Slide

by Jill Hathaway

  “I see. Did she seem depressed at all to you?”

  “No, just sick.” I think of Sophie puking up her breakfast in the bathroom stall, right before I slid into Amber and witnessed her plotting to take Sophie down a notch.

  “Okay,” Officer Teahen says. “So you didn’t see her at all on Friday night?”

  “No. I went to cheerleading practice with Amber. Sophie wasn’t there, but I figured she was just sick or something. Samantha gave us a ride home, and Amber spent the night.”

  “Did you and Amber stay here all night?”

  There’s a long pause. She’s probably calculating which will get her into more trouble—lying to a cop or facing my father’s fury.

  “No,” Mattie says finally, sounding guilty. “We went to a party.”

  I slap my hand against the wooden stairs and then wince, hoping they haven’t heard me. This is news to me. She said she and Amber were going to the movies with Samantha. What a little liar.

  “The one on College Street?”

  My sister is quiet.

  “I talked to Amber already,” the officer explains. “I just want to corroborate that you did indeed attend the frat party. You won’t get in trouble, at least not with me. Just answer truthfully.”

  My father cuts in. “Listen, should I have my lawyer here for this?”

  “No, no. Like I said, I just want to make sure I have a good idea about what happened that night. Mattie, it’s okay to tell me what happened. You went to the party? And then what?”

  My sister speaks slowly. “And then we went to Marty’s for breakfast.”

  Marty’s is an all-night diner that caters to the college crowd. There are always drunk kids there in the wee hours of the morning, demanding coffee or pie or, in my sister’s case, a ginormous plate of pancakes. Rollins and I sometimes go there after a particularly long movie marathon.

  “And what time was this?”

  “Around eleven.”

  “What time did you get home from Marty’s?”

  “Maybe midnight?”

  “Was Amber with you?”

  “No. Samantha and I went to breakfast. Amber disappeared. I didn’t see her again until the morning, when she crawled into my bed, all hungover.”

  “How did she get back into the house if she didn’t come home with you?”

  “I left the door unlocked.”

  Silence. I assume the officer is jotting something on his notepad.

  I rest my head on my knees, doing the math. Amber was unaccounted for between eleven on Friday night and when I saw her the next morning. Plenty of time to—to what? Sneak over to Sophie’s house? Slit her wrists? Arrange a suicide note? That’s ridiculous. Isn’t it? Amber may have been jealous of Sophie, but did that make her a killer?

  “So you didn’t speak to Sophie at all on Friday night?”

  “No, sir,” my sister sniffles.

  “Then why did Sophie’s parents receive a call from this residence around midnight demanding they look in on her?”

  Oh god. I hadn’t thought of the cops tracing that call. This isn’t good.

  Mattie is sputtering. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I stand. “Officer Teahen, that was me.”

  He looks at me in surprise, as if he’d forgotten all about the pink-haired girl who answered the door. I step into the living room. Time to think of a good lie. Fast.

  “Mattie wasn’t home yet,” I explain. “I wasn’t sure where she was. I was looking for her. I thought she might be at Sophie’s house. That’s why I asked her parents to check.”

  My father’s face relaxes, but the officer continues to eye me. Finally, he makes a note and returns his gaze to my sister.

  “Okay. One more question, Mattie. Were you aware that Sophie was pregnant?”

  I gasp and look at Mattie. Her mouth is open as she stares at the officer in astonishment. It’s pretty clear Mattie didn’t know anything about a pregnancy.

  “I see.” The officer nods and stands. “Thank you very much. I ’preciate it.” He shakes my father’s hand and then heads to the door.

  My dad waits a good thirty seconds before he starts yelling. “A party? On fraternity row? What were you thinking? I can’t believe you, Mattie. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  My sister’s face crumbles under my father’s scrutiny. “I’m sorry,” she cries. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  She covers her face and runs up the stairs, pushing me out of the way. My father sighs and follows her, showing with his posture that he’d rather be doing anything but calming a hysterical teenage girl.

