PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  I consider this. I wouldn’t put it past twisted Kirby Cahill to get his kicks out of something like that.

  Jason rubs my shoulders. “They’ll probably find Annika’s underwear at Mrs. Dannerson’s house when they do the search warrant. Or maybe she got rid of them.”

  “She must’ve planted the fake ones on Billy, too,” I say.

  “Deranged,” Jason says, shaking his head. “I wish you could read her mind to find out how it all happened.”

  “Ugh.” I cringe. You couldn’t pay me enough cheese fries at Fast-Thru to kiss those fleshy flaps for lips.

  “Take me home,” Miranda says to Victor. “I’ve had enough excitement for one night. I’m exhausted.”

  “You don’t even know what exhaustion is,” I say.

  Jason nudges me. “We’re not leaving until I get my dance. You promised me a slow one. This is our homecoming dance too, you know. The one I’ve waited years for.”

  I smile. I’m tired, but I can’t resist that gorgeous smile and sexy dimple. “Okay, but we leave right after?”

  “Deal.”

  We say goodbye to Miranda and Victor and head back inside. I’m afraid to run into Coach Ted. He has no idea his wife has been arrested and is being driven off to jail. He’ll find out soon enough, when she makes her one phone call. I wonder again if he’s involved. If so, am I in danger? I resolve to stay as far away from him as possible.

  I try to shrug off my fears as Jason leads me through the crowd of staring people toward the dance floor. I see their condemnation, their judgment. Oh well, they can stuff it. Annika’s murder has been solved, even if they don’t know it yet. Now it’s time to enjoy my night—my homecoming dance—with Jason.

  On our way, we pass the refreshments table, and I grab the last bottle of water. Kirby Cahill is standing by the table with Billy Timmons. Since when did they become friends? Billy leans against the wall, watching the dance floor. His eyes are unfocused and bleary-looking. He doesn’t notice me. Stoned as usual. Kirby stares at me with dark, unreadable eyes. I ignore him, huddling closer to Jason. With Jason by my side, I feel safe, protected.

  We make our way to the crowded floor filled with people gyrating to “Single Ladies.” For a minute I’m reminded of what I saw in Miranda’s thoughts when I first learned about my power. Billy Timmons took Miranda’s virginity to this song. It seems like such a long time ago. It’s hard to believe we’re even the same people anymore. We aren’t really, in a way.

  Jason and I reach the edge of the dance floor but I stop. “I don’t want to dance to this.”

  “I’ll go request a slow one,” he says. “I have a special one in mind.” He winks and disappears through the crowd.

  I gulp down my water, glimpsing the top of Jason’s head as pushes his way toward the DJ booth on the far end of the dance floor. The DJ, a guy I recognize from my math class, is spinning records while the band is on break. Jason reaches the booth and engages him in conversation. I notice how tall my boyfriend is, so sure of himself, so impossibly handsome. And so sweet. I can’t wait for our song, to have his arms around me as we slow-dance to the music. We deserve it, especially after all we’ve been through.

  A hand touches the small of my back. I turn to see Kirby’s grinning face.

  “You got rid of your rival, babe. Now you’ve got me all to yourself, you juicy little skank.”

  He grabs my arm and pulls me onto the dance floor. I try to yank away but he holds me tightly in his arms. He forces his tongue into my mouth. Images, one after another, go off in my mind like bombs.

  Pictures form, fading from one to the next like remnants of fireworks. Flash! I remind him of Annika, always playing hard to get. Flash! There’s Annika, her face looming large in his mind, an image as clear as a picture on a TV screen. They’re at the track meet and she’s frowning angrily at him. She’s saying something that fills him with anger, embarrassing him in front of his friends. Rage builds.

  She walks off, a smug little bitch with a tight ass. He watches her go, thinking how he’s going to teach her a lesson. He waits until everyone is distracted by the men’s relay, then follows her into the locker room. She’s in the stall, tinkling away. He kicks the door open. She’s sitting on the toilet with her underwear down. She screams. He slams the door closed behind them. Then he’s on top of her, yanking her by the hair. He’ll show her who’s boss, force those pink little lips near his cock, scare her a little.

  He doesn’t mean for it to go any further than that, but her screams turn him on. He has an erection, the biggest fucking one he’s ever had. He tries to force it in her mouth.

