“Yes!” she said. “Oh, man, I love roti prata so, so much. I’ve been trying to find it here, but none of the Indian restaurants I’ve been to make it. The closest thing they have is paratha, and it’s just not the same.”
“That’s cause it’s more of a Peranakan dish than an Indian one, right?” Shit, now I was mansplaining and whitesplaining, and back the fuck up, Logan. “I mean, I don’t know, I think I remember reading somewhere about it—” When I looked it up because I saw so many pictures of it on your Instagram. “I’m probably wrong.”
“No, that makes sense,” she said, appraising me. “I’m impressed you know so much about Singaporean food. Most people here don’t know anything about Singapore. You know what people usually say when I tell them I’m half-Singaporean?”
“What?”
She pitched her voice high and squeaked, “‘Ooh, which part of China is that in?’”
I laughed. “No way. People here aren’t that ignorant. I mean, really? Singapore’s obviously in Vietnam.”
She narrowed her eyes at me.
“I’m kidding! It’s right below Malaysia and next to Indonesia.” I was a good boy, I’d done my homework. I could talk about Singapore for hours.
She laughed again—I could listen to you laugh for days—and lightly slapped me on my arm. My skin tingled where her fingers touched me, and if I were twelve years old, I’d swear not to wash my arm forever. She wants me. She wouldn’t slap just anyone’s arm.
“So what are you getting at the store?” I asked.
As it turned out, I’d asked the wrong question. The walls were back up. Delilah frowned and stared straight ahead. “Ice.”
There was a pause, then I said, “What do you need it for?”
“It’s just—for my mom’s boyfriend.”
Ah, yes. The ignoble Detective Brandon Jackson. I knew about Detective Jackson, and not just from my research on Delilah. A year ago, right around the time Sophie died, Detective Jackson and his partner had been put on a case at Draycott. They’d hung around the school for weeks, like a persistent and embarrassing rash. Detective Jackson was loud, obnoxious, and assumed everybody admired him, which of course turned the entire student body against him. I’d thought of him as a big, stupid, but well-meaning dog, not unlike Daddy, but Delilah did something when she mentioned him—she dropped her voice and gave a small, grim smile, as though she were afraid that mentioning him might summon him to our side.
“What does he need the ice for?” I asked.
“Um—you know. Just…stuff.”
Something was off. Something that felt big, lurking underneath us the way a giant sea creature did, writhing right below the calm surface before bursting out of the water with its jaws open. I knew fear when I saw it. Even Daddy could sense it; he lifted his head and licked her hand, whining.
“Everything okay?” I frowned in concern.
Delilah turned away, but not before I caught her cheeks turning red. “Yeah, of course.”
“That’s not what Daddy says.”
That coaxed a smile out of her, but she still looked tired, defeated. All the joy she’d shown moments ago had evaporated.
“Well, Daddy’s wrong,” she said.
I frowned at Daddy. “Are you losing your touch with the ladies, Daddy?”
The corners of Delilah’s mouth lifted. “I don’t think Daddy’s as good with the ladies as he wants you to think,” she said.
“Ouch.”
Delilah laughed—a quick, nervous sound that was strangled almost as soon as it left her mouth. My grip on Daddy’s leash tightened. I’d assumed, when I went through Delilah’s pictures, that she’d curled into a tight, hard shell because the oil rig incident might have turned her and her mom into easy targets for the press. I never spared a thought for the possibility that her shyness was caused by something completely different. I imagined my fists crunching into Detective Jackson’s meaty face and found the thought a pleasant one.
I had to take her mind off Detective Jackson. “So, how’re you liking Draycott?” Pretty weak question to ask, given she’d been there for weeks, but I was running out of things to say.
“It’s okay. I never thought I’d go someplace like Draycott.” She hugged herself as she walked, her hands gripping her elbows. It made her look even thinner than she already was. “Sorry, I just—I kinda suck at conversations.”
“You’re better at it than you think you are.”
She snorted.
“Of course,” I added, “I’m only comparing you to Daddy, so the standards aren’t exactly high.”
