Two Girls Down Read online

  ALSO BY LOUISA LUNA

  Serious As a Heart Attack

  Crooked

  Brave New Girl

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Louisa Luna

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.doubleday.com

  DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Cover photograph by Jane Fulton Alt/Gallery Stock

  Cover design by John A. Fontana

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Luna, Louisa, author.

  Title: Two girls down : a novel / Louisa Luna.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Doubleday, [2018] | Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016058881 (print) | LCCN 2016052180 (ebook) ISBN 9780385542494 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780385542500 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3612.U53 (print) | LCC PS3612.U53 L58 2018 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2016052180

  Ebook ISBN 9780385542500

  v5.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Louisa Luna

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  For John Belluso

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are many people who made it possible for me to write this book and get it out. I am grateful and moved by their belief in my work:

  Mark Falkin—you saw something in this story when no one else did and found the perfect home for it in record time. You also tend to keep a cool head when I flip out, which I really appreciate.

  Rob Bloom—you have made this book what it is. Your editorial instincts are flawless, your guidance invaluable.

  Bill Thomas, Sarah Engelmann, Mark Lee, Lauren Hesse, John Fontana, and all the good folks at Doubleday—thank you for your work, your commitment, your enthusiasm.

  Lieutenant Mark Rather—thanks for your patience in answering all my dumbass questions; and thanks to all of the extraordinary women in your house: Jessie, Emily, Lillia, and Mirabelle Rather.

  Connie Pelzek and Willie Duldulao; Kay and Kurt Frederick; Paul and Susan Pelzek; Danny, Stephanie, Tyler, and Caleb Pelzek—thank you for your love and support for so many years.

  Rebecca Sands Coutts—thanks to you and your family for all the PA intel and support.

  Mayhill C. Fowler, Craig Love, Ryan Mensing, Tim Marshall, Laura Kang, Britt Reichborn-Kjennerud, Jon Beck—you guys have never given up on me.

  Perry Meisel, Elissa Schappell, and Dave Yoo—thank you for reading my work over the years and encouraging me when I needed it the most.

  Argiro Rizopoulou, Keisha Peters, Joshua Pyne—thank you for being my cubemates, having my back, and putting up with my nonsense.

  Sandra and Norm Luna—you have read every word I’ve ever written, told me to keep writing when I couldn’t lift my head off the ground, insisted that I was good when I tried to tell you otherwise. “Thanks” isn’t a big enough word for what I want to say to you, but it’s all I have, so I’ll say it again and again.

  Zach Luna—no one has been more unflaggingly optimistic about my career than you, and for that I can never repay you and can’t express my gratitude enough. Thank you for being such a good reader. Thanks also to your gorgeous family: Shelley Kommers, Beau and Cal Luna.

  Finally, JP and Florie—I love you more than a sea of Selkies, a galaxy of moons (or space stations), a factory of Wonka Bars, a fleet of invisible jets. Without you I am just a weirdo who can’t remember why she enters a room. Every word every day is for you two.

  1

  Jamie Brandt was not a bad mother. Later she would tell that to anyone who would listen: police, reporters, lawyers, her parents, her boyfriend, her dealer, the new bartender with the knuckle tattoos at Schultz’s, the investigator from California and her partner, and her own reflection in the bathroom mirror, right before cracking her forehead on the sink’s edge and passing out from the cocktail of pain, grief, and fear.

  She was not a bad mother, even though she’d yelled at them that morning. It was Saturday, finally, and Jamie was embarrassed to say sometimes she liked the weekdays more, the predictable rhythm of her aunt Maggie’s real estate office where she was the receptionist, the chance to drink coffee and read Us magazine online, thinking of the girls in school, which they actually liked for the most part. Kylie, the ten-year-old, might piss and moan over homework, but she loved the day-to-day operations of school—the hurricane of note passing and gossip. She was already popular, had already stolen makeup from Jamie’s top dresser drawer and sent texts to boys from Jamie’s phone. Bailey, eight, was just as sassy but loved school for the school part, reading and writing—especially vocabulary, the way words sounded and the rules that went with them.

  The weekends were hectic, a blur of soccer games and ballet practice, playdates and every last minute crammed with errands: groceries, cooking, pharmacy (Kylie’s allergies, Bailey’s asthma), cleaning the apartment, dusting and Swiffering every surface to avoid allergies and asthma. And then meltdowns and screaming protests about the rules: one hour on the computer for non-school-related activities, half an hour of video games, one hour of TV, all of which would be broken by Sunday night. Jamie would have to beg them to go to the housing complex playground, which the girls claimed was old, dirty, with two out of five swings broken and a sandbox that smelled like pee.

