FRIDAY 7:50AM
Darla held the phone, framing her roommate in the background and the Red Solo cup in the foreground. She tapped record. “Go.”
Lucy faced the camera, smiled, and curtsied. She held a golf ball in one hand and a nine iron in the other. She wore a long-sleeved navy-blue top, white leggings patterned with gold diamonds down the sides, and white New Balance sneakers with pink laces. Her dark hair was up in a ponytail, poking through the back of her Titleist branded visor.
“Lucy Davenport here, and welcome to my latest fabulous trick shot.” She turned ninety degrees. With the ball in her left hand and club in her right, she dropped the ball, caught it with the clubface, and began bouncing the ball to eye level.
After five bounces, Lucy lifted her right leg and swung the club underneath. Click. Click. Click. She switched the club to her left hand and maneuvered the club beneath her left leg. Click. Click. Click. She gave the ball some extra oomph and tossed the club in the air, sending it spinning. She grabbed the grip of the twirling club in time to catch the ball before it struck the floor. Click. Click. Click. Lucy bounced the ball higher and dropped the club on the floor of the dorm. As the ball plummeted, she lifted her right foot and kicked the ball with the side of her sneaker. The ball arced through the air, coming within inches of the ceiling. The ball began its downward trajectory toward Darla and plopped into the Red Solo cup with a satisfying splash.
“Yes!” Lucy raised her hands in victory.
“Hors pair. That is some lucky landing.”
“Not luck, D. All skill.” Lucy winked for the recording.
“Whatever. Outstanding, Lucy! I’m uploading it now—”
Darla’s phone emitted a nails-on-chalkboard screech. Lucy’s phone lying on her desk emitted the same disturbing noise.
“What’s going on?” Lucy covered her ears.
Darla squinted at the phone. “It’s the U app.” She furrowed her brow. “Due to the tragic events that have occurred, all classes have been canceled for Friday, October 6th.”
“What tragic events?”
“It doesn’t say.” Darla scrolled through the notifications. “But grief counselors are going to be made available.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I have no idea. But I know someone who might.”
* * *
In The Chronicle’s newsroom, the mood was restrained. Half the desks were empty. The staffers that were present spoke in whispers. The loudest sound was the clacking of the keyboards.
Noah’s desk had been converted to a makeshift shrine. Photos, flowers, and a couple of stuffed animals surrounded a box of unopened Krispy Kremes.
Jerry, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, slumped in his chair. He had cranked out Cassie’s obituary and spent the last twenty minutes staring at a blank Word document and blinking cursor. He couldn’t believe he talked to Cassie and Noah yesterday and now they were both dead.
“Jerry, are you okay?” Laurie looked at him with concern.
“I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine, but didn’t know what else to say. “What’s up?”
“Vanessa wants to see you in her office.”
Jerry shrugged, locked his desktop, and stood. He shuffled across the newsroom and poked his head into Vanessa’s office. “Laurie said you wanted to see me?”
Vanessa clicked her mouse, then looked up from the monitor. “Yes, Jerry. Come in and close the door.”
Jerry did as instructed and took a seat.
“I heard about yours and Fallon’s efforts to save Noah last night. You’re both heroes.”
“Nope.” Jerry looked down at the front of her desk, not making eye contact. “It didn’t make any difference. He’s still dead.” The words caught in his throat.
“But you tried.”
Jerry said nothing and continued to avoid her gaze.
“I’m sure you understand why I can’t let you or Fallon write Noah’s story. You’re part of it. I’m giving it to Laurie, and she’ll interview both of you.”
“That’s fine.”
“As for Cassie, we’ll run the obit you wrote for now. You can interview her family later, and we’ll do that feature on her.”
“Yeah.” Jerry remembered Cassie sitting in the hospital room. All alone and putting on a brave face one moment, then freaking out the next. “She was a nice kid.”
“What I’d like you to do is delve into the history of the university. When has Van Buren ever been through such a loss? Three students in one day. I don’t—”
“Three?” Jerry lifted his head and made eye contact for the first time.
