Overpowered

by Mark H. Kruger

  “Yeah, totally.” Yet Oliver’s strained smile betrayed his own deeper concern that Mrs. Henderson’s abrupt departure wasn’t just a coincidence.

  • • •

  Needless to say I couldn’t concentrate on much else the rest of the afternoon other than worrying if something awful had happened to Mrs. Henderson. There had to be a way to find out. I tried calling the ever-elusive Jackson several times to get his advice, but once again he was MIA. I left several increasingly cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs messages for him but never heard back. Oliver mentioned receiving a cryptic text from him—something vague about “connecting the dots,” which made it sound like he was doing art therapy.

  Maya, meanwhile, tracked me down in the crowded hallway after eighth period. She was colorfully outfitted in her finest cheerleader ensemble.

  “Hey, you,” she chirped brightly, slipping her arm through mine like we were best girlfriends. A far cry from how PMSing she was the day before.

  “Someone’s feeling chipper,” I remarked, noticing her cheerleading posse trailing ten feet behind us.

  “Totally,” she replied with a sly grin. Then she leaned in and whispered so her girls couldn’t overhear: “Is it always like this? Psycho bitch one day, normal the next?”

  “Define normal,” I quipped. Maya laughed. I wondered whether I should say anything about Chase or Mrs. Henderson or keep it all to myself.

  “By the way, you’re coming, aren’t you?” Maya asked hopefully.

  “To what?” Between my awkward Chase encounter and Mrs. Henderson’s disappearance, I felt so rattled that I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “The pep rally in five minutes,” she urgently reminded me.

  “Sorry, I can’t.” The playoff game had completely slipped my mind.

  “What? Why not?” Maya’s smile vanished. She was visibly deflated. “It’s kind of a big deal for Chase if we win this game. And our school. Please?”

  “I really need to be somewhere. It’s kind of important.” I knew I had to tell her all about the incident and Mrs. Henderson, but not right then in the school hallway.

  “Something bad?” She touched my arm, genuinely concerned, waving her posse on ahead to the gymnasium so that we could be alone.

  “I hope not.” The look in my eyes urged Maya to drop the matter. She nodded, catching my drift.

  “Call me later,” she implored, looking worried. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed before hurrying off.

  • • •

  I rang the bell and anxiously waited for someone to answer the imposing brown front door. It was the entrance to a stately stone Tudor residence with leaded glass windows, probably built back in the 1920s. I knew someone must be home, because a silver Mercedes sedan with a Bar Tech decal on the windshield was parked in the driveway. I guessed it was Mrs. Henderson’s husband’s car. A dog was barking loudly somewhere inside as footsteps approached.

  An unkempt-looking intellectual with spiky hair and tortoiseshell eyewear opened the door in a huff. He had a dazed, lost expression. His yellow Ralph Lauren dress shirt was haphazardly buttoned. “Yes?”

  “Hi. Mr. Henderson?” I asked, very politely.

  “What do you want?” he responded, quite impatient, before turning back to the front hall and shouting, “Bruno, quiet!” But the dog continued his incessant yapping.

  “I’m Nica Ashley. Mrs. Henderson’s my guidance counselor. Is she home?”

  Mr. Henderson turned visibly pale. “No . . . she’s not . . . ,” he said, shaking his head as he fought back emotion.

  “When do you expect her back?” I asked solicitously.

  He faltered and grabbed hold of the door for support. “She’s . . . gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?” I felt queasy and had an awful premonition.

  “There was . . . an accident.”

  “Oh my God . . .” I tried to process the news but was in complete shock and disbelief about what he was telling me. Mrs. Henderson was dead. “What happened?”

  “I can’t talk about it. Please leave. You’ve got to go.” He tried to shut the door, but I stood in the way. His eyes darted up and down the street, slightly paranoid, as if he was looking for someone or was afraid of being watched.

  “Please, just tell me what happened.” I was practically begging him. “Is Bar Tech involved?”

