“emma?”

“yeah?”

“remember when you were just a kid and too stupid to know how bad life really is?”

“i do...”

“i want to find that moment tonight. for a few hours i’d like to forget why i’m here. i think if we can do that, we’ll have the best night of our lives.”

online, emma was a status-update cliché with rhyming poetry and lyrics that hinted—not so subtly—at her desolation. in person, she was that solitary girl with headphones glued to her ears, intentionally downtrodden, lifting hazel eyes only to peruse passing boys. she wasn’t fat, but a wannarexic pudge of a girl; a pro-ana bracelet squeezing her wrist and boasting something she could never achieve. bark-brown hair with expensive streaks of blond—a mother’s attempt at normalcy—now bounced untamed through the lamplit streets of chicago.

jules was “delilah” tonight. trevor chose the name at random, and when emma called her, jules forgot to look.

the girls dashed across the wabash bridge. the placid stream borrowed the rational light of the waterfront restaurants and, like a kaleidoscope, bent and twirled the colors into new organic forms. the warm breeze tugged emma’s simple cream dress in slow-motion ripples.

jules followed a pace behind and opened her lungs to the fresh air. her heart pumped to the beat of their galloping duet.

the “magnificent mile” closed in thirty minutes. jules stopped to catch her breath beneath a lavish window display with plastic mannequins in designer outfits. she panted, then nodded to the store. “wanna browse?”

emma seized a cramp and braced herself on jules’ shoulder. “i have mark’s credit card,” she said and her smile grew wide with mischievous delight. “for. emergencies. only.”

the girls dashed inside and shopped until the storefronts dimmed and iron gates fell into place. jules suggested they withdraw cash from emma’s bank account. “as much as the atm allows!”

“for the woman’s shelter?” emma asked.

“for the woman’s shelter,” jules replied.

trevor-rule number five: atm machines have cameras. while emma punched her pin, jules took a bathroom break.

“it only gave me four-hundred,” the girl said when jules returned.

“how long ‘til your parents get home?”

“three hours. at least.”

“should we head back?”

emma shook her head. “not yet.”

a sixteen-dollar cab ride dropped the ladies at navy pier. emma led the way through gardens and boats and kiosks selling paper lamps in the shape of stars.

emma’s bliss was purchased for ten dollars. she clasped jules’ hand and helped her aboard a candy-red carriage on the navy-pier ferris wheel. they were the last customers before closing, so they rode alone.

paper bags at their feet and a poem on emma’s palm; she read it aloud in the criss-cross sanctuary of gliding metal bars. “streets like veins pumping with life. my father, the mean one, causing our strife.”

“it’s beautiful,” jules whispered.

emma nodded and her eyes fell to the obsidian lake. jules watched the reflected strips of ferris-wheel lights inside those distant orbs.

at the peek of their circular journey, when an outstretched arm could reach the highest building, jules felt emma’s fingertips against her cheek and followed the gentle pressure into a kiss. she allowed the embrace long enough to smell the peroxide on the girl’s cheek and to taste the salt on her tongue, then she broke it off and turned away.

*  *  *

emma’s bedroom smelled like wet vitamins and fabric softener. the wallpaper was overbearing; the girliest shade of pink possible with a border of white butterflies hovering above the ceremony. she wedged a wooden chair beneath the door handle and jules noticed a dozen more carpet divots around the planted legs. 

a full-length mirror hung on the back of the door, its edges framed with layers of stickers, stamps and glued celebrity cutouts. emma slid the cotton dress from her body and removed a gown (beauty-queen pink to match her walls) from a shopping bag. she inspected the fit by standing sideways. she smoothed the fabric down her waist. “am i sexy, or what?”

“fantastically sexy. if i were a boy, i’d have my way with you all over that bed.” jules sat cross-legged on the floor and felt like a demon in such a precious room. she took a pretend swig of vodka (in accordance with trevor-rule number two: never drink on the job) and offered the bottle to emma.

