Pam

by Druga, Jacqueline

“Oh, we do. Just not the card catalog. And why are you looking up books? The information is at your fingertips.”

  I heaved in a breath, wincing. “I really don’t feel like going through hours of microfilm.”

  He laughed again. “You can do that. But try online first. A lot of your papers are there. Not to mention the stories.”

  Not wanting to appear ignorant, I nodded, acting as if I knew what he meant when, clearly, I didn't. “Oh, how silly. On … line. Why didn’t I think of that? And where can I do that?”

  He pointed.

  I thought, okay, what was he pointing at. I apparently looked clueless.

  “The sign?” he said.

  With another nod, I did notice the sign. It read: Computer Lab, with arrow pointing down the steps.

  “You’ll need to enter the identification number on your library card.”

  I thanked him and followed the sign.

  A computer lab. Wow. I did know what a computer was. It had been a topic of discussion with Richie and me. He wanted to get one really bad. A Compaq computer that was supposed to be state of the art. But it cost over a thousand dollars, and that was a lot of money for a mechanic’s family.

  The only time I had ever used one was when my mother got the Radio Shack Tandy computer, and even then, I gave up because it took hours to key in letters and numbers and codes all to make a spinning box.

  I gasped at the thought and prayed that computers had come a long way.

  I knew they had.

  What in the world, though, was a computer lab?

  I soon found out after going down the stairs.

  It wasn’t a laboratory like I envisioned from science class. It was a room full of computers. Rows and rows of them. People used them. My God, the library must really have funds in Hartford.

  Surely, the local ones didn’t have those. Maybe one.

  I lucked out. But I didn’t have a clue on what to do.

  A swirling design was on the compute I chose to use.

  I stared at it. How was I supposed to get the design off the screen?

  I looked around. Who looked friendly enough to approach? I hate even speaking to people, but I had to.

  I stood and just as I did, a young girl walked up to me. She had a library identification card hanging from her neck.

  “You look lost.”

  “Is this broke?” I pointed to the computer. “Out of commission?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said sweetly. Then reached down. She grabbed on to the oval object, the thing I would soon learn was called a mouse, and moved it. “Nope. Fine. Just enter your ID number.”

  A small gray panel that said ‘log in’ was before me. It was so Star Wars, I felt out of my league.

  I sat back down and entered my number slowly. I never really was any good at typing.

  And I waited.

  “You have to press enter.”

  Enter. Enter. Enter. I shifted my eyes around and saw the word on the keyboard. “Oh, the return key,” I said aloud and hit it. Suddenly the screen changed and I was staring at a computer picture of the college campus.

  “Okay,” she said and pulled up a chair. “Forgive me. But you really look lost.”

  “I am.” I looked at the young girl. She had to be about eighteen. Long blonde hair. Just cute and innocent. But she looked smart. I was willing to wager that all young people were smarter than we ever were. “I have never used a computer.”

  “Ever?”

  I shook my head. “A Tandy.”

  She fluttered her lips. “I heard of that. It’s like the first sort of computer.”

  Again, I nodded. “For instance, I am fairly familiar with the keys here. Because they are like an electric typewriter. But what is that?” I indicated to the oval mouse.

  “A mouse.”

  “Why do that call it that?”

  “Notice how this cord comes out of it?” She lifted the white line.

  “Yes.”

  “Earlier version, really early version looked like a mouse and the a name stuck. This maneuvers,” she pointed to an arrow on the screen, “this.”

  I watched the arrow move and then her hand. “That’s amazing.”

  “You click where you want it to go. Here, try.”

  She grabbed my hand and placed it on the mouse.

  “Move it around and watch the screen.”

  I did. A simple thing, just moving the arrow around and around.

  “Are you writing a paper? Or are you going online?”

  “That’s the word.”

  She smiled and titled her head.

  “I told that boy I wanted to do research on unsolved murder mysteries. And that I thought about looking at microfilm and he said try on line. What is this ‘on line’? Is it like a row of books, row of information manuals, newspapers, what?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shook my head.

  “This is not a joke.” She looked around. “Like one of the boys isn’t joking me?”

  “No, really, I’m clueless.”

  “And I thought my mom was. Were you on an island or something?” She hurriedly lifted her hand. “Kidding.”

  “Sort of. I was …” I pause. Really? Was I going to tell her I was locked away for eighteen years in an institute for the criminally insane? No. I thought. “I was very religious and was in a part of the world that didn’t have any of this. No television, no computers, no on line stuff.”

  “And the first thing you look up is murders?”

  “Yeah,” I answered with an apologetic look.

  “Cool.”

  I liked the girl. Her name was Stacey and before she set me free to do my research, she educated me on a thing called the Internet. What it is, what is does, and how people use it.

  Recreation and information; it is vast.

  Anything I wanted to know was there. I just needed to know how to look. She explained it was always what it seemed and how I had to use things called ‘key words’. She emphasized that they were important. That I would put in key words and hit the enter button and a long list of places would pop up.

  Links, she called them. But there were pages after pages and it wasn’t just what was on my screen.

