by S. Walden
I wandered down the main hallway looking for Hallway D. I quickly discovered how complicated the school layout was, mirroring that haunted mansion out west whose owner had workers building onto it every day until she died. Twists and turns that seemed to lead nowhere—a haphazard sort of architecture with no rhyme or reason. A person could get lost in here, and I wondered if it was designed that way on purpose. I imagined teachers snickering in the teachers’ lounge watching surveillance video of confused students scurrying about like rats trying to locate their classrooms. Perhaps it was one big psychological experiment.
I don’t know how, but I eventually stumbled upon Hallway D. Of course, I had no idea how to get to my first class from here, but I’d worry about that when the bell rang. Right now I scanned the lockers shoved on one side of the hall until I located mine. I stored away the few binders and notebooks I brought with me and slapped a magnetic mirror to the inside of the locker door. That was it. I was ready. I closed the door and looked around.
A few girls glanced my way as they passed by. I decided to smile, but they kept walking, either oblivious to my kind gesture or determined to keep me out of the fold. Whatever. I wasn’t looking to make friends. I was looking to annihilate Cal, and I watched as he walked towards me. I tensed, feeling uncertain about the outfit I chose to wear. I was usually only self-conscious around guys I was attracted to. I was certainly not attracted to Cal, but I found myself wanting to impress him. I needed to impress him. That was the whole point. If he found me unattractive or uninteresting, I’d have no chance. My entire plan would spoil like old fruit.
“It’s Brooklyn, right?” he asked, breezing right by me.
“Uh huh,” I replied, and watched as he disappeared down the hall flanked by his loser friends.
What the hell was that? And then I realized exactly what it was. He wasn’t going to make this easy for me. He was going to make me work for it, work to earn my place in the group of popular seniors. Work to earn the place right beside him.
Fuckhead.
That’s fine. I’d do whatever was necessary to achieve my goal. I’d swallow my pride if it meant seeing justice done. I took a deep breath and meandered down the hall, searching the classroom doors for 1A. Eventually I found it, and was pleased with myself that I beat the tardy bell. I walked in to find most seats already occupied and became instantly irritated.
I liked sitting on the outskirts of the classroom. No, that’s not quite right. I needed to sit on the outskirts of the classroom. But the only available seats were directly in the center of the room. I reluctantly settled in a row four seats from the front and tried hard to push down the instant anxiety.
I struggled with intense claustrophobia for as long as I could remember. I never took elevators, had to be completely sedated on airplanes, and always drove in the slow lane. I had access to the shoulder that way. I had an out. Now I sat with students surrounding me, and for a brief moment, I closed my eyes, imagining I was out in the middle of a great big field, empty space stretching as far as I could see in all directions. I succeeded in slowing my racing heart.
I learned this trick in therapy, discovering its effectiveness in certain situations. But it didn’t work in elevators. I learned that the hard way after trying to accelerate my progress, feeling rather cocky after having successfully flown on a plane across five states without a sedative. I thought I could totally handle an elevator, but soon found myself huddled on the floor screaming and breathing into a paper bag.
I looked to my right because I saw something beautiful in my peripheral vision. There he was, Funeral Guy, sitting on the edge of the room against the far window, staring ahead at nothing in particular. I started to shake and closed my eyes again, imagining the field. The problem was that he was in it, walking towards me, and before I could react, he gathered me in his arms and kissed me roughly. My God, he was hurting me, and I wanted him to! I kissed him back just as feverishly, and then felt his hands go to the button of my jeans. He didn’t ask for permission but started undressing me, like I didn’t have a choice.
My eyes flew open, and I shifted in my seat. This was incredibly inconvenient. Yes, a small part of me suspected that he went to this school. Why else would he be at Beth’s funeral? But I wasn’t prepared to see him in any of my classes. And I knew I couldn’t get involved with him. For one, I had no idea if he was even attracted to me. Two, I couldn’t very well pursue him when I was trying to get Cal’s attention. Three, I had sworn off boys, Cal notwithstanding.
