by Julie Cave
Elise and Dinah exchanged another glance.
“You’d better tell us everything.”
****
The final bell had rung ten minutes before, but this was Chloe’s new time of arrival. For someone who was organized and punctual, arriving deliberately late was excruciating for her. She hated seeing the look of disappointment on her teacher’s faces, many of whom had much higher expectations of her. But it was infinitely better than the punishment Jessica Hunter was waiting to inflict on her before class. Since Grace now refused to hang out with her, talk to her, or even look at her, Jessica was free to entertain every vicious thought that entered her head.
Chloe slipped into her first period English class and earned a withering look from Mrs. Bellson.
Chloe slunk into her seat and ignored the giggles around her. Mrs. Bellson turned back to the book and immediately Chloe felt something hit her softly on the shoulder.
She saw a bunched-up piece of paper bounce to the floor. She glanced over to her left and saw Alice Greendale, one of Jessica’s minions, smiling at her. Chloe frowned and looked away, then saw Alice motioning to her. Chloe glanced at her again and realized she was supposed to open the piece of paper.
With a heavy feeling of dread, Chloe opened the note and read:
FAGLY: Fat And Ugly = YOU
Muffled laughter erupted around Alice Greendale as Chloe’s face burned red. She crumpled the note in her hand and let it fall to her desk. Deep inside her, a little voice whispered: Yes, you are. You know it’s true.
Mrs. Bellson turned around. “Is there a problem, Alice?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bellson,” Alice said, sweetly.
Chloe kept her eyes on the text, humiliation burning in her stomach like acid. Each time her eyes slid sideways, one of the kids who sat near Alice would whisper: “Fagly!”
Chloe watched the clock, as its hands passed at an agonizing pace. Finally, the bell rang and she waited as the classroom emptied slowly. She heaved herself up from the desk and walked to her locker, wondering why she felt so weary. There was no way she could rule out a chance encounter with Jessica in the hallway, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to move any faster.
Each time she got up to walk, her legs felt impossibly heavy. She immediately thought to herself: Well, of course they do. They each weigh a ton. Lose some weight, fatty!
Lunch in the cafeteria was the worst of all. Chloe dreaded it every single day.
Today she took her tray to the table at which she and Grace always used to eat their lunch. Now, she ate alone. Even the usual school losers avoided her; Jessica’s wrath was too fearsome to risk. Grace had since elected to sit with new friend Jessica, who often looked over at Chloe with a gloating expression on her face. She’d follow that up with a few quietly spoken words, which elicited an eruption of laughter from her minions, all of whom looked scathingly at Chloe. Chloe didn’t care what Jessica had said about her, or what the minions thought about her. She only cared about what Grace thought. When her former friend looked her way amidst the laughter, Chloe thought she saw a lot of anger, tinged with pity and discomfort. And she never seemed to laugh as hard as the others. In fact, Grace often didn’t laugh at all. Chloe would look her friend right in the eyes, and found that often Grace could not meet her gaze.
She was still utterly perplexed as to why Grace had so unceremoniously dumped her as her friend. Grace utterly refused to speak to her.
Chloe began to eat, quickly and methodically, wanting to escape to the library as soon as she could. She saw Jessica and her friends already seated. Alice Greendale was talking animatedly, probably telling them all about the incident in English class.
Soon enough, like tiny poisonous spiders shooting across the room on silken thread, taunts of “fat” and “ugly” and the two words combined began to float over her way. Chloe could do nothing except pretend she couldn’t hear them, despite the flush on her skin, and the clammy cold of her hand, squeezed into a fist in her lap.
She’d almost finished her lunch when a ringing shout caused her to look up in alarm: “Heads up!”
A millisecond later, a blossom of pain unfurled just above her ear with a loud crash. Liquid sloshed down the side of her face, sticky and cold. Involuntarily, she let out a loud cry and clapped her hand to her ear. Her head buzzed, like a chainsaw had been started inside her skull.
At her feet, the offending missile, a half-full can of soda, rolled. Shouts of laugher erupted at Jessica’s table like an atomic mushroom cloud; all of them were bent over double from the effort of laughing so hard. Shaun Kruger, a footballer who was as cruel as he was handsome, was collecting high fives.
Chloe hurriedly wiped at her face with napkins, soaking up the soda that was dripping through her hair and onto her shirt. Pressure began to build up in her throat and nose, a sure sign she was about to burst into tears.
Chloe gave up with the napkins, as the laughter resounded in her ears, jumped to her feet and ran out of the cafeteria. But not in time to hide the tears that rolled down her face. Her head throbbing, she had only a few seconds to register the faces of everyone else in the cafeteria as they stared at her making her exit. Many looked disgusted; some were faintly amused. Written plain on all their faces was the same sentiment: I’m sorry, but I’m glad it’s you and not me.
****
Shaun Holdsworth wiped his brow with a forearm that was surely sodden by now. Dinah was still trying to reconcile the bland accountant in front of her thinking that Malia Shaw was propositioning him. “How did you meet Malia?” she asked.
