Chapter 12

Too Many Questions

I could barely sleep all night, thinking about what lay ahead the first day back at school after Fitz’s death. We spend so much of our lives trying to know every detail we can about the people around us. I never thought, for an instant, there might come a time that I wish I could know less. It’s barely dawn when I sit up in bed and open my laptop. I’ve been getting more comments with every blog post. It’s fun to read them. I figure this might ease my mind while I wait for the sun to come up.

My latest post already has eight comments. I do a mental cheer. It’s gratifying to know that people are interested in what I have to say.

I read the first comment and my heart stops. Sitting arrow straight I read it again. This can’t be happening.

I’d have killed him if I were you. You sure you didn’t when you saw him last night?

ICUGirl

Panicking, I open the administration screen and un-publish the comment. It was posted four hours ago. How many people read it? Although a few comments followed it, not a single one of them reacted to it. But, who is ICUGirl? Is it just a coincidence that a person posts a comment like this after Fitz’s death? I shake my head. Nobody knows what happened between me and Fitz, other than Demit. It’s a coincidence, that’s all. But, just in case, I text Demit. He’s probably still asleep. Only insomniacs and fitness freaks are ever up this early.

Crazy comment on the blog. We need to talk!!!!!!!!
R u awake?

I wonder if it’s possible that one of the fabbies has found my site and made the connection back to me? I suppose it’s possible, but unlikely. But, then again, I’ve already got over a hundred visitors a day. My stomach grinds as I consider that it might be Alysa. Even if she has discovered my site, she wouldn’t know about Fitz’s two attacks on me. Unless he told her. I replay last night’s events. Maybe someone saw Fitz leave my house. Would that have gotten back to her?

I pace my bedroom, kicking a few pieces of clothing out of the way. Lifting my Paris snow globe, I shake it and watch the white sparkles settle around the Eiffel Tower. The comment is just a weird coincidence. Nobody knows about me, or this site, or Fitz. I need sleep to return some common sense to my head. Switching off my desk light, I climb into bed. Rest my cell phone on my chest, close my eyes, and beg for sleep to take me. In an hour, Demit will text me. And tell me everything is fine. Then my phone dings.

DEMIT: I think ur overreacting

LANA: Really? U don’t think somebody has found us out?

DEMIT: IMHO, no. Probably some 38 yo pedo who lives in his moms basement with nothing better to do than stir up shit on teen blogs

LANA: I hope ur right. Do u think Fitz committed suicide?

DEMIT: Who knows? Whatever… I’d want to kill myself, too, if I was as big an asshole as he is. Or was. My bet is he killed himself

LANA: Really? I hope so.

Wait...

that’s not what I meant.

I mean I hope he wasn’t killed. Ugh. this is all so weird.

And wrong.

Fuck.

What did we do?

DEMIT: We can’t b sure of anything. Maybe someone killed him maybe someone didn’t. Maybe no one will ever know for sure. Whatever the truth, one thing is 4 sure.

He’s dead. And I’m not crying.

U?

LANA: No.

DEMIT: Stop worrying. The guy OD’d. All evidence will point to suicide. Or too much partying. WE did nothing wrong. Remember that. Last we saw him he was alive and well.

LANA: I know. Sorry to be so paranoid

DEMIT: Don’t be sorry. You did nothing wrong, remember

LANA: I know. Y do I feel so guilty?

DEMIT: IDK. Relax

LANA: Ok. See you on bus

DEMIT: Maybe. Not feeling so good. Threw up last night

LANA: No!!! Don’t do this to me. You have to come to school! I need you!!!!

DEMIT: Ok. I’ll try to make it out my door

I should have known the day would only get worse when I found our usual seat on the bus empty. My first day at Sacred Heart as the pink-haired-freak, and with Fitz’s death only two days old, I’d been about ready to melt from the stress on my nerves. Where are you? I’d texted him. It wasn’t until the bus had pulled into the school driveway that he responded. Sorry. Can’t move.

I try to not be so angry with him, but I can’t stop myself. It was he who put a gun to Fitz’s head. If he hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t feel so guilty over Fitz’s death. And now, he’s at home and I’m at school. Mercy.

I’d been expecting to have a miserable day, and destiny delivered it. I’m not at all shocked when the secretary announces over the P.A. in social science class that the office would like to see me at the end of the period.

“Did you hear that?” Mrs. Hendricht asks me. “They want to see you after class.”

I nod my head. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s about Fitz. I know it. Well, I don’t really know it. But I’m pretty sure I know it. And, now I have the next twenty minutes of class to ping pong between yes, you’re screwed and no, you’re not screwed. I try to drown it all out with my latest mantra, courtesy Demit: We did nothing wrong. We did nothing wrong. If I say it enough, everyone will believe it. Including me.