  Mr. Henderson’s face flashed red with anger and hostility. “You need to drop all this.” Then he slammed the door in my face, leaving me trembling and breathless on the front stoop—and feeling horribly guilty about what had happened to Mrs. Henderson.

  I staggered down the steps and made my way back to the sidewalk. Mr. Henderson was definitely frightened and also hiding something about the accident—if it even really was an accident. Or was I just being melodramatic and reading too much into things? I glanced back at the house and caught him staring at me through the window. He was talking to someone on the phone. He shut the drapes as soon as he saw me looking at him.

  I picked up my pace and walked away from the house just as a Bar Tech Security vehicle suddenly turned the corner. As soon as I was down the block, I broke into a jog and began running as fast as I could back to school.

  12. CIRCLE GAME

  * * *

  “Are you all right?” Jackson urgently asked as he steered his black Mustang into the crowded student parking lot where I was waiting for him. Even though the football game was still going on, no one was around. I could see the worry in his eyes as I hopped into the passenger seat.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, as I held back my tears. I was incredibly relieved to see him. “Just a little spooked is all.” Actually a lot spooked, but I didn’t want to come off sounding like a terrified little girl. I had texted Jackson after leaving the Henderson house not ten minutes earlier. He’d texted me back immediately and said he’d meet me in the school parking lot, which was only five blocks away. As far as I could tell, no one had followed me. But how could I know for sure?

  “It’s not your fault,” declared Jackson. He could tell I was barely holding myself together. “Don’t blame yourself. Accidents happen.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “No,” he admitted, shaking his head. Neither did I for that matter.

  “If they knew she talked,” I sputtered, as my imagination ran wild, “who knows what else they know? Even about us. I mean, they murdered her. An innocent woman.”

  “We don’t know that it’s murder for sure,” Jackson calmly replied, trying to defuse my fear. “What did Henderson say?” I’d never seen him looking so concerned about my well-being before. Not that I was going to complain. All his attention made me feel special. Like he really cared about me.

  “He warned me to leave it all alone,” I said no longer feeling like Jackson’s paranoia was all in his head. “To drop this.”

  “Next time, don’t be so crazy brave, going off without telling anyone. It’s more important than ever that I know where you are.” Jackson then reached out and touched my hand lightly. “I don’t want to lose another . . .”

  My heart began to flutter, and my skin broke out in goose bumps. I impulsively reached out and placed my hand on top of his. He then turned his hand over and clasped mine. I looked at Jackson, feeling the warmth of his hand. He looked back at me with that intense, burning stare. I felt excited and exposed, as if he could see right into my soul and know exactly how I was feeling.

  I gazed deep into his eyes, expectant and hopeful, wondering what he might say. Instead of speaking he leaned in toward me. I leaned forward. Our lips met. His were soft and full. He kissed me. I kissed him back, shutting my eyes and feeling as though I might melt into the seat. I’d never felt so alive before—like every nerve in my body was on fire. And I didn’t want that feeling to end.

  But it did. All of a sudden Jackson pulled away from me, abruptly and unexpectedly. I opened my eyes, looking at him in total confusion. “Is something wrong?” I asked, concerned, not
knowing what had happened.

  Jackson looked back at me with this contrite, almost regretful expression but didn’t say anything. Desperate to fill the awful void of silence I just blurted out the first thing that came into my mind: “Was I that bad?” I was hoping a bit of levity would break the tension.

  The only thing Jackson could say was “Nica.” His tone was sympathetic but also slightly patronizing, like the way a shrink talks to a delusional patient.

  Which only made things worse and me feel even more humiliated, like I was the world’s biggest loser. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Had I done something wrong? Was I such an inept kisser that he couldn’t stand it a moment longer? Was I too self-involved? I wanted to bury myself alive and never see Jackson again. On top of the mess of insecurities I was fighting off, I had to face the awful reality that Mrs. Henderson was dead and possibly murdered . . . because of me.

  Before either of us could say another word, a loud roar came from the direction of the football field, followed by raucous cheering. Judging by the noise I knew that Barrington High had just won the division playoff game. In no time at all the parking lot would be overrun with people celebrating yet another victory for quarterback Chase Cochran. As if the jerk needed any more affirmation that he was God’s gift to Barrington.