Stupid Cal. He was already ruining my life, and my plan hadn’t even started coming to fruition. I glanced at Funeral Guy again. He was staring straight at me, and my elbow jerked involuntarily, knocking my notebook off my desk. I reached down to retrieve it and slammed my forehead on the side of the desk.
“Motherfucker!” I hissed, and heard a tiny gasp next to me.
“You okay?” a girl asked.
I rubbed my sore head and sat up. “Does it look bad?” I moved my hand so the girl could get a good look.
“It’s just a little red,” she said, smiling.
I rolled my eyes at the chuckling that ensued behind me.
“I just love being the source of the joke,” I said, jabbing a thumb towards the back of the room.
The girl turned around in the direction of the laughter, her smile fading instantly, and I watched as her face filled with something unsettling. I wasn’t absolutely sure, but I thought it was fear. She whipped her head back around.
“Don’t worry about them,” she said quietly, fidgeting with her pen.
“I’m not,” I replied, a little offended that she assumed I’d cared so much what those students thought about me.
I turned around to look at them. I’ve no idea when Cal walked into the room, but I felt my face go instantly hot. He grinned at me and waved. I placed my hand back over my forehead and shrugged, rolling my eyes. He shrugged back, the friendly gesture unnerving me. I didn’t want him to be so damn nice, but wasn’t that the way of predators? If they came across intimidating or frightening, they’d never have the opportunity to attack.
I turned back around. My forehead still throbbed. “I’m Brooke, by the way,” I said, addressing the girl.
“Lucy.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Lucy smiled but said nothing. She was a pretty, petite blonde with large hazel eyes. She reminded me of a bird—small bones, fragile body. I thought she could stand to eat more, but then maybe she ate like a horse and never packed on weight. I watched her open her notebook when she heard the classroom door open. The teacher entered, and I tried to pay attention, though it was hard with Funeral Guy to my right and Cal to my back. The idea of Cal sitting behind me, watching me when I was powerless to move, really pissed me off. I’m sure he enjoyed it. I’m sure he would enjoy all fifty-one minutes of it, and I closed my eyes again, trying to conjure the field.
***
I had to be at work in an hour, giving me just enough time to do a little investigating.
Lucy.
Something didn’t sit right with me about her, not because she seemed like a bad person, but because she seemed genuinely frightened of Cal and his cronies in class this morning. I wanted to know who she was. A tiny part of me suspected the worst, but I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. I wanted my intuition to be wrong as I tore open Beth’s freshman yearbook which her mother had given me.
I found Lucy on the third page—Homecoming—and she was the freshmen princess. I studied her. She was posed in a wave, acknowledging the cheers erupting from the stadium bleachers. She looked happy grasping her escort’s arm. I flipped through several more pages before I spotted her on the varsity cheerleading spread. There she was, smiling brightly, suspended in the air in a cheerleading move called the Liberty. I knew the move because I used to be tossed in the air to do the same thing. Her form was perfect, and I felt a tiny bit of jealousy. It was stupid, but it was there all the same.
I continued s
canning, finding her on a host of other pages: yearbook club, chorus, volleyball. I froze when I landed on the prom page. Lucy was there, dancing with Cal, his arms wrapped tightly around her small waist, holding her protectively. No, possessively. My mind started racing. Was Cal her date? Did he take her home? Did he rape her before he took her home?
I tore open Beth’s sophomore yearbook. I scanned all the sports and social activities pages, but found no pictures of Lucy. She was featured only on the sophomore class spread. I stared at her picture, but I didn’t see anything in her eyes or the way she smiled that evoked the happy, social freshman. There was something empty about that smile, like she didn’t believe it and didn’t expect anyone else to.
I flipped through Beth’s junior yearbook. No Lucy. Anywhere. Even her picture on the junior class spread was missing, a “No Photo Available” in place of it.
