by Vera Kurian
“Okay?” he said.
“At dance class. It was very bad.” The look on his mother’s face was strange. Ashen, frozen.
“Is she at the hospital?”
“She died, Andre,” his mother replied. A motorcycle roared past them, its sound half drowning her out, assuring him that he had heard her wrong.
“What?” His mother was staring straight ahead, set on some horizon as if everything would be better once they got there. “She was having an asthma attack, a bad one. They called an ambulance. It took forty minutes to come.” She spoke quietly. Around them, no one seemed to notice the gravity of what she was saying. A man walking an old dog. A woman playing with her phone, not even looking up as she passed them. Andre’s mother wouldn’t look at him as they hurried home, and in the moment this hurt, but later on he knew it was because if she looked at him she would cry. Which she did, once they were safely in the confines of their house, surrounded by stunned family members.
And now, with him just scraping his way into college, he was an article of pride for the tragic family. A kid who turned his life around after a bout of terrible misfortune. Kiara had been a straight-A student. She probably would have gone to law school. Another Black life lost, and no one was keeping count.
Andre’s phone buzzed with a notification. He shoved his earbuds into his ears eagerly. A new episode of Cruel and Unusual had dropped, the latest true-crime podcast that he had become obsessed with. This month it was featuring a ten-part series on the Zodiac Killer—he had already listened to each of the first six parts more than once.
The host’s scratchy voice became a strange soundtrack as the city became increasingly whiter as the bus moved west—fewer houses and more coffee shops and restaurants. Andre couldn’t help but feel a wave of excitement despite everything, rolling his head around to pop his neck in a few places, like a fighter about to enter the ring. The bus pulled up to the stop in Shaw that was closest to Adams.
He found Tyler Hall, which was to be his home for the next nine months. It was a wide building that took up half the block, brick with neat rows of windows sporting various items: flags of different countries, more than one Impeach! sign, Refugees Welcome and Black Lives Matter.
He walked into Tyler where three bubbly white girls were manning a foldout table, checking people in. “Andre Jensen?” he said.
“Jensen, Jensen, ah, here we are,” the girl said, riffling through manila envelopes. She checked him off a list, then handed the envelope to him. “There’s a bunch of orientation stuff in there—maps, useful places, et cetera. The card is your student ID—you’ll use it basically for everything. It’s how you get in the dorm. Normally there’s a student just inside the door who will make you swipe to get in. Your keys are in here, too, and just so you know, if you get locked out it’s a ten-dollar fee each time after the third lockout. It looks like your roommate hasn’t checked in yet. If you have any questions, your RA, Devon, will be on your floor.”
Andre tucked the envelope under his arm and took the stairs to Room 203. The room was a rectangle with two twin beds flush against opposite sides. To the left was a small bathroom that was clean with white tile.
From the bottom of his bin he removed a parcel carefully wrapped in two sweatshirts in addition to its own soft case: the camera his parents had given him for his birthday. According to his father, who had researched on the internet about cameras, looking carefully through his bifocals, it was a solid upgrade to the one Andre had previously bought used on eBay. A good DSLR for serious beginning photographers. Andre had only taken a couple photography classes at the community center before he graduated high school, figuring that wherever life took him—journalism, blogging, podcasting—being able to take good pictures was a skill set he needed to develop.
He had a few hours of free time before he had to check in with the psychology department. He had confirmed via a series of phone calls with the financial aid office that, indeed, he would be coming to John Adams University and his tuition and fees were in fact paid in full. No, it wasn’t a joke.
Andre heard another key in the lock. A guy came in and looked at him. He was short, his head shaved, and he sported a blue sweater and a red bow tie despite the fading heat of summer. “Do you think they put all the Black kids together?” he said.
Andre laughed—he had been thinking the same thing.
