by Dawn Klehr
You don’t even see the signs for Roger Michelson—the only person brave enough to run against Devlin. Mr. Michelson owns the auto parts store in town. His heart is in the right place, but he’s not cut out for politics. As far as our citizens are concerned, Devlin’s got the election in the bag.
I open the box and take out Ms. Dunn’s Degas statues one by one. The dancers are in various poses: an arabesque, fourth position, and one stands examining the sole of her foot. Ms. Dunn’s initials are engraved on the bottom of each one. She loved these statues. They’re just replicas, but she always said they reminded her of her childhood, sitting backstage while her mother danced. There’s a statue missing, though. Ms. Dunn’s favorite—The Little Dancer. I dig through the box but it’s not in here. I remember playing with it while Dez was setting up the camera, that last day we filmed in her classroom.
Who would have taken it?
I continue to search through the box, and all that remains are books and CDs. I examine each item, hoping it will tell me something about who hurt her. It’s intimate and personal and I feel like I shouldn’t have this stuff. I’m just about to shut the box when I find the framed photograph of Ms. Dunn’s parents, the one she proudly displayed on her shelf. She told me they died when she was sixteen. I don’t think she ever got over it. She had no other family, and she never hung out in town with friends or even with other teachers. She was a loner. Our school was her life.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay. I miss her so much.
The photo is black and white. Ms. Dunn’s mom is dressed for the ballet, clad in toe shoes and a tutu, and her dad has his arms wrapped around her waist.
It’s beautiful.
I bring it over to my own shelf and set it next to my collection of Audrey Hepburn movies. When I pull out the stand attached to the back of the frame, it wiggles.
I turn it over to secure it, and find a piece of yellow paper sticking out of the back. Carefully, I open the back of the frame.
And nearly a dozen papers flitter to the ground.
They’re covered in names and dates. Notes to attorneys, school board minutes, correspondence with Ron Devlin.
I pour over every scrap of info. I don’t understand all of it, but one thing is obvious: Ms. Dunn had to be scared to hide it.
“Chica!” Libby yells as she storms into my room.
She wakes me up and I jump, knocking the frame and papers to the floor. I’ve fallen asleep in my pile of clues. The nightmares are catching up with me.
“Sorry I’m a little early,” she says. “I had to get out of the house. Our dinner tonight was something they’d have on the space shuttle. Most of it came from a powdered substance, Riley. Powder. Instant potatoes and fake gravy. Even the milk came from powder, if you can believe it. And then there was the vacuum-sealed mystery meat. I can’t begin to tell you what it smelled like. I think my family has hit an all-time low.”
I blink myself into the present as Libby talks. Once she comes into focus, I pick up Ms. Dunn’s papers, throw everything in the box, and slide it under my bed.
There’s no way Libby could be involved, and I feel so bad for even thinking it. She’s had such a hard time at home.
“What’s that?” Libby points to the box.
“Uh, nothing.” I stand in front of my bed, guarding the clues.
“Right.” She takes a step forward. “Come on, tell.”
“Just some of Ms. Dunn’s things.” I keep my eyes glued to hers.
“Oh, why?” Libby plays it cool, not frazzled at all.
See, she didn’t have anything to do with it.
“Homer wanted me to have her stuff. They finally cleaned out her classroom.”
There has to be a perfectly good explanation for why Libby was there that day.
“Really.” She flushes and swallows.
Or, maybe not.
Libby quickly changes the subject. “Well, forget about all that for tonight—we need to get moving.” She claps her hands together. “We have plans, remember?”
I take inventory of her and immediately know what she has in mind. She’s dressed in black from head to toe and has a bag of supplies.
“For real, Libby?” I crash into my pillow. “Dirty Deeds, tonight?”
I reach for my phone and it tells me I slept for over two hours. It also says I’ve missed three calls from Dez.
“Yes,” Libby says. “I’m so itching for a little Tori revenge. Aren’t you?”
When we were in junior high and had too much time on our hands, we came up with a new pastime called “Dirty Deeds”—it consisted of activities from TPing houses and stealing beer from garage refrigerators to other, more creative pranks. We like to bring back those good ol’ days every now and then. For fun … or revenge. Tonight, however, I want to pass.
I break it to her. “I’m so not up for it. You go, have fun, send me a postcard.”
“Nuh-uh,” Libby says, pulling me upright. “Come on, I’m not letting you go all suicide hotline on me. You need to get out.”
Ah, she thinks I’m upset because of Emma—but I haven’t even thought of her tonight. Okay, I’ve thought of her but I haven’t obsessed over her. It’s Libby who has me stressed.
Knowing I won’t win this battle, I grab my phone and put out the SOS, hoping Dez will pick up.
He does, so I put him on speaker.
“Dude, you need to help me,” I tell him.
“Ah, dude,” Dez says in his I’m irritated but not going to admit it tone. He hates when I call him “dude.” “What happened? I thought we were going to hang out tonight.”
“Sorry, I fell asleep, and now Libby is kidnapping me.”
