GIRLS HUG THEIR TEXTBOOKS. BOYS move tall like expectant soldiers, as if there’s a war coming that’s not all fun and games. Teachers stand together in solidarity. But we all move slower, uncertain. It’s hard to tell sides, if there are sides.
A single reporter lurks outside on the public sidewalk with a ready microphone. Nobody talks to her. My grandpa says we are a reticent people.
In the teachers’ lot, a police cruiser sits innocently among the minivans and sedans.
I keep my head high. Why be ashamed if you’ve done nothing wrong?
A piece of paper sticks out from my locker door. Elegant cotton stationery, thick vellum from her mom’s desk. Her cursive is sharp and small.
I think we should talk.
I didn’t tell you everything.
We have to talk. Like old times.
Love, Sadie.
I fold the note into a perfect square and place it in my bra strap. In the summers, when she rose up from the public pool grinning after snatching ankles and dunking children, her hair clung to her white neck like gold slime. Her eyes were red, and she loved my name.
Unexpected laughter down the hall. Paul leans against his locker dressed in blue jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. He lets Marybeth rub the bald dome of his head. The burn isn’t obvious but shines with salve. I’m sure he’s already explained it, his clumsy welding. His face reveals nothing. He tells jokes, makes them laugh. For a disorienting moment, he even fools me.
His eyes lock with mine, a shared secret in the dark. Then he goes to shop class.
We were together once, against that tree, feeling each other’s heat. He whispered my name, kissed my ear. I’ve kept that moment close. I’m thankful for it. But he was uncomfortable, frightened, like a trapped thing. He went limp in my palm. Mom says when you’re that close to a man, you can’t see him clearly.
A shrine by the cafeteria. His niece got to work fast. A large board with a red, white, and blue frame, photos of him and his family, him in his uniform, him smiling over a birthday cake with a square jaw, holding his newborn son, squeezing his plump wife. Another, army Kevlar strong with an M60 machine gun balanced lethally in his hands. It’s easy to tell which photos are after Iraq. Like Uncle Tom, his face is scarred, stripped by shrapnel. He survived it all and returned home to his family, but he didn’t survive me.
After first-period history, I vomit in the bathroom’s farthest stall, my swastika carving erased by clumpy white paste. In fourth grade, Jessica Smithburger burst in and stole my pants, tore them from my ankles, and laughed. I screamed and slapped at her, but I was so ashamed I soon gave up and covered myself. She fled and took my new Levi’s, the ones grandpa Shoemaker bought me for Christmas. I had to wait for a teacher to come. I stood shivering and crying with my hands cupping my crotch, and then I had to tell her what happened, which was almost worse than the event itself. Jessica denied it, said, “That fatty’s a liar. I didn’t take her ugly pants. Gross!” They were never found, and she never confessed, never gave up her story. This is why she didn’t get in trouble.
My mom was silent on the ride home, disappointed, said, “If some trifling bitch can just rip the pants off your legs, what will happen when a man tries?” She told me I had to defend myself. In this world, we all have to defend ourselves. We can be avenged, we can maybe even get justice later, but nobody can stop the actual event while it’s happening, except ourselves. I cried. I cried a lot as a kid, and she endured it. I said those were my favorite pants, the ones with the butterflies on the pockets. She’d said I deserved to lose them.
I always lock the stall door now. And I always fight back.
Before I can get to class, Mr. Cooper stops me in the hall. His voice is calm but fast. He asks me to accompany him to his office.
“What’s wrong? Is my brother okay?”
“This isn’t about your brother.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Just come with me, please.”
Everyone watches me leave with him. He selected me from the group, pulled me out for inspection, proclaimed to the entire school, This one. This one is wrong.
He leads me to the front office and tells me, “An officer wants to speak with you.”
“Like a police officer?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“I’ll see if he’s ready for us.” Mr. Cooper knocks on his own door.
I hadn’t expected this to happen at school. I don’t know particular laws or my exact rights in this situation. But I know it would be dumb to complain. Grandpa Shoemaker hates cops. There were a few who joined him, who he called brother. But for the most part, the police are law-honoring people who despise him.
I recognize the officer. His gold name tag: Durum. His body is a solid block capped with black hair, hungry jowls, and eager brown eyes.
“Have a seat, Ms. Wirkner.”
Cory Durum is only nine years older than me. He has a mastiff named Bunny whose back comes up to my waist. He wants to breed her. He came into the clinic wanting to know if anyone in town had a male that wasn’t clipped. I pulled up some records and gave him some names and addresses. Later Dr. Rogers reprimanded me for breaking patient confidentiality. Animal and human health records are no different, he’d said.
