Bury the Lead

by Mischa Thrace

  “Had you ever had them before meeting him?” I ask.

  “Honey, I grew up a white girl in Maplefield. If you think restaurant pickings are slim now, you should’ve seen it back when your mom and I were in school. We had the drive-in during the summer and Gio’s for pizza. That’s it.” She sprinkles more flour on the dough and drives the heels of her hands into it. “No, I fell in love with food about the same time I fell in love with Ravi’s dad, in Boston. We did a culinary world tour without ever leaving the city. Every semester, we’d pick a continent, and we’d find as many restaurants that represented the countries as we could and try them all. Even then, I think Ravi’s dad wanted to be a chef, but he also wanted to please his family.”

  “Who wouldn’t be pleased to have an epic donut shop in the family?” But I know the answer. People like my father. People who think worth is tied to how much money you make.

  “Oh, they’re on board now. It’s just that Ravi’s dad came from a family of corporate types, and back then, business and banking was where it was at.”

  “According to my dad, that’s still how it is.”

  Mrs. B gathers the dough into a ball. “Pass me that bowl, would you, dear? Don’t you worry about your dad. You just stay true to who you are and what you want to do. He’ll come around.”

  “I hope you’re right. Hey, what was he like in high school?”

  Mrs. B laughs. “He was a few years older than your mom and me—they didn’t start dating until after graduation, which I’m sure you know—so I didn’t know him that well, but he was on the debate team and president of TAR —Teen Age Republicans—club. He was very into politics, always trying to rally people for different issues.”

  “That was actually a thing?” I can’t imagine such a club existing in a Massachusetts school. “Wait, did you guys have a shooting team too?”

  Mrs. B cocks her head like she’s trying to remember.

  “I saw a picture,” I explain. “I found it when I was doing research on the senior curse, and apparently, there was an actual gun club at the school.”

  “That rings a bell.” Mrs. B checks the pot of potatoes boiling on the stove. “But I’m not sure if it was a team or just a club. If it wasn’t basketball or cheerleading, it wasn’t really on my radar.”

  Even though I’ve seen pictures, I have a hard time picturing soft, motherly Mrs. B as a cheerleader.

  “Ravi said your research is going well?”

  “It is. It took some looking, but I think we found the origin of the curse. We were searching too far back for a while.” As I talk, I check my phone, looking for a message from Ravi, but there’s only a text from my mother. He probably stopped by The Donut Hole on his way home and got put to work. “I actually thought it might’ve started with your graduating class.”

  “Really?” She turns off the stove and puts a colander in the sink.

  “Yeah, we found a kid who died, James Blackwell, and Mom sa—”

  An unholy crash startles me as Mrs. B drops the pot of boiling potatoes and sends a cascade of foamy water pouring off the counter. I jump up, grabbing a dish towel. “Oh, shit. Are you okay?”

  Mrs. B’s rosy complexion has gone ghostly, and her shirt is dotted with droplets of potato water. She laughs—a thin, high sound that’s more animal than anything. “Oh, how clumsy! Don’t worry. It looks like most of them landed in the strainer anyway.”

  I drape the dish towel over the biggest puddle and tear off a length of paper towels to swipe at the counter. “Did you get burned?”

  “No, no, I’m fine,” Mrs. B says, but she sinks onto my empty stool and stares at something only she can see.

  I keep mopping up, and by the time the counter is dry, the color has returned to Mrs. B’s face. “All set. Potato catastrophe averted.”

  “I haven’t thought of James Blackwell in years.”

  “You knew him?”

  Mrs. B nods, a tight spasm of motion that looks almost painful.

  “You were friends?”

  “No. Your mom was friends with Jennifer, his sister—they were twins—but the rest of us, well, we thought they were weird. And they were. Weird. Him especially. But that doesn’t make what we did okay.”

  Mrs. B is being more than a little weird herself, but I don’t say so. Ravi needs to get home.

  “What do you mean, what you did? My mom didn’t say anything like that.”

