I inhale and exhale slowly, keeping the tears at bay. That’s what this whole team-up between me and Beck is about, isn’t it? She feels sorry for me. There are only two places for people with brains like mine: You’re either the ghost on the edge of a friend group, never quiteinon the inside jokes, the affection shared between members,the ease with which they listen and speak and exist with one another. The only one without all the passwords. Or you’re their jester, their free entertainment to make themselves feel better about their own social skills and insecurities. The people who can see outside the group dynamic feel bad for someone like me but not enough to adopt us and give us the friendship we clearly need. Because deep down, everyone who isn’t like me thinks I’m too much. Too weird. Tooannoying.
Whatever we find, Beck will disappear the moment we get back from this trip. Regardless of whether she ever found out what I did.
“Emma?” Beck says.
There’s nothing more to say. No one will ever openly admit that you’re a pity friend, no matter how direct they are.
I turn the music up and close my eyes.
We break out of Los Angeles then, anyway. Beck goes from a crawl to speeding along. Before I know it, we’ll be somewhere silly teenage girl social dynamics won’t matter. Who would bother feeling sorry for a lonely girl when three girls are dead, anyway?
I need the heat off me for a bit if I’m going to survive this car ride without getting too overwhelmed.
“You stopped talking about your family,” I say, opening my eyes back up. “Did you mean to stop?”
“Oh,” Beck says. “No, I can keep going. Basically, Paisley decided at some point that I was the…nasty one in the family, I guess.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What does that mean?”
She sighs. “Well, it starts with my mom. She and my dad were in their forties when they had us, so, y’know, they’re…outdated in a lot of ways. My mom’s one of those moms who’s very concerned aboutthe ‘girls are seen and not heard’ thing. Not as badly as I’m sure some people are, but she was all about us being fashionable and charming and demure and, like, the kinds of kids that adults wouldn’t mind sticking around for dinner parties. And I played along, but when my dad was around, he wasn’t like that. He’s a busy guy, but he loved playing sports with me in the park until we were both muddy. Just let me be the tomboy I was. Pais and I were different when we were kids, but we were cool with each other. There were a few movies we both loved at the same time, some games we liked playing together. Hell, sometimes we’d even talk about how much we hated Mom’s weird expectations. We were actually close for most of our childhoods.”
“What changed?”
“When I started middle school, my mom gave up on trying to mold me. At the same time, Paisley fully conformed to what Mom wanted. She became her shopping buddy and the one who she gossiped with about boys and whatever else. And then out of the blue Paisley…continued what Mom had started. She would tell me if she thought a jacket or shoes or earrings I bought were ugly. She’d tell me how unsanitary dogs are if I let Gizmo lick my mouth. She’d tell me when I ate too fast or got too much food or anything like that. Hell, I couldn’t burp in front of her without it being a whole deal about my lack of femininity and manners and whatever.”
Oh my god.
I have brothers. I know what it feels like to be barraged by another human being’s bodily functions as a joke, for them to destroy my toys and smell bad because they didn’t care about deodorant. But I can’t imagine ever telling them to stop being so gross and equating it to their worth as people. What Beck is saying counted as transgressions aren’teven gross; they’re just normal things people do. And then, to be that constantly vicious about someone’s taste is awful.
“Are your siblings like that? Critical?” she asks.
A lump forms in my throat at her tone. Like she’s genuinely convinced that I’m going to mirror her experience.
“No,” I say. “My brothers are more…Neanderthal than that. They don’t really fight with their words.”
Beck bites her lip. “Ah. Yeah, brothers.” She pauses. “Your mom?”
“I think every mom makes you self-conscious about some feature of your face or body, but I guess I wouldn’t say it’s constant.” Where did this conversation start? What was Beck talking about to get us to here? I look to her Dr Pepper, potential things Paisley has said to her about that running through my head. “How often was she…doing that to you? Criticizing you?”
Of all the words I’d use to describe Paisley, I wouldn’t sayjudgmentalwas one of them. At least, she never outright said she hated anything any of us did. We teased one another, but it wasn’tthatoften. Paisley would often offer to do my makeup or let me borrow dresses for cast parties. She never commented on my T-shirts or what food I ordered or anything like she did to Beck. In fact, Paisley was the first person I’d text while I was learning a bunch about any actress I was hyperfixated on, and she’d genuinely geek out with me about old movies and acting techniques, no matter how incessant I got.
“I mean, I don’t think I could go a day without it,” Beck says. “But it’s whatever. You get used to it, tune it out. I mean, she’s my shit little sister. What does she know?”
We aren’t using the right tense. I don’t even care. All I can think of is Beck. The criticism, what she was being criticized for. It’s so cruel.
“That’s awful,” is all I can think to say.
She takes a deep draw on her soda. “I have to say, despite everything that’s happened, I don’t mind the silence.”
For every complaint I ever had about Paisley Horne, nothing compares to what Beck’s got going on inside her.
I wonder what else she’ll reveal as we enter the belly of the beast.
Twelve
We arrive in Kingston several hours after the national park closed to visitors. Something I accounted for in the planning, figuring we could just sleep in the car for the night. I’d considered us getting a room at the motel where we’re supposed to meet the texter or at the cute Gold Rush-themed inn a few blocks down, but I’ve never had to book travel arrangements prior to meeting someone to discuss a potential murder case. Especially given what they said about the town knowing about Paisley’s death before the ISB did. If this is the kind of town that did that, well, I don’t know if we want to make our presence known quite yet.
“This place is kinda eerie, isn’t it?” Beck says as we pass the WELCOME TO KINGSTON,CA!POPULATION:3,700sign. “Even without what that person told us.”