Another quick laugh that was strangled as soon as it left her mouth. Another flash of my fists slamming into Detective Jackson’s face. What’s he done to her? Delilah was reminding me of Sophie in the worst possible way. Those final weeks before they found the drugs in Sophie’s room, she’d behaved the same way—furtive glances, conversations weighed down with fear. I wasn’t able to save Sophie. Hell if I was going to let the same thing happen to Delilah.
I stopped walking and touched her arm lightly, ignoring the zap, the spark, the whatever it was that told me our bodies were made for each other. I didn’t let my hand stay on her arm. “Hey—um—I know this is out of the blue and we barely know each other, but if you need help, if you need anything at all, please tell me, okay?”
Delilah met my eyes then, and my breath caught in my throat. She wore Sophie’s face—the expression of someone who was being hunted, that primal fear dancing frantically in her eyes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she laughed, and the sound came out too high and too brittle. Delilah, I know when you’re lying.
“I—uh—I hope you don’t think it’s weird, but I’ve seen you a couple of times at the Secret board…” I said, taking a giant leap into the world of risk.
At the lobby of the library at school was something called Post Ur Secret—a giant bulletin board where students were encouraged to pin up their secrets anonymously. We used to have an electronic version, an app called Draycott Dirt, but it got out of hand and devolved into a massive online bullying and trolling forum, and Mrs. Henderson banned any future such apps from being made. Then Lisa, the school librarian, suggested using one of the boards at the library as a more sensible outlet for students to let off some steam without it going out of control, and the thing became a huge hit. It was filled with all sorts of secrets. We weren’t allowed to put any identifying information, so the board was also a great source of entertainment, an ongoing game of Guess Who?
Delilah’s eyes were practically perfect circles and I wanted to reach out to hug her and tell her it was okay.
“I don’t really post anything—I just like to look at the secrets there,” she said.
“Hey, it’s okay. I post on the board.” Mostly stuff about Sophie, vague musings that couldn’t be identified. “It’s a good outlet for our feelings. But if someone’s hurting you, the board won’t help. Let me help you, Delilah.”
Her eyes watered, and she blinked furiously, taking in a shaky breath, and I wondered how anyone could hurt someone like her. But it was going to be okay. I’d make it okay.
“That’s really sweet, Logan. But I don’t know what you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
Sophie’s words stabbed through my head. “There’s nothing anyone can do. I’m alone, Lolo. No one can help me.”
“We can report it. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
Delilah shook her head. “You don’t understand. He’s a cop. And my mom and I are so hated after what my dad did… Brandon can do whatever he wants to us and nobody would give a shit.” She took a shaky breath. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“The school has counselors. They can help you.” Hollow words, especially since I knew on a personal level how useless the counselors were. But I didn’t wa
nt to leave her hopeless, and I couldn’t tell her I would fix things. I would, but I’d have to be an anonymous benefactor.
“No, it’s fine, really. If this gets out, if Brandon hears anything about it—” She grabbed my hand, her grip feral, strong. “Logan, please don’t tell anyone.”
“But—”
“If you want to help, you won’t tell anyone. He’ll kill me. I’m serious.” There were no traces of exaggeration on her face.
“All right,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Delilah let her breath go. Then she seemed to notice for the first time that she was holding my hand and dropped it, her cheeks reddening. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Don’t worry about it.” Time for another change of subject. “Hey, how’re you doing in chemistry? I am dying in that damn class.”
Her face brightened a little. Chemistry was her favorite subject. “I love it. Ms. Woods is awesome.” For the next few minutes, she described her chemistry project, her face animated, her hands flitting back and forth like butterflies. She stopped when we got to the front of the supermarket and turned to me. “Wow, I can’t believe you just let me babble on and on about chem class.”
I grinned. “It’s mostly for Daddy’s sake. He’s really into chem. I wasn’t really listening.”
She laughed. “Thanks for everything, Logan.” We stood there for an awkward second before she said, “See you at school.”
