Kovac And Liska: The 9th Girl Part 15

19.

Brittany sat on her bed in her pretty yellow bedroom, her iPad on her lap, her iPod playing on the nightstand, feeling like a fraud and a b.i.t.c.h and someone who didn't belong in a pretty princess bedroom.

When her family had moved to Minneapolis from Duluth, her mother had thought the transition would be easier if they didn't change everything about their lives at the same time. Brittany had agreed. She didn't like change. She hadn't wanted to move and leave her friends. It did make her feel better to at least have all her familiar things surrounding her in her bedroom.

They had painted the walls the exact same shade of yellow as her old bedroom. She had her same ornate white iron bed with the quilts her grandmother had made. The same white wicker-framed mirror hung over the white painted dresser with the collection of old perfume bottles on top.

It was the frilly room of a sweet little girl. Brittany felt like she didn't deserve to be there tonight.

Tonight she wanted to rewind the calendar to before the move to Minneapolis. She wanted to go back to Duluth and the kids she had known her whole life. Here she felt like she was swimming with the sharks in deep water.

She didn't really think she was smart enough or talented enough to be in PSI. She was a good student, but she had to work at it. She liked to write short stories and poetry and songs, but it didn't come easily to her, and she never thought what she wrote was very good. Socially, she felt like a hick among the city kids. Even though Duluth wasn't exactly a small town, it was a world away from Minneapolis.

Brittany didn't like being an outsider. She wanted to fit in. She wanted to blend in. To be yourself, to go your own way, to express yourself like Gray did, sounded exciting and admirable, but Brittany wasn't brave enough to stand out. She didn't want to be a rebel. She wanted to be accepted. She wanted to be popular. There was nothing wrong with that.

Gray acted like wanting people to like you was a sign of weakness, but Brittany didn't see it that way at all-and she didn't believe Gray really saw it that way either. Gray wanted to be accepted too. Her poetry was all about feeling like an outsider but wanting to belong. It had been Gray's idea to get the acceptance tattoo.

To want to be a part of the group was a natural thing, Brittany thought. It felt good to belong with other people. It felt . . . safe. She had always been one of the popular kids-not the leader, not the trendsetter, just . . . a belonger, she thought, knowing that wasn't a real word. It should have been. It expressed what she meant exactly. She just wanted to belong.

That was ironic, she supposed. She wanted to be accepted. She had gotten the tattoo along with Gray and Kyle. She had gotten the tattoo that stood for acceptance so she would be accepted by kids who wanted to stand apart. Now she wanted to be accepted by a group of kids who singled out other kids to be ostracized.

She lived in fear of Christina seeing her tattoo, and she was glad every day that she had put the tattoo on her hip, where she could easily cover it up. She wished she hadn't gotten it at all. In the first place, getting it had hurt really badly. Then she'd been terrified trying to hide it from her mom. More important, she felt like such a phony and fake wearing a symbol of acceptance. Sometimes she imagined the inked marks burning every time she said something or did something that went against the philosophy behind the tattoo.

She felt that way now after tweeting what she had about Kyle. She felt wrong and bad, and a little sick in her stomach. She didn't like saying mean things. She felt bad for calling him a loser, and she knew he wasn't gay-not that it should have mattered to anyone if he was.

Acceptance. She wanted to scratch at the tattoo. She had pledged acceptance of people's choices, including s.e.xual preference. She knew gay kids. Gray claimed to be bis.e.xual, which kind of made Brittany uncomfortable because it seemed so . . . darkly . . . brave? Fearless? Creepy? She wasn't sure what word was the right word.

She knew she was the kind of person who was afraid to leave the straightest, most well-lit road of life. It had taken courage for her to befriend a girl like Gray. She didn't think Gray fully appreciated that. Not that it mattered now. They would probably never be friends again after what had happened at the Rock & Bowl.

And the emotional merry-go-round came back to guilt while Beyonce sang in the background.

The group of kids she hung out with now used the word gay as the worst kind of insult, and Brittany pretended to go along with them. The girl with the acceptance tattoo. And what had she just tweeted about Kyle? Get a boyfriend.

Christina had told her talking trash about Kyle was the best way to get rid of him. If he wouldn't leave her alone, then she had to send a message. He wasn't the kind of guy she needed to be hanging out with-according to Christina. He was weird. He didn't try to get along with anyone-except other outcasts. He spent all his time reading comic books and drawing his stupid superheroes.

