Pretty, Nasty, Lovely

by Rosalind Noonan

  “Was the hoodie person leaving Lydia, or just crossing the bridge?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. As I said, I didn’t even know anyone else was there until I got onto the bridge. But if Hoodie was with Lydia, I didn’t hear any interaction between them. The talk was one-sided.”

  “I wonder who that was. Could it have been a Theta Pi sister?”

  Rory shrugged. “I just know that all the time Adam and I stayed with the police, no one else came forward.”

  It was possible that someone walking alone didn’t even see Lydia as he or she passed by. “What was Lydia like? I mean, did she seem scared, or was she determined?”

  Distress shadowed his face as he swallowed hard.

  “I’m sorry to probe, but . . .”

  “I get it,” he said. “She was your friend.”

  Not entirely true, but this wasn’t the time to correct him.

  “At first she was pissed. Yelling out, ‘You promised!’ That’s what got our attention at first. Then she kept saying how sorry she was. Like she was apologizing to someone.”

  Apologizing . . . I don’t think I’d ever heard Lydia say she was sorry. She’d been too confident and entitled to admit a mistake. “So she might have been talking to someone else?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It happened so fast. We looked out and saw someone moving in front of the bridge light. At one point I thought it was a large bird flapping its wings. That’s stupid, I know. Birds aren’t out at night, and it was, like, two in the morning.”

  “It’s not stupid. It must have freaked you out, seeing her on the other side of the rail.”

  “When I got to the approach of the bridge, I saw her go over the edge,” he said. “I stepped up to the rail and saw her drop down, free-falling.”

  “Did she scream?”

  He shook his head. “She was quiet on the way down. Peaceful. That part happened so fast. It took just a few seconds. It’s weird because, in my memory, it was all in slow motion.”

  I nodded as the car accident came back to me, those stretched-out seconds of sliding motion swinging toward destruction. “There’s a time warp when something awful happens. It seems to stretch out in your mind, but everything happens in the blink of an eye.”

  He squinted as our eyes met. “Exactly. But I keep replaying it in my head, thinking that everything would have been different if we were on that bridge five minutes earlier. If we’d just noticed her earlier or if I’d run faster, maybe she’d be here now.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. “I know it’ll take a while for you to really get that, but you’re not responsible for what happened.” He was a good guy. Even the way he talked about Lydia, he made it clear that her life mattered. Unlike the gawkers at the bridge, he understood that a light had gone out last night, and that was the real tragedy. “Did you know her?”

  “I met her once, but my friend Charlie knew her. He went to a frat formal with her last year. He’s pretty freaked out.”

  I didn’t know this Charlie, but he was probably among the one-date-wonders Lydia had always managed to find for important events. “Lydia was so into those formals. As Theta Pis we have to attend a few a year, but Lydia never missed one.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been to one in my three years here.”

  “Doesn’t Omega Phi have a rule about that?”

  He shrugged. “They haven’t kicked me out yet.”

  I liked his unfazed attitude. “I’d talk with you some more, but I have to go.” I nodded at the large moon of a clock that hung on the second-floor balcony. “My shift ended five minutes ago, and I have a meeting at Theta House.”

  “You’d better get going.” He gave the book cart a push back toward the main desk.

  “I can do that.”

  “I don’t mind. Who reads all this stuff anyway?”

  “Umm, students?”

  “Not what I meant. I read everything online. Books make me nervous.”

  “Then I really appreciate you coming into this scary place. But really, thanks.”

  He nodded. “And you’ll hit me up when you know the details about a service for Lydia? I told Charlie I would go with him.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  He turned toward the door, then looked back. “Hey, Emma, do you have a cell phone?”

  “Sure.” It was an odd question, but I handed it to him, figuring he needed to make a call. Instead, he tapped the keys. “Just adding my number to your contact list. Easier to reach me that way.”