He introduced himself as Sean and they talked as they unpacked. Sean was from PG County, Maryland. (Murralind was how he said it.) He was the salutatorian of his high school class. He insisted that Andre stand as far back as possible so Sean could hang an enormous movie poster, which, Andre was pleased to see, was for Aliens. “Greatest horror movie ever made!” Sean said.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” They argued good-naturedly about horror movies, Andre feeling a flush of pleasure that they had something in common.
They headed to the school store together, talking the whole way. I kind of like this guy, Andre realized. He came to his first decision point about his whole college scheme: Should he tell Sean that the roommate he was about to live with for the next year was a diagnosed psychopath?
The first overt lie came easily: Andre said he had to go to the financial aid office when really it was time for him to check in at the psychology department. Sean accepted the lie readily and Andre consulted his campus map. As if he didn’t have enough to feel nervous about, the psychology department was creepy looking. Gothic somehow despite being plopped in the middle of a modern campus. He wondered, as he crept up the stairs one at a time, if the entire game would be up the second Dr. Leonard Wyman laid eyes on him. He had a PhD, after all.
Andre knocked on the open door of 615 and an older white man, maybe seventy-something, held up his hands apologetically. He was eating an enormous, tempting-looking pastrami sandwich. Embarrassed, he pointed to his mouth and gestured for Andre to follow him to a more private office. Andre sat and watched as Wyman, still chewing, gathered a stack of papers. “Sorry, I knew you were coming but I hadn’t had anything to eat all day!” he exclaimed at last.
Andre felt a strange feeling wash over him as he accepted the man’s hand.
“Andre... Jensen... Jensen,” Wyman murmured, searching for something on his computer. “Ah, here we go.”
Andre then realized what it was that bothered him, although it didn’t make sense. He had never met Wyman before—they hadn’t even talked on the phone—and Andre knew this to be one hundred percent true. But if that was the case, why was this complete stranger so familiar?
5
Day 54
Billy the Crew was one of the two baby-faced crew boys on my floor in Brewser. Luck, or fate, whatever you want to call it, was on my side. That first night when my floor went out dancing, I heard him mention that his older brother was in SAE. I flirted with him, knowing this would mean invitations to parties or whatever other late-night shenanigans possibly affiliated with Will Bachman’s friends. Billy mentioned offhand where the SAE house was and said he could take me there when they had their Welcome Week party.
The party wasn’t till the weekend, and I was impatient for it. Every time I walked through the crowded campus streets between classes, part of me was searching for Will. I didn’t know what I would do if I saw him and was almost scared that I would lash out without thinking. I didn’t know if he would recognize me—it had been years since he had last seen me. Each time I arrived at a new class—Biology, Physics—I scanned over the other students, looking for his blond hair. Of course he wasn’t there. He was a junior and probably wasn’t taking freshman-level premed prereqs.
Once I could establish that he wasn’t in my classroom, I’d relax and settle in, scoping out the territory. I’m an auditory learner and don’t need to take that many notes, so I spent much of those first classes sniffing out my fellow classmates. It took me all of a day to figure out that any time I saw a sleek black smartw
atch, this wasn’t necessarily interesting. A lot of people were wearing them, not just students in my program. But these people would be my competition for med school and my future friends and enemies. They could be accomplices or obstacles. Lovers, even. I had been having an itch for sex lately. I eyed one boy in the front row who had broad shoulders, but when he half turned around I saw his horse face. Bummer.
I did make it a point to take the long way back to my dorm after class, passing in front of the SAE house. It stood at the intersection of two tree-lined streets, a corner lot containing a large, three-story Victorian house of dark orange brick with a black shingled roof. It had a yard that was littered with beer cans, deflated footballs, and a couple of beat-up-looking grills. Sometimes the frat brothers would sit outside in patio chairs, drinking beer as they watched the students—girls, specifically—go by.
