by Sara Hubbard
My calendar is open. C
My finger hovers over the send button. It’s hard for me to put my feelings out there without fear. It’s almost instinctual. I press send anyway and figure we’ll work out the details later. After I find out everything I need to know about him.
I drive the rest of the way in silence except for the random instructions from the GPS on my phone. I’ve never been to Blandford before. It’s near Halifax, about a half hour outside of the city. The final mile is nothing but trees and an extra-long driveway that is flanked with blossoming trees that hang over the road, littering the blacktop with old leaves left over from last fall.
I pull up to the front before noticing a sign that says Parking at the Rear. I find a narrow spot with cars on each side that parked too close to the yellow lines, but the little hatchback my parents bought me for my sweet sixteen manages to squeeze in between them.
When I get out of the car, I adjust my skirt and stare up at the old stone-walled building that was built in the early eighteen-hundreds. It looks updated with new plastic-rimmed white windows, but the rest of it looks the same as it does from online pictures. I check the map on my phone and realize I’m where I want to be: the main offices. I give the rest of the campus a quick look and settle on the students on the soccer field as a girl kicks a ball and scores a goal. The people on the sidelines cheer her on. I turn my attention to the other half-dozen brick and stone buildings that stand in a semi-circle around the field.
Inside the main building, I’m lost. There is no interior map or signs with arrows on the walls. There are only a handful of people around to ask questions. I stop the first person I see, a girl in a black and white uniform. Chewing her gum, she raises her eyebrows at me in a what the hell do you want? kind of way.
“I’m looking for the principal or headmistress, or whatever you call them here.”
“Why? He’s a douchebag.”
Well, all right then. I swallow hard to avoid the dryness in my mouth. My intention was to interview the principal today. I put on makeup, though I hate it. I curled the ends of my dark brown hair, and I wore high heels and a shirt with two buttons undone. My hands instinctively go to my chest to cover my bare neck—as if she’s looking. I wanted to look older, like a real reporter. “I still need to talk to him.”
She raises an arm and points to the left of the hallway. “Mr. Fuck. Last door on your left.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Mr. Fuck. I know, right? No wonder he’s an asshole. There’s no way he wasn't bullied as a kid…” She turns away and trots down a handful of stairs to the same door I just walked through.
Mr. Fuck? That can't be right. It has to be a nickname. She’s setting me up to make an idiot of myself.
Before I reach the principal’s office, there is a secretary in a space off to the left. She waves me in. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, I'm Charlie Morrison, and I’m writing an article for Martha’s Musings."
“With who?”
“The newspaper at Saint Martha’s University.”
“Oh, I see. Did you just drive up?”
I nod, smiling.
“Do you have an appointment?” She stares at her computer, taps a couple of times on her mouse, and then her eyes slowly lower as if she’s scrolling down her screen. I could lie, but I'm sure she's already looking at Mr. Fuck’s schedule.
“I don’t. But I’m doing a wonderful human piece on one of your former students who has gone on to excel in varsity hockey. There’s rumors he may go pro. I would love to hear more about how this student was as a young man and what contributed to his motivation and drive.”
“I see. Who’s the student?” She stops clicking and folds her hands on her desk as she smiles up at me.
“Clayton Ozmore.”
“Clay Ozmore, you say?” She stands and clicks a button on her computer. From the glass-framed picture of the school behind her, I’m able to watch her screen switch to the login screen.
“One moment, please.” She powerwalks around her desk and passes by me. “I’ll see if Mr. Phoque can see you.”
There are three leather-backed chairs behind me but I don’t consider sitting. I am too nervous. So I pace in front of her desk, my heels clicking on the tile. I only stop when she returns.
“You’re in luck. Mr. Phoque had a cancellation this morning.” She pronounces it very similar to the girl I just met in the hallway. But she says it with a bit of an accent that stresses the O. I'll have to avoid using his name because I'm confident I won't say it the way I should.
“Can I get you a drink? Water? Coffee?”
“Oh, no, thank you.”
She leads me to his office. She knocks and opens the door. A short, stout man inside rises and walks around his desk to come and greet me. All his features are average, and he doesn’t easily stand out. He could be anyone. Except for his long mustache that’s groomed and waxed. His handshake is firm as he eyes my face.
The secretary introduces us before she leaves.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Mr. Phoque says.
“Same to you,” I say sweetly.
“Have a seat.” He motions to one of the leather-armed chairs in front of his large wooden desk. Behind him, a tall bookcase spans the length of the entire wall except for a single window. He takes a seat after waiting for me to take mine.
“Maryanne tells me you’re writing a story for Martha’s Musings?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you’re doing a story on Clayton Ozmore?” He makes a sour face as he spits out Ozzie’s name. There’s no love lost between them, and he’s not trying to hide it.
“Also, correct,” I say, smiling.
“Hmm.” He rests his elbows on his desk and steeples his hands while he stares at me. The silence grows uncomfortable.
“Clayton is doing well at Saint Martha’s. There’s talk of him going pro, and we’d like to do a story on him before he gets picked up and swept away.” I did some research last night, and I share the tidbits I found out with him now. “It turns out only one other student has been picked up since the university opened. He plays for the Toronto Geese now.”