  All Jamie wanted was to get to Saturday night. Then Darrell would come over and maybe the girls would go somewhere for a sleepover, or to Nana and Papa’s. Maybe Jamie would let them play video games for a bonus hour in their room and take pictures with her phone just so she and Darrell could drink some beers and watch a movie that didn’t feature a chipmunk or a princess. And if the girls weren’t there, maybe they’d smoke a joint; maybe his hand would slide up her shirt and they’d end up naked on the couch, Jamie looking at him on top, thinking he is not perfect, he has funny teeth and always wears that leather jacket with the hole in the pit, but there are a few good qualities here. One large good quality: she would think and then she’d laugh, and Darrell would say, “What?” but then he’d laugh too.

  But first, errands and then a birthday party for all of them. It was for a girl in Kylie’s class, but it was one of those parties to which everyone was invited—siblings and parents for pizza, games, and cake in the family’s big ranch-style house in a new development called The Knolls. Jamie didn’t like the trend, these big free-for-all events, was worried because Kylie’s birthday was in June and maybe she’d want the same thing. Jamie saw the problems coming at her like headlights: their apartment was too small for a party
, her mother would never let her hear the end of it if she asked to have it at her parents’ place, and the money, all that money, for that many pizzas plus gifts plus a new dress for Kylie and the new dress Bailey would have to have too.

  “Why do you guys even have to come in?” said Kylie from the passenger side, eyebrows wrinkled up over her big hot-cocoa eyes, a sneer in her angel lips.

  “Fine, we’ll wait outside in the car,” said Jamie.

  “Everyone will see us,” said Bailey from the backseat, anxious.

  Jamie looked in the rearview, taking in Bailey’s face, a palette of worry. How can she care so much about what other people think already? thought Jamie. She didn’t want the girls to care; she missed the days when they were too little to worry about appearances or be embarrassed, back when they would streak like hippies before jumping into the tub.

  “We’re not waiting in the car, Kylie,” said Jamie. “Hey—won’t Stella Piper be there with her family? Bailey can play with Owen.”

  From the corner of her eye Jamie saw her shrug, and felt the weight of it.

  “They’re not friends anymore,” said Bailey.

  “They’re not?” Jamie said to Bailey. “You’re not?” she said to Kylie.

  “Why can’t you shut up?” Kylie said, craning her head around the seat to glare at her sister.

  “Mom!” shouted Bailey, pointing.

  “I heard it, Bailey.” To Kylie: “Don’t talk like that to your sister. Why aren’t you friends with Stella Piper anymore?”

  Another shrug.

  “She thinks Stella’s dumb. And her glasses are funny,” Bailey reported. “She says they make her look like a creature.”

  “She’s been your friend forever, since you were in kindergarten,” said Jamie.

  “I know,” said Kylie, hushed and hissing.

  Jamie stopped third in a trail of cars at a light and said, “You shouldn’t be mean to someone just because they look funny.”

  Kylie stared out the window.

  “Someday someone might think you look funny, and then how’ll you like it?”

  Kylie kept staring.

  “Well?” Jamie took Kylie’s chin in her hand and turned her head. “Well?”

  “I won’t like it.”

  Jamie let go and looked up to see a policeman directing all the cars in her lane to the left.

  “What’s this now?” said Jamie.

  Bailey looked up over the seat.

  “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know, for God’s sake,” said Jamie.

  She pulled up even with the cop and rolled down the window.

  “I need to go straight ahead to the Gulf on Branford.”

  “Branford? That side of the highway’s closed for the parade, Miss,” said the cop.

  “Fuck me,” Jamie said, remembering.

  Spring Fest. The town’s annual parade of toilet-paper-covered floats and high school bands slogging their way through “My Girl.”

  “Mom!” the kids shouted, embarrassed.

  “Well, Officer, I’m about to run outta gas, so what do you recommend?”

  The cop leaned into her window.

  “Tell you what, I’ll wave you through to St. Cloud; then you can take a right to Route 1080 and you can get to the Hess over that way.”

  Jamie pictured the route in her head and nodded. “That’d be just great, thanks.”

  “No problem, ma’am,” said the cop, tapping the roof of the car.

  Jamie drove the path laid out for her by the cop.

  “I can’t believe you said the f-curse to the police,” said Kylie, a look of quiet shame on her face.

  “I’m full of surprises,” said Jamie.

  “Can we go past the parade? Miss Ferno’s on a float from her church,” said Bailey.

  “What? No, we’re already late for this thing,” said Jamie.

  She glanced at both of them. They stared out the window. Someday you’ll think I’m funny, she thought. Someday you’ll tell your friends, No, my mom’s cool. Once she said “Fuck me” right in front of a cop.

  Finally, when they got to the Hess, Kylie asked, “Can we split a Reese’s?”

  She had yet to outgrow an unwavering devotion to sugar—she would pour maple syrup over Frosted Flakes if you turned your head the other way.

  “No, you’re going to have all kinds of crap at this party; you don’t need a Reese’s.”