I walked past each time, holding my laptop bag at my side, assessing the house. Its doors (two, front and back), how close the neighbors were (throwing distance) and if there was a discreet way of leaving it quickly (yes, the alley out back, which was dark and didn’t have surveillance cameras). I never saw Will when I cased the house—I had to find out how often he hung out there. But on the third day of classes, I was walking by and saw three boys sitting outside. One made eye contact with me and I gave him the quick sort of shy smile that implied I was easily impressed. “Hey,” he said, sitting up. “What’s your name?” Even the tone of his voice had the slight air of making fun of me.
“Chloe,” I said, edging closer. My eyes flicked to the right and my heart jumped. I instantly recognized one of the other guys from my internet investigations—Cordy, Will’s roommate. I was going to make them like me, which wouldn’t be hard. Be attractive, don’t disagree, and mostly just listen—you could not say a word and a guy would still compliment you on what a great conversationalist you were.
“Wanna beer?” the first one offered.
“Sure,” I said. I climbed over the low wrought-iron fence that lined their lot, feeling their eyes on me. They introduced themselves and offered a lawn chair that felt damp when I sat on it. The one who offered me the beer was Chris, a sophomore. Cordy was Cordy, and the third boy was Derek, a junior. They proceeded to ask me teasing questions and I flirted appropriately, laughing as if they were brilliant.
I dropped a mention of lacrosse, but no one took the bait. For a while we drank beer and made colorful commentary about the people walking by, and I tried to slow down, telling myself that information-gathering takes patience, and that everything they said could prove useful at some point. What I wanted was an invitation inside the house so I could do some reconnaissance, but it seemed too suspicious to try to worm one all of twenty minutes after meeting them. Not at least if I didn’t want to deal with one trying to paw his way inside me.
Silently, I filed away the names of other brothers they mentioned. How close were the brothers? If Will went missing, would they form a search party or just go back to plying freshmen with cheap beer? They talked about the protests. “Oh, hell yeah,” Cordy said. “I’ve been going down there and livestreaming everything. Just wait until the riots break out.” I made a mental note of this—any activity Cordy did could be something Will might tag along to.
“I think there’s another one this weekend. I’m getting the hell out of town for that October one, though. I don’t want to deal with crowds that big—buncha wannabe anarchists,” Derek said. He chucked his chin at me. “What about you, premed?” They had started calling me premed. Like there was something funny about a girl knowing her major on the first week of school. I’m sure this is in no way related to the statistical fact that women are less likely to drop out of college than men are.
“I haven’t decided,” I said.
Chris looked at his phone. “Terrible Charles is having a thing at the lake house again. Open bar.”
The conversation paused when a blast of screeching feedback burst out of a window on the third floor. “Bogey!” two of them screamed in unison.
The screen door at the back of the house opened and a boy emerged. My breath caught. It wasn’t Will, but whoever he was distracted me from the task at hand. He was a little older and was looking down at his iPhone. He was maybe six feet tall and had the body type I liked—narrow hipped, some muscle tone, but not too much. Unlike the other boys, he was well dressed in designer jeans and a thin, dark green sweater. When he looked up I was pleased. The face he revealed was nothing short of classically handsome—striking cheekbones, a fine straight nose, and eyes that looked green even from across the yard. A sensuous mouth. His hair was light brown with the sort of stylish quiff that guys were sporting of late.
“Speak of the devil!” Cordy said.
The boy finished with his phone and slipped it into his pocket, coming over to take a beer from the cooler.
“Terrible Charles, this is our new friend Chloe. She’s a freshman,” Cordy said.
Good, then, Cordy liked me. I looked at Terrible Charles sharply, trying to convey everything I admired about him with my eyes.
He barely acknowledged me with a nod. “Welcome to Adams. Try to steer clear of assholes like these three.”
They hooted in protest. Terrible Charles grinned—more at them than at me—showing perfect white teeth, and popped his beer. “I gotta take care of election stuff—see you guys later.”
I was disappointed, but with his exit I could think again. “Wait, Charles? Was that Charles Portmont?”
