by Askew, Kim
I glanced at the clock on my cell. It was ten after eleven. I was already late for my curfew — no point racing home now. Maybe I’d get lucky and Dad would have been too exhausted to wait up for me, figuring I was “bonding” with Mom. If not, then it didn’t matter what time I got in. Late was late. Busted was busted. The last person to mosey out of the theater, I decided to hit the ladies’ room before I braved the cold. Mitchell M. was wet-mopping the floor behind the concession stand, whistling along to the easy listening music that was still being piped in. I started across the empty lobby toward the bathroom, but when I pushed open the door, something blocked my way. Through the crack in the door, a big plastic yellow trashcan rolled to the side and someone, a janitor I supposed, opened the door to let me in.
One look at her face and I almost shrieked.
“Beth!?”
She looked equally surprised to see me, and definitely not pleased. She was wearing charcoal gray Dickies, black cross-trainers, and a ratty black thermal T-shirt with hot pink hearts on it. A plastic spray bottle of cleaner hung from her belt loop and she held a roll of paper towels. My school’s bitchy version of Grace Kelly was cleaning toilets. Not wanting to run away like a startled chicken, but also not wanting to be in her presence for any longer than I had to, I sidestepped my way to the sink for a cursory hand-washing, feeling every bit as awkward as she must have felt. A dollop of liquid soap fell onto the sink top as I washed my hands. I grabbed for a paper towel from the metal dispenser to wipe it up, not wanting to cause a further mess for her.
“Leave it, Skye,” she said. I meekly tossed my towel into her garbage can and sidestepped back to the door. “Surprised to see me here?” She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. This was one of those damned-no-matter-how-you-respond moments.
“Uh … a little,” I said, grasping for any small talk that might make this moment less excruciating. “Your uncle owns this place, huh?”
“Yes, Uncle Rodney and his noblesse oblige. He pays me minimum wage to clean up after people’s disgusting messes here once the theater’s closed.”
“Oh.”
“I’m lucky if I get out of here by one a.m. most nights. Not that I could sleep, anyway.”
I didn’t know what to say to this. Part of me pitied her. No wonder she was so unpleasant to be around — she was exhausted. Then again, her “this is so beneath me” lament seemed a little more dramatic than necessary.
“What about weekends?” I said. The job certainly hadn’t hampered her Friday-night social life, after all.
“I come in the morning on Saturday and Sunday before we open,” she said, her tone dull. I nodded casually, trying to act like it was no big thing.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” Beth looked defeated as she rolled the garbage can away from the door again.
“For the record,” she said, “people at school really don’t know about me working here. I’d appreciate if you’d keep it that way.” Typically, her request came across more like a command than anything. Little did she know that I was already protecting her from a whole lot more than her stupid rep. In any case, I’d had a shitty day and wasn’t about to reassure her that her secret was safe with me. Lucky for her, I’d already checked out. People’s problems were their own — not mine.
“Have a good night,” I said enigmatically, and headed back toward the lobby.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
To Throw Away the Dearest Thing He Ow’d, As ’t Were a Careless Trifle
LEONARD’S ABSURD COME-ONS were starting to look pretty good right about now. I peered deep into my shallow locker pretending to look for something that wasn’t there while Brett Sanders leaned caddishly on the locker next to mine, invading my personal space.
“So, Red, I’m digging the gams today, among other things,” he said, eyeing my legs, which were clad in black knit tights under a short khaki skirt. I didn’t think it was too daring when I’d put it on this morning, but apparently, it had stoked Brett’s legendary libido.
“Hmm, thanks,” I said, still trying to appear preoccupied. He was wearing a voluminous crocheted Rastafarian hat — so entirely suited for a rich white kid near the Arctic Circle. It took every ounce of restraint not to pluck the dumb thing from his head and toss it in the nearby recycling container. His Bob Marley T-shirt, hemp necklace, and Salvation Army fatigue pants advertised his membership in the 4:20 crowd. Maybe that was the reason he was acting like such an idiot. I have no earthly idea why, but the guy had taken a sudden interest in me in the past week or so and was threatening to become a full-on barnacle.