“See you.” I made myself turn and leave instead of waiting around and watching her enter the store, which I wanted to do but would no doubt freak her out.
My mind was a whirring mess—going too fast, everything too bright and sharp-edged—as I walked Daddy back to the shelter. Delilah was in trouble. Detective Jackson was an abuser. And here I was, just another boy in love. I could feast my mind on killing him in a dozen different ways, each more gruesome than the last, but the truth was, I was pretty much powerless. And Delilah was right; accusing him was out of the question. His cop buddies would click into one giant, impenetrable wall. They’d do it even if they hated the guy; it was more about the principle of the thing. You just don’t go after a cop.
When I got back to Draycott, I was too amped up to go inside my dorm room. I briskly walked past all the main buildings, through the wrought iron gate at the edge of the rose garden, and into the trees. Past the thicket of blackberry bushes and among the cedar trees, there was a little clearing. The air was suddenly different here, everything hushed as though I’d stepped into an underwater world.
Sophie had shown me this place once. Well, not shown. I’d followed her and watched as she rolled a joint with her best friend, the two of them smoking and holding it carelessly, aloof, and she looked so grown-up and worldly, it was impossible not to fall in love. Later on, Sophie would let me come here, and I’d sit next to her, watching the smoke curl out of her mouth and wishing she’d let me kiss her.
Nobody came here anymore. It was undisturbed. Even the smell was different—wild grass and overripe berries and a hint of animals.
“Hey, Soph,” I said, sitting down at my usual spot. “Weird night.” I breathed out and listened to the susurration of the leaves around me, like they were nodding, listening.
“I talked to her tonight,” I said. “Really talked. You’d like her, I think. You guys have the same sense of humor.” I took out my phone and scrolled through social media absentmindedly. I couldn’t get Delilah’s haunted expression out of my head. Was I destined to sit by once again while the girl I loved went through hell? Pretend I didn’t know anything when she followed in Sophie’s footsteps?
“Fuck,” I muttered. For a moment I wanted to fling my phone into the darkness, hear the satisfying crack as it shattered against the trunk of some tree. But I couldn’t let my temper mar this place, this sacred spot. I took a deep breath, listened to Sophie shushing me. This place was Sophie. The breeze caressing my skin was her soft hands, lulling me into peace. Telling me there was a way. There was always a way.
It wasn’t until later, as I lay in bed watching news clips on Facebook, that I found the answer to everything.
Someone had posted a video of a police officer punching a woman and the comments were rife with anger at the display of police brutality. And it clicked, then. This was exactly what I needed. A video recording of Detective Jackson abusing Delilah and her mom.
This is it, Delilah. The whole reason you and I met. Why we ran into each other in this vast world, when all laws of probability point to us missing each other, our lives never intertwining.
Because, Delilah, I’m meant to save you, and I’m not one to turn away from destiny.
Chapter Five
Delilah
Saturday morning, I sat in my room, my chemistry textbook in front of me. My eyes traveled over the same sentence for the seventh time. I still couldn’t tell you what it said. It was yet another beautiful day—impossibly blue skies dabbed with wispy clouds, the air just nippy enough for the mug of hot tea cradled in my hands to taste even more delicious than usual. Not that I was in the mood to enjoy any of it.
My phone rang, and I scrambled to pick it up before the noise could irritate Brandon. He wouldn’t be able to hear it, since he was in the garage blasting his shitty music, but still. Part of me was convinced he could detect the sound of my breath from across the street.
“Hello?” I said.
“Dee? You there?” Aisha was yelling over the background noise.
“I’m here,” I said as loudly as I dared.
“I can barely hear you. Ugh, hang on. Lemme get outside.”
I waited while she made her way out of what was presumably the school gym, smiling when I heard her snap, “Excuse you!” a couple of times.
“Phew! That’s better. Dude, why aren’t you here? I thought you were gonna play today!” she said.
