The Fall of January Cooper

by Audrey Bell

  I watched his broad shoulders before me. "Who said I abandoned my hair?" I asked. "Side braids are in. Ask anyone."

  He had already paid for the hotel room, and he'd parked the car close to the motel entrance. He slung my bag into the back seat and turned on the radio, yawning.

  "I can drive," I offered. “If you want to sleep."

  "Yeah?" he asked, like he was actually considering it.

  "Yeah," I said. I didn't think he would let me.

  "How about I do the first leg and then you take over?" he said. "I just killed two coffees."

  "Right," I said sarcastically.

  He smiled. "Take a nap. I'll wake you up when I need to switch."

  "I'm not even tired," I scoffed.

  He nodded

  "You really don't want me to drive your car, huh?"

  I put my feet up on the dashboard and slouched.

  He looked at my foot. "Some debutante."

  "You didn't let me dry my hair."

  He sipped. "I thought side braids were in now, January."

  "Not for debutantes. The magic's gone. You've really done it. My head feels like it’s exploding.”

  He laughed loudly.

  "What?"

  "I thought I was going to be the hung-over one," he said.

  "Do I look really hung-over?"

  He glanced over at me. A smile played at his lips. "You look the same as you always do.”

  You're so beautiful it makes me sick.

  "I can live with that."

  I finished my cappuccino and promptly fell asleep.

  He woke me with a tap. "You seriously don't mind driving?"

  I squinted through the sunlight and then looked at him. "Obviously not."

  "Awesome," he said. He had pulled over and he checked over his shoulder before he got out of the car and walked around to my door.

  I switched places with him. He kept one eye on the road, and another on me, before deciding I was a decent enough driver for him to safely nod off to sleep.

  He looked a good deal younger when he slept. Like he was closer to eighteen than twenty-five.

  I kept looking over.

  I breathed uneasily. I didn't like him. Okay. That was not strictly true. I didn't like him because I liked him. And he definitely didn't like me. Last night had been clear proof. So I couldn’t like him. I still did, but I just couldn’t.

  He'd kissed me like he'd meant it.

  Like he meant what? I asked myself. That he wanted to fuck you? Big surprise. 22 year old guy wanted to fuck a girl when they're both wasted.

  I bit my lip. He was a good kisser.

  Yes. But that didn't mean anything. He was a sensible kid from a blue collar family who didn't want to deal with a lot of bullshit from a girl who had never paid a bill before her father turned out to be a fraud.

  I focused on the road.

  Also his dad was a cop and mine was in prison. That had to be against some kind of cop law.

  And, fundamentally, he wasn't interested. Which was, really, if I were to be honest, a much bigger obstacle than family loyalties. There has to be a spark of emotion before you can blame things not working out on your parents.

  The gaslight went off somewhere in western Tennessee, on a stretch of highway, where the road spanned for miles in between exits. I wanted Christian to wake up, which was equal parts selfish, pathetic, and weird.

  I missed him when he was sleeping, which was even more selfish, pathetic and weird. But I wished the road were rougher or the music were louder so he could wake up naturally and I wouldn’t have to come up with some sorry excuse—“oh, we need gas”—to talk to him.

  I bit my lip, driving towards my home, towards my barely-there mother—fragile before the whole thing had come crumbling down—and my distant, unknowable father who had always been so righteous.

  And who was obviously nothing but a hypocrite.

  I felt alone on the road, headed towards these two crazy people. My parents. My whole family.

  Pathetic, I thought.

  I saw a pothole and I shifted the car and I went over it hard.

  Selfish, but I wanted him to wake up.

  Christian’s eyes snapped open and he lurched forward. “What did we hit?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Sorry—pothole.”

  “Mm…how long did I sleep for?”

  “Couple of hours,” I said.

  He smiled and sat up. “Sorry. Damn. You were right. I can’t keep up with a Southern girl.”

  He rubbed his chin and yawned. "We need gas."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "And lunch," he said. "Are you starved? I'm starved."

  "Yeah, I'm hungry."