  I float over to the couch, shocked. Sophie was pregnant? On Friday morning, when she was puking in the bathroom—that must have been morning sickness. And Scotch mentioned on the bleachers that he’d slept with her. He must have gotten her pregnant.

  Maybe Scotch isn’t the father, though. What if Samantha is right, and Sophie was sleeping with Mr. Golden? If he was the father, he’d have a lot to lose—his job, for starters. Would his teaching position be so important to him that he’d kill to keep it?

  My phone buzzes to life in my pocket, interrupting my thoughts. I answer the phone absentmindedly.

  “Hey, Vee. What’s up?” Rollins’s voice sounds strained.

  “Listen, I’m kind of busy. What do you need?” I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth. They sound terrible.

  “Look. I’m trying to make an effort.”

  I take a deep breath. “I know. I’m sorry. Things are just really stressful. An officer was here, questioning my sister.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. It was messed up.”

  We’re both quiet for a second.

  “Hey, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately,” he says. “I’m kind of going through some intense stuff of my own.”

  I think of how he’s never let me visit his house. What’s going on over there?

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No. It’s personal.” His voice sounds strangled, like he wants to tell me what’s going on with him but can’t bring himself to spill his guts. I know how that feels. I wish, more than anything, that he felt comfortable sharing his problems, but how can I pressure him when I have my own secrets?

  “Well. If you ever want to talk, you know I’m here.”

  “I know,” he says. “Hey. We cool?”

  “We cool,” I reply. “Wanna go to a funeral with me tomorrow?”

  Mattie rides silently in the back of Rollins’s car. We circle the parking lot, looking for an available space, but there’s nothing. Even the handicapped spots are all full. We have to park on the street a block down from the funeral home and walk the rest of the way.

  Wind sweeps through my hair and chills my skin. Normally I wouldn’t think twice about huddling next to Rollins for warmth, but our relationship seems fragile now, like a bone that’s broken and not yet fully healed. It seems safer to keep to myself.

  We are a parade of black. Rollins wears jeans, a black button-down shirt, and a skinny black tie. I picked out a pair of simple black pants and a nice black shirt edged with dark-purple lace. My sister is wearing the slinky black dress she’d planned on wearing to homecoming. I didn’t have the heart to point out how inappropriate it was. She doesn’t really own any other black clothes.

  Despite the chill in the air outside, it feels like an oven when we push into the building. The place is packed wall to wall with people, who drift from one homemade Sophie photo collage to another, as if they’re in a museum.

  In one picture, Sophie looks about age six, chubby in a blue tutu and mouse nose and whiskers and ears. In another, she hooks her arms around Mattie’s and Amber’s shoulders, all of them in their cheerleading uniforms. Time spins backward in another picture, and baby Sophie plays in a duck-shaped bathtub, a washcloth modestly placed over her girly parts.

  Sophie’s mother bustles over, her teased hair leading the
way, and gives Mattie a hug. Tears squeeze out of her eyes, blue makeup running in streams through the creases in her face. She looks haggard.

  “I’m so glad you could make it,” she says, and Mattie reaches her arms around Mrs. Jacobs for a hug.

  “I’m sorry,” Mattie whispers. The words are not enough, can never be enough, and it’s like we’re all standing around the growing hole of how not enough they are. Sophie’s mom squeezes Mattie once more and leaves to make her rounds.

  We trudge toward the next room, where rows upon rows of folding chairs have been set up. Most of them are already taken by Sophie’s extended family and teachers and what seems like every kid in the whole school. We’re lucky to find three seats in the back.

  I sit between Mattie and Rollins and crane my head, searching every face, but I don’t see anyone I’m looking for. No Amber. No Scotch. No Mr. Golden.

  It takes about fifteen minutes for everyone to get settled. Tons of people have to stand in the back of the sweltering room. They fan themselves with programs that have Sophie’s school picture on the front cover.

  The coffin is at the front, flanked by long white candles and great bouquets of lilies. Thank god it’s a closed casket. I don’t know if I could take seeing her again. My sister sobs quietly next to me. I take her hand.