  She screams and throws her head to the side, kicking and writhing. He gets scared. Shit, what if someone comes in? He puts his hand over her mouth. Damn, he’s not used to this. None of the other girls ever put up a fight because they were too Roofied up. They never ratted on him, either, because they didn’t remember what happened. But this Annika, she’s a wildcat, a fighter. He’s never dealt with this before.

  Flash, flash! She resists him, punching and flailing her arms. He can’t get his dick anywhere near her mouth. She fights him with everything she has, a gurgle-scream erupting from her throat. He clamps his hand down on that screaming little mouth again, so tightly that his fingers turn white. She tries to bite his hand, and he’s filled with blind rage. He’ll teach this bitch a lesson. With his full body weight on her, he tries to force his dick between her legs. She clamps her thighs together and knees him in the nuts, hard. He sees red, blood rushing to his ears.

  He grabs her by the throat with both hands. He holds tightly, his fingers squeezing into her flesh. She flails, gurgling loudly. He yanks to one side, hard—anything to shut her up—and she stops moving. He stares down at her. She’s lying motionless, staring up at him like he’s evil or something.

  He panics. What has he done? He’s fucking killed the girl. She’s not moving. Her eyes are staring at him, bulging and white and dead. She’s gone, and he’s responsible. He looks down and realizes he’s got cum on him. It’s trickling down his legs. A few drops land on her underwear, those hot little pink silk panties with the big cursive A monogrammed on them. Shit. DNA. He rips off her underwear and stuffs them into the waist-band of his shorts. He pulls his shirt over the waist-band. He drags her into the shower and turns it on, hoping to wash away his skin cells.

  He leaves the bathroom.

  No one sees him except a janitor pushing a cart of cleaning supplies. It’ll be easy to take care of this guy.

  “Como estÁ ?” Kirby says.

  The guy nods. “Bien.”

  Kirby takes a chance. “Estoy con inmigraciÓ n.” I’m with immigration.

  A look of fear passes over the janitor’s face.

  Bingo.

  Kirby opens his wallet and pulls out all his money. “No limpia el baÑo, por favor. Tome un dia libre. Me gusta ayudar la gente.” Don’t clean the bathroom, please. Take the day off. I like helping people.

  The janitor gazes down at the wad of bills in his hand. “Gracias,” he says, flashing a silver-toothed grin. He walks off with the cart.

  All of this flashes by in a series of swift, nightmarish pictures. Then I hear Kirby’s voice in my head: No one will ever know. No DNA was found. I’ve got my accomplice who planted the fake panties on Billy Timmons. I’ll make sure she takes the fall if the shit comes down the pike.

  In a swift flash, I see the back of a blonde head kneeling over Billy Timmon’s backpack, but I can’t see her face. Darcy?

  “Where are Annika’s underwear?” I hear myself saying. It’s as if I’m in a trance, having a conversation with Kirby’s mind. “And who’s your accomplice?”

  “What?” asks Kirby, a startled expression on his face. His eyes are dark, probing. The hairs on my arms stand up.

  “Nothing. Keep kissing me,” I say, trying to buy time. I grab his face and kiss him hard, the way he likes it.

  She can’t know. How would she? I’d better dispose of the pant
ies after the dance. Shit, DNA. It’s the only thing that can be traced to me. How could I be so stupid, hanging on to them for kicks? I’ll get them from Darcy and burn them. Keeping them isn’t a good idea anymore, but it’s been fun seeing Darcy wear them. Totally turns me on. Stupid bitch doesn’t know she’s wearing a dead girl’s underwear. She thinks I’m being kinky with fake ones I bought from Forever 17, totally believed me when she saw the receipt. Had no idea I’d replaced them with Annika’s. Stupid bitch. It’s hilarious seeing her wear those panties. Perfect place to hide them, too. No cop’s going to ask her to pull down her skirt. The best part is knowing that Annika, Darcy, and I are mixed together: their cooch-juice with my splooge. It’s like having a threesome. Enough to give a guy a hard-on for life.