“Dang, girl. What are you, five-nine, five-ten?”
“Something like that,” I said.
Craig turned the corner and strode down the hallway in our direction. A welcome distraction — hopefully he could save me. He paused in his tracks when Brett flagged him down.
“Hey, Mac,” Brett said. “I was just telling your little buddy here what a hottie she’s turned into this year.” He was?
“Whatever, Sanders.” Craig was visibly annoyed. He sported a gruesome, greenish-purple black eye — a battle scar from his last hockey game.
“I’ll give you credit for spotting her potential before the rest of us,” Brett said, with a rakish leer in my direction, “but if you don’t mind, I’d like a crack at it now.”
Crack at it? What a pig.
“Knock it off, dipshit,” said Craig. “Why don’t you go find some tree to hump?”
“I did — a redwood, in fact.” Brett winked at me, before sauntering away.
I expected that Craig would apologize on behalf of his asshole teammate, but instead, he turned to me and practically snarled.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Me?” I said, baffled. “What are you talking about?”
“Things were cool with us, before, but now you’re getting all up in my business. Wanting to hang out with my friends, apparently throwing yourself at my friends, now….”
“Whoa, whoa,” I said. “Like hell I have! I think you’re confusing me with someone else.” He ignored this last remark.
“Yeah, well, if you’re trying to win some kind of popularity contest, you’ve got a long way to go, and I’d appreciate it if you stopped using me to do it.”
“Try giving that advice to the person who really needs it: your psycho bitch girlfriend!” I couldn’t believe that just spilled out of my mouth. I slammed my locker door shut. Craig had obviously never seen me this riled up because I don’t think I’d ever been this riled up.
“Look,” he said. “You and I were friends once, I get it. But we’re both in different circles right now.”
“Funny you should say that because I’m the same person I’ve always been. You’re the same person, too, underneath all this ‘big man on campus’ bullshit. Maybe we haven’t been officially, publicly ‘friends,’ but I’m probably the one person in this school that really knows you and really cares about you, for that matter. From what I see these days, you could use a friend like that.”
He stared at the floor, his arms crossed defensively in front of him.
After a pause, he said, “I just think it would be better for both of us if we kept our distance from now on.”
“Hey, fine with me,” I said. “You never know your friends from your enemies until the ice breaks. Right?”
Craig stared at me, searchingly. I saw fear in his eyes. How do you like your Beanpole now?
Before I had the chance to storm away in dramatic “FU” fashion, Principal Schaeffer rounded the corner, shoulder-to-shoulder with Tiffany’s dad and two other official looking authority figures, striding purposefully like Mafia dons.
“Mr. MacKenzie,” said Mr. Schaeffer, grabbing Craig by the scruff of his collar. “We’ll be needing to talk to you again.” So it was official. The investigation was stepping up, just as Jillian had foretold. Principal Schaeffer eyed me. “Miss Kingston … why don’t you follow us to my office, as well.
”
My bladder surged in a panic. This was it. I swallowed hard, shut my locker door, and without a word accompanied them down the hall.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Look Like the Innocent Flower, but Be the Serpent Under It
DOTTIE HEN, SCHAEFFER’S GAL FRIDAY, gave me a reassuring smile as I sat in one of the chairs facing her desk.
“Kiss?” She pointed to a Christmas-tree-shaped glass container filled with red-, green-, and gold-foiled chocolates and shrink-wrapped candy canes.
I shook my head no thanks and she resumed her typing. Her half-moon reading glasses perched on the end of her nose like they were suicidal, weighing the pros and cons of jumping off into the void.
Craig had been sequestered with the cops for at least twenty-five minutes, if my sense of timing was at all accurate. I couldn’t hear a word — only the clacking of Miss Hen’s computer keys and her occasional “hmms” and “ahhhs” as she scrutinized her monitor.
