by Mimi Cross
But again, it’s only the wind.
And just like that, my mood plummets. The barn suddenly seems dark and oppressive. Dreary despite Dad’s vivid canvases. I wonder, if I got higher, could I get that good feeling back?
But another bump would probably put me in a K-hole. And despite my infatuation with the magical world of ketamine, I’m not in the mood to be immobile.
Sometimes that happens, when I take too much.
HOLE
DAVID
My locker is in the main hall. I hear everything.
“He was too smart.”
“Too dumb.”
“Too full of cum—he wouldn’t have done it, it’s bullshit.”
“Yeah? Still think he was murdered?”
Rod Whitaker’s death has been declared a suicide. For most, the results of the investigation are a relief. Not that anyone ever really believed he’d been murdered.
But. Suicide?
Shoulders slump. Brows furrow.
I see Cate coming down the hall. Watch as she stops Bryn.
A narrow strip of bright blonde runs down the center of my sister’s scalp, a flaxen line bursting through inky black. But her eyes are shuttered, and she speaks before Cate can.
“He wasn’t the type, do you think?”
I think of my brother. Watch Cate’s face. But of course, Cate never knew Jack. And yet.
Her expression flickers, frames of a film: puzzlement, pain, and then—I think—something positive. But Cate Reese and suicide, what could she know?
“I don’t think there’s a type,” she says. “You can’t tell.”
“You can’t tell,” Bryn repeats. Then heads down the hall.
But before she’s gone more than ten feet, Sandy Clayton comes out of a classroom, beckons her. I wince. There’s just one thing they have in common.
Bryn looks over her shoulder at Cate, tips her head, indicating Cate should follow. Then she glances in my direction. On impulse, I join them. Cate flushes, I give her a grim smile.
Down one hall, another, into the basement—we squeeze by a cabinet wedged under a stairwell. Supposedly, it’s been here since the ’90s. It’s not a door with a lock, but it’s what makes this corner a popular spot.
At the start of the year, when I’d needed some space, I came down here, stumbling on Blaise Mitchell, one of Rod’s henchmen. I don’t know who the girl kneeling in front of him was, didn’t stick around to find out—though I’d frozen for a second, fixated on the snakelike movement of her head. I’m bummed now to discover that the image hasn’t faded: his fingers splayed, laced tight in her hair, pushing her, like a machine. Dismayed, I’d spun on my heel and left, without finding out first if she was into it or not.
I guess it’s because I’m thinking about Mitchell, his grin when he’d seen me, that I don’t ask Bryn exactly why she’s brought us down here. But as slow as I am to speak, Sandy’s quick, her voice a darting thing, as if all of us crowded together in such a small space is a trigger for instant intimacy. “I’m glad he’s dead,” she blurts.
Cate gapes for a second, but I get it, because I was there.
“I know it’s wrong,” Sandy says. “I mean, it’s messed up, to be glad someone’s dead.”
“Not if that someone was a total dickhead,” Bryn answers drily and without hesitation, conferring forgiveness with a twist of her lips.
Sandy beams.
My sister nods, then says—
Nothing. Just opens her mouth, closes it.
“What is it?” Cate asks. But she’s looking at me. Her pupils are dark, dark, dark.
“This place is skeevy; let’s go,” Bryn says suddenly.
And we go, but there’s something unsaid. We all know it.
Cate glances at me, then at Bryn, then at me. But I’m as silent as my sister.
The four of us walk down the hall without speaking. But something’s changed—we all feel it. The three girls have bonded—I’ve been their witness.
All three of them, victims of Rod’s voracious abuse—a look, a leer, a shove, a violation. How long will it hurt them?
Rod would have graduated this spring, gone to college. Would he have been a rapist there, too?
The three girls are connected because of his cruelty. He was selfish in the worst sense of the word. He’d been brutal—done unspeakable things.
And yet, inexplicably, he’d been one of the most popular guys in the school.
