Lettie
School started on the fifth of September this year, though I’ve been at it for two weeks now. Three months of very little summer fun has made me downright giddy for Mr. Donovan’s Honors World Lit class, which many describe as a double Adderall hour. Not that I’d ever grind up the ADD meds and snort them like some kids in my school do. After this summer, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Riley was among those who partook.
I’ve seen Riley in the halls a few times now. She’s always her usual bubbly self, surrounded by the hippest, coolest kids. Nothing new there, but naturally, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a chemically induced component to her consistently cheery disposition. I haven’t seen any posters advertising Riley Thompson for student council president, but they’re coming. Perhaps she’ll run on an anti-graffiti platform? Hmmm …
Despite being a pill-popping cheat, Riley and Dylan continue to do their Velcro thing, arms draped around each other as if their clothes were sewn together. And why not be all PDA all the time? This is senior year! We are the queens and kings of the castle! Let us rejoice in the greatness of the upper class!
Seniors have certain privileges even with schoolwork. For instance, my psych teacher is all for my continuing the revenge research project throughout the year. He’s hippie-dippie enough to make it an independent study worth a quarter of my grade. Who knows? Maybe by the end of the term, I’ll have had the guts to take revenge, not just write about it.
My hero status from the previous spring seems all but forgotten. It’s as if I never railed against the system, challenged the school board, took matters into my own hands, and got suspended for the effort. I’m still a bit raw at how everyone forgot about me as well, checking in less and less while I was grounded.
But nobody has forgotten about Loony Lettie.
After the incident, as I’ve come to think of it, my moniker from those glory days got a little revival on social. Loony Lettie went kinda loony with the spray paint, one post read.
I guess I’ve got Riley to thank for my return to the ridicule of my middle school years. Couple that with ratting me out to school officials, and she’s more than deserving of a little retribution. To keep Dylan from getting hurt, those pictures of Riley and Umbrella Guy need to stay on Jay’s phone where they belong. But I haven’t come up with a new plan. And worse, I think Jay’s lost interest in the whole thing—and me. Other than the occasional text, which he takes days to reply to, I’m basically being ghosted.
At lunchtime, my friends notice I’m distant. For reasons unknown, I feel on the outside of our inside jokes. It’s like I’ve changed over the summer. I’ve become a different Lettie. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen a new side of life, taken a bite of the forbidden fruit, so to speak, Jay being my apple.
I don’t talk about Jay—not to anybody, because I don’t need people judging me. He’s a college dropout. He’s much older. He might do drugs. He lives in his parents’ basement. And he’s super hot, and I’m totally obsessed with him. Go figure. Hormones suck.
Meanwhile, Mom and Dad are riding me like the lawn mower these days about college apps. I keep telling them to relax, I have time, even though I probably don’t. My friends are taking standardized test after test, feverishly securing recommendations, and working on their essays. Many have discovered a latent altruistic side as they rush to volunteer for whatever worthwhile cause.
As for me, I can’t tell where gaining revenge ends and enticing Jay begins. All this is a long way of saying why, after school gets out, and I spy Riley heading for the parking lot instead of the turf field where I know she has field hockey practice, I decide to follow. I’d seen her earlier that day walking with a noticeable limp. I assumed she’d injured herself in pursuit of high school sports glory. The injury would have given her just cause to skip practice, but now, without the eyes of her athletic peers upon her, Riley walks quickly, no sign of any limp.
She gets into her BMW just as I get into my own car—a Hyundai Santa Fe my dad once drove that puts the “jalop” in jalopy. I don’t dwell on the differences between my rusty ride and Riley’s gleaming one as I follow her out of the school parking lot. If she’s up to something, it might spark a new revenge plot, something that might reignite Jay’s interest in my school project … and more important, in me.
One fact is immediately obvious as we start our drive. Riley is not headed toward home. I don’t have Jay’s GPS tracker, but my eyes work just as well as the technology. I follow her out of town and onto the highway.
We travel five miles before Riley takes an exit. I do the same. We’re driving Route 122, a stretch of road with loads of shopping centers, restaurants, and various businesses. If she stops at a store, perhaps I could sneak something into her purse, trigger the security alarm. I’m sure the Bible would approve. But would that be enough? Maybe for me, but I doubt for Jay.
I’m guessing all of this is for nothing. Riley is probably out on an errand. Maybe she’s going to CVS to buy an Ace bandage because she really did hurt her ankle.
That theory goes out the window when she drives by a bunch of pharmacies without stopping at any of them. With my curiosity refreshed, I decide to keep following. About fifteen minutes later, I’m back to questioning my sanity.
I’m about to give up and turn around to go home and work on my college apps, do something that whiffs of productivity, when Riley pulls over to the left lane to make a U-turn. I glance over my shoulder in time to catch sight of her heading into the parking lot of a Marriott Residence Inn on the other side of the road.
Well, I can’t stop stalking now. Next light, I make a U-turn as well. Before long, I’m in the Marriott parking lot. I catch sight of her walking to the front entrance, but she doesn’t see me. If she did, my plan is to tell her I’m getting a job application because I’ve always dreamed of working for Marriott.
Luckily, it’s an excuse I don’t have to use. Riley is too focused on a bank of elevators to the right of the check-in desk to notice me. I’m off to the side, using a big fake plant as camouflage. Through the slats of a plastic leafy palm frond, I keep careful watch. Riley doesn’t appear nervous. I see no outward signs of stress. Has she done this before? Is this where she goes to buy her drugs?
These aren’t questions I ponder for long. The elevator opens and out steps a man. I can’t see him clearly with that plant blocking my view. Certainly I don’t dare risk exposure by stepping out from behind it. I can tell he’s got broad shoulders and dark blond hair. Like the guy at the bar, he’s dressed in a sport coat and jeans. Definitely doesn’t go to Meadowbrook High. He puts his arm around Riley as he pulls her into the elevator with him. A moment later, they’re gone. My thoughts are swirling. Who is this guy? I’m thinking it’s Umbrella Man, but I can’t be sure because I still haven’t gotten a good look at him. Maybe she’s got a bunch of guys on the line and that’s how she gets her drugs.
Either way, I’m both excited and worried as I head back to my car. I’ve discovered something truly tantalizing about Riley that Jay will want to know for sure. But I’m concerned for her as well. To my eyes, it looked like she was out of her depth, out of her league, and perhaps even in danger.