  Flash! Image after image pass by, all with Annika’s panties. I see them sitting in a box under Kirby’s bed—a box filled with a Penthouse magazine, a pot pipe, a naked picture of Darcy, and a bunch of loose change. Then I see Darcy through Kirby’s eyes, dancing in a lacy bra and the same underwear. Then, an image of Annika lying crumpled on the bathroom floor as Kirby rips the panties off her. Then, Annika crumpled and wet in the shower, staring out of her dead eyes. Then Darcy again, all dressed up in nothing but a tiara and Annika’s underwear, dancing for Kirby as her lopsided breasts quiver like bobble-heads. The images spin faster in my mind—Kirby’s titillated mind—until I’m close to vomiting.

  I am in the mind of a sociopath, of someone without a conscience.

  Kirby pushes me back forcefully. “Stop kissing me, bitch! What’s wrong with you?” His eyes are murderous black buttons.

  I search desperately for Jason.

  But he’s across the room, so very far away.

  23

  Jason is still talking to the DJ. I try in vain to get his attention. The music is too loud and there are too many people crowding the floor. He wouldn’t hear me even if I screamed his name.

  Kirby is watching me, his expression menacing.

  “You killed her,” I blurt out. Fear swells in me like a balloon. My body is trembling as I look into his soulless eyes. He stares at me with utter blank darkness behind them. The room spins.

  Murderer.

  He killed my friend. She is no longer alive—breathing—because of this animal. As I come in and out of a fog, the realization keeps hitting me. Kirby Cahill killed Annika. KirbyCahillkilledAnnika. KilledAnnikakilledAnnikakilledAnnika.

  He hurt her. Took her life. Snuffed it out as if it was nothing. He is the killer. Now I know without a doubt.

  And by the look on his face, he knows I know.

  I’m shaking. Bile rises in my throat. I try to leave the dance floor but he grabs me by the arm. His face blurs and morphs, the edges bleeding into each other.

  He’s staring at me with a weird, dark expression. The hairs on my neck prickle.

  “What game are you playing, Winter?” He yanks me close, just as a slow song, “Hold Me Now”—Jason’s and my song—comes on. Kirby smells like animal sweat. His hand creeps up beneath my hair and grips my neck. It must look like he’s romancing me, but he’s holding me like a vise. He could choke the air out of my windpipes in an instant.

  Jason is making his way over to us. He stops when he sees me in Kirby’s arms. A dark, confused expression floods his face. I catch his eye and stare back in desperation, trying to tell him with my eyes that something is terribly wrong. Kirby pulls me close so my face is pressed close to his chest. It must look like we’re slow dancing together. Kirby forces his mouth on me. I want to bite his lips off but he’s holding my neck so tightly under my hair that he could snap it like a pencil. Just like Annika’s.

  Kirby smiles at my fear. “Like it?” He kisses me again, violently, forcing his tongue down my throat. Images twist in his mind, except now I am the focus. He is going to hurt me. It turns him on, the thought of using my body as the brunt of his rage. I’m trembling so hard that my legs give out. He prevents me from falling, holding me tightly with his steel arms. A cage I can’t escape. A trickle of urine starts down my leg. Nonsensically, I think how it’ll ruin my beautiful violet-blue dress.

  Things blur, spin. My brain is thick and fuzzy with terror.

  Did Kirby put something in my water?

  Over the top of Kirby’s shoulder, I see Jason glaring at us, humiliation and jealousy darkening his features.

  “Help me please . . . ” I whisper, but my words slur together. Jason thinks I’m dancing with Kirby because I want to. He still believes Valerie Dannerson is the killer. He’s too far away for me to tell him the truth.

  I try to tell him with my expression that he’s wrong, that I’m not dancing with Kirby to our song—not willingly anyway—but all Jason sees is Kirby’s arms wrapped around me and my body snuggled in close to him. I try to scream out for Jason to help me, but everything is thick, moving in slow motion. It’s as if I’m in a trance.

  You were right, Jason. It’s Kirby. Kirby did it.

  My mouth opens but only a whimper comes out. Kirby’s hand clenches tighter around my throat, a thumb on either side, keeping my body still as my feet shuffle-drag beneath my dress, mimicking a dance. His breath is hot in my hair.

  Jason turns away, a disgusted look on his face. He trips over the DJ table. He stumbles, flails, and tries to catch himself by grabbing on to the microphone stand at the edge of the stage. He falls splay-legged onto the dance floor, the microphone crashing to the ground beside him with an echoing thump-thump-screech!