Vanessa nodded. “Didn’t you hear? One of the football players, Vince Murphy, was killed in a car accident last night.”
“I knew Vince. He was at our lunch table yesterday.” Jerry stared at the wall.
“Jerry, I was going to give you this assignment, but now I’m thinking you should go back to your room or visit the grief counselors. They’re stationed at Student Health and the Orange Building.”
He crossed his arms. “No, I want to be here.”
“Okay. I appreciate it since we’re short-handed with...you know. First, you’ve covered sports before, right? Can you take the football game tomorrow?”
“The game’s still on?”
“You know football.” Vanessa rolled her eyes. “They played the Sunday after JFK was shot.”
“Yeah, I can do it.”
“Here’s the credential.” She handed him an envelope. “But for today, with these deaths, the campus needs us to put it into perspective. I want you to check the archives and see what kind of deaths and tragedies struck the campus in the past.”
“Sure, I’ll do it. But that will take like a five-minute computer search.”
“Only the last twenty years of The Chronicle are online. I want you to go all the way back. There’s over a century of history to mine. And I can’t think of anyone better to do it.” She paused. “If you’re up for it.”
“Whatever you want.” He stood and silently left the office.
* * *
The musty smell in the basement of The Chronicle resembled that of old newspapers, but that was a coincidence. No stacks of yellowing past issues, only rolls and rolls of microfiche.
Jerry grabbed a random spool, not even bothering to check the year, inserted it in the reader, and flicked it on. He squinted at the small print and turned the dial to increase the magnification. He stood, walked to the wall, turned out the lights, and returned to his seat. The darkness made it easier to read. It also felt like a thick, black blanket that he could curl up under and hide from his friend’s death, Busby dumping him, the rest of the world.
He scrolled through weeks’ worth of issues, scanning the headlines until he found a story about a junior who left the school in 1915, traveling to Ontario, then on to Great Britain, where he joined the Royal Air Force. After completing training, the pilot was assigned to the continent. Shot down over Belgium and presumed dead, his body was never recovered.
Jerry jotted down the relevant details, pulled out another spool, browsed the archives, and stumbled upon a story of two students who died after drinking what turned out to be methyl alcohol at an off-campus party in 1924. More pointless deaths.
Another twenty minutes of scrolling brought him to a story of Peggy Johnson, a student who died on campus in 1984, but the details of her death weren’t in the article. He’d look for a follow-up story in the next issue.
“Hello?” a female voice called. “Jerry, are you down here?”
“Busby? Is that you?”
The lights flicked on. At the base of the steps stood Darla. She wore a yellow blouse, turquoise mini skirt, gray ankle boots with a matching gray purse slung over her shoulder. For most girls on campus, their wardrobe consisted of T-shirts and jeans or sweats, but Darla looked like she stepped out of the H&M website.
“Who’s Busby?” Her green eyes narrowed at Jerry.
“Uh, nobody.” Jerry unconsciously rubbed his face where Busby slapped him. “What are you doing here, Darla?”
“The U sent out that message about classes being canceled, but it didn’t say why. All mysterious and grief counselors and stuff. I figured you’d know.” She frowned. “But you didn’t answer my texts.”
Jerry pulled his phone from his pocket. “I turned it off to concentrate.”
Darla stepped forward, and Jerry was engulfed by her scent. She didn’t smell like a candy shop this morning. More like a botanical garden. Her eyes were greener than remembered. The tightness in his chest returned.
She grabbed his phone, powered it up, and thrust it back into his hand, brushing her fingers against his. “You’ll want to keep it on at all times.” Her lips curled into a smile. “In case I need to get in touch with you.”
“Okay.” Jerry was still puzzled by her presence. “How did you find me, anyway?”
Darla gave a noncommittal wave of her hand. “I was talking with your editor, and she said I could find you down here. You forgot to ask her about doing a story on me, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, sorry. With everything that’s been happening, it kind of slipped my mind.”
