Paying the Price

by Maria Quick

  ‘Do you want him to be arrested for your murder?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes! How can you even ask that?’

  ‘Then, give me something,’ I ordered. ‘He’s dropped the only thing connecting him to your death.’

  ‘I don’t have anything else,’ she lamented, chewing cud.

  ‘Did you follow him home? Maybe he wrote it in a journal,’ I suggested, grasping at straws by now.

  She guffawed, and it wasn’t pretty.

  ‘If he had a diary, I totally would’ve told you. I bet he did. I bet he cried in it every day.’

  George, Leesha and I were appalled. She genuinely found it funny. Still, after all these years. And she is the supposed victim here. You getting that? You see what I have to deal with now? You understand why I am the way I am?

  ‘I can’t help you,’ I told her with relish. ‘I got nothing.’

  ‘No, don’t chicken out. You’ve helped people with less,’ she accused.

  I thought a minute, just to make her feel better, but nope.

  ‘I really haven’t.’

  ‘What about that guy with the hair?’

  ‘Oh, that narrowed that down. I totally know who you mean,’ I sighed, before checking myself. ‘Oh wait, I do.’

  He’d had a Mohawk that could’ve dwarfed the Empire State Building. I think his name was Sketch, or something that wasn’t a name. Skits! That was it. It was the second time that Izzy had latched onto me. She’d been chasing me around a mall when we’d bumped into him. Poor Skits had been stabbed and mugged in a gross public bathroom of all places. You know, one of those bathrooms that never got cleaned and ceased to be used as a bathroom a hundred years previously? Lucies sure pick the nicest places to get whacked. Anyway, he’d described the guy, and I’d told the cops, but they’d had no evidence and he’d denied it. Turned out that Skits’ killer was in a gang. He’d been ordered to kill a guy to prove his worth. Pretty bad guy, wouldn’t you say?

  Did I mention the killer was thirteen? No? Oh, he was thirteen, by the way.

  Yeah, it started getting a little shady after that. He’d been nothing but a scared little kid. I’d been the same age as him at the time. We’re probably still the same age now, come to that. I’m getting off-topic. Basically, I was being hounded by Skits and Izzy. They’d been tag-teaming me. Around the same time, Brandon joined my school and I’d begun my periods. I was mad at everyone. I blew up on Skits’ killer.

  It was one of the worst experiences of my life.

  He’d burst into tears. He’d been sorry for what he’d done. He’d never meant it to happen, and he’d had big dreams of going to college and getting away from all the gangs. He was from a bad area, and you either joined them or were against them.

  It wasn’t great to be against them.

  Still, I’d marched him into the police station. They’d gone hard on him.

  He won’t be eligible for parole until his death.

  Skits had thanked me. Izzy had been proud. I’d felt like the worst person in the world.

  And now she apparently wanted me to relive that? No, thanks.

  ‘You want me to yell at him until he cries and admits it?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly.’

  ‘I can’t do that!’

  ‘Didn’t you do that earlier with Terry?’ George asked.

  ‘That’s different,’ I said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because it’s different,’ I explained.

  Terry wasn’t like David. He’d killed because he was selfish. David had been left with no other option. I was not about to make him remember all those awful memories of being held face-down in the toilet with... stuff in it. Or the time he’d gotten wedgied so hard, he’d puked. And then held face-down in that. That would not make me the good person in this at all.

  And I don’t even care about that, so this was a big deal.

  I’d done it to Skits’ killer and regretted it ever since. So much so that I’ve repressed his name. I get that he took a life, and it wasn’t his to take, but can we really be so hardnosed about it?

  ‘Yes,’ all three lucies agreed.

  ‘Really, Leesha?’ I asked, disappointed.

  She looked a little ashamed, but stood her ground.

  ‘Look, I know that I didn’t want my mom arrested at first, but the more I think about it, the more I hate her. I only ever came out to Zany, and I was terrified of doing it for real. Now that I’m dead, I know it’s not the big deal I thought it was. I want to be able to tell the world who I am, but I can’t do that. She took that away from me. She took everything away from me, and she needs to pay.’