  “We should go.” Jackson immediately gunned the Mustang’s engine. “And let’s not say anything about Mrs. Henderson to anyone.”

  I nodded and sank back in the car seat, crushed and mortified. If he read my humiliation, he didn’t say. In fact he didn’t speak to me the entire car ride back to my house. He was like a block of ice. Which only made me feel even more paranoid and insecure. Was he upset with me for being so hopelessly lame? I sat there staring at my hands, angry with myself and consumed with regret. But I was also more than a little angry with Jackson for going from concerned to dickhead in a matter of seconds.

  • • •

  “Thanks for the ride,” I muttered as Jackson pulled up to my house. I didn’t know what else to say; I was still so puzzled by what had happened in the parking lot.

  Jackson nodded as I opened the car door to leave. Before I got out, he looked up and finally spoke. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this now. With you.”

  I was so caught off guard that I just stared blankly and mumbled back, “No problem.” Meanwhile all I wanted to do was run and hide. I got out of the car and slammed the door, hurrying up the front walk toward my house.

  I heard the Mustang zoom away as I unlocked my front door. By the time I turned around, Jackson’s car was gone. I was left standing there, feeling pathetic and wondering what I’d done wrong. I was incredibly upset with Jackson and also worried about him at the same time. Crazy, I know. But he was obviously going through some private torment.

  No sooner had I entered my house than my cell phone started buzzing. It was six fifty p.m. and I was in no mood to chat, still wounded by Jackson’s rejection and abrupt cold shoulder. Still, it might be my mom or dad. Exasperated, I fished the phone out of my cluttered bag and glanced at the display. Oliver’s name appeared on-screen. That’s when I also saw that I had three unread texts from him. I realized that I had never texted him after disappearing from school that afternoon. Oliver was probably worrying about what had happened to me.

  “Hey, sorry. I just saw all your texts,” I blurted into the phone, as I fumbled with my books. “I’ve had quite the afternoon.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Oliver retorted, all too mysteriously. You hear about Mrs. Henderson?”

  “Yes,” I replied softly. “I heard. Who told you?”

  “My mother,” he answered, before pausing a beat. “Do you think—?”

  “I don’t know,” I interrupted, not allowing Oliver to finish his chilling thought. “Can we discuss this some other time?”

  “Right,” he agreed, and swiftly changed the subject. “Anything else going on?”

  I sighed and then proceeded to download the CliffsNotes version of my distressing afternoon, starting with Chase hitting on me, which elicited a sympathetic sigh of concern from Oliver and finished with an offer to defend my honor. “Want me to kick his ass for you?” Oliver said, half serious.

  That elicited a much-needed laugh from me. “Now that I’d like to see.” But I was in no mood to wallow in self-pity a moment longer than I had to. “Enough about my little melodrama,” I declared, eager to move on. “Were you texting me about Mrs. H. or something else?”

  “You sitting down?”

  “Cut to the chase, Oliver,” I replied suspiciously as I headed toward the stairs. I was in no mood for a game of twenty questions.

  “Guess whose mom worked at that government lab seventeen years ago,” Oliver announced with great drama.

  I stopped on the first step, trying to absorb what he was saying. “You mean the one that had that accident? Are you sure?”

  “Positive. She told me.”

  “Are you crazy? What did you tell her?” I was ready to bite his head off for violating our promise not to say anything to our parents.

  “Nothing. I didn’t tell her a thing,” he snapped back. “Not a word.”

  “Then how did the subject come up? What did you say? ‘Hey, Mom. School was great. You ever work at that secret lab in town?’ ” My voice dripped with derision.

  “My mom enjoys her chardonnay. Usually has two glasses after five p.m. to take the edge off after a long day.”

  “And you encouraged her tonight,” I conjectured with a raised eyebrow, hazarding an educated guess.

