Follow Me Down

by Sherri Smith

  The screen filled with a silhouette of a girl who wished not to be identified. In an altered robo-voice, she described how Mr. Haas would take her into the equipment room and ask if she had a boyfriend, told her how pretty she was, and then fondled her breasts for a while.

  The girl was lying. The gym equipment room was an overfilled, stinky room. There was hardly enough room to stand, never mind get in a good groping. Not to mention it was always left open, and even if the door was closed, it had a window. It was probably the worst place in the school to molest someone. Why wouldn’t he take her to the individual staff bathroom or his classroom and lock the door, or the book room off the library, where he had an actual shot of not being walked in on? The equipment room didn’t make sense.

  The story closed with a shot of the Wilkeses huddled close in a prayer circle—“A family grieves and prays for justice.” A hotline number flashed across the screen. Lucas was considered dangerous.

  I immediately called Garrett. He answered with an irritating hyperalert, “Hello, Mia.”

  “Those girls are lying. You know that, right? Come on, the equipment room? Westfield’s equipment room is like a hoarder’s spare bedroom.” I should have done some thinking about what I was going to say before calling; this was a liquor-infused stream of thought. Focus. “Did you know there were other girls when you asked me to do the press conference?”

  “You know I can’t discuss that. How’s your jaw, by the way?”

  “Well, what can you discuss?” I stopped short of adding asshole. Stay calm. Breathe. I needed this apparently fake friendship too, so that I could glean my own info and steer him away from my brother. Not that I didn’t think Garrett was clever, much more so than Pruden. I had to be careful around him. Unwisely, I tipped back the rest of the bourbon in my glass. “My jaw kills. Thanks for asking. Now, how do you know that that girl isn’t just a high school drama queen out for her shot at some real attention? Like Josh Kolton? There’s no way Lucas would take girls there and fondle their breasts. And, really, is Lucas a twelve-year-old boy? He’s just gonna sit there and fondle breasts?”

  “So you’re saying he should have gone further?”

  “I’m just saying it’s bullshit! It makes no sense. Why would my brother kill Joanna and not these other girls, then? Why?” Garrett started to say something about how only Lucas would have the answers to that, so I kept talking. “He was never a violent person. I can’t even process this. I can’t. There’s just no way Lucas did this! You could tell me that aliens abducted half of the earth’s population and I would believe it before this. Did you know Lucas hated the sight of blood? He was a hemophobe.” My voice sounded thick with too many hard edges, I slurred slightly on “hemophobe,” and it sounded like “homophobe.” I already regretted calling after three bourbons. Had I seriously just drunk-dialed the cops? “He-mo-phobe. It’s a fear of blood,” I tried again. More clearly this time. Not that Lucas full-out fainted at the sight of blood, but Garrett didn’t know that.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been drinking. I don’t know what else to do right now but drink.”

  A long pause. He was probably deciding how to play this. Should he drop the friend act and go on the offense because I was drunkish? Or play it nice and cool, keep me thinking we had a friendly rapport because I was bound to trip up, reveal something worthwhile.

  “Well, maybe, since you’re under the influence, we shouldn’t be talking about this right now.”

  “What else is there to talk about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know? Do you remember Mr. Arkin’s paranoid prohibition of any video games other than The Oregon Trail? He was so convinced that all other games had hidden levels full of porn and violence that were just a secret code away, which of course we all knew, even Mario Kart! That man was so religious.…” So he was going to endear himself to me, maybe even hint at our computer club kiss. I could picture Pruden telling him, I know the Haas women, and they like attention.

  “Garrett.” I tried to cut him off, but he pretended not to hear me.

  “I think you held the record for dead oxen. Am I right? You should’ve been charged for oxen neglect.”

  I smiled into the phone. “Garrett, please, stop.”

  He blew out a relenting sigh. “Fine. Mia, I can’t say if these girls are lying or not at this point. Three of them have pressed charges, and we’re investigating their allegations.” He said this with so much kindness in his voice that I knew that the girls were being taken at their word. Why wouldn’t they be, at this point? “But from what I saw, the equipment room is not in the same disarray as when you went there. In fact, it’s not even the same equipment room. It’s been moved and is now off the east gym.”

