I need that to be true. We sit in silence, both unconvinced.
Twenty-Five
Now
By morning, I’ve come up with at least one plan of action, and thankfully it doesn’t involve reaching out to anyone at Victory Hills. I’m going to dig into Zoey’s past. Her mom insinuated she’s been in trouble before. If Zoey has had issues at other schools, I should be able to access her records by contacting old schools. I need to know my fears about Zoey aren’t being caused by hormones or guilt; I need validation.
On Wednesday, I take the students back to the computer lab, allowing them to revise their previous essays. Really, it’s an excuse for me to keep them busy while I do research of my own. Of course, this time I take frequent strolls around the classroom, bending down and looking at computer screens to make sure everyone is staying on task. I spend extra time looking over Zoey’s shoulder, making sure she’s not crafting confession letters. She senses I’m watching her more closely than the others, awkwardly tensing whenever I walk by. In fact, Zoey has given me nothing but hateful looks since she walked into the lab this morning. The issue of her mother lingers between us, but neither of us has addressed it.
When I’m confident all my students are settled, I return to my computer. I log into the Victory Hills record system first, writing down the names of schools she’s attended. It appears she was in the same elementary school in Kentucky until sixth grade. That was the first notable move, after which she was homeschooled for a year. She attended a middle school in Kentucky, then entered her freshman year of high school in Virginia. She attended a second Virginia high school before enrolling at Victory Hills.
I reflect upon the upheaval involved with each relocation. It’s a lot of moving for a child to experience; Brian and I always stayed in the same school district. Sure, some of the moves might be attributed to Ms. Peterson’s instability, but I suspect Zoey’s behavior might have contributed. As Pam previously confirmed, none of the schools were located in Florida. Lying twerp.
Now I have a neat list with phone numbers and contact names. I set it to the side, intending to make the calls at the beginning of my planning period. Before the bell rings, I walk around to each student and tell them to place their finished essay in my hand. When Zoey hands me her paper, I notice a small scratch under her left eye. I smile.
I start dialing Zoey’s former high schools first. I ask to speak with counselors, as they are typically the ones dealing with both transfers and behavioral issues.
“I’m Della Mayfair from Victory Hills High School,” I say when the receptionist answers. “Could you connect me to the guidance department?”
“There is no one in guidance today,” she replies.
“Maybe you can help me,” I say. “I’m trying to track down information about a student who recently transferred here.”
“Guidance has access to all the records,” she says. “You’ll have to speak with them.”
“When would be the best time for me to call back?” I ask. Most secondary schools in the southeast are gearing up for graduation ceremonies. I should have known it would be a hectic time.
“I can pass along a message,” she says, already bored.
I provide my name and cell phone number. I also leave Zoey’s name, explaining I’m trying to help her with college admissions essays. It’s not like I can say I’m calling to dig up dirt.
Frustrated by the slow start, I call the other high school on the list. That counselor doesn’t provide much information. She describes Zoey as a doll. Her Kentucky middle school counselor has a similar take. Zoey was a star student there, just like she is at Victory Hills.
Finally, I call the first school she attended. Boone County Elementary School. It’s the place where she spent the longest stretch of time before being homeschooled. A secretary answers the phone. I give her my line about college admissions essays and ask to speak with the school counselor. Unfortunately, he’s unavailable.
“Sorry,” says the woman on the phone. “He’s doing the whole college tour mess with his daughter. She’s the last of the lot to go, so he took the day to visit campuses with her.”
“That’s nice,” I reply, thinking the secretary’s talkative nature might work in my favor. “Are you familiar with the students at school?”
“About have them all memorized by heart. I’ve been here almost thirty years,” she says, as I’d suspected given her shaky tenor.
“Well, do you think I could ask you some questions about this particular student?” I ask. “See, she only enrolled with us a few weeks ago. I’m trying to gain a more comprehensive understanding of her background.”
“I’ll help if I can. If she’s looking at colleges, it’s been several years since we’ve had her, but we’re a small school. Makes it easy for kids to leave an impression. Give me a name,” she says.
“Zoey Peterson.”
“Peterson,” she repeats. “What years did you say she was here again?”
“She left in 2015. She was in sixth grade.”
“Let me think,” she says. I imagine her behind the reception desk, gladly accepting the opportunity to make the afternoon round up faster with a friendly telephone chat.
“She was an only child. Dark hair. She has a single mother.”
“Zoey, you say,” she starts, added excitement in her voice. “Zoey Peterson.”
“Yes.”
“Scrawny little thing?”
“Still is, so I’m assuming.”
“Yes. I do remember her,” she says, but her voice is no longer peppy. “You say this is for a college application?”
“Yes.”
“God bless her for making it this far,” she says under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear. “I can’t tell you much about that one. At least nothing you’d want in a college admissions essay.”
“Well, is there anything you can tell me about her? Anything at all?” I ask, hoping I’m not pushing my limits.
“You’re able to see she didn’t choose to leave school, right?” she asks, dryly. “She was told to go.”