  Mrs. B shakes her head. “Not your mom. The rest of us though…” She trails off into a silence that lasts long enough for me to imagine all sorts of scenarios, none of them good. The thought of my best friend’s mother being involved in her classmate’s death is enough to make me wonder how much I really want the truth. I won’t be able to unhear anything she’s about to say. But no. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t shy away from the pursuit of truth and neither will I. My inner journalist has to know.

  “You can tell me,” I say gently.

  “We were awful to him. We really were. At the time, it seemed harmless, the kind of jokes you do for laughs, but when I think about Ravi or Priya acting like that—or worse, being treated like that—it makes me sick.”

  “What happened?”

  Mrs. B’s gaze loses its eerie unfocused quality, and she meets my eyes. “We were bullies,” she says bluntly. “All of us. Not your mom, but the rest of us. The boys were the worst. They would push him and steal his stuff, but what I did was awful. I let Chad talk me into it. It was one prank, but I could’ve said no. Your mother tried to stop me, but I liked Chad and wanted to be cool, so I agreed.” She pauses, and a complicated mix of emotions flashes across her face before settling on one: shame. “Everyone knew James had a crush on me, so I hinted that he should ask me to homecoming, and when he did, I said yes, like Chad instructed. Then, on the night of the dance, I dumped him—right in front of everyone, during photos.” Mrs. B shakes her head, her remorse real and palpable. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done to another person. He killed himself shortly after.”

  Mrs. B excuses herself to the bathroom, and I’m grateful to be saved from having to reply. I have no idea what to do with this new information. Having a hard time seeing middle-aged Mrs. B as a cheerleader is one thing, but reconciling huggable, home-cooking, practically-a-second-mother Mrs. B with the image of a high school bully is impossible.

  I check my phone again for messages from Ravi, but still nothing. There’s a check-in from Mom though, and I tell her I’m at the Burmans’ for the night, then text Ravi: Did you get lost??

  I wait for the bouncing dots that would herald a reply but get nothing. Not even a little check mark to show it’s been opened.

  When Mrs. B returns, her face is damp, but her eyes are clear. “Okay, let’s see what we can do about this filling,” she says. “Be a dear and start mashing the potatoes while I get everything else.”

  I do as I’m told while Mrs. B slides a pile of diced onions into a sauté pan. Neither of us mentions James Blackwell again, even though I’m sure he’s on her mind as much as mine. We work in companionable silence, making the filling and rolling out dough, until Mr. B walks in and she goes to greet him.

  “Ravi’s not with you?” I ask.

  “No. Was I supposed to get him?” Mr. B shoots a nervous look at his wife like he might’ve screwed up.

  “Oh, no.” Mrs. B pats him on the arm. “He told me he was staying after school to finish the pictures he needed for his project. He should be back soon.”

  The hair on my neck stands up. “He told you that?”

  “He texted earlier, right after school. He didn’t tell you?”

  I shake my head slowly, wary of dislodging the thing picking at the edge of my brain. “But we have all the photos,” I say, more to myself than Ravi’s parents. “Except our own. There’s no reason…”

  I drop the spoon I’ve been using to scoop the spiced potato mixture onto the squares of dough and open my texts, not caring that I smear potato on the screen. My last message still hasn’t been re
ad. I reach for Mrs. B’s phone. “Can I see it? The text?”

  Mrs. B looks confused but hands her phone over. Her background is an old photo of Ravi and Priya at the beach, taken two or three summers ago. She doesn’t have a passcode, and I pull up the message I need: Hi Mom. Staying after 2 take pictures. Will b late. And check the time stamp: 3:34. Blood drains from my face and pools at my feet, making me sway.

  It’s wrong. The texts are wrong. I put a hand on the island to steady myself, check it again. It says Mom, just like I thought, and the confirmation makes the world tilt. He never calls Mrs. B Mom, only Ma, purely because it drives her nuts. And he never uses abbreviations.

  “Wait.” Synapses fire faster than my conscious mind can keep up with. The phone shakes in my hand, and I set it down before I drop it. The Burmans look at me like I’m losing it. I might be.

  “What’s the matter?” Mrs. B asks.