  As he handed the phone back to me I bowed my head to hide my smile. It was wrong to think that Rory and I had something in common beyond Lydia, and I had a whole new set of worries now, knowing that someone had been seen on the bridge near Lydia. Coincidence? The sick feeling in my gut told me no.

  CHAPTER 6

  With his heels propped on his scarred desk and a stack of Comp 120 essays in his lap, Dr. Scott Finnegan was working his way toward a pint at Scully’s Tavern. If he plowed through four more essays and then grabbed a beer and a burger at Scully’s, that would have him arriving at home with an hour or so to endure Eileen’s wrath for being a terrible father, an inconsiderate partner, and an overall loser. He was wondering if he had the stamina to finish off all the essays tonight when the e-mails chimed in. He didn’t really care to open them. Anything that came in after six was fair game for the next morning. But he was already distracted, so he figured what the hell.

  The two e-mails came from the university’s director of student health, Dr. Sydney Cho. The first was a generic e-mail sent to all staff to confirm another death on campus, a female student who had apparently jumped from the North Campus Bridge in the early hours of the morning.

  Another suicide.

  Another confirmation that Merriwether University was an incubator of stress. Finn wished these kids could see beyond the horizon and recognize that there was a hell of a lot more to life than getting a college education, but he knew this generation juggled a hornet’s nest of newfangled issues: broken families, rising substance abuse, the increasing financial burden of a college education, and flimsy family bonds due to time-consuming extracurricular activity, to name a few.

  The second e-mail was more specific, though still lacking the warmth of a personal message.

  You are receiving this e-mail because the recently deceased Lydia Drakos was a student in one or more of your classes. The Pioneer Falls Police are investigating her death and have requested any information you might have regarding this student’s profile. Please respond with a progress report and any pertinent observations.

  Dean Cho was really digging herself in with this one. Did a request from the police trump FERPA, the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act of 1974, which protected the privacy of a student’s records? Finn wasn’t sure, but if he had any information on this student, he wasn’t going to give it up in an e-mail, and Sydney Cho should realize that. The thirtyish wunderkind was already showing her lack of experience.

  And even if he did have information on this young woman, was it fair to put her under the microscope, toss her personal information onto the table so that the police could probe and prod the remnants of her psyche now that she was gone? He understood the need to establish that the dead student hadn’t been a victim of homicide, but it seemed wrong to scrutinize the victim. It was just wrong.

  He clicked through his rosters until he found Lydia’s name in one of his Comp classes. His grade sheet showed two incompletes and a C on her first paper. Ouch. At the bottom he had written a note to himself about giving her an extension on the third paper.

  So he’d spoken with her. He rested his forehead against one palm, trying to remember. Dark hair. Polite but flirty in that aristocratic way. Lydia Drakos. He’d been kind to her, thank God. Patient but firm, allowing extra time as long as she got the work done. Which was probably nearly impossible if the girl had been choked by depression.

  As he skimmed over the only paper Lydia Dr
akos had submitted electronically—a mediocre effort with a rushed conclusion—the realization that the administration was looking to write this student off inflamed his fury. This wasn’t just about ruling out foul play. They cared not for the life lost or the grieving family and friends; the school’s reputation, its ranking in magazines and guidebooks, and its endowment were the priorities here. Damn the admin, obsessed with fiscal gain and reputation at the expense of the students.

  Those student protestors had been right.

  He was tempted to give the story to the editors of the student newspaper, who had condemned Cho when she’d failed to revamp the harsh policies of the campus counseling center. He was itching to fan the flames of rebellion, but he couldn’t divulge the details of Lydia Drakos’s student records.

  He would have to settle for a more private duel. Scrolling through the university directory, he found the number and placed the call. At this time of night, he expected to get her voice mail. He was wrong.

  “This is Dean Cho.”

  “Time to step away from your desk. Stop hiding behind e-mails,” he said. “We need to meet, face-to-face.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Scott Finnegan. I was Lydia Drakos’s English teacher.”

