Painless (The Story of Samantha Smith #3)

by Devon Hartford

  Still not getting it, I shook my head.

  “Do you even know what a comic strip is?” he smiled.

  “Duh.” I wasn’t an idiot.

  “Didn’t you ever read the comics in the newspaper? I know it’s totally unhip for people our age to admit to such a thing, but you can tell me,” he winked, “I won’t out you on Facebook or Twitter or whatever.”

  Now that he mentioned it, my parents still got the newspaper. My dad couldn’t go to the office without first reading the comic strips at breakfast. He called them ‘the funnies.’ I used to look at them when I was a kid and try to copy the drawings, but I hadn’t done that in a long time. Then a hazy memory locked into place. “Oh! You mean Cathy, the comic strip!”

  He nodded, smiling. “Yeah. I mean, I know the series ended three and a half years ago, but I figured you may have seen it once or twice before all the newspapers started going out of business.”

  Who was this guy? He was bizarre. He was way too cute to be into something as last century as comic strips. “So, um, why are you calling me Cathy?”

  “I’ve seen you drawing cartoons during class. Do you ever take notes, or just doodle?”

  Guilty as charged. I blushed. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Probably not to the professor and the T.A.’s, so your secret is safe with me,” he winked. “You know, your work is pretty good. Have you ever considered submitting some of it to the school paper?”

  I’m pretty sure he was pulling my leg. “No, those guys are all Snooty McSnoots-a-lots.” The SDU school newspaper, The Sentinel, had a reputation for being a high-brow elitist newspaper for preppie journalism majors. And considering I’d been ejected from high school society back in D.C., I didn’t have any desire to go before a tribunal of hip socialites and have them tell me I wasn’t good enough to join their club.

  “The Analites at the Sentinel are totally snooty,” he smiled. “I was talking about The Wombat.”

  The Wombat was SDU’s comedy newspaper run by the Associated Students of SDU. It was full of funny spins on current events, humor about college life, party reviews of actual parties (on and off campus), and the ever famous Wombat comic strips. I’d read the comic strips before. They satirized the seedier social aspects of college: drinking, drugs and doing it with members of the opposite sex, same sex, or even different species. Some of them were hilarious and some of the art was amazing.

  I raised my eyebrows. “You think I should submit my cartoons to The Wombat?” I didn’t think my stuff was good enough.

  “Yeah. I’ll put in a good word for you with the editor.”

  “Who’s the editor?” I asked.

  “Me,” he smiled. “Justin Tomlinson.” He leaned down and offered his hand.

  I had to awkwardly turn in my seat to shake it. “Samantha Smith. Isn’t Tomlinson the name of one of the guys in One Direction?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. If I’d had a choice at birth, I would’ve had the stork deliver me to another house,” he smiled.

  He sure had a great smile. Now all he needed was four more cuties and a boy band anthem and the girls would come out of the woodwork like termites. If they weren’t already. For all I knew, Justin had a limo filled with fan girls waiting outside.

  “Anyway,” he said, “nice to meet you, Samantha. Email me some of your samples and I’ll show them to my peeps at the paper.”

  “I’ve never written a comic strip. I mean, I just doodle in my sketchbook.”

  “Do you have your sketchbook on you now? I’ve seen you drawing in it before.”

  Ah, creepy stalker much? Or, had I been drawing in my sketchbook in History so often that it had become obvious to anyone who sat near me? That seemed unlikely. I religiously took notes in History class as if it was the most interesting topic ever invented. Not. “Yeah, I have it in my book bag.”

  “Can I see it?”

  I had never shown my sketchbook to a stranger. I was somewhat reluctant. Oh well, if he mocked me, then he was a jerk, boy band cute or not. I pulled my sketchbook out and handed it to him.

  He flipped through it casually, smiling the entire time. He stopped to linger at various pages, I didn’t know which ones. He even chuckled a few times. “Yeah,” he said, “these are great. Do you have any strips? Like multiple panels telling a cohesive story?”

