.” She winked at them before leaving the room and the door wide open.
“Close the door,” Cassandra yelled after her sister.
But she was already gone. “Bitch,” Cassandra hissed, climbing off the bed, sending bottles and snacks rolling and sliding around. The girls grabbed at their stash and Cassandra slammed her door, whipping around to glare at her friends.
“I should have never told her about… about the thing.”
Nisha co*cked a brow. “You mean us ugly bitches and our little club?”
“Yeah, whatever. We were having a moment the other day. I don’t know why I always fall for thinking we’re going to be friends. She inevitably backstabs me. I told her to keep it to herself.”
“Girl, don’t sweat it. Like, in the greater scheme of things, all the sh*t going on in the world, no one cares. Seriously. Like, no one.”
Nisha had meant for her words to be a comfort, a pep talk, the old water-off-a-duck’s-back cliché. But it had the opposite effect. Cassandra slunk to the bed and Emma and Cat herded the bottles back into a pile, their shoulders drooping.
With the exception of Cassandra, the girls had known each other since first grade. 2012 was the year Barack Obama won his second term as president. The Hunger Games and Fifty Shades of Grey were box office hits, and Honey Boo Boo ruled reality TV.
Emma’s first awareness of the tantrum-throwing child star came from Nisha, who approached her on the playground and announced, “you look just like Honey Boo Boo.” For two years, Boo was her nickname. At the time, Cat had still sucked her thumb and kept a tattered blanket on her bed, a patchwork quilt made by her great-grandma Ada.
In second grade, Emma and Cat had slathered their faces with Cat’s mother’s makeup and danced to Miley Cyrus in their bedrooms, lip-synching to “We Can’t Stop” and “Wrecking Ball” over and over until Nisha announced that Miley Cyrus could kiss her ass. She wasn’t all that. It was Beyoncé they ought to sing to. Then Frozen came out. The girls took turns convincing their parents to take them to see the movie on the weekends, and Cat had a Frozen-themed birthday party, her whole second-grade class invited. One boy at her party, Luke Benz, announced he hated Frozen and that Cat couldn’t be her favorite character, Elsa, because her nose was too big and she didn’t have blond hair. Then he ate too much cake and threw up all over her presents.
Third grade was all about the Kardashians, the girls living vicariously through each Kardashian sister. Emma created a fake profile for herself on Instagram, showing Cat and Nisha how to do the same. They posted Kardashian trivia all day, liking and sharing each other’s posts, building up a huge following.
In fourth grade, Nisha announced she was done with Kardashian trash and deleted her profile, much to the despair of Emma and Cat. She started a new account devoted to rap and hip hop, and although “Gold Digger” was an old song by then, Nisha sang it around the clock until Emma said it was driving her crazy. They had a big fight and stopped talking for two months, Cat acting as the go-between. Later that year, Nisha’s friend Chucky Grinds was killed in a drive-by shooting and the girls drew together for comfort, the friendship renewed.
But it was in fifth grade that they defined themselves. It happened during a weekend sleepover.
Cat’s mom Brenda, thinking the girls asleep, talked unabashedly to a friend on the phone in her too-loud, gravelly smoker’s voice that carried from the living room to Cat’s bedroom.
“Cat’s got a heart of gold but a face like a horse. I mean, what can I say, I’m no looker myself and her father isn’t winning any beauty awards. Swen’s just as unlucky, but—and I hate to say it—he’s a boy, so…and then somehow we got Carrie. I used to wonder if they sent me home from the hospital with the wrong kid. But then as she got older, I realized she’s the spitting image of my aunt. Lucky her,” Brenda had cackled. “… Cat? Oh, she’s a great kid, smart… poor thing. She’s going to need her brains. Her friends are just as blessed, all three of them ugly as sin. At least they have each other.”
The three had lain in Cat’s bed, stiff and barely breathing, the truth delivered like Miley Cyrus’ wrecking ball, blasting through any hopeful ideas they might have had that one day they’d outgrow what clearly was not an awkward stage, but a life sentence of ugly. A parent of all people had confirmed the unspoken truth. They were not beautiful girls. Never would be. Much to their excruciating shame, Brenda continued with her assessment.
“Kanisha is pockmarked and all out of proportion, and Emma is just fat, with lips like a blowfish. I swear—what? I can’t say fat? It’s not PC? I don’t know, chubby, swarthy? Well, they’ve got each other. Great girls. Love them to death.”
The mixed messages had their heads reeling and Cat, unable to stand the embarrassment any longer, had quietly sobbed, Emma, trying to comfort her.
“She’s not trying to be mean, Cat. You don’t have a face like a horse. You have a nice face. Parents are so critical sometimes.”
“Hell,” Nisha said from the other side of Cat. “I know I’m ugly. Your mama’s just being real.” Her words had fallen on hollow silence. “Whatever,” she’d hissed. “We need to hang together, us ugly girls.”
Cat had snorted out a laugh, despite her despair.
“We in an exclusive and elusive club, The Ugly Girls’ Club,” Nisha continued, heartened by Cat’s laugh. Emma broke into giggles and soon all three were shaking with laughter, laughing out the shame and humiliation threatening to swallow them whole.
They were now nearing the end of eighth grade and knew everything about each other. There were no secrets between them—well, except for one. But Emma wasn’t about to share that secret. Some things weren’t meant to be talked about, ever.