  “The equipment room has been moved,” I repeated, like I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Great. What did I really know? “And what about Joanna’s boyfriend? Dylan Yates. Wannabe gangster? Is he not a suspect?”

  “Dylan was with his dad when Joanna went missing. He was one of the first people we managed to rule out.”

  “Because parents never lie for their kids?”

  “No, because his dad is a mechanic. Owns a shop on Eleventh Avenue, and other people, customers, also saw Dylan working there.”

  I let the hand holding the phone drop and covered my mouth to stifle a tormented sob.

  “Are you still there? You OK?” I could hear Garrett from my lap. I was about to tap End. END. I wanted this to end—the accusations, not knowing where my brother was, being in Wayoata. Then the phone was at my mouth again.

  “Was Joanna Wilkes pregnant?” It just slipped out. A drunken verbal turd that popped free of my mouth.

  Garrett’s voice dropped. “Where did you hear that? I need to know how you heard that.”

  Fuck. Again Mimi in my ear: Tattletale, tattletale.

  This time I did hit End. Garrett’s voice disappeared. I couldn’t believe I’d just screwed up that bad. Oh shit, what had I done? An image of Lucas raging at me from behind bars. Let me get this straight. You sucked back MY bourbon, from MY bar, in MY apartment, and then decided to call a cop and hint that I got my student pregnant? And you’re wondering why I’m locked up? What were you thinking?

  I went downstairs and got Vanessa Lee’s card. It was stuck to the floor mat in the backseat, where some gummy juice had been spilled by a previous renter. I agreed to give her an interview in the morning. There was another angle to this story—the Lucas-was-innocent angle—and Vanessa seemed willing to write it. I could undo some of this. He was still just a person of interest. People needed to be reminded of this. I had to dust off his golden-boy, hockey-hero image. (How much easier this would have been if Lucas had made it to the NHL; then he’d have had that pro-athlete Teflon glaze, and there’d need to be actual footage for people to be convinced he was a murderer. And even then…) This was something I could do, I could remind people my twin was not a killer.

  * * *

  After I hung up with Vanessa, I languished on my brother’s sinking couch, booze-sour and bilious. Thought about taking an Ativan.

  A knock at the door. I jumped up. I thought it was Garrett; was he parked outside the building watching me? Watching for Lucas to make an appearance. Then some part of me, the drunk part, thought it could be Lucas, hands in pockets, all casual. Oh hey, saw you on the news and thought I better hightail it back here. What the hell is going on? I know the police said don’t leave town, but I didn’t think they really meant it. But why would he knock on his own door?

  It was Eric. Tanned, white T-shirt and blue jeans. Motorcycle helmet dangling from one hand, Lucas’s stuff tucked under his other arm. “Hey, so you are staying here.”

  “So I am.”

  “I tried buzzing. Maybe I punched in the wrong code? Lucky for me, someone was on their way out, and I let myself in. I was going to leave this out here, but thought I should knock, in case you were here.”

  “Do you want to come in?” I opened
the door wider to let him inside, made a bad joke about the shoddy security here at the Terrace. Went back to the couch and waved the bottle at him. “I’m drinking. Do you want a drink?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take a drink.” Eric set the box down by the front closet. He looked around the apartment, and I could tell he felt weird being there. I wondered if he and Lucas ever just hung out. Just came by for an after-school beer. I got Eric a glass, poured a generous portion, topped off my own drink. “So how’s your cheek?”

  “It’s fine. The ice helped. The bourbon too.”

  “Well, ice and bourbon are kind of a cure-all.” He slugged back a mouthful and smiled. I felt warmer.

  “Did you watch the news?”

  “I did.” He offered up a furrowed, sympathetic brow.

  “Do you know these other girls? The ones who are saying Lucas touched them?”

  “Not personally, no. I know who they might be, but none of them came to me first or anything.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I can’t say.…” He gave me a helpless shrug.

