by Leah Raeder
I took my seat in a daze. For the first time since this crazy thing between us started, I felt okay about it. Yeah, we were sitting five feet apart and didn’t dare glance at each other, and I could practically hear Hiyam swishing her tail with nefarious intent, but it was all okay. I was in love with him. And he knew. And he was in love with me.
That was enough.
“Time for our final victim,” Evan said. “Wesley Brown.”
Someone hit the lights. Evan was two empty desks away from me, and when the lights dropped he flashed me a small smile. I smiled back. The ring on my finger seemed to pulse in time with my heart.
Wesley didn’t introduce his film. He just clicked play.
A black-and-white shot, extreme bokeh, blurry overlapping discs of light. The camera slowly focuses on a girl sitting at a picnic table with a—
Oh my god. It was me. The night of the carnival, the first night, before I’d even met Wesley Brown. You couldn’t see my face, but I knew those clothes, that body, that dark hair flying when the girl threw her head back to drain the last of her beer, the can winking with moonlight.
Evan recognized me, too. His shoulders stiffened in my peripheral vision.
The title comes up on a black frame, with some austere, brooding piano music:
OBSESSION.
Jesus Christ, I thought. Okay, yes, I’d just declared my love for somebody with my own film, but that was reciprocal. Wesley shouldn’t be doing this. We’d talked about it. And how the hell did he get that shot?
Cut to the interior of the carnival. The camera hovers at the back of the rollercoaster, watching it fill up. All the seats are taken except the front car. The girl walks toward it, turns around for a moment, then gets in. A man joins her. You can’t see their faces.
Cut to the water gun race, the girl’s foot running up an old fat guy’s leg.
Cut to silhouettes kissing in a Chevy Monte Carlo.
(Cut to me in class, my heart a fist of ice, realizing this is not about Wesley’s obsession with me.)
Cut to the girl disappearing down the road on her bike in a blur of moon-pale skin and night flower hair.
Cut to—
I stopped processing it at some point. I stared at the screen, my insides churning like broken glass. He never showed our faces. Every frame was artfully cropped, focusing on hands, legs, the backs of our heads. Mostly on my hands. It was a whole fucking film about sign language, really. The tension, worry, and desire I expressed with my hands. And it continued into the school year. Me waiting on the hood of Evan’s car. Our hands clasping briefly in the hall. Both of us leaving his class together after fourth-period make-out sessions. You couldn’t read any incriminating details—Wesley was oh so careful to edit those out—but if you went to this school, you knew it was here. And you knew it was a teacher and student. And you knew that the student was obsessed with the teacher, always waiting, wanting, twisting herself into knots with it. There were scenes I didn’t even remember: me seeming forlorn and angry, kicking my bike over, flinging crab apples at a brick wall, sitting on a curb with my head in my hands. When did that happen? It was like watching a stranger.
Final shot: Halloween night in Siobhan’s car. I stare out the window, compulsively twisting the ring on my finger, over and over and over and over.
Piano trails off. Hard cut to black. Credits.
Someone flipped the lights on and I imagined myself standing up with a gun.
Evan didn’t even get a chance to prompt discussion.
“Whoa,” a guy said.
“Yeah,” said someone else.
“So, like,” a girl said, “what is your genre? Because that looked really, really…real.”
“Docudrama,” Wesley answered in monotone.
You fucking liar, I thought.
“So it’s made up?”
“Reenactment.”
“That’s going on? At Riverland?”
“They’re actors.”
Other voices chimed in.
“But it’s based on something real.”
“Oh my god. Did that actually happen here?”
“Man, that happens all the time. Don’t be naive.”
I had not looked at Evan. I couldn’t. But his voice sounded perturbingly calm when he said, “Let’s focus on theme. Aside from the title, what kind of themes did you notice?”
I almost laughed. How can you even discuss this? I thought. Throw him out of class. Let us out early. Let me beat the shit out of him.
