Emma
Emma sat in Rittenhouse Square for only a few minutes before heading back. It was beautiful there: trees dotted with golden colors, a bronze fountain turning glazed green on the edges, restaurants still occupying sidewalks at lunch time, tempting the autumn fates. It would be colder soon, more cars, fewer bikes, fewer walkers. It would be harder to follow people. This thought struck her with great force, that winter would make it all much more difficult. Everyone would be bundled up, disguised, in vehicles. She stood up and headed back to campus, trying to think through her next move. She walked down Walnut again, on the other side of the street from the coffee shop. Ahead, another group of girls approached the same boutique and pressed the buzzer. Emma squinted, doubted what she saw, then half ran to get a better look. As they were ushered in, one of the girls’ heads turned, revealing yellow and gray ribbons in her hair. Samantha. Samantha from down the hall, a blond who often wore school spirit ribbons in her hair, a habit held over from cheerleading, she’d told them all in the get-to-know-you days of orientation, when everyone in their dorm shared their weirdest habit and their biggest fear. One of the boys had said his biggest fear was cheerleaders, and they’d all laughed, even Samantha.
She tried to see who the other girls were, if she recognized anyone, but it was too late. They were inside, and the doorman shot Emma a look as she passed. A look that said he was onto her.
Her head was reeling as she headed for the subway. This could not be a coincidence, or could it? Samantha was arguably the prettiest girl on their floor, golden haired and blue-eyed. She was from Wilkes-Barre, chubby by modern standards, curvier than most cheerleaders, and thought anyone who was on a diet was crazy. She had an old-fashioned quality to her and spoke her mind loudly and freely. Everyone knew her, and it was impossible for Emma to believe she was involved in this. She struck Emma as someone who would be vocal in opposition and who couldn’t keep a secret. No, she thought, she had to be wrong. The store probably had a Groupon promotion. Simple as that. Or, she thought with a chill down her spine, the store named simply B, enhanced by Pinterest-worthy graphics inside that encouraged you to “B yourself” and “B beautiful” could be owned by another B—Beck’s.
As she waited for the train, she confirmed that it was, in fact, owned by Sam Beck. Discounts, she thought. Discounts for the sugar babies. B a whore, she thought instantly, then felt guilty. She was being a little judgy, considering some of these girls had serious money problems. But she’d done some perfunctory psychological research and learned that some escorts didn’t need the money. They liked the money. They liked the attention.
She made a note about B and Beck’s and the shopping in one of her phone apps, all in code. She’d already deleted everything uncoded relating to the story. She flipped to her list for school and realized she had a paper due in two days, on religion and literature, and hadn’t done any of the reading, hadn’t cracked open her own Bible, hadn’t even thought about God in relationship to words, so she thought about it while she waited, thought about the literature she had to read and more. Her mind kept wandering back to the story. Was there any God in the words she would write for this story? She felt it underneath, holding her up, rooting her to the earth sometimes, this belief that it was all part of a grand plan, that she was here for a reason. She felt something else bubbling up too, something surprising, that she wanted to tamp back down. Judgment. Commandments. Rules of this religious world her family had chosen being broken. She felt her own righteousness and was ashamed. There it was; God was there, driving her, too. But how was God driving Fiona? How had she managed to justify what she was doing, the words she spoke?
Back on campus, she headed straight for Lenape Library, vowing not to do any more work on the story until her paper was done. She’d crank it out, do the reading for her history class, and start fresh tomorrow. But her burner phone rang, interrupting her. Cara Stevens.
“Hey, I just wanted to ask you about your psychology teacher.”
“Mr. Grady?”
“Yeah, William Grady.”
“What about him?”
“He was on my restaurant list.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, when I cross-checked the list of credit card customers at Spark’s with the list of teachers at your school, he was one of the names.”
“Which might mean nothing,” Emma said, thinking of Mr. Grady, who was about as ordinary and quiet a dude as she’d ever met. A small man who wore sweater vests and rubber-soled shoes, who didn’t even make much noise when he moved around the room, passing back their papers. All this time, when she’d pictured the men, she’d pictured powerful, forceful guys. Maybe even handsome, older, DILF-y men. The idea of having sex with puny Mr. Grady made her sick.
“Correct.”
“And might mean something.”
“Bingo. Just warning you to keep your eyes open.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“I also had made a note about a kid who used to work at the restaurant who was also a student. I think he’d be a senior now. Timothy something. Last name starts with a T.”
“Not—Timothy Trenton?”
“Could be. Depends on how many Timothy T’s there are in the senior class.”
“I can find that out.”
“Yeah, that should be easy. So you know one, huh?”
“Yes,” she said, swallowing slowly, a lump building in her throat.
“Any connection to your roommate?”
The thoughts flooded her. How she’d looked around the first day of school and thought, wow, how pretty everyone is at college. How at first she’d chalked it up to everyone being on their best grooming behavior. First day, best shoulder-skimming, leg-baring outfit, still summer-tan, still pale-blue pedicure, smoothest hair, careful makeup that said you weren’t trying too hard, you were just born this way. Girls who seemed to work out every day, starting in the morning in their leggings and crop tops, running or heading to the gym. How they’d all heard boys at parties calling her dorm, Hoden House, Hottie House.
“He’s my RA,” she said quietly.