by Jason Starr
“How much do they want?” Marissa asked. “What difference does it make?”
“I mean if it’s only, like, a thousand dollars—”
“I’m not giving them a thousand dollars, I’m not giving them one dollar, I’m not giving them one penny. That woman hurt us, don’t you get it?”
Well, so much for trying to have a conversation with her mom. Marissa took her coffee and went back to her room, back to her PC. From now on maybe she should just stay in her room all the time, not even talk to her parents. Her parents should stay in different rooms, too. Maybe they’d all get along better if they never had to see each other.
She checked her blog and saw that she’d already gotten sixteen responses in the backlog, mostly from friends, but a few from random Web acquaintances. Everyone was very supportive, writing about how sorry they were and how bad they felt, et cetera. Marissa added her own comment, thanking everybody and writing that she was “feeling a little better today.” Then she checked Yahoo! Messenger and MySpace to see which of her friends were online and started IM-ing with Sarah, a friend from Vassar. Sarah lived with her boyfriend in Boston, but she said she was coming into the city tonight and planning to stay for a few days with her brother in Hell’s Kitchen. Marissa was excited. Hanging out with Sarah would be a great distraction from all the crap that was going on in her life.
Sarah typed, So you going to the party at D’s tonight?
“D’s” meant Darren’s, but Marissa didn’t know about any party. Hmm, strange, what was up with that? She hadn’t heard from Darren at all the last couple of days, come to think of it, and hadn’t even gotten any response to the SOS phone message about how he had to get rid of his drugs before Detective Clements busted him. Now that Clements had found out that the break-in had nothing to do with Marissa or her friends, she doubted he’d wasted his time with some low-level drug dealer, which meant Darren was blowing her off because (a) he was pissed off at her for trying to rat him out or (b) he wanted to make her think he was pissed off at her for trying to rat him out. Darren had played immature, hot-and-cold head games with her before, so choice (b) was much more likely. He was probably trying to get her to contact him and be all apologetic and clingy.
Marissa thought about it for several more seconds, then typed, What party?
Sarah typed, You weren’t invited???? and Marissa replied, Nope. Then Sarah typed, That’s such bullshit hold a sec.
Perfect. Sarah was a big drama queen and loved stirring things up. If Sarah got Marissa the invite, at least it wouldn’t look like she was desperate.
Waiting for Sarah to get back to her, Marissa checked out the Daily News article about the shooting, the one her mom had told her to avoid. God, it was like a freaking nightmare. Anyone who read it would think her father was a nutcase or something. She felt bad for her dad, but she was angry at him, too, for dragging her and her mom into this. Their names were right there in the paper, for the whole world to see. She wondered if it would blow over or if for the rest of her life when people found out she was Adam Bloom’s daughter they’d hate her, treat her like she was Charles Manson’s daughter or something. She was so panicked that she researched how to change her name. It was apparently complicated for post-9/11 security reasons, but it was doable. Her middle name was Suzanne, so she could be Marissa Suzanne. She was going to seriously consider doing it if things got any worse.
She was still reading the article when she heard a beep, announcing a new IM. She switched screens and saw that Sarah had invited Darren into their IM session. Darren was playing dumb, writing that of course she was invited to the party and he was so sorry he “forgot” to tell her about it. Meanwhile, it was so obvious that he hadn’t invited her on purpose to try to get her upset. What he was doing was so immature, so junior high school.
So, you going? Sarah typed. Marissa replied, Yeah I’ll be there, and Darren wrote, Sweet.
Marissa was nauseous.
The rest of the day, Marissa browsed job listings and sent out a few résumés, but she wasn’t hopeful. She thought she had a great cover letter that she tailored for each job she applied to, but no one seemed interested in hiring her, and she was running out of places to apply to. Suddenly afraid she was going to be unemployed and living with her parents forever, she downloaded grad school applications for master’s programs in art history from a number of schools including Yale, Bard, and Brown. She doubted she’d actually apply to the schools—she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go to grad school at all, and she definitely didn’t want to go for a year or two—but at least it made her feel like she had a fallback plan.