  There was a rest station at the next exit. I saw the sign. Any idiot would've seen the sign.

  "Rest station at the next exit," Christian announced.

  "I can read," I said.

  He grinned. "No way? Is that how you got into Harvard? McDonald's or Wendy's," Christian pointed out. "Two great choices. What do you want?"

  "French fries," I said. "I want a mountain of French fries."

  "I'm getting a mountain of chicken nuggets," Christian said. "And a Frosty."

  "So, Wendy's it is?"

  "They have Frostys at McDonald's."

  "They have McFlurry's."

  "Ah," he said. "Well. I'm indifferent so long as it's chalky ice cream and enough sugar to kill a four-year-old."

  "Yes, I can assure you that will be the case."

  "Spectacular."

  I eased his car off of the exit ramp and followed the signs for the rest stop. "I'll pay for the gas,” I said. “And lunch.”

  He nodded. “I get lunch if you get gas.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He nodded. "You want anything to go with the mountain of French fries?"

  I nodded. "Chicken tenders. Not nuggets. Tenders. Okay?"

  “Drop me off.”

  “Wait, you have to help me.”

  “With what?”

  “The gas,” I said. I looked at him. “I don’t. I’ve never. I usually just get full service, but that’s…”

  He smiled. “It’s easy. You can figure it out.”

  “Come on,” I said.

  “January, it’s really easy. Just ask the attendant.”

  I gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Right. Okay.”

  I dropped him off in front of Wendy's and looped around to the gas station. They didn't have a self-serve section. I rolled down my window, sure that an attendant would come out eventually.

  Nobody came.

  I frowned and got out of the car and walked into the 7-11 attached to the station. A monstrously obese woman sat behind the cash register, watching the local news.

  "Hey. Is there someone who could help me with my gas?" I asked, thickening my accent in the hopes that would encourage her to assist.

  She looked up. "Self-serve only."

  "Ooo-kay," I said. "Hey, um, any advice for a first-timer?"

  She looked at me. "Darlin', if you got to ax me 'bout how to lose your virginity, you're in more trouble than I can help you with."

  "I meant for the gas. Do you have any advice for how to..."

  She looked at me dumbly and turned back to her show. "Trashy little hos asking how to lose her V-card," I heard her mutter.

  "Never mind. Thanks a lot for your help," I said sarcastically. I turned to whirl out of the 7-11 when a National Enquirer headline caught my eye. It wasn’t the cover, just a small picture of me underneath the blaring words:

  IS TRICKY RICK'S DAUGHTER IN TROUBLE TOO?

  Why the Dallas Princess May be Headed to Prison

  I folded the paper in half before I handed it to her, glad I looked a mess—nothing like the girl in the photograph.

  She rang me up without looking at me again.

  I scurried back to the car and distractedly flipped open the gas tank. I figured out how to swipe my debit card, glanced at the terrifying headline, and slammed my hand
against one of the gas options.

  I got back into the car hyperventilating. And then I started to read.

  Sources close to the investigation say that January Cooper could be criminally liable if she signed off on documents authorizing transfers of embezzled cash into off-shore accounts that her father Richard "Tricky Rick" Cooper currently denies exist.

  Investigators have attempted to recover assets from the orchestrator of a massive Ponzi scheme, but have found the company coffers near-empty. Lawyers for the sticky-fingered Cooper family have tried to argue that the family spent the cash, but the FBI doesn’t buy it.

  Sources close to the investigation claim that Rick Cooper refused a plea deal, which has turned investigators onto his wife and daughter.

  While no charges have been filed against the Dallas debutante, rumors swirled last week that her mother, the socialite Darlene Cooper, might also be charged with embezzlement, securities fraud, and grand larceny.

  Richard Cooper is facing up to forty years in prison.

  The car's tank was full. I heard the click and then the silence. I got out of the car to close the gas tank. I took a shallow breath and climbed back into the car. I pulled my knees up to my chest and promised myself I wasn't going to cry. Not in front of Christian. Not after I'd already made a fool of myself.