Cassandra was the new one in their group, having moved to Santa Monica six months ago. Like the rest of them, she was a definite wallflower. She had a stocky build, arms that were too short in relation to her torso, thick, straight black hair with a hairline that seemed to extend into her eyebrows, and small round dark eyes a little too close together over a beak of a nose. ‘I look like my father,’ she’d told the other girls. She sure didn’t take after her mother or sister, who looked like fashion models. Cassandra’s mother had remarried and her new husband looked like a Ken doll, the bookend to her mother’s surgically perfected Barbie-like figure. Cassandra stuck out in the family unit. After she’d gotten to know Emma, Cat, and Nisha a bit, they’d confided in her about their club.
“That’s body shaming!” Cassandra had exclaimed.
The girls had fallen silent, unable to look her in the eye.
“Just kidding, bitches, of course, I want to be in your ugly club. It’s GOAT.” She’d given Cat a fake punch on the arm. “So, like, what do we do in the club?”
“Nothing, just hang,” Nisha told her. “It’s more like a safety in numbers thing.”
Cassandra had fit in seamlessly. It was like she’d always been with the others from the beginning.
Emma’s phone pinged and she picked it up, her eyes scanning the screen while her friends watched her. She made a face.
“What?” Cat said.
“Just some loser making comments on my gram.”
Cat leaned over to have a look. She read the comment out loud.
These grls r banged up
It was a picture of the four of them.
“Stupid troll,” Cat muttered, taking Emma’s phone out of her hand and clicking on the profile of the guy who made the comment. “Oh, snap,” she said. “Isn’t he Posie Jenner’s older brother? What’s his name?”
“Dickface?” Nisha offered, taking the phone from Cat to have a look. His handle read cumminhot. “Ew,” she pulled her neck in and flicked a finger over Emma’s feed.
“His name does start with a D,” Cat said and snapped her fingers. “Donovan.” She looked up at them. “He’s, like, twenty.”
“What’s his ol’ ass doing, scrolling through your feed anyway? Oh. Damn E, you look hot in this pic here. This is from today? What the hell are you wearing?” Nisha glanced up, assessing Emma with new eyes. Cat and Cassandra leaned in to get a look at the picture.
“I took it last week and posted it a few hours ago,” Emma said, taking her phone back. She blushed and her fingers flew through the steps to block him. “Goodbye, Dick For Brains.” She looked up with a smug smile.
“Seriously,” Cat said. “What the hell are you wearing? Did your dad get you that S&M thingy, too, after you saw his doll collection?”
“Ew, and no, my dad’s not a pervert.”
“Excuse me, lil girl,” Nisha said, “but sex dolls in the closet, twenty-year-old girlfriends... How old is your dad, eighty?”
Emma crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “He’s seventy.”
“Oh, my mistake, there’s only a fifty-year gap then. That’s okay.” Nisha did a little flick of her wrist and the girls burst out laughing. When the giggling died down, Nisha picked up Emma’s phone and stared at the screen. “Don’t be getting pretty on us, bitch.”
“Ha, it will be a cold day in Hell before that happens.”
Cat’s eyes lingered on her. “Did you grow?”
Emma shrugged.
“Yeah, she grew,” Nisha said. “I noticed it the other day. You and Emma are the same height now.”
“Aww,” Cat reached out to pinch Emma’s cheek. “You’re not the little one anymore.”
Emma drew back, dodging her fingers. “Stop, Cat. Seriously. I’m sick of you guys treating me like some adorable little hamster just because I’m short.”
Cat snorted, “A hamster.”
Nisha looked her up and down. “Well, girl, you ain’t so little anymore.”
“I have a secret,” Cassandra said, out of the blue. Three pairs of eyes focused on her.
“My sister Samantha…” She took a breath and the girl’s waited, facial muscles tense with expectation. “My sister used to be my brother.”
“Girl, what?” Nisha said in a hushed voice.
Cassandra’s face reddened and she drank the rest of her vodka. There was a knock on the door and Cat grabbed one of the pillows, throwing it on the pile of mini liquor bottles.
“Cassandra?” Louise Baker’s voice came from behind the door and the rest of the girls slipped the bottles they held in their hands under the pillow, waves of water undulating underneath them, sending some bottles rolling out again.
“sh*t,” Cat hissed.
Emma grabbed the wayward bottles, throwing them over her shoulder onto the floor on the other side of the bed. The door opened and Louise came in, her eyes sweeping the room. Her brow crinkled slightly, mouth turned down. Emma noticed that she never said hi or addressed any of them unless it was to scold or give some specific instruction. She often made disparaging remarks to Cassandra, her tone laced with exasperation. “Do you really want to eat chips, Cassandra?” Sigh. Eye roll. “You may want to reconsider those shorts, Cassandra.” “Why don’t you let me take you to the salon and have something done with your hair. It’s too thick. It makes me hot just to look at you.” The contempt she had for her daughter bristled off her and extended to the rest of their crew. Once, Emma had mentioned to Cat that she thought Louise Baker especially hated her. If Cassandra’s mom didn’t flat out ignore Emma, then she eyed her with such disgust that it made Emma want to shrivel up into a speck and float away.
“Everyone feels like that around Louise,” Cat had said. “Trust me. She’s an equal opportunity bitch to all of us.”
“I’m going to the salon,” Louise said. “You need to clean the kitchen before you leave the house this morning.”
“Mom, we have plans,” Cassandra whined. “Can’t I do it after I get home?”
“No,” Louise snapped, the corners of her mouth dimpling and the wrinkle in her brow deepening to a crevice. “You had hours to do your chore and instead chose to mess around in here. I want it done before you leave this house, and no more back talk.”
“I can help you,” Nisha volunteered.
