All the Pretty Girls

grace parkhill

Helen knew a lot of things.

She did not, however, know how she got here.

It was months ago, Helen thought, when she offered to help Petunia with her calculus homework. Petunia, with her celestial face and money older than dirt. Petunia with her perfect makeup and perfect hair. Popular Petunia. Pretty Petunia. She was the flower of Elmhurst High, able to wrap anyone around her perfectly manicured finger.

She’d caught flawless Petunia one day crying in the bathroom, her designer mascara dripping inky fingers down her face, clutching a piece of paper. Helen’s heart had gone out to her, and she offered her a hand, both off the cheap linoleum and to raise her calculus grade. In return, Petunia had allowed Helen to hang around her and live the life of the beautiful.

Helen started to understand a whole new world, one where drinking, infidelity, drugs, and gossip reigned. A world where the best sports car won the popularity contest, and a world where there was no room for feelings. Petunia’s world was cutthroat, and simple Helen grasped why Petunia was so vicious.

It was July when the papers came out with the news. Next to the picture of Petunia as Independence Day Sweetheart was an article about Evan Marley, high school football star, and Christina Jones, Elmhurst’s Girl-Next-Door (and favorite for Independence Day Sweetheart), who had disappeared right before the Fourth of July. Helen was not surprised when Elmhurst erupted into a black twister of gossip. Rumors flew, slurs were hurled, and lies were bred as Elmhurst became the ultimate hounds, hunting the gory truth. 

He knocked her up and tried to hide it.

She killed him, and then herself.

He kidnapped her.

The ungrateful bastards ran away from their responsibilities.

No one except Petunia ever knew what became of them.

That was the end of the danger in Elmhurst, or at least, it seemed so to Helen. She didn’t read the newspaper, so she never knew of the headlines from the area surrounding Elmhurst. “Girls from neighboring counties disappear. Murder suspected. Be aware,” they said.

Months passed, and Helen adapted to being Petunia’s sidekick. The girls grew even closer, and Helen saw more with each day the byzantine toxicities of being popular: when she was Petunia’s wingwoman, she would be coerced into sleeping with some random guy; when she went with Petunia to her cosmetic enhancement appointments, she saw no less than a slew of needles and chemicals used to beautify; when she walked into the locker room with Petunia before gym class, she witnessed Petunia ripping apart Shirley Locking, fellow small-town royalty, calling her a zebra for her stretch marks; when Shirley Locking got Botox, she was dragged along when Petunia added something to Shirley’s perfume that made her break out in a screaming red rash; when Petunia bought snow from a new dealer, she made Helen try it first.

Petunia never apologized for any of it, despite acknowledging that she did some crazy shit, and Helen occasionally suspected that Petunia soaked up a perverse pleasure from Helen’s pain. It seemed to make Petunia’s too-vacant eyes glow with a life so frequently missing from them.

Helen was never okay with any of Petunia’s crazy shit, but she never stopped it. She probably should have, but Helen couldn’t have known to do so. Helen just tried to hang on by bloody fingernails to the barreling freight engine that was Petunia.

Despite the girls having been together for months, Helen had never seen Petunia’s house. She wasn’t stupid, and had realized a long time ago that Petunia always made excuses when Helen suggested they hang at Petunia’s place, so she stopped asking.

Winter Formal approached. In Elmhurst, the closest they got to winter was a cold rainfall and frost, but the small town was adamant on holding as many clichéd dances as it could, and so, the students of Elmhurst High received an annual Winter Formal.

It was January 9 when Petunia invited Helen over. 

Helen had nearly fallen into cardiac arrest when Petunia, who was notoriously cagey about her house and home life, had asked her. She wanted to get ready for Winter Formal together, Petunia had said. Helen had nodded, albeit hesitantly. 

When Helen had pulled up, she finally got to see Petunia’s house. There seemed nothing wrong with it…it was a bit isolated, at the end of a winding driveway, but it was pretty. It had three stories, gables, and a wraparound porch with rocking chairs on it—it was very quintessentially Elmhurst. 

Helen knocked on the red painted door.

Petunia answered. Her face, usually twisted into some form of saccharine smile with venom underneath, was bright, with her blue eyes wide. She seemed twitchy, which was very out of sorts for Petunia, always in control of herself and everything around her. 

Helen smiled a curious smile and followed Petunia up the stairs to her room. They creaked and moaned on her way up, and Helen couldn’t help but notice that the inside of Petunia’s house looked neglected and haunted. There were cobwebs in the corners and water damage stains on the ceiling. The crown molding was cracking, and the not-so-white walls could have used a fresh coat of paint. 

Helen thought nothing much of it, despite her astute observations.

Perhaps she should have. Perhaps it would have explained just why Petunia was who she was.

They reached Petunia’s room, and when she turned to face Helen, Petunia had visibly restored her calm. They talked for a bit before Petunia went silent. She looked sad for a moment.

Helen asked her what was wrong.

Petunia brushed her fingers along the zipper of her makeup brush bag. 

She looked up at Helen.

“Being beautiful isn’t all it’s cut up to be, love.”

Petunia unzipped the bag.

Helen’s eyes fell to the rotting pinky fingers in the holders where the brushes should have been.