  A slim man in a blue suit finds his way to the front and stands before the casket, his hands hovering just above the white wood, but not touching it. He stands there reverently for a moment, and everyone tries not to stare. Someone behind me whispers that he’s Sophie’s father. He turns around to face us, his lower lip wobbling, but he composes himself long enough to read a poem he has written.

  Almost everyone’s head is down, giving the man his time to mourn, but I’m looking around the room, hoping to spot one of my suspects, to see how they’re reacting to all this.

  After the man has finished his poem, an old woman plays a piano in the corner. I mutter something about having to go to the bathroom and manage to edge my way out of our row and through the crowd without sticking my butt in anyone’s face or knocking anyone over.

  I duck out a door in the back that leads to a smaller room with a blue couch and an end table loaded with boxes of Kleenex. There’s a pop machine and a water cooler in the corner. Doors on either side of the room lead to the bathrooms. I go to the door marked Ladies and put my ear to the door. I hear a strange sound coming from the ladies’ room—almost like honking.

  I twist the knob and push open the door just a crack, enough to peek inside and see who’s making the terrible noise. Crumpled on the floor with a wad of toilet paper woven around her fingers, Amber Prescott is falling apart.

  I slip into the room and close the door behind me. Then I sink to the floor and sit across from Amber, cross-legged. I don’t say anything, don’t even look at her. I just sit and breathe. And wait.

  Amber stops crying long enough to recognize who’s in the room with her, but then she continues on, louder than ever. In her place, I would have shouted to get the hell out. I don’t do anything but let her raw emotion wash over me. Though it seems like she’s truly devastated, I can’t help but wonder how much of what I’m seeing is guilt. Guilt for destroying her best friend.

  Just when I start to think about going to get her a cup of water, she stops crying. She uses the toilet paper to clean up the mascara that’s run all over her face. I stand up and turn on the water for her, then step out of the way so she can wash her face.

  She doesn’t say anything to me, just gives me this kind of grateful look before she unlocks the door and slinks out. When she leaves, I glance in the mirror, at the girl with the pink pigtails tied with black ribbons, and all I feel is shame. Amber may have ruined Sophie, but I stood by and let her. I knew Amber and Mattie were planning something horrible, and I didn’t do one damn thing to stop them.

  As I open the door to leave, I notice something silver shining on the floor. I stoop down and realize it’s a tiny diamond earring—the kind that Amber always wears. I scoop it up and hurry out of the bathroom to see if I can catch her, but I don’t see her anywhere. I tuck the earring into my pocket.

  The funeral has ended, and people have formed small clusters around the lobby.

  I spot Mattie in a huddle of cheerleaders doing some sort of group hug, but I don’t see Rollins anywhere, so I go outside. Just as I’d guessed, Rollins is standing several yards away from the funeral home, a cigarette tucked discreetly behind his back.

  “Everyone’s saying Sophie was pregnant,” Rollins says, taking a quick drag and then hiding the cigarette again.

  I sigh. “Yeah. The officer mentioned something about it yesterday.”

  “You have any idea who the father could be?” Rollins releases a puff of smoke.

  “I have a few theories,” I reply. “The front-runner is Scotch Becker.”

  Rollins drops the cigarette and grinds it into the cement with the heel of his boot. “Scum.”

  “Pretty much.”

  A hand on my back makes me jump. Turning, I see Mattie’s teary face.

  “You ready to go?” I ask. Earlier, Mattie had cried that she didn’t want to go to the burial. She didn’t want to see Sophie’s casket lowered into the ground. I can’t say I blame her.

  “Actually,” she says, “I think I’m going to stay. Sam can give me a ride.” She glances behind her, and I follow her gaze to Samantha Phillips, who stands twirling her keys. When she sees me looking, her face goes slack and she turns to face the other way.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Okay, I’ll see you at home.”

  I watch her return to the group of cheerleaders. It seems strange—of all the people saying goodbye to Sophie today, I’m the only one who knows how she truly left this world. The knowledge settles at the bottom of my stomach and weighs me down like cement.