Mr. Cooper sits behind his desk in an effort to maintain his authority.
Cory explains that he’s here to protect my privacy. The Media is everywhere.
“We didn’t want them to see us talking to you, taking you down to the station. We wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea.”
Down to the station; a boy who thinks he’s on TV.
“Is that okay?” he asks. “Would you mind talking to me?”
“Sure.”
“Good.” He opens a little black composition book. “Then let’s start.”
Paul only asked once about my grandpa Shoemaker, the missing people, all the killings. We had to know. We had to know something. He asked if I ever considered turning him in, telling the police everything. I couldn’t look at him when I said, “No, absolutely not.” He said, “Okay.” I didn’t speak to him for over a week. He didn’t speak to me either. I felt strange, lost. Something intimate had been ruined. Something I couldn’t even name had been revealed. But I know I did well. Families must keep their secrets. It’s in the blood.
“Do you drive a black Ford pickup truck?” he says.
“Yes. I do.”
“Whose truck was it originally?”
“My grandfather’s.”
“Barton Shoemaker.”
“Yes.”
“Does he still drive it, ever?”
“No.”
“When did your grandpa sign it over?”
“When I got my license. Two years ago. Why is this important?”
“It come with new tires?”
“New tires?”
“Yes. Are you driving the same tires as when he owned it?”
They’re balding, almost down to the rim, need to be replaced before winter comes. My face burns. I forgot something. “Yes. I guess I am.”
He writes a note. “Your parents don’t drive it?”
“Only when Dad’s won’t start, which is often enough.”
“When’s the last time they drove it?”
“I don’t know. About a week ago, maybe. Mr. Cooper, what’s this all about?”
“Answer the officer, Amy.”
“Were you driving it Sunday night?”
“Ah.” I rest back in the chair. “I see.”
“What do you see?”
“No. I wasn’t driving it that night.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was hanging out with my friend Paul.”
“Paul McCormick.”
“Yeah.”
“How did you get to his house if you weren’t driving?”
“He picked me up at my place.”
His eyes widen. “When was this?”
“Around eight or so, I’d say. He was just out cruising, swung by my house to see what I was up to. My dad was… indisposed, I guess.”
“Indisposed?”
“Drinking. Had a drunk on.”
“So, what did you do, at his place?”
“We watched a movie.”
“You guys are good friends, huh?”
“Pretty good.”
“Dating?”
“No.”
“You want to be?”
I stare at him. His eyes leave mine and assess my stomach. The ground feels unsteady.
“I only ask, because I’d figure you’d want to be, if you weren’t. See what I mean?”
“We aren’t dating,” I say.
“Were you guys watching a romance or something? Horror flick?”
“No. We watched The Goonies.”
He smiles, little teeth. “ ‘One-Eyed Willy’s rich stuff.’ ”
“That’s right.”
“You guys stay in, or did you venture out along Route 800?”
I feign confusion because that’s what he expects from an innocent human being. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“You know why I’m asking all this, right?”
“I think so.”
“Paul’s got a black truck. Both of you got black trucks. What’re the odds of that?”
“Don’t know. His is a Toyota, newer than mine, still has the original clear coat.”
“You know a lot about vehicles.”
“Not really. I know what paint is.”
“And black’s a good color?” He motions to his uniform.
“I think so. My grandpa always said, ‘The good guys dress in black.’ It was this phrase on a billboard over in Wheeling, under an image of a police officer and a priest.”
“I know old Barton didn’t say that. For him, the good guys dress in white linens. Right?”
“If you like. I don’t know. He bought a black truck.”
Cory scratches his neck, a silver chain. At the veterinary clinic he was off duty, wore jeans and a Barnesville Shamrocks T-shirt. On the end of that chain is a crucifix. Grandpa told me that a man who wears a cross can’t be trusted. Nor can a man who prays before one. He didn’t like crosses, my grandpa Shoemaker. What he liked was burning them.
“So you two just stayed in that basement all night watching Spielberg. Your truck stayed at home, and his stayed in the driveway.”
“Yes.”
“And he never left?”
“No.”
“And you never left.”
“No.”
Outside the window, in the enclosed courtyard under broad daylight, Paul sits beside Officer Hastings, who’s drinking a large coffee from McDonald’s. Paul has a milkshake. His face is flushed. His scalp shines. They look like old friends in a park. After a moment, I breathe. It’s a stage set for me, to ruin me.
“So, when did Paul take you home, Amy?”
“He didn’t. My mom stopped by.”
“Why didn’t Paul take you back?”
