correctly to her passing the drug blame to the Others.
Oh well.
I can manage empathy. I work hard at figuring out
what people are feeling at any given moment. How else
would I manipulate them? But it is work, and I’m trying to relax here, damn it, and it’s not my job to regurgitate
propaganda for my server.
I place my order and request another margarita too.
Traveling makes me tense.
A family comes in, calling out hellos to my waitress.
The old man is wearing a tan cowboy hat and battered
old boots, and the thirty-something woman with him is
dressed the same. Local ranchers, no doubt.
66
Problem Child
In my imagination, I assume this woman is a second
or third wife, but that’s not the norm out here in the
heartland. It happens, but you’d better be prepared for
people to talk for decades, until you finally keel over in
your young wife’s bed and give them even more to talk
about at the funeral.
No, out here on the plains it’s more likely the woman
is his daughter and the three kids are his grandchildren.
But just in case, I eavesdrop to see if I catch anything
scandalous.
Nope, no such luck. One of the kids calls out a loud
“Grandpa?” before they’re even settled. The woman wears
a wedding ring, and I wonder where her husband is.
Working? Dead? Or did he run off with his coworker
and force her to move back in with Dad to make ends
meet? There could be any kind of story there.
God, I wish I could read minds. Life would be so
much more fascinating.
Or maybe it would be just as boring. People are all the
same. Everyone wants what they don’t have and shouldn’t
need. Even me.
I check my work emails, but they’re all standard fare.
Smiling to myself, I send a quick email to Rob asking
how things are going with the North Unlimited account
in the hopes of making him feel terrible.
I don’t doubt that he’s suspicious of me at this point,
but in my experience that suspicion will quickly fade.
Most people are blessed with a lot of benefit of the doubt, and his belief in his own superiority gives him a cozy
layer of comfort and protection. He’d never be bested
by me. He’s Rob! And I’m just a girl, after all. Not even
a beautiful girl. Just … Jane. All I need to do is present
67
Victoria Helen Stone
myself as harmless to him once again, and he’ll eventu-
ally forget his mistrust.
When I was younger I wanted to be the most beauti-
ful woman in the world. I kept waiting for my outside to
match the perfect cool surface beneath. I was every lady
villain in every 007 movie, and I wanted that to be seen
and acknowledged.
God, I was so angry that others were blind to how
absolutely stunning I was: Look at me, you unseeing idiots!
But I’ve grown wiser, and I now recognize how much
easier it is to triumph when people barely notice you.
My looks are my chameleon skin, and I can hide my
superpowers under a perfect camouflage of averageness.
My dinner arrives, and I’m so glad I got the loaded
baked potato. I pride myself on making the best possible
food choices in every situation. It’s a gift, but I’ve worked hard to hone it.
My phone dings with a text as I’m chewing my first
bite of delicious steak. It’s slightly more than the medium doneness I’ve ordered, but the seasoning is delicious, so
I’m happy.
I’m even happier when I see that Luke has reached
out. Even if I’m going to break up with him, I still want
him thinking about me. I’ll always want him thinking
about me. Did you make it safely? he asks. Any infor-
mation yet?
I set down my fork and take another sip of margarita,
rolling my eyes in exasperation when I realize I’m already
slurping the last of it. I’m in town , I type back. Saw my brother. That’s it so far.
Is he out?
68
Problem Child
No, I went to the jail.
Stay safe out there.
It’s not dangerous here, but it’s not as safe as you
might expect. Boomtowns never are. Too many people
coming through every day, the highways full of workers
moving from job to job. It was no place for a young girl
to be running wild when I was young any more than it
is now. I certainly found my share of mischief, and none
of these hardworking, salt-of-the-earth, economically
anxious men were looking out for my well-being, as far
as I ever saw.
They wanted to use me. Use me up until nothing was
left. Instead I used them every chance I got.
My phone dings again. Let me know what you find
out, ok?
Sure, if you’re still interested, I text back.
Of course I’m interested, Jane. I love you.
Whatever. If he loved me, he wouldn’t be pushing
me for something he knows I don’t want.
Bleh. I’m not good at melodrama because I’m too
logical, and I know love rarely means shit when it comes
down to it. Luke actually does love me—or, to be clear,
Luke loves the parts of me I let him know. But what has
that ever mattered in the world?
The ranch family two tables over has been utterly
circumspect and polite, and even the children are well
behaved. Everyone is kind to each other, not a hint of
scandal about them. The kids’ clothes are worn but neatly
69
Victoria Helen Stone
pressed, their hair clean and combed. This is the kind of
family I envied, even in my teenage years.