“wait!” the girl leapt over jules and opened the bottom drawer of her vanity. she pulled out a jewelry box—ivory with a curved lid—then sat beside jules so their knees touched. she unlatched the tiny chest and revealed a plastic ballerina rotating to a delicate, plinking tune.

from the lowest compartment, emma removed a single joint as if she was collecting a robin’s egg from its nest. “it’s the only thing that makes me forget.” she ritualistically placed the cigarette on the carpet and looked to her leader for approval.

“have a lighter?” jules asked.

emma grinned at the official sanction, then removed a transparent bic from the box and positioned it on the floor beside the weed.

“perfect.”

“i got something else.” emma reached into the depths of the singing chest and clutched a tiny bag. she opened her hand to show off her treasure. 

jules saw the capsules and snatched the baggie, then shook the pills into her frantic palm.

emma stammered, “they’re oxycodone—”

“i know what they are. how many do you need?”

“what?”

“take what you want. now.”

emma’s eyes flicked between jules and the pills. “i—”

“honey, take what you need from my hand.”

she took three.

jules forced the vodka into emma’s hand. “swallow them.”

the girl obeyed, one at a time, wincing with every gulp until her eyes watered.

jules stood up and marched to the bathroom, dropped the remaining tablets in the toilet, and flushed.

“is everything okay?” emma asked when jules returned to the floor.

“yeah, hon. everything’s fine. are you ready to do this?”

*  *  *

jules held the balm in her lungs, closed her eyes, then released from her lips a controlled ribbon of smoke. she used a CD case as an ashtray and held the garbage bag open.

emma dropped the ballerina music box inside, then scoured the room for items of value: a pink ipod, three purses, a fleece blanket, romance novels, a pair of diamond earrings, a pearl necklace, a digital video camera, armfuls of loose and expensive makeup, (“maybe they can use my scrapbook if i take out the pictures...”), a porcelain bank shaped like a kitten, empty frames, two coloring books, and more of the like. she found a tattered teddybear under her pillow. “i’ve had sarah for sixteen years. no need for her now.” makeup couldn’t suppress the red blotches materializing across her cheekbone. she kissed sarah’s fabric nose, placed her in the bag, and took the joint from jules. “did you bring anything to give?” she asked.

jules removed a clump of bills from her breast pocket and dropped it in the bag. “i left everything else at home.”

“what about your watch?”

jules glanced at trevor’s gift. “it can stay.”

emma nodded and pulled the drawstring of the last bag, suffocating her bear inside. “the egyptians did this.”

“the egyptians were buried with their valuables to carry them to the afterlife. we’re giving our possessions to people who need them.” she pressed a sticky-note to the top of the sack and recited the words: “’to whom it may concern, the contents of these bags now belongs to the women’s center of chicago. please assure they arrive safely.’ sound good?”

“do you think there’s an afterlife, delilah?”

they always ask about heaven. jules ignored the question. “do you have paper and pens?”

“right. for the notes.” emma found a star-shaped pad of stationary on her vanity, tore off two pieces, and handed one to jules.

“explain that you gave away your possessions as part of the ritual.”

“okay.”

“and let’s not mention each other. this isn’t about me. be specific about YOUR feelings.”

“okay.” emma sat, put her pen to the paper, then paused. “what are you writing about?”

“my ex. how he treated me.” (a lie; jules was writing out the lyrics to the fresh prince of bel-air theme song.) “you should blame it on your stepfather.”

“should i say he...”

“yes, honey. say it all.”

the relief of full disclosure was apparent in emma’s single nod. her pen quickened as she convicted her stepdad in writing. “i told them i wanted to die. they never believed me.”

“now they will,” jules said.

