Coed Demon Sluts: Omnibus: Coed Demon Sluts: books 1-5

by Jennifer Stevenson

  “What look?” I started to say.

  But the door opened. “Time’s up,” the nurse said outside, not entering.

  “Close it, please,” I said, and she closed it. “How are we doing on the plan?” I said.

  Rapidly, Sanjay recapped. “Turn over the texts, calls, your Facebook page, and all the screen captures to the police. Tell them what I know about DT. Keep the gossip turned up. Oh, and M—Pungguk,” he said, as if reporting an afterthought, “A girl who was taking therapy from your stepfather has dropped out of school. That may be important.”

  “Who is it?” I said. My chest tightened.

  “Daisy Rawson.”

  I wanted to say, Daisy Rawson was seeing a psychiatrist? but the door opened again and the nurse stood there, ready to kick Sanjay out.

  I followed them to the big, locked door of the ward. The nurse kept trying to edge me out so she could talk to Sanjay without me hearing. I wouldn’t let her. At the outer door she asked him, point blank, “Can you tell us anything about this patient?”

  Sanjay looked down at the nurse as if from a mountaintop. “I think that would be a betrayal of her privacy,” he said in his kindest voice.

  The nurse flushed. She looked at me, and I turned and walked back to my room with a spring in my step.

  I’ll say this for the locked ward, it was quiet. I had plenty of time to think. A nurse would come in with a tray, and I’d devour the contents in two minutes. Someone would try to get me to come out for group therapy, and I’d turn them down. I filled in the cracks of my eternally ravenous hunger with the fancy chocolate bars Delilah had brought. Whenever they called me Melitta or tried to shrink my head, I would say, as politely and kindly as I could, “You are holding the wrong person.” I knew I didn’t have the powers of dissimulation required to remember to say, Call me Brownie or Call me Pungguk every time they called me Melitta. So I just stonewalled.

  I think my patience threw them. Sanjay’s kind tone rang in my head, a role model.

  But the fact was, I was enjoying a feeling of being safe. I could go to sleep and be pretty sure Howard wasn’t going to sneak in and...wake me up. As for school, I didn’t have to wonder who would shove me on the stairs, or spit in my milk, or hide my clothes while I was in the shower. Let alone whatever Mr. Dorrington might be cooking up for me. He couldn’t do it to me in here.

  So I thought a lot. I remembered almost telling my mother about Howard the first time. How she hadn’t let me even start. She’d rushed into this big speech about blended families and tolerance and learning to love new people, as if she hadn’t had a new husband every four years since I was born. Remembering her anxious face and the note of hysteria in her voice, I felt icky all over again, and the chocolate rose in my throat. I had to wonder if Howard was right—that she had always known about him and was looking the other way.

  Because that was what he had implied in our last horrible conversation in my bedroom. The time I almost killed him.

  Why hadn’t I done it when I had the chance?

  Same reason I never poisoned him, or stove his head in with a tire iron while he was changing the furnace filter, or smashed a plate right through his skull while he lied and lied and lied about me to my mom at the dinner table, right in front of me.

  It was because she loved him and she needed him. And when he wasn’t mindwhacking us, he took care of her. He knew how. That was the horrible part about Howard. He knew how to be a good person and he chose not to be, to exactly the people who couldn’t get away from him.

  Well, I could get away. Eventually I’d graduate high school and be able to get a job. Apply to colleges, even though my academic record had that great big Howard-induced black mark on it. Looking down at my newly-smoothed-out, dark-honey-colored skin and my newly-slim, long-limbed body, I realized I already had a job, whatever it was. I just wished Mom wasn’t some kind of last-century throwback who had to have a man.

  There didn’t seem much point in contemplating this.

  Instead I started inventorying my academic affairs, totting up which classes needed further significant investment on my part before I could graduate in—holy poop, was it only two weeks?

  Panic filled me. I had to go and stand in front of the mirror again to remind myself that my life had changed. Of course it’s changed, you twit. You’re grown up now. You’ve been thrown into the nut hatch by your mother’s husband, whom she will never contradict.