What would it have been like to grow up in a calm,
supportive household with food in the fridge and the
lights always on? What would life have been like with a
hardworking father figure and a mom who never once
called you a sneaky little cunt? What if there had even
been siblings who wanted to play games and share secrets?
I roll my eyes at the lovely scene before me as the two
kids squeal, “Thank you, Grandpa!” when he orders them
ice cream. There’s bad here just the same as there is in
the city. And there’s good here too, just like everywhere
else. It’s all the luck of the parental draw no matter where you’re born.
By the time I get back to the hotel, it’s 7:00 p.m. and
the previously deserted lot is crammed full of trucks and
SUVs. I guess I know what the front desk clerk meant by
“rush” now. The place is packed. Men in coveralls stand
outside smoking cigarettes, and I follow footprints of red
mud through the front doors.
A couple of guys are checking in at the front desk,
several are gathered in a little laundry room, and two
more are working out in the tiny gym near the pool.
It’s a weekday, and none of the guests seem like they’re
here for a wedding, but I’ll keep my fingers crossed. I’d
love to crash a reception for old times’ sake, and I do so
love cake.
The margaritas have loosened me up nicely, so I freshen
up and head right back out the way I came. Instead of
going to my car, I turn left toward the entrance of the
bar. When I get there, I laugh with delight.
I can’t remember what this place was called when I was
young, but now the letters S-E-C-R-E-T-S are spelled
70
Problem Child
out in big wooden squares on the first wall I see when I
walk in. Secrets! In a small-town bar!
I giggle at the false promise of it, as if a certain amount of drinking will shield you from the prying eyes of your
neighbors. Delightful. So many secrets here, and everyone
knows them. I’m clapping my hands as I waltz through
a set of open doors into the main bar area.
I freeze mid-clap.
I used to sneak in here on a Saturday night, but on a
Monday it’s dead as hell. The big wooden dance floor is
empty, and only three tables are occupied. It’s going to
be a long night for me and for the bored bartender, who
rushes over as soon as I grab an empty table. “Hello!”
she coos as she sets down a Coors coaster, her pitch-black
ponytail bobbing. “I’m Maria! What can I get for you?”
“I’ll take a screwdriver with a splash of soda.” I glance
past her toward the bar. “Slim Jims?” I ask, glimpsing
the familiar giant canister stuffed with plastic-wrapped
meat snacks.
“They’re a dollar each,” she says.
What the hell. “Just one.”
“I’ll be right back, hon,” she says cheerfully, her
round face glowing. She moves fast to make my drink,
her enormous butt bouncing under a tiny waist in her
stretchy pants. She likely needs an electric fence to keep
the cowboys’ drunken hands off her cheeks. She either
tolerates their groping with a smile or she stabs any man
who gets close. I doubt there’s a workable middle ground
with an ass like that.
I imagine I’ll find out if anyone else shows up, but it
could be a while. There are two old guys playing darts, a
younger couple with pool cues leaning against their table
while they flirt, and one big group of older ladies sharing 71
Victoria Helen Stone
pitchers of beer. None of them look like they have grabby
hands. I’m probably the most likely candidate here if only
because I’m so impulsive.
Some upbeat music begins playing, and the old ladies
hop up with shouts of delight and head to the empty floor
for a line dance. The bartender returns with my drink
and a Slim Jim. “You want to start a tab, honey?”
I sure do.
My first bite of Slim Jim floods my tongue with salt.
I haven’t had one of these since I left Oklahoma, and my
mouth waters like crazy at the familiar taste. The perfect
bar snack to keep me drinking.
I suppose I should be running over to the address
Ricky gave me to see if his daughter has been found. Or
maybe I could solve the whole mystery tonight with just
a few questions around town. But I’m tired and melting
into my seat as an old country ballad begins playing and
the group of women return to their long table to wet
their whistles. An ancient cowboy I hadn’t noticed before
suddenly appears to ask one of them to waltz. She happily
agrees and heads back out to the floor.
“You can join us if you like!” one of the women at
the table calls out. When I realize she’s talking to me, I
point to myself in surprise. “It’s Friends and Fun Night!”
she yells back, as if that explains everything.
“Oh. Okay. Sure.”
Always looking for more emotion and energy than
I can generate on my own, I gather my purse and drink
and half-eaten Slim Jim and slide over to an empty chair.
My kind really likes company. When it’s too quiet we
can hear the hollowness inside us. When things get loud,
the echoes fill us up.
