I, Claudia

by Mary McCoy

  When Hector drew the embossed notecard out of the envelope, his face crumpled, though he recovered so quickly I’m not sure if anyone spotted it besides me and Cal, who was expecting it. Hector pasted on a fake smile as he looked out into the crowd and said, “I’m so happy for you, Esme. Come on up here.”

  Esme began to thread her way through the crowd, but in her three-inch heels, it was slow going. Cal dashed out to meet her halfway, swept her up in his arms, and carried her to the front, where at least a dozen people took their picture before he finally put her down. Chris Gibbons produced two crowns and handed them to Hector and me. I put the tiara on Esme’s head while Hector gritted his teeth and crowned Cal.

  Chris Gibbons crowed into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen of the Imperial Day Academy, I give you your king and queen.”

  More wild applause as Cal kissed Esme on the cheek, then picked her up in his arms again like she was something he owned, and now Hector and I were standing awkwardly in the middle of cheers that were not for us. Hector was looking at Esme and Cal like he wanted to be ill. If my girlfriend looked that happy about having Cal’s hands on her thighs, I guess I’d feel ill, too.

  “Come on,” I said, taking his hand and leading him back into the crowd before he made a face that someone other than me could decipher.

  Once we were safely in the hallway, almost deserted now that everyone had filed into the courtyard to celebrate Imperial Day’s royalty, Hector’s face registered the full shock of what had happened.

  Yes, it was just a stupid dance, but the truth of what had just happened was too big to ignore: Cal had schemed his way onto the Honor Council, ratfucked his way to the presidency, then crowned himself king of the damn school. Because he could.

  The whole thing had been orchestrated to deliver maximum insult. Having us up there to announce the so-called results like we’d had something to do with them. The fact that out of all the girls at Imperial Day he could have chosen, including his own girlfriend, he’d picked Esme, then made Hector send her running into his arms.

  “Did she know this was going to happen?” Hector looked up at me, his eyes pleading.

  I wanted to give him a hug, and not even one that had ulterior motives in it. I just felt bad for him.

  “Of course not,” I said. Esme had looked happy enough with that crown on her head, but I couldn’t help wondering what was going through her mind when Cal picked her up and lifted her onto the stage. Did she want to be there? Was she just smiling because that was what you were supposed to do when people were watching you?

  Before I could say more, Soren appeared with a look on his face that said he knew something was the matter even if he didn’t understand its full scope.

  “I can’t find Zelda Parsons anywhere. I don’t know, maybe you want to . . .” Soren made a gesture like he was patting someone on the back. “Or something?”

  And then there was poor Zelda Parsons. When Cal scooped Esme up in his arms, I’d been so focused on Hector that I’d almost forgotten that Zelda had to watch it happen, too. What’s more, she had to watch everyone in the whole school watch her watch it happen. While I did not consider Zelda Parsons a friend, neither did I think of her as my enemy, so I left Soren and Hector and went looking for her. The hall was empty, but there was a bathroom at the end of it, the eternal refuge of girls crying in public places. I opened the door, and sure enough, I could hear someone sobbing in the last stall.

  “Zelda?” I called out.

  The snuffling stopped, but there was no reply.

  “Zelda? It’s Claudia.”

  A long pause, then I heard her voice from the stall, teary and cold all at the same time.

  “I know who it is.”

  I suppose there weren’t a lot of people at Imperial Day with a voice that sounded like mine.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, Claudia. I am not okay.”

  One minute her quasi-boyfriend, or whatever Cal was, had been reaching his hand up her dress; the next he was sweeping Esme Kovacs up in his arms. That there’d never even been an election meant that Cal could have picked her, but he didn’t. He’d picked her friend. I imagined that must have been hard to watch.

  “You’re too good for him, Zelda,” I said.

  She let out a cracked little peal of laughter, then emerged from the stall. Her makeup was smudged under her eyes, her hair was disheveled, and whatever adhesive had been holding up her backless silver dress had come loose. She clutched the front against her chest with one hand as she punched the stall door so hard with the other that she cried out and grabbed her knuckles. The dress slipped down to her hips, and she yanked it back up, smearing the silver bodice with blood.

