Amy K. Green - The Prized Girl

“I’m sorry,” she said as tears started to run down her face.

“You’re going to see the guidance counselor again, figure out something to do with yourself. You don’t have to do pageants, but you aren’t going to embarrass yourself.” His phone buzzed in his pocket, stealing his attention.

Linda used the opportunity to move to Jenny on the couch, throwing her arms around her. “It’s OK. You just lost your way a little bit. We’ll figure this out and you’ll be just perfect again.” She rocked Jenny in her arms as the young girl sobbed.

Her father slipped the phone back into his pocket, seeing the tears pouring from his daughter’s face. He allowed Linda to continue to bear the brunt of the consoling, but rested his palm on the back of Jenny’s head. “You don’t need to be upset, honey. I’m sorry I raised my voice.”

Jenny heard his words, but they didn’t help. The tone of his voice was going to stick with her. She was sick of being compared to her sister, judged like somehow all the strikes Virginia had against her were on Jenny too. People talk about the pressure to live up to the firstborn; no one says anything about how hard it can be to live down to one.

JENNY STAYED IN HER ROOM the rest of the weekend, only emerging for the bathroom and meals she was ordered to attend. With no phone and no computer to entertain her, she managed to finish her homework for the week. She had spent the last twenty-four hours reading about World War I and photosynthesis and felt no more prepared for the world.

At thirteen, she was so far away from having any control over her life. Thoughts flooded her brain until she worried her ears might start bleeding. Could she sit in this room until she turned eighteen? And then what? College? Would her parents pay for an out-of-state school? Somewhere far away that they couldn’t drive to? She doubted it. She needed legal and financial freedom, two things she couldn’t even imagine on the horizon. She wanted to scream. She wanted to pound her fists against the door.

A KNOCK WOKE JENNY from her nap around six on Sunday night. She walked to the door, opening it a crack. It was Virginia, dressed in baggy clothes that looked comfortable but unflattering. Jenny could never understand her sister. She just did nothing for no reason. She wasn’t too stupid to have a real job. She wasn’t too ugly to have a boyfriend. She wasn’t too boring to have friends. She simply existed. It was maddening.

Jenny opened the door the rest of the way and went back to her bed. “What do you want?” she asked, flopping back down.

“Sunday dinner,” said Virginia.

The two sisters didn’t agree on much, but in recent months Jenny had developed a similar distaste for the formal family affair.

“Tell them I’m sick.”

“No way. With two victims, their powers are dulled. If you leave me alone, it will be too strong. I will be destroyed,” said Virginia. There was her sense of humor. Humor that could get her friends. Why didn’t she have any friends?

Jenny laughed. “I think I’m going to get it worse than you. They’ve been lecturing me all weekend.”

Virginia perked up at this. She closed the bedroom door behind her and took a seat in a white wooden chair next to Jenny’s vanity table. “What did you do?”

“Skipped some classes at school,” Jenny said, and shrugged.

“What for?”

“For fun. I don’t know. Whatever.”

“That does sound fun.”

“My mom says you quit another job.”

“I bet she did.”

“Why did you quit?” Jenny pressed.

Virginia just shrugged.

“What do you do all day?” Jenny asked, rolling to her side and propping her head on her hand like they were two girls at a slumber party.

“What’s with all the questions? You sound like Linda and Dad.”

“Just curious,” said Jenny. “Can I ask you something?” She sat back up and crossed her legs underneath her.

“You just asked me like fifty things,” said Virginia.

“Yeah, but you aren’t answering any of them.”

“Fine, what?”

“Were you always like this?” asked Jenny, keeping it vague and not sure what clarification to provide even if she wanted to.

Virginia tilted her head, staring at Jenny, as if debating whether or not to take offense.

“I didn’t mean it, like, mean,” Jenny clarified.

“Well, as long as you didn’t mean it like mean ,” Virginia mocked her sister.

“Never mind,” Jenny grumbled, knowing better than to try to scratch the surface with Virginia. If it was some sort of genetic adult-onset dystopian misery, Jenny would just have to deal with it. Symptoms were already presenting themselves.

Jenny rolled off the bed and past Virginia. “Let’s get this over with.”

I HAD SOLVED zero murders since I stormed off Mark’s porch. I watched three episodes of Law & Order: SVU , but they were useless. The reality I had to face was, if Mark wasn’t involved in Jenny’s murder, did I really care who did it?

Yes. I could care about this. Even if it was rooted in some sick obsession with proving Linda and my father and the whole damn town wrong. The crusade could be noble regardless.

I didn’t even know where to start. It seemed going outside would be productive. I decided to drive to the gas station in town and fill my tank. Having a full gas tank, instead of coasting around on fumes like usual, would make me feel adult and responsible.

It takes a long time to fill a whole tank, even in a crappy little car. I stood there holding the pump, watching cars drive by, feeling too exposed. I don’t know where I found the ego to think people would want to stop and bother me, but the mind can do crazy things.

After a parade of old cars similar to my own passed by, I saw one hit the blinker. I knew this car. A silver Mercedes that belonged to my father. Even in this tiny town, the odds of being there at the same time as him were so low that the coincidence felt exceptionally cruel.

I could have stopped the pump and left with half a tank, failing at my very first mission, but I didn’t. Instead, I ran through the entire conversation in my mind. A back-and-forth of three to four generic questions would be enough for both of us to pretend our relationship wasn’t complete garbage. The tank would certainly be full by then, a signal that we were fated to end the conversation there, and it would be over. I swallowed and relaxed my shoulders. Easy breezy.

His car slowed at the entrance and we made eye contact. I want to say I think we made eye contact, but I know we did. Then he killed the blinker and accelerated. He kept driving in some world where he had convinced himself I hadn’t noticed. It felt hypocritical to fault him for something I had considered doing only two seconds earlier, but he was the parent. It stung. I won’t say it hurt—I was too numb to him for that—but there was still a sting to it. A feeling of worthlessness crept up from not very deep, if I’m being honest. Rationally, I didn’t blame him. Our interactions sucked; talking with him wasn’t my preferred hobby either, but just … what a dick.

The gas pump clicked. There. That would have been it, the extent of the conversation. I returned the pump to its home and screwed the gas cap back on.

“Virginia?”

I heard my name coming from behind like a mallet to the back of the head. I turned to see the detective. Holden? Colton? Something I couldn’t remember.

“Hi,” I said, racing around the car to get to the driver’s side door.

“How are—?”

The door sealed out the sound of his voice. I think the timing was gray enough where maybe I hadn’t heard him attempt to extend the interaction. Didn’t matter much. I turned the key and put the car in drive.