Louise gazed at Nisha dismissively. “Get it done, Cassandra.” She closed the door and Cassandra held up her middle finger.
Nisha hissed out a laugh from her nose. “Whatever, girl.”
“We can help, too,” Cat said. “And Emma, put that liquor away before you get Cassandra grounded until freshman year.”
Emma gathered the remaining bottles, throwing them in her bag as everyone hauled themselves off of Cassandra’s waterbed, sending everything sliding around again.
“Wait,” Nisha said, touching Cassandra’s arm. “What was that bomb you dropped on us about Sam?”
Cassandra pulled in her shoulders and Emma could tell she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said. “It takes a while to clean the kitchen.”
Cat glanced at the time on her phone. “Yeah. We should hurry so we can meet my mom on time.”
They left the room and Emma stared at the family pictures on the Bakers’ hallway wall as they passed through, like she always did. The pictures were organized chronologically and by major life events. While there were pictures of Cassandra as a baby and a little girl, and even of Louise as a girl and Cassandra’s stepdad as a young man, there were no younger pictures of Sam on the wall. Emma had never thought about it before, but now she stopped to study the pictures as her friends continued into the front of the house. There was nothing of Sam as a child—only recent photos where she looked the same as she did now. Except there was one wedding picture of Louise and Richard with Cassandra and a tall, willowy young man with effeminate features and thick dark hair that grazed his collarbone. Emma stared at the picture and then at a closeup of Sam on the shore somewhere, sitting in a beach chair, smiling intently at the camera, long hair windswept. She looked glamorous.
A door opened and Emma glanced over her shoulder. Sam was coming out of her room and paused when she saw Emma, her eyes moving past her to the gallery layout of framed family photos. She snorted out a laugh.
“Corny, aren't they? I think my mom’s trying to win the Good Housekeeping award for Betty Crocker or some sh*t.”
Emma decided not to tell her that Betty Crocker was a cookbook.
“The woman was born several decades too late. She would have been in heaven in the fifties, waxing the driveway, or whatever women did back then.”
Sam’s freshly curled ends fluffed out around her shoulders, the smell of burnt hair lingering in the darkened hall. She ran her fingers through her tresses and then sashayed into the living room.
Gumption Road opened her jewelry box and took a joint from the rolled stacks, uniformly slim. Just how she liked it. Her housekeeper Candace bought and rolled the marijuana for her once a month. Gumption liked to enjoy her ganja the old-fashioned way, had no interest in edibles, tinctures, vape pens, or flavored juices. No, Gumption liked to watch the billowy smoke streaming from her mouth and nose, smell the earthy herbal scent, and wrap herself in the skunk fumes. Art sessions always began with a few tokes.
Gumption placed the joint between her old lips, lit up, and inhaled, nodding to the music playing in her head. “Funky Town”
“Dear,” she said to the young man, taking off his shirt. “What’s your name again?”
“Jake.”
“Jake, put some music on. Whatever you like. The record collection is over there.” She pointed across the expanse of her studio, twelve hundred square feet of graphite porcelain tile with a Paris Grey wash. A Fisher stereo system from 1981 crowned the northeast corner of the room, accompanied by glossy cherry wood shelves of records.
“Aight, cool,” Jake said and sauntered over to the records, his back muscles rippling as he reached up to take down an album from the top shelf labeled “Soul Music”. He stared at a Kool & the Gang record, put it back, and took down Marvin Gaye, then Donna Summer.
“Yo, you got anything modern? This is way old.”
“I’m way old, Jake,” Gumption said. Then, because he looked disappointed, she asked, “What kind of music do you like?”
“Synth, you know, house, electric.”
“Hm.” Gumption took another toke off her joint. “Look in that drawer over there, love. You’ll find the cassette tapes.”
He did as told.
“Do you see EDM 1970s Mix?”
She waited while he scanned the selection. “Yeah, found it.”
“Good. Pick any one of those.”
He plucked out a cassette and then hovered over the stereo, tape in hand.
“The cassette player is just above the glass door with the albums.”
“Oh, yeah, I see it.” He examined the various buttons.
Gumption peered across the room at him. “You must turn the power on first, Jake.”
“Oh, right.“ He grinned at her.
Gumption thought, regretfully, that young people these days were useless. They didn’t seem to know how to do anything unless it involved a computer or their phone. Then they were wizards. But when it came to practical everyday things, they were just plain useless. It got worse every year.
Jake got the music going and the synth pulses of Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love” blasted from the big cabinet and woofer speakers. He stood still for a moment, taking it in, then began moving his body to the beat as he glided over to Gumption.
“Nice,” he yelled over the music, doing a chest grind.
Gumption leaned back on her chaise, watching him for a bit, then beckoned to him to come closer. He did, stopping a foot away from her face, and began swiveling his hips.
“Take your pants off, dear,” Gumption said.
“You want it all off, Ms. G?”
“No. Just the pants.”
He did as told and she leaned forward. “Movement, please.”
He began swiveling his hips again and she reached out a finger to trace the lines of his striated abs. His glittery gold underwear bulged with a growing erection.
“If you’re looking for more, I can give it to you, Ms. G,” he said.
“That won’t be necessary, Jake. I’m not wanting sex, dear, but can you keep up that movement?”
“You got it, Ms. G.”
She closed her eyes, taking in the contours of his muscles through her fingers, and nodded. “Good. Stand over there by the window.”
Gumption rose to her feet and went to the two easels she had set up, stepping onto the springy wooden platform that she liked to stand on when she was doing her work. One canvas was blank, the other a painting in progress.