Her mom had gone out shopping, and when she returned Marissa wanted to avoid another depressing conversation, so she stayed in her room and locked the door. She read an e-mail from her friend Jen. Don’t know if you saw this yet, this really sucks but thought you’d want to read it anyway, sorry. Marissa clicked on the link to Daily Intel, where there was another scathing article about her dad. This one was an interview, and her dad sounded like he was boasting about the shootings, like he was so proud of himself. God, what the hell was wrong with him anyway? Weren’t things bad enough? Did he really have to go ahead and make an even bigger ass of himself? People actually read that blog; people Marissa knew read that blog. This was starting to get seriously embarrassing. Jen had already read the article, and she loved to blab and would probably tell everybody she knew, and Marissa and Jen knew pretty much the same people.
At around seven, Marissa left to meet Sarah for drinks at some new bar in midtown. As Sarah went on about how happy she was in Boston with her boyfriend in their great new apartment, Marissa couldn’t help feeling a little jealous. She’d hooked up a few times with Darren and one night with the bass player from Tone Def, but she hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since junior year of college, in, God, almost two years.
Later, in the cab to the party, Marissa felt so desperate that she was seriously considering sleeping with Darren tonight. But then she weighed all the pros and cons and only came up with a long list of cons. The only reason she’d gotten involved with Darren at all over the past few years was because she hadn’t had much choice. The ratio of girls to guys at Vassar had been high to begin with, and the ratio of girls to straight guys had been even higher. Things were so bad for girls that a lot of Marissa’s friends had been lesbians in college, or at least bi, but the idea of being a LUG—lesbian until graduation—hadn’t appealed to Marissa so whenever she got really hard up she wound up settling for Darren. It wasn’t that he wasn’t good-looking, because she actually thought he was pretty cute—tall and lanky with short curly hair and big brown eyes; goofy, but in a cool way, like Josh Groban. The problem was she didn’t feel any real connection with him. They didn’t have a lot in common, and whenever she tried to have a conversation about movies or art—or anything she was into— she could tell he was zoning out. She’d made it clear to him many times that she was interested in him for sex only, and he’d always say he was cool with that, but then after they’d hook up a few times he’d start getting possessive, calling her all the time and getting weirdly jealous about any guy she even mentioned in casual conversation, and she’d have to cut him off. She knew if she slept with him tonight it would just start the cycle all over again, and she didn’t feel like dealing with all of that.
As the cab pulled up in front of his parents’ building, she decided she definitely wouldn’t have sex with him. She’d just hang out for a while and call it a night.
Marissa had been to Darren’s parents’ apartment a few times before. The space was awesome—three bedrooms, high ceilings, crown molding, hardwood floors—and it was extremely well furnished. She even liked the borderlinetacky Pizza Place–esque oil paintings of Venetian scenes in the dining room. She didn’t know where his parents were tonight, but she knew it was highly unlikely that they knew anything about this party.
As she’d expected, the apartment was infested with Vassar people—i.e., people she’d h
oped she’d never have to see again once college ended, but in the four and a half months since graduation it seemed like she was running into them on a regular basis. It amazed her how this could happen. New York City had like twelve million people, and sometimes it felt like she was still in a college town and it was impossible to meet anyone new.
She hung out for a while talking to Megan and Caitlin, who’d lived in her dorm freshman year. They were both from Scarsdale—’nough said. Then this guy Zach Harrison came over and lamely started hitting on her. Zach had dated one of Marissa’s old housemates; he was one of those boisterous, heavyset guys who laughed loudly and sprayed saliva when he talked, especially when he was drunk, like right now. He cornered Marissa—literally, backing her into a corner in the dining room, blocking her escape with his huge stomach—and told her stories about people from school whom she either didn’t know or didn’t care about. Of course he thought the stories were hilarious and kept belly laughing, spitting in her face. Finally Drew McPhearson came over and said something to Zach, and Marissa jumped at the opportunity to escape and headed down the hallway, past more Vassar people and some non-Vassar people, toward Darren’s room.