I stared blankly out the window that overlooked the school parking lot, waiting … paralyzed with fear. It would be futile to concoct a story. I was a crappy liar. Besides, I had no idea what the police might already know. Maybe there was someone else at the party who knew even more than I did, who’d ratted all of us out. Why else would I be sitting here? Maybe Craig would confess, and I wouldn’t even have to be called in at all. Yeah, he’d been an asshole to me minutes ago, but the thought of seeing him hauled away to juvie in a squad car caused a giant, painful lump to form in the back of my throat. Soon, I’d have to decide my fate — and possibly Craig’s. The moment of truth. Or was it? I wasn’t even there when Duncan died, after all. What I knew, or thought I knew about that night hinged on a few half-mumbled snippets of conversation I was unlucky enough to have overheard; the very definition of hearsay. I pictured myself weeks or months from now, sitting not outside Principal Schaeffer’s office but on the witness stand, a throng of journalists and cameras crammed along the perimeters of the courtroom as some imposing lawyer forced me to give the evidence that would damn Craig forever. The idea put me in a panic. Maybe it was the right thing to do for Duncan and his family. But then, why was it only making me feel more confused and frightened than ever? What was the expression? “The truth will set you free?” Easy for me to say — I wasn’t the one who’d be going to prison. At least, I certainly hoped not. Perhaps the fact that I’d said nothing so far made me somehow complicit! I heard the sound of chair legs scraping on the floor on the other side of the door and knew I had only seconds, now, to decide what I was going to do. In a last-minute mental whirlwind, I finally resolved to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but — only if they asked. I wouldn’t lie, but I wouldn’t volunteer any information, either. The chips would have to fall where they landed … come what may.
The door to Mr. Schaeffer’s office opened and Craig walked out. He didn’t so much as glance at me as he exited. Miss Hen’s phone rang once. She picked it up, listened for a moment, then looked at me.
“They’re ready for you now, hon,” she said, sympathy in her voice.
I’d never been in the principal’s office before. For some reason I’d expected expensive walnut furniture and a high-backed leather desk chair — an antique globe in the corner, perhaps. Instead, I walked into a messy, fluorescent-lit room with steel filing cabinets, a faded, decades-old poster of Bill Cosby that said “READ!” on one wall, and dusty Venetian blinds with several bent slats. Nowhere near as executive-looking as I’d expected.
Everyone in the room was standing except for Chief Towers, who was sitting behind Schaeffer’s desk. Heavyset with his arms crossed, he gestured with his head toward the empty chair facing him. I took a seat. No one introduced the other two guys, but I could only assume they were detectives, too. My heart was pounding like a bad techno song, and my skin felt suddenly wet and clammy.
“Skye,” said Principal Schaeffer, who was looming behind the chief. “Let me reassure you that you’re not in any trouble. You’re a good girl, one of our most responsible students, and you needn’t be alarmed — ”
Chief Towers raised his arm to silence him.
“Miss Kingston,” he said, his tone gruff. “Although this is not a formal questioning, I need to inform you for the record that we are tape-recording this conversation. You are under no obligations to answer our questions without a lawyer and/or your parents present, but as I’ve stated, this is not a formal deposition. As your principal explained, you are not in any kind of trouble, we’re just trying to clarify a few things. Do you understand, and can we count on you to cooperate with our investigation?” I nodded and whispered my assent.
“Good,” he said. “Now, we’ve been led to understand that you were in attendance at the party which was held on Friday, November tenth, at the Winters’s hunting shack. Is that correct?”
I nodded in the affirmative. My hands were trembling so I clenched them and grasped the bottom of my skirt.
“Miss Kingston, you’ll need to answer vocally, with a yes or no, so the tape recorder can pick it up.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling sheepish. “Yes.”
“Had you ever been to this property before?”
“No.”
“Did you see Duncan Shaw at the party?”
“Yes.” I looked at the ceiling, half expecting to see some harsh interrogation light shining down on me. But these were all yes-or-no questions. Maybe I could make it through this unscathed.
“Did you speak with him that night?”
“No.”
“From what you saw of him, was there anything that struck you as unusual?”
“What do you mean?”
“Meaning, did he seem like himself? Did he look upset or angry at all?”