“That’s okay. I suggested it to Vanessa. That’s her name, right?”
Jerry stifled a laugh. “You told Vanessa you want me to write a story about you?”
“Uh huh.”
Jerry marveled at Darla. He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone so lacking in humility. “What did she say?”
Darla huffed in frustration. “She blew me off. Something about the focus being on the tragedies on campus. I didn’t even get a chance to talk to her about sending you to Dallas with the team.”
Thank God for small favors.
“Anywho, she said I could find you down here.”
“I don’t understand. You were looking for me because you wanted to know why they canceled classes. But after talking with Vanessa, you must know. So why are you here?”
Darla stepped closer and picked an invisible piece of lint off Jerry’s shoulder. “I had a delightful time chatting with you yesterday. I thought you felt the same way.”
“Uh, yeah, I did.”
“I thought we’d do it again. Also, Jerry,” she pronounced his name like a third-grade teacher lecturing a problem student, “when a young lady takes the effort to look nice, it’s customary to compliment her appearance.” She posed with her hands on her hips.
Jerry’s face burned bright red. “Darla, you, uh, look absolutely amazing.”
She tilted her head. “That will do for now. But I’m sure you’ll improve with practice.”
Practice? Jerry gulped.
She looked around at the microfiche machines. “So, what’s all this? What does Vanessa have you doing down here in this dusty old basement?”
“These are all the old copies of The Chronicle on microfiche. They took photographs of all the pages and shrunk them down and put them on film, and you use these machines to read them.”
“Why not put it all online?”
“Cost? Guess it makes little sense, since no one really wants to go back and read what happened over a hundred years ago. Here look.” Jerry sat and slid his chair to the side.
Darla took a seat and rolled next to Jerry, her knee brushing against his. Jerry stole a quick glance at her legs, then made eye contact.
“What were you going to show me?” She seemed positively delighted with his interest.
Jerry cleared his thoughts and forced himself to look at the microfiche screen. “I’ve been looking up deaths of students. Found a guy who was a pilot in World War I and got shot down. Couple of kids drinking antifreeze during Prohibition. This is the latest one I found from 1984.”
Darla squinted at the screen. “Friday the 13th? No wonder she’s dead.”
“What?”
“Look.” With a shiny red fingernail, Darla traced the date beneath the paper’s masthead. “Saturday, July 14th. The article says she died the day before. That makes it Friday the 13th and that’s super bad luck.”
“Bad luck.” In his mind, Jerry heard Fallon mocking Noah for opening the umbrella indoors. Saw Vince knocking over the salt at the table in the student center. Remembered Darla recounting the story about Cassie splitting the group.
“Bad luck,” Jerry repeated, trying to process it all.
“I just said that.”
“Noah, Vince, and Cassie. They all broke a superstition. Now they’re all dead.”
“You promised not to mention Cassie splitting the group.” Darla wagged her finger. “If you have to report it, leave my name out.”
Jerry ignored that. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do. This is all so insane. Can it really be true? Could bad luck have killed them?”
“Bad luck is bad. That’s why it’s called bad luck.”
Jerry blinked his eyes like waking up from a long nap. “I think there’s a story here.”
“A story that I helped you get started on, right? I was the one who made the bad luck connection.”
Jerry grinned. “Yeah, Darla. I doubt that I would have put it together without you.”
“Okay, I see you’re going to be busy doing whatever reporters do. Do you have a car on campus?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m going to let you take me to dinner. You did say you wouldn’t have this story without me. Seems fair. I’m in 214 Clinton Hall. Pick me up about eight.” She put her hand on his chest, pinched a wrinkle in his blue-and-white rugby shirt, and rubbed the material. “And Jerry, be sure to dress to impress.” Darla rose, crossed the room, paused at the door, and winked.
She spoke in a perfect French accent, “Jusqu’à ce que nous nous retrouvions.” Darla flipped the light switch, leaving Jerry alone in the dark.