  “OK, just nod once if they’re histrionic, attention-seeking sluts who’ve done this sort of thing before?” Long past tipsy, I’d hit the drunk and unguarded stage.

  He didn’t nod. Instead he put his hand on my shoulder and half whispered, “Mia.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to … It’s a terrible word, ‘slut.’ I’ve always hated it.” I grabbed the bottle, freshened up our drinks (so much for the Ativan). Eric grabbed his and finished it off.

  “I’m catching up.” He winked and poured himself a refill. I liked that he was in the mood to drink. “Listen, why don’t we not talk about this for a little while? Let’s just talk about something else, anything else, for fifteen minutes.”

  “That seems to be the theme of the night. Getting me to talk about something else.”

  Eric’s eyebrows wrinkled. “We don’t have to. But I’d like to take your mind off … this awful thing you’re going through, if you’ll let me.”

  “OK, Eric.” I hit the “C” really hard. I hadn’t said his name out loud yet, and because it sounded strange in my mouth, I giggled a tad too girlishly. He gave me a look that said he wasn’t sure if I was making fun of him.

  “I’m just saying, as your previous counselor, it might be good to just—”

  “Mentally flatline.”

  “You remember that?” He looked impressed. “But yeah, exactly. Good idea.” He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and played music from it that I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t the aggressive Indie music I would’ve expected from Mr. Lowe, with menacing guitar hooks and distorted vocals, instead this was softer, more soulful. “Well then, tell me, how’s life in Chicago?”

  “Good. Tell me, why are you still here?” I noticed the bottle was empty, went to the liquor cart, and broke open a new bottle of Jim Beam. I never drank this much. In college my friends were always impressed by my self-control around alcohol. That’s it, just one drink? I’d nod, with a tinge of self-righteousness—I’m just such a lightweight. When really I was secretly coasting on the buzz off a fentanyl patch. Not to mention drinking made you too sloppy. Pills, on the other hand, when taken under a pharmacist’s care, made you a better version of yourself. Tonight, I guessed, I’d get sloppy.

  “Well, I did move away for a while. Not that long after you graduated. I decided I’d give myself two years in Los Angeles. I was there for one. My wife got pregnant, and she wanted to move back here to have the baby.”

  “You’re married?”

  “Not anymore. Divorced.”

  “So do you have a son? A daughter?”

  “I have neither. She miscarried not long after we moved back. She blamed me, kind of. I mean, she didn’t blame me for the miscarriage. She was just angry that I wasn’t more upset by it. She knew I didn’t want kids, not at that point.…” Eric let his words drift.

  “So why didn’t you go back to LA?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I do know—it’s just hard saying it out loud. At first I was trying to get back together with my ex, and then eventually I just used that as an excuse to stay. I’m comfortable here. I know what I am doing here. Out there, all the unknowns, it’s kind of terrifying, and I was starting to feel too old.”

  “Well, hey, I don’t exactly lead a life of glamor in Chicago. I’m a pharmacist. An overworked pharmacist.” He gave me an appreciative smile that said he didn’t believe me.

  After another round of drinks, the conversation turned to my high school graduating class. (Eric had a surprisingly keen memory of past graduates. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed by him or depressed for him.) A where-are-they-now game with so few surprises it was sad. I read once that whatever your first-grade teacher writes about you on your report card will be true for the rest of your life. If you’re quiet and withdrawn at six years old, it’s how people will describe you at forty. I was glad Mimi wasn’t the kind of mother to stockpile such childhood keepsakes.

  We had slumped back into the couch. Mellow. Nearly an hour had passed. “You know, I thought about you for years,” he said.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I did.” His voice cracked with mock outrage. “You were so self-possessed, maybe. Older. Like you wouldn’t be swept up in all the superfluous things adolescent girls tend to get swept up in. You had substance. I knew you’d be OK.”

  “I’m not sure any sophomore high school girl is self-possessed.”

  “You were.”

  “No, you’re thinking of the wrong girl.”

  “I’m certain I’m not. You look really good, by the way. Did I tell you that already?” He started playing with my hair, twirling the ends around his fingers. I realized he was drunk. I said something lame about how good he looked too and how upset his girlfriend must be with so many women chasing after him. He smiled.

