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

by Miranda Smith

  “If someone wanted attention, I think they would have put their name on the paper.”

  “You’re right,” she says, scanning the page again. “Maybe it’s a way for a student to work through their grief.”

  “Look at the POV, Pam. It’s written from the perspective of the attacker. It’s like someone is reliving the moment, and they left it in the stack of essays because they wanted someone to read it. They wanted me to read it.”

  “I understand,” she says, putting down the paper. “You mentioned you think Zoey Peterson might have been involved. Can you tell me why you think that?”

  “Well, she was in the computer lab. And she’s rubbed me the wrong way since she got here—”

  “Rubbed you the wrong way, how?” Pam interrupts.

  “Just little things. Saying inappropriate stuff in class. When we were reading The Crucible, she made a remark about girls crying out for attention. And that was after Darcy’s attack.”

  “Huh,” Pam looks away, then back at me. “It’s odd to hear you say that. All of her other teachers have said nothing but positive things about her.”

  “Yeah, I know all about Marge and the chemistry test,” I say, frustratedly. “She’s a smart kid, obviously. But there’s just something off about her.”

  “It’s hard to be the new kid at school, especially a school like this where everyone is so cliquey. She seems to have got along fine with everyone.”

  “Well, there was the knife incident,” I remind her.

  “I think that was, perhaps, blown out of proportion. I don’t think we can necessarily hold it against her.”

  I’m not sure what’s changed about Pam since this morning, but something has. Then, she seemed willing to hear what I had to say. Now it’s like I’m playing defense. One… two… three.

  “There’s not a glaring incident which makes her look bad, I see that,” I say. “But there’s a bunch of tiny details which, when put together, form a red flag.”

  “What else?” she asks. Despite her skepticism, Pam wants to know more. I sense she wants to believe me, but it’s not like I can tell her why I’m so convinced. No one at Victory Hills knows about Brian, and, at this point, I’m not sure if the connection would help or hurt my cause.

  “I saw her with Darcy Moore at the dance,” I say. “It looked like the two of them were arguing.”

  “When at the dance?”

  “I don’t know. Just at the dance.”

  “Marge Helton said Darcy was with Adam most of the night.”

  “Yeah, I saw her with Adam, too,” I say. “But you know Darcy, she hops around from one person to the next.” I stop myself, realizing I sound like I’m shaming her, and that’s not my intention. “You know what I mean, right? It was a dance. There were a lot of people interacting with one another.”

  “Yes, I understand. Which is why I’m wondering what makes you so convinced Zoey Peterson is the one who hurt Darcy. You said yourself she talked to several people.”

  “Because of everything else. Her behavior and the knife and the fact she’s new to the school. It looked like there was something going on between them at the dance. What if Zoey got upset about something and then sought revenge at the party?”

  “It’s a possibility, although we’ve never had an incident like this involving two girls,” she says, staring at her desk. “Here’s the thing. I discussed the essay with Principal Bowles. He’s not convinced it proves anything.”

  Pam’s skepticism makes sense now. She’s already addressed the matter with Bowles, and he shot me down. She’s trying to break the news gently. I’ve experienced this before, people thinking I’m wrong. Believing I’m crazy or irrational. Refusing to see the evidence right in front of them.

  “That shouldn’t surprise either one of us, Pam,” I say, trying to sound calm. “You know how Bowles is. He’s not going to willingly admit there is an attacker roaming the halls.”

  “I agree,” she says. “I don’t think Bowles has handled Darcy’s situation properly, but I felt obligated to tell him.”

  “What was his theory?”

  “He thinks it’s a crude joke. Someone trying to fan the flames of hysteria. He pulled up the camera footage to see if anyone outside of your classes entered the computer lab that day, but no one did. He assumes it’s someone who got bored, typed it up and wanted to cause a big fuss out of nothing.”