  ‘Totally get it, but we’re not talking about your evil ass mom. We’re talking a guy who was bullied almost to death. You think he needs to pay for taking his own life back?’

  George and Izzy were like stone. They were set in their minds and would not be budged. But maybe, if I could convince Leesha...

  ‘Yes.’

  Damn it.

  ‘I know what she did, and she should’ve paid for it. But not with her life.’

  ‘You don’t know what this is like,’ George butted in, eyes boring into mine. ‘We’re nothing. We have no voice; only through you, and you don’t have to listen to us. You could ignore us and do whatever the hell you want. And we can’t do a single thing about it.’

  ‘We are stuck here,’ Izzy hissed.

  ‘You know what really hurts?’ George said. ‘That you get to make choices. We don’t. We can’t make a single choice ever again. It’s not just our careers or lives, it’s little things. Even when you choose a damn muffin, it hurts.’

  ‘Blueberry or chocolate? I’d kill to pick one of those,’ Leesha moaned.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I understand-’ I stammered, alarmed by the sudden stance against the living. And muffins.

  ‘That’s just it, Ann. You don’t. It’s impossible for you to understand.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re all dead, but it’s not my fault, okay?’

  ‘Not ours, either,’ Leesha pointed out.

  I was defeated. I mean, like George had said, I could ignore them, but what good would that do? They’re right, I can’t understand. I’d never truly get it. And they’d never truly get or understand me. But I was used to that.

  Ironically, after them moaning about all my choices, I didn’t have a choice here. I had to bully David enough that he’d break into a thousand pieces.

  It was the only way to bring “justice” to Izzy.

  29

  ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ George informed me.

  Yeah, right.

  I’d gussied myself up something pretty. I’d had to, since he might’ve recognized me from earlier. I’d put on so much makeup that I actually looked like a human being for once; and a feminine one at that. Leesha had balked, saying I’d looked too similar to Andy and so she’d opted to stay behind. Which was bad news for me, seeing as I was left with the two extremists.

  For the entire drive over, George had been telling me in a calm, authoritative voice that bullying David was a good idea. It kinda had the opposite effect, if I’m honest. If I really was doing the right thing, he wouldn’t have to keep telling me, would he?

  ‘He is a killer.’

  Yeah, and you know what? So what? He had his reasons. God knows, he had ’em. Not a jury in the world would’ve convicted him back then.

  But now?

  He’s built like a mountain. He’s got a voice that’d make even the toughest goons on the planet quake. He’s brash, he’s confident.

  He’s not a scared little boy. He will go down for this, for a long time.

  I don’t envy his attorney, that’s for sure. He or she will have a tough time proving David was the victim.

  And it’s all thanks to me.

  ‘He deserves to-’

  ‘George, stop talking. You’re not helping. You’re doing the opposite.’

  I breathed deeply a couple times and caug
ht my own glance in the rear-view. Worry was etched into my foundation. Even my hair was starting to frizz. Izzy had actually wanted me to head to a thrift store and find clothes from the eighties, to dress like her. I’d shot that down quicker than a plane over the White House. It was one thing listening to your tormentor, but having to look at them, too? Nuh-uh. No way.

  ‘You can’t sit here all day, Ann. You’re prolonging the inevitable.’

  ‘So what if I am?’ I retorted.

  ‘Izzy’s waited long enough.’

  ‘You know, I don’t actually care about Izzy? Not one bit.’

  Instead of being offended, she seemed to thrive on that, giving me a toothy grin. It was unnerving.

  ‘Ann, she was killed!’

  ‘I know the facts of the case, alright?’ I snapped. ‘I haven’t forgotten, but I think you have.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked coolly.

  ‘I mean, how she treated him. He took it for so long that he finally broke, okay? He shouldn’t have done it, I get it. He made a mistake. But-’

  ‘No, a mistake is losing your cell or I don’t know, putting salt in your coffee instead of sugar. Killing somebody is not a mistake.’