“I only saw him for a second,” I said, carefully minding my words. “He seemed fine.” The chief scrawled something illegible from my perspective on his yellow legal pad. What was he writing? It was strange to think that Tiffany Towers probably had this man wrapped around her little finger at home. He seemed like Godzilla to me.
“What time was it when you actually saw Duncan?”
“I’m not sure … maybe eleven-ish.”
“And were you drinking alcohol?” My face turned red and I glanced at Principal Schaeffer, horrified. Would answering truthfully lead to my expulsion? He offered back a compassionate look.
“It’s okay, Skye … you can be honest.” I brushed my hair back off my face with a still-quavering hand.
“I had a little.”
“And how much do you consider ‘a little’?”
“One shot and a few sips of vodka. That’s all.” I was so ashamed of myself. I wanted to melt into the floor.
“Would you have described yourself as drunk?”
“No.”
“Did you see Duncan get into an altercation with anyone at the party?”
“No.”
“Now, when the game of flashlight tag got underway that night, who were you with?”
“Pardon me?” I glanced up from the desk, confused.
“Did you partner up with anyone?”
“No. I was by myself.”
“By yourself?”
“I didn’t participate. I stayed behind.”
“Were you the only one who stayed behind?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“So you weren’t with any of the others?”
“Yeah … I mean, no.”
Chief Towers stood up from the chair, leaning onto his palms, which were planted firmly on the desk. He was looming over me now, but still looking at his notes.
“Did you see who Duncan might have left the property with?”
“No,” I answered. “Tiffany, I guess.”
“I did not ask you to guess, only to answer my questions!” My stomach started doing somersaults. “What did you do while the others were gone?”
“Nothing. I waited for them to come back.”
“And how long did it take before people came
back?”
“Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe a little longer.”
“Who returned first?”
Oh god, here’s where it got dicey. If I answered that Craig and Beth were the first ones back, I might be contradicting their testimony. If they wanted to position themselves far away from Duncan’s whereabouts, they might have changed this detail of the story.
“Miss Kingston, I’ll ask it again. Did you see who was the first to return to the property?”
In his phrasing of the question, I discovered my out. Seeing was different than hearing, was it not? I’d heard Craig and Beth, but I didn’t see them until they were amongst the others at the campfire. Here goes …
“No, I didn’t see the first people back. I was trying to stay warm in a car and when I got back to the bonfire, there were already about a dozen people there.”
“At the bonfire — no one said anything about Duncan?”
“No,” I answered truthfully.
“Nothing whatsoever?”
“It was only later, when Tiffany started freaking out.”
“And what was the response to that?”
I paused before answering truthfully again, with as much tact as I could muster. “People joked that Duncan was probably just trying to give Tiffany the slip.” I cringed inwardly. “He had a history of going MIA on his past girlfriends, so no one seemed worried.” Chief Towers flushed.
“And you, Miss Kingston? What did you think?” Oh shit. I tried to answer truthfully again without actually divulging any pertinent information, though the only thing I could think of was the tiny spot of blood I’d seen on Beth’s jacket when they dropped me off that night.
“I don’t really hang out with this crowd normally, so I didn’t know quite what to think.” It was true, to a degree, but it wasn’t the god’s honest truth. The sentence came out involuntarily, as if I were lip-synching the words while someone else spoke. Chief Towers, still leaning on the desk, stared at me with penetrating eyes, as if he was not entirely satisfied with this last remark. The longer he fixed his eyes at me, the more I started to crumble inside. He obviously knew there was something I wasn’t saying. Should I just end the nightmare now and come clean with what I knew before I sunk into this quagmire any deeper? Might it not come as some twisted sense of relief to be called on my hair-splitting bullshit and have the truth come tumbling out for the whole world to hear? I knew I couldn’t keep up this charade, so it would be better that things ended here and now, once and for all. Just as I was about to relent and tell everything, Principal Schaeffer stepped forward and whispered something in the chief’s ear. The burly cop looked dubious, but Schaeffer nodded once more, as if to corroborate what I’d just said.