Devil in Ohio

by Daria Polatin

  “Who else would you hang out with?” Isaac countered. Fair point.

  As Isaac and I turned up the lawn-lined walkway toward the two-story redbrick building, our steps fell in sync. We’d been best friends since third grade, when he moved from Alaska to Ohio to live with his aunt. I never asked too many questions about why, but it seemed like whatever had happened to Isaac earlier in his life had made him the kind of person to make room for himself wherever he went.

  “True or false,” Isaac started. “In the United States, campaigns that support candidates for public office ought to be financed exclusively by public funds.”

  “Do we have a quiz?”

  “Wrong answer. It’s my next topic.” Isaac was super into Speech and Debate, and had competed on a team since middle school.

  “Do I even need to ask which side you’re arguing?” Isaac was always fighting for the underdog. He was a perpetual man of the people.

  “Campaigns should be fought fair and square, with the same budgets on both sides. It’s not an impartial selection process if one side gets unlimited private funding and the other doesn’t. Additionally, it’s absurd the amount of money that’s spent, period. Why not put that money to better use? Like toward infrastructure, or public resources?”

  “Sounds like a good argument,” I assured him.

  “I’m going up against Victoria Liu, who is vehemently pro–corporate financing. Like, hello, Citizens United is ridiculous,” he argued. “But her dad’s a big anti-union guy, which around here is obviously blasphemy, but it figures she’d take that position. Blech. And I know she’s gonna try to play hardball with me—she’s still mad since I whipped her ass at regionals.”

  “You guys are on the same team. It’s only September; you have a whole year to get through with her.”

  “I still did way better than her,” he smirked, not hiding his ambitious nature. “And don’t think I’m just being competitive with her because we’re both Asian,” he added.

  I smiled. “I think you’ll kill it.”

  “I know I will,” he replied with unironic certainty. “You should join the team, Jules.”

  “Yeah right, you know how much I love public speaking,” I joked.

  “You need to bump up your extracurrics.”

  “I’m still waiting to hear from the Regal.”

  I had finally convinced myself to submit an application to take pictures for our weekly school paper. They already had an excellent photographer on staff, though—a senior named Rachel Robideaux—so it was unlikely they’d need anyone new. But, channeling the boldness of Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I was trying new things.

  I did really want to be a photojournalist. But, full disclosure, I might have had a second reason for wanting to join the paper. And that second reason might have been named Sebastian Jones.

  Sebastian was also a sophomore now, and had shown up at school last fall. He’d moved here from Philadelphia and immediately made his mark, scoring the highest GPA in our class. He’d written a Remingham Regal article on “The Fifteen-Minute Hack to Improve Your GPA,” quickly becoming one of their star journalists, and at the end of the school year he’d been named editor in chief—the youngest in the school’s history.

  We’d ended up as lab partners last year in Earth Science. His friendly demeanor made him really easy to talk to, which somehow calmed my jittery nerves. As we put together our final project, on plate tectonics, Sebastian had confided in me that he planned to restructure the school paper—and bring in some fresh blood. As far as I knew they hadn’t offered any positions yet, so I was still holding my breath.

  “They’d be idiots not to take you,” Isaac assessed. “You’re just as good as Rachel Robideaux, if not better.”

  “You might be just a little biased,” I smiled. Secretly, I loved that Isaac’s faith in me was as strong as his faith in himself.

  “Oh!” Isaac erupted. “This weekend there’s a screening of a documentary on America’s surveillance state. We’re going.”

  “Only if you do a David Lean double feature at the Independent with me. Lawrence of Arabia and Doctor Zhivago in seventy millimeter.”

  “Are they in black and white?” Isaac whined.

  “You liked the Hitchcock films,” I countered.

  “Because those were creepy.”

  “These are classics. And in color.”

  “Fine, as long as you buy me popcorn and a drink,” he negotiated. “Deal?”

  But I had stopped listening. Across the swarms of students I had caught a glimpse of something—okay, someone. Sebastian was standing on the side entrance ramp, scrolling through his phone. The newspaper office was near the side doors, and although there was usually a contingency of Goth kids perched on the railing smoking, the ramp was also frequented by a Regal staffer or two. I’d seen Sebastian a few times since school had started, and we’d caught up about our summers—he’d been away at a journalism camp like an exciting person while I lifeguarded at the local pool like a boring person. But seeing him in person still made my breath catch in my chest.

  “Earth to the Friend Formerly Known As Best.” Isaac called back my attention.

  I willfully tore my thoughts away from Sebastian. “What? Yeah, I’ll get the tickets,” I said, trying to cover the fact that I’d spaced.

  Isaac folded his arms. He could tell I hadn’t been listening, and not listening was a federal offense in his book.

  “Where is he?” Isaac searched the crowd.

  “Who?” I tried to play it off, but I knew who he was talking about and he knew that I knew.

  “It’s written all over your face,” he retorted.

