Tell on You

  THE MOMENT JEREMY’S EYES opened, he knew he would puke. He sat up, ready to bolt for the bathroom, and looked around, bewildered. Not his bedroom. Too sick to sort that out, he spied a waste basket on the floor, lurched out of bed and lunged for it. Half awake, he vomited, tasting scotch.

  That much accomplished, Jeremy surveyed the surroundings from his vantage point on the carpet. A motel room. The sound of a shower running. But if he wasn’t at home, not Melissa in the bathroom. Then, who…?

  A jolt of panic roused him to full wakefulness. He started to get up, and a dull ache radiated from the middle of his face, bringing a vague memory of Rick punching him. But when? And why? Sketchy images surfaced in Jeremy’s mind. He recognized the room. The Meadowview Inn.

  Oh god, was that Nikki in the shower? But I locked her out. Did she get the manager to let her back in? Had she spent the night?

  The shower stopped.

  Jeremy forced himself to his feet, preparing for a quick escape. The bathroom door opened and he was startled—then relieved—when Rick emerged, one towel around his waist, another scrubbing his wet hair.

  “Hey, you’re up.”

  “What are you doing here?” Jeremy stared.

  Rick chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Looks like we polished off that whole bottle of scotch last night. I can barely remember what time zone I’m in.” He cocked his head, appraising Jeremy’s bruises. “Jeez, you look like you went a few rounds with Mike Tyson. How’re you feeling?”

  Jeremy took stock. His nose hurt, but not with the throbbing agony of last night. A headache, too, either from the punch or the scotch.

  “Not too bad.”

  “Good.” Rick nodded. “Still, you should see a doctor today, get an x-ray. Maybe your nose needs fixing.” He made a rueful face. “Anything your insurance doesn’t cover, send me the bills.”

  “Sure, thanks. But I think I’m okay.” The prospect of anyone touching his sore nose, even for therapeutic purposes, made Jeremy queasy again. “What time is it?” And what day? Tuesday, he remembered.

  “Nearly eight. I’m heading over to the airport.”

  “Eight?” Jeremy’s first class started in an hour. He’d be late, had to get moving. He rushed forward—too fast—and reeled.

  “Hey!” Rick reached out to steady him. “Easy, now. Better lie down and get some more rest.”

  Jeremy took a deep breath, felt steadier. “Nah. I’ve got to get to class.”

  Rick frowned. “You’re going in?”

  Jeremy stared at him. It hadn’t occurred to him not to show up. But Rick had a point. What awaited him there? And how would he explain…?

  Anxiously, Jeremy hurried to the bathroom and checked his reflection in the mirror. Holy shit. His heart sank at the sight of his heavily bruised eyes and swollen nose. Maybe he’d say he’d been mugged.

  Then it dawned on him. Suppose Nikki told the real story. What then?

  “Hey, Jeremy?” Rick called out. “I’m gonna check out the lobby, see if they’ve got some coffee down there. Want me to bring you a cup?”

  “Yeah, great.” Coffee sounded almost like salvation.

  “Back in a jif.”

  Jeremy went to the toilet to pee, relieved to find at least one of his bodily functions operating normally. He considered the shower—could he stand under the spray without letting it hit his face? Worth a try. Shaving? Out of the question. Before he lost his nerve, Jeremy turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature and eased his way under the water.

  Not bad. The hot spray relaxed the knotted muscles of his shoulders and back. He sighed, soaping himself. Take this a step at a time. Get clean, get dressed, drink some coffee.

  Decide whether to become a fugitive from justice.

  By the time Jeremy finished his shower, Rick had returned with their coffee. Jeremy sat on the side of the bed and took a sip, feeling the caffeine begin to clear out his remaining mental cobwebs. As his brain focused, he thought of Melissa and grabbed for his cellphone.

  Still no word.

  As he texted her another apology, pleading to see her, Rick asked: “So what did you decide to do about work?”

  “Just a sec.” Jeremy sent the text and looked up at his friend, shrugging a jacket over his turtleneck. He considered Rick’s question. A million reasons not to show up at school today. Every instinct warned him to stay away.