I don’t have detailed access to her records, which is the main reason I’m calling counselors to begin with. Nothing in her file says she was asked to leave.
“Do you remember why? It’s not something I need to include in the essay,” I assure her. “It would be off record.”
“I remember her because in thirty years I’ve not seen another student do what she did,” she says, her voice low. “We established the rule about classroom pets because of her.”
“Classroom pets?”
“Yeah. It was a big mess between the school and the mother, if I remember. Probably why she doesn’t have much information to give you. She was a piece of work.”
“What did she do?” I ask, trying to hide my desperation for an answer.
“She killed the classroom pet. Brought a weapon from home and stabbed the poor thing.”
“My goodness.” This is what I need. Proof Zoey is disturbed. I’m filled with a bizarre mix of disgust and excitement. “Did she do it in front of the students?”
“No. Thank the Lord. We only caught her because we’d recently installed cameras outside along the building. If I remember correctly, she was waiting to be picked up by that mother. The poor critter curled up beside her, and she sliced it with a pocketknife.”
“That’s shocking,” I say. “Especially considering how well-rounded she seems now.” I didn’t want to give up my charade. I was supposed to be helping Zoey after all, not gossiping.
“Well, I’m surprised, to tell the truth. That was one of the biggest fits we’ve had at the school. I wouldn’t want something from so long ago to hurt her moving forward, especially if she’s turned it around.”
“Of course,” I say. Before I get off the phone, I ask, “What kind of animal was it?”
“A cat,” she answers.
Twenty-Six
Spring 2005
I’ve spent most of my adult lif
e blaming Brian for the bad things that happened. I wish there was a way I could blame Dad’s death on him. But it was no one’s fault. He went to sleep one night and never woke up.
The easiness of his death made it hard for all of us to grieve. I was sitting in Algebra class when I was called over the intercom. When I arrived at the office, Brian was there, too. Still, I didn’t think anything of it. Someone dying was far removed from my mind; our grandparents had all died either before we were born or when we were toddlers. People in my life didn’t die, let alone my father.
Mom was locked in a prison of grief back at the house. That’s why Wanda, the school secretary, told us. She didn’t think it was right to send us home not knowing what gruesome news awaited there.
Her words snatched all the oxygen from my body. The ground below me disappeared and I fell to my knees. I still recall that sense of falling, as though my feet would never find steady ground. For the first time, I knew what it was like to be frozen. To watch seconds tick by and not acknowledge them. To feel like I was no longer part of the world whatsoever.
Slowly, the sensations returned. First, the coarse carpet under my knees. Then I sucked in shallow, hurried breaths. Finally, I felt a hand on my back. Brian’s hand. He remained standing over me, lightly touching my right shoulder blade.
“Della,” he said, his voice an echoing force pulling me back to reality. “Della, are you okay?”
I’d never seen concern in his eyes before. Wanda kneeled in front of me on the floor and held my hands. Her face carried all the grief Brian’s lacked. I was too young to go through this, she thought. It was the first time I’d ever received the victim look. Finally, the tears came, and I’m not sure when they stopped.
We learned later it was a brain aneurysm. Paramedics said we should be comforted by the fact he died peacefully. Our minister reiterated this sentiment, saying a serene death was his reward for living such a good life. In some ways, I agreed. Dad didn’t die violently. He didn’t suffer through a painful illness. But being allowed to live a little longer seemed like an equally beneficial reward. The suddenness of his death made it harder to accept.
That morning, I should have known something was off. Dad was always the first person in the kitchen, sitting upright by the breakfast bar with his coffee. I dashed through the kitchen, only pausing to grab a banana. I barely even registered his absence. I wish I had, although the paramedics assured me he was gone by that point. He’d died sometime during the night. I considered the irony, that I would feel the weight of that same absence every morning moving forward.
Brian drove me home. My Aunt Tilda greeted us at the door; Mom was already medicated and back in her bedroom. The house felt empty. It seemed larger, even. The warmth of the place was gone. I didn’t realize how often music played in the house. Dad’s music, whether he was strumming his guitar or playing records. It was background noise which I never appreciated until it was no longer there.
That night, I went to Brian’s room. His door was cracked. I made a light knock before pushing it open. He was under his covers, writing in a notebook. He met me with those accusatory eyes.
“Hey,” I said, not sure where to start.
“Hey.” He looked away from me and back at his notepad.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice girlish and desperate. I didn’t want to return to our quiet house. I’d rather talk to Brian than do that.
“I’m working on a list.”
“A list of what?” I asked.
He laid the notepad flat against his legs and shifted his torso to face me. “If you must know,” he said, “I’m working on a list of songs. For the funeral.”
“That’s nice, Brian,” I said, taking a step closer into the bedroom. “Can I see?”
He held out his notebook. I sat on the edge of his bed and glanced at the list. Each one was familiar. Each one was Dad. For the first time all day, I smiled. “These are perfect.”
“I know we can’t play all of them,” he said, taking back the paper.
“We’ll see what we can do,” I said. “Aunt Tilda will be here in the morning. She said she’d help us plan the funeral if Mom is, well, you know.”
