The Predicteds

by Christine Seifert

  Sam sits up in his lounge chair. “Since when are you friends with January?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Since I went over to her house.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “What makes you so interested?”

  “Everybody is interested.”

  “Change of subject,” I announce. “Let’s not talk about PROFILE for five minutes.”

  We are silent, the sounds of the party filling in around us. “So,” Sam finally says, “there is something I wanted to ask you.”

  I look at him expectantly.

  “Do you want to hang out sometime? With me? Just the two of us, I mean.”

  “What about Brooklyn?”

  He scratches his head. “It’s over. We weren’t good together. She’s just so—”

  He can’t find the right word. I can. But I don’t say it.

  “So what do you think? About you and me?”

  I’m silent for too long, which is pretty much the same as a rejection, only worse. It means I recognize that I’m humiliating him. “Never mind,” he says, getting up so quickly that he knocks over his chair. “Have a good time tonight.” He leaves to join a game of volleyball. I throw my plate away and return to my seat in the corner.

  A few minutes, later Nate appears from behind me. “Hey,” he says. “Think anyone will notice I’m here?” He’s wearing jean shorts and no shirt. I can’t help but stare at his prominent ribs. He’s short, hairy, and mean-looking like a catfish. He’s drinking something red from a glass pitcher, which he sets by the edge of the pool.

  “Wait here,” he tells me, and he disappears into the small changing room near the garage. When he comes out, he’s wearing long tan swim trunks with white stripes on the sides—the kind that dads wear when they take you swimming at the Holiday Inn. Or at least, I assume that’s what they wear. On him, the swim trunks reach almost to his ankles.

  “I’m going for it,” he says, carefully putting on goggles as if they are part of a complicated disguise. When he’s a few feet from the pool, he takes a running jump and cannonballs into the water, splashing to the outer edges of the pool. His foot nicks the pitcher, and it breaks into three pieces. He ignores it and motions for me to get in.

  I’m hot and tired of sitting. It affects my judgment. “Hang on,” I say. I go into the changing room, pull the tags off the new bikini I grabbed at Maurice’s on my way over, and then undress. The suit is the color of green coral and chocolate bars—pretty in the store. When I put it on, though, I realize that the bottom is too tight and the top is too roomy; I should’ve tried it on in the store. I try to pull the high-cut bottom across as much of my butt as I can, and I cinch the tie on the bikini top as tight as it will go. Without a mirror, I can’t tell if I look hideous or not. There’s a row of stiff towels on a shelf, and I pull one out to wrap around me. The frayed and shrunken piece of cotton doesn’t do much good, but it does make me feel braver.

  I walk out of the changing room. Nobody notices me, except for Nate, begoggled and treading water at the edge of the pool near the diving board. I marvel at the fact that nobody seems to notice him or care that he’s there. I take the towel off and tiptoe toward the ladder. “Wow,” he says. “Daphne, you should wear a bikini all the time. I had absolutely no idea that you were so hot.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I say sarcastically, knowing that I’m ridiculously stupid to be socializing with—let alone swimming with—a gate-crashing predicted. But somehow, being nice to Nate helps me feel like I’m making up for treating Jesse poorly. I sidestep the glass—let the uniformed help clean it up—and submerge myself. I swim away from Nate, who is still under the diving board. The pool feels like bathwater, and the lights at the bottom cast a peaceful, bluish tinge everywhere. Nate follows me and dunks me just long enough to make me nervous.

  “Come on,” he says when I come up, sputtering water out of my noise. “Let’s swim.” I watch him swim low and fast around bodies and through legs. Nobody seems to notice that the hairy fish is Nate.

  I float on my back, looking at the stars just beginning to light up above us.

  “I could live like this,” I say to nobody in particular.

  The pool roils underneath me as everyone fights for room to spread out, but I keep hold onto my little corner.

  “I do live like this,” Josh replies, water dripping down his freckled face.

  I sit up quickly and start treading water. “Hey,” I say, “thanks for inviting me—er, letting Dizzy invite me.” I decide to be nice to him. I’m enjoying his pool, after all. Maybe I’ve misjudged him. Dizzy loves him, right? Certainly that must count for something.