“Loneliness,” someone answered immediately.
“Depression.”
“Lust?”
Giggles.
“Sex.”
Every single word went through me like a voodoo pin. This is my fucking life you’re talking about, you idiots. It does not have a fucking theme.
“I think it’s about love,” Rebecca said tentatively, “but, kind of messed up.”
“You know that’s a teacher, right?” a guy said.
“So?”
“So, that’s like, pedo.”
Rebecca made a sound of disgust.
“No it’s not,” someone else said. “At my old school this girl was seeing a teacher, and when she turned eighteen they got married.”
“Gross.”
“I’d totally do it with a hot teacher,” a guy said, and a girl said, “Ms. Bisette?”
People laughed.
I felt like I was going to vomit. I started to stand and Evan shot me a warning glance. Drawing attention to myself was probably a bad idea.
“Class,” he said in that smooth actor’s voice, “let’s focus on the work.” He turned to Wesley then, and my heart pounded. “Wesley has told a story very effectively without any dialogue, or even seeing the actors’ faces. Why do you think he chose that direction?”
Because he’s a fucking coward, I thought.
“To show it could be anyone.”
“To hide their identities.”
“I think it’s so we focus on the emotions,” Rebecca said.
“What emotions? It’s about infatuation.”
“You can still feel things when you’re infatuated.”
“I don’t think she’s infatuated,” Rebecca said. “I think she really loves him.”
“How do you know?” a guy said. “Have you been with a teacher?”
Laughter.
“Focus,” Evan said.
“She’s right.”
Hiyam’s voice. Icicle straight to my heart.
“I think it is about love,” Hiyam said. “I’d like to know what Maise thinks, since hers was about being in love with a teacher, too.”
I turned to her. The whole class was looking at me. I couldn’t speak. Suddenly I was aware of the ring, the fucking ring right there on my hand. I couldn’t hide it now, they were all staring. God, don’t see it, I prayed. Don’t see this thing I’ve been waving right under your fucking noses.
“Well?” Hiyam said.
“Hiyam,” Evan said. “Bullying.”
“It’s an honest question.”
“She doesn’t have to answer.”
“I’ll answer her fucking question,” I said.
No one gasped, but there was a sudden, reverberating silence.
“I think it’s easy to judge someone you don’t know anything about,” I said. “Like before I saw your film, I thought you were nothing but a spoiled cokehead. Now I know it’s not your parents’ fault.”
“Maise,” Evan breathed behind me, low and alarmed.
I turned to Wesley, who sat on the dais at the back of the room, in shadow.
“And I thought you were a good person. But now I know you’re a fucking psycho.”
“Maise,” Evan said sharply, like a whip crack.
No one moved. It was dead still.
“Leave the class.”
It was as if I’d been struck. I turned to him, numb, furious, hurt. He met my eyes for a moment and then looked away.
I stood up and walked out.
I didn’t slam the door, but I stalked straight across the hall and kicked open the boys’ bathroom, and when a guy at a urinal looked at me in shock, I growled, “Get out.”
I paced. I stood with my palms on either side of a sink, feeling like I could rip it out of the wall. I turned on the cold water and splashed it on my face. Tried to drink some but ended up spitting it at the mirror. Then I paced some more.
I didn’t have long to wait. The bell rang, and I stepped out and watched the kids leaving, flocking into small groups, whispering frantically.
When I saw Wesley I walked up to him, grabbed his shirt in my fist, and twisted as hard as I could.
“What the hell?” he said.
“You want to do this here, or you want to do it in private?” I barely recognized my voice. It was flat and gritty, sulfurous. The drag of a match head before it burst into flame. Other kids were staring.
Wesley eyed me anxiously for a second. Then he followed me to the boys’ bathroom. When he walked in I kicked the garbage can in front of the door and spun around fast, swinging. He caught my arm. He was bigger and stronger than me and I hated him for that.
“Let me hit you,” I said.
“You’re crazy.”
