What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense

by Miranda Smith

  As if the situation wasn’t bad enough, Darcy has the added humiliation of pictures. A forever memorial to a horrific night.

  “Do the pictures provide any insight?”

  “Not in terms of who might have hurt her,” she says. “Although they clearly show she wasn’t in her right mind. I question the moral fiber of anyone who would take pictures of someone in that state and pass it around for entertainment.”

  “You’re right,” I say, leaning forward against her desk. “How did you get involved?”

  “Her mother called me Sunday morning and wanted me to visit with them once they returned from the hospital. She thought talking to someone other than her parents or doctors might help.”

  “What are the police saying?”

  “There’s not much they can do if Darcy can’t explain what happened. And our only witnesses are a bunch of drunk teenagers who are afraid of getting grounded for being at a party to begin with.”

  “I can’t imagine how scary it all must have been for her.” I close my eyes tight, trying hard not to imagine. I’ve done this before. Imagined another person’s pain. Imagined another person’s fear.

  “Darcy needs time to process everything. Plus, her leg needs to heal.” Pam bends her leg around the side of the desk and shows me where the cut was. “There are three eight-inch gashes on her left thigh. If they’d been any deeper, she might have bled out.”

  What if the police hadn’t arrived in time? I’m not sure anyone, even Darcy, appreciates the danger she faced that night. “This isn’t some party gone wrong. The girl was deliberately attacked.”

  “Problem is Darcy can’t or won’t remember anything.” She looks down. “I don’t know if we’ll ever know what really happened.”

  I can’t relate to what Darcy has been through, but I understand her reaction. Darcy wants to blink it away. When bad things happen, it’s easier to pretend they didn’t. Acknowledging the bad things gives them power, extends their shelf life. I’m still ignoring the bad things I went through. When I think of Darcy and what she’s endured, I’m infuriated. She deserves more than this. It’s like her struggle is bringing my own past back to life.

  Ten

  Winter 2003

  I sat in the back of the gymnasium flipping through the color-coded sections of my notebook. Now that I was in high school, this was my routine while Brian attended basketball practice. I plugged in my iPod and worked diligently at trying to grasp my freshman year curriculum. I wasn’t like Brian. He barely studied and still managed to pull A’s in all his Honors classes. If he wasn’t reminding me of this, Mom was; it made my 3.0 in standard classes seem like a disappointment.

  Of course, Brian didn’t only excel academically. He’d made a name for himself on the basketball team, too. His popularity helped me adjust during the first semester of high school. To all the upperclassmen and teachers, I was Brian’s kid sister. Amber, my permanent sidekick, benefited from the celebrity, too, and enjoyed it more than I did. Because while everyone at Wilsonville High thought Brian was great, I still saw his unlikeable characteristics.

  It was five o’clock when practice ended. I stood by the bleachers, waiting for Brian’s teammates to swagger past me.

  “Hey, Baby B.” It was Coach Lawson, a tall, husky forty-something whose hair was beginning to thin atop his head. He was Brian’s head coach and my history teacher. I hated my nickname, even though I knew Lawson only created them for his favorite students. As almost everyone else did in Wilsonville, he liked me because of my connection to Brian, his great athlete.

  “Afternoon, Coach,” I said.

  Brian approached, bumping Lawson’s shoulder.

  “Good work today,” Lawson said to Brian. “Between you and some of the fresh meat, I think we might have a shot at regionals this year.”

  “You know it, Coach.”

  We made our way to the student parking lot. I walked a few steps behind as Brian chatted with his teammates. When we entered the car and the door shut, he slammed his fists against the steering wheel.

  “What a crock,” he said. He often spewed anger, almost like I wasn’t even there.

  “What’s wrong?” There always seemed to be something wrong, despite the fact Brian had life rather easy.

  “You were there,” he said, stabbing the key into the ignition. “That little punk wouldn’t stop blocking my shot.”

  “What little punk?”

  “You come to my practice every day, Della. You expect me to believe you don’t watch what happens?”

