JOSIE
“To think that Karen Boots didn’t have everything under control is—”
“Strange?” I finish Rika’s sentence as we sit at the pub by the truck stop. “Definitely.”
My grandmother has always been the woman who controlled every minute of her life, and mine as well. Just not that time, twenty-five years ago.
It’s Rika’s night off. I left the diner earlier. We met up here to avoid the usual customers at Carrigan’s.
I look forward to meeting up with Rika more than anything lately.
She’s a breath of fresh air. With occasional witty humor and reality checks.
With her outrageous blue braids and no-nonsense attitude.
I wish I were like her and could stand up to all the bullies who have been making my life hell online in the last months.
Earlier, I received another email from a hater, that same one who’s been stalking me online, @bad07.
You deserve what your mom got, it said, stabbing me right in my heart.
“Grandma doesn’t know if that guy Derek is my father or not,” I tell Rika as I sip my beer while Rika takes generous gulps of hers.
“You actually asked her?”
“Yep, straight to her face.”
“There are DNA tests and all.”
“Well, first they have to find the guy.”
“The police already have the DNA from the house.”
“I know. It’s just scary.”
“Why scary? It’s not like you’re gonna find out he’s your dad, and suddenly, you’re gonna go crazy and kill people because it’s in your genes.”
I gape at Rika.
She snorts. “What?”
“Jeez, a little diplomacy wouldn’t hurt.”
“You’ve had the same genes since you were born. You’re doing fine as far as I know. Unless you secretly kill people and stash them in your backyard.”
“Will you shut up?” I shake my head.
“Chill. I’m joking. Maybe you’re just into setting places on fire.”
“Oh my god, Rika, will you cut it out?” I hiss.
She laughs in response, taking a swig of her beer. “Are you into fires?”
I tsk, knowing she’s joking, and I suddenly realize that, with her, I can take these jokes, something that I couldn’t do throughout my school years.
She nudges me with her shoulder. “It’s all right. Did you know that research has shown that many violent people and psychopaths are extremely intelligent and often very talented? Which one are you?”
I shake my head, scratching at the label on my beer bottle that won’t peel off.
“Also that”—she flicks her eyes to the scraps of the beer label on the counter—“is a sign of extreme impatience and compulsive behavior.”
I stop ripping the hell out of the label.
“Maybe you should pick up your guitar so your energy doesn’t go sideways,” Rika suggests.
“You know what?” I turn to her to confront her, but she holds her palms up in the air with a humorous air.
“All right! All right!” she says with that contagious, shit-eating grin. “Is that why you do art?”
“Yep,” she responds without hesitation. “Either that or stealing cars.” Her chest shakes from silent laughter.
“You are joking, right?”
“Nope.”
“What do you mean, nope?”
“I have a record.”
“For what?”
“Grand theft auto.”
My mouth forms a silent O. “You are kidding, right?”
“I’m not. Eventually, it was diminished to joyriding.”
“Seriously?” For a brief moment, I stare at my mutilated bottle. “What are your parents like?” I ask to change the topic.
“Huh,” Rika murmurs, suddenly quiet for a moment, and I try to read her face to see if I hit a sensitive topic. “Mom has been MIA pretty much all my life.”
“What does that mean?”
“Missing in action. A flight attendant.”
“Oh.”
“An international one.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow.”
“Dad?”
“Dad is whatever. They got divorced last year. We barely talk. Let’s say I wasn’t an easy child to raise.”
“You don’t say.”
She gives me a humorous side-eye. “Yeah. Mom didn’t want me. Dad didn’t care. Sniffle-sniffle.”
She’s good at it, making fun of herself, easy about her past. I wish I were like her.
“Moral of the story,” she continues, “feeling bad for oneself is counter-productive.”
“I don’t feel bad about my past.” I think that’s a lie, and I need to rephrase it.
“B.S.,” Rika argues. “You’re so full of it. You feel bad about your past and feel bad for yourself and being in this town.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“It’s FOMO, girl.”
“What?”