  I grab my own phone, open the gallery, and scroll until I find it—the photo from the library. “No. No, no, no.” The words come out like a moan. I look up at Mrs. B. “Your friends. Your high school friends. Who were they?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The boy! James. You and your friends, the ones who tormented him.” I don’t care that I sound unhinged. My mind is racing faster than logic, faster than it ever has in my life, and I’m not wrong. The hair on my arms and the vise on my heart tell me I’m not wrong, even though I want to be. “It was you. It was Emma’s dad. Who else?”

  “Maura Bannon.” Mrs. B’s wide eyes mimic my own. “And Billy Mackenzie. Why?”

  “Maura Bannon, she’s Maura Auger now, right?”

  “Well, yes. Why?” Mrs. B asks, bewildered.

  “And Billy Mackenzie, he was Liam’s father?”

  “Yes. Kennedy, what’s the matter?”

  “That’s it. That’s the connection.” The ground tilts beneath me, and I’m utterly unable to acknowledge or set aside the truth. “We were wrong. We were so, so wrong. It did start with your class.”

  The world tips again, shuffling the pieces in and out of place. The link is clear, but something is missing—a final connection not quite made.

  The photo I snapped of the obituary is fuzzy but readable. James Henry Blackwell, 17, passed away at home on December 9th. Today is the ninth.

  Every gut instinct screams that this is how Peter is choosing his victims. Not by looks, not because of his own scandal, but somehow because of this long-dead boy. My mind whirls in a frantic search for the connection. Could they be related? Could Peter have been bullied to the brink of suicide too? Is it a vigilante thing?

  It doesn’t matter. Not now. All that matters is stopping him.

  I snatch my keys from the counter as the bag of clear fluid hanging from the IV stand in Peter’s living room flashes across my brain, along with the fact that James died from an insulin overdose. “Call the police. Tell them Ravi’s missing, that he’s in danger. Tell them to look for Peter Vernon. They won’t believe me; you have to do it. Make them listen. I need to go. I need to find him.”

  Ravi’s parents try to stop me, try to make me explain, but there isn’t time. “Just call the police,” I shout and dart for The Planet.

  I call Ravi as I drive, but it dumps me straight to voice mail each time. I knew it would. That after-school text to Mrs. B was probably the last message to go out before whoever sent it powered down the phone.

  I open the Find My Friends app, something I installed for a story about cyberstalking but haven’t used since. I only have two people that I follow: Cassidy, who’s listed as being 187 miles away in New Gloucester, Maine, and Ravi, whose status says Location Unavailable. Shit.

  I call Priya, who answers on the third ring sounding wary. “Hello?”

  I do my best to set aside the panic coursing through my veins. Scaring the girl won’t help. “Pri, sorry to be weird, but have you talked to Ravi since school got out?”

  “Oh god, are you guys still fighting?” I can practically hear her roll her eyes. “He was wicked pissed at you this morning, but he’ll get over it.”

  “No, it’s not that. I was just wondering if you’d seen him is all. He’s late to dinner, and you know how rare that is.”

  “Ha, no shit. Did you try calling him?”

  I fight the urge to scream that I wouldn’t be calling his sister if he were answering his phone. “Yeah,” I say tightly. “But it’s off.”

  “Oh, weird,” Priya says in the verbal equivalent of a shrug. “Don’t know. His car was still at school when Sabrina’s mom picked us up, but I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

  “Okay, thanks anyway.” I hang up before Priya can say goodbye. “Don’t panic, don’t panic. You just have to think.”

  Even though it’s barely past seven, the sky is dark as midnight, and I barely slow at the stop sign when I see there’s no glow of headlights to signal any approaching cars.

  I need to be logical. I have to start with what I know, and what I know is that the last place anyone saw Ravi was at the school and that Kylie was killed there too, but I don’t let myself dwell on that second part. I can’t.

  I make it there in record time and almost cry when I see his car still sitting in its usual spot, looking lost and alone in the otherwise empty parking lot. I park next to it and nearly fall out of The Planet in my rush to look inside. I cup my hands to the window, hoping against hope that he’s inside, sleeping for some reason, or even injured and unconscious because at least he would be found and alive. But the car is empty, without even his messenger bag to show that he’d been in it at all since the morning.