  Then again, he’d allowed his instincts to lead him around by his nose—or maybe, his dick—for weeks. And look where that had brought him. It might be time to listen to his head, for a change.

  “I really should go.”

  Rick frowned. “Not to be negative here, but do you think you’re in any shape to face what might happen?”

  “Maybe not.” Jeremy stood, reached for his overnight bag and pulled out clean clothes. “But I’m not sure that matters.”

  Rick’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. Just—I’ve screwed up so many things already. I think it’s time I started cleaning up the mess I’ve made.”

  Rick nodded. “Good luck, pal.”

  FORTY NINE

  JEREMY PULLED INTO THE faculty lot. He’d barely make his first class on time, yet he sat for a moment, preparing himself. All the way to the school, he’d debated: go straight to the principal’s office and confess everything to Donnelly? The angel on one shoulder whispered into Jeremy’s ear: Do the honorable thing. Face the consequences. At least you’ll regain your self-respect and peace of mind.

  From his other shoulder, the devil hissed: Are you fucking crazy? Wait and see if you get away with it. Jeremy hadn’t decided. He longed to talk with Melissa. If he didn’t have to face this alone, he might be able to deal with it.

  As he approached the entrance to the school, his cellphone played Melissa’s ringtone. Eagerly, he pulled it from his pocket.

  “Mel! Thank god!” The words spilled from his lips. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry, so very sorry for everything. Please let me come and talk to you.”

  “Where are you?” The urgency in her voice made him hopeful. She wanted to see him! “I’m walking into the school.” Jeremy pushed open the entrance door. “But I could come home right after—”

  “Jeremy! The police were here looking for you.”

  Jeremy caught sight of Mr. Donnelly, planted in front of him like a sentry, and froze.

  Scowling, arms folded, the principal stood, flanked by two uniformed policemen. They took a step toward Jeremy, and Donnelly shot him a smug grin. One of the cops produced a set of handcuffs.

  “Oh no,” Jeremy murmured.

  “Jeremy?” Through the phone, Melissa’s voice rose with alarm. “Are you there? What’s going on?”

  “Jeremy Barrett?”

  “That’s him,” the principal said.

  The policeman with the handcuffs came forward as his partner announced: “We have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”

  “Jeremy!” Melissa shouted. “What’s happening?”

  “I—I have to hang up. They’re here. Mel, I’m gonna need a lawyer.”

  “…you have the right to an attorney,” the cop droned, right on cue. While he recited the Miranda rights, his partner took the cellphone from Jeremy’s hand and thrust it back into his jacket pocket, then spun him around, cuffing Jeremy’s hands behind his back.

  A few students stood by, gaping.

  What a show.

  “Look, it’s Mr. B,” one of them said.

  “My god, what happened to his face?”

  Amid the sea of student and faculty faces, all staring at him in horror, Jeremy spotted his friend Marge Peterson. The look of disappointment on her face struck him like a blow.

  I’m sorry, Marge.

  Donnelly’s voice behind him: “Barrett, you degenerate, you’re finished. You’ll never step inside a classroom again.”

  No, probably not.

  The cops led him away. The last familiar face his eyes beheld
on the way out the door was Nikki’s, her expression stony and inscrutable as the Sphinx.

  PART FOUR

  “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

  —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

  FIFTY

  NIKKI WATCHED, STUNNED, AS the police led Mr. B away in handcuffs. She’d overslept and skipped breakfast after a restless night spent plotting his fate. And now this. Two minutes later, and she’d have missed the whole thing. When she caught Mr. B’s eye on the way out the door, Nikki stared at him, gnashing her teeth.

  Robbed.

  Nikki, patient spider, had painstakingly woven her perfect web. Caught and captive in her silk, Mr. B had been hers for the tasting. She’d expended such care—such love, such relentless appetite—and it had worked! Maybe he thought he’d escaped last night, but that photo of the two of them she’d swiped ensured Mr. B had to do whatever she wanted—until she finished with him. Look how the snapshot worked on Heather. The stupid girl would have swallowed any story Nikki wove.

  Snared. And now some dumbfuck cops had stolen him away.

  Nikki fumed. She’d find a way to get back at that parasite, the scum who’d betrayed her. Heather. Hadn’t she warned that little bitch? Made her swear not to tell? But she’d gone and done it anyway, before Nikki had a chance to savor her triumph.

