Luke

FEBRUARY 2011

“Hey, baby! How was practice?”

Grabbing a drink from the refrigerator in the training center, I switch off Train’s 50 Ways to Say Goodbye and place the phone to my other ear. I roll my eyes. “Hey, Chris. Hold on.” Tossing my towel in the dirty laundry tub in the corner, I stalk to my locker.

What the hell does she want now? I just saw her over the weekend. I don’t have time for her shit today. I just finished a long, grueling practice and I need to get home to study for my statistics test.

I slip into my track pants before taking her call. “Sorry. Weight room training was crazy today. We have a meet in Des Moines this weekend.”

Her exasperated sigh sizzles through the speaker. “Another one?”

Zipping my duffle, I toss my jacket over my shoulder and take my keys from my pocket. “We have meets through March, Chris. You know that. Conference is coming up.” Not that I’ll qualify. My times have improved enough to keep me on the team this year, but I won’t make Nationals. “What’s up?”

“Did I leave my laptop at your apartment? I can’t find it.”

“You’re just realizing this now? It’s been five days.” Pushing through the double doors of the gym, I walk toward my car. I have no clue how this girl is passing her classes at Grand Valley State. Not that gen eds are difficult. But she doesn’t seem very organized.

She sighs. “I didn’t really need it. We just had a bunch of reading to do.”

Translation—she’s partying with her sorority sisters and skipping classes again. Too bad she can’t major in Greek. She’d be top of her class.

“I’ll check when I get home. Do you need it right away? Like I said, I won’t be home this weekend. And I can’t drive to you.” I could drop it off at her parents’ house, but I really don’t want to see Mrs. Mefford. Ever since I gave Christy that damn promise ring at her high school graduation, her mother has been treating it like a fucking engagement.

“Um, I can come get it if it’s okay?”

I purse my lips. Sounds like she doesn’t want to go home, either. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Thanks, baby. How’s everything else?”

Unlocking my door, I climb in and start the heat. “Good. Test tomorrow, so I’ve got to study.”

Her exasperated groan hits me like a gunshot. “Jeez, you’re always studying. Or swimming. Do you ever do anything fun? I mean, you have friends, right?”

“It’s Thursday, Chris.” I doubt she hears the sarcasm.

“So? There’s always something going on. Katie and I are going to a Theta Tau party tonight since you won’t be here for Valentine’s Day...”

I clutch the phone tighter. “Don’t start.”

“Come on, Luke. We’ve hardly seen each other in the last few months. The only reason I came home last weekend was because they read my grandmother’s stupid will.” She switches tactics. “We could get away for Spring Break.”

I press my forehead against the steering wheel. “That’s the week of Regionals. You know I can’t.” A frustrated squeal echoes through the phone, and I scowl. “I can’t do this with you right now. You knew the situation. When we got back together, I asked you if you could handle the long-distance stuff. Being a college athlete isn’t easy.” Actually, it sucks big time. Not that she cares. She’s still hoping I’ll be a big-shot Olympian.

“I’m trying to be patient. But it’s hard being so far away from you.”

I can practically hear her pout. I roll my eyes. Her clinginess is driving me insane. She’s only three hours west. Sometimes I wish it were farther.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “After this weekend’s meet, I should know what my schedule looks like. We’ll take a weekend and get away, okay?”

“Thank you! I love you.”

“You, too. Talk to you soon.”

Ending the call, I chuck my phone on the passenger seat and pull out of the parking lot. The pressure in my temples intensifies.

Jesus, when did I start feeling so trapped? And why the hell does she keep leaving shit at my apartment? Everywhere I look, she’s left a trace of herself as if she’s claiming me. Clothes, shampoo, hair ties, and now her damn laptop—.

My pulse thrums against my neck double time. I glance in the rear-view mirror and inhale sharply.

Hell, yes.

After almost a year of trying to sneak a look at Christy’s computer, this is it. My chance to see if Penny’s accusations about the Homecoming incident are true.

Last May, I was so close. Christy got a new laptop for graduation, and I volunteered to help her transfer everything over from her old machine hoping to inspect it. We spent one afternoon switching everything, including file folders full of photos.

