Story #4: THE GIRL CODE
The Girl Code
A teenager is saved by an incredible stranger
I’m not a mean girl. Not in the slightest. My own
mother, who’s raised four girls before me, has told me that I’m by far the sweetest
seventeen-year-old she’s dealt with. My sisters were a handful for sure. Catty,
snarky, full of attitude…but I’m different.
I compliment other girls. Your hair looks so good! What did you do to it today? Is that a new
dress? It’s gorgeous! That kind of thing.
I don’t gossip. I don’t talk about my classmates, let
alone my teachers.
I help old women cross the street, and I don’t complain
when they’re so slow it feels like we’re moving at 1/25th of normal
speed.
So you see? I’m nice.
But this girl who’s just come to sit on the bench with
me at the bus stop? She stinks.
It’s a smell that the late afternoon wind can’t blow
away. The smell of wet clothing that hasn’t quite dried yet. It’s the smell of
damp carpeting. The smell of wet dog.
A small part of me wants to politely ask her to move,
but there’s nowhere else for her to sit. Unless I moved and stood far, far
away, but my legs are killing me. Swimming was insane this afternoon.
Twenty
laps on an empty stomach? Not a good idea. But I’d do anything to not look like
a bloated whale in my swimsuit. I might not be mean, but a lot of the other
girls are.
My phone vibrates with a text message from Mum: Running a little late, sweetheart. Another
20 mins xx
And because I’m a nice and understanding daughter, I text
her that it’s okay, even though she’s already fifty-three minutes late to pick
me up. All the cars are gone. All the teachers and students are gone. The only
other person with me in front of the school gates is Damp Girl.
I side-eye her as best as I can, trying to get a
proper look at her. She must’ve been at the pool as well and just put her clothes
on over her wet swimsuit. I don’t get people who do that. It takes five seconds
to take it off. The only problem is, it smells like old dampness. Like a carpet that’s been damp for a week. It’s stale dampness. It’s so strong I have
the urge to block my nose with my fingers.
But that would be mean.
I’m not mean.
She’s wearing our school uniform—a white button-up
shirt and tan skirt—and her dark, chin-length hair is wet, the ends dripping
water onto her shirt.
“Do you want a towel?” The words spill from my mouth automatically.
She doesn’t say anything, but she shakes her head. That
tiny movement sends droplets onto my arm. I resist the urge to move. Instead, I
get onto my phone and see what’s happening online. By the time I raise my head,
the sun has dipped even lower, a spattering of orange and peach on the horizon. Damp Girl has barely moved. I button my blazer up, wondering
how she’s managing to sit out here comfortably in damp clothes. The wind isn’t letting
up.
I glance at my phone but it seems that the battery has
died. Just great.
I should just walk. Sure, we live on the other side of
town, but I’m sure if I pace myself, I won’t kill myself. Right? I could be
home under two hours, tops. Just as I’m gathering my water bottle and P.E. bag,
a black sedan rolls up to the bus stop. The window is half-open and the driver,
a man with salt-and-pepper hair and horn-rimmed spectacles, looks at me in
obvious concern.
“Your parents forgot about you?”
“No,” I tell him. “They haven’t.”
“You want a ride? You shouldn’t be sitting here alone.”
Alone?
I
think, glancing at Damp Girl beside me.
I feel my eyebrows raise. She’s giving him a look of
such pure hatred, I’m surprised he doesn’t go up in flames.
And then she screams.
It’s such a pained, high-pitched scream that I have to block
my ears, but that doesn’t stop them from ringing.
“Stop!” I yell back at her, but she doesn’t. She only
becomes louder, so loud that it sounds like we’re screaming together. And maybe we are. I don’t know
anymore.
“You’re crazy!”
the man shouts back before he speeds off.
That was crazy.
I turn to Damp Girl to ask her what the hell her problem is, but she’s gone.
There’s absolutely no sign of her. Not a trace. It’s
like she was never here.
Mum’s car pulls up in front of me and I move my things
into the car on autopilot.
“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart,” Mum says, getting all
her files off the passenger seat while I slide in. She sets them on my lap. “Such
a sad day today.”
“What happened?” I ask, and I open the file on top even
though Mum doesn’t like me doing that.
My heart seems to stop.
“We finally managed to ID the body they found in the
lake last week.” Mum’s voice seems far away.
Staring back at me is a family picture of Damp Girl
and her parents.
Her dad is the driver of the black sedan.
END
NEXT WEEK: Short story inspired by the tweet: 'Finding peace among the tombstones while reading letters you sent me'.
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