In the painting, a young woman sat naked at her kitchen table, eating cereal, her red-lipsticked mouth open for the next bite. Her bowl overflowed with the men Gumption had been keeping track of in various high-profile sex scandals. She studied the woman’s empty spoon, where she planned to place Jake.
“Darling,” she called out. “Can you remove your underwear, after all?”
Jake cupped his ear to hear better over the loud music. She repeated her request and he grinned again, peeling the shiny gold Speedos off. He had a lovely penis, Gumption thought, delighted.
“Can you keep that erection?” She yelled out to him.
“Yeah. I mean, I might need to touch myself now and then.”
“When you need to, let me know beforehand. Most of the time I want you perfectly still. And don’t go overboard. I want you to keep the erection.”
He gave her a thumbs up.
“Now for the pose. The floor is cold. I’ll have Candace bring over something for you to lie on, dear. It might take five or ten minutes. Just do whatever you need to do to keep your condition.”
Ten minutes later, Candace came into the studio, dragging a twin air mattress with an electric heating unit. Gumption directed her housekeeper where to put it and where to find an extension cord while Jake pleasured himself frequently throughout. Gumption realised it was going to be a problem.
“Have you got Viagra?” She asked the young man.
He shook his head no.
Gumption decided she would start with the other parts of his body first.
“Jake, lie on the mattress on your side, facing me—top leg bent up, one hand on your hip, the other elbow against the mattress, head propped up in hand.” He did as told. “Perfect, darling.”
“Candace, pop out to the store, won’t you, and pick me up some Viagra.”
“You want anything else?” Candace asked, scratching absently at her arm. She was a waif of a woman, with enormous dark circles around her eyes, ghost-white skin, and, remarkably, rich, thick brown hair that fell to her mid-back. The hair was her crowning glory and added to her compelling vampirish appearance. Candace was a functioning heroin addict and Gumption kept her regularly supplied. She also had a blood disorder called hemochromatosis and had to have a pint of blood removed once a month to bring her iron levels back to normal. Gumption paid a doctor to come to the house for the bloodletting.
She was quite fond of Candace and thought of her like a daughter. Gumption had hired the young woman five months ago after finding her sleeping in a ratty blanket on her front lawn. The Bakers across the street had called the police on the poor girl. Gumption had to rescue her from a young policeman who obviously didn’t know what to do with her and the bullying Louise Baker.
The Bakers were new neighbors. They looked like a family of Barbie dolls, all except one: the young teen with the strong-looking face. The girl fascinated Gumption and she was itching to draw her. The eldest daughter, Gumption surmised, after a bit of ruminating over the lines and proportions of her body, was not a girl, but a boy—or used to be. The hip to waist ratio was all off, and the breasts did not look real.
The morning the policeman came to deal with Candace, Gumption plucked her out of the grasp of law enforcement and brought her inside the house. She offered her a shower, clothes, food. Saw the track marks on her arms.
“Would you like to work for me?” She’d offered.
Candace had shrugged and Gumption motioned at the needle marks.
“Heroin?”
Candace had looked her up and down with curiosity and something else that Gumption couldn’t quite read in her expression.
“Yeah,” she said, lifting her chin. “A gift from my last employer. The question you should ask is, can you trust me?”
“Can I trust you, dear?”
“You should never ask an addict that.”
Gumption had smiled, admiring her spunk. “I suppose heroin will always come first. If you decide to work for me, eventually you will take anything of value you can find, sell it and get the money for your drug.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t hire me then, since you know the drill.”
“Or I can keep you supplied, dear, and you can help me out around this big old house?”
“You could hire anyone. Why me?”
“I find you interesting.”
Candace had tried to appear disinterested, but her eyes roved the sunroom where they stood talking.
“Would you like the job?”
“What do I have to do?” She’d asked, stretching her neck to look into the next room.
“Light house cleaning, errands, and such.”
“Hm.”
“How often do you need a fix?”
Candace had focused back on her, a flash of fire in her dark eyes, and Gumption knew she was now speaking her language.
“If I had my druthers,”
“Druthers,” Gumption interrupted with raised brows, “are we in the late eighteen hundreds? My, I haven’t heard that word used since my great-aunt Leona.”
Candace had smiled, flashing teeth with pointy incisors, and Gumption fell in love.
“I’d be high all the time if I had my druthers,” she’d finished.
“Would you settle for twice a day? I have more than enough money to keep you supplied for a lifetime.”
The fire in Candace’s eyes had glowed more intensely. “Yes,” she’d whispered. “I could work here.”
When Gumption finished her session with Jake, he came over to study the sketch of him and the other painting in progress.
“What’s it supposed to be about?” He asked.
“Changing of the guard. My interpretation of the Me Too movement. You see, dear, there is always a strong backlash when the oppressor loses control. The hunter becomes the hunted.”
Gumption directed her hawk-eyed gaze at Jake’s guileless boyish face.
“Cool,” he said. “You can pay me through Venmo.”
“That won’t be necessary. I have cash.”
She went to her jewelry box and pulled out a stack of hundreds, counting ten into his hand. “Come back to tomorrow, dear.”
“Absolutely,” Jake said.
Emma and Cat flew along Euclid on scooters, hair whipping in the wind, the buzz of liquor still thrumming through their systems. Emma had forgotten her bathing suit, and Cat said she’d go home with her to get it while Nisha stayed behind at Cassandra’s to help clean the kitchen. The plan was for the group to reconvene at Santa Monica Bike Rentals, where Cat’s mom would meet them and sign the release forms for the girls to rent bikes. They would cycle along the pathway of the Santa Monica shoreline, possibly go as far as Marina del Rey, though to get there they’d have to cross several streets. None of the girls could remember their last time on a bike, and the possibility of riding in traffic was daunting.
