Pressure

by Jeff Strand

  “He can wear a turtleneck! It won’t be just us three who get busted if he says anything. He will, too. You think he wants that?”

  “He might decide that it’s worth it,” said Peter.

  “Don’t be stupid. He’s not going to say anything. He’s a messed-up dog killer. We might get kicked out of school, but he’ll get stuck in a psycho house.”

  “He didn’t kill the dog,” I said.

  “Then what he did is even more messed up! Let him go cry to Sevin. He’ll be sorry.”

  I felt like I was going to vomit. I couldn’t get kicked out of Branford Academy. Who knew what my parents would do with me next? It was bad enough what they did when they just didn’t want me around; if they were genuinely mad at me, I might end up someplace more miserable than I could imagine.

  Or I could end up in juvenile hall.

  The police would certainly realize that we’d only been trying to scare Darren, that we weren’t really going to rip out his guts, but if he told on us, I was truly, deeply screwed.

  “I’m gonna run up ahead and talk to him,” I said.

  “Don’t bother,” said Jeremy. “Let the freak go.”

  “No, I’m gonna see what I can do. He might listen to me.”

  “Why would he listen to you?”

  “I don’t know, but he might.” We’d bonded over lying outside in the cold waiting to see a naked woman, and a bond like that was not easily broken.

  I ran ahead of Jeremy and Peter, praying that I could work this out. I hurried through the trees, and it didn’t take long to catch up with Darren. He started to pick up his pace as he heard me approach.

  “Darren, wait!” I shouted.

  He broke into a run.

  “Darren, please!”

  I’m not sure if it was because I sounded so pathetic or because he figured I could outrun him anyway, but he slowed his pace. “What do you want?”

  “What do you think I want? Let’s talk about this.”

  He ran his finger along his neck. “I’ve got a lot to talk about, but it’s sure not going to be with you.”

  “C’mon, Darren, you know we weren’t going to do anything!”

  “I don’t know that at all.”

  “Yes you do. And Mr. Sevin will know it, too. And so will the cops. But if we just forget about the whole thing, pretend like nothing happened, then nobody has to get hurt.”

  Darren lifted his chin to give me a better view of his neck. “Nobody has to get hurt?”

  “I’ve already seen your neck, okay? Don’t be an asshole about this!”

  “I’m an asshole?”

  Though I was still in a severe state of panic, I was starting to get more than a little angry, too. “Don’t act all innocent! You got yourself into this! And if you tell, believe me, I’ll make sure they know exactly how sick you really are.”

  Darren gave me a grin that made me want to break his jaw. “You suck at threats.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Alex, when I tell them what happened you’ll be so busy sobbing and blubbering that you won’t be able to say a fuckin’word, you chickenshit.”

  I stared into his eyes, hoping to find some sign that he was concerned, but it seemed to be genuine arrogance. I clenched my fists. “I’m not a chicken.”

  “What, you can’t even say the ‘shit’ part? You’re the biggest loser I’ve ever met in my entire life!”

  He had to be bluffing.

  “Fine,” I said, shrugging. “Tell them. You’ll have fun in the loony bin. Maybe you’ll get to cut up a person who thinks he’s a dog.”

  “That was kind of funny.”

  “Yeah. Ha-ha.”

  “I might not tell anybody. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. But you’d better just leave me alone for a while.”

  “I’m really sorry about this, Darren.”

  “See? You’re a chickenshit.”

  “But I am sorry.”

  “Good. Stay away from me.”

  I let him go. If he was considering keeping this a secret, then all we could do was be as nice to him as possible and stay on his good side.

  I walked back and met up with Jeremy and Peter. “So?” Jeremy asked.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He might not say anything.”

  “He’d better not. We can do a lot worse than scrape up his neck.”

  “Stop it,” I said. “Don’t say anything mean to him from now on.”

  “I never said anything mean to him until he did this!”

  “Well, let’s please not fight with him. Maybe he won’t say anything. We’ll just all pretend nothing happened.”