I don’t want to ditch Dez. Still, I need to spend some time with Libby and find a way to ask her about the video. It’s not just something I can bring up between classes at school.
Libby leans into my phone. “Dez, we need to do something, stat. Our girl here is depressed. She’s even talking about going back to boys again, if you can believe it. This is serious shit.”
I can’t believe my ears. So much for discretion. I push Libby away from the phone, killing her slowly with my death glare.
“What?” she whispers. “It’s only Dez.”
“Wait,” Dez yells. “Riley, what is she talking about?”
I can hear Dez’s stepdad, Bernie, in the background, “Stop yelling, Desmond. You know, you two are just like an old married couple.”
“Uh, privacy?” Dez yells back. “Hey,” he says into the phone. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I tell him, trying to do damage control. “Libby’s just being dramatic.”
“Oh,” Dez finally says. He sounds almost disappointed.
“Hey, why don’t you come with us tonight?”
“I’m actually meeting Allie later,” he says.
Right—Allie, the film camp girl. It’s nice at least one of us has a love life. “This late?”
“Yeah, well, while you were sleeping, she called. Her parents are out of town for the night.”
I close my eyes, not even wanting to think about what he has planned. I hate that I feel that twinge of jealousy again.
“You sure?” My voice is weak. Pitiful.
“Yeah. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
He doesn’t even wait for an answer before he hangs up.
Click.
Libby grunts. “That guy is so moody.”
“Not moody,” I say, defending him. “That’s just Dez.”
“Well, if you really decide to go back to boys, promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“That you won’t date him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s too controlling, and I know I’d never get to see you.”
Not
controlling. He just doesn’t trust you. “Don’t worry. I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening.”
“Good.” Libby looks at me and grins. “Come on. Let’s go.”
I get up with a terrible feeling of dread. As much as I want to hang out with my friend and find out what she knows, get a little revenge on our resident mean girl, and forget about everything from the week, I can’t help feeling that something bad’s going to happen.
DEZ
Characters: Ken, Joan, and Riley Frost; and Riley’s friend, Libby Jones.
Scene: The Frosts, out on the porch, seeing their daughter and her friend off for the night.
Mood: Tension. The parents are reluctant to let their daughter out at night after Ms. Dunn’s murder. The girls work to ease their worries, but Riley has reservations of her own.
I hear them out on the porch. “Bye, Joan. Bye, Ken.” Libby is bidding farewell to Riley’s parents.
Kiss ass.
There’s never been any love lost between me and Libby. We’ve never clicked, but we try, for Riley. Behind the scenes, we fight for her attention. I’ve even used Libby as my scapegoat a time or two. But she deserves it. She likes to see Rye down and out and she’ll do just about anything for an ego boost. She tried putting the moves on me back in the day because she couldn’t stand to see Riley getting all the attention. I kept that little episode to myself.
Slippery Libby.
Outside my bedroom window, I watch Rye lean in for her parents’ goodbye kisses. She learned a long time ago that resistance is futile when it comes to their doting ways. The quicker she can get it over with, the better. After what happened with Ms. Dunn, they tightened the reign. They aren’t the only ones. The Heights used to be a place where nobody locked their doors, where you could walk anywhere at night, where there was always someone around who had your back. Ms. Dunn’s murder changed all that.
Joan and Ken linger outside, and the girls indulge them for a few minutes until Libby puts her arm around Riley and slowly pulls her off the porch. If she didn’t, the Frosts would keep them there all night. Riley brushes a stray hair from her face, one that’s escaped the knot she’s tied on top of her head. I move a little closer to my window and watch.
They leave, and I’m left alone in my room, so I pick up my camera.
Instead of pining over Rye, this is how I should be spending my time. If I want to get into Columbia, I have to do more than hang in my room like a recluse. I need a film, a kick-ass one, to get the scholarship I need for the insane Ivy League price tag.
After the film festival, Riley and I are both going to New York for college interviews and auditions. Our official letters finally came in the mail. Riley’s applying to Tisch at NYU. I’m putting all my eggs in the Columbia basket. Only a subway ride apart. For Rye, Tisch is her second choice. Her first is the U of M Guthrie program here at home. She wants to keep the cost down for her parents. Tisch would be better for her and everyone knows it, but once again, it’s going to be up to me to do the convincing.
I flip open the viewfinder and turn on the camera—the only thing that will take my mind off my obsession with Riley. I can spend hours playing with shots and scenes and sequences. Just for practice. I haven’t done it in a few weeks. Not since I accidently taped Rye and Emma in the car.
I was hanging out my window, camera in hand, working on perspective shots when a car pulled into the Frosts’ driveway. I thought I could capture a scene in real time, so I zoomed in.
To Riley and Emma.
Kissing.
A disturbing scene that continues to replay, over and over in my head.
Riley.
With Emma.
It makes me ache.
At first, I thought Riley was faking the whole gay thing, trying to be a rebel or eccentric or something. Junior high was when it started getting weird. We’d both notice the same girl walking by and we’d both blush when we got caught, or we’d put on the same cocky show in front of someone we liked.