“i tried to strangle myself with a belt last month. mark found out and took away my computer. when i came back to the chat room, sexboy said i failed at failing.” 

the medley of intoxications began to visibly affect emma’s motor skills and demeanor. the last line of her note was crooked and larger than the rest, and there were no longer hearts punctuating the “i”s but tiny dots, much like her own pin-point pupils. her back slouched like one of her curlicue commas; a brief pause before the inevitable.

when the letters were finished, folded, and placed with the bags, jules slid her skirt above her thigh to expose a miniature satchel attached to her garter strap. a silver snap kept the brass pill-case secured to her leg. with a flick of her thumb, she removed the tiny container and emptied the pills into her hand.

“is that—”

“the yellow pills put us to sleep. the silver pill ends it.”

the rosacea bridged emma’s nose and webbed crimson veins across her forehead. her breathing was shallow.

“it only takes a few seconds,” jules said.

“there’s nothing else to prepare?”

“i’m ready when you are, honey.”

emma took another swig of vodka. she stared at the pills in jules’ outstretched palm and whispered something, but jules couldn’t make out the words. she gasped, hard, loud, and tears ran rivers down her face, broke at the precipice of her upper lip then dripped to the hem of her new dress. she took the pills—three yellows and a silver—and placed them on her tongue. she found the eyes of jules and kept them in hers.

“if there’s an afterlife emma, your stepdad will never be there.” jules tossed the tablets in her mouth and swallowed, never breaking eye contact with the child.

emma’s tongue became a puddle of yellow mush. then she tilted her head, wrapped her lips around the tip of the vodka bottle...

jules keeled first.

emma whispered—chanted—cried unfamiliar words; drifted, dreamless, silent screams of drug-induced euphoria. her neck rolled, chest heaved, heart buckled, and she fell to the rug.

*  *  *

trevor’s heart wailed against his ribcage but his leather hand remained still. the souls of his shoes stayed flat on the hood of the suv. he paced his breath. his eyes—snake-like before these moments—didn’t blink. all senses were trained on emma’s glowing-pink window in the second story of the townhouse.

the bedroom lights flickered three times. trevor slid from the roof and his feet hit the pavement—the first beat in the rhythm of his kill—and he marched across the strip of grass, through the iron gate, up the walkway and through the front door in rapid strides with black-plastic wings and iron-grit teeth; up the stairs—grabbing trinkets that didn’t slow his stride—he found the bedroom door with lighted seams and barreled through, splitting the chair barricade in half. “fuck!” he said and saw jules leaning against the closet molding, facing away, emma at her feet but she wouldn’t look down. sonofabitch! she always did this. “julesie julesie julesie let’s go go go!” he clapped once and she snapped into action, using her shirt to clean what she previously touched. he tossed her another empty bag and together they finished what emma started, pinching anything worth more than a value-menu burger. trevor reveled in the adrenaline—HIS drug of choice—a more potent high than anything jules could offer. he stooped to the ground less than a foot from emma’s open eye and uncreased her starry letter, scanned it, approved it, “note’s good!” he said, then found the gibberish jules penned and threw it in his bag. he tied it off and snapped open another while walking out of the room. 

jules called, “only mark’s stuff! emma wouldn’t steal from her mom!”

julesie should know better. “lipstick trick, baby!” trevor shouted from the hallway and found the room where the rich-pricks spent their fornicating nights neglecting the suicidal baby in the other room. he ran his forearm over the vanity and swiped the crystal, silver, gold collectibles and jewelry like he was bussing tables again, corralling the items in the nook of his arm and pulling them into the open bag. he unspooled a stick of emma’s lipstick and wrote in bold capitals across the vanity mirror, “fuck you mom!” 

he dragged the bulging bag to emma’s door, dropped it, stooped to the child’s stiffening body, pressed her thumbprint into the gold casing of her own scarlet gloss, and left it by her hand.

“fingerprints are clear,” jules said. “let’s go.”

trevor led the way—this was the best part—down the hall, down the stairs, down into the chambers of hell; the bags were plentiful and barely squeezed through the front door but he turned sideways and scouted the neighboring homes through phallus-shaped hedges then scurried into the shadows and to his car with unlocked doors and no plates.

bags in back; easy on the trunk. jules rode shotgun and trevor leapt in the driver’s seat. he turned the ignition, put the car in gear, and drove away.