My heart clenched, and I wondered how I could ache for a person I didn’t know. I suspected other victims, but I didn’t want to discover them. It would complicate my plan. I wanted justice for Beth. I was responsible for her. I was willing to sacrifice myself for her, but I didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else. And I didn’t want the knowledge of any other rapes to grow Cal into a horrific monster that frightened me. I couldn’t do anything to him if I was scared of him.
I tossed the yearbook aside and checked my watch. It was time to go, and I was grateful for the distraction, grabbing my apron that was slung over the desk chair and hurrying out of the house.
***
“What are you doing here?” I asked as I approached Gretchen.
“What do people normally do in restaurants?” she replied.
I smirked and grabbed the pen from behind my ear.
“I told you I would call you when I got home,” I said, flipping to a clean sheet on my order pad.
“Yeah, but I couldn’t wait that long,” Gretchen confessed.
“I’m busy tonight, Gretchen. I can’t hang around and chat,” I said. I glanced at my other tables. No refills needed. No one looking to get my attention. Good so far.
“I know, Brooke. I’ll hang out until the crowd dies down.”
“You’re gonna hang out at one of my tables all night?” I asked. “You better leave me one hell of a tip. I’m trying to make money here.”
“Relax,” Gretchen said. “Do your job well, and I’ll take care of you.” She winked, and I scowled.
“Hilarious. Really,” I muttered. “What do you want?”
“This salad thing and a Diet Coke,” she answered, pointing to the menu.
“Fine,” and I made my way to the order station. I punched in Gretchen’s order, then went to pour her a Diet Coke.
I started my waitressing job the day after I moved in with my dad. I got the job because I lied about having experience waiting tables, and the manager was so grateful he wouldn’t have to train someone. He repeated that sentiment about ten times during the interview, and I almost confessed my lack of experience out of pure guilt. And fear. No training whatsoever?
I was good at bullshitting, but waiting tables was hard. You had to be quick. You had to remember everything. You had to try your hardest not to piss anyone off, especially your customers. And the hostesses. They wouldn’t seat anyone in your section if you pissed them off. The truth was that I hadn’t a clue what I was doing, but I learned quickly after a cook, dishwasher, and expediter all yelled at me my first night.
“Put the fucking order in the fucking computer, Wright!” Terry, the main chef, had yelled after I asked him why my order wasn’t up for Table 12.
“I wrote it down for you,” I said, pointing to my handwritten order form lying on the counter next to his grill.
“Fucking teenagers,” he mumbled as he picked up the sheet, crumbled it, and threw it in the flames.
“Hey! What the hell?!” I cried.
He pointed to the computer.
“You burned my order,” I seethed.
“You didn’t have it memorized?” he asked.
I flipped him off and stormed out of the kitchen, apologizing profusely to Table 12 for needing to retake their order. Thankfully, they were nice about it and asked if it was my first day on the job. I didn’t expect a good tip and was surprised when they left me a little extra. It was pity change, but I’d take it all the same.
I was caught off guard when I approached Gretchen once more with her drink. She sat staring transfixed, and I followed her gaze to a family that had just been seated. I nearly dropped the glass but refused to take my eyes off the family. Or rather, him. Funeral Guy. Again. Did he know I worked here? How ludicrous, and completely egotistical. I had to keep reminding myself that the world did not, in fact, revolve around me.
“Damnit, Brooke!” Gretchen cried. “You spilled Coke all over me!”
I tore my eyes away from Funeral Guy to look at Gretchen’s shirt. There were two tiny dark spots just to the left of her breast. I rolled my eyes.
“All over you, huh?”
“This is Bebe, bitch,” she replied.
I grinned. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Yeah. Sure you don’t. You better start setting aside your tip money if this shit doesn’t wash out.”
“Oh, Gretchy,” I said.
“Do not call me that,” she warned, and then her tone changed in a flash. “Now, check out that hottie over there.” She pointed to Funeral Guy. My hottie. I already decided to claim him.
I was itching to see her reaction. “Gretchen, that’s Funeral Guy.”
“No fucking way!” she squealed, and a couple with three small children seated near her turned in her direction and scowled.
