by Jeyn Roberts
All this to protect the child-molesting monster.
Life is cruel sometimes.
It didn’t take Tatum long to realize that her biology grades were suddenly improving. Her normal B average suddenly skyrocketed to the top of the class. She found bright red check marks next to answers that weren’t worthy of anything other than a creative writing class.
Someone must be feeling awfully guilty.
Tatum contemplated her newfound academic status carefully. Part of her wanted to out Mr. Paracini, but at the same time she knew he would have a multitude of answers if questioned. He could say he simply made a mistake because he’s been under so much stress. Of course, the easy answer would be that since Tatum is such a crazed hormonal mess, he felt that giving her a few good grades might boost her self-esteem. She did get slammed down pretty hard with her teacher crush.
Whatever the excuses Mr. Paracini might give, they wouldn’t get him in any trouble. Teachers are allowed to give out whatever grades they want. It’s not like Tatum is popular and loved enough to go bragging to her classmates. She’s not going to win any awards for outstanding student anytime soon.
What upsets Tatum the most is the fact that her pervert teacher, the man who loves giving young girls pregnancy scares, seems to have a conscience, while her former best friend loses no sleep at night over destroying Tatum’s life.
Is Claudette still secretly dating Mr. Paracini? Are they still planning their yacht tour over the summer once she turns eighteen? Or did he decide she was too much of a risk and he’d be faithful to his wife for a while? It’s hard to tell. Tatum hopes he dropped her like a hot potato or, even better, found himself some poor ninth grader to harass. And if there is a god or goddess, this ninth grader will scream loud enough that everyone will learn the truth. All Tatum can hope for is that one day he does get caught and loses everything the same way she has.
And may Claudette die a bitter old hag.
With herpes.
Yep, a great leaking cold sore on her face would make for some good karma.
At lunchtime, Tatum decides to sit in the corner of the cafeteria, ignoring the corn dog on her plate. She’s brought her laptop and is busy searching the Internet for information on Molly. Aside from some more newspaper articles, she can’t find anything new. It’s not surprising. Molly lived in a world without Facebook statuses. She didn’t do anything extraordinary like walk on the moon. She wasn’t a movie star or a model. She was a normal girl who accidently got murdered. Sadly, there’s a lot more information on her killer, Walter Morris, than on her. Tatum finds his name on several serial-killer fan sites. He’s lurking everywhere, being compared to the likes of Ted Bundy and the Green River Killer. He pops up in discussions about how Washington State has always been a hotbed for psychotic monsters. Criminology students have uploaded their term papers, and psychologists dissect his brain in detail. There are interviews with him, court transcripts, pictures of him smiling and waving at the camera. She even found a site that offers memorabilia. For $19.99, you can get a coffee mug with his photograph on it. Fifty bucks will get you a nice hoodie.
Molly’s school picture comes up a lot, mostly in lists of the girls Walter killed. She is often labeled as girl number seven, or twenty-two if you count the ones whose murders he was suspected of but not charged with. Tatum finds it creepy, all these young ladies smiling in their black-and-white pictures, forever frozen in time. They’ll always be remembered as victims, not as the promising people they should have become. They were high school and college students with hopes and dreams. They planned on being architects and secretaries. Two of them were married. One had a small child. Now they are nothing, just names for people to forget. Carol. Marcia. Annabelle.
Molly.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Tatum looks up to see Scott standing across from her. He’s got his lunch tray in his hands, but the food is already half eaten. He must have been watching her for a while, trying to get up the nerve to come over.
“Yeah, sure,” she says. “If you want.”
Scott plops into the seat across from her. Tatum doesn’t close her laptop. She doesn’t need him to think she wants to actually talk. She hasn’t decided if she’s forgiven Scott or not. Yes, he’s a jerk for not doing anything. Yes, he could have told the truth. But no, he probably would have been ignored. Tatum understands this.
But it still hurts.
Then again, what doesn’t these days?
“How’re you doing?” Scott picks up his fork and begins pushing cold French fries around on his plate. He’s avoiding eye contact. Must be feeling guilty. Good.
Tatum shrugs. She clicks off the website of America’s Worst Killers. Walter came in at number sixteen. The Commune Killer. The nickname doesn’t really inspire the sort of fear to make the top ten. His long white hair and friendly dad-next-door smile don’t inspire the disgust that Charles Manson’s swastika-tattooed face does. He doesn’t have crazy eyes. Or John Wayne Gacy’s love of clown suits.
“How’s the story coming along?”
Tatum shrugs again.
“Getting lots of writing done?”
“Not really.”
“You know, you could try giving me a second chance.” Scott picks up a fry and drenches it in ketchup. He pushes it around on his plate, leaving a red smear that could easily be mistaken for a bloodstain. Tatum watches with fascination and disgust.
“Yeah, I know,” she says.
“I’m sorry for being such a douche bag,” Scott says. He abandons the French fry and starts to fondle his empty Coke can. Anything to keep his eyes on the lunch remains so he doesn’t have to look Tatum in the eyes. Guilt is funny that way.
“I know,” she repeats.
“I have the night off,” he says. “I was hoping you might want to hang out with me after school. I know a really cool place we can go. If you want to.”