“Scott Montgomery. I’m familiar with him.”
I point to him enthusiastically. “Exactly. Yes.”
“You have to understand that I’m limited with the information I can provide. Yes, he was a student. You could find that information online if you look up hockey stats, but beyond that, I’m not sure I can help you without his express permission.”
I wave him off, chuckling nervously. The last thing I need is for him to talk to Ozzie. “I understand your hesitation. If I were in your position, I’d do the same thing.”
“Oh, no. It’s not hesitation. Our school has strict rules in place to protect the privacy and confidentiality of our students. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“Of course...for statements on the record. But what about, off the record?”
He smiles, but it feels more like a courtesy than anything else. “Do you know Clayton?” he asks.
“I’ve…met him. Yes.”
The old hot water heater against the exterior wall kicks in. It starts to tick as water rushes through it. It’s chilly in his office. Almost as chilly here as it was outside. Here I thought spring was coming early after the nice days we’ve had lately.
“What do you think of Mr. Ozmore?” Phoque asks.
I take a breath. I need to convince him to talk, though it’s unlikely. What do I say to put us firmly on the same side, to entice him to see my way? “I think there is more to him than meets the eye.”
He leans back in his chair. The springs creak, and he rocks a little before he stops and the chair settles and quiets. “All of the students that attend Blandford come from wealthy, privileged families. In rare cases, we admit students on academic or athletic scholarship. Sometimes, those students fit in well with the student population, sometimes they don’t. We also
accept children of faculty members or employees, on a case by case basis.”
“What does this have to do with Mr. Ozmore?”
He sighs and narrows his eyes at me. His expression becomes dark. “Miss Morrison, I can’t answer that.”
“I see.” I tap a finger to my lips and take a moment to rethink my strategy. I knew it might be difficult to get him to talk, but I don’t intend on giving up. I just have to find the right motivation. “You know, I have several other sources to talk to about Ozzie. If someone gave me information, I would never reveal who gave me the information. It could have come from anywhere. I would take my source to the grave, go to jail for contempt of court. You can trust me. And I have a feeling Clayton may have wronged you in some way...that he may not have appreciated or respected you. Sometimes that happens. And I know how that can hurt. If you talk in generalities, no one could connect you to my story. No. One. I’d make sure of it.”
“You have a silver tongue, Miss Morrison.”
I grin at him, relieved that I’m getting somewhere.
“What did Clayton do to you to make you dislike him?”
He hesitates. Words on the tip of his tongue, he just has to spit them out.
I pull my seat closer and smile wide. “It’s okay. I’ve already forgotten your name. I was never here.”
He’s at war with himself. Desperate to unload anything and everything about Ozzie. I can see it in his eyes.
“Like I told you, I can’t help you. But...” He holds up a finger. “I’ll give you a clue that will help you find out whatever you need about him. October 27, 2009.”
I pull out my day-timer from my messenger bag. I click, click, click my pen and press my pen to the notes page beside today’s date. I write down the date and circle it twice. “Why is this day significant?”
This man is cryptic, and it’s pissing me off. He clearly wants to tell me everything about Clay, but his hands are tied. He seems to think he’s given me a clue to find out what I need, but that date means nothing to me. Even if I looked it up on the internet, there is a million things that could have happened on that day. How do I find something that happened to Ozzie when I've already scoured the internet for hits on his name?
“Can I ask you another question?”
He shrugs. “I can’t promise an answer.”
“He’s no longer your student. You owe him nothing. Can you tell me—off the record, if you need to—what was your impression of Clay when you knew him?”
He thinks about my question. A ding sounds on his computer, and his eyes flicker to the screen. After a couple of taps on his keyboard, he leans forward on his desk, focusing his beady eyes on me.
“Clay is a talented athlete. Surprisingly, the kid is equally as smart. But the boy has a dark side…one that he hides well.”
Dark side.
I circle those words, too. “What do you mean by dark side?”
“I’m sorry. You don’t know how much I wish I could help you, but the truth is I’ve already said too much. And while I’d love to discuss this further, I have to prepare for a meeting in the next hour.”
I sigh. My whole body deflates in frustration and disappointment. I thought he might come around and give me something to help my research. Instead, I have more questions than when I came here.
For a guy as nice as Ozzie seems, he sure has a talent for inspiring mistrust. First Jack, and now Phoque. What do they know that I don’t? And how the hell am I going to find out?
Chapter Ten
Supper has long since finished by the time I get back to school, and the meal hall is closed. I grab a granola bar and some nuts from one of the vending machines. On my way to my room, I pass Sam’s room, and her door is wide open. From my peripheral view, I find her sitting on her bed. She looks up at me, and I keep walking until I hear her call my name.
I slow, but I don’t stop. She calls me again. “Charlie!”
I’m only a few feet away from my room, and I desperately want to keep going but things will only get worse if I ignore her. After releasing a heavy sigh that originates somewhere deep in my stomach, I turn on a heel. She stands in her doorway now. She’s still in her soccer uniform. They must have had practice tonight.