  ‘So, all those years of abuse are okay in your mind? You genuinely believe that that thing in the backseat is the only victim in this? Tell me you don’t believe that,’ I almost pleaded.

  Look, I was grasping at any and all straws here. I even admitted that Izzy was a victim, for the first time in my life. If I was willing to go that far, surely he’d meet me halfway.

  But he didn’t. It’s like, the sweet, caring George had been vanquished by this monster. He didn’t believe that everyone was innately good. He believed that only his people were good.

  I should’ve expected this, really. I’d known his views on killers were extreme since the beginning. He was killed himself, after all. And he doesn’t know who by. I guess in his mind, it’s easy to believe that whoever hit him was evil.

  But the fact is, he’s not alone. Over a thousand people die to hit and runs every year. Then, you got car crashes, train crashes. Plane crashes. You could blame the drivers and pilots for all those things, but what does that do? It just causes more anguish and pain to them and their families. The buck never stops, is what I’m saying. Because if you blame the driver, why not the car manufacturer? Or the people in the surrounding areas who didn’t stop to help you?

  Blaming people for a once in a lifetime mistake doesn’t help anyone. The only way to move on is to forgive and forget. Otherwise, you could spend your life – or death, in Izzy’s case – exacting revenge. Is that healthy? Do you think of Izzy and think “healthy?” Because I certainly don’t.

  Any one of us could’ve been hit by that car. And any one of us could’ve been driving it. That is something that George will never understand.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how he was treated in the past, Ann,’ he said monotonously. ‘What matters is that he killed someone.’

  And that’s it, folks. Story’s over. You take a life, you deserve yours taken, too. Where does that end?

  ‘Yeah, so you keep saying.’

  I wasn’t going to win this argument. If I thought I had a chance, I wouldn’t be sitting outside David’s house for the second time today. Forcing back all the bad thoughts I was having, I tried to empty my mind as we headed for his house.

  ‘I’m gonna enjoy this,’ Izzy sniggered.

  Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.

  He answered the door with the same suspicious expression as earlier.

  ‘David Schaffer?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have a message from Izzy Turner,’ I said, trying to pump some confidence into my voice. It didn’t work. I felt it shaking.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Izzy Turner. You went to high school with her. Do you remember her?’

  Either my eyes were playing tricks on me, or he was growing smaller. I swear I saw his shoulders shrink, and I saw something flash across his eyes. Fear, maybe. A fear he’d thought he’d left behind.

  ‘Izzy Turner? Name rings a bell,’ he coughed, hesitant. ‘Didn’t she die?’

  ‘Yes, she did. After prom night. Do you remember prom night, David?’ I asked, feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet. Have you ever purposely tried to make somebody feel bad? It’s the hardest thing, especially when you don’t actually want to do it. My perennial migraine was resurfacing and I felt like vomiting, it was that bad. Not bad enough for Izzy, though.

  ‘Call him Sissy Schaffer, he hated that name,’ she whispered in my ear.

  ‘Prom night was a long time ago,’ David chuckled, though it sounded false. ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘I didn’t. But Izzy wants you to know that she remembers what you did to her.’

  ‘What I did to her? What about what she did to me?’ he blurted out, furious. No, not furious.

  Afraid.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, mostly without realizing.

  ‘Don’t apologize! Just a little bit more and then Sissy Schaffer will be crying like the little girl he is,’ she sneered.

  That was it. I’d had enough.

  ‘I can’t do this. I’m sorry,’ I said, not even sure who I was apologizing to, anymore. I ran back to my car and drove home as quickly as I could. I didn’t care if George and Izzy weren’t following. Frankly, I didn’t care if they popped out of existence.

  That was the worst thing I’d ever done.

  I know, I know. You’re probably thinking of Tommy since I talk about him often enough. But I didn’t actually do anything to Tommy. Sure, he died as a result of my actions, which I regretted deeply, but I didn’t do a bad thing. I’d tried to help somebody and had misjudged him completely. That’s why Tommy had died.

