Allegedly

CHAPTER 1

Excerpt from Babies Killing Babies: Profiles of Preteen and Teen Murderers by Jane E. Woods (pg. 10)

Some children are just born bad, plain and simple. These are the children that don't live up to the statistics. One cannot blame their surroundings or upbringings for their behavior. It's not a scientifically proven inheritable trait. These children are sociological phenomena.

This type of child is perfectly depicted in the classic 1950s film The Bad Seed, based on the novel by William March. It is the story of an eight-year-old girl, sweet and seemingly innocent, the prize of her picture-perfect family, whose mother suspects is a murderer. The adorable Rhoda, a blue-eyed, blond-haired princess skips around the film in pigtails and baby doll dresses, killing anyone who won't let her have her way.

The film was horrific for its time, a villain played by a young girl, appearing as innocent as any other. People couldn't conceive of a child being capable of murder. Even in present day, the act is unfathomable.

This is how Mary B. Addison became a household name. Mary is Rhoda's story, personified, begging the question: was there something that made her snap, or was the evil dormant all along?

A fly got in the house on Monday. It's Sunday and he's still around, bouncing from room to room like he's the family pet. I never had a pet before. They don't let convicted murderers have pets in the group home.

I named him Herbert. He's a baby fly, not one of those noisy horseflies, so no one notices him until he zooms in front of your face and lands near your orange juice. I'm surprised in a houseful of delinquents, no one has killed him yet. I guess he has survival skills, like me. Keeps a low profile, never begging for unnecessary attention. Just like me, he wants to live a quiet life, nibble on some scraps, and be left alone. But just like me, someone is always coming up behind him, shooing him away with the back of a hand. I feel for Herbert. Being a chronic unwanted guest can really suck.

At night, Herbert sleeps on top of the crooked molding that frames my closet, home to the few items of clothing I own. Three pairs of jeans, one pair of black pants, five summer shirts, five winter shirts, one sweater, and a hoodie. No jewelry. Just one of those ankle bracelets given by the state so they can follow me around like the sun.

"Mary! Mary! What in the hell are you doing? Get down here now!"

That's Ms. Stein, my . . . well, I don't know what you'd call her, and hopefully you'll never need to. I climb off the top bunk and Herbert wakes, following me into the bathroom. I'm the youngest, so of course I get the top bunk. That's the rules of the game. In one month I'll be sixteen. I wonder if they'll do anything to celebrate. That's what you're supposed to do, right? Celebrate birthdays, especially milestones like sixteen. I was still in baby jail on my last milestone, my thirteenth birthday. They didn't throw me a party then either. My birthday gift, a black eye and a bruised rib from Shantell in the cafeteria, just for breathing in her direction. That chick was mad crazy, but I'm the one with words like "rage tendencies" all over my file.

Anyways, I've been in this home of seven girls for the past three months and not one birthday has ever been mentioned. Guess birthdays don't mean nothing in a group home. I mean, it kind of makes sense. Hard to celebrate the day you were born when everybody seems to wish you were never born at all. Especially after you come into this world and fuck it all up.

I can name several people who wish I was never born.

Some chocolate cake and ice cream, maybe even some balloons would be cool. But that's what the stupid girl I used to be wishes for. I keep reminding myself she's dead. Just like Alyssa.