I force a smile. “What’s up?” I say, trying to sound upbeat.
“We missed you at supper. Busy day?”
Does she know? How could she know? She's fishing. Wouldn’t she love to know what I did today so she could pass it on to Ozzie. “Yeah. Super busy.”
“Emily said you had to go out of town.”
Emily has a big mouth. “Yeah, just some family stuff. My sister is having an engagement party next weekend…so she has me running errands and…well…yeah.”
“But you still have time for Oz, right?”
Here’s where my voice loses its sweetness. I cross my arms over my chest. “What do you want, Sam?”
“Nothing, really. I saw him here the other night, and I guess I was surprised. I was trying to be nice and be your friend when I warned you about him.”
“Is that so?”
She reaches up to twirl the end of her blond ponytail. She’s quiet for a moment as she shakes her head. “No, it’s not.”
What? Did she just admit she was lying? “I’m sorry?”
“You’re right. I’m full of shit.”
I didn’t expect this. She renders me speechless.
“Look, I…fell in love with Oz, and he didn’t feel the same. I’m not used to guys being lukewarm about me. I’m not saying that to be conceited, but I finally find a guy I really liked, and he’s the one guy who doesn't like me like I like him. So, I thought he was cheating. And I dug into his personal life. But what was I supposed to do?”
Not dig into his personal life? But I don’t say that. There is a vulnerability to her right now that I’ve never seen before. Even with the over-confidence, I can’t hate her for saying men love her out loud. Because the truth is she loved a guy and he didn’t love her back. What kind of a bitch would I be if I didn’t feel compassion for her?
Sigh. Should I reach out and touch her shoulder to comfort her? How much will that help her? She doesn’t want comfort from me. We’re never going to be besties and braid each other’s hair. I could be real back, but I don’t see how it would help. Tell her I care about Ozzie? Tell her I'm writing an article, and it will likely be over the second he finds out? No, we might be sharing a moment, but I don’t trust her, and I doubt I ever will.
“I’m sorry you were hurt,” I say, my tone soft, “but I don't know what I could possibly do to help.”
She knows exactly what I can do. “Don’t date him. It’s bad enough to see him around campus, but to see him come to your room?” Her eyes are glassy, and I feel like a complete dick. There’s a girl code, but not with acquaintances, which is really all she means to me.
I give her what I can because I don’t want to add to her pain. “I won’t let him come over here again. You have my word.”
“But you’re still going to see him?” Her voice is high pitched.
I hug my middle and shift on my feet. “I’m sorry, Sam. I am. And I wouldn’t let this bother you. Chances are we won’t last anyway.”
Beth, a girl who lives next door to me, walks by and I move to the side, close to Sam’s door, to move out of her way.
“Why do you think you won’t last?”
I lean against the wall after Sam and I continue talking. “I'm not sure I’m his type either.”
Sam’s expression darkens a little. The red eyes are fading, though her cheeks seem to glow with heat. Without another word, she takes a step back into her room and slams the door.
I tip my head back and sigh. I didn’t mean to offend her. She has to know she’s not Ozzie’s type, or she would still be with him. I thought that was a given, but saying it out loud touched a nerve, I suppose. Once again, I feel like a dick. But knock on her door and continue the conversation? I don't feel that bad.
The door
to Emily’s and my room is unlocked so I walk in without knocking. She usually puts a hair tie around the knob if she and Brad are here. That’s not often, though. But Brad is here tonight. They surprise me when I see them sitting on her bed, her laying in front of him between his thighs as they lean back against the headboard, him massaging her shoulders.
“Hey!” she says enthusiastically. “I missed you today.”
“Me, too.” I sit on my bed and take off my shoes, putting them side by side at the bottom of my bed. “Hey Brad.”
He gives me a curt nod. Obviously, he still hates me for deceiving his friend. Fewer and fewer people seem to love me as the week wanes on. If I didn’t get used to this in high school, my feelings might be really hurt.
“How did it go?” she asks.
“Okay.”
“Did you get anything?”
I raise my eyebrows at her and glance at Brad. She mouths, “He knows.”
Great, he knows I went to Blanford. No wonder he’s still pissed at me.
“I got a date—October 27, 2009. Does that date mean anything to you?” I ask Brad for the hell of it. Like he’ll help me.
He shrugs. “Doesn’t ring any bells.” His nose twitches, and he narrows his eyes. He’s lying.
I take a seat at my computer. “I’m sorry we put you in this position,” I say quietly to Brad. “I'm going to tell him.”
“For real?" Emily asks.
“I think so. But I have to find out what that date means first, and I need to know what he did community service for. I can’t give up my life for a guy when he might not be the guy I think he is.”
Brad clears his throat and drops his hands. After Emily begs him to continue, he simply shakes his head, earning him a full-on pout from Emily. He pulls one of his legs back and moves out from behind Emily. Then he leans against the wall the bed is pushed against. Emily turns sideways so she’s sitting cross-legged beside him. She leans her head on his shoulder.
“Your headmaster’s name was Phoque?” I say with a hint of a smile.
He tries not to grin, but with Emily vibrating with laughter next to him, it's hard for him not to.