Twenty
I met Harlow Spielman for the first time freshman year during lunch.
Paisley and I met in homeroom that day, and she told me to join her and her friends for lunch.
I asked her how she already had friends, and she smiled and said she’d make enough to fill a table by noon.
So, I’m not even sure where Harlow and Paisley met, only that Paisley had pulled her into her orbit within three hours of meeting.
Harlow had been wearing a matching two-piece baby-pink top and skirt.
She had a stiffness about her. Paisley had pointed to the table where Harlow and Opal were already sitting, picking through their lunches in silence. She told me to pick any seat.
I’d picked the one across from Harlow. I told her how beautiful her dress was.
Her reply had been to say that I was in Paisley’s seat.
She didn’t ask for my name, didn’t accept the compliment, nothing.
Just that. I remember feeling like I was in free fall, shamefully moving into the seat next to Opal.
Opal had introduced herself and I learned her name, she learned mine, but Harlow hadn’t said anything.
When Paisley returned, Harlow didn’t even look at me. Just sought out Paisley’s eyes and said, “She tried to take your spot. I told her it was yours, though. Isn’t that funny?”
Paisley hadn’t cared, just started talking about auditioning for the fall play and how happy she was to bring us all together.
But I never forgot. Harlow and I had every reason to relate to each other—both our interests were niche and kind of nerdy, we were both Jewish, we both had unconventional home lives—but that initial tone could never be overcome.
I never liked Harlow.
I’ve never admitted that before, not even in my own head. But the truth is, it’s always been there. Harlow openly only tolerated me, but I was doing the same thing. She was just less of a people-pleaser, more willing to be obvious about it.
How much longer would it have taken me to realize this if Harlow hadn’t died? Would I have done anything about it?
I don’t know. All I do know is that her phone is in my hands.
I have her phone and Beck’s grabbing my arm and we’re running and—
“Hey!” Ivy’s voice rings through the parking lot as we reach the edge of our campsite. “What the fuck are you two doing? What did you—?”
Harlow was at times a bitch, but suddenly I’m grateful I have her phone. Like we’ve finally found something to come together on.
We stop running, allowing Ivy to catch up to us.
“Why do you have a dead girl’s phone?” Beck demands, her whole body contorting in anger.
Ivy stops dead in her tracks. We’re still standing between her and her van.
There’s a split second when I glance at the skewer in Beck’s hands, imagining what it would look like if we had to defend ourselves.
Then I imagine what it’d be like if I had to keep Beck from stabbing this girl.
Then Ivy starts crying.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she groans. “I know how bad it—I didn’t hurt those girls. I swear. I swear.”
The hairs on the back of my neck raise, awareness creeping up on me. We have to talk to this girl, and it can’t be in front of Natalie.
But at the same time, we can’t just take her back to our campsite. That’s what people do in horror movies before someone shows their true colors. I imagine the blood against my dad’s gray tent. I can’t get the image to go away.
“Then what the hell happened?” Beck spits.
Ivy wipes the tear trails off her cheeks.
“The girl whose phone this is got really drunk. It must’ve just fallen out of her pocket.
I found it the next morning, but when I went to take it back—” New tears fill her eyes.
“The police were there. There was talk about dead bodies and body parts. I couldn’t deal.
I was so scared this phone would implicate me.
I meant to get rid of it months ago, but with Vanessa’s disappearance too, I just couldn’t make myself hand it in anywhere and—FUCK! ”
She puts her hands over her mouth, hyperventilating.
My neck heats as I watch her break down.
I shouldn’t be witnessing a stranger being this vulnerable.
I’m angry at her for hiding this kind of crucial information, I’m terrified of why she was stalking us last night, but above all, I just want to be away from this.
But Ivy’s story is compelling. That’s enough to keep me here.
“I didn’t kill them,” she says as she regains her breath. “I didn’t kill them.”
If she has this phone… “Do you have any of the other phones?”
She shakes her head vigorously. “No. They only found that one girl’s in the ravine. I have no idea about your sister.”
I exchange a look with Beck. She has her arms crossed, her body language stiff. I can only imagine what she’s thinking. Moments ago, we thought we had our killer. Her sister’s killer. And now we’re standing in front of a sobbing girl a year older than us begging us for mercy.
Beck suddenly doesn’t look very willing to give it.
“We’re taking the phone,” Beck says, her voice grave.
“If you don’t have anything else to say about what happened, leave us the fuck alone.
Go deal with your missing friend.” Beck steps closer to Ivy, standing tall, looming over her.
“And stop creeping around our campsite at night. We can’t help you. ”
Ivy’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about? I didn’t stop by your campsite last night.”
Those brief moments when it felt like Beck and I had the upper hand fly away like a stray gust of wind hitting a piece of paper. My head begins to pound. No, of course not. Of course this case couldn’t be coming together finally.
Beck produces the button, shoving it in Ivy’s face before throwing it onto the ground. “You’re really gonna deny it when we have this right here?”
Beck clenches her fist. Ivy tenses as if waiting for a blow.
“They sell that jacket at the visitors’ center gift shop. Please, I’m just like you two. I’m just looking for someone I care about.”
I believe her. I have no idea why—maybe her tone, maybe her body language?—but I do.
Beck doesn’t move her fist, but some of the molten anger leaves her eyes as she feels what I must be feeling watching Ivy.
Finally, she loosens her grip.
“You’re looking for a stranger because you’re lonely,” Beck spits. “I’m looking for my fucking sister. We’re not the same.”
Beck looks to the van, her nostrils flaring.
She yanks the driver’s side door open, the sudden movement nearly shooting my heart out through my throat.
But all she does is grab a notepad on Ivy’s dash, write her name, a cash app handle, and phone number in it, and hand it to Ivy. “I’ll pay for your window,” Beck mutters before grabbing my arm and walking off.
Ivy stares at us, dumbfounded. I can only hope we’ll both find some closure in this horrible little town.