  “If you have information for me, you’re better off e-mailing it. That way we both have a record.”

  “Not gonna happen. When can we meet?”

  “I’d prefer e-mail. I’ve had to cancel tomorrow’s appointments to escort the police on campus. They’re still investigating.”

  “Are they with you now?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be there in ten.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Ladies, I’ll be brief. Thanks for being here.” Our house manager, Jan Johnson, forced a smile that revealed her slightly crooked teeth. Her demeanor was cheerful, her silver hair pulled back in a loose bun as usual, but I noticed that her hands trembled a bit, and that scared me. Mrs. J was our rock. If she was shaken, there was no hope for the rest of us.

  “I know you had classes and other commitments. I appreciate your being flexible, but it’s important to have you all here to support each other and share this information.”

  The room was silent, most of us still inhabiting a bubble of shock that coated everything with a surreal glaze. Most reactions to the news had little to do with feelings for Lydia. There’d been tears, yes, but the displays of emotion reminded me of what you’d see at the end of a heartbreaking film. That cathartic cry that made you feel so much better when you took a deep breath and walked out of the theater. There was also the creep factor of the idea of suicide, and already I sensed most of the sisters separating themselves from Lydia, a mystery in life and in death.

  “By way of warning, I just wanted to let you know that Lydia’s mother will be here tomorrow or the next day. Mrs. Drakos. She’s driving out to . . . pick up Lydia’s things.”

  Driving out? From the Greek islands in the Mediterranean? It appeared that we’d caught Lydia in a lie, but this was no time to question Mrs. J, who was already rattled.

  “Lydia was an only child, so this will be particularly hard on her parents,” Mrs. J said, as if thinking aloud.

  As if a person were dispensable when she had siblings. I imagined Mrs. J calling my father and saying, “Emma’s dead, but it’s not such a grave loss for you as I hear she has an older brother to take her place in your heart.”

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Drakos will be a little lost when she gets here,” Mrs. J continued. “Sorting through her daughter’s possessions. What a terrible thing. I’m counting on you to pay your respects when she’s here and help her in any way you can.”

  My resolute shell began to crack at the thought of a parent having to come and claim the unwanted physical evidence of their child’s life. What would Mrs. Drakos do with Lydia’s jeans, sneakers, and dresses? Cable-knit sweaters, nightgowns, and underwear that no other living soul would want. Personal items that were important just a day ago, now fairly useless. A life reduced to piles of trash that you can’t bear to part with.

  I had done much of the sorting through my sister’s possessions after the crash. The dried corsage from senior prom.

  Tickets from a performance of Les Miserables. Lip glosses and palettes of eye shadow. Mud-caked garden shoes and spangled heels that had barely been worn.

  Thank God my aunt Rose had been there to handle my mother’s belongings. A person accumulates items that are loaded with meaning and useless to anyone else. Small, pretty trinkets, favorite sweaters, photos and shoes; a closet full of possessions that contained mountains of memory. It was one of those horrible things about death that no one talks about: dealing with the remnants a person leaves behind.

  “Let’s talk about the police investigation,” Mrs. J went on. “Some of you spoke with Detective Taylor this afternoon, and I want to say I’m proud of the way you girls handled yourselves. Over the next week or so the police will be investigating Lydia’s death to make sure it was a suicide. They’ll be here in the house, and they’ll want to interview many of you, but I will be with them whenever they’re on the premises. At this time they don’t think any of us are at risk. I guess that means, so far, the evidence points to a suicide. In any case, I know you’ll cooperate fully, and if anyone has information regarding Lydia’s death, you can call Detective Taylor directly. I’ll leave this stack of business cards on the front desk.”

  My gaze skittered quickly over my sisters’ faces, trying to sense whether anyone would take the bait, but no one seemed at all interested. Although we’d probably never know for sure, the consensus at Theta House was that Lydia had jumped of her own volition, driven by a secret that would die with her.