72
Problem Child
The women, five in all, not counting the lady with the
cowboy, introduce themselves, but their names flit away
from me as they’re spoken. “I’m Jane,” I offer in return.
“You here visiting?” the skinny one with the no-
nonsense gray buzz cut asks.
“Yep.”
“You have family here, then?”
“Yeah, my brother is over in the county jail.”
“Oh,” she says flatly, but another woman bursts into
laughter.
“My husband was in that jail a few times.”
“I’m sorry,” I say without being sorry at all.
“Nah. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. He finally
died five years ago, and look at me now!” She jiggles her
shoulders, showing off her cleavage and the hot-pink lace
bra peeking out from her V-neck sweater.
“Go, girl!” I raise my drink, and they all hoot and
raise their drinks as well, and just like that, I’m one of
the girls! They push a bowl of tortilla chips toward me
and fall back into their gossip.
“That’s Clarence,” the woman with the cleavage says
as she leans closer. She tips her head toward the waltzing
cowboy. “He’s harmless. Comes up from a ranch an hour
north of here to keep us company on Mondays.”
“Harmless, huh? You sure about that?”
She giggles when I wink, but he really does look harm-
less, thin and gentlemanly with deep layers of wrinkles
on his leathery face. Before I know it, I’m on my second
drink and being pulled out onto the dance floor for the
Electric Slide. I’ve done it a million times, but I’m still terrible at it. I’m no good at music or art, but I also don’t have any shame, so I throw my hands in the air and slide
73
Victoria Helen Stone
and spin, making the ladies laugh when I bump into them.
They’re my new best friends. We’re having so much fun
together.
By the time we exit the dance floor, the place is final-
ly starting to fill up. I survey the men—and they’re all
men—but I’m disappointed by the findings.
Cowboys wear tight jeans no matter how old they
are or how big their gut is. You can still fit a size 34
waist under a huge beer belly if you wear those jeans
low enough, and I admire that kind of persistence.
But these traveling oil field workers? Good Lord, I’ve
never seen such a baggy, sloppy mess of men. Worn-
out, oversize jeans, canvas cargo pants with pockets
stuffed full of who knows what … There are even a
few guys here still in coveralls, their boots half laced
and muddy as hell.
That really doesn’t give me much hope for the state
of their groins.
Would picking up one of these men—one of the few
recently washed ones—be cheating on Luke? I’m not sure
if we’re still together. We’re on some sort of a break, but which sort?
Not that I’d have a moral objection to cheating. I
don’t have morals, so there’s not much to object to. But
I’ve managed to stay faithful for a whole year just to avoid the chance of losing access to him.
Sex with Luke is of a far higher quality than anything
I can find in a bar. He knows right where my clitoris is
and worships it with the lavish attention it deserves. Given my own personal studies, I’d guess that none of the guys
here would even try to find it.
But I definitely miss the mystery of it all. The
strange fun of strange bodies. Big men with little dicks.
74
Problem Child
Little men with big dicks. Short, fat guys with skinny
dicks. Tall guys with … You get the picture. With
penises you just never know. It’s a surprise package and
you can unwrap a new one every night if that’s what
you want!
Same goes for women’s parts, of course, but I’m only
rarely interested in those. Still, everyone likes a little
variety. Would it be cheating if I went home with one
of my new line-dancing buddies? Cleavage lady went to
a lot of effort with her lingerie tonight.
I mean, I guess it would be cheating if Luke and I are
still together. If.
I get out my phone. What are you doing? I text to Luke as another slow song starts. Are you out? If he’s at a bar, taking advantage of our “break,” then that will
be a clear answer.
Just finished a jog , he texts back a minute later.
About to get in the shower .
Ooo. Send a pic.
How about I send one later when you’re in bed too.
You filthy boy. Absolutely.
He sends back a smiley face. He’s still mine if I want
him. I think I still do.
My best friend, Meg, was my only connection in this
world. She felt emotions so deeply and so frequently that I could absorb her experiences and pretend they were mine.
But they weren’t mine, and when she died, I thought I
would never feel attached to anything again.
But then I found Luke.
He’s a real person, with a real life. He has a family,
a brother and brother-in-law and their adorable baby
75
Victoria Helen Stone
daughter. He accepts me as I am and gives me space. Or
he did until now. The now part is the problem.
I suddenly wish I were home. His hand around my
ankle as I read. My cat snuggled between us, with her
soft fur and deadly claws. Warmth and happiness and the
illusion that I’m a real girl.
What a dumb thing to wish for. Any guy here would