  He opened the door, laughing. "I have mountains..." His voice trailed off. "Jan, you okay?"

  "That's a terrible nickname," I said, taking a shallow breath. "Jan. From The Brady Bunch. I hate that show. Especially Jan."

  I glanced at him. He looked concerned. That was sweet. And pathetic. I was pathetic. And possibly going to jail. I waved the newspaper at him. "I bought a tabloid."

  "Okay."

  "It says I'm going to jail."

  "What tabloid?" he asked.

  "The National Enquirer."

  He smiled. "I feel like that means you're definitely not going to jail." He nodded. "Scoot over. I'll drive."

  "I don't think I'd do so hot in jail," I mused. I clambered over to the passenger's seat and accepted a warm bag of French fries.

  He laughed.

  "I know you agree," I said.

  "Who said I agreed?"

  "You think I'm an entitled brat. How would I do well in jail?"

  He shrugged. He steered the car away from the gas station and popped a chicken nugget into his mouth. "Clearly, you're a lot tougher than you look." He parked at a part of the lot that was surprisingly pretty. It overlooked a sweep of pine trees. "And, January, you're just not going to jail."

  I nodded. I leaned my head against the window. I believed him. Sort of. I mean, I had signed things. But I didn’t know what they were. And it wasn’t like I was going to hire a lawyer when my father told me to sign something. If everyone else was surprised by what he had done, I was floored.

  "Tell me you're not giving that National Enquirer article a lot of thought,” he said. “Come on. I got you a mountain of French fries.”

  I smiled and took one off the top. It was delicious. Oil-drenched and crispy. I grabbed a handful. “I wish I was one of those girls who like got all focused and crazy when they were stressed out. When I’m stressed out, I just want to eat carbs, have a margarita, and cry.”

  He laughed gently. “Yeah?”

  “I’m sure you can relate.”

  He smiled. “Hey, I’ve been there. Minus the margaritas.”

  “Right, you just drink tequila.”

  He nodded. “And eat carbs and cry.”

  I looked at him.

  “Well, try not to cry,” he smiled.

  "You're really worried?"

  "It's not like I ever thought to ask him if he was a thieving bastard."

  "Yeah, but how could you be complicit?"

  "I signed whatever he gave me," I said. "And all of it, I'm sure, was legally binding."

  Christian ate a chicken nugget thoughtfully. "Authorizing money to be transferred, though, doesn't mean you're an accessory to fraud." He clearly had no idea what he was talking about.

  I closed my eyes and gnawed on another French fry.

  "Are you listening to me or are you in some kind of shock?"

  "I just really love French fries," I said morosely. "I hope they have them in jail."

  "Oh, January. Come on."

  "I hope they have pizza too. Do you think you can get a room with a view?"

  He grabbed the newspaper and thumbed through it. "Well, the good news is, the world's going to end before they could possibly try you with anything. See this piece of toast with Jesus's face. It means the end is nigh."

  "Jesus has been saying that for two thousand years." I felt my breath going through my body. That's how I knew I was afraid, the oxygen kept snagging on the hooks in my lungs.

  The more I ate, the more my stomach twisted.

  "I would really hate orange. I can’t wear orange for the rest of my life," I said.

  "That's what you’re worried about?"

  "It's part of it," I said calmly. "When I was two, my mother dressed me up as a pumpkin for Halloween. I had a panic attack.”

  “When you were two?”

  “Well, I freaked out.”

  “Two-year-olds do that.”

  “I've refused to wear orange ever since. Maybe, subconsciously, I always knew I was fated to go to prison when I was twenty-two and I've spent the rest of my life—”

  "You're fucking nuts," he said. "First of all, you're not going to jail. Second of all, the National Enquirer is for crazy people. Third of all, say you do go to jail, which, just to be absolutely clear, you definitely aren't, your issue with the whole imprisonment and loss of personal liberty is orange?"

  I ate another handful of French fries. "It's just not my color."

  He started to laugh. "You're not going to jail. Not for embezzlement anyways."

  "What else would I go to jail for?" I demanded.