  She’d pay.

  Furious, Nikki headed down the corridor, in search of Heather.

  “Nikki.” Out of nowhere, the principal appeared. “I need you to come to my office.”

  “Now?” Nikki didn’t bother to hide her indignation. Effing thwarted at every turn.

  “Yes.” Mr. Donnelly took her by the elbow. “There are some people waiting to talk with you.”

  More alarmed than angry now, Nikki had no choice. She accompanied him down the hall to his office, conscious of classmates’ eyes following them. That little bitch, Heather!

  They passed through the reception area to the inner sanctum of Mr. Donnelly’s office. Three people—two men and a woman—already sat there. Three sets of eyes bored in on Nikki as she entered.

  “This is Nikki Jordan. Nikki.” The principal turned to her. “Let me introduce these people.” He gestured toward a dark-haired man in a crisply pressed blue suit. “This is Mr. DellaRocca from the Prosecutor’s Office.”

  The man stood. Unfolded. Nikki had to look up. At least six four. Nodding at her, he had cold eyes, a blank expression. A lizard. He shook her hand with a firm grip, making it clear who was in charge here. He gave Nikki the creeps.

  “And this is Mrs. Wolfe, from Protective Services,” the principal said.

  The woman had gray hair and wore a long skirt. She gave Nikki a phony, friendly smile. The good cop. Well, fuck that.

  “And Detective Burns.” Mr. Donnelly indicated a middle-aged man with a shiny, bald, chocolate-brown head. The real cop. Nikki swallowed.

  The detective smiled. “Good morning, Nikki.”

  “Now then.” Mr. Donnelly clapped his hands, like he did when he called assembly to order. “Sit down, Nikki. These people have some questions.”

  Nikki remained on her feet, her gaze taking in the room. Four on one. Cornered. How to play this? She turned to the principal. “Shouldn’t my mom be here?”

  Donnelly indicated an empty chair. “It’s all right, Nikki. I already called her. They’re short-handed at the store and she can’t leave.”

  Right. Mom of the Year comes through again. Not.

  “She gave consent for you to be interviewed, as long as I’m present,” the principal added.

  Nikki shot him a baleful look. Like he was gonna protect her?

  “Sit,” the principal repeated, more insistently.

  Resigned, she sank into the chair.

  The DCPP woman gave Nikki another of her fake sympathetic smiles. “Would you prefer your mother to be here?”

  Like she’s gonna protect me? Nikki shrugged. “Nah, I guess not.”

  “All right then,” Mr. Donnelly said. “Nikki, tell these people all about what happened between you and Mr. Barrett.”

  FIFTY ONE

  “JEREMY!” FRANTIC, MELISSA PRESSED redial.

  Voicemail.

  The police were there, he’d said. Arresting him. Her throat constricted. She could hardly swallow or breathe.

  I’m going to need a lawyer, he’d told her.

  Her legs wobbly, Melissa sank into a chair at the kitchen table. A part of her seemed to be looking on, observing her own distress and panic. What did she owe him? He’d cheated.

  Maybe.

  She didn’t know anything, anymore. Leaning over the table, Melissa lowered her head into her hands. The tears came. Pregnant, alone and scared. How was she supposed to deal with all this?

  She picked up her phone, speed-dialed her father. Howard Milton, the rock, the keystone. He always knew what to do.

  “Dad?” Mel’s voice quavered. “Oh, Daddy, I think Jeremy’s been arrested. He needs a lawyer. He needs—”

  “Sweetheart!”

  Her father’s voice enveloped her like a balm.

  “He’s not your problem anymore.”

  His words a gut punch. “What are you saying?”

  “It’s time you came home, Melissa. I’ll take care of you and the baby. Pack a bag and I’ll be there in—”

  She caught her breath. “You! You did this. You took those pictures and turned him in. Didn’t you?”

  “Melissa…”

  “Didn’t you?” Her voice rose. “You had no right! No right to mess up my life.”

  “Melissa,” Howard said in an oh-so-patient voice, “Jeremy is the one who’s messing up your life. Who’s always messed up your life.”

  “But he’s my husband. We’re having a child.”

