by Mary Adkins
She scanned the course meeting dates. Five days a week: four hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and seven hours Tuesday and Thursday. This included the week of nationals—in fact, the final exam was on the last day of the competition.
“I can’t do this,” she said, pushing the sheet toward him on his desk. “I have a conflict.”
He appeared unable to process what she’d just said.
“I mean, you can’t expect me to just be able to drop everything to do this, right?” she said. “On such short notice?” He continued to look at her blankly. She changed tactics. “Since when is it the policy that I can’t make below a C? I only remember a 3.0.”
He pointed to the monitor. “It’s right—”
“No, I know it’s right there, but I didn’t know about it. Can’t I take physics in the spring? I’ll take it in the spring. I don’t care. I just can’t take it in the winter.”
“I was not told that is an option.”
“Why not?”
“I imagine because your scholarship funds for a full spring course load are dependent on whether you . . .”
“I don’t need the scholarship. I don’t care about the scholarship.”
He looked rattled. “Well, it’s not just the scholarship. It’s also your status in the program.”
She groaned. “But I didn’t know.”
“I suppose if you’d been able to make it to your midsemester check-ins we’d have had an opportunity to remind you of the policy.” She tried not to roll her eyes, suspecting he felt pleased with himself for having worked in this small jab. “So should I enroll you for winter term physics or not?”
“Go ahead,” she said, standing. She’d handle it on her own.
ARE YOU IN town yet? Can you talk?
Her text to Dr. Friedman was insistent, urgent, but she didn’t care. It was urgent.
She paced back and forth in front of the academic advising building, delaying heading back to South Campus in case he was able to meet. It was Thursday, and she was pretty certain he usually landed by early afternoon.
Sure enough, within minutes he’d texted back.
Come on by. Room 209. Let yourself in.
As she huffed as fast as she could through the cold to the Carter Boathouse, her breath clouding before her, she found that she’d already begun to feel better. Dr. Friedman would take care of it. He was capable, he was powerful, and he’d been her cheerleader. It was as good as fixed.
She hurried into the hotel and took the elevator to the second floor. The door to Room 209 was cracked, held open by the metal security lock peeking through it.
She shoved the door open gently. “Hello?”
“Come in!” said a female voice. Veronique appeared, walking toward her, pulling the door open with the welcoming smile of a much older adult greeting Bea at a cocktail party at her home. “Lou is in the shower.” Veronique went to the bar on which sat a six-pack of Perrier and a bowl of pita chips. She took a Perrier and held it out to Bea.
“I’m okay,” Bea said as Veronique opened one for herself.
The shower?
After Dr. Friedman had issued his invitation to San Diego, Bea had decided that she’d read into it. That it had been innocuous. He’d just thought she’d enjoy the conference. Yes, he’d made the weird remark about his favorite restaurant and its view, but he did appreciate fine dining and ate well with his male students, too. But here was Veronique playing hostess in his hotel room while he took a shower, and now she was confused again.
Veronique plopped onto the suite’s gold embroidered couch as Bea took the matching armchair.
“How was your play?” Veronique asked. It took Bea a moment to realize she meant improv.
“Good,” she said. “We won. It was a competition, so . . .”
Veronique was nodding before Bea finished speaking.
“Cool, cool. The conference in San Diego was incredible. I wish you could have gone.”
“Oh, you went?” Bea said, suddenly on alert.
“Mm hmm,” Veronique said. “The work people are doing to bring due process protections into the Title IX aggrievement processes is so inspiring.”
“Great,” Bea said as a flush sounded from the bathroom.
“Like what?” Bea asked. How was she going to get Veronique out of the room? And why wasn’t she making a move to leave on her own? If Veronique had shown up to a meeting with Dr. Friedman and Bea had been there, she certainly wouldn’t assume she got to stay. That would be weird. As her classmate went on and on about the people she heard speak in California, Bea decided she would just have to ask her to leave. She certainly wasn’t comfortable broaching the subject of her physics grade in front of another student in the program.
But then Veronique said, “I hope you’re not upset about it.”
“About the conference?” Bea said. “He asked me to go. I couldn’t.” She heard how petty it sounded, but she couldn’t resist.
“No, the CJRI.”
“What about it?” Bea asked, her breath catching in her chest. Surely Veronique didn’t mean what Bea thought she meant. The water in the bathroom stopped.
“I just know that you also applied for the fellowship. Lou told me. He said it was a really difficult decision, actually. But I know you’ll find something great. There are so many internships on publicinterestjobs.net. My roommate told me about . . .”
Bea had turned and was looking just past the entrance to the bedroom, where a bright orange suitcase lay open on the luggage rack. A pink makeup bag stained in tawny smears was splayed open. Glittery bronzer and a mascara-caked eyelash curler. A lacy garment that looked like a top of some sort.
She felt queasy.
“What’s wrong?” Veronique asked, watching Bea realize whom the suitcase belonged to.
“I have to go,” she said.
EVERYTHING, ALL OF their interactions—the hand on her back, the casual remarks about her intelligence and her potential, the mention of late summer nights at the office—all of it seemed menacing now.
