Wednesday Afternoon, Continued
My English teacher was talking about the symbolism in the novel we were supposed to have read for class, although I hadn’t bothered. I’d find a summary online before our test, or I’d get Paisley to talk about it. She liked to discuss the plot points and literary symbolism of the overly involved novels our teacher liked. If she chose something fun, like The Sandman, I’d actually read it. My thoughts slipped back to Sarah. I was still shocked we weren’t talking about her in class, but our teacher said by this point in the day we probably needed a break and a chance to think about something else.
I wish I could think about something else.
The door opened, and a freshman girl I knew by sight came in with an orange slip in her hand. The teacher broke off lecturing to take it.
“Harper, you’re wanted in the counseling center.”
“Huh?” I sat up. Someone giggled behind me. Emma.
“You heard me. Get going so we can resume class.”
I gathered up my notebook and yet-to-opened novel about bell jars from the 1960s. I’d already been to the principal’s office today and had a brief chat with the grief guru brought in to help us all get in touch with our feelings. Poor Sarah. All she’d ever wanted was to be Queen Bee, and now the school was doing all they could to keep the student body from following in Sarah’s overdosed footsteps. So what could my guidance counselor want with me, anyway?
If she wanted to talk about the impact of Sarah’s death on me, I should start pulling out my hair and crying. Maybe that would get me sent home.
The freshman handed me the slip and then walked down the hallway, more slips in hand.
“Thanks for the talk,” I called after her. She didn’t look back.
I stopped by my locker to shove my stuff inside and brush my hair. I’d left my yellow binder for math on top of my textbooks when I’d put things away before lunch, but it was standing upright. The wool beanie that had been on the top shelf of my locker was next to the binder.
Who’d been in my locker? More importantly, why? I frowned to myself as I slammed it shut. Someone was going to pay.
“Why are you in the hallway?”
An adult voice behind made my shoulders straighten. I pasted a bright smile on my face and held up my hall pass. “Just on my way to the career center.”
As I walked down the hallway, the rearrangement of my locker gnawed at something deep inside of me. Gin had known all of my locker combos since the seventh grade but he didn’t have a reason to get into my locker. Would the police have searched it? The school?
Or someone else?
I pasted the smile back onto my face as I entered the counseling center, although the unsettled feeling inside me told me I should go someplace to think. Someplace quiet.
“Harper.” The admin of the center stood when she saw me. “Right this way. Detective Parker is looking forward to talking with you.”
“Detective?” So not the usual “How about you shape up, Harper?” talk with my guidance counselor. Pity, since it had been a few months since we’d recycled our talk of stale sentences that involved me not living up to my academic potential.
I followed the admin to the empty office set up with a conference table. A man was seated, a pad of paper in front of him, although he was typing on a cell phone as we entered.
“Harper Jacobs, this is Detective Parker,” the admin said before leaving, shutting the door behind her with bang that caused the open blinds to clatter against the office windows.
“Sit down.” The detective motioned to a seat across from him. He flashed me solemn smile, the kind that doesn’t say “This is a joyful occasion” but it also doesn’t say “The shit is hitting the fan and you’re about to get a poop storm shower.”
“How are you doing?” he asked as I pulled a chair out and sat down.
“Umm, fine.”
“I heard you and Sarah Dietz were good friends.”
He was still leaning back in his chair, like this was something chill. Not like he was asking me about my dead friend, who, depending upon who he talked to, was somewhere on the spectrum from best friend to bitter rival.
We could tap dance around this all day, or I could just go for it. “Why would you think Sarah committed suicide?” I asked.
“I heard you expressed doubts about that,” he said. “And I’m keeping an open mind since this could have been an accident.”
Yeah, I’d expressed loud doubts to an entire classroom. Totally not surprised someone mentioned it to him. “There’s no way she would actually do it. Not her style.”
He leaned forward in his chair, his muscles relaxed, but his eyes were sharp as he stared at my face. “Did Sarah give you anything in the past few days?”
“Other than a headache?” I didn’t mention the bruise on my ankle. Or the faded bite mark on my arm. Soon the only thing left of Sarah in my life would be a handful of photos tucked away in a box in my closet and some annoying memories.
“Any possessions? It’s normal for suicide victims to give items they treasure away.”
“Sort of the opposite of the Egyptians? Don’t they pile things around them so they can take stuff with them to the afterlife?”