Sourness bled through my gut. I should be in today’s volleyball match. I’d been working hard on my spike, and Coach had told me I’d be able to play today. It was only a friendly match; she could afford to let the second-tier players have a go. But instead, here I was, sitting in front of my biology textbook, not reading, not playing volleyball, not anything.
“I have the flu,” I said feebly. It was what I’d told Coach. The flu would be a blessing compared to how my body was feeling this morning.
Aisha knew me well enough to hear right through my lie. Her voice became heavy with sadness. “Oh, Dee. What happened?”
Oh, Dee. That was what my life had become, a sad, Oh, Dee said over and over. I was one of those kids that made people tilt their heads to one side and go, “Aww, poor thing.” Poor, pathetic, broken creature. Secretly, they were all thinking, Better her than me.
I closed my eyes and thought of last night. I saved all those moments, to replay over and over in my head like some sick movie. I added scenes of my own, where I didn’t freeze up like a fucking hamster, where I got a hammer, a kitchen knife, a corkscrew, and stabbed them into Brandon’s eyes, ears, mouth, whatever.
But what really happened was that Brandon had come back in a foul mood. He hated his partner, Mendez, a.k.a. “that Mexican bitch who thinks she’s a real cop.” Apparently, Mendez had this silly notion that cops were meant to help everyone, not just rich white people. And she mistakenly thought that solving cases meant doing actual investigations instead of trying to get them closed ASAP. The drug case at Draycott was an itch she’d been dying to scratch for two years. She’d insisted on questioning everybody at the school again now, which was earning them a lot of disapproval from high places.
I hated Mendez. She seemed nice enough the few times we met, but she was making my life a living hell without even trying.
“The usual,” I said.
“You should report him. I’ll go with you—”
Not this again. Why did everybody assume reporting Brandon would be this straightforward th
ing without repercussions? What would happen to me or Mom if Brandon were to get his cop buddies involved? We’d be two women who were already hated by the community making accusations about a cop. Care for a game of Guess What’ll Happen to Delilah Wong, Cop Accuser? Nothing good. And Brandon? Paid vacation, he’d said. Oh, he was joking, he was always so full of jokes, good ol’ Brandon, that was why his buddies at the precinct loved him so.
Paid vacation.
“I gotta go,” I said.
“Dee—”
I hung up on her and let my forehead fall gently onto the table. On the bright side, Brandon didn’t like to leave visible bruises. At least I didn’t have to turn up at school with stories about walking into doors or falling down the stairs.
Mendez and her aspirations were giving my kidneys a run for their money. I was trying, and failing, to find a position that would make my back hate me less, and all the while I was wondering how much vacation Brandon would get if my body turned up one day, bloated and blue.
From the garage came the sound of Pink Floyd blasting on Brandon’s old-school stereo. He thought old-school stereos were more authentic. There was the occasional clank as he switched tools. Brandon spent Saturday mornings blasting Pink Floyd, knocking back beer, and working on his asshole car. That was how I secretly thought of his Camaro, because it seemed like it was specifically geared toward assholes. Mom had gone to the farmers’ market to buy some local salted anchovies that Brandon said would go beautifully with the pizza she was planning on making for dinner. My eyes crawled over the sentence in my textbook again. Something about stoichiometry, and why do I care about stoichiometry, literally what did stoichiometry have to do with my life?
“Dee!” Brandon’s shout jerked me out of my seat, and I stood there for a few moments, my heart jumping, wondering if I’d imagined him yelling at me. Three seconds later, the shout came again, louder this time, tinged with anger. “Delilah!”
I hurried out of my room and down the stairs. It wasn’t a good idea to keep Brandon waiting. When I opened the door to the garage, Pink Floyd drowned me. God, I hated Pink Floyd. I was sure Brandon only listened to them because he thought they were, like the stereo, more “authentic” than pop music. The garage was where Pa and I used to store our badminton rackets and baseball bats. Now all of our stuff was stored in boxes and shoved out of the way to make room for Brandon’s shit. I walked over to where Brandon’s legs were sticking out from under the hood of his Camaro. The music was so loud, he didn’t hear me come in.
The Obsession Page 4