Bea hurried back to South Campus and to her room, where she found Early in bow pose. When she saw Bea’s face, she let go of her leg.
“What’s wrong?” Early asked.
Bea filled her roommate in on everything. The physics grade and not being able to go to nationals. Veronique and her weird comments. The suitcase.
When she was nearly finished describing the contents of the suitcase, her phone started to rattle on her bed.
“He’s calling,” Bea said, looking down at it.
They both stared at the device until his name disappeared and “Missed Call” appeared on the screen, followed by “New voicemail.”
Without saying anything, Bea pressed “Listen” and then “Speaker.” She placed the phone between them on the rug.
“Bea.” His voice was stricken—or performing stricken. She didn’t know what was real anymore. “Listen, Veronique told me you’re upset, and I understand. I didn’t want you to get the news that way. I’d hoped to tell you myself. I’m sorry. But now that you know . . . It was only partially my choice. A whole committee of us decided. They were deciding between you and Veronique and wanted my opinion. Frankly, she’d made time to go to that conference this weekend. Not that there is anything wrong with you prioritizing your theater group”—Improv, she thought—“but I had to make a decision. And the fact that you had a competing obligation was the only way I could really rule out one of you. Was that fair? Maybe not, but we make the best decisions we can under the circumstances.”
As he rattled on about how human beings can never know if their decisions are the right ones or wrong ones, she felt disgust swell in her gut. What had formerly dazzled her—his skilled arguing, his equivocating to dissipate tension, his mastery at sucking the life out of blame—these no longer charmed her. They felt toxic. They felt like lies. And she felt stupid.
Bea picked up her hefty physics book and threw it against the wall with all her might.
“I feel crazy,” Bea said.
“You’re not,” Early said, her eyes steely. “I promise.”
27
Stayja
LATE NOVEMBER–EARLY DECEMBER
The week after Thanksgiving, Nicole and Stayja avoided each other as best they could. Both went straight to their own houses whenever they were home and were icy to each other when their paths did cross. The comment Nicole had made during their argument that had lingered, haunting her, was the suggestion that she was somehow jealous of Nicole and Chet. It was laughable. Stayja jealous of Nicole? If anything, Nicole had been jealous of Stayja their entire lives.
Nicole had also stopped swinging by to pick up the keys at the end of her bookstore shift at seven. Good, Stayja thought, let her take the bus home or find another ride.
One evening Stayja was having a cigarette during her break and saw LA’s car idling near the student center. A few minutes later, Nicole climbed in, and they drove away.
Of course she’s using LA as her chauffeur, Stayja thought. With Nicole there was always something in it for her. Behind seemingly generous acts was an angle, a potential gain she had her eye on. What that self-interest was when it came to the tax bill, Stayja wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a move to get Stayja to like Chet more. She knew Nicole was looking for Stayja’s approval of her relationship for some reason; that’s why the two of them were always inviting Stayja along to things: dinner, games, shopping. (She’d never said yes to anything with the two of them and didn’t plan to.)
That Nicole had actually taken on Stayja’s tax bill was not something she ever would have seen coming. Stayja assumed that was no longer happening, given their fight. Even if they hadn’t fought, Stayja was sure that at some point, whenever Nicole got bored or distracted or wanted a new pair of shoes or managed to get fired again, she’d stop making payments, leaving Stayja to deal with the fallout.
One morning in early December, she got a low balance alert on her checking account, and it pushed her growing anxiety about her debt over the edge. She googled the number for the IRS and called it. She was redirected several times to the proper department, then placed on hold. She sat there listening to light jazz for an hour when, finally, a human voice spoke.
“Internal Revenue Service. This is Fred.”
Stayja closed her book and cleared her throat.
“I’m Stayja York. I’m currently on a payment plan for back taxes and just wanted to make sure my most recent payment went through.”
“Hold, please,” he said. The hold music resumed.
She set aside the British mystery she’d started and grabbed one of the poetry books she’d checked out but hadn’t read yet, a collection by Jane Kenyon. She read a poem titled The Suitor. One line that caught her eye: Suddenly I understand that I am happy.
Had she ever been happy? In flashes, sure. Would it ever be more than that?
She sighed and reopened the novel. She’d started right after placing the phone call and was already sixty pages in. Outside, a door slammed in the direction of LA’s house.
Stayja stood and went to the window. There were Nicole and LA, marching across his front yard, both crouched under heavy black trash bags. Nicole was in the lead with a bag slung over each shoulder. She made her way to the curb and dropped them, then turned as Stayja jumped away from the window.
Nicole, doing manual labor? Taking out LA’s trash?
“Ms. York?”
“Yes,” Stayja said.
“Your account is up to date. Your most recent payment of $198.23 was made yesterday and processed this morning at start of business.”
“Thank you,” she said. After she hung up, she slowly leaned forward to peer through the window again, but Nicole and LA were gone.