  As soon as she’d lost control, though, she regained it, sneering as she walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet, dripping blood onto the ceramic.

  “Is that what you think this is about?” she asked, still holding up her dress with one hand as she rinsed her bloody fingers. “You think I’d cry in the bathroom at a school dance over a boy?”

  When she’d finished cleaning up her knuckles, Zelda cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed the water on her face, scrubbing her skin as if she wanted to tear it off. Finally, she tugged her dress up and leaned against the bathroom stall with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. I turned off the running water.

  “Zelda, what happened?” I asked. I took two steps back, made my voice soft and low, afraid that any sudden movements would make her bolt right out of the bathroom.

  She lowered her chin and fixed her eyes on mine, the kind of face you might make at a firing squad.

  “Let’s say the Honor Council president corners you after a meeting and says you should hang out some time. You tell him you don’t think that’s such a good idea. Then he tells you, ‘You’re so good at your job. The Honor Council is really going to suck when you’re not on it anymore.’ And maybe he doesn’t come right out and say it, but you know what he means.”

  “Oh, Zelda . . .” I put my hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off.

  “You can’t make a deal like that and expect it to save you. Not for very long. Somebody should tell Esme Kovacs that.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked. I was thinking about immediate things, like getting her out of the bathroom unobserved or finding some gym clothes for her to borrow, or a bandage. But Zelda didn’t care about anything like that.

  “You have no idea how much worse it’s going to get, Claudia.” She shuddered, then looked at the back of her hand.

  “What do you mean?”

  Before she could answer, we heard a scream from the hallway. Not a playful scream. Not a surprised one. Something terrible was on the other end of that scream. Zelda and I looked at each other, and ran out of the bathroom toward it.

  Trixie Pappadou and her girlfriend and fellow senior class senator, Sarah Reisman, crashed into us. They were hysterical. Nothing they said made any sense, though eventually we ascertained that they’d snuck past the barricades into the hallway by the main office. When Zelda and I started down the hall in that direction, they screamed again and begged us not to go.

  We got them to sit down and breathe, and while Zelda was calming them down, I got up and went to investigate. I wasn’t alone. The girls’ screams had attracted a few people from the dance, and together, we rounded the corner and made our way toward the main office.

  The perpetrator had not tried to conceal what they’d done. The main office door had been flung open. Monday morning, people would say that the lock should have been fixed years ago rather than standing as a testament to how trustworthy Imperial Day students were and how well the Honor Code worked.

  The carpets were soaked. There was broken glass everywhere. The smell was horrible, marshy and wet. It clung to the insides of my nostrils for the rest of the night.

  Someone threw up in a trash can.

  Mr. Woolf came running up behind us and said, “I’m calling the police.
”

  The teachers rounded all of us up in the courtyard, and we waited for the police to arrive. Everyone was in a state of shock. Some people looked shattered. More than a few people cried.

  The office had been vandalized. The windows were broken, the aquarium smashed.

  Someone had killed the turtles.

  Every last one of them.

  XXXVI

  Stalin Used to Love a

  Good Show Trial

  These were the verified facts:

  At 10 p.m., senior class senators Trixie Pappadou and Sarah Reisman found the main office ransacked, the windows broken, the aquarium smashed, the turtle corpses scattered around the room.

  Fifteen minutes later, when the police arrived to question us, Zelda Parsons was seen wandering the hall with ruined makeup, disheveled hair, and a torn dress. The officer who took her statement noticed cuts on her hand, as well as flecks of blood on her dress and shoes. Zelda said that the blood was her own.

  A few minutes after that, Dr. Graves arrived at the school in a three-piece suit even though he’d clearly just gotten out of bed. He yelled at Mr. Woolf for calling the police. Then he told the police to go, that we had our own way of dealing with things here, and that it wasn’t a criminal matter until he said that it was. Much to the surprise of everyone, they listened to him.

