The Prized Girl. Amy K. Green

her memory, not the memory her parents and the media wanted portrayed, the memory she would want.

      I left right after dinner. They wanted normal and that was normal. I didn’t like those people. I hadn’t realized how much of a buffer Jenny had been between me and my father and Linda. I always thought they used her to ignore me. Apparently I used her too.

      I stepped outside and awoke the zombies.

      They kept yelling questions as if I would stand at the top of the driveway and yell answers back down to them. The narrative was already clearly established: Jenny was a beautiful, pristine child raped and murdered by a pedophile obsessed with her. A murder that rocked a perfect town and a perfect family. I would watch that Dateline episode. It was time to shake that image up a bit.

      When my car reached the end of the driveway, the reporters parted to allow me access into the street. They surrounded the car, trying to get a good look at me. I rolled down the window to help them. Then I raised both middle fingers and announced, “You’re all so fucking stupid,” before hitting the gas and driving off.

Chapter Four

       Jenny

      IT WAS AN uneventful first day thus far as Jenny walked into the bustling lunchroom. Eighth graders were separated into two class blocks, and she found herself in the B block without any of her friends.

      Mallory Murphy, Jenny’s best friend since kindergarten, waved at her from a table of pretty girls in the center of the room. Mallory was stocky but fit, with blonde ringlets and a reputation built around having a tryout with Olympic gymnastics coach Bela Karolyi once.

      “Oh my God, Jenny, I can’t believe you aren’t in our block,” Mallory said before Jenny could even sit. “You have to tell your mom to call. It’s so stupid. They’ll switch you.”

      “Yeah.” For the first time, Jenny realized she had enjoyed the peace of her morning. She felt bad. These were her best friends.

      “There’s a new kid,” Mallory announced.

      “I know,” said Jenny.

      “You know? Did you meet him? He’s in our block. How do you know?”

      “He’s in our grade?” Jenny questioned.

      “Yeah, he’s old, though. He’s already sixteen. Like, he stayed back a bunch. He must be dumb, but he’s kind of hot.”

      “Ew, Mallory,” Nora, one of the skinny teens flanking Mallory, spoke up.

      “Whatever,” Mallory negated the girl’s opinion and switched subjects. “Christine Castleton gave me a ride to school this morning.” She paused for a reaction that Jenny wasn’t going to give. Poor Mallory, unaware of her sloppy-seconds status. “She told me there were three spots open on the varsity squad and all the freshmen are chubby losers.”

      Cheerleading, Jenny’s current destiny. Mallory was a shoo-in; her gymnastic skills were set to give the small squad a legitimacy it had never experienced. Heck, Christine Castleton could barely jog on her busted knee and was somehow still the captain.

      “I can’t believe you even have to try out,” Laura, another flanking groupie, gushed at Mallory.

      A shift had taken place over the summer. Linda had kept Jenny on lockdown after she quit the pageants, and Mallory had eased herself into the alpha role in the group. Jenny searched her brain for jealousy, but could find only relief.

      THE ONE CLASS Jenny was unable to hide out in was geometry. It was a high school course offered every other year to students who passed a certain test the school administered at the end of seventh grade. Jenny was ecstatic last year when she found out she’d passed. Now, as she took her rightful seat next to Mallory, she was less thrilled.

      “Have you seen Mr. Renkin?” Mallory leaned over and whispered.

      Jenny shook her head.

      “He’s gorgeous.”

      Almost on cue, Mr. Renkin stepped through the doorway. He had toned arms and broad shoulders, but a small stomach that bunched just a bit over his belt, a flaw that made him real. His eyes were a unique shade of green highlighted by thick black eyelashes, and Jenny thought maybe if he wore one of those veils that covered the rest of his face and body, she could have mirrored Mallory’s infatuation. Superficiality aside, his best quality was his playful demeanor, which had long awarded him uncontested status as everyone’s favorite teacher.

      He dropped the textbooks he was juggling on his desk with a thud. “All right, geniuses, come grab one.”

      The eight students slid out of their desks like they were disembarking a plane—most filed into an appropriate order; one asshole pushed ahead. Mallory was that asshole. She shoved this poor kid Dirk almost back into his desk. In her defense, he didn’t really exist in her mind.

      She paused as she placed her hands on the textbook and gifted Mr. Renkin extended eye contact. “I’m Mallory,” she said, then waited for him to faint. The teacher nodded, and Mallory headed back to her desk cataloguing the interaction as a victory.

      As the rest of the students grabbed their books, Mr. Renkin turned to the whiteboard and wrote his name in large letters, a useless thing to do. All that kids do before school starts is compare their teachers and classes.

      “I’m Mr. Renkin,” he announced for those who couldn’t read, or speak, or think.

      He leaned down to squint at the roster list on his desk. “Raise your hand when I read your name.”

      “Laura?” Hand.

      “Krystal?” Hand.

      “Dirk?” Hand. He did exist!

      “Brian?” Hand.

      “Mallory, we met.” He grinned, mocking the girl.

      “Nora?” Hand.

      “Samuel?” Hand.

      “And last but not least, Jenny?”

      Jenny raised her hand, surprised to be last, defying the laws of alphabetization.

      Mr. Renkin placed both hands down and leaned onto the desk as he looked at her. His actions could be those of a man who had reached the end of a list, but the stare felt deeper. Mallory, whose senses were on high alert, turned to look at Jenny in the millisecond before Mr. Renkin looked away and before any other student noticed. When Mallory wouldn’t let it go, Jenny gave the best explanation she could—a light shrug.

      THE BELL RANG at 3:10 and the swarm of kids around Jenny jumped from their seats. Jenny didn’t rush, happy to let them all go first. It was time to grab her bag, walk to the locker room, change into tiny spandex shorts and a tank top, and earn her spot on the squad. It was stupid. It was easy. It made sense, but she didn’t want to do it. She didn’t know why. Was she being a brat? Was she being lazy? Maybe she was jealous of Mallory after all.

      She got on the bus and went home. One action to bear a million consequences.

      She wasn’t looking forward to facing her mother and explaining why she didn’t go to tryouts. If the gods were on her side, she would already be passed out. Linda had developed a nice little wine-drinking habit in the last few months, meaning she drank it by the bottle whenever Jenny left the house. She had debilitating separation anxiety, which only heightened after Jenny quit the pageants, dissolving their special bond. With her husband in New York during the week and Jenny back in school, Linda was buying wine by the case.

      Jenny climbed the carpeted stairs to her bedroom and shut the door. The room wasn’t her at all, not anymore. Stuffed animals and dolls stared at her from a corner shelf. They looked much more foolish to Jenny than they had the day before. She was officially an eighth grader now.

      She