Bad Girls Don't Die

I noticed a black-and-white photo in a silver frame hanging on the wall near the closet. It was of a very young Megan and younger Mrs. Wiley sitting on a flat rock in front of a lake. “Did your mom take that?” I asked.

Megan pulled her head out from underneath the bed and stared at me. “What are you talking about?”

I pointed to the picture. “That photograph.”

Megan stared at the photo for a moment. “Why—? I doubt it. It’s just something I’ve always had.” She took a step toward it, looking at the image—her own tiny face staring seriously at the camera, and Mrs. Wiley, smiling and elegant in her picnic dress.

It was almost like Megan had never really looked at it before.

“I like it,” I said. “It’s really good.”

“But…why would you ask that?” she said, looking back at me. “If my mother took it?”

“Because your…“I didn’t know what to say. “Because your grandmother said your mom was a photographer.”

The corners of Megan’s eyes crinkled. “She told you that?”

I nodded cautiously. Maybe Megan considered these little pieces of information private, secret.

But she didn’t seem angry, just puzzled. “She told you something about my mother. Something she never told me.” Her voice was calm, but kind of too calm—the way a person talks when they’re in shock. She pulled the frame off the wall, then placed it upside down on the bed and pried the metal clips off. Lifting the backing away, she gently picked up the photo by its edges.

I stayed where I was. I’d done plenty already.

She breathed out softly. “Come look,” she said, wonder in her voice.

I went to her side, and she pointed to a corner of the photo that had been hidden by the mat. Someone had signed it faintly in pencil, with a first initial and their last name.

“Shara Wiley,” Megan said.

“Is that…?” I studied the next word.

“Mom,” Megan said. She shook her head and kind of sank onto the bed.

“Wow,” I said.

Megan set the photo down carefully on the frame and turned to me. “My grandmother adopted me after the accident. She never talks about my mom. Never.” She glanced back at the photo. “They didn’t get along well, and they weren’t speaking when Mom died. I guess it was horrible for her.”

“I’m sorry…” I said. I couldn’t finish the thought.

I leaned in closer to look at the image. It was really a nice shot, not too posed or phony, the way a lot of people’s family portraits look. And Megan was a cute kid, with one eyebrow raised skeptically.

“Hey,” I said, noticing the bracelet hanging off her chubby toddler arm. It was one of those hearts that looks like it’s been cut in half. “I have a charm like that.”

Megan reached to her neck and pulled a gold chain out from under the sweatshirt she’d put on, revealing the dangling charm. “I still wear it,” she said. “I think these things were pretty popular.”

“It’s really cool that your mom took this,” I said, marveling that I’d never even thought to take a picture of my family.

“Thanks,” Megan said, delicately replacing the photo in the frame. I could tell by the tightness in her voice how meaningful this was for her. “I guess there’s time for this later. Right now we have more pressing issues.”

“I’m really sorry,” I repeated.

Megan ignored my apology. “Grandma said she was a photographer?”

I nodded. “A good one. Award-wi

“Wow,” Megan said. And then her eyes lost their focus and she stared off in the distance. She hung the picture back in its corner and looked at it one last time. Then she glanced at me. “You’re into photography, right? Maybe sometime you could show me…”

Her voice trailed off.

“Are you kidding?” I said. “Of course.”

And I meant it. I mean, I totally owed it to her, but more than that…I just got this subtle vibe from Megan

that I didn’t get from anybody else. That if I showed her my photos, she would understand. She would get them. The idea of having an intelligent conversation about photography was as oddly irresistible as the thought of listening to Carter insult my house with all his fancy architectural terms.

Megan sighed. “I guess we’re ready to go,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. “Your grandmother told me to ask you about dresses, so if she asks, just say we talked about it.”

“What about dresses?”

I hesitated. “She said I should borrow one from you for the dance.”

“You don’t have a dress?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You should take one,” she said. “Then she won’t ask any questions.” She went to her closet and pushed the doors open.

I felt extraordinarily silly. “Megan, I don’t think any of your clothes…”

“Chill,” she said, sca

“If I’m even alive for the dance,” I said, only half joking.

She turned and looked at me solemnly. “You will be, Alexis,” she said. “I promise we’ll find a way to fix what’s happening.”

I sighed. The fact that she took it seriously made it seem so much harder. Half of me wanted someone to convince me that it was all in my head. Then I could pop a magic pill and go back to my normal life.

Except, what was my normal life? Could I go back to hanging out with the Doom Squad? Could I go back to hating Megan?

“What are you going to do with your hair?” she asked, reaching toward the back of the rack. “Have you thought about wearing it up?”

“No,” I said truthfully, because I hadn’t thought about my hair at all.

“Okay, don’t hate me for this,” Megan said, and turned around, holding out a dress…a pink dress.

When I say pink, I mean Pepto-Bismol pink. Easy-Bake Oven pink. Beauty-pageant pink. I took an involuntary step back, as if she were holding a snake. “Uh-uh. No way.”

“Come on, it would be adorable. You’d look like a punk-rock Barbie doll.”

“No,” I said. “Megan, no. People would think—”

“I thought you didn’t care what people thought about you.”

Crud. “I would look like a strawberry.”

“Not even,” she said. “I’m telling you, it would be the cutest thing ever.”

I looked at the dress. It was kind of 1960s looking, with a neckline that went in a straight line from the top of one shoulder to the other, and no sleeves. It flared a couple inches under the bust into a puffy skirt that went down to about knee-high. The fabric was kind of stiff, so it stuck out.

“Take it. You’re taking it. You have to,” she said. “Everyone will die.”

“Oh, great,” I said. “Just what I need.”

“What, for people to think you’re cute and have good fashion sense? That would be devastating. Oh, oh— I know what’s missing.” Her eyes swept over the room, searching for something. “Where’s my tiara?”

I couldn’t take it anymore. “Fine!” I said. “I’ll take the dress, but nothing else. No accessories.”

I’d only meant to make us safe from her grandmother, and now I was being talked into wearing a pink princess dress. I hadn’t worn pink clothing since fourth grade. We had to leave before she found the tiara.

“Yay,” Megan crowed, and she draped it over my arm. She took one last look around the room.

“Are you going Friday night?” The question kind of slipped out.

“Yeah. Kind of have to. School spirit, rah rah rah.” “Who are you going with?” I asked. She shrugged. “Myself.”

“You don’t have a date?”

“Who needs a date?” she asked. “He’d just try to dance and look stupid anyway.” Who’s punk-rock now?

We didn’t even pause as we walked by the kitchen. Megan picked up her schoolbag from the front hall and shouted over her shoulder, “Bye, Grandma!”

“God keep you,” Mrs. Wiley called back as we walked out the door.

“Why did she say that?” I asked. Was she on to us?

Megan shrugged. “That’s what she always says.”

19