  As soon as the police cars had pulled out of the Imperial Day parking lot, Dr. Graves and the Honor Council representatives huddled together. After a brief and whispered meeting, they herded all of us into the auditorium.

  Dr. Graves stood in front of us on the stage and said, “You will all text this exact message to your parents and this message only: ‘Vandalism incident at school. Everyone is safe. I will be home as soon as the hearing is over.’”

  We were shocked. We were confused. It was clear that some Imperial Day students sitting in the auditorium had no idea why they were there. The information that swirled its way up and down the rows morphed slightly with each telling. I heard that the turtles had been poisoned, that their bodies had been pinned to the bulletin board, that their aquarium had been emptied into the aguas frescas.

  I heard that Zelda had done it out of spite that she hadn’t been crowned Homecoming queen. I heard that Zelda had done it to make the Senate look bad. I heard one person say that it was a class prank, but in almost every story, the criminal was Zelda.

  Had the Honor Council decided to make its move now, to make a decision that was firm and fast and binding while everyone was still in a muddle?

  I had my own theories about what had happened, but kept them to myself. After all, Cal had been front and center all evening long, all eyes on him. An airtight alibi, and yet, I couldn’t think of anyone else at the Imperial Day Academy who was enough of a psychopath to murder a tank of much-beloved turtles, the closest thing to a mascot the school had.

  And then, not even an hour after their bodies had been discovered, Cal was standing on the stage next to Dr. Graves, ready to conduct a hearing to find the killer.

  It was my third time before the Honor Council (if you counted Soren and Julia’s hearing, which I’d eavesdropped on), and the most disturbing yet. Cal began by announcing that the crime that had been committed was so horrific that the Honor Council proceedings should be conducted in the open, right here, right now, in front of everyone. No hiding behind anonymous testimony. No one would leave until the perpetrator was found.

  Zelda was the first person called up onto the stage. Someone had given her a cardigan, but she was still clutching her spangly silver dress to her chest to hold it up. She said that she’d been in the bathroom when it all happened, that she’d bloodied her knuckles punching a bathroom stall. When they asked if she had any witnesses who could verify this, she said me. When they asked why she punched a bathroom stall, Zelda said she didn’t recall. She didn’t say anything about Cal threatening her into being his girlfriend for a month.

  When it was over, she descended from the stage, ignoring the whispers that circulated through the air as she passed down the aisle. Instead of taking a seat in the auditorium, though, she continued on through the double doors.

  “Young lady,” Dr. Graves shouted after her, “you are not dismissed. No one is dismissed until this matter is settled.”

  She ignored him, letting the doors slam shut behind her. Dr. Graves stood there a moment, his eyes bulging, until Cal tugged on his sleeve and he sat down again. Cal whispered something in his ear, Dr. Graves nodded, and then they called me up to the stage.

  I had never really spoken to Dr. Graves before. He had deep-set eyes, querulous eyebrows, and wiry white hair that grew over his ears and curled at the back of his neck. He was still furious that Zelda had left the auditorium without permission, and looked prepared to take it out on me.

  Cal, on the other hand, appeared to be enjoying himself immensely.

  “Tell us what happened, Claudia,” Cal said, tenting his fingers and leaning forward in his seat. “On your honor.”

  I told Dr. Graves and Cal and the rest of the Honor Council and the whole school what I told you: that I’d seen Zelda in the bathroom before the turtles were discovered and that she seemed upset. I told them that her dress was dry, that I’d seen her punch the bathroom stall, and that she didn’t seem like she’d just smashed an aquarium full of turtles to death with a hammer.

  I could have shared the rest of what Zelda had told me, but I feared that would only make things worse for her.

  They told me to take my seat.

  After me, Chris Gibbons said that from his perch in the DJ booth, he had not seen Zelda on the dance floor during the slideshow or crowning of the Homecoming king and queen.

