R.I.P. Eliza Hart

by Alyssa Sheinmel

  Mack felt things so intensely: love and anger, right and wrong.

  All the things that had always been fuzzy to me were clear to him.

  Sometimes when he spoke, I felt like a visitor from a foreign land, frightened and disoriented because I didn’t speak the language.

  He was so surprised when I invited him to Christmas Eve dinner.

  I would’ve hated myself then, if I cared about anything enough to hate it.

  I hadn’t introduced him to my friends, and suddenly I was inviting him to meet the parents. If he thought it was odd, he didn’t say so. Maybe by then, he’d just accepted that I was a strange girl.

  I couldn’t stay with him: I would only hurt him.

  But he had to be the one to break up with me.

  He had to hate me so that he wouldn’t miss me, wouldn’t hold out hope that I’d change my mind, want him back.

  It would be what I deserved.

  After two months together, he still didn’t believe I was as worthless as I insisted I was.

  On Christmas Eve, however, I’d be able to show him.

  I thought he’d see what my family was like, and finally run the other way like he should have before.

  I thought he’d see how my parents had spoiled me—spoiled like ruined, like fruit left on the vine to rot—and finally understand why Riley always said I was a brat from a fancy school who had no business being with Mack.

  I didn’t think he would show up for Christmas dinner in an ill-fitting sport coat instead of one of his usual ripped-up tees,

  politely hand my mother a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers,

  laugh at my dad’s nonsensical jokes and praise my mom for the ham that had so obviously been cooked by someone else,

  then finally pull me aside and tell me that he loved me when he thought no one else could hear.

  I’d expected him to be disgusted, but instead he was trying to make a good impression.

  That’s when I realized I would have to do something really awful, something bad enough that he would storm out of the house in a rage.

  Something to make him see that he was wasting his time, loving someone like me.

  I didn’t deserve his love.

  I didn’t deserve anyone’s love.

  I had to make him leave.

  When my mother said, You’re dangerous for my daughter, in her icy, deep voice, I saw my chance. Mack looked at his shoes then—work boots, the only non-flip-flop shoes he owned—dirty on our light-colored carpet. But I stood up and yelled and screamed, just like any other teenage girl. You don’t know what you’re talking about! I cried. Since when do you know the difference between healthy and dangerous?

  I didn’t give her enough time to tell Mack why she thought he was dangerous before we stormed out of the house. I already knew why and if Mack heard he might actually take her side and that wasn’t how I wanted things to end.

  If things ended that way, he might go on loving me, waiting for me to get better, believing I would get well enough that we could be together again.

  I didn’t want that for him.

  I wanted him to give up on me.

  I wanted him to hate me.

  I didn’t want him to miss me.

  Did I already know, on Christmas Eve, that I wasn’t going to get better?

  When I wake up, late-morning sun streams through the window and Sam is gone. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing. Maybe I’m still dreaming now—otherwise how can I explain his scent on my sheets?

  I pinch myself. Definitely awake. Awake and alone.

  Well, what did you expect, Ellie? It was a pity kiss, a favor-for-a-friend kiss, a check-something-off-your-to-do-list kiss. Just because you felt something doesn’t mean he did.

  Get it together, Sokoloff. It was No Big Deal. People kiss all the time, and it doesn’t always mean something. They kiss at parties playing Spin the Bottle and Seven Minutes in Heaven (according to movies from the 1980s) and then they’re just friends afterward. (Okay, in the movies they usually fall madly in love, but I’m not in a movie. Or if I am, it’s definitely not a romantic comedy.)

  People kiss, and then they move on. It happens all the time.

  Besides, you’ve got more important things to worry about. Like getting questioned by the police and maybe accusing a man of murder. What are you doing worrying about a kiss?

  Get your priorities straight, Elizabeth!

  Now Sam even has me calling myself Elizabeth.

  I roll over, grab my phone, and pull up my most recent text message. I hesitate for a second, then send a text to Dean Carson, just like I made up my mind to do before I fell asleep last night.

  The detective tells Sam to wait in his room while he talks to me. Dean Carson sits beside me on the scratchy couch. (I try to imagine that in the catalog: Our dean is so devoted to his students that he spends his Sundays at their side while the police interrogate them. Come to Big Sur, where your dean can act as proxy for your parents!) The policeman—Detective Roberts, he introduces himself, and anyway I recognize his voice from the night after they found Eliza—stands, a notepad in his hand just like in the movies.

  Other than the notepad, Detective Roberts doesn’t look like detectives in the movies or on TV look. He’s not wearing a uniform, just jeans and a tweedy sport coat. He looks more like a college professor than a hardened cop. I stare at his hips, trying to make out the bulge where his gun must be.

  “I wish you’d told me about your claustrophobia sooner,” Dean Carson admonishes. “It’s school policy that students disclose any medical conditions on their applications.”

  Is Dean Carson saying that if they’d known about my claustrophobia they wouldn’t have let me into Ventana Ranch?

  “I never really thought about it as a medical condition,” I answer slowly, and I don’t take my eyes off Detective Roberts.