  Then the wailing began—you’d think someone was pricking their cuticles with sewing needles. Jamie held her head and leaned over the wheel, thinking she should have smoked the very last bit of resin in the pipe this morning. She didn’t like to drive stoned, but there wasn’t enough in there to mess her up proper, just enough to help her push through, get to the party where it might be acceptable to have a light beer at noon.

  “Enough, stop it!” yelled Jamie, feeling her voice crack, the muscles in her neck tense up. “Fine, go get a goddamn Reese’s. Get me a coffee with a Splenda, please.”

  She threw a five in Kylie’s lap.

  “Go before I change my mind,” she said.

  The girls unbuckled their seat belts and scrambled out of the car. Jamie watched them run into the mini-mart, heard the clicks of their dress-up shoes. She checked her makeup in the mirror and shook her head at herself, then went out to the pumps.

  She continued to shake her head, thought, Jesus Christ, do I ever sound like her—her own mother, Gail—“Before I change my mind” and all those threats. First you swear you’ll never be like your mother; then you find yourself sending them to their room and grounding them, and occasionally, once in a while, you hit them once or twice too hard on the back after they say something rude.

  Jamie got back in the car and blew air into her hands. Spring Fest my ass, she thought. It was the end of March and still freezing in the mornings and at night, although they’d had more than a few hazy warm days the past two months that fooled everyone into thinking spring was really here; even the black cherry trees were confused—fruit had prematurely formed on the branches, then iced over and broke off the next week in a storm.

  The girls had been in the store a long time.

  Jamie looked at the time on her phone. 11:32 a.m. They still had to go to Kmart for a gift for Kylie’s friend, which meant they would argue about the under-ten-dollar rule, then engage in negotiations until they got to an under-ten-dollar-without-tax agreement. If there was time, maybe Jamie could browse for something for her aunt Maggie, whose birthday was coming up. Maggie was fond of her, and Jamie didn’t really know why—maybe because she admired Jamie’s pluck, maybe because she’d been a single mother herself after Uncle Stu had left her for a girl in a massage parlor twenty years ago, and she knew how rough it was. Maybe because it was a way to piss off her sister, Jamie’s mother, which she enjoyed doing for a list of reasons either one would tell you all about if you asked them. Jamie ultimately didn’t care about the details since Aunt Maggie had cleaned up in the divorce and got her real estate agent’s license in short order, owned half a dozen homes in the Poconos that she rented out to vacationers, and brokered deals between buyers and the new developments surrounding Denville.

  “Goddammit,” said Jamie.

  She got out of the car and jogged into the mini-mart, scanned the inside quickly and saw only one other person—a man, looking at a porn magazine.

  “Hey,” she said to the fat boy behind the counter. He seemed too old for the braces on his teeth.

  He jumped.

  “You see two girls in here?”

  “Yeah. They went to the bathroom in back.”

  Jamie did not say thank you, walked past the guy with the porn and out the back door. She saw Kylie leaning against the cinder block wall, holding a Reese’s cup between her thumb and forefinger like a teacup.

  “What the hell, Kylie?” said Jamie.

  “She had to pee. She said it was an emergency.”

  Jamie stormed past, rapped on the bathroom
door and said, “Bailey, come on, let’s move it.”

  “I’m washing my hands,” said Bailey from inside.

  “You’re done. Let’s go.”

  “I’m trying not to touch anything.”

  Jamie almost smiled. She had been trying to teach them to line the toilet seat with paper towels, hover above the bowl, and turn the faucets on and off with their elbows in public bathrooms.

  “I have Purell in the car. Come on.”

  The door opened and Bailey came out. She looked at her mother and covered her mouth with her hands.

  “We forgot the coffee!”

  “It’s okay,” said Jamie. “Let’s go.”

  They went back to the car and drove to the Ridgewood Mall without speaking, Kylie staring out the window, Bailey reading her school workbook. Jamie glanced at both of them and thought they looked nice. Bailey in a pink princess dress, Kylie in a black dress with a purple flower print and the sweetheart neckline that was a little too old for her, Jamie thought, but since it was a hand-me-down from her cousin, she could not complain. They are both so big, she thought, which makes me so old.

  The parking lot was surprisingly not crowded, the first three or four rows of the grid full but that was it. God bless Spring Fest, Jamie thought.

  “So what does Arianna want?”

  “Aren’t we coming in?” said Kylie, shocked.

  “No way. I’m going in and out.”

  “Come on. That’s so unfair!” they both said.

  “Deal with it,” said Jamie. “What does she like?”

  Kylie sighed. “She wants a sleeping bag.”

  “I’m not buying her a sleeping bag. Does she like jewelry?”

  Kylie nodded.

  “Great. I’ll get her some bracelets.”

  Jamie looked through her purse for her phone and her wallet, left the key in the ignition so the heat would stay on.