See you tonight.
K. Remember where?
KW?
Yep 12
OK. Don’t be late. Place freaks me out.
Under control.
—Cell phone records from November 22, the day of the murder, courtesy of the Duchess Police Department report
At that point, I wasn’t deluded enough to think that Z was the love of my life. I didn’t think we’d break up with our significant others, get together, and live happily ever after. No, I saw us as the tragic characters in a play. We were two best friends who simply couldn’t deny or quell the attraction between us. We were happily involved with other people, and yet we had this whole secret life together. I was no longer Boring Victoria Zell. I was mysterious, interesting. While a small part of me ached to fully be his, mostly I liked that we couldn’t be a real couple yet. The pain of being apart was the sweetest pain I’d ever felt, and when we were together, I was utterly euphoric.
All weekend, I replayed the hours I’d spent with him, shivering with each memory. He’d had sex before, probably a lot of it, with his girlfriend in Arizona and likely others, considering how smoothly he unhooked my bra closure. Considering he knew exactly how to touch me. Considering the package of condoms he kept under his mattress. But that didn’t surprise me. There’d been no pain, no awkwardness, no regret. He made it seem only natural to do those things with him.
And as usual, he left me wanting more. Much more. I’d never done drugs, but I could understand addiction. I’d gone so many years smugly thinking that I’d never fall under anyone else’s control…and yet, here I was. Fallen. Weak. And totally OK with it. Not just wanting more, but needing more.
This was different, I told myself. With addiction, the drug owns you. But we owned each other. Equally. While I was lying in my bed thinking of him, a text came in.
You are the sexiest girl I’ve ever known.
He was thinking of me too. Yes, beautifully, tragically, we owned each other.
I’m not sure why that wasn’t enough for me.
The following week, I walked into lunch and sat alone at my table. Z and I had gone back to pretending we were just casual friends in public. It was so hard, seeing him and knowing about the other night, but he played it off well. When no one was watching, he’d glance at me and mouth, “You look so sexy” or “You’re driving me crazy over there.” Funny, he never looked like he was being driven crazy. He was good at keeping his emotions in check, about holding what we had close to his heart. So I followed his cue and did my best to proceed like it was business as usual.
And then, as I was about to take a bite of my sandwich, something crazy happened.
Parker slid her tray onto my table and sat down across from me. “Can I sit here?” she asked.
Parker and I had been talking more. She’d continued being civil to me, even friendly. As she plopped into the seat, I remembered that Rachel was out sick. But that didn’t mean Parker had to sit with me. She had plenty of other friends to sit with. Needless to say, I was a little suspicious.
“Why do you eat here all alone?” she asked, picking a cucumber out of her salad.
She asked as if it was a conscious choice. As if I preferred my own company. I shrugged as she dipped a crouton in a small cup of salad dressing.
“Why don’t you eat with Z?”
“All they do is talk baseball,” I said, even though he’d never asked. Hanging out with the jocks would definitely make me a sore thumb though, so I’d never minded.
She nodded. “Anyway, Rachel and I were going to go shopping after school for dresses for the dance. But since she’s sick, do you want to come with me? I’ll drive you back in time to catch the late bus.”
Dresses for the dance. I hadn’t even thought about that. There’d been a fall dance every year, but you and I never went, Andrew. We’re just not dance people. I couldn’t believe she’d think I was. “I’m probably not going,” I said.
“Really? I just assumed you were. With Z,” she said, surprised.
I shook my head, but I was flattered that she saw Z and I could be a couple. “We’re not…” I began, but stopped.
I thought of the way she looked at him. The doe eyes she always threw his way. This was Code Red. She was sitting here trying to get information about Z because she wanted to go to the dance with him. That was why she was asking me to go shopping. It definitely wasn’t for my fashion sense. She wanted to weasel her way between Z and me, and with her big boobs and her shiny hair, she had a pretty good chance of doing just that.
“You mean, you’re not together?” she asked, finishing my original sentence.
“No,” I said. “Of course we’re together. We’re just not really dance people.”
It wasn’t the most convincing lie ever told. Sure, Andrew, you may not have been a dance person, but gregarious, fun-loving Z was, in every sense of the word. She wrinkled her nose. “Oh. I thought Z said he was going.”