  I came to his practices because I had no other choice. Mom wasn’t going to interrupt her schedule to pick me up, and Dad didn’t leave the office until after five.

  “I was doing homework.”

  “Yeah.” He laughed as he put the car into drive. “You need all the help you can get with that.”

  “Brian!” It didn’t matter that someone else had gotten under his skin. He always directed his insults toward me.

  “Well, if you’d been paying attention, you’d see that little punk Logan Hunt blocking me at every turn.” He pressed harder on the gas. “It’s like he forgets we’re on the same team.”

  I didn’t know why this was so offensive, but Brian was aggravated. I knew Logan Hunt, too. We had freshman English together.

  “Isn’t that the point of practice?” I asked. “Trying out new plays? Preparing for games?”

  “Yeah, but he gets carried away with it. Kid’s a freshman. He’s trying to make a name for himself by stopping a top player. Not going to happen.”

  It wasn’t like Brian was in jeopardy of losing his position. He’d been in the starting five since his sophomore year. In fact, he’d been the Logan Hunt of his freshman year, picking off the upperclassmen and taking their spots.

  He turned into our neighborhood screeching tires, forcing me to lurch forward.

  “Slow down, Brian. We’re on our road now.”

  He revved up the engine, then slammed the brakes as he pulled up to our garage.

  “I don’t need driving advice from a little bitch like you,” he said.

  He exited the car and slammed the door, causing the entire vehicle to shake. I sat there for a few minutes, taking in a deep breath. This was every day with Brian. He didn’t let on that anything was wrong when he was around his friends, and he’d be all smiles and compliments again by the time Mom and Dad arrived home. He saved all his pent-up anger for me, and it was draining. I couldn’t get my license soon enough.

  Brian and I were born two years and one week apart. This prompted Mom to plan joint birthday celebrations every year; it benefited the schedule and the budget for us to celebrate together.

  The following weekend, Mom held the party in our sunroom because the weekend forecast predicted rain. Most of our guests came from the neighborhood or school. Brian’s basketball buddies were there.

  “Having fun, Dell?” Dad asked. He entered the sunroom from the outside, where he’d been grilling hotdogs and hamburgers under our shallow awning.

  “Yes,” I said. It was true. I enjoyed having friends over, even if it meant sharing the spotlight with Brian.

  “Your Mom loves a good party,” Dad said. His eyes danced across the room. Mom was holding a pitcher, topping off refreshments.

  As the party was winding down, Mom requested everyone’s attention. “Give me one minute,” she shouted.

  We could never simply have a party. There always had to be some entertainment. An event. Something that would elevate the gathering to a shindig. I appreciated it, and in some ways, it made me proud she cared so much. But I was at that age where you can never be fully proud of your parents without also being embarrassed. With Mom, especially.

  “Maybe she’s fishing out a new training bra,” Brian whispered. I gave him an angry stare. Normally, I would have elbowed him, but there were people around. And Dad was still holding the video camera.

  Moments later, the door leading into the backyard re-opened and a white puppy
came running. Our guests released a unified Aww, and some of my friends squealed.

  I bent to my knees and held out my arms. The puppy came closer, giving my fingers a few preliminary licks before moving to my neck.

  “Is he mine?” I asked. Mom had returned to the sunroom. Her cheeks were flushed, and I noticed tears in her eyes. She’d succeeded in creating a heartfelt birthday memory.

  “Actually, it’s a she,” she corrected. “And, yes. She’s all yours. And Brian’s.”

  I looked to my left, but Brian was no longer by my side. He walked up to Mom who was leaning against the empty gift table. “You know I hate dogs,” he said.

  “Not now, Brian,” she said, raising a hand.

  My friends moved closer, patiently waiting for a turn to pet the puppy. Brian grabbed one of his new gifts and walked away with a huddle of friends. Dad put down the camera and walked toward Mom. I saw them speaking but couldn’t hear what they were saying due to the crowd of friends in front of me.