  “Nope, no girlfriend. I’m between girlfriends. How about you? Anyone special back in Chicago?”

  I’d hit that point of drunkenness when I was part of the scene unfolding, and yet far away. Blurry. “Not really.” I hadn’t slept with anyone since my boyfriend.

  “I’m surprised by that.” He moved in closer. The sagging couch cushion tipped me toward him. He grinned, tucked his thumb under my chin and kissed me. He smelled like citrus-scented soap and tasted like whiskey. I drew in closer, and his lips went to my neck, his hand reaching up the back of my head, gently gripping my hair. His other hand was on the move, tentative at first, waiting for me to deny things going any further, but I wanted this. Him. Mr. Lowe.

  He kissed me again, and I was soaring on a geyser of unrequited love/lust. There was an adolescent urgency, on my part. I tugged at his jeans as he pulled off his T-shirt. He lifted my tank top and pulled my bra up and cupped my breasts. His mouth glided over my nipples as his fingers slipped under my underwear. And then my own jeans were off and he disappeared between my thighs. The room spun, and then his tongue was in my mouth again and I could taste myself.

  I guided him inside of me. My one leg curled tight around him, the other anchored to the floor as he thrust. Gentle at first, then harder. It was only when the leather became slick with sweat and my head bumped hard into the armrest and all I could hear was my own heart pumping and Eric’s wet breath in my ear, that I came. Seconds later, he shuddered.

  A queasy, sick feeling came over me the moment it was done. What sort of person did this? Mimi. This was something Mimi would do. My brother was missing, and I was taking the opportunity to fuck my old guidance counselor. Lucas’s co-worker. I pulled my bra and tank top down. My jeans were easy to find, as they were still dangling from my ankle. Eric was watching me. It was too dark to tell if he was panicked that I was turning on him, that I might claim he took advantage of me.

  “You OK?” He slipped his jeans back up. Sitting upright again, shirtless. I liked that he didn’t apologize. I nodded, though he must have noticed something was off in my eyes because then he ask
ed, “Do you want me to go?”

  I shook my head no.

  He reached out, hooked his finger through my belt loop, and pulled me back to the couch. I let him. We fell asleep, blanketless, our bodies curled into one another.

  6

  DAY 4

  SATURDAY

  Hours later, I was meeting Vanessa Lee at a small coffee shop called the Daily Grind. Attempts had been made to evoke a sort of urban feel, with a chalkboard menu and subtle lighting, primary yellows and blues. There was a cluster of couches at the back. A nice place, but it was nearly empty. Being outcoffee’d, no doubt, by the new Starbucks.

  I arrived fifteen minutes early because I wanted to be in control of where we would sit. This was when I’d expected we wouldn’t be practically the only people there. Still, I picked out an island of a table near the bathroom, swished down mouthfuls of strong coffee, and mulled over last night. When I woke up, Eric was gone—just a note on the back of a gas receipt left next to Lucas’s Bulldogs cap on the coffee table.

  HAD TO GO. DIDN’T WANT TO WAKE YOU. HOPE I GET TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

  —E

  I wondered, if the situation were different, how I’d feel about sleeping with him. If I’d be swept up in schoolgirl giddiness right now, if I’d want to call a friend so I could moon over him and replay the night before in excruciating detail (or at least the details I could remember) and overanalyze the note he left. (Did he really want to see me again or was it a polite exit line?) Or would I feel a shade of disappointment because Eric in real life wasn’t quite as good as he was in my teenage imagination? (There was no quivery ride on his bike! No guitar serenade!) As it was, right now, at the first tickle or murmur of excitement, my stomach clenched and turned to sludge, and I felt racked with guilt sharp as an ice pick.

  I dipped my finger into a pill bottle in my purse and licked off the grainy bitterness as Vanessa entered, looking fresh-faced, dressed in a shimmery blouse and an A-line skirt. I felt suddenly aware of my baggy-eyed, sandy-pored hangover sheen that even makeup couldn’t cover. Then reminded myself it was a print interview and it didn’t even matter.