Today’s story comes to us from Monti Rodgers.

Monti’s story was previously [Mistakenly] rejected by: Fractured Lit, Flame Tree Press, Psychopomp, The Final Girl

Bio: Monti is a New Zealander living in London with her two rescue dogs, Echo and Whisper. She’s previously published with Nature Futures, The Fantastic Other, and Indie Bites.

When I asked Monti what she loves about this story, this was her response:

I love how well the themes of this story work together: it captures growing up in New Zealand, combined with the natural anxieties girls face as we progress to adulthood: desire for belonging and fear of what womanhood means for our safety. The girl in this, like most tween-age girls (although taken to a wild extreme) is both her own best champion and worst enemy.

Talking to Other Girls, by Monti Rodgers

I hear the front door slam open and my hand slips with the knife, catches the edge of my finger. The sounds of Livvie’s Glassons jacket. Shoes against tiles in the entranceway. I breathe a sigh of relief; she and her friends have made it back safely. The house inhales cold air. My spine pricks.

“Kia Ora girls,” I call – our traditional Maori greeting. A bead of blood blossoms on my skin. I run the tap, washing crimson down the sink. A murmur of response, footsteps retreating up the stairs. The light flickers in the kitchen. I think to follow them, eager to greet Livvie’s friends – but it’s better to meet teenagers armed with snacks. I cut the rest of the carrots carefully into sticks, out of time with that thomp thomp of my heart.

The Otago Daily Times’ headline glares at me from the counter, and I feel a twinge of guilt. The latest missing girl stares at me from the front page. Five, now. Most are from Columba Girls, Livvie’s school. The police don’t know what to do. After number three, the opinion columnists started flooding in: the town is haunted, they say. Books flying off shelves, doors slamming shut. Spectral figures looming near the girls’ houses. Livvie’s obsessed with the stories of ghosts. Their poor parents, I think, staring into the chilly brightness of the refrigerator. Hopefully the police will find them soon. Carrot sticks, dip, kiwifruit, apple wedges. Are they too old for fairy bread? I try to remember what I liked at her age. 

I unwrap the loaf of bread and lift the margarine out of the fridge. Healthier than butter. My heart thrums a jagged rhythm I can’t interpret. Livvie’s first sleepover. I feel free and giddy – and weighted and anxious. All churning up inside. Gotta get this right. She’s an unpopular kid, I know. Always by herself, poking at dead bugs and pushing those big glasses up her nose. It’s my fault too, not trying hard enough to get her into dance or drama or gymnastics – something to get her talking to other girls. Other girls talking to her. Perhaps I should have given her a sibling. Why was she never interested in other girls, I wonder? 

Fifteen. Soon she’d be a young woman. When she’d announced she wanted a sleepover I’d been caught off-guard. Agreed too quickly. Her face had soured and I couldn’t stop the guilt. You don’t think I can have friends, she’d said, flat affect. A statement. How does one refute a statement? Instead, I’d asked her more questions: what snacks did she want, what time would they be coming over, did she want me to pick up some movies from the video store? None, 5pm, no, the answers had come. They’d go to see a film at Rialto first, she said, pick up food on the way. Don’t disturb us, Mum. 

Perhaps I’m wrong to let her have a sleepover; collecting a lot of girls in one place might be akin to tempting fate, I think, sprinkling the hundreds and thousands across the sliced bread. But Livvie has friends! She’s been so interested in witchcraft books lately, I wonder too late whether these girls are even friendship material. Should I have rung their parents, reassured them that Livvie might be odd, but she’s also sweet? Could’ve sought the same reassurance in return. I eye the food, nervous about meeting her friends. Is she at that age where parents are embarrassing? 

I pause, listening to the reassuring chatter from upstairs. Livvie’s voice, still high-pitched and girlish, rises and falls with the fervour of a story. I’m surprised to find tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, my heart swelling with emotion. A twinge of guilt at feeling joy for my child when so many parents are worried about theirs. Collecting the plates of snacks and a bag of chips, I trod carefully up the stairs, savouring Livvie’s muffled voice through the walls. The temperature drops suddenly, and I shiver, anxious not to spill the food. It must be quite a story, there’s not a single peep from any of the other girls. I open the door. 

My Livvie’s back is to me, her hands raised in oration. Around her are five whispery, ethereal forms. Candles drip wax onto the floor. I drop the tray, fairy bread and carrot sticks skittering away. Livvie turns.

“Mum,” she starts, the I-can-explain dying on her lips. My heart resumes beating; each beat pulsating thickly in my veins. I’m freezing. A pentagram charcoaled on the carpet, a ghost at each point, risen from thick locks of their hair. 

“Did you do this?” my voice trembles: from fear or anger I do not know.

Girls. Their faces all paint the same picture, eyes widened into orbs, lips pressed shut, terror exposed. Apple wedges strewn across the floor. Five other girls.

“You wanted me to have friends, Mum,” – accusatory, whining. I stare at her.

Spectral; Livvie’s open curtains and lime walls visible through their too-skinny bodies. The full moon highlights the scene with grotesque silver. I recognise the ghosts from their headlines. 

“I never… They didn’t like me. They didn’t… I… This was the only way… You don’t understand…”

My mouth opens and closes, useless. What can I possibly say? She did this to them, I realise, the shock striking like lightning. My hands shake. Bile rises in my throat. Livvie sighs. 

“They never wanted to play,” she says, petulant, truth spilling like blood from a wound. “Everything they had to say was boring and I wanted friends that would do what I wanted to do and listen to what I wanted to say and play what I wanted to play.”

The ghosts look at her, their eyes pleading. Kiwifruit crushed into the carpet. 

“But… but isn’t this what you wanted, Mum?” she smiles, fragile. My daughter. My Livvie. My eyes find the girls’ faces again, blood thick in my chest.

The ghosts’ lips aren’t pressed shut, they’re sewn.