  "Murdering your ex-boyfriends."

  "I’m serious.”

  "That Schuyler kid is not well."

  "Well, he's no worse condition than how I found him."

  Christian wiped his hands on the napkin and pulled the car out of park and back towards the highway.

  "I’m sure you would know before the National Enquirer if you were going to be implicated.”

  I shrugged. Somehow, with the fact that my parents wouldn’t call me, I doubted that. I turned on the radio.

  It was all pop country music, a sound that snapped me straight back to riding to horse shows with my friends from high school. For some reason, that made me nauseous and I fiddled until I found talk radio.

  Christian turned his head to look at me after a second. "We're seriously going to listen to this?"

  "It's better than knockoff Carrie Underwood."

  "I thought that was Carrie Underwood."

  "No. Carrie Underwood's songs are good. They play one every hour. The rest of it is knockoff Carrie Underwood. Besides, I'm not in a Jesus Take the Wheel kind of mood."

  "What kind of mood are you in?"

  "Bad Bitches," I said.

  He smiled. "What is that, Rick Ross?"

  "I don't know. Just the mood I'm in," I said. "It's a hard knock life. Jay-Z. Not Carrie Underwood." I grabbed another French fry. "Do you think I could get into the home goods business after jail? Like Martha Stewart."

  "That only happens if you go to prison in Connecticut. And you're not going to prison. Jesus, for someone who’s smart, you're awfully stupid."

  "That makes a lot of sense," I said sarcastically. "Maybe you're just not a good judge of intelligence."

  "It's possible," he said dryly. "Me and Harvard both. Totally hoodwinked by January Cooper's first impression."

  I smirked. "That's me. Gangster January. The Fabulous Felon."

  He grinned.

  "Maybe you could be a TV personality."

  "I guess. After jail, you mean?"

  "January, the Fabulous Felon," he said. "The Winter Killer. January, the Black Wido
w."

  "Quiet," I said.

  "The Pumpkin Monster."

  "That's not even funny," I said quietly. "If I end up fat and orange for twenty years, I am going to have a rage blackout."

  "Jan,” he smiled. “You know you’re not going to jail.”

  “I don’t know that,” I said.

  “Well, you should. Come on,” he said. “Think about it. You—”

  The car shuddered. He swore, turned on the hazards and in one smooth and controlled motion, pulled the car off of the highway and into the breakdown lane.

  "What the hell?" he said, when we'd both caught our breath. He turned the car off and put it in park.

  "What was that?" I asked.

  He shook his head breathlessly. "Not sure." He flashed me a smile I completely didn't believe. "Hang tight, okay?"

  He walked around the front of the car.

  I peered through the window at him. His forehead furrowed he walked around to the passenger's seat and turned the car on. He glanced at me.

  "What?" I asked.

  "There's something wrong," he said.

  "I mean, obviously."

  "Can you pass me my cell phone?"

  I handed it to him. I didn't know for sure, but it seemed like there could be a good chance he wouldn't have service. The highway stretched ahead of us, flat and indifferent, nothing interrupting the flat green road.

  "Shit," he muttered softly.

  I had a sinking feeling it was my fault. That I'd fucked up the gas. But I didn't say anything.

  I watched Christian walk down the breakdown lane, searching for a signal, and chewed my lip hard—hard enough that it began to bleed. We were fucked, I thought. Definitely fucked. I'd been fucked ever since the big revelation. Now my life was like a Greek tragedy.

  Or a comedy, if I was being totally serious. There were a lot of people who had enjoyed this fall—my fall—because it was nice to see someone lose everything.

  The only person who cared that I was totally screwed over was me. And Christian Cutlass, I guess, because he was now totally screwed over, too.

  Because he was nice to me. He’d gotten totally screwed for being nice.

  Maybe that’s why everyone had kept their distance. Why Olivia had become an enemy instead of being of friend. Why Clarissa had stopped bothering to speak with me. Why Katelyn had been allowed back in their friendship. Because they thought I might cause them the same kind of misery I was causing Christian. Like it was contagious.