The two girls slowed as Emma’s house, an apple green rambler, came into view, and stopped to park the scooters against a palm tree on an island of grass between the street and sidewalk.
“Oh, sh*t,” Emma said, smacking her forehead with the palm of her hand.
“What?” Cat asked.
“I forgot. It’s noon.”
“So?”
“So, the twins are eating.”
“Ooh,” Cat pulled her mouth up and over to one side. “How long is lunch again?”
“An hour.” Emma gazed at her house.
“An hour,” Cat whined, placing her hands on her hips, opening her legs to a wide stance, and scowling at Emma’s house. “What if we’re really quiet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your mom’s f*cking looped, you know that, right?” Cat shoved her hands into the pockets of her jumpsuit, shoulders shooting up to her ears.
“And your mom isn’t?”
“We know my mom is weird, but we’re talking about your mom right now.”
“She has Aspergers, okay?”
“Yeah, Aspergers on steroids.”
“Again, pot calling the kettle black and all that.” Emma leaned up against the palm tree.
Cat sighed, then stuck her tongue out at Emma. “I can’t stay mad at you. You’re too cute, you little butterball.”
Emma rolled her eyes.
Their phones pinged and they read the group text.
“Great,” Cat said. “They’re almost done with the kitchen and will be at the bike shop in half an hour.”
She tapped out a quick response.
we forgot about the twin’s lunch
A second later an angry face emoji appeared from Nisha, followed by,
can u go in quiet?
Emma chewed on her lip and texted.
I’ll try the side door
This was rewarded with a thumbs up and a sparkly heart.
“Come on,” Emma said in a low voice.
“Why are you whispering? We’re outside.”
“To get prepared to be really quiet,” Emma made wide eyes at Cat and Cat pointed her finger at her temple, making little circles.
“I don’t know why I’m whispering, actually,” Emma whispered. The girls broke into giggles. “Wait, shh. Okay, come on. We’re going to go through the yard and use the kitchen door.”
“Okay, should we tiptoe?” Cat drew her brows together in a fake worried look.
“Shut up.” Emma gave her a shove, then lifted the latch to the gate.
“We’re so James Bond right now,” Cat whispered in her ear and Emma had to stop for a moment as a wave of laughter swept through her. “A secret bathing suit mission,” Cat continued as Emma’s shoulders shook, mouth clamped shut. Cat looked left and right in an exaggerated way and then over her shoulder.
“Stop,” Emma hissed. “You’re going to make me pee my pants.”
The girls slipped into the yard and climbed the three cement steps that led to the kitchen door.
Emma tried the doorknob.
“Come on, it’s not a bomb,” Cat said from her over her shoulder.
A snort of air shot out of Emma’s nostrils, laughter spluttering from her lips. “Cat, stop, seriously.” The girls collapsed against each other in a fit of half-suppressed giggles. Emma tried to grasp the doorknob but was too weak from the hilarity wracking through her body to lift her arm.
The door opened and Emma’s mom, Jill Dawson, stepped outside, closing the door with a quiet click. She glared at them from behind square black-framed bifocals, a clipboard under her arm. The sunlight reflected off her neck-length shiny chestnut brown hair. She wore a white polo shirt and black capri pants because it was Saturday. The white Sketchers on her feet were one of three pairs. These were her mealtime shoes, bought for their cushy comfort and silence when walking around the house.
“It is 12:13 PM, Emma,” Jill said. Her eyes wandered past them to a grey cat that jumped onto the fence dividing the Dawsons’ property from the neighbors’. The cat slunk along the fence line and Jill turned to touch the doorknob three times before refocusing on the girls.
“This is the 142nd time you’ve disrupted the twins’ mealtime schedule. I told you that I’m gathering pertinent information for the next twelve months about their eating behaviors and—”
“Okay, Mom. I know,” Emma interrupted. “I just need to get my suit. Didn’t I tell you yesterday I was going to the beach today?”
“You did not tell me you were going to the beach yesterday. Yesterday, you attempted to leave the house at 3:02 PM, wearing an orange linen top with short sleeves and yellow shorts with green stripes that were too small for you. And don’t get me started on the shoes and the fact that it was only fifty-six degrees outside. We discussed your attire. You changed your clothes to something more appropriate and left at 3:27 PM to go to Cat’s for the night. At no point did you mention a beach outing for this afternoon.”
“Mom. Fine. I forgot to tell you,”
“Furthermore,” Jill interrupted Emma. “There are 365 days in the year. That’s 1,095 meals I need to catalog. This is the 150th day and the 409th meal, of which 142 you’ve disrupted. Do you know what percentage of interruptions that is, Emma?”
Cat had sidled closer to Emma and Emma could hear her breathing in her ear.
Jill leaned forward, waiting, the rims of her eyes pink from the strain of constantly reading or being on the computer.
“I don’t know,” Emma muttered, her eyes snaking over to Cat, a blush spreading across her cheeks.
“It is 34.79 percent of the time, meaning roughly a third of the time, you disrupt meals.”
Emma threw up her arms. “Mom. This isn’t normal. No one does this. Why can’t you be like other moms?!”
A small wrinkle appeared at Jill’s brow. “We’ve had this conversation many times, Emma. I can’t be like other moms because I can only be me. I don’t even know what that means, exactly. In fact, we’ve had this same conversation no less than seven times this past week.”
“Ugh.” Emma made a gurgling noise in her throat and pushed past Jill, opening the door. “I’m going to get my suit.”
