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Sam grinned at what she’d written. In addition to the text, she’d included several pictures of Scott taken from his Facebook page. She wasn’t an arsehole, she chose nice ones of him in his school uniform and at his school formal holding hands with that milky private schoolgirl, Lilah. Sam had blurred her face out—not wanting her to catch heat for the incoming prank.
She knew for a fact they hadn’t slept together. She’d heard Scott’s friends giving him shit about it at the bus stop a few weeks ago. Apparently, Lilah wanted them to become a couple and Scott had turned her down, much to his mates’ horror. Probably because he was still more invested in fucking with her family than he was at getting laid.
Sam sat back in her chair, giving her website one last looking over. It was perfect. She’d added individual links to the ads she’d placed on eBay and Gumtree and she’d even bought the domain name. All there was left was the chance to hit publish. She hovered her cursor over the link, trying to psych herself into taking the plunge.
“The post is down,” Nicole said, walking back into the room. “Mrs Fogell can’t tell if anyone’s made copies, but she doesn’t think any people saw it.”
“Great,” Sam said with relief. “Come check this out.”
Nicole leaned over her shoulder and looked at the hot pink glory that was buyscottsandersonaroot.com.
“Sammy,” she said, gazing at the virginity clock. “Isn’t this kind of mean?”
“Yes. That’s the point. If anything, it’s not mean enough. If it was mean enough, we’d post some pics of his skinny ass on his school website. That would be an eye for an eye.”
“‘An eye for an eye’ is what psychopaths say. And we don’t know Scott stole the photos.”
“You said it yourself, who else could it have been?” Sam said, irritated at this final roadblock in her plan. “But don’t worry, I’m not going to be a sneaky little fucking coward like him. I’m going to tell him exactly what I’m doing.”
She clicked open her Gmail account and showed Nicole the email she’d written telling Scott exactly what she’d done and why.
“I guess…that’s a good thing?” Nicole said, sounding uncertain.
“It is, we’ll just give him a taste of his own medicine and then we’ll take the site down and move on with our lives.”
Sam reopened the website template, hovering the mouse over the link. There was a moment, fragile as a line of wet ink, hovering in front of her and she was powerfully aware of her own autonomy. She didn’t have to do this. She could just hit the red X and let this all be over. She thought of Nicole’s tears and the pie innards glistening on Scott’s lawn. She hit publish.
* * *
Brunswick Police Station was home to the biggest, meanest cop Scott had ever seen. He had steel grey hair, flinty blue eyes and a solid bar of a moustache. His badge read S/Sgt Worthington and when he said the phrase ‘buyscottsandersonaroot.com’, not a flicker of amusement crossed his face. His partner, a thin man in a suit two sizes too big for him, wasn’t nearly as composed. His lips twitched every time a new detail came into play—the hot pink color of Sam’s website or the countdown clock that, as far as Scott knew, was still tracking the duration of his virginity.
Samantha was sitting stoned-faced beside him. She wasn’t looking at him. If she was, he would have turned and said, “You don’t seriously think I could have done that, do you? I’d sooner fucking die.”
But she wasn’t looking.
On her right hand side was Edgar DaSilva, looking even more out of place than usual in his leather fedora and multiple beaded necklaces. He appeared serene, one hand in his lap, one hand on Samantha’s shoulder. Scott thanked the gods his dad was in Perth on business and that as a freshly minted eighteen-year-old, he wasn’t required to have a guardian present. Scott sat silently and listened as S/Sgt Worthington walked them through what happened, as though they didn’t already know. He asked Samantha to tell the story, then he made Scott tell the story, then he made Edgar DaSilva tell the story and just when Scott thought he couldn’t hear the words ‘buyscottsandersonaroot.com’ ever again, S/Sgt Worthington put down his pen. “So essentially, what happened is that you discovered someone had broken into your bedroom and stolen your personal photos, Miss DaSilva…” he gave Samantha a significant look. “…and posted them on your school website under the impression they were images of your twin sister, Nicole.”
Sam’s expression was blank. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“So you posted on the website, telling everyone the pictures were of yourself and that you were going to the police, but despite saying that, you didn’t report the incident or tell your father what happened?”
“Yes.”
A slight thinning of S/Sgt Worthington’s lips showed he didn’t approve of her attitude or response. “So you decided the culprit was your neighbor, Scott Sanderson…” The cop’s gaze flicked over to him. “Because you have a longstanding hostility and certain intimate things belonging to you have gone missing before.”
Scott’s insides felt like they were freezing over. “I took a pair of underwear off the washing line when I was fifteen, but I didn’t break into Sam’s room and steal all her underwear and put them in the tree. I wouldn’t do that!”
“That’s enough,” S/Sgt Worthington said, but Sam had already turned her pale cheeks flushed with anger.
“As if! Who the hell else would have done it? The man in the fuc-frigging moon? Everyone knows you’re the only one who fuc-messes around with my underwear.”