  It kept coming back to that. I was expecting two visitors in the locked ward whom I didn’t want to see, and there was nothing I could do to avoid them.

  One, my stepfather, who would doubtless be playing doctor, with all that that implied.

  And two, my mother.

  Suddenly I wished I knew what was going on out there in officialdom. Whether the powers were deciding about me, or stymied because I had so far succeeded in denying my identity.

  I didn’t want to sully the beauty of my “I am not Melitta” strategy by asking my jailors WTF, and I realized that Sanjay, for all his eagerness to help, and what was with that?—I paused mid-thought for a moment of warm bemusement—Sanjay was just a friend, and a teenager at that, so he couldn’t get me the answers either.

  Someone, though. Someone I knew would be able to tell me.

  For the first time ever, I ran my teachers through my mind, wondering which of them was likely to a) know anything and b) give a hoot enough to help me.

  Ms. Waroo. If anyone. She had access to my records, and if my mother would talk to anyone it would be to her. A stone would talk to Ms. Waroo if it really had to confide in someone.

  I had to do this carefully. I told the nurse that I wanted to call a friend. From a public phone, please, because I didn’t want the staff eavesdropping on my call. She looked deeply sarcastic, but she said, “Of course,” and I was allowed to go downstairs, with a nurse standing between me and the door, to a pay phone. I outfoxed them there, though. I asked a guy walking through the big lobby if I could borrow his cell phone to make a local call. He was old and tottery and had a big coat on, even though it was almost June. I figured he wasn’t staff.

  He was nice enough to let me call the high school.

  I got Ms. Waroo’s voicemail and asked her to visit me, but I added, “Please, don’t tell the staff I’m Melitta, or else....” I took a deep breath. “Or else they’ll let my stepfather into this ward to see me.”

  Then I sat back to wait.

  That was day two on my five-day paper.

  Day three. Ms. Waroo sat in that tiny room with me—I sat at the desk and flipped the “no recording” switch—and her smooth, young, latte-colored face revealed nothing. As if anything might come out of my mouth and she’d just sit there.

  On the other hand, she didn’t seem like she’d already judged me.

  I drew a big breath. “I want to know what’s happening out there. I can’t trust anyone here to tell me the truth.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they think I’m Melitta.”

  Ms. Waroo just looked at me.

  “They won’t let me out if they think I’m Melitta,” I amended. “I signed a five-day paper. If I admit who I am, they’ll start working on me, and before I know it, I’ll tear up the paper and then I’m trapped again.” That was how Howard had oh-so-gleefully explained how it worked, two years ago.

  She totally failed to react. This could have been because the nurses had already told her I was denying my identity. Or it could have been just because she was Ms. Waroo: tough, quiet, unflappable.

  “That’s not necessarily true.” She touched her tongue to her upper lip. Then her tongue went back in. “But I want you to tell me something, too.”

  I put up my palms. My mouth opened, but I couldn’t even say, No, I won’t tell you how I grew so fast and got so skinny and beautiful overnight, or where I’m going to go when I get out of here.

  “Are you going to be all right on your own?” she said, surprising me. “This is what everyone
wants to know. I mean, the doctors, the school, the police.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you,” I admitted.

  “Don’t know what you can trust me with? Or what you’re allowed to tell? Or what you think I’ll believe?”

  Wow. She was a clear thinker. I pulled on my cup of horrible hospital coffee. I needed to think clearly, myself.

  “Okay.” I took in a lot of air. “But you first. Why the cops?”

  She nodded. “The police aren’t satisfied with Dr. Horwitz’s claim that you’ve run away, you’ve been irrational, you’ve been suicidal, you’re taking psych medication, you’ve been violent, you have a pimp now, blah blah. It sounds too fishy.”

  That shocked me, hearing it all at once from, well, a rational person. All I could say was, “Good.”

  Ms. Waroo put her elbows on her knees and looked at me across her straight, thick, black brows. She reminded me of Jee a bit. High cheekbones, big black eyes, bronzy skin. She had Jee’s long limbs, too, but Ms. Waroo was an athlete. Jee just used her body to rock designer clothes. And, presumably, men. Maybe it was her resemblance to Jee that made me trust her. Except I’d known Ms. Waroo since tenth grade.