“You’re a fucking traitor. You stupid asshole. How could you do this to me?”
He stared at me wide-eyed, as if surprised. “You’re blowing it way out of proportion.”
“You fucking stalked me, Wesley. You’re sick. And you knew this whole time it was him. I can’t believe I trusted you.”
“I can’t believe I trusted you,” he snapped. “You’ve been lying your ass off to me about everything.”
I let go of him so I could stab a finger at his chest. “It’s my fucking prerogative to lie about this. If anyone knew, he’d lose his job. But now he’s going to anyway. Great fucking work, Wesley. A-plus. Gold fucking star.”
“God, stop yelling. Nobody knows it’s you.”
“Hiyam saw us, you idiot. And now you gave her proof.”
“What?” he said.
“She. Fucking. Saw. Us.”
“Where?”
“Where do you think?” I slashed my hands through the air, wishing it was his face. “In there. In his fucking class.”
“What did she see?”
I took a step closer to him, my chest touching his. “What do you think she saw? Us. Together.”
Wesley stepped back. “You were with him in class?”
“Jesus,” I muttered.
“You did it in our class?”
“Don’t you dare judge me. You have no right—”
“I can’t believe this,” he said, his pitch climbing. “You were with him in our class. That’s so fucking sick, Maise. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I screamed. “You fucking stalker. You traitor. ‘You’re my best friend. Did you know that?’ Go to fucking hell.”
His voice was cold. “You’re the traitor.”
I laughed. “Why, because I popped your precious cherry, you naive little boy? Grow up. This is real. The world is ugly and nasty and fucked up, and so are we.”
He didn’t flinch. His jaw jutted out, but he faced me eye-to-eye. “Listen to what you just said. That’s how you see yourself with him. ‘Ugly and nasty and fucked up.’ That’s exactly why I did this.”
If I’d had any sort of loose object, I would have flung it at him. Instead I raked my hands through my hair and pulled. “God,” I said, trying not to scream again. “You seriously think you’re teaching me something, you arrogant piece of shit.”
“Yeah,” he said huskily. “But you’re too fucking stupid to get it. You’re the one who’s naive. You don’t even see what he’s doing to you.”
I spread my hands, laughing. “Please. Enlighten me, Professor fucking Brown.”
“He’s not who you think he is.”
“Then who the fuck is he?”
“I don’t know. But I know it’s bizarre as hell that there’s nothing online about him before 2011. He’s a ghost. He came out of nowhere.”
I felt nauseated. My fury was cooling, hardening into hate. “You don’t know anything about him. I know about his past.”
“Yeah? Where did he come from?”
“I’m not telling you that.”
“Where did he teach before this?”
“Shut up.”
“Where does he go on his days off and why does he sit in his car for hours, talking to himself?”
I stared at him. “What?”
The bathroom door scraped against the garbage can and a boy stuck his head in. We both yelled, “Get out.” The head disappeared.
I looked at Wesley again, my breath heavy and dry and tasting of bile, as if I’d run for miles, worn myself down to acid and bone.
“I saw him,” Wesley said. “Yeah, I stalked him. Fucking sue me. I thought you were in danger, Maise. He’s using you. I was trying to protect you.”
“Ruining my fucking life is how you protect me?” I shook my head. “You’re sick, and you’re obsessed. That’s what your film is about, Wesley. That’s the irony you don’t get.”
“Get over yourself.” He stepped closer, and I had to tilt my head up to look up at him. “Yeah, I am kinda obsessed. I’m fucking sorry. But this is not about me. You don’t even see what he’s done to you. You put on these rose-colored glasses and think you’re in love, but you’re not. Open your eyes, Maise. I see how miserable you are every day and now you’ve seen it too. It was the only way I could make you see what he really is.”
I stood on my toes and spoke in a whisper, viperously soft. “You betrayed me in the worst possible way. You make me sick. Do not ever talk to me again.”