  “I’d never have asked you to come to Professor Clifton’s office had I known.”

  This morning, I texted the dean to explain why I couldn’t come to Professor Clifton’s office. He offered to conduct the interview here instead.

  I hear voices in the hallway beyond the closed door to our suite. Someone must’ve seen the dean and Detective Roberts knocking on my door. They’re probably all wondering why I’m being questioned in my room instead of in Professor Clifton’s office like everyone else. I bet they think it’s something much worse than a fear of small spaces. They probably think this is proof that I’m a suspect.

  If I admitted I was claustrophobic now, I bet they wouldn’t even care.

  It would be far from the worst thing they believe about me.

  Detective Roberts flips his notepad open. “It’s come to my attention that you and Eliza Hart had something of a history.”

  I don’t say anything. It’s not exactly a question.

  Dean Carson nods furiously at my side. “This was brought to our attention by—” He pauses, as though considering whether to say which of my classmates confided in him. He must decide against it, because he finishes, “By a few of your peers. I’ve been wanting to ask you about it, Ellie, but—” He gestures toward the detective, as if to say but I’m not the one asking questions here. He looks frustrated, like he thinks he should be the one in charge. His turf, his students. As do I. His suspicions.

  “Would you agree with that assessment, Elizabeth?” Detective Roberts asks. “That you two had a history?”

  “It’s Ellie.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Everyone calls me Ellie.” Everyone but Sam.

  “My mistake. Ellie. Would you agree that you and Eliza Hart had a history?”

  “We went to elementary school—” I pause, correct myself. “Kindergarten and first grade together.”

  “When did you discover that you would be attending Ventana Ranch together?”

  “The day we moved into the dorms. I saw her name on her door.” I try to say it like it’s no big deal. Like I wasn’t excited to reunite with my long-lost be
st friend.

  “You didn’t know she was coming here before that?” Dean Carson interjects. Detective Roberts looks exasperated at another interruption from the teacher.

  “No.”

  Dean Carson frowns dubiously. I imagine the questions he’s not asking: Even with Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and whatever the heck else you kids are up to nowadays?

  And the answer I don’t give: We were seven years old the last time we saw each other. I didn’t exactly have a Snapchat account back then.

  “No one would blame you if you wanted to be near Eliza,” he says finally. “She was a very special girl.”

  Of course they would blame me. They’ve blamed me since I got here.

  The dean continues, “She was the kind of girl everyone wanted to be friends with.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows.

  My stomach sinks. I imagine another line in the catalog: Come to Big Sur, where the dean of students will almost, sort of accuse you of stalking the most popular girl in school!

  Detective Roberts taps the end of his pen against his notepad.

  This isn’t how I thought this interview would go. Last night, in addition to deciding to tell the dean about my claustrophobia, I made up my mind to tell the detective about Mack. I imagined he would sprint out of the room and into a police car, sirens blaring, speeding up Highway 1 all the way to Capitola.

  “Ellie?” the detective prompts. “Can you answer my question?”

  I look at him blankly. He repeats, “Why do you suppose your classmates thought you had some kind of problem with her?”

  I open my mouth to tell him about Mack, but the words that come out instead are: “I don’t know.”

  Detective Roberts scribbles something in his notebook. He’s probably not supposed to let the person he’s questioning see when he’s frustrated, but it’s written all over his face. I wouldn’t want to be the detective assigned to sort out the difference between teenage gossip and the truth, either.

  I imagine how he’d react if I told him that Eliza spread rumors about me. Maybe he’d roll his eyes at more teenage nonsense.

  Or maybe he’d think that one girl spreading hurtful rumors about another girl was enough to give that other girl a motive for murder.

  “The girls I spoke with seemed pretty convinced that there was something going on between you two. One in particular said that you were … interested in Eliza.”

  I bet it was Arden. And I bet she said obsessed, not interested.

  “Any idea why she would say that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say again. It’s the truth. I don’t know why Eliza told everyone on campus that I’d followed her to Ventana Ranch. It’s not like she needed to invent a reason to be the center of attention. Everyone already paid attention to her.

  Again, the detective taps his pen against his pad. “Don’t you think it’s strange that one of your classmates would say that if it wasn’t true?”

  I have a name. Two names. Mack and Riley. I’ve seen their faces. I could describe them for a police sketch artist. I have an address. Eliza’s fingerprints are probably all over that bungalow. Maybe there’s a lone strand of her hair still twisted in the sheets of Mack’s bed.

  “I have to tell you something,” I begin. The words come slower than I expected.

  “Yes?” Detective Roberts asks eagerly. Dean Carson’s eyes are lit up in expectation, like he’s waiting for a full confession.

  My mouth is dry; I get up and walk to the kitchenette, pour myself a glass of water, take a few gulps, then turn back to face the detective and the dean. Sweat pools at the back of my neck. Why is it taking me so long to tell them about Mack?

  Then it hits me: I haven’t said anything yet because I don’t want to do that to Eliza.

  Once I tell, they’ll know Eliza helped steal the redwood burls.

  They’ll know her secret boyfriend wasn’t a Stanford football star, but a thief.