  Damn. “Whatever. He doesn’t even like me.”

  “You two just need to bang and get it over with,” Isaac teased.

  “Yeah, I’ll get right on that. As soon as I can string together a sentence in front of him.”

  The truth was, Isaac and me discussing banging was as arbitrary as us talking about sailing yachts, living in the landlocked middle of Ohio. Neither of us had any real experience. I’d only been to first base a few times, and Isaac was practically asexual. He never talked about liking girls—or boys, for that matter. Sometimes I wondered if Isaac might come out as bi or gay, but he never brought it up, so neither did I.

  “Hey, what should we do for the Social Studies presentation?” Isaac mused, changing the subject as we headed up the stairs toward the front entrance. He took the steps two at a time.

  “Isaac, it’s not until November,” I reasoned.

  “I know,” he defended. “I was thinking: The Power of the Proletariat in Cold War USSR. Fun, right?”

  I cast one last glance at Sebastian. The morning light glinted off his black-rimmed glasses as he cracked a smile at something on his phone.

  “Sure,” I replied as we stepped through the front doors of the school. “But then you have to promise to watch North by Northwest with me.”

  “Again?” he sighed.

  CHAPTER 4

  DR. MATHIS: Testing, testing. Is this recording? I pressed the red dot.… Okay, looks like it’s working.

  [Creaking of bedsprings.]

  DR. MATHIS: Oh, you don’t have to get up, you can stay where you are. You had a long night.

  [Shuffling of some papers.]

  DR. MATHIS: So, I am Dr. Suzanne Mathis, attending psychiatrist at Remingham Regional Hospital, and I’m here to assess how you are doing. I am here with patient—

  [No answer.]

  DR. MATHIS: Would you mind telling me who you are? We don’t have any identification on file for you yet.

  [No answer.]

  DR. MATHIS: Your name? Or do you have some kind of ID that the staff might have overlooked?

  [Leaning close] Please note that the patient has shaken her head, indicating that she has no ID.

  That’s okay. Why don’t you have some water?

  [After a short silence, a cup clinks.]

  DR. MATHIS: I know you�
��ve been through something unspeakable. Something you never want to face again, let alone talk about. But I want you to know that I’m here to help you. That is my entire job. To help you work through what happened.

  They’re calling you “Lauren Trauma.” That’s your code name in your file. We use it for your own protection, so that only people we give it to can find you. But can I tell you a secret? The ones who we never find out their real name—they’re forgotten, they’re the ones left behind. And we’re not going to let that happen to you.

  [A tired, raspy teenage girl’s voice finally speaks.]

  MAE: Mae. My name.

  DR. MATHIS: Thank you for telling me, Mae. That’s a beautiful name. Do you spell it with a Y?

  MAE: E.

  DR. MATHIS: Wonderful. And your last name?

  [No answer.]

  DR. MATHIS: Okay. We’ll stick with Mae for now.

  So Mae, tell me what you remember from last night. Besides the doctors and tests and all that. Tell me about what happened before you got here.

  MAE: I—don’t remember anything.

  DR. MATHIS: Nothing at all?

  MAE: I remember—the truck driver. He found me. There were bright lights, and then he called the ambulance, I think.

  DR. MATHIS: Thank you, that’s what I have here as well. He called the ambulance at 12:52 a.m. It is pretty incredible that he saw you. Police said you were lying nearly fifteen feet from the side of the highway. How did you land so far from the road?

  MAE: I don’t know.

  DR. MATHIS: Did you jump out of a moving vehicle? Or head into the woods from the road? Or did you maybe come from inside the woods?

  MAE: I was in a car. Van. A white one.

  DR. MATHIS: Okay, so you were riding in a van. In the passenger seat?

  MAE: In the back. I was thrown from there.

  DR. MATHIS: You were thrown from a moving vehicle?

  MAE: Yes.

  DR. MATHIS: By thrown, do you mean that the van hit a bump or something, or it got a flat tire?

  MAE: No, by a person.

  DR. MATHIS: You were thrown by a person out of the back of a van.

  MAE: Maybe that’s why I rolled so far.

  [Quiet. Some scribbling.]

  MAE: It was two people.

  DR. MATHIS: Two people threw you?

  MAE: And someone else was driving.

  DR. MATHIS: Do you know who threw you?

  Do you remember who was driving the van? Or what he—or she—looked like?

  MAE: I don’t remember. I’m very tired—

  DR. MATHIS: Of course you are. Just a little bit longer. Do you remember anything about them? Any of the people involved? Were they tall, short, thin, heavy?

  MAE: They were wearing black.

  DR. MATHIS: Black sweaters? Jackets? Pants?

  MAE: Long black coats.

  DR. MATHIS: And what about their faces? Could you see what any of them looked like? Do you remember what color anyone’s hair was? Or—

  MAE: They were wearing hoods.

  DR. MATHIS: Hoods?

  MAE: Black hoods.

  [Pause.]