The skinny detective was smirking again and it only served to make him even more desperate to prove himself to her. “I mean it, what do I have to do to make you trust me?”
“Go back in time and prove yourself trustworthy?”
“That’s enough! Both of you.” There was a vein distending in S/Sgt Worthington’s forehead and Scott felt a thrill of fear.
“Samantha,” Edgar said in his low, perpetually chilled-out voice. “I know you’re upset about what happened, but so is Scott, and the police are just doing their jobs. I think this would go a lot better if we just let Mr Worthington speak.”
“It’s Senior Sergeant Worthington,” said S/Sgt Worthington.
“Oh, I don’t believe in the use of manufactured titles such as ‘Your Highness’ or ‘professor’ or ‘Senior Sergeant,’” Edgar said cheerfully. “I just call everyone Mr or Ms. Or Mrs, if the case may be. After all, in a truly egalitarian society, we would all address each other as equals, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Right.” With a look that said he wished them all a painful death, the cop picked up his pen. “I’ll cut right to the heart of the matter. Mr Sanderson, you claim that you didn’t take the photos of Samantha DaSilva from her bedroom?”
“No.”
“But you weren’t attending a study hall session as you originally claimed, and no one can give you an alibi?”
Again, Scott felt his stomach knot up like a tangle of fishing wire. “No. I was at Brunswick shopping center by myself.”
Sam gave a tiny cough of disbelief and S/Sgt Worthington glared at her. “You were at the shopping center all day?”
“Yes.
”
“What were you doing there?”
“Just hanging out.” Scott tried to make his voice sound bland, but his heart was racing. If interrupting a cop was bad, lying to one had to be worse, but he couldn’t say where he’d been, he just couldn’t.
“Have you found any evidence to suggest Scott stole the pictures?” Edgar asked.
The cop sighed. “We’ve checked the windowsill for prints, but between the rain and the bird shit, there’s nothing to suggest Mr Sanderson broke in and stole the Polaroids…Where were they located, Ms DaSilva?”
“My bedside table.”
Scott shot Sam a sidelong look. Her face remained impassive and once again he wished they were alone. If they were alone, he could tell her she needed to stop covering for Nicole and tell the truth. That way the cops would be able to check the right windowsill and they could find the arsehole who’d done this.
When the cops first came to the house for an informal chat, they’d showed him the photos he’d been accused of stealing and he’d had to bite the insides of his cheeks to stop himself from blurting ‘that’s Nicole, you idiots.’ How no one else had noticed, was beyond him. The pictures didn’t look like Sam. Well, they technically did, but Nicole’s shyness shone through like a lighthouse beam on a foggy night. Sam was never shy, she would have sneered into the camera, her dark blue eyes saying ‘you love it, don’t you, pervert? Go on, beg me for more.’
Samantha was taking the shame wrap for her twin and while she did, the person who’d taken the photos was getting away with it.
“So,” the skinny cop said. “Time to be wrapping this up?”
“Just about.” S/Sgt Worthington gave Sam a hard stare. “Ms DaSilva, while I can appreciate your anger at having your personal photographs stolen, the fact remains building that website was impulsive and childish. If your neighbor had been a few weeks younger he would have been underage and you could be accused of child sex offense charges.”
“But I didn’t even put up any sexy pictures,” Sam protested. “Besides, those Polaroids are of me and I’m underage. Why don’t you say something about punishing Scott?”
Scott couldn’t stand the bitterness in her voice. He turned to her again. “Sam, I didn’t do it! I don’t want to hurt you, I’ve never wanted to hurt you and—”
“That’s enough.” S/Sgt Worthington glared at him. “Mate, we’ve said all we need to say about the incident, we need to get into the nuts and bolts. Now, normally we’d proceed by compiling a brief about the incident so it could go to magistrate’s court—”
Scott swallowed. Court. No way could he keep going to court from his dad.
“So,” S/Sgt Worthington said comfortably. “Mr Sanderson, you’re eighteen and a legal adult. Do you want to pursue charges against Ms DaSilva for her defamatory website?”
“No.”
The Sergeant’s moustache quivered menacingly. “You want to take a minute to think about that?”
“No. The website’s down and that’s all that matters.”
S/Sgt Worthington bared his teeth. “Mate, you’re clearly not taking this in. Give your dad a call and—”
“No! The last thing this situation needs is my father! I’ve told you I don’t want to press charges and I bloody mean it. The website was a joke Sam made because she was upset. I don’t care about it.”
“Your reputation—”
“I don’t give a shit about my reputation. My mum just died. I don’t want any more pain or revenge. All I want is a cup of soup and to go to sleep for a long, long time.”
There was a silence around the table and Scott had the sense that he’d pulled a trump card none of them could combat—the dead mother card. He felt both vindicated and sickeningly guilty. He couldn’t look at Samantha. He just wanted this all to be over.
“Okay,” the skinny cop said. “If that’s how you want to play it, we’ll order a caution and drop the matter until further notice.”