  “Beyond that, I just want to say that Lydia was . . .” Mrs. J’s eyes filled. I’d never seen her cry before, and the sight of steady, solid Mrs. J crumbling inside struck me hard. We’d be sunk if Mrs. J fell apart. I was relieved when, a moment later, she pulled it together. Swiping at the tears with the back of her hand, she let out a breath and forced another smile. “She was a good egg. Kind and dependable.”

  I bit my lower lip as I noticed Isabel rolling her eyes. That was not the Lydia we knew.

  “At times she could be stubborn and intractable. . . .”

  That was the girl we’d butted heads with.

  “But I like to think that she pushed because she believed so much in the values of Theta Pi and the support of her sisters.”

  Highly unlikely, but way to cover, Mrs. J.

  “I’ve been talking with Dean Cho about grief counseling, and they’re going to set something up for you girls, as well as other students on campus.”

  “Wait.” Tori raised a hand. “Hold on, Mrs. J. Do you mean with the counselors at the student health center?”

  Mrs. J squinted at her, ever serious. “That’s right.”

  Tori shook her head imperiously. “That’s not going to happen. Sorry to disappoint, Mrs. J, but you know how they’ve been pouncing on students lately.”

  “But, Tori, this is different. Dean Cho promised that there would be no strings attached for students seeking support.”

  “Yeah. We’ve heard that before.” Tori held one hand out, gesturing to the room full of girls like the queen of the homecoming parade. “Thetas? We can take care of our own house, right? We have the Rose Council and the Chapter Relations Committee if you need anything. Our doors are always open.”

  Some girls nodded, and the general feeling of agreement filled the room.

  “That’s admirable,” Mrs. J said, “but be aware that other help is out there. And you can always come to me. I’m not a professional counselor, but I’m a pretty good listener.”

  But not a friend, I thought as I ran a fingernail along the seam of my jeans. Mrs. J was a master problem solver when it came to fixing a leaky sink, getting a sick girl to urgent care, or coordinating the cleaning staff. But in less tangible matters, she didn’t seem to have the patien
ce to weigh issues properly. Which was okay, because none of the Thetas was going to cry on her shoulder.

  As Mrs. J rattled on, my gaze floated over the pretty faces of the sisters gathered there, many of them glazed with boredom. I had hoped for more of a feeling of solidarity in this meeting, our first time together since we’d lost Lydia, but mostly it seemed to be business as usual.

  This time last year, it would have been so different. Letting my focus go fuzzy on the string of pink heart-shaped lights, I fell into the memory of those days. The way things used to be—the functionality of Theta Pi just last year when I had pledged. My “Theta big sister,” Kate, had been president, and I’d been so focused on her group of seniors that Lydia’s crew had been more like background noise. People had left their bedroom doors open and conversations spilled out to the hall. The senior girls insisted we join them for meals, and they let us stay over in their rooms before we were able to move into Theta House. There were spontaneous dance parties and all-night Monopoly games. Study buddies and secret sisters who wrote you encouraging notes during the term.

  Things had been so different back then. Not that I didn’t still love my sisters. They were family, and I knew some of us would be close for the rest of our lives. But that first semester of freshman year . . . those were good times.

  CHAPTER 8

  Emma’s Freshman Year

  Halloween

  The air in the frat house was popping and buzzing, warm and fuzzy and friendly as I swayed on the dance floor with my two best friends, Angela and Isabel. With pledging done and midterms behind us, we had come to the Delta Tau party to let loose, celebrate Halloween, and test our new confidence on campus as sisters of Theta Pi.

  “Are we having fun yet?” I shouted over the music, and my friends roared in response.

  “I love this song!” Isabel yelled, dancing around me.

  “Yeah!” Angela whooped and waved down a bare-chested prisoner dragging a ball and chain and carrying a tray of test tubes.