And if he really liked her, Brittany reasoned, he wouldn't have put her in the position he had that afternoon. He would have left her alone like she asked him to. He was all Mr. Antibully, but what was he doing to her by hanging around when she asked him not to and pressuring her about the people she wanted to be friends with? He was a bully too, in his own way.

It was his own fault Aaron and Christina and practically everyone else didn't like him, she thought angrily. It wasn't her fault everyone got on Twitter and Facebook and talked s.h.i.t about him. He practically invited them to. But even as she thought that, another wave of guilt swept through her. She could see the accusation and disappointment and betrayal on his face as he had glared at her in the hall today.

Nice friends you've got, Britt. I can see why you'd rather hang with them.

She felt like she had betrayed him, and then she felt angry with him for making her feel that way.

On the nightstand beside her, her phone made the little ding! that announced a new text message.

Xtina: R U OK?

Brittany ignored it. She didn't want to interact with anyone-especially not Christina. No more than she wanted to interact with Kyle. She felt like the two of them were fighting over her like she was a rag doll, one pulling her this way, one the other.

Kyle made out like Christina was an evil witch, which wasn't true. Christina could be a diva, but she could also be kind and generous, and she was fiercely protective of her friends. She had taken it upon herself to help Brittany survive the first brutal weeks of chemistry and helped her get on the yearbook committee. Christina saw Kyle and Gray as the bad influences. They were the ones trying to separate her from her friends and cut her off from things she wanted to do.

Gray and Christina's relationship was complicated by the fact that Christina's father was dating Gray's mom. Gray felt threatened by the relationship. She felt like Christina was the daughter her mother would have liked. She resented Christina, resented the way she looked and the way she dressed. She resented Christina's popularity.

Brittany found herself caught in the middle between them-and a little bit used by both of them.

Tired of thinking about it, Brittany looked down at her iPad and tried to distract herself, browsing through the pages and apps she checked every night. She didn't want to think anymore about Kyle Hatcher or Gray or Christina or anything. She touched the icon for an online magazine called TeenCities. She had used this magazine as her guide since moving to the Twin Cities. It was full of fun articles about things to do and places kids her age could go all over the metro area. There were always great articles about fashion and celebrities and the local music scene.

Those were the pages that interested Brittany, especially after the kind of day she'd had. She didn't have any interest in the more serious news articles. She didn't want to read about bulimia or cutting or dire warnings about the latest street drugs. She certainly had no interest in reading a column about cyberbullies.

She sometimes read Sonya Porter's blog about current issues. She thought the writer had a great hip style that was easy and conversational with a wry sense of humor. Her pieces read as if the writing had been effortless-a quality Brittany longed for in her own writing. And Sonya Porter's profile picture fit perfectly with that image-hip and cool, the perfect chic blend of sophistication and youth.

Brittany wished she could have been half as cool as Sonya Porter. Fat chance of that. She wasn't even brave enough to get her belly b.u.t.ton pierced. She would never be bold enough to be as cool as Sonya Porter.

She touched the screen to go to Porter's blog, hoping for one of her lighter pieces. But the piece couldn't have been any heavier or more depressing. The article was about young women being murdered in horrible ways, their bodies dumped along roadways.

That was the last thing Brittany wanted to look at tonight. She was depressed enough already. She didn't want to know some girl her own age had been found dead on New Year's Eve.

Downstairs the doorbell rang. Brittany paid no attention. Her mother was having her book group in tonight. The bell had rung half a dozen times already. The voices of the women rose and fell like a distant wave of conversation and laughter.

She scrolled through the virtual pages of her magazine, unable to find anything that held her attention for more than a few lines. Her mind kept going back to Kyle and the things she had said about him, and the way she knew that would hurt him when he read it. And of course he would read it. He lurked on Twitter and Facebook all the time, reading all the nasty, mean things kids wrote about other kids so he could feel morally superior.

When the knock came on her bedroom door, she jumped, startled.

"Britt?" her mother asked. "Can I come in?"

Brittany set her iPad aside and went to the door, expecting her mother to ask her to turn her music down. But when she opened the door her mother was not alone. Two men in suits and heavy coats stood behind her.

"Honey, these men are police detectives," her mom said, looking worried. "They're looking for Gray."