  Rollins squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Long after Rollins drops me off, I sit on the swing on our front porch. I don’t want to go inside. The house is so empty. So silent. I don’t want to be alone with my memory of Sophie’s death. I don’t want to risk falling asleep and having to face her accusations again. Outside, the wind keeps me awake. That, and the caffeine pills.

  I shake some more into my hand, pop them into my mouth, and crunch them into powder.

  A breeze blows through the large oak tree, coaxing even more leaves to fall. Down the street, a movement catches my eye. A tall boy with a cobalt sweatshirt and blond hair is making his way toward me on a skateboard. As he gets closer, I see that it’s Zane Huxley. And he’s looking in my direction. My stomach does a little somersault.

  He coasts to a stop in front of my house, flips up his skateboard, and takes a few steps toward the porch. “Hey,” he says, an unmistakable look of pleasure crossing his face.

  I nod at him, swallowing the caffeine powder so I can speak. “Hey. Enjoying your afternoon off from school?”

  “Yeah. Did you go to the funeral?”

  “Yeah. It was . . . unfathomable,” I say, unable to find a more fitting word for the funeral of a teenager. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  I feel dumb and want to take back the question. It sounds like I don’t want him here, when I do. I want someone to talk to. Someone who didn’t know Sophie, someone who doesn’t know about me and my narcolepsy and how messed up everything is.

  Luckily, he just laughs. “Good to see you, too. We live over on Arbor Lane, at the end of the street.”

  “The blue one with the picket fence? That’s been for sale forever.”

  An awkward silence passes between us. I try to think of something funny or clever or anything to say. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts anymore.

  Another gust of wind rips through the yard, sending a chill through me. I shiver.

  “Hey, do you want to come in? I could make some coffee or something.”

  “Sure. Little chilly outside.”

  I get up and
open the door, and he props up his skate-board outside and follows me into the house. In the kitchen, he pulls out a stool and sits with his elbows on the counter. I whisk two coffee mugs—one from the University of Iowa and one that says “Bestest Dad in the World”—out of the cupboard and set them between us. He’s quiet as I make the coffee, and it reminds me of sitting in the bathroom of the funeral home, giving Amber the time to put herself back together.

  I fill each mug with steaming black liquid. In the refrigerator, I find half a gallon of skimmed milk. I dump some in my cup and then spoon in some sugar. After stirring it for a few seconds, I take a sip.

  Over the rim of my cup, I watch Zane stirring some milk into his coffee with his finger. I can’t believe he’s here, in my kitchen. It’s almost enough to make me forget about the murder, about the way Sophie’s mouth was slightly open, a trickle of blood escaping it. Almost.

  Zane winks at me. “You look cute in pigtails.”

  “Thanks,” I say, braving a smile.

  His eyes are so deep and blue, I could get lost in them.

  An hour later, I’m sprawled on the couch, clutching my coffee, and Zane is lazily sipping his own drink only inches away. I can see his knee through a large rip in his jeans. The hair on his legs is fine and blond, just like the hair on his head. I fight the urge to reach over and stroke it.

  “So you used to live in Iowa City?” I try to make my voice sound sexy and throaty, but it actually comes out kind of squeaky.

  “Yeah. I was born here. Moved to Chicago when I was little. Mom wanted to come back. No offense, but I’m not a big fan of Iowa.” He smiles apologetically. His teeth are so white. Light blond stubble covers his square jaw. I want to feel it against my cheek, my lips. My proximity to him seems to have narrowed my focus, and all I can see is his face.

  “Not many people are,” I reply.

  Zane picks up a picture of me, my sister, and my dad.

  “What does your dad do?” He gestures to the photo.

  “He’s a pediatric surgeon,” I say. “Today he’s operating on some kid who was born with his bowels on the outside.”

  Zane shakes his head. “That’s pretty impressive. I mean, your dad’s job, not the baby with the guts on the outside.”