“Mom was already in town at Frank’s. Figured it’d be easier. I was also worried about her. Thought she might be exactly where she was. She leaves a lot, gets into things she shouldn’t. I always worry.”
“You’re the child, Amy. She’s the parent. Remember that.” Cory makes a mark in his notebook. “Although, I understand you’re eighteen now, a legal adult. Is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“So. What time was this? When you texted her. Maybe around eleven?”
“I think so.”
“The Goonies is not a three-hour movie.” He keeps his pen ready. In that silence, Mr. Cooper’s stomach growls.
“Okay,” I say. “We did other things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Friendly things. And we drank, a lot. We got drunk. Neither of us could drive.”
It takes him a moment. He doubts Paul would even touch me, a girl like me.
“Can your mom verify she picked you up?”
“Yes. What is this about?”
“You know what this is about.”
“Do I need a, I don’t know, lawyer or something?”
“Call one if you’d like. But we’re just talking.”
“This is not just talking.”
“When did you text her again? Ten thirty?”
“Sometime around there.”
“Maybe you should check your phone, just to be sure.”
“Now?”
“Right now,” he says.
“I don’t have my phone.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t bring it to school.”
“Whoa.” He grins. “That’s dedication.”
“Amy is in the top ten of her class,” Mr. Cooper says.
“Impressive. Her grandpa’s smart, too. Must be genetic. Kind of like violence. Are you a violent person, Ms. Wirkner? Do you have a history of violence here at this school?”
I start to speak. But the words get trapped in my throat. Those lies choke me.
“Amy,” Mr. Cooper says, “has had a few fights here and there, but she is a good student, and it was always Principal Bradfield’s and my judgment that she was in all cases not instigating but rather responding to bullying.”
“Bullying?”
“Yes. Because of her… because of Amy’s weight.”
“Hm. Well, kids can be cruel. This young lady seems like an ideal student, through and through. Seems like she’s going places. What do you think of that, Amy? You going places?”
“I’m not a violent person.”
“You know, if you think about it, Demont is a bully. A big fat one. I mean, some people really hate fracking. You know of any people like that?”
“I don’t hate fracking. My parents lease to Demont. We get a check every month.” I nod at his lap. “Why don’t you write that down?”
Mr. Cooper sits forward, watches me over his glasses, but that is all.
“What about Paul?”
“I’m not sure what he thinks,” I say.
“His daddy’s got emphysema, from the mines. And to add insult to injury, he got laid off without a pension once Demont came. I assume you know all that?”
“I know all that.”
“How did Paul take that news?”
“He was very, very sad.”
“Come on, quit bullshitting me.”
“I guess you’d have to ask him, Officer. I can’t speak for him.”
“I’ll do that, Ms. Wirkner.”
After a moment, I say, “It’s actually Wirkner.”
“What?”
“My name. My family pronounces it Virkner. We always have. My ancestors refused to change it, the spelling. The W is a V sound. Like violin.”
“Virkner? Have I really been saying it wrong?”
“No,” Mr. Cooper says. “There’s just two ways to say it.”
“Must be tiring, correcting people all the time.”
“Not really,” I say. “Most people know.”
“Everyone who knows you.”
“I guess.”
He writes in his black notebook for a long time.
The same day grandpa Shoemaker heard about my pants, he showed up on the porch. He said nothing. His new truck shined jet-black in the driveway. I’d hid in my room and told myself I’d hide there forever. He coaxed me out, always a dapper old man with blue jeans and a black dress shirt, top buttons undone to reveal white chest hairs. His arms the color of bone, a rarity in our area of sunburned rednecks, tanned leather skin, men like my father, whose faces held the sun from farming and construction. Grandpa’s work was night work, and his face held the moon. He told me to hop in and take a ride, said, “Come on, beautiful, let’s cruise.” He let me roll down the window and stick my head out, my hair like a cape.
It was the Pumpkin Festival that year, smell of fried grease and smoked meat and sweet kettle corn, pumpkin spice and cinnamon from the bread ovens on Main Street. We walked beneath the bright lights, the orange and red and yellow glows that transformed the town into a magical place. He held my hand. I wondered how many people he’d killed with that hand and if they deserved it. He wasn’t scary, not evil like my dad said. I never felt afraid when I was with him. We split an elephant ear outside a church, sat and watched people pass. He blew powdered sugar from his yellow mustache and licked his fingers. I expected him to say something firm and sad, some reprimand, some awful truth about how the world was. But he didn’t say anything. He gave me money so I could play a game where I tossed Ping-Pong balls into little water glasses. I landed one, and he carried around my goldfish in a plastic bag of cloudy water. Crowds seemed to part reverently; most admired or feared him. That day he got me out among people, saved me from that trailer, my own sadness. And with him I felt stronger. I felt protected. I felt safe. I was a little girl and had to tilt my head up to see him. And I felt proud in his shadow.