  It will change the way her parents and her friends and her teachers will remember her.

  They might stop saying things like She was a very special girl.

  Why do I care what they say about her? I should only care about putting her killer—her real killer, not me—away. What’s wrong with me?

  Another answer hits me, as sudden and shocking as a slap: I want Eliza to like me.

  Even now, even after all the rumors she spread and the fact that she’s, you know, no longer with us, I’m still holding out hope that maybe we’ll pick up where we left off in kindergarten and be friends again.

  “Ellie?” Dean Carson says. “What is it you’d like to tell us?”

  “I know Arden told you about Eliza’s boyfriend,” I begin. Despite the water, my mouth is still sticky and dry. “But she didn’t know his name.” I swallow. “I do.”

  “Oh?” Detective Roberts asks.

  “Yeah, it was Mack—I don’t know his last name, but I know what he looks like and where he lives.”

  The detective narrows his eyes. “And how do you know that?” Now he thinks I’m obsessed with Eliza, too. This is all wrong.

  “Yesterday Sam and I were hiking on the Y trail. We heard voices. At first we thought it was other students, but then we realized it was a couple of strangers. They were talking about Eliza. They used her ID to get onto the property so they could get to the redwoods.”

  Detective Roberts nods as if to say keep going.

  I squeeze my hands together. My palms are sweating. Why am I so nervous? I didn’t do anything wrong. “Sam and I followed them off campus—”

  “You did what? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” Dean Carson interjects, but the detective shoots him a look, shutting him up.

  “To a town up the coast called Capitola. They said Eliza worked with them, letting them on campus—that’s what the money in her dorm room was. And Mack said they were a couple, sort of.”

  Detective Roberts is unfazed. “We’re already aware of Eliza’s relationship with Alexander McAdams, more commonly called Mack.”

  I let out a breath. The police already found Mack.

  They already know more than I do: They know Mack’s real name.

  The police will arrest him.

  The police will find out what really happened.

  “Do you think he hurt Eliza?” I ask breathlessly.

  “I can’t share the details of our investigation,” Detective Roberts answers finally. “However,” he continues, his gaze fixed on me, “the sort of vigilante investigation you and your roommate engaged in yesterday is foolish.” Vigilante sounds like something out of a movie, like Superman and Batman. I definitely didn’t feel like a superhero, crouched in the driveway of that bungalow. “I need you to promise me you won’t do anything like that again.”

  Now, when I rub my hands together, it’s not because I’m nervous. I’m frustrated. I just handed the police the name of a suspect—they already knew about him, but still—and the detective is acting like the fact that I followed Mack to Capitola matters more than the fact that he killed Eliza.

  Maybe killed her.

  Probably.

  Possibly.

  I never knew that doubt was physically uncomfortable. My skin actually itches with it.

  Detective Roberts gestures for me to sit back down on the couch, across from where he’s standing. I can practically hear him thinking, Stupid kids. He shifts gears, asking the more obvious questions: Did I see anything strange in the days before Eliza’s body was found? (No.) Did I notice anyone unfamiliar on campus? (No.) Did I hear anything suspicious—the sound of a struggle, a girl shouting for help? (Again, no.)

  He doesn’t ask whether I fought with Eliza last week, even though Erin and Arden must have told him they thought I was the person Julian saw.

  He doesn’t ask anything like where were you at eleven p.m. on March fourteenth because they don’t know exactly what time Eliza went over the cliffs. Not that I would have much of an alibi: I was in my room, studying, alone.r />
  I squirm in my seat, crossing and then uncrossing my legs, picking imaginary pieces of lint off my sweater.

  If Eliza were here, she’d probably have Detective Roberts eating out of her hand by the time it was over. When he left, he’d probably apologize for taking up so much of her time.

  Eventually, Detective Roberts flips his notebook closed. “I guess that’s all for now.”

  That’s all? “What about Mack?” I ask. My voice sounds small.

  “As I said, we’re aware of him.”

  Being aware isn’t enough. “Aren’t you going to investigate him? Arrest him? Interrogate him?” My voice is high-pitched, desperate. “I could describe him. Tell you where he lives.” Though if they’re already aware of him, they probably already know what he looks like and where he lives.

  “As I said, I can’t divulge the details of our investigation.” He flips his notebook back open. “Why don’t you ask your roommate to come in?”

  I shake my head in disbelief, momentarily frozen with shock and disappointment. Finally, I get up and walk across the room, knock on Sam’s door.

  I haven’t actually talked to him today. Avoiding him was easier than I expected, considering that we live together. I just stayed in my room until Dean Caron and the detective got here, and then they asked Sam to leave.

  “Come in,” Sam shouts. I open his door. Sam’s lying on his bed with his long legs crossed, holding a textbook above his head. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him studying.

  I linger in the doorway. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually stepped inside his room, though I know other girls have from time to time—like Sam said, the walls are thin.

  Sam probably doesn’t even know exactly how many girls he’s kissed.

  “Detective Roberts is ready for you.” Six words.

  Sam swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. His dreads are pulled into a tight bun at the base of his neck.