He looked disappointed. Maybe he’d been hoping to say ‘buyscottsandersonaroot.com’ in court.
“Great,” Scott said, rising out of his chair.
“Not so fast.” S/Sgt Worthington’s expression was stony. “In incidents like these—well, usually idiot couples who can’t decide if they love each other or hate each other—the police can put an intervention order in place. That’s what I’m going to do today.”
Samantha gaped at him. “You mean like a restraining order? But we’re neighbors.”
“I won’t put in a distance restriction, but considering the history between the two of you, I think it’s best if the two of you have no more communication from now on.”
Panic spoke for him. “But I’m leaving! I’m going to London this weekend for university.”
The skinny cop frowned. “Exams aren’t over, yet.”
“Mine are. Besides, I got an early admission into business law at Cambridge.”
“University in the UK doesn’t start for a while. Not until next October, if I’m remembering correctly.”
“I’m a dual citizen. I’m going to stay with family until I find a place of my own.”
Though he’d been tossing up the idea since his mother died, it wasn’t until that moment Scott made up his mind. The idea was burning like cold fire in his belly. He would use the money his mother left him to fly home. He’d get away from his father and his cold, empty house and the girl he’d wasted ten years of his life on.
“You’re leaving?” It wasn’t the Sergeant who asked, but Samantha. The first non-aggressive thing she’d said to him since they’d sat down in the interview room.
He turned and as always, was blindsided by the blue of her eyes. “Yeah, I’m going home,” he choked out.
She opened her mouth and closed it again. Stupidly, impossibly, he knew what she wanted to say; this is your home.
But it isn’t, he thought. Home was my mother. Now she’s gone and I’ve got nothing but my dad and a stupid crush that’s lasted more than half my life. There’s nothing left for me here.
S/Sgt Worthington informed them that since Scott was leaving the country, a formal intervention order wasn’t necessary, though he strongly suggested they stay out of each other’s way. When they’d signed their statements and agreed to avoid one another, Samantha asked for a moment alone with S/Sgt Worthington and his partner. He and Mr DaSilva shuffled out and stood in the hallway. Scott tried to look innocent as a sea of cops walked by—all of them eyeing him suspiciously.
“Scott,” Mr DaSilva said in the gravelly voice that always reminded him of Tom Waits. “Are you okay?”
It had been so long since anyone had asked him that, or asked him that with any kind of sincerity that for a moment Scott was afraid he was going to tear up.
“I’m fine,” he managed. “Fine.”
Mr DaSilva eyed him closely. He didn’t look much like his daughters, he was dark-haired and dark-eyed with tanned skin and the chicken-y gauntness of an aging 70’s rockstar. His gaze was placid in a way that was almost unnerving.
“I don’t think you took the photos,” he said, placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “In fact, I know you didn’t.”
Scott looked down at the ground. “Can you tell Samantha that?”
“I think she already knows it, Scott, but she’s wounded right now. Whoever stole those photos hurt Nicole and that hurt her.”
Scott stared at him. “You know…?”
“They’re my daughters. What surprises me, is that you know.”
“I can always tell them apart.”
“Clearly.” Edgar DaSilva pulled a soft packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket and held it up. “Shall we go outside and have one?”
“Oh, er…” Scott looked around. “What about Samantha?”
“She’ll know where to find me. And I feel like a chat. What do you say?”
Suddenly all Scott wanted was to smoke a cigarette and chat with calm, reasonable Mr DaSilva. “Okay then.”
It was raini
ng outside, so they huddled in a damp smoker’s corner and lit up. Scott wasn’t great at smoking but he figured that with university coming up, there was no better time to learn. He took a deep drag and sputtered immediately, sending out wide octopus bursts of smoke.
Mr DaSilva patted him on the back. “Easy does it. Now, first thing’s first. I want to apologise. Samantha shouldn’t have auctioned off your virginity online. That was cruel of her.”
“It’s fine. I’m, er, not a virgin.”
Mr DaSilva gave him another pat on the back. “Of course, but even if you were, there’s no shame in it. Virginity doesn’t exist biologically, not for men or women. Our bodies have no way of knowing if we’ve put our penises inside a vagina or vice versa.”
“I know,” Scott said a little desperately. “But I’m not a—”
“Lots of cultures don’t even have a word for virginity, did you know that? It’s that irrelevant to their understanding of the world. Meanwhile, in western society, we treat sex as though it’s a product, instead of something two people do together. It’s ridiculous. If you cooked me paella for the first time, would you be taking my virginity? If you’re being operated on for the first time, is the surgeon taking some sort of virginity?”
“Er…”
“Of course they’re not, not unless you believe it’s so. It’s the same with sex. Totally subjective.”
Scott decided talking would only make this loud conversation last longer and kept his mouth on his cigarette, trying to draw the smoke into his lungs without immediately blasting it back out again.
Edgar stubbed his cigarette out on the police station and then tucked the butt into his jacket. “Are you serious about going back to England, Scott?”
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