“Okay,” he said. He was bored with me.
“Are you okay?” I knew Mom was a wreck. I was, too. As usual—even in a moment of tragic circumstance—I had no idea what Brian was thinking. He’d always been fond of Dad. Unlike Mom, he respected him. Their scuffle last fall had been uncharacteristic, but it hadn’t defined their relationship in the months that followed. I was happy, for Brian’s sake, they’d moved past it. I didn’t want his memories of Dad to be tainted.
“I don’t know,” Brian answered. It was the most honest he’d ever been. He didn’t know what he was feeling, if he was feeling it. He couldn’t verbalize his emotions. Grief, even to me, was indescribable. But I understood my life would never be the same.
Thinking about all of this brought back tears. I started hyperventilating.
“Della,” Brian said, with the same uneasiness he’d displayed in the principal’s office earlier that day. He couldn’t offer comfort or wise words. He wasn’t Dad. No one was.
I stayed in his room for a long time that night. He watched me cry in silence, but at least I wasn’t alone.
After the funeral, everyone gathered in our living room for an early dinner. We were overwhelmed with casseroles and baked goods in the days following Dad’s death. Aunt Tilda organized everything on the breakfast bar so family and friends could share one last meal in honor of Dad.
Mom did her best to make conversation with everyone. She tried to be her normal, social self, but watching her was hard. She was broken. Brian and Amber sat on the staircase holding hands. I had no one to really talk to. No one to really understand me. The one person who always managed to make me feel better was gone forever.
Awhile later, I slipped out the front door without anyone noticing and started walking down the street. Outside, the sun was setting, and the streetlamps flicked on. I walked along the sidewalk, thinking about Dad and all the things I’d miss about him. His kindness. His wisdom. I thought about all the future experiences that had been robbed from me. He’d never see me graduate. He’d never meet my first boyfriend. He’d never walk me down the aisle.
I followed the circle of houses leading me back home. I hoped by the time I returned everyone would be gone and I could finally be alone. I already felt alone and feeling that way with a bunch of people in the house nearly suffocated me.
I walked past the community pool. As I passed Amber’s house, a crashing sound interrupted my concentration. The sky was now completely dark. There were only patches of light streaming down from the lampposts along the sidewalk. I heard another sound, realizing it was coming from Amber’s garage. The light was on, although the rest of the house appeared dark. Her parents were probably still at my house consoling Mom.
I moved closer to the garage and peered into the lower windows. Her mom’s car was parked inside, and the walls were lined with shelves and boxes. I looked closer and saw a pair of legs beside the car. It was Brian. His pants were around his ankles, and the tail of his shirt fell almost to his knees. Amber was in front of him, her skirt hiked up to her waist.
Gross, I thought. I felt physically ill. I could have gone my entire life without seeing this, let alone on the worst day of my life. What was Brian thinking? Acting this way with Amber after our dad’s funeral?
As I turned, I heard another sound. A painful gasp. Like someone struggling. I looked back. Brian had his hand around Amber’s throat. The other hand was yanking at her hair. It didn’t look like sex, or even rough sex. It looked like Brian was hurting her. My first instinct was to bang on the garage door, but before I could, Brian looked over his shoulder. He saw me.
The look on his face terrified me. I stumbled back, picking up pace down the sidewalk. The last thing I needed was Brian complaining I’d followed him again. But it wasn’t just that. The whole scenario dist
urbed me. I was so frazzled; I didn’t even notice Danny walking to his own house.
“Della,” he said. “Is that you?”
“Danny,” I said, dropping the hand that had been covering my mouth. I was out of breath and crying from all of it. Shock. Fear. Grief.
“Are you okay?” He stepped away from his front porch and came to meet me on the sidewalk. “What am I saying? Of course you’re not okay.”
“What?” I asked, my mind still picturing Brian and Amber. Oh right. Dad. “I’m still waiting for everything to sink in. I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I loved coming to your house over the years. He was a great man,” Danny said. “He’d be so proud of you and Brian.”
I blinked the image of Brian away. I looked behind me to see if he was coming. He wasn’t, so maybe he hadn’t seen me after all.
“Are you sure something else isn’t bothering you?” Danny asked. “You seem scared.”
“I just…” My mind was weary, too tired to say anything but the truth. “I just saw something really disturbing. I don’t know what I should do about it.”
“What’s going on?”
“I just saw Brian… with Amber.”
“Like, with Amber?” He gave me a knowing wince.
“Yes.”
“Man, that’s awkward.” Danny looked embarrassed for me, and slightly annoyed with Brian for not being more discreet.
“It wasn’t just that.” The scene flashed through my mind again. “The way he was with her. He looked like he was hurting her.”
“Hurting her?”
“She looked like she was in pain. He was squeezing her throat. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Danny exhaled. “Okay, even thinking about that makes me cringe—”
“No, forget the sex part.” I’d told Danny what I’d seen, and now all the details were pouring out of me. I couldn’t hold them in a second longer. “He was attacking Amber. He’s dangerous. Violent.”
What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense Page 17