  “What will you name her?” asked Amber, rubbing the dog’s fur.

  “I don’t know,” I said, looking around the room. The tile floor was covered with wrapping paper, streamers and hollow pixie stick tubes. “How about Pixie?”

  “I like it,” Mom said. She walked up behind me and put her hand on my head. “I hope you’re happy.”

  “I am.” I’d wanted a pet for years. Even if I had to share my party with Brian, Mom had found a way to make me feel special. “Thanks, you guys.” I looked for Dad. He was still standing by the food table with a sour look on his face.

  That night, I sat in the living room watching an episode of The O.C. while Pixie snuggled in my lap. I’m sure the adolescent swarm from earlier rattled her nerves. She hadn’t moved from my side since the guests left.

  Brian had been upset ever since the party ended. He wanted Danny to stay over, but even Mom had had enough of playing hostess. She was ready to relax. Tomorrow she’d be busy making the house immaculate again. Tonight, she drank wine in the kitchen with Dad. They sounded all giggly. I turned up the volume, wanting to drown out their gross adult merriment.

  At the next commercial, I stood to go to the bathroom. Pixie sat up, alarmed.

  “Stay here, girl,” I said, not knowing if the dog would know what that meant. I’d only had her a few hours. Regardless, it worked. Pixie nuzzled back into the softness of the sofa cushions.

  I walked to the half bath by the kitchen. Mom and Dad were still in there, but they were less giggly now. They were talking.

  “I wish you’d told me,” Dad whispered.

  “Why? So you could say no?” Mom countered. “Her fur is hypoallergenic. I was very specific when choosing—”

  “You know that’s not my main concern,” Dad said.

  I didn’t know what that last comment meant. My whole childhood, that was all I’d heard. We couldn’t have a dog because Dad had allergies.

  “She deserves this,” Mom said. “The thing with the squirrel happened years ago. I don’t even think he was old enough to know what he did. He won’t do anything to Della’s dog.”

  I heard the pitter patter of Pixie’s feet following my trail. I snuck into the bathroom before my parents spotted me, allowing Pixie to follow me inside. I shut the door.

  “Bad girl,” I said. She looked up and rubbed her furry neck against my ankle.

  I didn’t know what Mom meant about the squirrel, but I had an idea. Was Dad worried about having Brian around Pixie? Around animals in general? Brian had always acted cruelly to me, but I didn’t think he was capable of hurting anyone else. A few weeks later, we learned I wasn’t Brian’s only target. And this time Mom and Dad couldn’t ignore it.

  Earlier that day, the three of us—Mom, Dad and I—trekked to the team’s regional tournament in Orlando. Wilsonville won by twenty points, Brian being responsible for many of the goals. We all cheered. I couldn’t help but feel proud when I saw him on the court. For those brief moments, he wasn’t my antagonist. The team had already booked a room for the night and would be returning by bus the following day. It was after midnight when we arrived home, exhausted and craving sleep.

  At 5 a.m., the phone rang. It was Coach Lawson, with news that an incident had occurred in one of the hotel rooms. He wouldn’t give Dad many specifics—didn’t have many concrete details himself—but said Dad needed to return to Orlando to retrieve Brian. Apparently Dad was one of multiple parents to receive a phone call that night.

  By the time Dad and Brian returned, we had at least some idea of what had happened. Some of the upperclassmen on the team, Brian included, had snuck alcohol into the hotel room. They encouraged the younger members of the team to drink in excess. Logan Hunt drank so much he passed out. He ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. That was why everyone got caught, and that was why Dad and the other parents received phone calls.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Dad shouted. He displayed the kind of anger that attracts anyone within hearing distance to come closer.

  “We were just having fun,” Brian said. He sat on the living room recliner with his arms crossed over his chest.

  I sat on the staircase, so he couldn’t see me. I had a full view of Dad’s angered pacing and Mom’s hysterical crying.

  “They want to suspend you for the rest of the season,” Mom said, choking on her words. “You should have known better than to do something like this on a school trip.”