DISSONANCE
CATE
In anticipation of telling Laurel that I heard Cal’s voice, I’ve gotten high, maybe a little too high. I’m hoping L doesn’t hold it against me. She’s gotten pretty down on me taking K.
While I wait for her, I restlessly write random words on a pad. A dark melody hums through me. I think, maybe, it was inspired by Cal.
But then all at once, I picture the Deep Dark Love guy, picture his face, wearing that knowing smile, the one that twisted his lips, just before I ran for the cab.
I know now what that smile meant. He’d known that the music had floored me, known all along. He’d seen me from the stage—he’d said as much: “You sure were listening tonight.”
Then he’d fanned me. He’d been all flirty, inviting me to another gig, asking for my number—which I’d stupidly given him, not that he ever called. It was all so much bullshit. He shouldn’t have said anything—the music had already made me a fan. He should have seen that.
Just like I should have seen that Laurel wasn’t going to believe me. Again.
When she arrives in my room, The Conversation gets under way immediately. But it doesn’t matter what I say. Laurel continues to be extremely closed-minded in matters of the paranormal.
“I have enough trouble with normal,” she says now.
“Laurel, I know you didn’t really know Cal like I did—”
“Aw, Lovecat. I didn’t.” She pulls me into a hug, releases me slowly. “But I know you miss him. I’m sorry.” Now Laurel shifts her weight. “Your mom told me about your guitar.”
“What about it?”
“Come on, Cate. Art project? Did you really break your Martin? How are you going to play that date in Brooklyn?”
Something surges in my chest.
Did I really never call? Never cancel? I sink down on the desk chair. I don’t believe it. I mean, I do believe it—having that date on the calendar connects me to Cal. But I never planned to actually play it. But I can’t cancel, either. If I call to cancel, I’ll have to tell them about Cal.
“It’s soon, isn’t it?” Laurel asks.
But I’m on my computer, scrolling through my calendar. When is it exactly? Where’s the club? I need to at least look up the number. They must have a website . . .
“Okay,” Laurel says. I glance up at her. Her blonde brows are drawn down. “Cate. Smashing your guitar—please tell me you didn’t just do it to get your folks’ attention.”
“Fuck. You. L.” I pronounce the words with quiet precision. “And I didn’t smash it.”
She rubs her forehead as though she can wipe away the scowl there. “Really? I’m glad. And I’m just saying. Your folks are never around, and I’m sorry I’ve been spending so much time with Dee lately, but—”
“I’m not looking for anyone’s attention! But speaking of someone who wants yours 24-7, if you and Dee are so tight, why’s she always hanging on Blaise Mitchell?”
As soon as the words have flown out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. L’s probably never seen Dee flirting with Blaise—Dee only does it when Laurel’s not around. I shouldn’t have dropped the news like a bomb.
But Laurel only examines her nails, saying calmly, “Blaise Mitchell? Are you sure?”
“Oh, what, so it’s not just Cal? You think I’m imagining everything now?”
Her eyes snap to my face. “God, Cate, stop, okay? Just stop with—hey, are you high?”
“A little, so what? What about Dee? Why’s she flirting with some guy if she’s with you?”
>
Laurel scowls. “I’ll ask her, but I have a hard time believing—”
I throw my hands up. “Obviously!”
“I’m going to go, okay? But maybe . . . maybe just talk to someone, you know?”
“I am talking to someone. I’m talking to you!”
“I mean . . . besides me.” My lips part slightly in disbelief, but Laurel continues, saying hesitantly, “Cate, didn’t your mom have some . . . some problems once? You told me she—”
My voice is a black hole. “We’re done here.”
LAUGH
DAVID
I stop midstride. Cate’s laugh. I haven’t heard it in a while, but I’d recognize it anywhere.
“School,” she says now. “Where are you? Wow. Cool. Tell me more about that.”
The one-sided conversation is coming from the corner behind the cabinet.