  Jeremy sighed. “Fine. Whatever. But I’d like to see him try to tell on us.”

  We walked in silence until we were in sight of the campus.

  “I don’t think he killed Killer Fang,” Peter said, his voice hollow. “Killer Fang would’ve been too fast for somebody like him. He would’ve ripped Darren’s throat out if he tried to hurt him. I think he got hit by a car.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” I said.

  “My parents should’ve left him at home.” Peter sniffled. “He was a great dog.”

  “Yeah,” Jeremy agreed.

  Peter began to cry. Neither Jeremy nor I were particularly well versed in the art of consoling a friend in mourning, so we fell behind to give Peter some dignity as he wept.

  When we got back to the room, Darren was under the covers, facing the wall. He had a towel draped over his neck.

  “Darren…?” I whispered.

  It was obvious from his breathing that his sleep was feigned, but I didn’t repeat his name. We all silently undressed and got into bed. As far as I know, nobody slept.

  The next day was predictably miserable. I spent most of my time sitting in class, pretending to pay attention while I tried to think of a cover story that would keep us from getting in trouble. But what could we say? The best I could come up with was that we’d been goofing around, playing rodeo, and that one of us had looped the rope around Darren’s neck and accidentally yanked too hard. But that was a dumb-ass cover story and would put all the blame on us. No, if the events of last night were discovered, Darren was going to be revealed as the sicko that he was. I’d make sure of that.

  Darren wore the same blue turtleneck shirt every day that week (the only one he owned, presumably) and as far as I know none of his teachers questioned the wardrobe choice. He never said a word to us and spent most of his free time furiously writing in his journal.

  I noticed that he no longer left it on his shelf. He either kept it in his book bag when he left the room, or he slept with it under his pillow.

  I desperately wanted to know what depraved things he was writing in there, but short of holding him down and taking it by force, I didn’t see any way to do so.

  That said, after a full week I began to relax. Peter seemed to be more or less over the initial misery of losing his pet, and his cheerful nature started to return. Just a smile here and a laugh there, but it was a promising sign that Darren hadn’t destroyed his spirit.

  On the other hand, Jeremy no longer cracked bad jokes or interrupted card games to write down witty observations. Several times I caught him just staring at Darren, jaw clenched, filled with so much rage that I thought a few hundred blood vessels in his face might simultaneously burst. Darren was the one with the power, and it was making Jeremy absolutely nuts. And a week of relative peace had done nothing to ease his hatred.

  But me, I realized that I could finally eat a meal without being sick to my stomach. That is, sick to my stomach from stress. The food itself remained crappy.

  I sat with Peter and Jeremy in the dining hall, eating something for lunch that was either beef, chicken, veal, or some sort of breaded vegetation. It was one of the nastiest things they’d ever served.

  “I’d rather eat a dried turd than this,” Peter noted. “Jeremy, let me have a dried turd. I know you’ve got one somewhere.”r />
  “Ha-ha.”

  “Ho-ho.”

  “Hee-hee,” I said, with expert comic timing.

  Jeremy finally grinned. “I’d rather lick the butt of a skunk in midspray than eat this.”

  I nearly choked on my food as I laughed in mid-swallow.

  “I’d rather eat a hairy dried turd than this,” Peter said.

  “That’s just gross,” said Jeremy. “There’s no need for that.” He took a bite of his whatever and began to chew very slowly with his eyes closed. “Oooooh, it tastes so much better if you imagine that it’s a skunk butt. Oh, yeah, sweet, delicious skunk butt. Skunk butt with parsley…that’s what I’m eating.”

  “Mmmmmm…dried turd…” said Peter, licking his lips.

  I was biting the sides of my mouth to keep from laughing and attracting undue attention to our table. Jeremy opened his eyes and took another slow, sensuous bite, but he frowned as Darren sat down in an empty chair next to him.

  “What do you want?” Jeremy demanded.