Darren and several others were sitting around, chilling, listening to Daughtry, getting wasted. Aside from Darren, the only other Vassar person in the room was Alison Kutcher—sadly no relation to Ashton. The non-Vassars all looked skanky, and one woman looked burnt-out and in her thirties. Marissa figured they were some of Darren’s drug clients.
“Hey, there she is,” Darren said, and he got up, his eyes glassy and bloodshot and kissed her on the lips. She didn’t have a chance to turn her head or she would’ve.
Marissa sat—purposely not next to Darren—and someone passed her the bong.
“It’s Northern Lights,” Darren said proudly.
Marissa took a long, deep hit, closing her eyes, savoring it, and then she exhaled and her brain moaned, Thank you.
“Awesome shit, right?” Darren asked.
She didn’t answer, just leaned back and smiled, enjoying the rush of mellowness.
They passed the bong around a few times, then Marissa suddenly had to pee and went to the bathroom. When she came back everyone was gone except Darren. Did he really expect her to believe that this wasn’t planned, that everyone had just left on their own?
He was sitting on his bed with the bong and waved her over and actually said, “Come on, come over here, I won’t bite.”
She really wanted another hit, so she sat next to him and lit the bong and inhaled deeply, holding it in her lungs until she started feeling dizzy and then letting it out very slowly through her mouth and nostrils.
Then she realized that Darren was kissing her neck, under her jaw.
She shifted away and said, “This is a bad idea. I just want to be friends.”
She was aware that she was talking extremely slowly, or at least she felt like she was.
Something about her delivery must’ve seemed funny to Darren because he started giggling. Then he said, “We are friends,” and tried to nibble on her ear again.
“I mean friends friends,” Marissa said, moving away again. “It’ll be just sex,” he said.
“You can’t have just sex,” she said.
“Oh, yeah,” he said and tried to touch her crotch. She stood up and said, “Stop it.”
“Come back here,” he said and unsnapped his jeans. She tried to leave, and he grabbed her arm.
She turned and said, “Get the fuck off me.” “Okay,” he said, letting go. “Chill.”
Marissa left the room and walked, very unsteadily, into the living room. She tapped Sarah on the shoulder and said, “I wanna go.”
“Now?” Sarah asked. It was obvious she wasn’t budging.
“It’s okay, stay,” Marissa said. I’m just gonna take a cab to Penn Station, there’s an LIRR train I can catch.”
Darren was heading down the hallway saying, “Hey, come on, just chill,” and she just wanted to get away. She went through the dining room and left the apartment.
She knew Darren was following her, so she didn’t want to wait for an elevator and took the stairs instead. After two or whatever flights she felt dazed— from the alcohol and pot, though she also had mild vertigo—and she had to stop for a few seconds to steady herself. Then she continued down to the lobby and out to the street.
She went to Broadway and hailed a cab downtown. What was up with the way the Jamaican-looking cabdriver kept eyeing her in the rearview? Shit, he was going to drive her someplace and try to rape her, she was sure of it. She’d read some article online, linked to somebody’s blog, about how a fake cabdriver in Manhattan had picked up this woman and taken her to Connecticut or Long Island or someplace and raped her. What could she do to stop him? He looked like he was a big guy, and she had no way to protect herself.
“Stop the fucking cab!” she screamed.
He was looking back at her with his rapist’s eyes again, saying, “What you want to do?”
“I said stop right now!”
He seemed to be driving faster, zigzagging, saying, “I can’t stop in traffic, lady.”
Shit, he was really going to do it. It was really happening.
She gripped the door handle, figuring she’d jump out when the car was moving if she had to, and the cab screeched to a halt. She got out, and the driver said, “Hey, where’s my money?”
She reached into her purse, grabbed some crumpled bills, and threw them through his window.
“Crazy lady,” the driver said and drove off.