Mrs. Hendricht lets me leave a few minutes early to avoid the crowded hallways. She’s a stickler for promptness. I’m not so keen on playing the eager beaver. Something in my gut tells me that Fitz will haunt me as much in his afterlife as he did while living.

“Miss Tiller! Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Brullo’s voice is exceptionally peppy as I step into the office. “I’ll let the guidance counsellor know you’re here.”

Guidance counsellor? I don’t remember requesting any counseling. I steal a glance at the office door and am about to scoot out of here, but the secretary is back before I can take more than two steps.

“Miss Tiller!” She announces as her short round body rolls toward me. Behind her is the counsellor. It’s Crumbstache. Well, that’s not his real name, but it’s what everyone calls him on account of his thick brown moustache that is rumoured to be dusted with crumbs every time he’s sighted.

“This is Mr. Retroski,” says the secretary before returning to her chair behind her desk.

I nod. He lifts his hand. The ‘welcome to adulthood, it’s time you learned to shake your hand’ lesson. His palm is warm. Sweaty. I resist wiping my hand against my kilt when he releases it.

“Hello, Lana. Nice to meet you. You can call me John.” His moustache stretches as he smiles. I don’t detect any crumbs. He leads me past the front desk and opens the door to an office tucked in a corner at the end of a short corridor. When I step into the room behind him, my heart lurches. A policewoman is sitting in a chair with wheels. She rolls a couple inches on the seat before getting up and extending a hand.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Lana,” the officer says. “I’m officer Maloney.” She’s young. Maybe five or six years older than me. This is good news. I’m hoping the cop shop sent the rookie because it’s an open and shut case, like they do on TV. Unless she’s one of those genius rookies trying to claw her way to the top and will stop at nothing to turn Fitz’s death into her pet project. I’m worried when I noticed the dark red slash across her cheek. There’s a badge of badass if ever I saw one.

“Have a seat,” she gestures me to sit on the couch across from her chair. Crumbstache sits on the other end.

“Clearly, you’ve heard the news about Fitz,” she says, pursing her lips. “That he died two nights ago.”

I swallow, “Yeah, I heard about it on the weekend.”

“Of course,” she lifts her hands in a surrender. “Social media spreads the news pretty fast these days. I just want to start by saying I’m sorry for your loss. It’s always a shock to lose someone you know at such a young age.”

Crumbstache leans his face toward me. “I’m here for you if you need to talk.”

“Thanks,” I say, rubbing one eye. It must look like I’m starting to tear up because they give me a moment.

She straightens her back and presses her finger tips together. “I need to ask you some questions to clear a few things up. You are welcome to call your parents if you want them here with you.”

I shake my head. “No,” I blurt. “I don’t need to call them, I mean. I’m fine.”

Maloney leans back against the chair and crosses an ankle over a knee, then pulls a small notepad out of her breast pocket.

“Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Fitz?” she says.

“There’s not much to tell. We went out a couple times in the summer. That’s about it,” I answer.

“Some racy messages sent between the two of you.” Maloney reads from her notepad. “I’m wearing nothing right now.” She lifts her eyes. “That one’s from you.” I feel my face redden. Stare at my knees. “Here’s one from Fitz to you.” She clears her throat. “I’m fantasizing about you...”

“They were just jokes,” I cut her off. “I swear.” My chest tightens. I’d deleted all those texts ages ago and had completely forgot about them, until now. “It was stupid. I shouldn’t have sent them. But, you know, they meant nothing.”

Maloney turns to Crumbstache and nods her head. “Can you give us some time alone?”

“Of course,” he walks out the door, shutting it behind him.

Her voice grows soft. “Did you know his phone went missing? His mom says it was stolen. He accused you of stealing it. One of his last texts.”

I wrap my arms around my stomach to stem the impulse to retch. How did she get his texts? Can the police get data just from a phone number? My mind races to the bathroom stall. I wonder if someone found the smashed phone pieces and handed it to the school office. Would it still have the photo I deleted? Probably. Nothing is ever truly erased in any of these damn devices. Why didn’t I just bury it somewhere?

“I’m sorry to dredge all this up for you, but it’s my job. To fill in the blanks.”

“I heard it was suicide,” I say, trying to change the subject.

Maloney scrunches her nose. Sniffs. “Looks that way, but we want to be sure. Usually there’s a note. Some kind of sign.” She breathes deliberately out her nostrils, flattens her lips together.

My temple pulses as she pauses.