Jill said nothing, her lips pressed tightly together. Cat slipped around her, too, and the girls walked quietly through the kitchen, passing the dining room. Emma glimpsed Myla, Jill’s assistant. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, clipboard before her on the dining table. Two chubby, bald toddlers sat on a sheet spread out on the floor, as if they were at a picnic. An assortment of little white dishes were laid out uniformly, each containing a separate entree. One of the babies held something green and squishy in its fist, shoving it into a drooling mouth. Emma shuddered. She wasn’t especially fond of babies or tiny children. Myla smiled at them, then returned her attention to the twins.
The girls jogged on tiptoe to Emma’s room.
“Yeah, my mom’s got nothing on your mom,” Cat said.
“Shh.” Emma opened the top drawer of her dresser to rummage around for her suit. “If you think we’re in the clear because we’re in my room and the door’s closed, think again,” she said in a loud whisper. She brushed away a tank top that hid the pink Mini Halo vibrator she’d swiped from her dad’s when she’d gone through his things. A sex toy left behind, she assumed, by one of his conquests. Her heart jumped to her throat and she threw a look in Cat’s direction, but Cat was absorbed in her phone.
“They’re on their way over there,” she said of Nisha and Cassandra.
Emma covered the vibrator back up and grabbed her suit. Her hands felt clammy and moist.
“Great,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve got my suit, let’s go.”
Gumption and Candace sat on the front porch, enjoying the hot Saturday afternoon. Yesterday was cold. In the fifties. Candace sipped from a tumbler of scotch and Gumption held a tall glass of iced tea infused with lemongrass.
“I just listened to a podcast about cannibalism when I was cleaning the bathrooms,” Candace said, squinting out at the wide sweep of the quiet street. Less than a mile away, the walkways teemed with tourists and locals alike, and Highway One was bumper to bumper with beach traffic. “In Europe, people used to eat the bones, blood, and fat of other people for medicinal purposes.”
“Yes, I suppose we were all cannibals at one time or another,” Gumption said. She leaned her head against the cushioned back of her porch swing, closing her eyes and enjoying the feel of a warm breeze.
“It was so common in China that this one author had an entire chapter devoted to the different methods they used to cook human flesh.”
“Hm,” Gumption said, studying the red and splotchy white patterns behind her closed lids.
“The servants of royalty and the wealthy would prepare these exotic dishes from human body parts, and the meat of children was considered the tastiest. The cooks would fill dumplings with their minced flesh.” Candace shuddered. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be eating Chinese anymore.”
Gumption opened her eyes. “My dear, the cannibalism you’re talking of was ages ago.”
“Not really. About seven years ago in South Korea, they had a crackdown on human flesh capsules that tourists were bringing over in their luggage from China. Dehydrated aborted fetuses crushed into powder and then put into pills to boost sexual stamina. Even here in America, women are eating their placentas. A friend of mine who works at the Health Department said he had a friend who ate her afterbirth.”
Gumption swirled her tea. The ice cubes made a pleasant tinkling sound.
“You have a friend who works at the Health Department?”
“His name is Joey. He only eats raw food. Fruit, mostly.”
“Is he healthy?”
“No.”
“He’s possibly anemic.” Gumption swatted a fly away. “When I was younger, we called them fruitarians. I knew a woman named Spring who lived on fruit. She had the sweetest smelling farts.”
“Does she still live on fruit?”
“No. She dropped dead of a heart attack twenty years ago or more. You’re much better off with heroin than Spring ever was with that ghastly fruit diet. The body needs a variety of different sorts of food to survive.”
Gumption stared at Candace’s gaunt white profile.
Candace scratched her arm and bobbed her right leg. She wore a long sleeve shirt, jeans, and socks with tennis shoes although it was eighty-five degrees.
Candace’s leg went still and she squinted at something across the street. Gumption followed her gaze. The Bakers’ daughter, the one with the interesting face, was coming out of her house. Behind her was a tall black girl with a giant ass and wide, maternal hips that did not match her slim waist and upper body. Gumption had seen the Baker girl with that friend before. Often, she ran around with her and two other girls.
At that moment, the girls looked Gumption’s way. She raised her hand and waved. The girls froze, then waved back. Gumption motioned them over and they crossed the street, stopping on the sidewalk before the little pathway of round stepping stones that led to the porch steps.
“You’re Gumption Road,” the black girl said, her mouth hanging open with awe.
“Yes,” Gumption said. “And this is Candace.”
The girls studied Candace for a moment, as if not sure what to make of her, and then focused back on Gumption.
“What are your names?” Gumption asked.
“Nisha and that’s Cassandra.” Nisha clamped her hand over her mouth and did a bobbing motion with her body before removing her hand. “I’m like a big fan, Ms. G. Big fan.”
Cassandra nodded in agreement. “Yeah. She’s a total fangirl.”
“Really?” Gumption said. “How fascinating. I had no idea young people were interested in my work.”
“No idea?” Nisha echoed, eyes widening. “You’re, like, a hero with girls.”
Gumption flushed with pleasure. “How delightful.”
“The way you take everyday toxic heteronormative masculinity and reveal the psychosocial trauma of society through existentialist surrealism is amazing.”
“Well,” Gumption said. “How remarkably refreshing that some of you are actually awake.”
“Oh, a lot of us are woke, Ms. G,” Nisha said. “There’s an entire army of us coming for the patriarchy. They think they’re in trouble now. Wait another five years because we’re coming to destabilize, desexualize, exteriorize, anthologize, and cannibalize the anesthetized and tranquilized because women are tired of being fragmentized and marginalized.”