Shaken and on the verge of tears, she rushed along the sidewalk. As she waited to cross a street a woman asked her, “Are you okay?” and Marissa ignored her and crossed against the light, a car nearly hitting her.
After going a few more blocks she started to realize how ridiculous she’d acted. Had she really gotten out of the cab? That cabdriver hadn’t done anything wrong; he hadn’t even been looking at her, for chrissake. It had been a normal cab ride, and she’d totally freaked out. It was all Darren’s fault; his goddamn pot had made her paranoid. This was officially the shittiest week of her life.
She took another cab to Penn Station and caught the train to Forest Hills. She could’ve taken the subway, but late at night she usually took the Long Island Rail Road because she felt safer and the ride only took twenty minutes. Walking home from the station she felt a lot less wasted but still a little drunk. She was dreading what her dad would say to her when she walked into the house. Of course, this time she actually had been drinking and smoking, so he’d feel even more justified in attacking her. Maybe he’d hit her with You really need to get focused, Marissa or It’s time you start setting your priorities straight.
When Marissa turned the corner onto her block, she saw a police car doubleparked in front of her house. What the hell? There were two cops in the car, and they looked at her as she turned up the walkway.
In the house she heard voices—her mom was talking and, oh no, it was Detective Dick Clements. She didn’t know if Dick was his actual first name, but that’s what she’d been calling him in her head.
She entered and saw Clements, her mom, and her dad at the dining room table.
“Who died now?” Marissa asked. She was trying her hardest not to look or sound wasted. Though she knew she could never pull this off, it didn’t stop her from trying.
“Everything’s okay,” her dad said.
Then he looked at her more closely, probably noticing how bloodshot her eyes were. Clements and her mom were giving her looks, too.
“Why don’t you go upstairs?” he said, sounding embarrassed, disappointed.
Yeah, like he should be the one to talk.
But she gladly left. She figured that nothing was going on, that Clements was just there to update them about the investigation.
She was in bed, starting to pass out, when her dad came into her room and said, “Can we talk for a second?”
Here we go.
&nb
sp; “I’m really tired,” she said.
“It’s important,” he said, sitting in the chair at her desk. “Unfortunately things have gotten a little more complicated.”
“What do you mean?” she said, surprised he wasn’t laying into her about the drinking and pot smoking.
“Well, somebody . . . threatened me,” he said. “What do you mean threatened?”
“There was a note under the door. Detective Clements isn’t as concerned as Mom is.”
She sat up and said, “I thought you said everything was okay.” “Everything is okay. Nothing’s changed.”
“Nothing except you’re getting death threats.”
“Threat, singular—and it wasn’t a death threat, or any type of specific threat, really. I mean, technically I don’t know if you’d even call it a threat at all.”
“What did it say?”
“Just about how I’m going to pay for what I did, et cetera, et cetera. It was probably because somebody read those lies in the newspapers today.”
Marissa couldn’t believe how deep in denial her dad was. What would it take for him to actually admit he was scared?
“So you think the same person who put the note under the door killed Gabriela?”
“No, I don’t think that. And the police haven’t found any link yet between what happened to her and the robbery.”
“Wait,” Marissa said, “so what do they think? That it was all what, a coincidence?”
She saw her father’s jaw shift a few times as he ground his teeth. Then he said, “Possibly.”
“And you believe that?” Marissa asked.
“Look, there’s no reason to panic,” her dad said, weirdly calm. “The police are giving this case, cases, their full attention. It sounds like they have a lot of leads they’re following up on, and I’m sure they’ll have a suspect in custody soon.”
“Is that what Clements said or is that what you’re saying?”
Her dad shifted his jaw again, then said, “The other thing is the note could’ve been a prank. When I got home before, a bunch of kids were playing football in the street, right in front of the house. The police are talking to them to see if they saw anything, but one of them could’ve done it. Justin Green was there. I remember his parents were having some discipline problems with him a few years ago; he almost got expelled from school. They even asked me if I could suggest a good child psychologist and I gave them a referral.”