  I got a lesson that took close to a half an hour and I took notes. She was really informative. Teaching me little things, and then telling me she was posted in the lab and would be on hand to help if I needed it.

  “You’re ready to do your first search. If there are things you want print up on the screen you can. Just call me, it might be tricky. I’ll help. It’s ten cents a page.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Remember, keywords.”

  “Stacy?” I called her name as she started to leave. “Can you just stand here while I try the first search? Make sure I do it right.”

  “Sure. Go on. Click the arrow in that search space. Make sure it’s blinking.”

  I moved the arrow to the search bar and clicked. I was proud. I did it.

  “Now what are you looking up?”

  “Unsolved murders. Maybe bodies found in local areas.”

  “Okay, type the words and use commas. Try … Give me a town?”

  “Colville.”

  She moved her hands to the keyboard and typed for me.

  Unsolved Murders, Bodies found, Colville.

  She hit enter.

  “Now watch,” she said.

  An entire page of blue sentences appeared. Under them were small paragraphs of descriptions.

  “There you have it. Click on what you want to read. Meaning put the arrow on the sentence; if it turns into a hand, it’s good to go. If you don’t see anything you like on this page …” She moved the screen to where it said something about results. “Try a different page. There are over two hundred thousand results.”

  “Wow.”

  “Don’t be impressed, though. Some are repeats. And use the back button.”

  She took another moment to show me what she meant.


  I really appreciated it. I did. I thanked her again, and when she walked away, informing me she was close, I then looked at the screen.

  The first, the very first one, caused one of those nervous, surprise twitches in my gut.

  It read, ‘Body found in park indentified as Colville cheerleader missing for twenty years.”

  I moved the arrow to the line, saw it transform into a hand, and hesitated to click on it. I felt guilty. I looked around. Double checking to see if anyone was watching me. Why that was, I didn’t know.

  Wait. Yes, I did.

  I had a feeling before I even clicked on the link that I knew what it was about.

  I clicked.

  I saw the picture, and I was right. It was a yearbook picture; the girl had been cropped from a group, more than likely the cheerleading squad. Her hair was light, full, and big. Curled up and back on the sides and high in the front. Her lips were glossy, eye makeup heavy, her head tilted, and she smiled. A bit of her Colville cheerleading sweater had made it into the picture.

  The article read:

  Connie Lambert was excited and happy when she left for the big homecoming game on Friday, October 16, 1981. Her mother had just laundered her uniform, and Connie left early so she could get sodas with the other girls.

  She was excited because she was one of five girls nominated for homecoming queen.

  It was a great night for Connie. Though she didn’t win homecoming queen, her team went on to beat the undefeated Willow Brook Panthers 21 – 3. She called her mother from the stadium payphone and said she was going out for pizza and would be home before midnight.

  That was the last her mother heard or saw of Connie until her body was discovered just two weeks ago.

  The article was written in 1999.

  It stated her remains were uncovered in the Colville Park that used to be a playground when they were digging to make a new fountain. Her body still sported her Colville cheerleading sweater, but no other clothing items were found on her.

  Because of how many years had passed, the cause of death would remain a mystery; they could only guess.

  So could I.

  I hadn’t thought about Connie Lambert until that very moment, and I guessed I’d be thinking about her for a long time.

  Twenty-three years ago I’d thought about her a lot. Tried to speak about her, but Sharon … Sharon would stop me.

  “It wasn’t our fault,” Sharon said. “We didn’t do this.”

  I flashed back to that night. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. When I left her she was fine. It happened after.”

  I believed Sharon back then. Why wouldn’t I? But as I stared at the article, I had to wonder.

  That night was vivid once more.

  “My father is going to be so mad,” I told Sharon as we pulled into the parking lot of the Colville High School stadium. “I’m not supposed to drive this far.”

  “He isn’t going to know. He’s always asleep by ten on a Friday, anyhow.

  I knew that to be true. Plus, my father thought I was at a friend’s house. Never Sharon’s, though, my parents hated her and wished her away at times. I didn’t get it. They’d always tell me not to bring her up.

  “Richie is going to be so surprised I’m here,” I told her. “He asked me to come, but I said I couldn’t.”

  We had to park in the back of the lot; it was full. Willow Brook was undefeated. We were late; I was certain they were already in the second half.

  We giggled all the way to the stadium. Richie’s motorbike was parked right out front. It was so cool, and I felt like the coolest girl in school hanging out with Richie.

  But we didn’t see him. Then again, the stadium was full. We looked around, but no Richie.

  The game ended, and I wondered if maybe he was out in the parking lot drinking beers with friends, or better yet, he more than likely was under the bleachers.

  “He’s probably there,” Sharon said. “Let’s go look. If he isn’t, we’ll hang out by his bike. He’s gotta come back for that.”

  I agreed. It was a Friday night, and I wanted to see Richie. I wanted to kiss him. I loved kissing Richie. It was our senior year, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was ‘with’ him. He was going to be my first. There was no one else I wanted to be with. But until then, I enjoyed making out with Richie.