Gumption took a sip of her tea, staring over the rim of her glass at Nisha.
“It’s a work in progress, Ms. G,” Nisha said of her rap.
“I like it, dear.”
Nisha’s face darkened with pleasure.
Candace threw her head back and laughed. “Cannibalize,” she said. “We were just talking about cannibals.”
“Yeah?” Nisha said.
“Hey, we gotta go,” Cassandra interrupted.
“Come back and visit,” Gumption said.
“We will definitely come and visit,” Nisha said.
Cassandra looked at her phone.
“And you,” Gumption said to Cassandra. “If you’d let me, I’d like to draw your portrait.”
Cassandra looked up at her, startled. “Me?”
“Yes. You have such an interesting look, dear. I hope you’ll consider my proposal.”
When Cassandra said nothing, Nisha punched her in the shoulder.
“Ow.”
“The answer is yes,” Nisha said.
“Fine. Yes. Most people are interested in my older sister, Sam. She’s the beauty, not me.”
“I’m not most people, dear. And I wholeheartedly disagree. Your sister has nothing on you.”
Cassandra blinked back at Gumption in quiet amazement. “Are you sure you’ve seen Sam?”
“Yes. She is beautiful in a conventional sense.”
Cassandra blew air up at her bangs and looked at her phone again, a blush spreading across her cheeks. “Sorry. But we have to go.”
“Tata, darlings.”
“We should have a dance party,” Candace said, out of the blue.
The girls peered at her curiously.
“Wonderful idea,” Gumption said. Candace grinned, her eyes lit with excitement that she normally showed for smack.
She had a frightening smile with her long, sharp incisors and emaciated features.
Cassandra thought she looked like an animated corpse. But Nisha came alive over the prospect of a dance party. “I call DJ,” she said.
“Capital.” Gumption took a sip of her tea.
“This is going to be a slammin’ summer,” Nisha said.
“Yes. I think so,” Gumption agreed.
“Why do you think Cassandra’s sister is so secretive about being trans?” Cat said, punching in the code to her scooter.
Emma shrugged. “I can’t believe she used to be a guy. I mean, you can’t tell. At all.” Emma shook her hair back over her shoulders. “Have you ever noticed that there’s no pictures of Sam as a kid in those pics they have hanging in their hallway?”
Cat shot her a look.
“There’s this wedding photo, though—from Louise and Richard’s wedding—and it has Cassandra in it and this guy who I think is Sam.”
“Really? I never look at those pictures,” Cat said. The girls took off at a leisurely speed, Cat chewing at the side of her cheek, her look thoughtful.
“Could you tell that Sam used to be a guy?” Emma asked.
“Nope. I would have never guessed. But, like, being trans is not the biggest deal these days.”
“Sure, if you live in LA, but there’s a lot of places where trans people are still marginalized.” Emma tossed her hair out of her eyes and the girls picked up speed on their scooters.
“Yeah. Totally. Here, too, sometimes. But still. She should be proud.”
The girls took a right on Wilshire Boulevard, the sun beating down on their heads as they flew past stores and pedestrians.
“Well, maybe she doesn’t identify as trans, but as cis.”
“You can’t identify as a cis. You either are or you aren’t assigned a particular gender at birth.”
“Hey, you know what?” Emma said. “I just realized that all of us are cis and, like, straight in our friend group. We don’t have anyone who’s gender fluid, trans, lesbian, bi-gender, um…”
“Pangender,” Cat called out. “Omnigender.”
“Wait, aren’t pan and omni basically the same thing?”
“No.”
“How are they not the same?”
“Pangender is when you present parts of different genders and omni is when you’re all genders.”
“That’s the same thing,” Emma said.
“No, it’s not. It’s different. Trust me.”
The girls’ phones pinged and Cat grabbed hers from her pocket, taking quick glimpses at the screen as they whizzed along.
“They’re there already.” She held down the speech icon and said “Be there in ten,” into the speaker before slipping the phone back in her pocket.
“Anyway, I bet they’re the same,” Emma picked up with their conversation.
“We can look it up when we get to the bike shop,” Cat said.
They fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the fresh breeze flowing from the ocean and the heat of the sun on their bare arms and faces.
As Emma ruminated over the conversation, her thoughts drifted back to what she’d said about their group, all of them being cis and straight. Except lately, whenever she masturbat*d, she fantasized about girls. Was it because of the p*rn, or was she bi and only now realizing it? She still liked boys, but her fantasies were about girls—well, one in particular: Blue Mars. Blue was part of a trio that she and her friends had nicknamed Pretty Little Devils. Not because the girls were mean or anything. It had to do with the fact that they were drop-dead gorgeous. Once, Cat had made a remark about the Persian one, Suri: that no one deserved to be that pretty, and Nisha had said, “yeah, she’s a pretty little devil.” That’s how it started.
The Pretty Little Devils were Suri Akbari, Blue Mars, and Valentina Garcia. They were a year ahead, freshmen in high school. Emma’s thoughts lingered on Blue, her womanly figure, cool gaze like she was looking right through you, long brown hair, and full, soft lips. She thought of taking off Blue’s shirt and fondling her breasts the way she’d done with the sex doll.
“Emma, watch out,” Cat yelled.
Emma swerved just in time around a toddler, staring up at her with saucer-wide eyes. She barely missed him. His mom lurched forward, swooping him up.
“You shouldn’t be on the sidewalk with those!” The mother screamed.
“Sorry,” Emma yelled over her shoulder, face hot with embarrassment as she and Cat slowed their speed.