  Everyone stares. A couple of guys from the track team help him up, but others snicker. The fallen microphone picks up someone’s voice: “Stumblemeyer.”

  Jason’s face is purple with embarrassment.

  Kirby sneers. “Stumblefuck.”

  I want to run over to Jason but am unable to move. Kirby is holding me with arms like steel cables, wrapped around me so tightly I can barely breathe. The dance floor ripples and waves beneath my feet, threatening to swallow me up like a gelatinous tidal wave. I grip Kirby, holding myself up so I’m not trampled underfoot. I need to keep focused on Jason so I can let him know I’m in trouble. I’m drowning. Jason stares me down, meeting my eyes for a long moment. Embarrassment and confusion and pain are swimming over his features, blending the edges into a picture so painful that I want to cry—the open book of Jason Stumblemeyer.

  It’s clear he’s wondering why I continue dancing with Kirby, why I don’t go to him. Kirby pulls my head down on his chest again, and tears fill my eyes as we dance in a slow, nightmarish circle.

  When I’m finally able to look up again, Jason is gone.

  I begin to sob out loud. Kirby stifles it with another vicious kiss, forcing me to once again see into his depraved mind. Being inside a killer’s mind is worse than the most haunting nightmare. It is an empty, evil place. Around us, people dance cozily together, oblivious to what is happening. “Hold Me Now,” the song that reminds me of Jason and his kind eyes, ends. “Time After Time” by Cindy Lauper comes on next. Jason must’ve requested that one, too.

  My breath is shallow and heart thumping. Somehow, my jelly legs keep going, around and around, as Kirby torments me with our dance, his body deliberately pressed against mine so I can feel his menacing boner.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Darcy approach. She stands alone for a moment on the edge of the dance floor, looking lost. She is disheveled with pieces of fabric hanging off her, a long sweater tied around her waist to hide her underwear. Her hair is frizzy, pieces of it sticking up in tufts. Black mascara streaks run down her cheeks. Her eyes focus on Kirby dancing with me, and her features twist. She barrels toward us, a bull in fluffy white gauze. For once, I am grateful for her jealousy and tenacity. Kirby loosens his grip on me to sidestep her. I seize the moment and wriggle out of his arms. I stagger off the dance floor, just as the band comes on stage with Coach Ted and the other adult chaperones. I stumble and fall. Someone helps me up. I look around desperately, trying to tell someone—anyone—about Kirby, bu
t the words won’t come. They’re thick like cotton on my lips.

  What’s happening to me?

  Coach Ted picks up the microphone and says he has an announcement. He starts blathering on about how this is a night to remember and how the homecoming king and queen represent the best of Redondo High. The drum rolls start. Kirby and Darcy are announced as the homecoming king and queen. They are ushered on stage amidst great fanfare, clapping, and hooting. Darcy looks pathetic in her tattered ruins and gold plastic crown, but she takes the flowers proudly, her head held high. She accepts Kirby’s hand for their royal dance together on stage.

  I wobble toward the bathroom and somehow make it in the door. I stand over the sink, vomit rushing up like a geyser. My teeth clench against the rush of liquid, the bile pushing its way up from my stomach into my throat and mouth, but the burning acid forces its way out.

  I heave over the sink until I’m empty and shaking. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. My face is pale and eyes tormented. Rings of mascara make me look like the bride of Frankenstein. The walking dead. My scalp throbs from where Kirby yanked my hair. The style I’d worked so hard on is now tangled and sticking to my damp face. My makeup is smeared, clown-like, especially the lipstick around my mouth. I look as bad as Darcy—worse, because there are red bruises forming on the sides of my neck. My reflection warps before my eyes, stretching horizontally, then vertically. The room spins. “He did it,” I say out loud, slurring the words. “Kirby did it!” Saying it out loud finally confirms it, taking it from the silent thoughts of the mind to the truth of spoken word. My teeth chatter.

  Poor Annika put up such a fight. She would rather die than be raped. Knowing what I saw in her past, I can understand why.

  I’m sobbing for Annika and the loss of her life, her one precious life. I need to call the cops. I need to find Jason. I need to get out of here. But I’m pulling myself through thick layers of gelatin that dull my senses and obscure the clarity of the world.