  “I spoke to the truant officer. She told me how your parents locked you out of the house. She said you’d been upset, and you were running away, and you wouldn’t say why. Since you’re nineteen, they couldn’t stop you. But, Melitta, she also said you didn’t believe her when she said the cops are on your side.”

  I blinked. “I didn’t think it mattered. Howard always says nobody will contradict his testimony, because he’s a doctor and an expert.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Ms. Waroo said, deadpan. “The point is, you wouldn’t let them help you that day.” She paused, but I just shook my head. “When he called for paramedics, because you became violent and possibly self-destructive in class that day, the call was relayed to the cops, as well as to the hospital, by the 911 operator. He’s the one who called the truant officer that first day, too. The truant officer has been waiting for your name to come up again, ever since then.”

  “Why?” I said resentfully. “So I broke a window. It was my house. I just wanted to get some clothes.”

  “Exactly. They get calls like that about once a week. It’s illegal for your parents to lock you out.”

  “The cops told me that, too.”

  She said, “It’s a sign of child abuse. The dumb parents, the ones who panic, trying to get the authorities to save them from a kid they can’t handle on their own.”

  “Huh. What do the smart ones do?” I said curiously.

  Ms. Waroo looked at me from under her black brows. “They try to make the kid run away without putting any marks on them that can get the parents prosecuted.”

  Meeting her eyes, I realized what she was saying, and I shivered. “Do you mean,” I began slowly, taking it in bit by bit, “that everybody knows—”

  “They suspect, Melitta. They’ve been watching your stepfather for a while.”

  “Someone else spoke up?” I could barely believe it.

  “Apparently. But he’s been too smooth, too cool-headed.”

  I sat back and clonked my head against the back of the desk chair, staring at the ceiling. “Except that day. The day of the field trip, when I left with—with my friends, and Mr. Dorrington was there. And my mom. That was when Howard called the locksmith.”

  Ms. Waroo gnawed her lip. “Did you say anything to anyone that might have panicked your stepfather?” I could see by the look on her face that she felt she’d pushed too far, asked too much. She couldn’t possibly expect me to tell her.

  But she could make me ask myself. Not who I had scared. I knew who I’d scared. But why had Howard flipped and overreacted, given the cops somewhere new to look for his crimes?

  Duh. I’d scared Mr. Borington the previous day in class. And then I’d walked out of the field trip under his and Mom’s noses.

  “How long does it take to book a locksmith for a whole-house security system?” I blurted.

  Ms. Waroo made a face. “Depends where you live, I suppose. When I was teaching in the ghetto in Chicago, it took a day and a half for them to come just to replace a front door lock. I expect they’d come quicker to a nice suburban neighborhood. But it takes half a day or more to install two or three exterior locks and an alarm and a monitoring system that hooks up to the police department. Could be longer if they don’t have all the parts on hand.”

  She watched me think this through. What night had I plunged my fist through Howard’s chest? Was it only the next day when I’d turned my glowing eyes on Mr. Borington and mouthed off to him and got sent to my mom’s office? I pushed my aching eyeballs deeper into my head with the heels of my hands, counting days.

  So Howard must have called the locksmith late the same day I’d mouthed off to Mr. Dorrington, or early next morning at the latest. After I squeezed his beating heart in my fist, after he stymied me with his sadistic conundrum, but before I was extracted from the field trip by a squad of coed demon sluts.

  What on earth had I done to Howard to scare him into locking me out of the house? Because my mom was just a yes-woman to him. He totally controlled her, and he knew it. He usually controlled me.

  Then I realized again, it wasn’t Howard I’d scared.

  Mr. Dorrington must have really flipped that day. What had I done? Good grief, I just talked back a little. Okay, the red glowy eyes had been over the top.

  I shook my head.

  “Who did you piss off, Melitta? Your stepfather lost it. He overreacted and stuck his neck way out. For what?”