THE LAST WEEK of classes before finals each semester was always unpredictable—no one was on their regular schedule, everyone was frantic, and caffeine became a necessity at strange hours of the day. Stayja didn’t find a moment to pause and catch her breath all afternoon, but by five, the onslaught had trickled down to nothing, and all was calm.
Alone in the café, she navigated to the Wake Community College registration page on her phone and logged in, then clicked on Spring Course Registration. If Nicole was seriously going to keep covering the IRS payments for the time being, Stayja might as well get back on her school schedule.
“Excuse me?” a voice said. She hadn’t heard anyone come in.
Stayja looked up. Standing in front of her was Annie Stoddard.
“Hi,” Annie said in a way that made Stayja want to run—as if she weren’t just there to get a coffee.
“Hi,” Stayja said, aware her tone wasn’t neutral either.
“Would you mind chatting with me for a minute about something? Privately?”
Stayja scrambled for an excuse but couldn’t come up with anything. The café remained empty apart from the two of them. There wasn’t a person in sight. Fuck.
“I can’t really step away,” Stayja said.
Annie looked around and, turning back to Stayja, seemed to decide that the empty coffee shop was private enough.
“I know you also have a history with Tyler,” she said. “I work with your cousin in the bookstore.”
“I know you do,” Stayja said. “What about it?”
“I just saw this today.” Annie held out her phone. “A student at the University of Arkansas posted it.” Stayja didn’t move. She looked at the phone, then back up at Annie.
“What are you talking about?” Stayja said.
Withdrawing her arm, Annie suddenly appeared more nervous.
“I was thinking, maybe we could write a letter to the campus paper that we all sign or something. The three of us. I’m sure there are more.”
“What are you talking about?” Stayja said again.
“Never mind,” Annie said. “Nice to meet you.” She turned and hurried back into the student center, walking all the way down the corridor and through the distant exit as Stayja watched.
So Annie Stoddard thought Stayja had been raped by Tyler. And she wanted her help in outing him.
What the fuck?
Fucking Nicole. This random girl was under the impression that Stayja was some kind of victim.
She needed to tell Tyler what was going on.
Stayja opened their text history. There, most recently, was the last one she’d sent from three weeks ago. It dangled at the bottom, unanswered:
I could really use your advice about something. I’m sure you’re busy, but do you have a second later?
It had been hard enough to work up the courage to text him when she wanted to know what he thought she should do about the tax bill. The reminder that he’d never responded stung all over again.
Can u talk? she wrote. It’s important. She hit SEND and waited.
AN HOUR PASSED with no word back.
As she stocked the dinner plates and ordered a fresh delivery of pastries for the morning, a new worry entered her mind—once she told him about Annie’s plan, what could he do about it? Merely having a heads-up that she planned to sabotage his reputation wouldn’t empower him to prevent it from happening. Annie didn’t seem like someone who was going to respond well to threats. If anything, she could use something like that as ammo against him. But maybe there was a way that Stayja could help.
She grabbed her phone and opened her photos app. She scrolled back to the selfies he’d taken of himself a few weeks earlier—the ones she’d viewed a hundred-plus times—at work, at home, in the car, late at night. She picked her favorite, a shot of him topless, grinning, giving the camera a thumbs-up. She brightened it with a filter and uploaded it to Instagram, then tagged him and dashed off a caption:
This guy is one of a kind. A wonderful soul. His love for the world is contagious.
Then she posted it.
Now there was a story to counter whatever sto
ry Annie was about to broadcast to the world. And maybe it would bring him back to her.
28
Annie
MONDAY, DECEMBER 11
5:09 P.M.
Walking across the quad back to my room, bracing myself against the wind, I felt embarrassed, as if I’d just exposed a blind spot of my own in approaching that girl. Who was I to think she could get anything out of coming out publicly against Tyler Brand? She was probably terrified of him and his family. I was afraid of them, and I was a student, not a barista.
Back in my room, I took off my jacket, grabbed my computer, and fell down the rabbit hole of Erika Dipatri’s social media. Between Instagram, Google, and Facebook—I couldn’t find her on Snapchat—there were dozens of photos of her in bikinis, taking shots, and wearing halter tops on poorly lit dance floors. Since I’d been attacked for wearing a miniskirt one time, I expected this girl to have been engulfed by trolls, but when I looked back at her post, I found only positive comments. Maybe she was deleting the negative ones? I found myself jealous of the pure support in her feed, then ashamed of my jealousy.
It had been hours, and she still hadn’t responded to the message I’d sent her.
After I’d exhausted Erika Dipatri’s corner of the Internet, I searched for “Stasia.” Despite my misspelling, she was easy enough to find, since I followed Nicole. Stayja had only ever posted three photos, the most recent of which was from two years earlier, of a sunset.
I looked around my room. I didn’t know what to do with myself. A bad storm was rolling in—we kept receiving weather alerts about it. Matty was in his statistics final. Between the storm and exams, it seemed everyone had disappeared. The campus had the feeling of being shut down, and I felt smothered by the quiet.
I went to my bed, picked up my pillow, and buried my face in it. I screamed into it.