That’s when Riley decided to like girls and there was nothing I could do about it—which made me want her even more. Completely fucked up, I know.
By the time high school started, she seemed to grow out of it, like I’d said she would. It didn’t last.
When she told me she was interested in girls again, I pulled away. It was too hard. But after hearing about what went down in my cousin’s school in Iowa, I was worried for her. My cousin Adam said it was really bad at his school. Sick shit—like homophobes stripping gay guys’ clothes off and duct-taping them in the locker room, posting nasty pictures and videos all over the Internet, spray-painting their cars.
They weren’t any easier on the girls.
Then came the suicides. One after another. All gay kids.
I vowed that I’d never let anything like that happen to Riley.
My phone goes off for like the fifth time in the last hour. I don’t even look at it. I know it’s Jonah. He wants me to double again this weekend, but I just can’t go through another night with Nicole. No way.
There’s only one person I want to talk to tonight, so I punch in the number.
It rings five times. There’s no answer or voicemail—not like I’d leave a message anyway. Texting is out of the question too. I guess I’ll just have to try again later.
I go back to my camera and study the shots from rehearsal. I like how they look. The story is taking shape. I look at the script and make a few edits. But it’s Libby’s words that I can’t get out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about them.
Did Riley really say she’s going back to boys?
Was Libby exaggerating?
What’s really going on?
I hit redial on my phone.
“Hello, Desmond,” the voice vibrates on my ear.
“Hey, just checking in. Any news?” I ask with a cringe. I hate betraying Riley this way, but it has to be done.
“No news is good news.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“They won’t dare talk to each other, and my people tell me there’s been no contact.”
“Your people?” I roll my eyes.
“How else do you think I get things done around here? This is not a one-person operation.”
“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea of how you work. But remember, your job is to keep Riley and Emma apart, not to make Rye’s life difficult.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, Dez. You wanted my help, remember?”
This was a mistake.
“Yeah, I remember,” I say, trying to even my voice. “But don’t forget that I helped you too. I’m not the only one here with something to lose.”
“Dez, you don’t want to play with me.”
“Just lighten up on Riley,” I say quickly before I hang up.
Shit, what have I done?
In the corner of my room, the Godfather looks down from his perch on the wall and says, Now there’s somebody who knows how to do business.
RILEY
We keep our eyes glued on the Devlins’ windows. Tori and her younger sisters are doing homework at the kitchen table while their mother does the dishes. Papa Devlin is reading the newspaper.
“Okay, it’s my turn,” I say to Libby, opening my hand for our weapon of choice.
She hands me the remote control.
I take it like a wand, and presto. The TV in the Devlins’ basement turns on and the volume slowly climbs to full blast.
I give Libby a quick wink—it’s a fun game.
Mr. Devlin lifts his head up from the paper and stands up. He looks like he’s yelling something, but we can’t make out what it is. I choke back a giggle. Through the windows, we watch as Devlin stomps down into the rec room and turns off the TV. He checks it over, flips it on and off a few times, and heads back up stairs. When he sits down and pulls u
p his paper, I flick my wand again, turning on the downstairs TV with the volume blaring.
Libby is doubled over with laughter, slapping my thigh.
The whole family looks at each other, scratching heads and waving arms. And that seems to make the whole scene even funnier. This time they all go downstairs and huddle around the TV. I wish Dez was here to see it.
Although I’ve become the master of the game, I’ve got to give it up for Libby, who invented Remote Control Revenge one boring summer night. It’s become one of our favorite Dirty Deeds. In RCR, we stake out an area with some of our least favorite residents. We come armed with TV remotes—with only one cable company in town, the remotes are pretty universal—and we find the living room window where we can see our neighbors watching their favorite evening television show, and then bam … we change the channel. They never know what hit them.
It’s good, clean fun.
I’ve added a few of my own signature moves to the game, like turning on random TVs throughout the house and watching the people scatter. The volume control is another one of my moves. Yeah, it’s immature and silly, but also extremely entertaining.
The Devlins continue to mess with the TV, and that’s when I see it. I take Libby’s binoculars and zoom in. There on the shelf is a ballerina. Little Dancer.
Ms. Dunn’s missing Degas.
My breath catches and I lose the Degas in the lenses, but something else comes into view. It’s Devlin in the window, staring back at me.
He’s figured it out.
“Run,” Libby whispers.
We leap off the picnic table and Libby motions for me to follow. We head through the neighbors’ yards until we’re almost a block away.
Libby deftly navigates our route. “Watch out for the rose bushes,” she whispers.
Too late. The branches graze my arms, taking quick bites from my shoulder down to my wrist.
In the distance, I hear a light trickling sound. It’s running water. The creek.
The creek leads to the Clay Hole, a small pond that developed after clay diggers hit a spring about a million years ago. It’s our only real swimming area in town, but only the lower end of the food chain uses it. Dez and I lived there when we were kids.