“God, Em, pay attention. You almost mowed that kid over.”
Emma glanced at her hands on the handlebars, heart in her throat, and grimaced as her eyes traveled further to her pudgy belly, pushing up against the steering column.
“He came out of nowhere,” she muttered.
“Yeah, basically that’s what happens on a sidewalk,” Cat snapped. “People tend to walk on it.”
Emma said nothing. She knew she was wrong, hadn’t been paying attention, perving out to Blue, who would never be interested in her in a million years anyway.
Five minutes later, they saw Cat’s mom Brenda standing outside the bike rental shop on 4th Street, tapping out a text on her phone.
“Mom,” Cat yelled, waving.
Brenda looked up, dark sunglasses swallowing up half her face.
“There you girls are,” Brenda said in her low voice, gravelly from years of smoking. “Nisha and Cassandra are picking out their bikes. And none of you have helmets.”
“We don’t ride bikes that often,” Cat said as they glided to a stop on their scooters, abandoning them.
“Yeah, because only riding a bike once in a while means you can’t possibly fall and hit your head,” Brenda shot back. That was all she was going to say about it, though. Cat’s mom wasn’t strict about anything. Brenda was fifty-eight and often complained about being tired. She was also fond of saying, “when I was a kid, your folks told you to go outside and play, locked the door, and didn’t let you back in until it got dark.” Emma’s dad treated her more like a grandchild. She’d noticed that older parents had a different way of interacting with their children—a permissive, live-and-let-live, sort of approach.
In the bike shop, an attendant was pulling down a bike for Nisha from the overhead rack. Cassandra stood off to the side, holding the handlebars of a cruiser with a wide blue seat.
“Cruisers for them too,” Brenda said, holding her hand up over the tops of Cat’s and Emma’s heads and moving it in a circle.
The attendant glanced at them.
“Emma almost ran over a toddler,” Cat said by way of greeting the other girls.
Emma gave her a shove and then nibbled on her pinky nail.
“Those scooters are dangerous, too,” Brenda said.
“Mom,” Cat rolled her eyes.
Brenda held up her hands. “Okay. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“Yeah, my mom says there’s roughly thirty-two thousand head injuries a year from scooters,” Emma said.
“If y’all don’t change the subject, I’m not gettin’ on a bike. I don’t want to think about my brains all over the pavement right before I go bike riding. You feel me?” Nisha glowered at them.
“Jeesh.” Brenda opened her purse, fishing around for her wallet.
Emma pulled out her phone and opened her Venmo app, sending Brenda twenty-five dollars.
“So, like, do you guys think pangender and omnigender are the same thing?” Emma asked.
Cassandra shifted her stance, cheeks reddening. “Where in the world did that come from?” She asked.
“We were talking about it on the way here,” Cat said. “Em noticed that we’re all cis and then we were naming the different genders. I was trying to tell her that pan and omni are different.”
“They are different,” the bike attendant said.
“Oh.” Emma nibbled at a nail again.
“Wait a minute,” Nisha said. “Let’s look it up. Just because he says it is, doesn’t mean he knows what he’s talking about. Men are always making things official like if it comes outta their lips, it must be so.”
The assistant grinned. He had giant gold snake tunnels in his earlobes. “Look it up, then.”
Nisha swiveled her head. “I will.”
The assistant leaned Nisha’s bike against the counter and got two more bikes down for Emma and Cat, giving them a rundown on how to adjust for height.
“Yeah, it’s different. Sorry, Em,” Nisha said, looking up.
Emma shrugged.
Brenda paid for the bikes and filled out the waiver forms. Outside, she put her giant sunglasses back on her face. “Goodbye, my little cis ducklings,” Brenda said with a wave.
“Whatever, Mom,” Cat muttered.
“Thanks, Mrs. B,” Nisha called after her.
“Yeah, thanks, Brenda,” Emma said.
Brenda gave another wave and picked up her pace, heading toward the promenade.
The girls mounted their bikes and minutes later they were cruising the crowded bike path by the ocean, swerving around the slower cyclists. Emma stared out at the placid water, little hillocks of waves rolling to shore and crumbling into foam. Two boys loomed before them, shirtless, nipples puckered into pink nubs of flesh, cigars hanging out the sides of their mouths. One of them removed his cigar as the girls got nearer. Then he leaned forward, placing his hands on bent knees, and barked at them. His friend burst out laughing and Nisha gave them the finger as they stumbled away hooting out their laughter.
“Idiots,” Emma grumbled. The other girls said nothing.
A mile later, the boys were forgotten as the girls approached a crowd gathered around something. A young man was stretching his neck to see above two girls who stood with their hands over their mouths.
“Yo, what happened?” Nisha asked him as they slowed to a stop.
He turned, eyes aglow with excitement. “There’s a dead girl on the beach.”
“For real?” Nisha said in a low voice. The others drew closer to her.
“Move aside. Move aside,” a man said from behind Emma, making her jump.
Two paramedics and three cops made their way through the crowd, which began to disperse.
A sharp intake of breath came from Cassandra and Cat said, “Oh my god, that’s Wren.”
“f*ck, it is Wren,” Nisha said in the same low voice.
Emma finally glimpsed what everyone else saw, the smell of Hawaiian Tropic invading her nostrils from a nearby girl in a bikini on roller-skates.
Wren’s body was propped up in a green and blue beach chair situated in the sand, facing the bike path. She was wearing sunglasses and a sunhat, and her hands rested on the chair's armrests. Oddly, her nails were each painted a different color.
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