The detective turned his head to the side a few degrees while staring at me. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
I wished I knew how to blush on command. Or maybe I could just leave the room? It’s not like I was in a police station, locked in a room with a mirror on the wall that was really a window so people could watch the interview without me knowing. Although who doesn’t know that God-knows-who could be on the other side, so you need to be extremely careful about what you say? Seriously, who hasn’t seen at least one episode of a cheesy cop show?
“Eh, what was that?” I asked, as Detective Parker said something.
“I asked about the altercation you had with Sarah in soccer practice a week or so ago.”
“That was nothing,” I said.
“I heard you had a ‘rolling-on-the-ground-hair-pulling girl fight,’ to quote one of your teammates.”
Who’d ratted me out to the fuzz? So much for loyalty to the team.
“You look annoyed.”
“Just surprised ’cause I thought the fight was over and done with. I’d forgotten about it.”
“It happened less than a week ago.” The detective’s voice was dry. Was he hiding a sense of humor behind the badge? The expression on his face reminded of me of the times I’d said something funny to Mr. Jeffries, but he knew he shouldn’t laugh because I was in his office for causing trouble.
I shrugged. “Why worry about stuff that doesn’t matter? Sarah was kicking me in a scrimmage, and I punched her when she called me a diva. But we hung out at her boyfriend’s the next night. I doubt she offed herself because we rolled around in the mud. If anything, I bet the only people who still think about the fight is the boys’ team, and that’s just because they’re sad they missed it.”
I wished Gin was in the interview with me so I could have bet him a bottle of whiskey that the detective wanted to sigh or tell me to shape up. This was serious business. Instead he stared at me.
The meaning of the situation settled down on me, pressing me into the chair. Sarah was gone. Forever. I should take this seriously and show it mattered to me that a girl my age—one of my friends—wasn’t going to be around anymore.
“I don’t want to sound mean,” I said, the brash sound dropping from my voice. “Sarah and I are friends. It’s complicated, but it’s not like I’m celebrating. I still can’t believe it happened. That she’s actually dead. This feels like a big joke, except it’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke.” His voice had moved into the sympathetic scale of voice tones. “I really would like some insight into your friend.”
“What would you like to know?”
So I answered his questions, and I mostly told the truth. Then he asked the question I’d feared most.
“I looked at Sarah’s text messages,” he said. “It sounds like she had a fight with a girl named Paisley. Do you know her?”
Something told me he already knew that we all hung out. “Paisley? Yeah, she’s a good friend. But if she was having drama with Sarah, that was between them. I tried not to get involved when Sarah went off on people.”
“Went off?”
“You know, tried to instigate sh—umm, stuff. But whatever it was, it would have blown over. Staying mad at Paisley is like getting angry at baby rabbits and sunny spring days. Just doesn’t happen.”
“Okay.” He gave me that look again, like he was trying to decide if I was certifiable. I wondered how Sarah would have reacted to his questions, which caused a pang to shoot through me, punching me in the rib cage.
“Is there anything else? ’Cause I really should get back to class.”
“Did Sarah do drugs?”
That should have been his first question, I realized. Not the suicide business. I shrugged my shoulders. “She wasn’t hardcore. I’m not saying she never indulged on the weekends, but she was in control. She was more focused on soccer and school and all that jazz. No where near Junkie Land.”
“How about you?”
I could feel my facial muscles tighten as I stared at him. “Never.”
“Not even a joint? I’m not on the drugs squad. You can tell me the truth.”
I shook my head. “Never. Nothing harder than alcohol. And I’m careful with that.”
“So no trips to Junkie Land?” His voice was sarcastic. He leaned back in his chair again, lacing his hands behind his head and probably crossing one ankle over his knee under the table.
“It’s not somewhere I’m ever going to visit.”
“You know something about it?”
“Something like that.”
He studied me for a moment before sliding a business card across the table. “Feel free to call me if you think of anything else. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I stood, tucking the business card into my pocket. “Thanks.” I paused by the door. “You should talk to Sarah’s boyfriend.”
“What’s that?” his eyes snapped up at me.
“Sarah’s boyfriend, Alex Conway. They were together all the time. If anyone had insight into Sarah, it’d be Alex.”
“Thanks.” He was still staring at me, so I left.
***
My steps were quick as I left the interview with the detective. Like I was running away from thinking about Sarah. About how she died.
About my responsibility in her death. Except—I wasn’t responsible. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t want her dead. I repeated the mantra in my head. Even when I hated her, she was my friend. We’d been friends for a long time. Most of our lives.