Chris nodded.
Charles Portmont of Will’s Instagram! With another member of Will’s entourage within my sights, I was getting closer, a vulture flying careful circles.
An exclamation point appeared on my smartwatch. I figured I had made my appearance at SAE and, not wanting to waste any more time if Will wasn’t going to show up, said goodbye. Leave on a high note. Leave with them wanting more.
I was curious about what these mood logs were. I walked halfway down the street, not wanting to be geolocated near the SAE house. The street was lined with trees thick with autumn leaves—it was almost Golden Hour, the hour just before sunset with the most perfect light for selfies. I paused at one of the wooden benches that were dedicated to alumni, snapped a photo, then turned to my smartwatch.
I tapped the screen. It displayed the time at the top, which faded, then the screen said: On a scale of 1 to 7, with 7 being the most you could possibly feel an emotion, and 1 being not at all, please answer how much you feel each of the following emotions right now.
I touched the screen to advance the program.
Happy.
2, I said.
Anxious.
1
Excited.
5
Angry.
6
6
Day 53
Yessica and I hit the bookstore with a gaggle of girls from our dorm and then trudged home with heavy bags filled with overpriced textbooks. “I don’t understand why I have to get Edition 10 when it’s fifty bucks more expensive than Edition 9,” she complained, dropping her bags on the floor of our dorm room. Everyone had their doors open and was yelling agreement across the hallway.
“It’s a racket!” someone shouted.
“Did anyone buy sticky putty? To hang posters?” called someone else.
I paused after I arranged my new books on my desk. There was the FOMO part of me that wanted to stay and hang out and do what everyone else was doing their first week of college. But then there was that other part of me. My only consolation was that once I was done with Will, I could throw myself body and soul into what college is supposed to be: romantic intrigue, baiting girls into stupid fights for fun, having affairs with professors.
I took my laptop bag, claiming that my job at the psychology department was calling. Saying I had a part-time job there was a decent cover for Yessica rather than telling her I had a series
of appointments and experiments associated with the diagnosis of psychopathy. Anyone with a less sophisticated understanding of my psyche would probably object to rooming with a “psycho,” let alone one who was getting a free ride when she had to take out a Stafford Loan.
I headed up to Marion Street and was happy to see that there were only a couple of people in the muffin shop, in addition to the two young girls working the cashier station who kept saying, “Oh, heeeeelll no,” to each other before lapsing into what was either Arabic or Amharic. I selected a small table facing the window that provided a direct and clear view to Will Bachman’s house. I opened my laptop and my biology textbook, arranging my set of highlighters. I read half a chapter, glancing up to observe and mark with a tick every time someone crossed in front of the house. I wanted to get a sense of how much foot traffic there was on the street.
Idly, I woke up my laptop and perused Will’s latest Instagram posts. He had a picture of himself and another brother trying to load a keg into a hatchback. #WelcomeWeekPartay.
I whirled my cursor around the Google homepage. “Charles Portmont,” I typed. A webpage immediately popped up. Apparently, Terrible Charles was running for student council president. There was a picture of him, but not a very pleasing one, because it was taken from behind him, showing the outline of his back as he delivered a speech to a crowd. He had endorsements from the school newspaper, the Daily Owl (which actually only came out once a week), in addition to two student union organizations. Damn, people took politics serious in DC. Who cared who the student body president was, anyway?
There was a form box where you could submit an anonymous question. Have a question for our candidate? Are you a soulless asshole like your frat brothers?
I looked back up at Will’s house and felt a compulsion seize me. Why don’t I go over there, just to check it out? I knew, in the smart part of my brain, that this wasn’t a good idea—it was broad daylight and there were too many people around. But sometimes the snaky, reptile part of my brain that’s impatient and impulsive wins out. The snake wanted to break windows, snoop through his bedroom, open the fridge and spit into his milk. I shoved all my stuff into my backpack and left the shop, crossing the street.