“What cell phone carrier do your parents use?” Cory says.
“I don’t know.”
“What’s your number, then?”
“You want my number?”
He grins. “I’m not asking for a date, not going to write it on my hand or anything, but yeah. Give me your number.”
“I don’t think I will.”
“Really? You’re not going to give me your number?”
“No. I’m trying to be helpful, but I don’t like your tone.”
“My tone?” He laughs. “Want to know what I think? I think you’re a loyal friend. And I think you’re being taken advantage of. Don’t be stupid. Tell me what really happened.”
“I am telling you. I don’t know what the hell you want.” I must stay. I remain indifferent, unimpressed, not guilty of anything but youth. “This is wrong. I don’t like this.”
“Listen to me. What if saving him meant hanging yourself?”
I look at Mr. Cooper. “May I go?”
“I honestly don’t know, Amy.”
“You’re not thinking, Ms. Wirkner. A man was murdered. Paul is seventeen. You’re eighteen. Even if you’re just an accessory, some gullible fat girl who fell for the wrong bad boy, things won’t go well for you, unless you talk. Talk now.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard.
“And now you’re quiet. See, girl. You’re not that smart. Talk to me.”
The door opens. Hastings’s presence cools the room. His hair resembles Sadie’s, fair and thin where the comb sliced through, over a clean-shaven, angular face, white teeth and thin lips, a lean and tall wholesomeness.
“You still bothering this girl, Cory?”
“He’s laying it on pretty thick,” Mr. Cooper says. “Too much, I’d say.”
“Thank you both for your cooperation,” Hastings says. “This won’t last much longer, Ms. Wirkner.”
“Figures, you’d say her name right.” Cory turns to his partner. “I’m sensing some knowingly misleading comments from this girl, bud. We value transparency here, Amy. And you can’t have transparency with disingenuous statements.”
“You mean lying,” I say. “Telling lies. You’re calling me a liar.”
Hastings drinks his coffee, watches me over the rim, a seawater gaze.
“You have very distinct eyes, young lady. Cory, did you notice those?”
“Yeah, almost orange.”
“Very interesting eyes,” Hastings says.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I grew them myself.”
Cory points at my clenched hands. “Her eyes don’t reveal much, but her body does.”
“You trying to scare me?”
“You don’t seem easily scared,” Hastings says.
“That’s right.”
Hastings pulls up a chair. “I’d like to finish this real quick, stop wasting your time.”
“Good. I’m not at all comfortable with how these questions present me.”
“We appreciate your help. This is all unofficial.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“So, you know Steven Forsythe?”
“No. Only saw him at the farmers market.”
He smiles, handsome. “Did you do it?”
“Do… what?”
“Blow up that tank and kill Steven Forsythe.”
I’d expected every question but that one, the direct one. His voice is too familiar.
“No,” I say.
“Okay. You know of course Demont’s offering a thirty-thousand-dollar reward.”
I remain very still, numb and boiling apart.
“Pretty shitty thing to do,” Hastings says. “They’re making us turn on each other.”
“Can’t blame them,” I say. “They want the man responsible.”
“I’m convinced Steve’s death was an accident.”
“I wish I could help you, Officer.” I shrug. “I really do. But I don’t know anything.”
He blinks, swift dilations. “Do you know about right and wrong?”
“What?”
“Right and wrong. You think it’s that simple?”
I focus on Mr. Cooper’s glasses. “Sure. There’s right and wrong. It’s that simple.”
Hastings places his hands in front of me, as if in prayer. He wiggles his long alabaster fingers back and forth. “There is a curious semantic hinge with the words right and wrong. A simple hinge. It can be said that a hammer is the right tool for inserting a nail and the wrong tool for inserting a screw. That is not the same meaning of right and wrong when they are used morally to produce feelings of praise and blame, good and evil. But we pretend it is.”
I search that charming pretense of a face until I’m absolutely sure I have no idea what I’m really looking at. I’m not the only one performing here.
“Jesus, Hastings.” Cory chuckles. “What the hell?”
“I’m not talking about right and wrong like that,” I say. “That tool way.”
“No?” Hastings says.
“No. I’m not.”
“Well, what else. Do you own a gun?”
“No.”
“Your parents?”
“Dad has a revolver, I think. Mom’s got an AK-47. Look. I know you have a job to do. I’m sorry I’m not more helpful. But Paul and I were together watching a movie and drinking beer. We don’t know anything about this. I don’t know how else to say it.”