“You were probably the last person to see Fitz alive,” she says. I stiffen as she reads from her notepad again. “You little bitch. I know you did it. I want my phone back tonight.” She looks at me. “Sound familiar?”

“I didn’t have his phone,” I say.

“He later texted you, I’m here.” She clears her throat. “He was at your house, wasn’t he? Come to get the phone you stole from him. Maybe you got into a fight. Maybe he attacked you. Might explain the fresh scratches on his face.”

“No.” Did I scratch him? I don’t remember doing that.

“Did you have anything to do with the text about him and his mom?”

“No. I swear.”

“A witness saw him enter your house, so I know you’re lying about something.” She smirks.

“Well, he did come to my house.” My collar feels tight. A witness? Who was spying on my house that night? “But no. I didn’t have his phone. I told him that and he left. That’s all that happened.”

Maloney does the slow nod. Up and down, up and down. Her pupils drilling into mine. “There’s something else.”

My left eye is spastic with twitching. I hope she can’t see it.

“He has a photo of you. It’s not a nice picture, if you know what I mean. Were you aware that a naked photo of you was being circulated?” She narrows her eyes.

Shifting my gaze downward, I stare at a crumpled ball of yellow paper resting a foot from the wastebasket. Overthrow. Do I tell her the truth? Say that I know all about my photo?

“I know the photo.” I meet Maloney’s gaze. “My boyfriend took it. Well, ex-boyfriend now.” I shrug, like it’s no big deal.

“What’s his name?” She asks. I blink and turn to look at the ball of paper again. “You can lay charges against him,” she continues, leaning forward. “Distributing photos like this is a crime. You can make him pay for this.”

“No way.” I stare straight at her this time. My parents don’t know a thing about my life, and that’s how it’s going to remain as long I have a say in it.

The officer rests her back against the chair and shakes her head. “I can’t do anything to this guy without your help, you know. We can make him pay.”

“No thanks.” Fitz is dead. That’s all the help I need to move on with my life. Put all this viral photo hell behind me.

Then she slaps her notepad shut and stuffs it in her pocket. Stands up and sighs.

“Thank you for your time, Lana. And, be careful about those selfies. You never know where they’ll end up. Or when they’ll appear. They can ruin a person’s life.”

Preaching to the converted, I want to say. “Yes, I will,” I respond, standing and rubbing my sweaty palms together.

“By the way,” she adds, her hand on the door knob. “Do you know if Fitz took study drugs?”

“Study drugs?” Fitz was a year below me, so I’d never been in any of his classes. But he didn’t strike me as someone who cared much about academics. If she’d asked about other drugs, I’d know the answer. Not that I would tell her though.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, thanks.” Maloney opens the door. “Have a nice day.”

I step past her.

“Thanks.” I wonder why she’s asking about study drugs. Did he overdose on ADD meds? Although I’ve known a few students to pop pills for learning disabilities or to cram for exams, Fitz didn’t seem the type.

“We’ll be in touch,” Maloney calls out as I pass the secretary’s desk. I stop for an instant, nod, then walk out into the hallway and almost bump into Alysa.

“Watch it,” she says, flipping her hair back.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t see you.”

“I couldn’t miss you if I tried with that cotton candy hair.” She laughs. “Is this the new Lana look? Nice.” She draws out the end of the word like a hiss as she opens the door to the office and lets it shut behind her. I watch her through the glass wall as she casually leans her elbow onto the secretary’s desk. Flips her hair both ways, then turns to shake hands with Crumbstache. Her fake smile wide. Charmed, he smiles back, then catches me staring. Clearly, she’s no longer mourning Fitz’s death. I turn away and hurry to my locker. What has Maloney learned about Alysa and Fitz? I pull out my cell and text Demit.

Police here today abt Fitz’s death. Just got questioned. Alysa up next. Im freaking out!

I stare at the screen for a full minute awaiting his response. My body twitches like a bundle of live wires. I take some deep breaths. No text pops up, so I conclude he’s asleep. I drop the phone back in my cardigan pocket and take a detour to class, stopping at the bathroom stall to take a peek in the tampon disposal. Empty. A cocktail of bleach and fake lemon fills my nostrils. A sure sign the bathrooms were recently cleaned. I step into every stall and peer inside the disposal boxes. All empty. This is a good sign. The custodian threw the phone away with the trash. Unless he got suspicious and handed it to the office. How long would it take for them to uncover the deleted photo? I look in the cracked mirror. The girl with the pink hair looks back at me.

“You did nothing wrong,” she tells me. I nod. Well, we both nod. I am the girl in the mirror. Hard though it is to believe. Girl Unformulated.