  I kicked him under the table. Jeremy kicked me back.

  “I just wanted to see how you guys were doing,” said Darren.

  “We’re doing good,” I assured him.

  “That’s cool. And I wanted to say something to Peter.”

  “Yeah?” Peter asked.

  Darren looked Peter directly in the eyes. “Woof-woof.” Then he smiled, pushed back his chair, stood up, and casually walked away.

  We had no idea what to make of that.

  When we returned to our room, the door was bloody.

  The four of us sat in Mr. Sevin’s office. The stomach pain I hadn’t been feeling for the past couple of days had all come rushing back, with reinforcements.

  Mr. Sevin sat behind his desk. “I understand there was an incident last week?”

  Nobody responded. We all shifted uncomfortably in our seats and tried to avoid eye contact.

  “When I ask a question, I do not expect to listen to silence,” Mr. Sevin said. “Mr. Fletcher, tell me exactly what happened.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Do I look like the kind of man who tolerates liars?”

  I shrugged again.

  “I expect an answer when I ask you a question,” said Mr. Sevin, his voice rising to a frightening level. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, and it is very much in your best interest to cooperate.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I’m not interested in your apologies, Mr. Fletcher. I’m interested in your explanation.”

  “Well…we accidentally hurt Darren’s neck.”

  “By looping a noose around it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you thought that was acceptable behavior?”

  “No.”

  “So you purposely engaged in unacceptable behavior?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Mr. Rust says that you three were trying to get back at him, that the three of you have never gotten along as roommates. Is that an accurate assessment?”

  “He killed Peter’s dog!” Jeremy blurted out.

  Mr. Sevin raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Peter’s dog got away. We found Darren cutting up the body.”

  Mr. Sevin leaned forward across his desk. “I don’t know anything about a dog. Mr. Rust, would you care to explain?”

  “I have no idea what they’re talking about,” Darren said.

  “You liar!” Jeremy turned to Mr. Sevin. “Sir, he’s lying!”

  “How could I kill his dog?” Darren asked. “Was he hiding it in the room or something?”

  “It ran away when his parents dropped him off after Christmas and you know it!”

  “These jerks are always accusing me of this kind of stuff,” Darren told Mr. Sevin. “I don’t know what I ever did to them.”

  “Why don’t we take Mr. Sevin to where you buried the dog?” Jeremy asked.

  “Fine. Let’s go right now,” said Darren, starting to rise up out of his chair.

  As Mr. Sevin told him to sit back down, I had a sinking feeling as it became clear why Darren hadn’t told on us earlier. He’d been covering his tracks. Moving the corpse.

  “He did it,” Jeremy insisted. “I swear!”

  “Quiet!” said Mr. Sevin, almost at a shout. “Mr. Rust, did you harm a dog?”

  Darren shook his head. “Of course not.”

  Mr. Sevin looked at Peter. “Did he harm your dog?”

  “Yes. He cut up his body.”

  “Did you see this?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know it’s true?”

  “Jeremy and Alex told me.”

  “I saw it,” Jeremy said. “He even cut off its head.”

  “Mr. Fletcher, did you see this?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you report it to me immediately?”

  “I…I don’t know. We wanted to handle it ourselves.”

  “By nearly killing your roommate?”

  I was silent.

  “I’ll take you to where the dog is,” said Jeremy.

  “Fine, let’s go,” Darren challenged. “Let’s go right now.”

  “You will not speak to each other,” said Mr. Sevin. “You will answer my questions. I’m sure you all understand how serious this is.” He glared at Jeremy. “Write down the location of the dog and we will send somebody to investigate.”

  “He probably moved it,” I said.

  “Oh, sure, that’s a good excuse,” said Darren. “None of you can prove anything because I didn’t do anything. I didn’t touch your dog.” He looked at Mr. Sevin. “They just don’t like me. I can’t help it if I’m quiet and I like to write instead of playing stupid card games when we’re supposed to be studying.”