“It was really an accident,” said Holdsworth. He sounded a little like he was trying to convince himself of this truth. “I often stop by Joaquin’s for a drink after work — you know where that is?”
“It’s a cantina, right?” Dinah didn’t know the place at all.
“It’s barely more than a shack, a favorite for the hard drinkers,” explained Elise. They both looked at Holdsworth. Dinah couldn’t imagine him there.
“I met them both there — they were together,” said Holdsworth. “I sat next to Malia at the bar, and she offered to buy me a drink.” He swallowed.
“You accepted her offer?”
Holdsworth had the grace to turn red. “I did.”
“So she bought you a drink. Then what?”
“She asked me if I’d like to sit in a booth with her. It’s a bit quieter there. I agreed, and we went there, but Lola was already sitting at the booth. I kind of thought that was weird, but Malia sat down next to me and I guess I just thought it wasn’t a big deal.”
“So then what happened?”
“The mood changed right away.” Holdsworth reddened again. “Lola took over. They started asking me questions about all kinds of things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“How old I was, where I was from, if I’d ever lived in California. How I felt about women. Had I ever been violent toward women, that sort of thing.”
Odd questions.
“It was Lola asking these questions, or was Malia involved as well?”
“It was all Lola. Malia sort of went off into a daze, I think.”
“How did you feel about those questions? Did you try to leave?”
“It was weird, for sure.” Holdsworth glanced down at his hands. “But by the time it occurred to me to leave, the questions were over. It was later that I realized how strange it was. I think they must have thought I was somebody else.”
“So you’ve never lived in California?”
“Never. And I’ve never hurt a woman, or been violent in any way.” Holdsworth shook his head.
Dinah paused, trying to gather her thoughts. His answers only made the situation more confusing, rather than clarifying her questions. “Have you seen either of them since that initial meeting?”
“No. I’ve never been back to Joaquin’s, either.”
“Both of them are dead now,” Elise said. “Both murdered. What are your th
oughts on this?”
Holdsworth rubbed his face. “I have no . . . thoughts. I mean, I have no idea. It’s terrible. The only thing I can think of is that they found whoever it was they were looking for, and that he must not have been a very nice guy.”
“What were your impressions of the women? Did they seem scared, worried, nervous, anything like that?”
“Well, Malia certainly wasn’t anxious; she was just drugged out of her mind. To me, it seemed like she just didn’t care. I mean, I don’t even think she cared about whether she lived or died.”
“What about Lola?”
“She was . . . intense. I didn’t get much else from her. I felt like she was a woman you didn’t want to cross, that she’d make life pretty difficult for you. She seemed to be a person you wouldn’t want to mess with.”
Only someone did mess with her, and won.
Dinah rubbed her temples wearily.
“So where were you last Monday night?” Elise continued.
“Me? Uh . . . I was at home.”
“With your wife?”
“Please don’t tell her!” Holdsworth begged, suddenly desperate. “I didn’t tell her that I went to Joaquin’s.”
“With your wife?” she repeated, implacable.
“Yes! We ate dinner. Watched some TV.”
“What did you watch?”
“Uh . . . well. Oh, I think we watched some football. My wife was reading a book beside me.”
“What about last night?”
“Well. I was at the gym last night.”
“What time was that?”
“I left work a little late — maybe six. I would have been at the gym from then until about seven-thirty. Then I went home and ate dinner with my wife. Then we video-called our daughter.”
Remembering the notes in the book, Dinah asked, “Where is your daughter?”
“She’s at college in San Francisco. Her first year away. We miss her terribly.”
Malia was someone’s daughter, once.
“Did Malia or Lola mention anyone else? Any other friends?”
“Not that I can recall.” Holdsworth looked up at the ceiling. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Do you know how Malia and Lola knew each other? How long they’d been friends?”
“No, I don’t know.” Holdsworth shook his head. “But my impression was that they’d known each other for a long time.”
Elise sighed. “I see. Well, I think that’s all the questions I have for the moment. I hope you’ve told the truth, Mr. Holdsworth, or I might have to visit your home next time and ask questions in front of your wife.”
“I’ve told you the truth, I swear,” said Holdsworth, eyes large and beguiling.
Outside, Elise said, “I believe him.”
“Yeah, me too,” agreed Dinah. “Joaquin’s was his walk on the wild side, until it scared him.”
“Why were the woman asking him those questions? What were they up to?”
“I don’t know. I feel more perplexed now than I did before talking to Holdsworth,” admitted Dinah. And I feel flat, too.
In the car, she wondered why the conversation with Holdsworth had deflated her.
Maybe it was because Malia seemed so alone, so isolated, so vulnerable. Maybe it was because everyone who had known her in life seemed so quick to absolve themselves in her death. Maybe it was because she had met her death alone, frightened, trapped.
Maybe it was because there were similarities in her own life and in Malia’s, and that Malia’s lonely death was something that could have easily happened to her.
****
“Science,” said Samuel O’Toole. “It proves it.”
Angus put down his cell phone with reluctance. “What does it prove?” He wasn’t really listening. His mind was stuck on a loop: Where is Lola? Why hasn’t she returned my call? Where is Lola? Is she dead?