  “If the cameras confirm my students were the only ones in the computer lab, it becomes more likely the letter came from Zoey.” Bowles’ disinterest aside, the footage only strengthens my theory. But Pam remains silent. “What do you think?”

  “Zoey might have written the letter,” she begins. “But, honestly, I’m unconvinced she attacked Darcy. I don’t know enough about Zoey. Yet. I’d like to talk with her myself.”

  Pam’s reaction wasn’t what I expected. She’s promising to look into the matter because she’s my friend and she’s good at her job, but I recognize her doubt. She doesn’t believe me.

  Seventeen

  Now

  The week moves slowly. Usually the days fly this time of the semester, but Darcy’s attack has shaken the familiar routine. Now each day feels like a long act in a play. I can’t focus on summer and touring Europe with Danny. Not when I stare at Darcy Moore each morning.

  I’ve mastered the art of observing student dynamics without being noticed. Darcy, for example, hasn’t even opened her book all week. She’s either fiddling with her phone or putting her head on the desk. Pam says this is normal, and I agree. I’ll have to address her lack of effort at some point, but it’s still too soon for her to be taking orders from anyone, even me.

  Darcy’s disconnected from everything, including Adam. On Monday, he appeared concerned and attentive. On Tuesday, less so. He still stared at Darcy, even whispered to her at times, but he didn’t move his desk to be near her. By Wednesday morning, he looked depressed again. He didn’t acknowledge anyone, not even Darcy. I wonder what’s going on between them behind the scenes, in the other twenty-two hours and thirty minutes of their lives outside of my class.

  Thursday is probably the first time this entire semester I haven’t seen Adam and Darcy interact. It’s like they are strangers sitting four feet apart. When students break into their learning groups, Adam approaches my desk.

  “Mrs. Mayfair, can I join Melanie’s group today?” he asks. Typically, people only volunteer to work with Melanie because of their expectation she’ll do all the work. It’s sad, really. Today, I sense Adam simply wants to avoid Darcy. Or maybe it’s Zoey he wants to avoid.

  “Sure,” I say, making my way to the back of the room to hand out papers.

  As I walk along the rows of desks, I notice Darcy look in Adam’s direction for the first time. She rolls her eyes when she sees him take a seat next to Melanie.

  “Everything good over here?” I ask.

  “Fine,” Darcy says, reaching out her hand to grab the worksheet. I realize this is the first word I’ve heard her speak all week.

  Zoey walks by me and takes the seat next to Darcy. This provokes a reaction from Adam. He doesn’t say anything, but he resembles the angry volcano I witnessed last week.

  I sigh. Teenagers often carry their personal lives into the classroom; this isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed the aftermath of a bad breakup or a dirty rumor. But everything feels so much darker this time. Dangerous. You can’t send a student to the office for rolling their eyes. So I wait and monitor, hoping nothing escalates.

  We make it until the last two minutes of class before there’s an eruption. As students are returning to their desks, Zoey brushes against Adam. Adam reacts by slamming a textbook on his desk.

  “Adam!” I cry. The sound of the book thudding against the tabletop startles everyone in the room.

  “She bumped into me on purpose!” Adam shouts, looking at me as a toddler would during a tantrum. Like I have all the answers, which I don’t.

  “Are you always this angry aro
und women?” Zoey asks. Her voice is calm, and she smirks like this is the funniest thing she’s seen all day. She’s both baiting him and perpetuating the theory he hurt Darcy. Thankfully, Adam doesn’t bite. He grabs his backpack and slings it over one shoulder. He walks toward the door.

  “Adam, you can’t react like that.” I keep my voice low and my face neutral. I know the entire classroom is looking at me.

  “She keeps trying to mess—”

  I cut Adam off before he starts shouting again. “Go to second block. I’ll have to report this to Ms. Pam.” I can’t condone his yelling at another student in front of my entire class. Even if he’s yelling at Zoey.