  I glanced down at Darren’s book bag. His journal was protruding noticeably from the top.

  “Mr. Sevin, he’s always writing in a journal,” I said. “He probably wrote about everything that happened.”

  “Nothing happened for me to write about, except you guys attacking me!”

  “He’s got it with him,” I said, pointing to his book bag, even though Mr. Sevin wouldn’t be able to see it over his desk. “He’s always writing in it, and he won’t let us see it, and he even started sleeping with it under his pillow. Make him let you read it.”

  Darren shoved the journal deeper into his book bag, out of sight. “This is private. It’s nobody’s business but mine.”

  “Yeah, because it talks about you ripping up a dog!” said Jeremy.

  “It does not!”

  “Prove it!”

  “It’s private!”

  Mr. Sevin cleared his throat. “Mr. Rust’s journal is of nobody’s concern but his own. Now I will get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, you may all consider yourselves under probation. You will not receive mail, you will not make phone calls, and all free time is to be spent studying. You will not leave your room except to attend classes and for meals. Is that understood?”

  We all said that it was.

  Mr. Sevin pushed a small pad of paper and a pencil across the desk toward Jeremy. “Write down where the dog is allegedly buried.”

  As Jeremy wrote it down, Darren bit his lip and looked like he was about to cry. He reached into his book bag and removed the journal.

  “Do you promise that you won’t tell anyone else what’s in here?” Darren asked Mr. Sevin.

  “I have no authority to read your personal journal,” said Mr. Sevin. “You can put it away.”

  “I know, but you can read it, if you want. If you don’t tell anybody.”

  Mr. Sevin nodded and took the journal from him. “Very well. I will retain it in the strictest confidence. Please remain in my office. The rest of you are dismissed.”

  Jeremy, Peter, and I got up and left his office. “That lying bastard!” said Jeremy as soon as we were out of earshot.

  “What do you think’s in the journal?” P
eter asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Jeremy. “Maybe he’s so much of an idiot that he forgot he wrote about Killer Fang.”

  “Maybe,” I said, not believing it for a second. Obviously Darren had written fake entries in his journal, probably woeful musings on his treatment at the hands of his endlessly cruel roommates. He’d let the journal stick out of his book bag so that I’d be sure to notice it. Hell, he’d spent the whole past week making us think he was writing incriminating stuff in there.

  How could we prove it was all lies?

  How thorough had he been about covering his tracks?

  The answers came early that evening: we couldn’t, and very thorough.

  Chapter Eight

  We never found out exactly what Darren wrote in his journal, but apparently it was a heartbreaking chronicle of astounding (yet credible-sounding) abuse. I tried to explain that the journal was faked, but the words sounded ridiculous even as I said them. Mr. Sevin dropped his usual veneer of calm-but-stern authority and screamed at us until he was red in the face (a splotchy sort of red, but red nevertheless) and both Peter and I were in tears. My only solace was that I’d held out slightly longer than Peter before breaking down.

  A pair of teachers went out to look for the dog, but found no evidence of any wrongdoing. Had a forensics team been dispatched, I’m sure we would have been fully exonerated, but despite our insistence that the story was true, two teachers were all that we got.

  Darren was moved out of our room. We asked where he was going but were told in no uncertain terms that it was none of our business.

  We were not kicked out of school, though our parents were called. My dad didn’t talk to me at all, while my mom just said in a soft voice that she was very disappointed in me. But she didn’t sound disappointed. The lack of emotion of any sort in her voice stung me as if I’d slammed my body against a wall of thumbtacks.

  During Jeremy’s phone conversation with his parents, he finally broke down into tears. As everybody else had done more than their share of bawling since this whole adventure began, I was glad to have him finally join in the fun.

  Our probation was to continue for the rest of the term. No free time. Our door had to remain open until lights-out each evening, with surprise inspections at any moment. Our weekends were spent engaged in manual labor that was exhausting, tedious, humiliating, or (most often) all three.