“This is a family restaurant,” the mother barked.
“No fucking way,” Gretchen replied, mock bewilderment painted all over her face.
“Gretchen,” I said quietly.
The mother huffed and turned back to her husband. I could hear them mumbling and wondered how long it would take the manager to hear the complaint and kick Gretchen out. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?
“That’s the guy you ran into at the funeral?” she asked.
I nodded. “And he’s in two of my classes.”
“I totally hate you,” Gretchen said. “Life is so unfair.”
I shrugged.
“Is he sitting in your section?” she asked.
“No, thank God! I’d probably say or do something totally embarrassing,” I said. “I smacked my forehead on the side of my desk today. He saw it. It happened because he was looking at me.”
Gretchen screwed up her face. “I don’t get it. His hotness made you convulse or something?”
I laughed. “No. He made me drop my notebook, and when I bent down to get it, I smacked my head.”
“How embarrassing,” Gretchen said.
“Yeah, I seem to have a knack for doing embarrassing things around him. I don’t know why he makes me so giddy and stupid.”
“Because you want to sleep with him. Hello?” Gretchen replied. “And now I totally understand why.” She turned back in his direction. “He’s fu—”
“Bleh!” I screamed. “Don’t say that word in here!”
“Oh my God,” Gretchen said. “Whatever. He’s freaking hot. Happy? Now go over there and talk to him.”
“You really are deluded,” I replied, and left for the kitchen.
Terry and I had since mended our fragile relationship. He apologized the same night he yelled at me and burned my order. And for telling the manager to fire me. After work that night, he offered to buy me a drink, and when I said I was only eighteen, he asked, “So what?”
“I don’t know,” I had replied. “Maybe it’s illegal or something like that.”
“It’s only illegal if you get caught,” he explained, and I knew he was bad news. I’d stay away from him and his ten tattoos.
“Wright!” Terry yelled as I walked through the kitchen door. “Get your skinny ass over here and pick up your fuckin
g orders! You’re taking up the whole shelf space!”
I saluted him and grabbed a tray, carefully stacking all of my orders for three tables, Gretchen’s included.
I made my way through my section, serving food to people who looked genuinely shocked and delighted. I wondered if I acted that way at restaurants without knowing: shocked and delighted to see a plate coming my way, like I didn’t know to expect it. I was at a freaking restaurant, after all. People were so stupid.
“His name is Ryan,” Gretchen said when I approached her with her salad.
“I know. They take attendance in class. But how do you know?”
“I overheard his little sister say his name,” she replied, grinning.
“Gretchen, leave it alone,” I said.
Gretchen picked up her fork and pushed it tentatively through her salad. I waited. When she finished her assessment, I asked what else she needed.
“Ryan’s phone number,” she said.
I gave her an even look.
“Hey, if you’re not gonna take a shot, then I will.”
“I don’t think so,” I replied and looked over at Ryan. He spotted me, and I watched him do a once over on me with his eyes. It didn’t feel sleazy or gross like when Cal did it. Ryan did it blatantly, like he meant for me to see him, and I didn’t know what to make of it. I was a progressive woman living in a progressive world. Shouldn’t I feel offended? I’m no object, buster!
But I couldn’t pretend to be offended. I was flattered, and I smiled at him, though I knew it would be a mistake. He grinned back, and the trouble started. Right there, in that moment. I should have turned and walked away. But I didn’t. I smiled, and in that instant, my simple plan to pursue Cal, make him hurt me, then make him pay for it, became anything but simple.
Four
The rest of the school week went by in a flash. I made little progress with Cal and even less with Lucy. I thought I could be friends with her, but she remained distant, closed up. She was nice enough in class, always greeting me and asking how work was going, but they were superficial niceties meant to keep me at a distance. By Friday, I figured she harbored horrible secrets. I don’t know why I needed or wanted to know them. I told myself not to get involved with anyone else’s problems. I had a big enough job for one. I couldn’t be the hero for an entire group of victims.