I swallowed. He was going to the dance? With whom? I hadn’t expected he’d ask me with you in the picture, Andrew. I hadn’t wanted him to, of course, because I had you. Was his girlfriend from Arizona coming in for it? My face began to burn. “We haven’t really talked about it.”
“Then you should come with me. Shopping. Just look around. See what’s out there.”
“Uh…OK. When is the dance again?”
“The Saturday after the play. Come on. I’ll have you back before the late bus leaves.”
So that was how I ended up cruising out of St. Ann’s parking lot in Parker Cole’s red VW on the way to the Bangor Mall. I watched her, wondering what her game was, and whether I was a pawn in it.
The Bangor Mall isn’t anything to write home about. Before this year, I’d been there maybe twice. Since September though, I’d been there twice more with my mother to buy new clothes to fit my newer, trimmer shape. There are only about three stores young people can shop in, and Parker and I went to Charlotte Russe. Browsing the racks, I came across the sexiest teal-blue dress I’d ever seen. “You need that,” Parker said, inspecting it.
“I don’t have the boobs.”
“Try it on anyway.”
So I did. And when I came out of the dressing room, the salesladies whistled. Parker gave me an approving “wow.” And when I looked into the mirror, I knew what all the hysteria was about. I looked older and off the charts sexy. The dress was a halter, with a completely bare back and a short skirt that stopped mid-thigh. I’d never worn anything so bare—even my bathing suits seemed to cover more. But I’d been practicing my posture, and my new exercise routine had given me tone in places I’d needed it.
As I gazed into the mirror, I lost myself in thought. Instead of being a faceless nobody who was ignored, I was a showstopper. In this dress, I looked like someone worthy of Z.
And then I hated myself because I didn’t have the money to buy it. It’s not like I carry hundred-dollar bills to school with me, and I don’t own a credit card. But Parker had her dad’s. She was checking out her own emerald-green gown, which was lovely but still nowhere near as hot as mine, and said, “Don’t worry. Just pay me back. What are friends for?”
Friends. She considered me her friend. Of course, Parker was the type to throw the word around loosely, since she had so many of them. I thought of that old saying about keeping friends close and enemies closer. I still wasn’t sure exactly what camp she fell into, or which one I wanted her to fall into.
“Z is not going to be able to take his eyes off you in that,” she said as she pumped the accelerator.
I imagined him drooling when he caught sight of me. That is, until I realized that I wasn’t even going to the dance with him. Up until two hours ago, I hadn’t even planned on going myself. And now—now I knew what I needed to do. I needed to get Z to ask me. I figured I’d tell you that Z and I were going together. As friends, of course. Because he’d asked me. Just as friends.
You see, right, Andrew? It had to be done…if nothing else, to save Z from her.
As I was solidifying the plan in my mind, my phone dinged. I pulled it out and read another text from Z. I need to touch you again.
I trembled from head to toe at the thought, and Parker whistled. “Whoa, you’ve got it bad.”
“What?” I asked innocently.
“Who are you texting? You look like a lovesick puppy.”
“It’s just Z. He sends me texts.” I was proud of the volume of messages I’d received from him. When I went back and reread them, they showed the progression of our friendship.
“Dirty ones? Are you sexting?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Please don’t tell me you’re sending naked pictures of yourself to any guy.”
“No, it’s just…” I smiled some more. I couldn’t explain our texting without blushing. So when she stopped at a light, I showed her the screen, thumbing through the hundreds of texts he’d sent me, all of which I’d saved. Some of them were private, some a little dirty, some slightly embarrassing. I’d never delete one. Never, ever. In fact, whenever I was feeling lonely, I’d read through them, analyzing every word and wondering what he was thinking as he’d typed them. And I guess part of me was excited to show someone, anyone, how much he wanted me. How irresistible he found me.
She smiled. “Oh my God. Did he actually say What are you wearing right now?”
I shrugged. “He’s not the most creative.”
She thumbed through the rest of the messages. “He definitely has a texting addiction. Either that or he’s just addicted to you.”
“Maybe.” I smiled coyly, not realizing that this seemingly innocent conversation would destroy everything.