“Thank you for your time, Amy.” He reaches in his front pocket, pulls out a card. “Let us know if you think of anything. We might be in touch later.”
I stand quickly. My legs barely hold me. I sling my backpack over my shoulder. “All this because I got a black truck?”
“Police work is an imprecise science,” Hastings says.
“You sure you got nothing to share with us, girl?” Cory asks.
“If I did, I’d tell you.”
Hastings extends his hand. “We thank you again for your time and cooperation. We’re just narrowing down the facts presented to us.”
It takes me a moment, but I shake his hand. His skin is so cold I almost flinch, but his index finger sneaks past and touches my wrist, presses as if testing for a pulse. His nail taps the vein three delicate times. Then he lets go.
“Take care, Ms. Wirkner.”
Mr. Cooper guides me past them. My vision hazes.
Sadie’s just outside the door, sitting beneath an ambient painting of a mulberry tree, her head high and expectant. Unlike me, she’s confidently feminine.
“What’s happening, Amy?”
“I just got interrogated.”
“They told me to come. Are you alright?”
Cooper takes me past her. I try to speak with my eyes. I slowly shake my head. It could mean anything, but she’ll know. If anyone can hear my thoughts, it’s still her.
“Ms. Schafer,” Mr. Cooper says. “They’re ready for you.”
“What’s going on?” she says.
“You have to come in to see.”
“I should call my mom.”
“You don’t need to call your mom.” His aluminum gaze captures her. “It’ll be okay.”
The courtyard entrance is past the stairway. I resist the urge to scream his name, but Paul isn’t there, just an empty stone bench. In the window across, Sadie sits down. A spidery hand grips her shoulder as the door shuts. Mr. Cooper pulls down the blinds.
Paul should be in study hall, but he isn’t. Panic gnashes my ribs.
The halls become tunnels. Familiar faces pivot behind small windows, watch me pass from chambered classrooms.
Outside, the wind wraps me close. I run down the path just in time to see his truck speed from the parking lot. His taillights sink over the hill. I reach for a phone I don’t have.
I could chase after him, run to him. But how would that appear?
I should be in chemistry, but I have to see Sadie. I have to know.
Rachel Corbin sits outside the front office, a mousy girl who always has her head in a book. Sadie says she’d be pretty if she made the effort, did something with her stringy hair, took advantage of her top heaviness and lost the glasses.
I join her on the bench. She reads a book and thumbs the plastic cover, wipes at her nose.
“Don’t sit too close,” she whimpers. “I’m sick. My dad’s picking me up soon.”
I have a perfect view of Cooper’s shut door. “What’re you reading?”
She presents the cover, a white church with a steeple, a tidewater bay. “Ring Around the Rosary. It’s a murder mystery on an island in Virginia, back in colonial times during a typhus outbreak. A village minister’s killed. Abigail Washington tries to solve the crime.”
“You like that kind of stuff, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. I love it.” She coughs phlegm and swallows. “Gross. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just spit it out. Your body’s trying to get rid of it.”
She fans the pages. “The best part’s the surprise. Just got to know what happens next, you know, trying to figure out which one of his parishioners did it.”
“A real whodunit.”
“Yeah.”
I try not to reveal her for the distraction she is. “So. All these people are dying, and this Abigail’s upset about the minister?”
“Yes. He was her friend, baptized her. His name’s Father Malone, and he taught her how to read. And, you know, there’s a murderer loose in the colony.”
“Everyone’s dying.”
“Yeah, a lot from the disease, not murder.”
“Right.”
“I just like the story. It’s a good story.”
An engine roars outside. Tires screech fast. A familiar SUV pulls up on the curb. Sadie’s mom bursts out. She races forward on high heels, a long, spindly gait with pumping arms. Empowered in her gray suit and white blouse, her business-lady coif doesn’t move in the wind, a shiny helmet of hard hair spray. She comes in so fast she doesn’t even see me, just charges into the front office and goes straight for Mr. Cooper’s door, throws it open and yells, “Sadie, not another fucking word!”
“Whoa,” Rachel says.
Mrs. Schafer pulls Sadie out by the wrist. The officers talk at her, but she moves too fast.
“Sadie!” I rush forward. “You okay?”
She is red-eyed and afraid. She mouths something to me. It looks like I’m sorry.
Her mom yanks her outside. “No, Sadie! Let’s go!”
Soon Sadie’s in the passenger seat, looking after me as they speed away.
“Amy?” Rachel says. “Are you alright?”
Cooper cleans his glasses with a tissue. Durum makes a call on his cell, explains.
Hastings watches me. The sharpest smile slices his cheek. Then he winks.