  “He should have known better, period,” Dad said, jerking his head in Mom’s direction. He clenched his jaw and cleared his throat before looking back at Brian. “You’re lucky the police aren’t involved. That boy could have been seriously hurt.”

  “It’s not my fault he can’t handle alcohol,” Brian said in a melodic tone.

  “That’s not the point,” Mom said, looking at Dad for help.

  “According to your coach, you hadn’t even been drinking,” Dad said. “You and another boy simply supplied the alcohol.”

  “That’s why I don’t understand why you’re even mad at me,” Brian said, throwing a pillow on the ground. “I didn’t even do anything wrong.”

  “You are supposed to be a team leader. You snuck alcohol into that room and let a boy drink until he was hospitalized,” Dad said.

  “So dramatic.” Brian leaned back in the recliner and started rocking.

  “Where did you even get the alcohol?” Mom asked.

  “It’s not like we’re talking about weapons of mass destruction,” Brian said. “It was a bunch of teenagers getting loaded in a hotel room. Everyone is overreacting. Whatever happened to team bonding?”

  “If it was about bonding, then why weren’t you drinking?” Dad didn’t pace anymore. He stood still, staring at Brian and waiting for an answer. He’d picked up on something. Brian wasn’t getting wasted like a typical teenager. He was orchestrating the chaos and watching madness unfold. Something far more disturbing.

  “Dunno,” Brian said, shrugging his shoulders.

  Dad kept staring at him, while Mom moved closer. “Don’t you see what you’ve done to the school? You should have been celebrating your victory, and now you won’t be able to play the rest of the season. You’ve let your whole team down.”

  “Our team won regionals, but we’re not good enough to advance. This was our big game and we all know it. We were celebrating—”

  “Don’t do that,” Dad shouted, interrupting Brian. “Don’t patronize your mother.”

  Brian sighed. “It’s not my fault they won’t let me play. They’re only punishing us because Hunt went to the hospital. They’re trying to make an example out of us.”

  “As they should,” Dad said.

  “I need some air.” Mom walked through the kitchen and out the backdoor. She was humiliated by the whole experience. She’d spent years bragging about Brian’s athletic accomplishments; she wasn’t looking forward to telling those same people her son was no longer allowed to play.

  “Don’t you see that wha
t you did is wrong?” Dad asked. His voice was sincere. “You should have been looking out for your teammates, not pressuring them to do things that could get them in trouble. Now you’re paying the price.”

  “I’m not paying anything,” Brian said. He stood up. “My ACT scores are high enough I’ll get into college with or without sports. No one’s got the best of me.”

  I understood Brian in a different way that night. I think Dad did, too. Or maybe this was the part of Brian he’d always feared. There was no guilt about what happened. Brian knew he didn’t have to hurt to inflict pain. Logan Hunt proved that. Brian punished that boy for being weak, as though Logan were no different from a squirrel or a dog.

  Brian was right. His popularity wasn’t hurt. Logan Hunt—who received an unflattering nickname following the incident—paid the price, alongside his other teammates who’d been punished, the ones with a less than stellar academic record.

  By Monday, everyone at school knew what Brian and the others had done. They talked about it with pride, like sneaking alcohol into a hotel room was as worthy of praise as winning the game.

  I still had to attend Coach Lawson’s history class that day. We avoided each other most of the period. It was awkward, and we both felt it. He finally addressed me at the end of class.

  “Hey, Baby B.” He stood in front of the door, stopping me from entering the hall. “I don’t want you to be angry with me, you know, over Brian. I was only doing what I had to do.”

  Of course I wouldn’t be angry with him. What Brian and his friends had done was illegal, immoral and put the entire team at risk, not to mention Logan Hunt.

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Brian’s one of the best players we’ve had in years. I understand he and his friends were just having fun. I’m still hoping he’ll play with us again next year.”

  Just having fun. Another player ended up in the hospital. They’d pressured him, taunted him. Brian deserved to be punished. “What about Logan?”