And I shoved the can aside and stormed out and didn’t see a thing through the brilliant bokeh of my tears.
—9—
Meet me at home after school.
I stared at Evan’s text, wanting to smash my phone to pieces. No fucking point in secrecy anymore, was there? The raptors had found us. I’d spent the entire day in a black haze, seeing nothing but blood and bones and a trail of my own guts leading back to his classroom.
Please, he added, and something plucked sharply in my chest, a plangent, dissonant note.
I didn’t respond. I slammed my locker closed.
Hiyam was waiting behind the door.
Myocardial infarction.
“O’Malley,” she purred. “I’ve been looking for you.”
I’d had my Revelation. This could only be Reversal.
“Let’s walk,” she said.
I still had World Lit, but no one went to the last period before vacation. The building was quiet, most classes dark. My locker slam echoed too long. This place was already a tomb.
“I’ve got class,” I said. “What do you want?”
“I want to help you keep Evan Wilke from going to jail.”
My body stilled, my entire cellular metabolism pausing. Her face was flawlessly composed, those high, upward-raked cheekbones and teardrop eyes like a mask. I couldn’t read her. She raised a pencil-thin eyebrow at me and walked away.
I followed, like the stupid kid sister.
“So,” she said when I caught up, “what do you call him when you’re alone? Evan, or Mr. Wilke?”
I swallowed. Admit nothing.
She propped open a stairwell door, ushering me in. I felt like I was walking to my own execution. I leaned against the cold concrete wall, staring at the caged bulb opposite us as if it could open fire any moment.
“Up,” Hiyam said.
We climbed to the roof door, which was unlocked.
“We’re on camera,” I said.
“Didn’t stop you with Mr. Wilke.”
If I grit my teeth any harder, my face would shatter.
Freezing air blasted over us when she opened the door. The roof slates had become a diamondback of ice, slick scales twinkling in the sun. Cloudless periwinkle stretched from forever to nowhere.
Hiyam went to the ledge and I followed, calculating the chance of death from a four-story drop.
She lit a cigarette. The smoke and her breath hung in the air, gossamer snakeskins.
“This is what I’ve been wondering,” she said. “Why you?”
I stood beside her, arms crossed. I wore a man’s flannel shirt and tight leggings and the cold cut right through, but I kept my chin up, refusing to cower.
“I mean,” Hiyam said, “he could have had anyone. If he took me home, I would’ve blown him in his car. Actually, I would’ve had my driver pick us up, and blown him in my father’s car.”
“So why me?” I said dryly. “Why not one of you pathetic little girls with daddy issues? Good question.”
She laughed. Her smoke scribbled arabesques that looked like the Persian alphabet.
“There’s something about you,” she said. “You don’t give a fuck. It’s kind of hot.”
“Save the flirting. You’re not my type.”
Hiyam laughed again. “Such a bitch. I like it, O’Malley. Now let me tell you how this is going to work.” She sat on the ledge. “You are going to supply me. Anything I want, any quantity, and I’ll pay street price. No haggling. My baba joon would be so disappointed if he knew I didn’t haggle.” Something hard flashed in her eyes. “In return, I won’t tell the principal or the police that you’ve been fucking Mr. Wilke. I also won’t tell them that he fucked me.”
I stared at her. “What?”
“Because that would be a felony. Since I’m seventeen.”
I uncrossed my arms and stepped toward her. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that I can lie.”
“You’re insane,” I said. “It’ll never hold up. There’s no evidence.”
“Isn’t there?” she said. “Mr. Wilke has been seen in many compromising situations. Like showing up at my party. And being in a locked classroom with both of us. Which Wesley conveniently preserved on film. My baba will hire the best lawyers. His poor little girl, taken advantage of.” She laughed smoke into my face. “I see you thinking about pushing me. But you won’t. You’ll do exactly what I say. Because you belong to me now. You’re my toy.”
If there is a God, or an Allah, or anything, I thought, strike this bitch down. Please.