  “You don’t need him, sweetheart. Think about it. What’s he ever given you?”

  A lacy red garter, the first thought that popped into her head. And a baby.

  “Mel?” Her father sounded testy. “Answer me.”

  “Poetry. He used to write me poetry.” A pang of sadness swept through her.

  “Ha!” Her father laughed, derisive. “Like that ever paid the rent. Sweetheart, face the facts. You have a child coming. You’ll both need to be provided for. I’m the one who can do that. You know that, don’t you?”

  Yes, Melissa knew what her father could do. It sickened her to remember some of those things. She’d spent years trying to forget. Her spine straightened and her shoulders shifted back from their slouch. The muscles of her chest expanded. Her body knew what she and her baby needed.

  “Tell me,” he demanded. “What can that loser possibly offer you that I can’t?” Crowding her, smothering. Like he always had.

  “Some fucking room to breathe,” she shouted. For the first time in her life, Melissa hung up on her father.

  FIFTY TWO

  “STEP UP TO THE desk!”

  Jeremy had no choice. The cop at his side grasped his handcuffed arm and pushed him forward.

  “State your name.”

  Stammering a reply, Jeremy heard a click behind him and found his hands suddenly freed from their restraints. Relief flooded him. He flexed stiffened fingers. The ride to Criminal Court in Elizabeth had taken a half hour, long enough for the cuffs to chafe Jeremy’s wrists and make his arms feel like they were being slowly drawn from their sockets. Even more distressing, he’d been unable to protect his fractured nose. Not that anyone had threatened to hurt it. But the constant anticipation of a fist or a fall, along with his utter helplessness, kept Jeremy breathless with fear the entire trip.

  The arresting cop passed some papers across the desk to the booking officer, a tall, uniformed policeman with close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair. He scanned the document, looking bored, then glanced at Jeremy.

  “This is a warrant for your arrest on a charge of assault.”

  “Assault? But I never—”

  “Remove all jewelry and empty yo
ur pockets,” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir.” Good manners might count in his favor.

  The other cop snickered. “Looks more like someone assaulted him.” The booking officer ignored him.

  Reluctantly, Jeremy unfastened his watch and placed it on the booking desk. He tugged at his wedding ring, snug on his finger. It finally came off and he felt a twinge, wondering when or if he’d put it on again. He emptied his pockets: wallet, coins, keys, cellphone. Reaching into his jacket, a stiff edge pricked his fingertip.

  Oh, shit no.

  The snapshots of him with Nikki. He’d meant to burn them last night, but forgot all about it after he and Rick started on the scotch. Now they’d incriminate him. But what choice did he have? Jeremy pulled out the photos and placed them on the booking desk. Catching a glimpse of the snapshot on top, he winced. The camera had captured the one and only time Nikki had kissed him. Who’d done this? Who’d set him up?

  The cop at his side peered at the photos and guffawed. “Well, looky here. Guess he’s starting a scrapbook, huh?” He winked at the booking officer, who ignored the remark as he bagged the pictures and added them to his itemized list of Jeremy’s scant belongings.

  Maybe he’d seen worse. “Um, officer,” Jeremy ventured, “do I get to call a lawyer?”

  The cop behind the desk silently passed Jeremy a folded orange garment and a pair of rubber sandals. “Remove all clothing.”

  “All…?” Jeremy looked around in alarm. “Here?”

  The booking officer cocked his head toward a door off to the side.

  “Cavity search on this one?” asked the policeman at Jeremy’s side.

  Jeremy caught his breath.

  The booking officer shook his head and waved him off. Jeremy could have hugged the man in gratitude.

  “Let’s go, buddy.” The cop reached for Jeremy’s elbow again.

  The booking process might have been worse. Jeremy felt mortified stripping under the gaze of his arresting officer, but he’d been spared the dreaded cavity search. He held up a number to his chest while they photographed him, an experience he’d never expected to endure in his lifetime. He hoped he’d never see those on Facebook. But who the hell would recognize the bruised, swollen face in those mug shots as Jeremy Barrett, anyway? As for the fingerprinting, Jeremy, as a teacher, had been through the process before. Digital these days, not the inky mess they showed in cop movies.