  “Let’s just say I didn’t discourage her.” Oliver’s voice suddenly got a bit coy. “Anyway, that third glass made her way more chatty than usual. So I nosed around about my dad,” Oliver retorted, trying to diffuse my anger. “You know, where they met. What was he like? Stuff like that.” He continued, “She didn’t want to talk about him, but I kept pressing and throwing a big guilt trip how she owed me until Mom let it slip that she met him at work. Which was the first time I ever heard that they worked together. We’re talking interoffice romance. Pregnancy. Anyway, Mom demands I not say anything to anyone. I tell her no way unless she tells me everything. By now she’s so upset and flustered that she confesses how she was a secretary and my father was a scientist for the US government, which must be how I got my brilliant mind.”

  I sat down on my bed. Oliver had my undivided attention. “And?”

  “And. As far as I know, the only US government facility Barrington ever had was that secret lab.”

  “Oh my God,” I muttered as I sank down on the stairs, knowing Oliver was right, my mind spinning with theories of what that might mean. “Do you think it’s possible that—?” I couldn’t complete my thought because just then my dad walked through the front door with take-out dinner from Thai Smile.

  “Get it while it’s hot and spicy,” Dad loudly declared with a big grin, waving the bag.

  “Yikes. I hear trouble,” Oliver said warily.

  “Yeah. Listen, I’ll call you later,” I announced as I abruptly hung up on Oliver and welcomed my dad home.

  • • •

  Oliver got me thinking: How much did I really know about my parents? Truth was, there’d always been gaps in their story. Like how they’d ended up in Barrington when they didn’t know anyone here. Or why my mother was so reluctant to talk about her life here. Or why my dad had let my mother leave town with me when I was still a toddler. Or why my dad had stayed in Barrington and never remarried. Little inconsistencies I’d never bothered to think about. That was until Oliver told me about what he discovered about his parents. It was becoming clear that the adults in our world hadn’t been totally candid.

  “I heard you guys had quite the day today,” my dad stated somberly as we consumed the kaeng som and pad thai at the kitchen table.

  “What do you mean?” I replied evasively, all the while trying to keep my cool, not exactly sure if he was referring to Mrs. Henderson’s accident or something
else.

  “The football game,” he answered with a smile. “You guys won the playoffs.”

  “Right. The playoffs.” I heaved a sigh of relief. “All hail the great Chase Cochran,” I scoffed, rolling my eyes as I sipped my soup. Meanwhile I wondered if my dad was testing me to see what I knew about Mrs. Henderson, if anything.

  “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?” He shot me a bemused look, sensing there was a story there.

  I shrugged. “Dude’s an arrogant dick.”

  My dad chuckled. “Sometimes the arrogant dick is really just an insecure boy.”

  “Is that how it was with you and Mom?” I slyly asked, using my father’s comment as an opening to delve further into my parents’ relationship.

  “Guess I was a bit full of myself back in the day,” he admitted wistfully. “Until your mom put me in my place.”

  “How did you guys meet again?” I asked innocently, hoping to lure him into opening up more. Dad wasn’t a big wine drinker, so I had to resort to old-fashioned methods—direct questioning.

  “On the subway,” he responded, a bit embarrassed. “I was doing my cardiology residency at Columbia. Your mom was working as a freelance writer. We were riding in the same car. I kept smiling at her, hoping she’d smile back. Of course she wouldn’t give me the time of day. She dropped her notebook as she got off at Columbus Circle. I picked it up and ran after her. Wouldn’t give it back to her until she agreed to have dinner with me. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Why did you end up here? It’s not exactly like Barrington is a natural jump from New York City.”

  “I had a job opportunity. At the hospital,” he replied somewhat ambiguously, looking away from me. “You want the rest of the pad thai?”

  I shook my head no, more focused on not letting this opportunity to discuss the past slip away. “What about Mom? How did she feel about moving to the middle of nowhere?”

  “She had her issues,” he admitted reflectively. “But we were young and in love.”

  “So while you were busy at the hospital, Mom was writing press releases with Mrs. Winters, right? You know before I came into the picture.”