“You don’t have to feel sorry for me.” The words burst from her mouth, not exactly what she wants to say, but she still can’t believe that Scott wants anything to do with her, except to make up for whatever guilt trip he’s experiencing.
“I don’t. No, I do, but that’s not what I mean.” Scott’s hand tightens around his empty soda can, slightly crushing it. “I just want to hang. I’ve always wanted to, ya know. But you never even noticed me before.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t talk to anyone. You blew Claudette off, big-time. She was pissed about it for weeks.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I don’t know. I just figured you didn’t care.”
Scott smiles. “So because I turned down your friend, you assumed I wouldn’t care about you? Why do you think I’m always walking the dog down your street?”
“Guys don’t usually blow off Claudette.”
Now it’s Scott’s turn to shrug. “She’s not my type.”
Tatum grins. “Did you really walk your dog down my street just so you could talk to me?”
“Yeah.”
That’s so incredibly sweet. Tatum finds herself looking down at her computer so Scott doesn’t see the blush burning its way onto her cheeks. She’s never had a guy straight-out tell her he’s interested before. Sure, there was Levi for a while, but they didn’t exactly date. They hung around a lot with Claudette and Graham. Once they made out at a bonfire party, but the experience left Tatum feeling a little nauseous. Levi kissed her like he was trying to suck her teeth right out of her jaw.
It was Claudette who always got the dates. When she was around, Tatum became the invisible friend. When boys talked to Tatum, they usually just wanted to know if Claudette was available.
“It’s not your fault,” Claudette used to say to her. “You’re really pretty, Tatum, but you’ve got no confidence. When guys are around, you just hide behind me and turn into a wallflower.”
“I never know what to say.”
“High school guys are easy to talk to. They don’t really care what you’re saying. They just want to
get into your pants. They’ll listen to you for hours and not remember a single thing the next day,” Claudette told her. “That’s why older men are better. They’ve already copped a feel or gotten nasty. They don’t have to be desperate anymore.”
Older guys scared her too. She remembers when Claudette got her to go with her to a party at Seattle University. She spent the whole night leaning against the wall, watching Claudette make out with a freshman. The only guy who talked to her asked her where the bathroom was.
Scott is easy to talk to. Tatum is surprised at this, but at the same time she wonders if maybe it’s because she doesn’t have Claudette to rely on anymore. She can’t relax and lean back against the wall and let her friend grab all the attention.
“So what do you say?” Scott asks her again. “Meet me after school? We’ll take my car.”
“Yeah, okay,” she says. She has a quick mental image of her car being alone in the parking lot while she drives off with Scott. Talk about open hunting season. Graham and Levi wouldn’t be able to resist. She’d come back and find it covered in toilet paper or pushed into a drainage ditch. “But meet me at my house instead,” she says. “At four.”
Scott nods. “Yeah, no problem.”
She watches him walk off and notices that the others are watching too. Graham Douglas throws the last bit of his corn dog in Scott’s direction. Claudette laughs and tosses her hair back. Even from halfway across the room, Tatum can see the hard glare in her eyes.
Tatum smiles to herself as she packs away her laptop. Claudette can be pissy all she wants. Tatum could care less.
* * *
“Your mother and I have been discussing things,” said Tatum’s dad not long after the meeting in the principal’s office. “We think maybe you should go talk to someone. There’s a good doctor in Seattle. You could go down once a week by yourself, or one of us can drive you. No one has to know.”
Tatum sat at the kitchen table, Mom and Dad sitting opposite. They were all smiles and happy faces, but underneath the facade, Tatum could see the truth. There were dark circles under Mom’s eyes. Tatum had heard them last night, whispering behind their closed bedroom door. A quiet argument, voices low, both of them determined not to wake their psychotic daughter. They’d been having these little talks every night, the light glowing under their bedroom door until the wee hours of the morning. Tatum knew this because she wasn’t exactly sleeping well either.
“A doctor? Like a shrink?”
“No, no, not a psychiatrist,” Mom said. “A psychologist. Dr. Bernstein. She’s highly recommended. Think of her as a friend you can tell all your secrets to. Everything you say will be confidential. Your father and I don’t have to know, unless you want to tell us.”
“Yes, you can tell us anything,” Dad chimed in.
“No, I clearly can’t,” Tatum said. “You don’t believe me.”
“Of course we believe you,” Mom says. She glared at Dad and nudged him in the side with her elbow.
“Yes,” Dad agrees.
“Really? Then why aren’t you taking my side? Why aren’t you insisting that I didn’t do the things they said I did? Why aren’t you trying to get Mr. Paracini fired?”
“You know very well that we stood with you,” Dad says. “We’ve done everything we can, Tatum. We’re lucky they didn’t try to expel you.”
“It isn’t that simple, Tatum,” Mom says.
“Yes, it is. Go upstairs and check my room. Go ahead. I dare you to find any evidence that shows I did that stuff. I keep my diary in the closet. Go read it. You won’t find anything. I don’t even have birth control hiding under my mattress. Claudette’s the one who screwed all the boys, not me.”
“Tatum!”