  DR. MATHIS: Mae, where are you from?

  MAE: From?

  DR. MATHIS: Are you from Ohio? [Leaning in] Note that the patient has nodded affirmative. Where in Ohio are you from? Somewhere nearby?

  [Quiet. A sip of water is gulped.]

  DR. MATHIS: Mae, I’m going to help you. I’m going to help you stay safe, and help keep you away from whoever did this to you. It won’t be easy, but we’re going to have to trust each other. Can you do that? Can you trust me?

  MAE: [Pause.] Okay.

  DR. MATHIS: Good, thank you. I’ll trust you too. Okay, this next part might be difficult, but we’re going to get through it. Together. Mae, who did this to you? The carving on your back. Who cut you? Was it someone you knew?

  [Leaning close] Please note that the patient is nodding her head yes. Can you tell me who it was? The more I know, the more I can help you. Was it someone from your family?

  You’re nodding yes.

  MAE: Mmm-hmm.

  DR. MATHIS: Was it your—father?

  [No answer.]

  DR. MATHIS: Mae, most abuse happens from within the family. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, because none of it is your fault. Do you understand that? None of it is your fault.

  Was it your dad, or an uncle?

  MAE: Yes.

  DR. MATHIS: Which one was it?

  [After a long pause.]

  MAE: Both.

  [Quiet.]

  MAE: I need to rest now—

  DR. MATHIS: Are you sure you don’t want to tell me—

  MAE: I’m so tired.

  DR. MATHIS: [Leaning into the microphone] Note that the patient has closed her eyes and is no longer responsive.

  CHAPTER 5

  CLICK.

  A crumpled chip bag lay on the puke-colored linoleum a few lockers over from mine. Its silver interior sparkled under the hallway fluorescents. Inspecting the frames I’d snapped, I sharpened the image and bumped up the green highlights, then posted the picture to Instagram, captioning it #trashcan’t.

  The pic would be a good addition to my portfolio. The summer program application wasn’t due until January, but I wanted to get a head start and send my submission in early. The idea of focusing on photography for a whole month sounded like heaven.

  At first, Mom had been worried about the idea of me spending four weeks in a big city, but since she went to a yearly convention in Chicago in December for work, I’d convinced her to take me with her. That way I could show her how well I could manage. Then she’d have to let me go.

  My stomach groaned, reminding me that I had turned my nose up at the mystery meat on offer at lunch and was starving, so I made my way down the hallway to the cafeteria. When I reached the vending machines, the choices stared back at me, daring me to make a selection. Sometimes, when I got too hungry, deciding what to eat felt like brain surgery.

  “Go with the granola bar,” I heard from behind me.

  I turned to see Sebastian adjusting his glasses. Feeling a blush blooming across my cheeks, I quickly swiveled my attention back to the prepackaged foods.

  “But the peanut butter–filled pretzels are hard to beat,” I replied, hoping I didn’t sound as nervous as I felt. I punched in D6 and a snack plunked to the bottom of the machine. Before I realized what was happening, Sebastian knelt down and retrieved the plastic pack.

  “Gracias,” I managed.

  “De nada,” he returned, handing the bag of pretzels to me. I’d forgotten how easy it was to talk to him.

  I ripped open the packet and held it out to him. He reached in and popped a protein-filled pretzel into his mouth. I took one too.

  “Oh wow,” he said through crunches. “Good call, Mathis.” The side of his mouth rose into a half smile. I could feel myself staring at his lips, making me feel kind of giddy and queasy, like I’d eaten too much candy.

  Pull yourself together, Jules. He is only a human.

  Sebastian reached into the pocket of his jeans and deposited a few quarters into the machine. “How’s your day going?”

  “Despite forgetting the capital of Serbia in Social Studies, not too bad,” I answered.

  “Belgrade,” he said without pause as he punched in his snack selection.

  “Ding ding ding.”

  A bag of peanut butter pretzels dropped. His choice was obviously a sign that he was in love with me and we were meant to be.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

  Oh no. Was it that obvious that I liked him? Had he caught me staring this morning?

  “The Regal,” he said, tearing open his bag of carbs.

  Right. The paper. Duh.

  “So,” Sebastian started, “we’re not going to bring on a new staff photographer.”

  My stomach sank. This was very not-good news.

  “Rachel’s got it under control, and she’s a seni
or, so I want to give her, well, seniority,” he explained.

  I felt the strap of my book bag slipping down my decades-old shirtsleeve, which I’d rummaged from my grandma Lydia’s old clothes in the attic.

  “She’s a talented photographer,” I said, willing myself not to show my disappointment on my face.

  “However, I’m starting a new section on the back page of the paper, and to go with it, there’s a new position I’m creating,” Sebastian revealed. “A portrait-a-week, Humans of New York–style column. Intimate, no-frills portraits of people around school, with short interviews accompanying. A little get-to-know-you type thing, with interesting facts about the subject.”