  Adam pushes open the door, which causes another loud slam as it hits the wall. Moments later, the bell rings and my other students make their exit. Most keep their eyes low while some, like Devon, chuckle. Darcy looks mortified, and I wonder what exactly is going on between these three students. Clearly something.

  Zoey walks toward the door.

  “Not so fast.” I block her from entering the hallway.

  Darcy looks back before leaving, closing the door behind her. She mouths the words Thank you to Zoey, which feels like a punch to the gut.

  “I’m in trouble, too?” Zoey asks once we’re alone, although she’s nowhere near as angry as Adam. She’s bored. “I told you I brushed against him by accident.”

  I narrow my eyes and search her face. It’s not a small classroom. I find it hard to believe she accidently managed to bump against the one person she’d had words with just last week.

  “What’s going on, Zoey?” I ask, folding my arms across my body. I’m uncomfortable talking with her, but I don’t want her to see.

  “What do you think is going on, Mrs. Mayfair?” She copies my body language, crossing her arms but adding an extra layer of cool by leaning against the wall. “Why are you keeping me in here?”

  I finally have Zoey alone. Now is the time to ask if she knows about Brian, but I’m afraid of her answer. She’s been testing me with her comments and the letter because she assumes I’m weak. If I ask her about Brian, she’ll know she’s winning. And if she doesn’t know about him, I’ll open a whole other can of problems.

  “You’re provoking arguments with another student in class.” I stare at her, wishing I could say more. Wishing I could accuse her of more than causing a scene. But I can’t. Not yet. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “If you must know,” she starts, darting her eyes at the door, “I’m trying to defend another classmate.”

  I shake my head, not believing her story. “Defend another classmate how?”

  “Darcy. Adam won’t leave her alone. He’s smothering her like some creep. The whole school knows he’s the one who hurt her.”

  I’m not convinced Adam is the one smothering Darcy. For whatever reason, Zoey has taken Darcy under her wing. They’re becoming friends. Maybe she’s trying to protect herself from future suspicion, although that seems unlikely; I seem to be the only person who has concerns about Zoey. Perhaps she likes watching the aftermath up close. I know Brian did.

  “Why are you getting involved with Adam and Darcy?” I ask, trying to keep on topic.

  “I don’t know,” she says, uncrossing her arms. “I thought that’s what we were encouraged to do when we see bullying. If you see something, say something.”

  As usual, Zoey is taking a positive concept and spinning it to fit her needs. Brian used to do the same thing. “Zoey, that’s not the complete meaning of that phrase. If you see something, yes, you should say something. But not to a student in the middle of a crowded cafeteria or by bumping someone in class. All that does is create a spectacle. If you think someone is being bothered, tell a teacher.”

  “Well, I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” She tilts her head to the side, and a strand of ebony hair falls by her nose. She grabs it, starts twirling. “The way he treats Darcy is bullshit.”

  “Zoey—” I start but she interrupts.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Mayfair. Sorry. I just think Darcy has been through enough, don’t you? It’s not in my nature to sit back and let someone hurt women.”

  There it is again. That knowing tone. Like she’s trying to dig into my wounds and open them. She looks at me, studying my reaction as closely as I’m studying hers. She wants to rattle me by hinting at Brian, so I throw her off with a question of my own.

  “Were you at the party?” I ask, locking my eyes with hers. I’ve been instructed to avoid the topic with students, but I can’t keep my professional mask on around Zoey. I think she’s lying. I think she’s playing me, and I’m going to play back.

  Her pupils enlarge, and she sucks in a quick breath. She’s smart enough to know I shouldn’t have asked her the question, and yet I broke protocol anyway. “No,” she says. “And I don’t know why it would matter if I was.”

  She crosses her arms again, trying, a little too hard, to appear at ease. I know I should let the incident go, tell Zoey to head to her next class. My second block students are standing in the hallway, waiting for me to open the door. But I can’t dismiss Zoey yet. I’ve had to bury my concerns for more than two weeks. I have Zoey alone, and I’m not going to waste the opportunity to figure out, for myself, what might have happened that night.