  Then they called up a freshman boy whom everyone called Macro for some reason. He claimed to have heard the sound of smashing glass coming from the main office, then seen Zelda coming down the hallway shortly thereafter. No one asked him why he didn’t investigate. No one asked why he didn’t go for help. No one except me seemed to think he was telling anything but the truth.

  Joseph Stalin used to love a good show trial. He’d have his political rivals, real and imagined, arrested for plotting to assassinate him or colluding to bring down the Soviet Union. The guilty verdicts were all but assured, and when they were delivered, the accused were executed or sent to Siberia. Some people say that Stalin even hid himself in a dark corner of the courtroom so he could watch them. He just sat there, smoking his pipe and getting off on watching people beg for their lives.

  Whatever this was, it was a joke, of course. They didn’t call up Trixie Pappadou or Sarah Reisman or anyone who might have seen something useful. They called up the people they wanted to, and over and over again, nobody knew anything. Nobody had seen anything, but if they’d seen even the tiniest, slightest thing, it had something to do with Zelda. If I hadn’t spoken up for Zelda, nobody would have.

  At the end, Cal sighed and apologized and thanked all of us for our time, and said that the investigation was ongoing, but everyone knew there was only one suspect.

  Shortly after midnight, Soren drove me home.

  “Weird night,” he said, giving me a hug across the car seat after he’d parked in the driveway.

  “Worst night,” I said.

  I would later realize what a stupid thing this was to say.

  ***

  Zelda wasn’t in school on Monday or Tuesday, and then, on Wednesday, Cal got on the loudspeaker before first period, and with a triumphant note in his voice, told everyone to report to the auditorium for a special announcement.

  When we got there, Zelda Parsons was standing on the stage, lit by a single spotlight. She stood perfectly motionless as we drifted in and took our seats, the whispering so loud it engulfed the entire auditorium. When she spoke, we all shut up. Nobody blinked, nobody breathed.

  “I resign my seat on the Honor Council,” she said, her voice shaking. “To the student body, I apologize for letting you down and failing in my charge. To my colleagues on the
Honor Council, I also apologize. I ask your forgiveness and your understanding as I seek the help I need. Thank you.”

  Everyone was watching Zelda, the way she paused to wipe her eyes. How it looked like she hadn’t showered since the Homecoming dance. I wasn’t watching Zelda, though. I kept my eyes on Cal, watched as he sat back, legs crossed, arms folded, a sulky expression on his face. Whatever Zelda’s humiliation here was, it hadn’t been enough for him. I wondered if it was because she’d stopped short of an actual confession. I wondered what he’d wanted her to do, but regardless, because he hadn’t gotten everything he wanted, he was now happy about none of it. I wondered who he’d take his disappointments out on next.

  “If it wasn’t Zelda, then who do you think did it, Claudia?”

  “I like to think there are two kinds of people at Imperial Day, and probably in the world: those who are capable of killing a dozen turtles with a hammer and those who are not.”

  “Who at Imperial Day would you include in the former group?”

  “Cal. Livia. Maybe Chris Gibbons, but I don’t know.”

  “All people who couldn’t have done it.”

  “Exactly. Or in Livia’s case, people who weren’t even there in the first place.”

  “Do you think it’s possible it was someone you hadn’t even considered?”

  “As a frequent victim of elementary and middle-school cruelties, and as a politician, I make a habit of identifying the psychopaths in my environment as quickly as possible.”

  “Do you consider yourself to be a good judge of character, Claudia? Have you ever been wrong about someone?”

  “What do you think? Have I?”

  XXXVII

  Moira Riggs’s Bra Strap

  Perhaps as a reward for his testimony against her, Cal appointed the freshman boy called Macro with Zelda’s vacant seat on the Honor Council.

  There should have been an outcry. There should have been a special election. At the very least the seat should have gone to someone in the junior class, but everyone kept their opinions to themselves, and the only remotely critical letter to the editor that appeared in the Weekly Praetor was published anonymously. I suspected that even this tiny protest would enrage Cal and found an excuse to swing by the newspaper office the day the letter ran. Sure enough, Cal was there, badgering editor-in-chief Ruby Greenberg for a name.