  “You like it here, huh?” His eyes seem focused on me, but at the same time, I sense that he is looking through me, not at me. He’s not drunk—I know, because he doesn’t have the same slobbery, obnoxious air he had that night at the diner. His eyes are warm and conciliatory. I feel cozy in the warm pool. “Hey, Daphne?” he says suddenly.

  “Yes?” I tread water slowly, watching the waves spread out around me.

  “I wanted to talk about—everything. You’re Dizzy’s friend, and I don’t think I’ve been totally fair to you.”

  I look at him skeptically. “Are you drunk again? Is my head injury acting up?” I pat my skull. “Are you actually trying to apologize? To moi?”

  “Come on, I’m trying to be serious here. I’ve been a jerk, and I’m man enough to admit it. Friends?” He reaches out a dripping hand.

  I grab on to the edge of the pool so I can wipe water from my eyes.

  “Tentative friends?” he amends.

  We shake on it. “To starting over,” he says, holding up an imaginary glass.

  “To pool parties,” I respond.

  “Is that Nate Gormley?” Josh asks me suddenly, forgetting about our mock toast. “Is that little bastard actually at my party? At my house? In my pool?” I follow his gaze to Nate, who is now bouncing on the diving board, preparing for a soaring splash into the crowded water.

  In one fluid movement, Josh heaves himself up the side of the pool. “Hey, Gormley!” he shouts. Nate stops jumping, the still-vibrating diving board causing him to lose his balance a bit. He rights himself and looks out at the pool through his goggles.

  Josh walks toward the board with his arms half-flexed, held out away from his body. Dizzy told me that he once said he walked that way—half man, half monkey—because his muscles were too big. Josh yanks Nate by the arm and pulls him off the board, scraping Nate’s skinny legs against the cement and the broken glass from the pitcher Nate broke earlier. “I don’t think so, Gormley,” he says. “It’s time for you to leave.” The backyard has grown so quiet now that I can hear the crickets in the background. Everyone in the pool, including me, stands still.

  Nate picks himself up, still hanging from Josh’s tight grip, and examines the blood running down his left calf. “Oh, come on,” he says. “I thought we had an agreement. I keep quiet, you let me—” Josh yanks so hard that Nate ends up on his side, his arm twisted awkwardly behind his head. “Goddamn it!” Nate yells. “You’re gonna break my fuckin’ arm.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping for,” Josh says.

  We all watch as Josh drags Nate down the length of the pool, with the smaller boy struggling to get his feet under him. “This is crazy, man!” Nate keeps saying. “What the fuck? I thought we had an agreement!” And the more Nate talks, the faster Josh drags.

  I get up and follow them. “Wait, Josh! He’s hurt.” Josh stops, and I point at Nate’s bleeding leg.

  “Oh, Christ! He’s bleeding on my patio!” He watches the blood trickle over the shiny flagstones. By this time, everyone has returned to swimming. No one is much interested in watching Josh throw out Nate, a lowly predicted that nobody cares about anyway. “Daphne,” Josh says, “get Dizzy.” I walk the few steps to the gate myself to examine Nate’s leg. I pull gently on a piece of glass stuck in his calf, but it’s wedged in there pretty good, and I’m too
afraid to go any further.

  “Go,” Josh tells me. “Go tell one of the waiters. Have them find somebody who can clean this up.” He turns to Nate. “I don’t care if you bleed to death, but I don’t want you bleeding all over my yard.” Josh shudders, as if the thought of blood-spattered grass is just too much for him to contemplate. What’s up with boys and fear of blood?

  “Here,” I say, taking my scratchy towel from around my waist. “Let me just pull that piece of glass out. Then we’ll wrap it up. It’ll stop bleeding.”

  But by this time, Josh has already walked away. “Get out of here, Nate,” he orders as he walks away backward. “I’m not going to warn you twice.” Then he says to me, “I’ll be back in a second, Daph.”

  “You better go,” I tell Nate when Josh is out of sight. I step over the pool of blood on the patio, and squat to examine the wound more closely. I tie the towel around his leg. The skin is ripped off from his knee to his ankle. The glass is jutting out just above his calf. “We’re going to have to pull that out,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Let’s do it on three.”

