Emma Cline - The Girls

“And you’ll be in charge of our Evie,” Russell said to Suzanne. “Won’t you?”

Neither looked at me. The air between them crisscrossed with symbols. Russell held my hand for a moment, his eyes avalanching over me.

“Later, Evie,” he said.

Then a few whispered words to Suzanne. She rejoined me with a new air of briskness.

“Russell says you can stick around, if you want,” she said.

I felt how energized she was by seeing Russell. Alert with renewed authority, studying me as she spoke. I didn’t know if the jump I felt was fear or interest. My grandmother had told me about getting movie roles — how quickly she was plucked from a group. “That’s the difference,” she’d told me. “All the other girls thought the director was making the choice. But it was really me telling the director, in my secret way, that the part was mine.”

I wanted that — a sourceless, toneless wave carried from me to Russell. To Suzanne, to all of them. I wanted this world without end.

—

The night began to show ragged edges. Roos was naked from the waist up, her heavy breasts flushed from the heat. Falling into long silences. A black dog trotted into the darkness. Suzanne had disappeared to find more grass. I kept searching for her, but I’d get distracted by the flash and shuffle, the strangers who danced by and smiled at me with blunt kindness.

Little things should have upset me. Some girl burned herself, raising a ripple of skin along her arm, and stared down at the scorch with idle curiosity. The outhouse with its shit stench and cryptic drawings, walls papered in pages torn from porno mags. Guy describing the warm entrails of the pigs he’d gutted on his parents’ farm in Kansas.

“They knew what was coming,” he said to a rapt audience. “They’d smile when I brought food and flip out when I had the knife.”

He adjusted his big belt buckle, cackling something I couldn’t hear. But it was the solstice, I explained to myself, pagan mutterings, and whatever disturbance I felt was just a failure to understand the place. And there was so much else to notice and favor — the silly music from the jukebox. The silver guitar that caught the light, the melted Cool Whip dripping from someone’s finger. The numinous and fanatic faces of the others.

Time was confusing on the ranch: there were no clocks, no watches, and hours or minutes seemed arbitrary, whole days pouring into nothing. I don’t know how much time passed. How long I was waiting for Suzanne to return before I heard his voice. Right next to my ear, whispering my name.

“Evie.”

I turned, and there he was. I twisted with happiness: Russell had remembered me, he’d found me in the crowd. Had maybe even been looking for me. He took my hand in his, working the palm, my fingers. I was beaming, indeterminate; I wanted to love everything.

—

The trailer he brought me to was larger than any of the other rooms, the bed covered with a shaggy blanket that I’d realize later was actually a fur coat. It was the only nice thing in the room — the floor matted with clothes, empty cans of soda and beer glinting among the detritus. A peculiar smell in the air, a cut of fermentation. I was being willfully naïve, I suppose, pretending like I didn’t know what was happening. But part of me really didn’t. Or didn’t fully dwell on the facts: it was suddenly difficult to remember how I’d gotten there. That lurching bus ride, the cheap sugar of the wine. Where had I left my bike?

Russell was watching me intently. Tilting his head when I looked away, forcing me to catch his eyes. He brushed my hair behind my ear, letting his fingers fall to my neck. His fingernails uncut so I felt the ridge of them.

I laughed, but it was uneasy. “Is Suzanne gonna be here soon?” I said.

He’d told me, back at the fire, that Suzanne was coming, too, though maybe that was only something I wished.

“Suzanne’s just fine,” Russell said. “I wanna talk about you right now, Evie.”

My thoughts slowed to the pace of drifting snow. Russell spoke slowly and with seriousness, but he made me feel as though he had been waiting all night for the chance to hear what I had to say. How different this was from Connie’s bedroom, listening to records from some other world we’d never be a part of, songs that just reinforced our own static misery. Peter seemed drained to me, too. Peter, who was just a boy, who ate oleo on white bread for dinner. This was real, Russell’s gaze, and the flattered sickness in me was so pleasurable, I could barely keep hold of it.

“Shy Evie,” he said. Smiling. “You’re a smart girl. You see a lot with those eyes, don’t you?”

He thought I was smart. I grabbed on to it like proof. I wasn’t lost. I could hear the party outside. A fly buzzed in the corner, hitting the walls of the trailer.

“I’m like you,” Russell went on. “I was so smart when I was young, so smart that of course they told me I was dumb.” He let out a fractured laugh. “They taught me the word dumb. They taught me those words, then they told me that’s what I was.” When Russell smiled, his face soaked with a joy that seemed foreign to me. I knew I’d never felt that good. Even as a child I’d been unhappy — I saw, suddenly, how obvious that was.

As he talked, I hugged myself with my arms. It all started making sense to me, what Russell was saying, in the drippy way things could make sense. How drugs patchworked simple, banal thoughts into phrases that seemed filled with importance. My glitchy adolescent brain was desperate for causalities, for conspiracies that drenched every word, every gesture, with meaning. I wanted Russell to be a genius.

“There’s something in you,” he said. “Some part that’s real sad. And you know what? That really makes me sad. They’ve tried to ruin this beautiful, special girl. They’ve made her sad. Just because they are.”

I felt the press of tears.

“But they didn’t ruin you, Evie. ’Cause here you are. Our special Evie. And you can let all that old shit float away.”

He sat back on the mattress with the dirty soles of his bare feet on the fur coat, a strange calm in his face. He would wait as long as it took.

I don’t remember what I said at that point, just that I chattered nervously. School, Connie, the hollow nonsense of a young girl. My gaze slid around the trailer, fingers nipping at the fabric of Suzanne’s dress. Eyes coursing the fleur-de-lis pattern of the filthy bedspread. I remember that Russell smiled, patiently, waiting for me to lose energy. And I did. The trailer silent except for my own breathing and Russell shifting on the mattress.

“I can help you,” he said. “But you have to want it.”

His eyes fixed on mine.

“Do you want it, Evie?”

The words slit with scientific desire.

“You’ll like this,” Russell murmured. Opening his arms to me. “Come here.”

I edged toward him, sitting on the mattress. Struggling to complete the full circuit of comprehension. I knew it was coming, but it still surprised me. How he took down his pants, exposing his short, hairy legs, his penis in his fist. The hesitant catch in my gaze — he watched me watching him.

“Look at me,” he said. His voice was smooth, even while his hand worked furiously. “Evie,” he said, “Evie.”

The undercooked look of his dick, clutched in his hand: I wondered where Suzanne was. My throat tightened. It confused me at first, that it was all Russell wanted. To stroke himself. I sat there, trying to impose sense on the situation. I transmuted Russell’s behavior into proof of his good intentions. Russell was just trying to be close, to break down my hang-ups from the old world.

“We can make each other feel good,” he said. “You don’t have to be sad.”