  But David? You didn’t see his eyes. They weren’t the eyes of a man or somebody who’s overcome adversity. They were the eyes of every scared little kid who was the butt of everyone’s joke. The eyes of a kid who hopes against hope that their bully will get their comeuppance, but deep down, knows they won’t. The eyes of a kid who knows no matter how far he runs, he’ll never outrun the bully.

  I wanted to turn back and apologize. Grovel on my hands and knees if need be. I wanted to beg him for forgiveness, tell him that it’s okay and she’ll never hurt him again. Because I didn’t care about what she wanted, anymore. She could follow me until the day I died, and I still wouldn’t give her what she wanted.

  But I didn’t turn around. I drove straight through the rain and ended up at my house in record timing. It was only when I stumbled out of my car that I realized it wasn’t raining.

  I was crying.

  I barged past a bleary-eyed Theo and ran straight to my room, locking the door. I put on some loud music to cover the sounds as I bawled my eyes out, feeling a pain so deep that it can’t have just been for David. Maybe it was for me, too. And Tommy, and my mom and all those people that I’ve “helped” in the past and only ever ended up hurting. I’m not a crier, I never was. I don’t often think deeply about decisions I make, because they’re usually wrong and I can see that. I’m not a popular person by any means, and I’ve never once automatically known the right answer to a case. I’ve always had to make a choice on behalf of other people, be them lucies or killers. There’s never been a right or wrong choice, only right and wrong. I try not to think about all the lives I’ve irrevocably changed beyond recognition.

  But sometimes, you just gotta let it all out.

  I don’t know how long I spent crying. By the time I was finished, the tears had dried and I was mainly just wailing. My bedspread looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. It was a good job I did my own laundry.

  I switched off whatever garbage was playing and enjoyed the silence. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Hoo boy, that was not a pretty sight. I put aside some fresh sheets for my bed, and thought that maybe I’d rearrange my room. Get a new, fresh look and perspectiv
e.

  No, I don’t know what means, either.

  First, I needed to reenergize. I took a long, hot shower, cleaning all the makeup off my face. It was supposed to be relaxing. I’d meant to feel renewed afterwards, as though I’d been collecting all those tears and now they were gone; and with them, my feelings.

  Unfortunately, emotions don’t really work that way. I felt even more drained, because I did have a new perspective on things.

  I’d seen David’s face when I’d mentioned prom. I knew that all those memories would be hurtling back to him right this second. And I knew that even if I did go back there and apologize, it wouldn’t make a difference.

  I was already too late.

  30

  Leesha returned before Izzy and George did, which I was grateful for. I was all cried out and looked like my usual dumpy self. Leesha didn’t see anything different, apparently. Not sure how to feel about that.

  ‘How’d it go?’ she cringed, seeing that we were alone.

  ‘Bad,’ I told her anyway. She’d frowned, so I’d blurted out the whole sorry saga. Including my tears.

  Strangely, she didn’t share my fears.

  ‘It doesn’t sound that bad,’ she soothed.

  ‘You weren’t there,’ I shivered, partly for effect.

  ‘I’m sure you’re being over-dramatic.’

  ‘I’m really not. It was like his world had suddenly caved in. You didn’t see his eyes!’

  She leaned on the wall - a trick that George had never truly accomplished – and gave me a look.

  ‘Right. And you’re not being over-dramatic?’

  Ugh. How are you supposed to explain those “you-need-to-be-there” stories? Has anybody found a way yet? Maybe I just need to record everything I do.

  I took a deep breath and tried a different tack.

  ‘Have you ever been bullied?’

  ‘I’m Black and gay and I have ADHD,’ she replied, with a “duh” intonation.

  ‘Hey, you’ve only just come out. You can’t use that one.’

  ‘And as somebody who was formerly in the closet, I can admit we aren’t very good at hiding. They knew years before I did. And anyway, I was in an all-girls school. Girls are the best at finding out your secrets.’