"Gray?" Brittany looked from one man to the other. Police? One was older; one was bigger. They both scared her with their serious expressions. "Why? Is she in trouble?"

The older cop showed her his ID and badge. He was lean and hard-looking, with a lot of gray shot through his thick hair. His eyes seemed to burn right into her.

"Brittany, I'm Sergeant Kovac. This is Sergeant Knutson. Penny Gray's mom told us she was staying with you," he said.

"She was here for a couple of days," she said. "Then she left."

"Where did she go?"

Brittany shook her head. "I don't know. I thought she went home."

Police. In her bedroom. Asking about Gray. A chill ran down her back.

"When did you last see her?"

"Um, the night before New Year's Eve."

"Have you heard from her in the last day or so?" the cop Kovac asked.

Her heart beat faster. The way he stared at her made her feel like she was some kind of criminal. It was unnerving. She hadn't done anything wrong, but she was still afraid. Her palms were sweating.

"No," she said.

"Do you have any idea where she might be?"

"No."

"She didn't tell you where she was going?"

"No."

He looked at his partner and gave a sharp sigh.

"Britt," her mother said, "if you know where Gray is, you have to tell these men."

"I don't know where she is!" Brittany snapped. "We went to a party and she got mad and left; that's all. I don't know where she went. I thought she went home."

"Where was the party?" Kovac asked.

Brittany bit her lip and tried not to look at her mom. She was going to be in such trouble.

"Brittany . . . ," her mother said in that tone of voice that warned of worse to come.

"This is important, Brittany," Kovac said. "I can't speak for your mom, but personally, I'd cut you some slack on the party if you had something to share about your friend Gray. She's missing. She could be in some serious trouble. We need to locate her."

This is so weird. This can't be happening, she thought. Police in her bedroom asking about Gray. Gray missing? Gray wasn't missing. She was just being Gray.

"Brittany Anne Lawler," her mom said, enunciating every syllable.

"We went to the Rock & Bowl," Brittany confessed.

Her mom gasped. "Brittany! You told me you were going to Christina's house!"

"We were! But then everybody went to the Rock & Bowl first-"

"You know I don't like you going to that place!"

Brittany rolled her eyes and huffed a sigh. "Mom. Everybody goes there!"

"It's in a terrible neighborhood!"

"No, it isn't! It's practically right by the Mall of America."

"The mall has to have its own police force for a reason," her mother said.

"How did she leave?" Kovac asked.

Brittany looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"How did Gray leave? Did she call a cab? Did she take a bus? Did she leave with someone?"

"She has a car," Brittany said. "She just left."

Her mother looked as though she wanted to strangle her. Her eyes were practically bulging from her head. "You told me Aaron's father was picking you up."

She glanced at the cops, embarra.s.sment and anger turning her cheeks red. "My husband and I were at a dinner party," she said, almost like an apology, like the detectives would think she was a bad mom because her daughter had gone to the stupid Rock & Bowl.

She turned back to Brittany. "And you know I don't want you riding in a car with her. She just got her license!"

"I don't see what the big deal is," Brittany argued. "She had to pa.s.s a test to get it. She's just as good a driver as anyone else."

"Oh my G.o.d," her mother muttered, looking up at the ceiling.

"What time was it when you last saw Miss Gray?" the big cop asked.

Brittany shrugged. "I don't know. Nine thirty? Ten, maybe. Maybe ten thirty. I don't remember."

"Brittany . . . ," her mother said.

"She's not missing," Brittany insisted. "Gray gets p.i.s.sed off. Sometimes she just goes somewhere for a couple of days. She always comes back."

"This isn't the first time she's gone missing?" Kovac asked.

"She's not missing," Brittany said stubbornly.

It seemed important to say that, to believe it.

"She gets mad. She goes and stays with whoever."

"Can you give us names?"

"I don't know them. She has friends outside our school. Musicians, poets, older kids. They're not people I hang out with."

A chill went through her suddenly as her gaze swept over her iPad lying on her bed. Sonya Porter's article on TeenCities . . . A girl found dead on New Year's Eve . . . Two police detectives were standing in her bedroom asking questions about Gray . . .

A sickening sense of dread swirled in her stomach.

"She hasn't called you?" Kovac asked. "No text messages?"

"No posts on Facebook?" the big one asked. "Twitter?"

Tears rose in Brittany's eyes. "You're scaring me. Stop it."