  “The other day in the computer lab,” I start, whispering even though we are the only two in the room, “someone turned in an essay. Do you know anything about that?”

  She shifts her weight. She looks confused, but I can’t tell if she is. “Mrs. Mayfair, I turned in my essay. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  “You didn’t type anything else that day?” I ask, taking a step closer to her. “You didn’t write anything about the party?”

  Her eyes grow large and she steps back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, raising her hands. “I turned in my essay. The essay I wrote for your class. That’s it.”

  “And you’re sure you weren’t at the party?” I finally have the chance to question her, and it’s making me high, feeling for once like I’m the one in control. Inside, I’m all flutters.

  “I already told you. No!”

  “I don’t know why you’re being so defensive, Zoey.”

  “I’m not,” she says, brushing the hair off her shoulder. “I just don’t know why you’re asking me all these questions. It’s like you’re interrogating me.”

  The word interrogating snaps me out of my trance, and I suddenly look at this situation in a different light. I’m a teacher questioning a student about a non-school incident without cause. It doesn’t matter if I think I’m in the right when it comes to Zoey, anyone else walking into this conversation would say I’m out of line. I clear my throat, taking the opportunity to back away. One… two… three.

  When I speak again, my professional tone is back. “I was only asking about your involvement, given you are defending Darcy.”

  “It’s not easy being new this late in the year,” Zoey says, looking at the floor. “Everyone already has friends and connections. I’m just trying to fit in, you know? Darcy seems like she needs a friend as much as I do.”

  Zoey suddenly seems younger. Gone is the student who excels in every avenue. Now she looks as insecure and desperate as her fellow classmates. This is typical with teenagers. Under all the cool and tough is a thick layer of uncertainty.

  “I understand you want to help. But if you think someone is being unfairly targeted, speak to Ms. Pam in guidance. Her job is to mend situations like this one.”

  “All right,” she says, lifting her backpack off the floor. “Can I go to second block now?”

  “Yes,” I say, walking to my desk. “Let me write you a note.”

  She swings the bag over her shoulder and follows me to the desk. I hand her an orange Post-it with my signature. The paper sticks to her finger. She walks toward the door, then stops and turns.

  “Mrs. Mayfair,” she starts, slowly. “Do you like me?”
r />   “Excuse me?”

  “Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” she says, turning away from the door to face me fully. “I get the impression you don’t like me very much.”

  “I like you fine, Zoey,” I say, wishing I wasn’t such a shitty liar. “You’re a very bright student.”

  “It hasn’t been easy, you know,” she says, sounding more immature than I’ve ever heard her sound before. “I’ve been the new kid a lot, but it’s especially hard coming to a place like this.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say, and I do. I was also once new in Victory Hills. And while the town looks like it was designed by Norman Rockwell, that cliquey exterior can be hard to crack. I still feel like an outsider, and Danny does, too. “But it does seem like you’ve made friends quickly.”

  “Why? Because I can run a straight line?” She sounds defeated. Even though she’s winning popularity contests, she feels like a loser. That’s another teenage thing. Constantly feeling like you’re never enough.

  “That’s not the only reason,” I encourage her. “But I’m sure it helps. I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things about your performance on the track.”

  “You know my own mom won’t even come watch me?” she asks, a new sadness in her voice. “It’s bad enough we move all the time because of her. I come to a new place and I’m actually good at something, and she’s too self-involved to care.”

  A pang of sorrow enters my gut and I try to swallow it down. I’ve not considered Zoey’s predicament. Her role as the new kid. Coming from a chaotic home life. Maybe I’m only seeing what I want to see, ignoring the full picture.

  “I’m sorry, Zoey.” It’s all I can say. My feelings about her are still conflicted. “You better get to class.”

  She nods, opens the door and leaves. My second block students fill the classroom, annoyed my impromptu meeting with Zoey disrupted their routine.

  Eighteen