Maybe I even missed her a little. Or at least I would once she’d been gone for a while. After I’d had a chance to breathe.
As I looked into the boring gray metal chasm of my locker, I told myself to cut the crap. Tell myself the truth.
I should have told the detective everything.
I should have told him Alex must have murdered Sarah, or at least given her the drugs she’d overdosed on. There was no other explanation that makes sense. He’s a detective. Maybe he could find proof. Send Alex to jail.
My shoulders turned back to the counselor’s office almost on their own. Like they were making the decision that scared me. I should go confess. After all, it’s supposedly good for the soul. And maybe I can make sure Alex gets a longer prison sentence. He should, since he had to be involved in Sarah’s death. We broke into each other’s houses, although with each other’s permission, so it wasn’t really that bad of a crime. But murder? Whole new ballgame. Heaviness descended on the top of my head before dripping down like rain onto my shoulders.
Bing-a-bang. Hands reached for my phone like a dog that’s been trained to bark on command. I didn’t recognize the user name—Penetr8er—from SnapPic. But the number 8 is Alex’s basketball jersey number.
Heard you talked with the police. How’d it go?
I glanced around the hallway, feeling like someone was watching me, before texting back. The halls felt deserted although I knew my friends and frenemies were behind the classroom doors. My phone dinged again.
Remember we’re all in it together. We’ll all go down. Keep your head in the game.
I know. I shoved my phone into my pocket and slammed my locker door shut. But my phone vibrated and dinged again. I pulled it out and unlocked the screen even though I knew I should ignore him.
There’s one thing you should see.
My photo binged again with a photo. I opened it to find a photo of pill bottles. Prescribed to my mother. A row of blurry bottles was behind it.
So? I typed back. Like everyone’s mom didn’t have stuff like that in the house.
Think police would be interested knowing you have some heavy pharmaceutical crap? It’s illegal to give drugs to your friends.
My heart beat in an angry staccato. As if I’d raid my mom’s medicine cabinet to help Sarah get high the same night we’d argued. I never touched the drugs in the house. Ever.
I didn’t give anything to Sarah.
That’s not what the police will think if they find out she died from the same stuff.
A few seconds later, all of the messages deleted themselves off of my phone, like the app was programmed to do. My breath came in deep gasps, like I’d been running.
“Ms. Jacobs?” a voice asked from behind me, causing me to jump. A voice I knew better than I should.
I held up the note excusing me for being late, turning it so it was visible to Principal Jeffries standing behind me. “Just on my way to class!”
“Texting in the hallway is not going to class. I’ll excuse it this time if I see you hustle to where you should be.”
“Just pretend I have wings on my sneakers.”
I walked briskly down the hallway, not letting my footsteps slow until after I turned the corner. I suspected Mr. Jeffries was following me, so I knew I shouldn’t pause before entering. But I still stood for a moment, listening to my heart still pound away in my chest.
“Save your drama for your llama,” I muttered before straightening my shirt. Time for class. I pasted a half-smile across my mouth before opening the door.
I’d worry about Alex later.
***
Wednesday Afternoon, continued
My phone buzzed. Meet at car? Gin.
K.
Everyone in the hallway looked punch-drunk. The general aura of sadness hadn’t lifted from the school. Not that everyone was showing signs of grief; two freshman boys were chuckling as I passed them to head to my locker for my final trip of the day to get my homework and jacket.
“Harper!” A girl from my English class, Emma, wanted to chat.
“I’m so sorry!” Someone from my Web Design class.
“Are you all right?” One of the sophomores from the JV soccer team looked like she wanted to hug me.
I gave small, sad smiles and quick nods of acknowledgment, but didn’t stop to talk to any of my classmates. But when I turned the corner, I slid to a stop.
Alex was leaning against the wall, talking to an auburn-haired sophomore from the girls’ basketball team. She was tall with lean legs shown off in slim-fitting khakis that sang designer. Her cashmere sweater showed off a glimpse of her stomach when she reached up to brush hair back from Alex’s face. She looked as if she was taking care of him, like he was fragile.
Her fingers moved to his face and she brushed a tear off his cheek. He wrapped his arms around her, she responded, and they pulled together in a close hug, her head against his shoulder.
I almost walked over to them and yelled, “Your girlfriend died less than a day ago and you’re already hitting on chicks?”
“Harper!” Emma, whom I’d ignored a few minutes earlier, grabbed me in a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
I patted her on the back. When I let her go, I realized Alex was gone.