“Isn’t that what you want to hear?” The tears were burning in her eyes again, and that only made her angrier. She was tired of crying. All. The. Time. She was done. She looked up at the ceiling, willing the waterworks away. If she could just make herself stop this one time, maybe she could be strong enough never to cry a single tear again.
“We want what’s best for you. And it seems to me you need someone to talk to. Someone who doesn’t know you. Dr. Bernstein is impartial. She won’t—”
“Judge me? Like you do?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
Mom frowned. “That’s not what I mean. You’re going through a difficult time. This will help you.”
“I don’t need to talk. I don’t want help.”
Dad slammed his fist down on the table. Everyone jumped.
“I’m done with this, Tatum,” he said. “You can blame us all you want. You can say we’re the worst parents in the world and pretend we hate you. But we have stood by your side this entire time. Do you really think for a second that we don’t believe you? Give us more credit than that.”
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like we don’t care. Your mother is right. Talking to that doctor is a good idea. If anything, you can learn better ways to cope other than screaming at us. We’ll set up the first appointment for next week.”
They tried. But Tatum didn’t go. She refused straight-out. Mom and Dad could drag her there kicking and screaming, but they couldn’t make her talk about something she hadn’t done. Tatum was done talking. What was the point when no one bothered to listen?
Having her parents on her side simply wasn’t good enough. They didn’t count. They had to believe her; otherwise everyone would call them monsters.
The phone calls and text messages in the middle of the night continued. Tatum turned off her phone. She started to think she’d have to get a new number. If she tried hard enough, maybe she really could ignore everything.
* * *
After school, she finds the words slut and I love you, five dollah lipsticked on her locker. She doesn’t even bother to wipe them off. At her car, she discovers that someone has blown up several condoms and attached them to her windshield wipers. She just pulls them off and tosses them to the side. She spots Scott’s car and thankfully he’s not in sight. She might not be able to look him in the eyes if she knew he’d seen the condoms.
By the time she gets home, Tatum wonders if Scott will keep his word. Part of her still thinks this is some sort of cruel joke. That’s the problem when you get beaten down constantly. You stop believing that anything good can happen again. Every single person in Hannah has become a suspect. Even the little old ladies who shop at the dollar store seem to watch Tatum carefully, and she can’t help but think they gossip about her by the cheap dishware.
At a quarter past four, she’s convinced herself he’s not going to show up. He probably got cornered by the others and bullied into changing his mind. He decided she’s not worth it. If only she were prettier. Smarter. Less crazy. Who wants to date some freak who’s writing short stories about ghosts? She probably stays home on Friday nights to play with her doll-head collection. All these thoughts go through her head, voices taunting her, but Tatum stays by the window, a small part of her wishing her inner voices would just shut up and leave her alone.
It’s a shame. Why is the universe so against her? What sort of terrible deeds did she do in her past life to deserve this?
At 4:25, Scott’s car appears in her driveway. Tatum rushes to the door before he has time to get out.
“Hey,” he says when she climbs into the passenger seat. “Sorry I’m late. I had to run home and grab a jacket, and Mom started talking. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, it’s cool,” she says, trying to act like she didn’t even notice he was late. “Where are we going?”
Scott puts the car in reverse and they pull out of the driveway. “I thought we’d grab some coffee first. After that, I’m not telling.”
“A secret? I’m not a big fan of them.”
“Yeah, I guess I wouldn’t be either,” Scott says. “But believe me, this one is good.”
“Okay,” she says. She’s made up her mind to trust him. Of course, she’s not exact
ly doing great in that department. She can practically hear Claudette laughing at her.
No, Scott is good. She’s determined to believe this.
She has to.
Otherwise she’ll spend the rest of her life unable to ever trust anyone again.
Maybe she’ll tell him about Molly. Or perhaps it’s too soon for that. Then again, he seems to believe his grandmother met her, so why wouldn’t he believe Tatum? Of course, what if Scott’s grandmother is a crazy cat lady who rambles on all the time and everyone just agrees to keep her happy?
Shut up, girl. Give your brain a rest for once in your life and have fun.
They drive to Starbucks because it’s the closest. There’s no drive-through, so they go inside. The place is packed with students she recognizes, and pretty much everyone turns around to look at them as they wait in line. Tatum takes a quick glance around to make sure she doesn’t recognize any of her main tormentors. Thankfully, the coast is clear. Scott studies the menu, oblivious to the whispers and stares. He even ignores the laughter.
“I worked at Starbucks when I lived in Maine,” he says. “It’s not bad, but I like Seattle’s Best better. Pay’s about the same and the drive is longer, but at least no one knows I work there.” He laughs. “Well, there are a few.”
“I won’t tell,” she says.
“Hey, I’m not ashamed or anything,” he says. “But this is a bit of a rich crowd. I can’t imagine they’ll have to worry about college tuition.”
Tatum nods. It’s no secret that the kids in Hannah are rich. It’s not a typical small town in Washington. It’s more of a rich suburb, the place where parents move when they want to own houses with pools and more bedrooms than they know what to do with. Even the more modest homes have a high-six-figure price tag. Her own parents are well-enough off; Tatum’s always being told she can go to whatever school she applies to.