“Natural selection,” said O’Toole, triumphantly. “It proves that some races are inferior to the white race.”
Angus sighed. “First. There are no races. We are all members of the same race — the human one. Second, what are you talking about?”
“You can’t deny that people who come from Africa look different to people who come from Sweden,” said O’Toole.
“Of course they do. Do you mean to tell me that you subscribe to that old argument that the Caucasian person is somehow superior to any other?” Angus cringed inwardly as he spoke, because at one time this was precisely what he himself had believed.
“I think it’s obvious,” declared O’Toole. “The Western civilization has been responsible for the technological and societal advances of the past several hundred years. And you know who makes up the largest section of the Western civilization? White people.”
Angus sat back in his chair. “Let me ask you a question. What do you think people like Adam and Eve looked like? And, furthermore, what do you think Jesus looked like?” He didn’t wait for a reply before moving on. “Lots of Bibles portray Adam and Eve as blond-haired and blue-eyed. But the truth is that Adam and Eve probably had a middle-brown skin tone from a mixture of “light color” genes and “dark color” genes. Their descendants could then exhibit a wide range of skin tones from very light to very dark with most somewhere in between (as seen in the world today). Adam and Eve likely possessed genetic variation for eye shape and other common distinguishing characteristics as well.”
He paused and looked at O’Toole intently for a moment. “As people scattered across the earth after their languages were confused at the Tower of Babel, groups of people became isolated from others and likely married only within their language group. Each group carried a set of physical characteristics determined by their genes. Certain characteristics dominated as they intermarried because of the group’s small pool of genes. Over time, different people groups displayed distinct physical characteristics. For example, Asians have almond-shaped eyes, dark hair, and middle-brown skin, whereas those of European descent have round eyes and fair-colored hair and skin.
“It doesn’t make any people group better than another.”
O’Toole opened his mouth to say something.
“Hang on,” said Angus. “I’m nearly finished. You know, most of the world is somewhere in between a dark skin shade and a light skin shade. And underneath all of us — whether we call ourselves white, brown, black or some other shade — we have genes that determine skin tone. My genes are not superior to your genes or anyone else’s.” Though once I thought that was true. “The truth is we are all like cake batter.”
“Pardon?” O’Toole raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“Cake batter. We all have the same ingredients, but some have more of something than the other. In fact, just by changing the proportion of ingredients in the cake, we can end up with a large array of different-looking cakes. But they’re all still cakes.”
He was on a roll now and O’Toole couldn’t have stopped him if he’d tried.
“What is more important than what shade of skin we have, is to understand that God created us all as human beings and we are all equal before Him. God does not see one of us as superior to the other — in fact, in His eyes, we can only ever be inferior because of our sin. But Jesus died for sinners equally, and offers salvation and redemption to sinners equally. Do you believe that salvation is available to an African person or an Asian person as freely as a European person?”
“Well . . . I suppose so,” admitted O’Toole.
“I think we need to stop looking at the outward appearance of people and see them as God does,” continued Angus. “That’s true of skin color, hair color, dress sense, and nose piercings. We’re all sinners, in desperate need of God’s grace. Christians especially should reflect the love and grace we’ve received so freely from Jesus toward other people. If you’re a Christian, there’s no room in your life for hatred.”
Angus saw the conflict in O’Toole’s face, the different emotions fighting for control. He could understand how the ot
her man felt. It is difficult to overcome the brainwashing received in childhood that you grew up believing as truth. It is difficult to look around you at a country deeply divided by race and know that all of it was caused by sinful pride lurking deep within the heart.
“How would you feel if your daughter married someone who wasn’t white?” Angus asked.
O’Toole blanched. “To be honest, I wouldn’t be happy about it.”
“Why not?”
“I just . . . don’t believe that it’s the right thing to do,” said O’Toole. “But I don’t really know why.”
“Let me suggest to you that what would be far worse is if your daughter married someone who wasn’t a Christian,” said Angus. “In truth, this is the only type of marriage that God tells us should be avoided. It’s been the position of many churches over time, unfortunately, that what we know as interracial marriage is wrong. To back up their position, they erroneously use the passage from 2 Corinthians chapter six which says, ‘what communion has light with darkness?’ The Bible isn’t talking about skin shade or people groups here. It’s talking about Christians being married to non-Christians.”
O’Toole seemed troubled, but he remained silent. “Well, you’ve given me a lot of think about,” he said. “Thank you for your time.
“Ask God to show you the truth in your heart,” said Angus. If God can soften my dark heart from hate to love, then He can do the same for you.
After O’Toole left, Angus felt exhausted. He put his head on his desk and closed his eyes. God had changed his heart, had softened it and taken away his hatred. But the consequences remained, and no matter how hard Angus had tried to atone for his sin, he felt like the punishment for it would never end.
He feared it would take his life.
Chapter 10
The great English writer named C.S. Lewis once said that having integrity means that you do the right thing even when no one is watching.
Angus sat in his office, the door locked, the blinds on the window drawn. O’Toole had gone, and Angus had never felt more like a hypocrite in his whole life.
Nobody can see me. I’ve never felt more alone.