“Fear of missing out. It's bringing you down.”
“I don't have that.”
“Sure you do. It's all over your face. When was the last time you played your music or sang for others?”
I smirk bitterly. “Yeah, Carrigan’s is not really my crowd.”
“With your talent, you could make things happen from anywhere. Literally, your bedroom. Turn on your computer, log in to live stream, and go.”
“Hey!” A loud voice comes from the other side of the bar counter. A drunk guy stares at me with a smirk. “You are Karen’s girl, ain’t you?”
I don’t respond, already sensing what’s coming next.
“You are a superstar, ain’t you?” he slurs bitterly and chuckles drunkenly, then looks at the bartender. “Saw that video, yeah?”
I shrivel into myself. It’s an instant reflex, shame washing over me.
Rika straightens her shoulders. “You got any achievements you can boast of, buddy?” Her voice is loud and harsh. “Why don’t you tell us?”
His expression hardens as he glares at Rika. “Can’t compete with that mess.” He jerks his chin in my direction.
“Can’t compete, then shut your trap!” she snaps, then murmurs, “Moron,” and turns to me.
“They’ll eat me alive,” I say quietly, staring at the beer bottle in front of me.
“Who? The angry, bored clowns who thrive on shitting on others?” she asks, tilting her head in the drunk’s direction.
“Ignore them. Play for those who love your stuff. Share what you are going through. On the other side of the screen, plenty of people are going through worse. Trust me, I’ve been there.
They could use help. They cope through music.
Sure, I love making art, but you know what’s extraordinary? ”
I wait for her to continue, but Rika is being Rika. She likes engagement. So I finally roll my eyes and turn to meet her gaze. “What?”
“That there are hundreds, if not thousands, who are excited about my art a lot more than I am. They need it more than me. They use it as therapy. That is powerful, girl. That is fractal positivity.”
“Is that even a thing? Fractal positivity?”
Rika doesn’t respond to my joke and turns away.
We sit for some time without saying anything.
The bar is emptying out. Rika watches a baseball game on TV for a minute, then chats with the bartender.
I just enjoy being out with someone who doesn’t judge me for my messed-up past, twenty-plus years of it.
Though I think I angered her with my negativity.
Soon, my beer is empty, and I’m staring at the completely destroyed label, the paper crumbs all over the counter.
Rika passes me her empty beer bottle. “Wanna do mine?”
We both laugh.
I’ve only ever had one person throughout my childhood who could cheer me up in the worst times—Grandma.
I barely had any friends in school. In Pittsburgh, I didn’t have any bad times that required a shoulder to cry on.
Until two months ago, that is. But the only responses I got from my friends were pretty much the same: “That’s messed up. ”
Rika somehow turns bad days into okay ones, and that’s not an easy task with everything that’s going on.
“All right, I’m gonna head home,” I say. “Need to check on Grams.”
I could call her, but this morning’s conversation made me sappy. Friends and bars are great, but I need to spend as much time as possible with Grandma while I still can.
“See you, Boots. Drive safe,” Rika responds, and I feel a tinge of disappointment that she didn’t ask me to stay for another drink.
I walk outside, toward the far side of the parking lot, which has cleared out almost completely.
I’m nearly at my car when my phone dings with a message. This must be Rika. I smile, swiping the screen.
Unknown: What are you hiding in the trunk, Josie?
I stop and reread the message.
Nothing, I say to myself, but suddenly my heart starts thumping against my chest.
I approach my car like there’s a bomb about to go off inside it. It’s dark. I should’ve parked closer to the bar, where the cameras are, but the lot was fuller when I got here.
Now, I shine my phone’s flashlight at my car, searching for signs of anyone having tampered with my trunk. It wouldn’t take much. It’s an old car, with a key, no digital fob. You don’t need to be a genius to break into it.
I hold my breath as I stick the key in the trunk and pop it open.
A strange smell wafts at me along with the ice-cold air.
I shine my phone inside it, and the ground falls out from under me.
Inside is a body.