The school’s got the furnace set to Tropical. Up in the classrooms, the girls are wearing next to nothing, turning the guys into walking erogenous zones. The teachers are slumped by the windows, mumbling about global warming. I’ve come down to walk the cool basement halls.
Cate continues, “I’m not sure when I’ll be in. Soon.” She laughs again.
My pulse picks up as if I’m running. Somehow, I know she’s talking to a guy. I can also tell, because of the little curve in her voice, that she wants something. Girls’ voices do that.
“You were great,” she says. “How much? A lot. Yes, totally hot. Yes, love.”
I lean against the wall. She’s got a boyfriend. Of course she’s got a boyfriend.
“Okay. Chinatown. Text me your address.”
She doesn’t know the guy’s address? But she’s telling him he’s hot. Talking about love. Great. Suddenly she’s in front of me, saying hi, flushing pink, passing by—
“Cate, hey, wait a sec. Have you, ah—” Does she know I was listening? When did I become this guy? I rack my brain for something to say. “Did you talk to Bryn again?”
She scowls. Shakes her head. Keeps walking, a book—Lyric Writing—clutched to her chest.
NAUSEA
CATE
Knocking on the Bennets’ door, I become aware that I feel like complete crap. My head is groggy from the nap I apparently took a short while ago. I don’t remember lying down. Maybe it’s the K getting to me. But when I think about the drug, I only want more.
After ringing the bell, I’m lifting my hand to knock again—
When Bryn opens the door.
My thoughts blur. What had David said? That she’d been at Rod’s? But—when?
Bryn cocks her head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I push past her, run into the powder room, and puke my brains out.
Later, swimming up through a dark sea, I bob unsteadily over curling waves—
And wash up on the shores of the Bennets’ living room couch.
“What’s with you, are you sick?” Bryn’s sitting down by my feet.
“David—”
“Isn’t here, so no, he didn’t see you face-plant. But you really shouldn’t show up all fucked up. Kimmy could have been here.”
“Sorry, I just . . . wanted to see you.” I push up onto my elbows. My head feels disconnected from the rest of me, but not as much as I’d like. “Look, is there something you want to talk about? Something you—I don’t know—want to say?”
“Yeah, go check yourself into rehab or whatever. You need help.”
“Shut up. I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Bryn, when we talked about Rod Whitaker—”
Bryn explodes off the couch. “Stop! Stop right there. You can’t just come here and start spewing about him. Just because we talked that one time, you can’t just bring him up like you’re talking about the weather or, or—”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Fine. Forget about it. About him. He’s dead. It’s over.”
“It’s not. There’s more. There’s something else, and you know it.”
“I don’t know it! Don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she looks around— like she’s searching for the way out of a burning building. There’s something animal in her eyes, something horribly desperate.
I recognize it.
I just wanted to get out.
She must understand, finally, that I’m not going to leave till she tells me, because she begins to speak, her words coming slowly, making it obvious she doesn’t want to talk about Rod, or whatever else this is about.
“He. Was. A monster.”
Her voice is so soft. Like a flower petal hitting the ground.
But then it’s not. “He made me want to die,” she practically shouts. “I couldn’t let it go. I told you, David was going to do something. I couldn’t let him. I—I—”
I have a horrible sense of foreboding. The K is polluting my bloodstream, rotting some part of me, I know, but still I want it, especially now.
“He raped me.”
Hearing her say it out loud, hearing her sum it up in three simple words that are about as simple as Hiroshima, just levels me.
And then she says it.
“He deserved to die.”
And, I realize, Bryn’s rotting, too.
But still it takes me a minute, to really get what she’s said.
“Wait. He deserved to die, so you—you—”
“The cops said he killed himself, but come on! Anyone who knew Rod knows he was too in love with himself to take his own life. Not without help.”