  “For whom,” I said. “Dorrington, of course.”

  She didn’t make any response to that at all. Interesting. Was Ms. Waroo another Dorrington victim? “Next question,” she said. “How did you know he was blackmailing people, when you said what you said in class?”

  My mouth fell open. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t invited this question. I’d wanted people to ask. I hadn’t realized, as I began to tell Ms. Waroo, that I also sort of hadn’t wanted them to ask.

  “I didn’t know. I still don’t. My mom sort of hinted she was afraid of him. I figured it couldn’t be because she’d done something bad. She never does.” She lets other people do bad things, though. “So it had to be Howard. My friends are more convinced it’s blackmail than I am.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why?”

  Ms. Waroo shook her head, more admiringly than critically. “Well, you pushed them both over the edge.” That wasn’t an answer to my question. Or maybe it was, kinda. “Now Dorrington has taken a leave of absence and the police won’t let your parents see you in the hospital.”

  I heaved a gigantic sigh. I’d been hoping that was true. Delilah had promised that Howard wouldn’t come sliming around, trying to force tranquilizers on me or slather his mindwhacky psychobabble over everybody, as long as I wouldn’t admit I was Melitta.

  “You’re kind of at a standoff, Melitta,” Ms. Waroo said now. “They can’t get at you, but you can’t get out because you won’t talk.”

  “I’m not Melitta,” I said absently. I was almost beginning to believe it. “Besides. Five-day paper. This is day three.”

  She started to speak, seemed to think better of it, then obviously changed her mind. She said deliberately, “Where will you go after this year?”

  My head shook on its own. “I don’t know. College, I guess. Some friends have given me a job. Maybe I can pay for it all myself. If any college will accept a high school dropout,” I added bitterly.

  Here came the thing Ms. Waroo had almost not told me. I could see it in her eye. She looked at me for a long moment.

  Then she let the words out one at a time.

  “Do you know what your grades were for the last semester of last year?”

  The worst time of my life. Howard was really bearing down on me that semester, visiting my room at night, mindwhacking me at the breakfast table. And smooth-talking my mom until she wouldn’t liste
n to me, couldn’t see anything, hear anything, or say anything, like one of those brass monkeys. Life last year had been hell, and I couldn’t remember to this moment if I’d even turned in my homework or attended class. The bullies had it all their own way, that year. I’d just rocked in my seat and took it. I’d been numb, shell-shocked, and freaked clean out of my skull.

  I shook my head.

  “You aced it, Melitta,” Ms. Waroo said.

  I barely heard her. “What?”

  “Your grades were better than they’d ever been. Except you got a D in Phys Ed.” She flashed white teeth at me. “I was trying to warn somebody. Your mother, I guess. You’ve been an A-slash-B girl since kindergarten.”

  “Wait,” I said. “My last year’s grades were good?”

  “When I turned mine in, yes. Straight As. With a plunge in the average from that D.”

  I stuttered, “Th-then w-why did I have to repeat twelfth grade?” Waves of cold and searing heat were passing over my skin.

  “Your mom had your stepfather do a psychological on you.”

  Boy, did she. “I know, I know, I was there,” I said. “They showed me the results. They said my performance in school concerned them so much, I’d have to redo all of senior year.”

  That was how they’d put it. Not, Melitta, you flunked out, but, We’re very concerned.

  For once, apparently, it had not been just a euphemism.

  Ms. Waroo said, “But you didn’t see your report card, apparently.”

  I tried to swallow. “I couldn’t stand to open it. Mom had already warned me it sucked.” A red-hot coal was stuck in my throat. “And I knew I’d have to repeat the year.” I looked back at her. “Why do you ask?”

  Ms. Waroo slapped her knees and stood up. “I’ve probably said too much.”

  “No!” I said forcefully, suddenly waking up. “You were right. I should have looked at the report card.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not comfortable leaving you, but I think you’ve got enough to think about for now.” She hesitated and put out her hand. “You still owe me your side of the story.” She looked me up and down, and I knew she meant, why I grew so tall and thin so fast.