  “Not really,”

  “No worries. What do you think about working with a writer?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some of the strips in The Wombat are written by one person and drawn by another. I could team you up with a writer if you needed help. Until you get the hang of it. But I get the sense you’ll figure it out pretty quick, based on what I see here. Then you can write your own if you want. It would be up to you.”

  Wow, this guy was really nice. And cute. Not that I was interested in him. But he was being totally helpful, and he didn’t even know me. “Okay. When do I start?” I wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work.

  “I have to show your stuff around first. But, like I said, I think the other guys will dig your work. Gimme your number and I’ll give you a call after our next meeting—”

  Oh. How smooth of him. I’d almost fallen for it. He was a master pickup artist.

  “—or better yet,” he continued, “why don’t you come to our next staff meeting? It’s this Friday.”

  Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe he was being genuine. “This Friday?”

  “Yeah. We meet at 4:20 at Toasted Roast.”

  I did a double take. “You guys meet at Toke Time? Do you smoke joints during the meeting?” I smiled.

  “It’s up to you,” he grinned. “so bring your own joints. But usually we stick to coffee.”

  “Sounds like my kind of crowd.” But it was on Valentine’s Day. The day of Christos’ trial. Shit. My guess would be that I wasn’t going to make their meeting. “But I don’t think I can make it. I have…something really important to do that day.”

  “That’s cool. If you want, I can snap some pics of your sketchbook and show them on Friday.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shoot me an email and I’ll let you know what everybody says.”

  Wow, he backed off quick. Maybe I had judged him too hastily. Maybe he was totally just trying to help. “What’s your email?”

  “Look up The Wombat website online. You can find it there.”

  The professor walked into the lecture hall and set his briefcase down, getting ready to start.

  “Okay,” I said to Justin, “I’ll do that.”

  Why did I suddenly feel like my life was being pulled in one too many directions at once? The one direction it was already heading was stressful enough.

  And why was I thinking in boy band puns all of a sudden?

  Groan!

  ===

  I secretly wondered if Justin Tomlinson would try to chat me up after History class, but he was gone when I finished packing up my laptop.

  On my way to the Student Center to meet Madison for lunch, I texted Romeo and Kamiko to see if they wanted to join us.

  Madison was already waiting in line for fish tacos, decked out in an SDU hoodie, Hollister sweats and flip flops. For a certain contingent of students, sleepwear was acceptable school dress. I couldn’t blame her. I knew she was jonesing to be back in short sleeves and board shorts. “What up, girl!” she cheered and gave me a big hug.

  “Hey, Mads,” I smiled.

  “Did you find Christos last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what was the emergency?”

  Hmm. How to explain that I was secretly worried he was going to commit suicide last night and still had no idea whether or not he had tried? And he was going to trial in two days? Yeah, not exactly an easy breezy topic. I wanted Madison to distract me from my pressing troubles, not dredge up my drama.

  She nudged against me. “Come on, girl. Dish. I’ve got a scoop right here.”

  I sighed. Was there s
omething else we could talk about, like boy bands? No, not that either. There had to be at least one topic I could come up with that wouldn’t leave me dramatized.

  “Can you believe that fight last night?” Romeo asked as he walked up to me and Madison, Kamiko at his side.

  Eye roll.

  “Fight?” Madison asked, looking between me and Romeo. “What fight? Between you and Christos?” she gasped. “And you didn’t tell me?!”

  I bugged my eyes at both of them. “Geez, you guys are worse than the National Enquirer! Christos and I didn’t have a fight. And, Romeo, stop being such a dramaholic!”

  “Can you blame me?” he asked. “I almost had my face bashed in by the jock squad last night.”

  “Wait,” interrupted Madison. She looked at me pointedly. “What does the jock squad have to do with you calling me in the middle of the night asking where Christos was?”

  Romeo, Kamiko, and Madison raised their eyebrows in tandem. They stared at me, dumbfounded.

  “Don’t hold out on us, Sam!” Romeo demanded. “If you have secrets, you have to share.”

  “That’s what I said,” Madison said, folding her arms across her chest. “Spill it bitch!”