  “I’ll get it,” Nate says. He leans over and yanks the glass out, grimacing and then doubling over in pain. The blood pours out. I look around for help, but nobody is paying any attention to us. “I’ll drive you to the ER,” I tell him. I tie the towel tighter around his leg. “Hold that there,” I tell him.

  “No,” he tells me. “I’m not going to the doctor.” He limps toward the gate, faster than I thought someone who was gushing blood could.

  “Wait!” I say, chasing after him.

  “I’m fine,” he tells me.

  I bend over to make sure the towel is going to stay.

  “Just let me go,” he says, ripping his leg away from me.

  That’s when I see it, glistening with water and covered by droplets of blood.

  A tattoo.

  It’s on his ankle. A little red-bearded Viking with a helmet, holding a club. Hagar the Horrible. From the old cartoon strip. I used to read it when I was kid—the only part of the Sunday paper I ever looked at. I roll Hagar around in my brain for a second or two, like one of those giant hoppers they use for bingo. The hopper stops. I remember the conversation I had with January just a week ago.

  The guy who attacked her had a weird tattoo, like a cartoon character.

  “Wait!” I yell. I stare at his ankle, and the mean little Viking stares back at me.

  Nate lets the gate slam behind him. “You should take care of that cut!” I call to Nate, pointing at his bloody leg.

  “Thanks, doc,” he calls over his shoulder.

  I know it was him. I’m more sure of it than anything I’ve known in my life. It was Nate who attacked January.

  “I have to go,” I tell Dizzy as soon as I’m able to find her. I turn and walk back to my stuff, conscious of everyone staring at me. I grab my bag and a damp spare towel draped over a chair and step through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen.

  I have to find January.

  chapter 27

  Daphne Wright was talking too much, asking too many questions, spending too much time with January. It pissed me off. I knew I should’ve finished the job on January myself.

  —From the Quiet High killer’s confession

  Nobody follows me into the house. I lean against the shiny, stainless steel refrigerator, breathing in the cool air. I can hear the clock above the stove ticking. The house feels empty. I wonder where Joanna and Rich are.

  Why would Nate attack January? I thought they were friends. They hung out together.

  I walk over to the patio doors and peer out the windows. It’s dark outside, but the pool lights illuminate everyone in a sparkling way. The party has resumed, in spite of the scene with Nate and Josh…and me. I can’t see Dizzy in the crowd, although it’s hard to take a head count of the pool with so many bodies splashing around, over and under, back and forth.

  I reach into my bag for my phone.

  Damn it.

  Even I have to admire the irony: I finally have a cell phone, but I left it at home.

  I see a cordless phone on the counter, but I don’t know January’s cell phone number, and I certainly don’t want to call her house and talk to her mom. I have the urge to call Jesse, a number I know by heart. I pick up the cordless phone once, set it back down. I do this three more times before I decide against dialing. He didn’t respond to my email. How many other signs do I need to tell me that he doesn’t want to talk to me?

  I’m still standing there in the dark when I hear the patio door open again. I hear giggles, then heavy breathing and smacking sounds. It’s kissing—long kisses punctuated with strident moans. I find the light switch by the sink. The yellow gleam lights up Dizzy’s face…which is attached to Josh’s.

  I fight the urge to gag.

  “Daph!” Dizzy exclaims, running over to give me a soggy hug. “I thought you were leaving.” She’s been drinking—her pupils are big and rolling around in her eye sockets like pinballs. “We’re totally going to do it,” she whispers loudly. Josh stands with a smirk on his face, his arms crossed against his bare chest. “It’s Joshy’s birthday present.” She wags her finger at him. “You’ve been a good boy, right? Right?” She singsongs, “We’re going to do it, we’re going to do it,” until Josh finally tells her to be quiet.

  “Isn’t your mom here?” I ask Josh.

  “Nah, they left a while ago. Went to Tulsa for the night. The house is all mine.”

  “And mine,” Dizzy chimes in.

  “Do me a favor,” Josh says to me. “Keep an eye on the party while Dizzy and I spend some time in my room.”

  “In your room!” Dizzy shouts gleefully.

  Josh goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Want one?” he asks Dizzy.