  I whip around, searching the darkness like he might be lurking there, just out of sight. The headlights of The Planet illuminate the side of the building and cast spindly shadows up from the bushes that make me think of monsters.

  “Set. It. Aside,” I tell myself, needing the words to cut through the clutter of my panicked brain. And it works. I scramble back into The Planet, searching the passenger seat for my phone. This time, I open Find My iPhone, cursing myself for not trying it earlier, and click Sign Out. I enter Ravi’s ID and password and wait. Even though the phone is off, the app should still be able to report its last known location, which would reveal where the last text had been sent from. That will give me a lead.

  An eternity passes while the app processes the request, but then the little locator icon appears on the map, and at first, I think I’ve tracked my own device. According to Apple, the phone is right in front of me. But no, the bubble reads Ravi’s iPhone, and it sits directly over an aerial outline of the school.

  I’m running before my brain finishes processing the information. I slam into the main entrance door, hauling on the handle with all my might. It doesn’t budge. I slap at the buzzer, but the main office is dark, and I know there’s no one to let me in. I race around the building, searching for open windows and praying the back entrance will be pegged and ajar.

  The rear parking lot is dark, the quartet of towering lights that usually glow there standing stark and useless against the night sky. The light that should mark the rear entrance is also off, but I know where the door is even in the dark, in the alcove beyond the tree, and I yank it with all my might. It rattles against its lock. “No, no, no.”

  I race back around to the front of the building, where it’s illuminated enough to find a rock, a branch, anything I can use to smash a window. I don’t care if it sets off alarms. Hell, I hope it does.

  I search the ground near the bushes but find nothing big enough to do the trick. I sprint to The Planet and wrench open the trunk, hoping for a tire iron or a jack stand, but there’s nothing but a few wisps of hay.

  I slam the trunk shut, the reverberation juddering up my arm, and realize I’m looking at my way inside. It will be messy, and it’ll probably hurt, but the walkway to the main entrance is plenty wide enough to accommodate the car. If I back up, I should be able to get enough speed to barrel through the door. The p
arentals will kill me, and I’ll probably get expelled, but I don’t care. Every fiber of my being bellows that Ravi is inside and that he’s in danger. It’s gut instinct and logic all tangled up, and I couldn’t ignore it if I tried.

  I climb behind the wheel, strap the seat belt on as tight as it can go, and crank the key. The engine, still engaged, grinds in protest. Something niggles my brain as I shift into reverse. Something about turning keys. I shift back into park and put my hand on the key in the ignition, then erupt in a burst of wild, terrified laughter that leaves me gasping.

  I whip the seat belt off and climb through to the back seat. There. My backpack is on the floor, half under the passenger seat, but it’s there.

  I unzip the front compartment and dump it out, the overhead light illuminating a heap of papers, headphones, and lip balm. I rifle through it, spreading the contents everywhere until the glint of metal catches my eye. “Oh, fuck yes.”

  It’s the master key, the one we swiped from the custodial suite and used to break into the auditorium. The key I forgot to return. The key to finding Ravi. I turn off The Planet, whirling from how close I just came to willingly crashing the vehicle into a building, and launch myself at the main entrance.

  I clutch the key tight in my fist, the serrated edge biting into my palm, and pray to every god I can think of that this will work. I’m terrified that the exterior doors have their own master key, but when I steady my hands, the slim piece of metal slides right into the lock and turns with ease. I almost collapse with relief.

  I shoot a text to Priya—Tell your mom the school right now—and flick the phone to silent.

  I pause in the entryway to give my eyes a chance to adjust to the unlit halls. The empty building was eerie on the day we snuck in after Kylie’s death, but that was nothing compared to the utter stillness that surrounds me. The quiet seems to pulse like a living thing in the dark.

  I want to shout for Ravi, scream until he reveals himself, but I don’t. I can’t. Surprise is the only advantage I have.

  The main office is dark and silent as I pass. I’ll search it if I have to, but I think I know where to find them.