  “Fish tacos!” I cried.

  Madison frowned, “That’s not an answer,”

  “Look!” I pointed and everyone turned to look at nothing. I considered running away while they were distracted, but luckily, we’d made it to the front of the line and it was time to order. I was spared further accusatory looks from my friends. For a few precious minutes, anyway. After everyone had their food, we carried our trays outside to an empty table.

  “Well?” Romeo asked me after everyone sat down. “We’re waiting to hear all about your fight with Christos.”

  My fish taco was halfway to my face when I said. “Reel it in, Rumor Romeo. There was no fight.”

  “Then what’s the story, Sam?” Romeo asked. “We all want to know what we missed.”

  I scoffed. “You were the one who spent the night in Hillcrest with the vomit squad. Care to tell us about that?”

  “Gladly,” Romeo smiled. “It all started when I met this guy outside The Brass Rail, down in Hillcrest.”

  “What’s The Brass Rail?” Kamiko asked.

  “A gay bar in Hillcrest,” Romeo answered. “Anyway, the vomit guy was—”

  Madison cringed. “Can we table that discussion until after I’ve finished eating and digesting? Maybe after Winter Quarter is over or sometime next year?”

  “I second that,” Kamiko grimaced. “I don’t need to know any more about Romeo’s alternative lifestyle than I already do.”

  I would’ve gladly endured Romeo’s graphic tale if it meant taking the heat off of my back.

  The three of them stared at me.

  If I couldn’t tell my closest friends about my problems, who could I? Wasn’t that part of what friends were for? To help you deal with your problems when you needed it? But how would Christos feel if I told the gang all about his trial? It’s not like he’d willingly told me about it. I’d had to drag it out of him word by word. I contemplated waiting until Romeo and Kamiko were gone and just telling Madison. She seemed more leak proof than Rumor Romeo. I wasn’t worried about Kamiko, but she and Romeo were practically attached at the hip. I secretly believed that if neither of them ever met their one true love, they’d eventually move in together and live like spinsters.

  “We’re waiting,” Romeo said, chewing on his fish taco.

  Screw it. They were my friends. They had a right to know. “Okay, but you guys have to promise to keep this a secret,” I said.

  “Oooh! Secrets! I love secrets!” Romeo cooed.

  “I’m serious,” I growled. “You can’t tell anybody. This is a big deal. No fooling around. Especially you, Romeo. You. Can’t. Tell. Anybody.”

  Madison and Kamiko turned to glare at Romeo.

  “What, you guys?” he whined. “I’ve never spread gossip about any of you three and you know it, or my name isn’t Romeo Fabiano!”

  “You mean Elmo?” I chided.

  “Who’s Elmo?” Madison asked, confused.

  Romeo looked distinctly embarrassed.

  I arched an eyebrow at Romeo. “You keep my secret, I’ll keep yours. Deal?”

  “Deal,” he nodded.

  “Christos has to go to court on Friday,” I said.

  “Court?” Romeo blurted.

  “Friday?” Madison said. “That’s on Valentine’s Day!”

  “I know,” I groaned.

  “Why does he have to go to court?” Kamiko asked.

  “Because he got in a fight.”

  “So?” Madison shrugged. “Guys get in fights all the time.”

  “Yeah,” Romeo said, “I bet nothing is going to happen to those rugby buttplugs from last night.”

  “Rugby buttplugs?” Madison asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Romeo said. “Right now we need to hear all about Christos’ court date.” Romeo sucked on his soda straw like he was in the middle of a movie theater watching a juicy drama.

  I sighed and said, “He hasn’t really told me much—”

  Bitch…

  “I just know he punched a guy out—”

  Slut…

  “—and I think it happened the day I met him.”

  Whore…

  Oh my god. That was it! Christos punching that fat guy who’d yelled at me! That had to be why he was going to court. Why hadn’t I seen it sooner? And why hadn’t Christos told me? I was a witness and I could help!

  “What, Sam?” Madison asked. “You look like you just swallowed some bad sushi.”