*  *  *

the glow from the brake lights faded with the hum of the engine as crickets began proclaiming the evening’s status quo.

and then new headlights arrived, illuminating the row of townhouse fronts, iron gates, and the yellow eyeshine of an ally cat straddling the curb. the car parked in the newly-vacated space and emma’s mother and stepfather emerged. they laughed together—a joke they heard earlier that evening—then walked across the concrete walkway with high-heel clicks and loafer clomps. the couple opened the front door, stepped inside, and closed it behind them.

*  *  *

jules yawned. the high from emma’s joint was wearing thin. 

the hallways of the palmer house hotel swirled with psychedelic pastels and opulent fixtures in a cross between her great-aunt’s funeral dress and the interior of a hippy love bus. she carried two bags of groceries down the dizzy corridor, turned the corner, and stumbled over a remote-control car. it was trevor’s toy and she rolled her eyes.

“watch your feet!” he shouted from his kneeling position in the middle of the gaud, back arched and elbows planted on the baby-blue and salmon carpet. he zipped the car backwards, then raced it toward a ramp made from emma’s coloring books. the car flew three feet and crash landed in the belly of sarah-the-teddy-bear.

jules glided down the hallway—gracefully, despite new heels from the michigan avenue excursion—then stepped over trev, playfully draped her skirt across his head, and twisted the handle of the hotel-room door.

he extended his neck, found the patch of flesh between the elastic straps of her garter belt and the tiny box of deadly pills, and pecked the inside of her thigh.

it may have been pheromones that caused trevor to lose interest in his toys (he left the car, ramp and bear in the hallway then dead-bolted the door behind him) or it could have been the physical high from a night of playing god. either way, his hands began probing her curves before she could put away the food.

“well hi there,” she said.

“wipe off your lipstick.”

“i’m trying to be wifey. see the groceries?”

“i don’t want a wife,” he tugged her mesh skirt. “i want my slutty girlfriend.”

jules turned to face trevor. his stubble was cut smooth. he smelled of aftershave, dry deodorant and sex-tarnished bedsheets. those eyes—grey, strong, inlaid beneath a firm brow that displayed such hate and SUCH love—they seduced her every time... but not tonight. “remember our deal?” she asked and lifted herself to the countertop beneath a hanging tin halogen.

trevor worked his abdomen between her knees. “only four grand left.”

“four thousand? that means we’re at—”

“twenty-one, give or take. i’m only estimating tonight’s score.”

jules wrapped her legs around his back and allowed his hands to untie her leather bodice straps. “just one more time—”

“one more GOOD time. like emma, not like the stoner valet.”

“one more good score and it’s over.”

“one more good score and it’s a white picket fence and a job at starbucks.”

she smiled and kissed him, leaving a black smudge on his cheek.

“what did i tell you?”

she reached for the nearest grocery bag and ripped off a paper corner. she blotted the lipstick then kissed him again and found her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers folded through his hair like the bow on a supremely gorgeous present. “promise me,” she said.

trevor leaned forward, forcing her legs wide as he pressed his abs against her crotch. “i already made that promise,” he said. “i don’t lie—”

“you manipulate. i know.”

“so put it out of your mind.”

the combination of trevor’s reassurance and cinnamon breath flipped the final switch. she loosened his belt as he unlaced her corset. she mounted her feet on the rim of his jeans and pushed them down. no boxers. no stubble. smooth and molded in all the right places, he unstrapped her garter and peeled the knee-highs down her thighs, ankles, feet and toes.

the single overhead bulb drew hard lines across their interwoven limbs and defined trevor’s shirtless torso for her viewing pleasure.

he sucked his purple signature into the tender of her neck and jules responded by pulling his hair and nailing streaks down his back. she felt dirty when she let him in, as if her body was trying to reject a mis-matched kidney. but she fought it, embraced it, and sunk deeper into trevor’s vicious benevolence.