The struggle of it is twisting my features—I can feel it. The desire to believe that Bryn is innocent, that she had nothing to do with Rod’s death, warring with the horror of what she’s saying: that she killed him.
And yet.
“Here, wrap your lips around this—I’ll give you something bigger in a minute, if you’re a good girl. And if you’re a really good girl, I’ll straighten you out. Give you something Laurel Ridgeway can’t. You’re the one, aren’t you? Who made her like that? No one who looks like Ridgeway could be queer. I’m going to try her next. Your girlfriend.”
My ethics sit on an invisible scale.
Then, suddenly, something—his weapon words, the bitter taste of orange juice—sloshes heavily inside me. I bring my hands to my stomach. The scale tips with a jerk.
“Just the thought of him makes you sick, doesn’t it?” She is shouting now, gesticulating, hatred making her ugly. “So imagine, Cate, imagine him—”
“No! Bryn—” I’m up off the couch, reaching out to her, as if I can pull her back from the Stygian place she’s traveled to.
“He ruined me!”
“He didn’t! No one can do that, do you understand? No one. No matter what they do, no one can touch that place inside of you, your—spark. That thing that connects you to something greater, to—to the—” A song title tumbles from my mouth. “Hotel Vast Horizon.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
For a second, I’m not sure myself. I only know how the sweeping sound of that song makes me feel. “It means you’re bigger than that, Bryn, much bigger—you’re connected to something greater, you are greater—than some physicality, some part of your anatomy. Our bodies don’t define us. What Rod did to you? Doesn’t have anything to do with who you are.”
But what you did to him . . .
“Did you really do it? Did you kill him, Bryn?”
“No. But—God.” She laughs. It’s a brittle sound. “God. It’s like it’s reflexive, you know, for me to say his name? Like it’s a throwaway word, like it doesn’t mean anything, like, ‘Oh my god!’ But there’s no reason for me to invoke God in any serious way. No reason to send up some personal prayer. God’s already failed me.”
More quietly, she says, “I didn’t shoot him. I admit, I went over with the idea of hurting him somehow. Went over there thinking, Rod Whitaker doesn’t deserve to live. I was trying to justify it, whatever it was I was going to do to him. But what was I goi
ng to do? Tell his parents what he did to me? Scream at him and hope that they heard?”
Tears fill my eyes. “I told you I’d help.”
She gives a dismissive wave. “My thoughts . . . just kept going darker. After that night, all I could think of was punishing him, hurting him, for what he’d done to me. I admit it. I was there. Early. Before school.”
Her words are stones in my pockets. I sink down onto the couch.
She sits beside me.
I have no idea how long we’re quiet for, but finally, Bryn takes a big breath. When she releases it, the words rush out.
“I was afraid, like I told you, that David was going to do something. So I went to Rod’s. When I got there, he was drinking. He did that sometimes, before school. I knew that from David. I told Rod to get another glass. For me.
“I let him slobber all over me, while I looked around, wanting to see where he lived, wanting to see if there was something in his life I could destroy, if there was anything I could take, that would leave him wrecked.”
She brings a hand to her throat, stretches her neck, like her words are stuck, or like she still feels Rod Whitaker’s hands on her.
I don’t say anything. The silence works like a wick.
“I—I didn’t think it through. I thought, that early, his parents would be there. But his mom was at work. His dad was out of town. I was an idiot to go there alone!”
“Bryn—”
“He told me he had a fantasy. He took me into his father’s office. Leaned me over the desk. ‘I’ll be the boss,’ he said. ‘You work for me.’
“He obviously wasn’t expecting me to fight. The desk rocked. When he slammed it back in place, a drawer slid open. There was a gun inside. I grabbed for it. He got it.
“Then he kind of laughed. He just—looked at the gun and gave this choked little laugh. Said, ‘Funny thing about this gun. I already had it out once this morning. The sun wasn’t up yet, though, so I—’ Then he just stared at the gun, like he was . . . hypnotized. Like it fascinated him.