  “She’s had enough,” I answer.

  “Okay, Mom,” Dizzy laughs. “Mom says no. Mom says no. Mom says no.” Apparently, drunk Dizzy repeats everything.

  Dizzy is too obnoxious to talk to, so I ignore her. Instead, I address Josh. “You’ll have to find someone else to chaperone your party,” I tell him. “I’m going to January’s house.”

  “Suit yourself,” Josh replies.

  “January the predicted,” Dizzy chants over and over again. I’m about a second away from smacking her to get her to stop.

  “Dizzy.” I grab her shoulders to give her a shake.

  “Whoa!” she yells.

  “Dizzy,” I say again. “I’m leaving. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Oh, I’ll be okay. Definitely okay. I’m going to be having sex.” She giggles. “It’s my first time,” she says proudly. “Oops!” She looks at Josh. “Did you know that?”

  “Even better,” he tells her.

  “Maybe we can stay at the party for a while, though,” she says tentatively. “We don’t have to do it right now, do we?”

  “Dizzy, I don’t think this is such a good idea. Maybe you should come with me. I can take you home.”

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Josh yells, slamming his beer bottle on the granite countertop. “You aren’t taking her anywhere. Dizzy, you don’t want to go, do you?”

  “Well, I am tired,” she says, yawning widely. She thinks for a minute. I catch her eye. She’s acting drunker than she really is. She’s second-guessing this whole plan. “Maybe just a short nap. If Daphne insists.”

  Josh comes over to her and wraps his arms around her, sliding her off her feet and up against him. “No, no nap. Let’s go upstairs.” He kisses her hard, right in front of me. I have to turn away.

  “Dizzy.” I tug gently at her bathing suit strap. “I’m going to January’s. I need to talk to her about something. About the attack. About Nate Gormley. Come with me.”

  Josh drops his arms, and Dizzy stumbles. He’s not rough, but she staggers backward, and I have to hold her up.

  “What did you say?”

  “I just need to talk to January. She remembered something about the attack.”

  “Oh!
” Dizzy exclaims. “We need to go. Talk to Jan. Yes. We should do that.” She’s definitely not sure that she wants to sleep with Josh now.

  “What does she remember?” Josh asks quickly. He knows his night is over. I smile to myself.

  “A tattoo. The same tattoo Nate has.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Josh takes a slug from his beer bottle. Then he catches himself. His voice softens. “You’re a really good friend, Daphne. But it’s late. Maybe this can wait until morning.”

  “It can’t wait. Come on, Dizz.”

  Josh snaps, “You’re testing my patience here, Daphne.”

  “Come on, Josh,” Dizzy says.

  He faces her. “What? You said the same thing about her. Remember? She drives you nuts. You called her a Lifer lover.” Dizzy looks away from me. “Besides, even if January did remember something about a tattoo, that doesn’t mean Nate whatever-his-name did it. It just means he has a tattoo. So? Lots of people have tattoos.” He finishes his beer and reaches for another one from the fridge. “This is dumb. I’m not going to let this ruin my birthday. Daphne, leave this until morning, and I promise I’ll help you figure things out.” He seems calm and collected, his face a placid portrait.

  It’s silent for a moment until Dizzy says very quietly, “I want to go with Daphne.”

  “Are you serious? After all the money I’ve spent on you to get to tonight? Are you kidding me?” It’s like something clicks in his head then, and he knows he’s being a dick, because he changes his tone quickly. “Just stay. We’ll go upstairs and cuddle—just cuddle. Come on, sweetheart.”

  She doesn’t buy it. “Josh, you’re being a real asshole tonight.” She’s suddenly coherent. It’s impressive the way Dizzy can go from obnoxious slob to reasonable, clearheaded person in a matter of seconds. “Let’s go,” she says to me. “You drive.” She hiccups. “I just need to get some clothes.” She walks over and puts her hand on the patio door.

  “Hold on,” Josh says suddenly. “If you’re going, I’m going too. Daphne,” he says kindly, “why don’t you go upstairs and change clothes?” I’m still wearing my suit and that stolen towel. “I’ll show you where you can change. Dizz, go get your clothes. You can change in the bathroom down here. I’ll grab a shirt.”