  I was wearing my best pair of Jordache jeans, a cool blouse, my hair was big and perfect, and Sharon let me use her lipstick. My father never let me wear lip gloss, but Sharon, she always had makeup. She was beautiful and confident and didn’t care. I wished at times I could be like her. She had experience. And before we went anywhere, she always put stuff on my face.

  Boys loved her. I often thought it was because she did things others didn’t. She told me about them, but it made me embarrassed.

  “Think of it a education,” she used to tell me and giggle.

  Anyhow we went to look for Richie. Certain he and other boys were under the bleachers, we headed that way as the stadium emptied out.

  We didn’t hear the typical laughter of kids. Then again, if they were sneaking beer, they’d be quiet.

  As we veered from the group of exiting people, I heard something.

  Sharon whispered. “I hear him.”

  “You think that’s him?” I asked.

  “Yeah, let’s sneak up and scare them.”

  I giggled. It was a great idea. Hunched over, we moved as quickly and quietly as we could toward the voice.

  Perhaps if we would have made noise, we would have seen something totally different.

  A part of me wished we were loud.

  Mouths open, ready to call out, ‘Hold it.’, I froze. I literally froze.

  Richie was under the bleacher. Connie Lambert leaned against the pillar, moving side to side, trying to be cute. Smiling and giggling. “So you wanna see?”

  “Hell, yeah. You know it.” Richie leaned into her, pressed his body against Connie and kissed her. He kissed her long and hard like he never kissed me. He then moved his lips to her neck and his hand grabbed on to her breast.

  Sharon stepped forward, and I pulled her back. I just wanted to leave. Run and leave. Cry my eyes out the second I was away,

  His hand moved from her breasts to her waist then her leg. It slid up her cheerleading skirt and in between her thighs.

  She giggled and pushed away his hand, shoving him back.

  “You said I could see,” he said.

  She laughed again, biting her lip. “And you can.” She grabbed her skirt and lifted it. “See?”

  “Can I take them off?”

  Connie nodded.

  Richie dropped to his knees in a second, reached up, and grabbed her panties. He slid them down to her ankles and stared at her.

  That’s about all he could do. Because Sharon yelled out.

  “You asshole!”

  Quickly Richie turned his head. Connie screamed a little scream of surprise, bent over and pulled up her underwear. She did it so fast; I don’t think she realized a part of her skirt was stuck in her briefs.

  “Asshole!” Sharon raged toward Richie.

  “Sharon, let’s go.” I sobbed. “I saw it all.”

  “It ain’t what you think.” Richie stood.

  “Ain’t what we think!” Sharon blasted. “We saw you with her. We saw you kissing her. Touching her.” She spun and pointed to Connie. “And you aren’t nothing but a slut.”

  “Richie, I gotta go,” she said.

  He nodded.

  Arms folded tight to her body, she hurried away, pausing only to look at me as she did.

  “Talk to him,” Sharon told me, “I’ll be right back.”

  I looked over my shoulder to see her heading in the same direction as Connie, but then I turned around to Richie. “How can you do this to me?”

  “Do what to you? I wasn’t doing anything.” He kicked the dirt with his foot, not looking at me. He paused and then sighed out. “Sorry, Pammy. I am.”
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br />   “Why did you do it?”

  “Because you don’t.” Richie shook his head.

  I felt bad, really bad when he said that. “I can’t believe you put that much emphasis on it.”

  “All the kids are doing it.”

  “No, they aren’t. And if you think that little of me that you can’t wait... then I’m sorry.” I started to leave but he stopped me. Pulled that Richie stuff on me to get me to not be mad and forgive him.

  I had to leave. I didn’t know where Sharon had gone, and all I kept thinking was that she and Connie were fighting in the parking lot.

  When I got back to my car, Sharon was alone, waiting by the car.

  “You all right?” She asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you break up with him?”

  “No.” I sulked and opened my car door. “I didn’t and don’t say anything.”

  “Your problem. Not mine.”

  We weren’t driving very long when we saw her walking.

  “Is that her?” Sharon pointed to the girl on the street in the cheerleading uniform.

  “Yeah, that’s her.” I felt a gnaw in my gut.

  “Pull over.”

  “What for?”

  “So we can teach her a lesson.”

  “Sharon, no.” I said.

  “Where’s Richie?” Sharon asked. “Huh? Because uh … she’s headed into that park. Bet me they’re meeting.”

  On her words, I pulled over. Connie really wasn’t walking into the park. She was walking by the place that would be the new Colville community playground. The construction sign out front boasted that.

  We pulled over, and Connie looked back. At first, she tried to stay cool and calm, keeping her pace steady until Sharon got ahead of me and started to run for her.

  That’s when Connie ran.

  She didn’t scream; maybe she should have.

  Sharon was fast; she caught Connie, and with a hard shoulder clash sailed Connie to the right and to the ground.

  “Proud of them panties?” Sharon sneered at Connie.

  Out of breath, I caught up to them. “What are we doing?”

  “Teaching her a lesson.”

  “I’m telling,” Connie replied. “Don’t think I won’t call the cops. Or tell Richie his girlfriend is a psycho.”

  Sharon sailed a foot into Connie’s side and did so with such force that Connie rolled over.