  “I think I just figured it out!” I shouted.

  “What?” Romeo asked, on the edge of his seat, clutching his soda.

  “I saw it!”

  “Saw what?” Kamiko begged.

  “I was there when Christos punched that guy! I’m the only other person who knows he started it! I have to call him right now!”

  “You’re losing us,” Madison said, looking confused.

  I whipped my phone out and dialed Christos. It started ringing. To the gang, I said, “I can help Christos win his trial! I saw everything!” Christos’ phone went to voicemail. Damn. He was probably still in court. “Christos, you have to call me right now. It’s about the trial. I was there! I can help.” I hung up and texted him the same information. With any luck, he’d at least look at his phone and call me.

  I just hoped it wasn’t too late for me to be a witness for his trial.

  ===

  CHRISTOS

  “Are you saying that whatever we tell the judge today is what we have to say in the trial on Friday?” I asked Russell while we walked into the courtroom.

  “Yes,” Russell said as we sat down behind the defense table. “The judge gave us several months to get all our shit in order so there won’t be any surprises on Friday. She’s assuming that by now we’ve turned over every stone there is to turn.”

  There was still one stone nobody had turned. But I’d resolved to keep Samantha safely out of this mess from the beginning. It was my problem to deal with, not hers. “Got it,” I said.

  Russell pulled a laptop and several folders out of his briefcase while I looked around.

  Everything in the room was wood paneled in dark tones or upholstered in muted grays. The color palette of serious business. It almost made court seem like the hip place to be. Chuckle.

  At least the pre-trial would be short. Things would get serious in two days when the actual trial commenced. For now, I could entertain myself by studying inconsequential details like the color of the chairs.

  The Deputy District Attorney was already at the prosecutor’s table with two young assistants, the three of them going through files and murmuring softly about how they were going to hang my ass up on a spike.

  The jury box was empty, as were the benches in the spectator gallery. No TV crews or reporters were present either. Nobody came out to watch pre-
trials unless it was newsworthy. A one punch fight between two random citizens didn’t qualify.

  Russell turned to me and said quietly, “Once the judge walks in, the D.A. is going to lay out the basic framework he intends to present on Friday, then I’ll lay out our proposed defense. We tell the judge up front about all the evidence and witnesses that we plan to bring into the trial. If we’re lucky, and Judge Moody feels like the D.A. has a weak case, she may dismiss it right here on the spot. If that happens, you’re a free man. If not, we step into the ring on Friday.”

  Man, I hoped everything went as smoothly as Russell made it sound.

  He squeezed my shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes. “Don’t worry about it, son. I’ve got you taken care of. No matter what the D.A. throws at us, I’ll have a work around.”

  “Tell me you’ve got a getaway car ready just in case.”

  He winked at me, “Gassed up with the engine running.” Russell turned to the Deputy District Attorney and said casually, “Good morning, George.”

  “Russell,” the man nodded in reply.

  I recognized George Schlosser from my arraignment. He was a tall man with short cropped hair dusted gray at the temples and a serious yet boyish face. A wolf in altar boy’s clothing. The civilized kind of guy who offered you a cup of tea after whacking the bamboo stakes under your fingernails.

  “How are Judy and the boys?” Russell asked him.

  “Good,” Schlosser said dismissively. “Has your client made a decision regarding our plea offer?” he asked, all business.

  “After careful consideration, my client has decided to respectfully decline,” Russell replied.

  George Schlosser’s lips curled minutely into a feral grin. He looked pleased. “So be it,” he said.

  With a blank expression on his face, Russell leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Rumor has it, old George over there cooked and ate his wife and children, hence his reluctance to answer my inquiry as to their health and well being. I almost asked him if human flesh went better with white wine or red, but I didn’t think it would be in the best interest of your case.”

  I was ready to crack up laughing from what Russell had just said, so I dropped my chin to my chest and held it in.

  I’d been in court with Russell many times in the past, and I always appreciated his effort to keep things light behind the defense table, no matter what was going on in the rest of the courtroom.