But she’d refused to leave the machine with me overnight. Once I showed her how to copy the files she wanted to keep, she took over and finished the rest of it herself.

Does she really have those pictures?

“She isn’t that dumb.”

Or is she?

Changing lanes, I haul ass until I get home. Running up the stairs to my second-floor apartment, I unlock the door and throw my duffle on the floor. I rummage through the crap on the table, mostly papers from my late-night study session.

I drag one of the chairs out, and there it is, draped over the arm in a pink messenger bag. Taking a deep breath, I grip the machine in my hands and attempt to calm down.

This is stupid. Why am I still hung up on this? I haven’t seen Penny in over a year. Yet all I can think about is the last thing she said to me:

Your girlfriend’s a bully, just like her cousin. Have you ever checked her computer? Do it. I dare you! She’s got those photos...

I stare at Christy’s laptop intently. Call it morbid curiosity, but I have to know if Penny told me the truth. For peace of mind. If I don’t find anything, then I’ll know, right? Although Christy could have removed files from her old computer already.

Or Penny was lying, and Christy doesn’t have the files at all.

“Only one way to find out.”

My pulse accelerates as I sit on the sofa and pull her laptop from the bag. Lifting the lid, I power it on. The low battery indicator blinks red. “Fuck!”

Jumping up, I grab my power cord. Luckily, Chris has the same computer model as I do since I helped her pick it out. The machine boots, and the cursor on the login screen flashes. Incidentally, I set her new password, too. “PromQueen09.”

The desktop loads, and a picture of us as the prom king and queen two years ago pops up as her wallpaper. I scoff. Jesus, she really is shallow. She has a thing about reliving our glory days. More to the point, her glory days.

I click the start menu. Her word processor program is the most used, to my surprise. Maybe she studies more than I give her credit for.

Out of the three gigabytes of memory, she’s used up nearly a full gig. I scroll through multiple folders. There aren’t many programs she’s used. No games whatsoever. A shortcut for her MySpace page and one for her word processor and spreadsheet files are the first two icons on her desktop. Her music directory holds over five hundred songs. “No surprise there.”

I access the main file directory and click on a folder that has articles she’s saved for her classes. “Intro to education, child psychology...” It looks pretty normal.

Closing out those tabs, I open the media center and sit back. My jaw goes slack. Jesus, the girl is obsessed with the camera on her new iPhone. Pics will eat up storage space for sure. And she has photos of everything.

I muck through images taken at her sorority mixers, Christmas, her first day at the GVSU dorms, high school graduation... nothing looks out of place.

I begin to relax. Closing out those folders, I browse through the other media options. There’s a title bar under the navigation pane listed as shared media files. Huh. I had no idea that feature existed.

I click on the tab. A list of collective documents pops up for her classes. A single folder hides amongst them. “Barnyard Brawl?” Why does that sound so ominous?

Adrenaline shoots through me mixed with a chaser of dread as I double click on the shared link—files sent to Christy’s email from dancerbaby93@hotmail.com.

Several jpeg thumbnails load up, along with a wmv video. I adjust the size of the thumbnails. My stomach clenches. I don’t have to see the images to know what they are, but I double-click on the first one anyway. It zooms to full screen. As each file comes into focus, bile gathers at the back of my throat.

The pictures must have been taken in a series of continuous shots. The room was dark except for a single spotlight focused on Penny lying unconscious across somebody’s bed and wearing her Homecoming dress. In the first few, she’s fully dressed but arranged in provocative positions. Her golden crown of curls fans across the black sheets like a halo.

About three shots in, things go from disturbing to heinous. In each successive image, she’s undressed, poked, prodded, and finally stripped to her panties. No faces are visible, not even Brandon the Asshole’s.

My hands tremble as I scan through the rest. At the last image, I near lose my dinner. Penny is spread eagle on the bed, completely naked.

I quickly minimize the folder and slam the laptop shot. Setting it on the coffee table, I burst off the couch. “I can’t fucking believe this!”

Penny told the truth. My girlfriend has those sadistic photos. More to the point, she has shared files. One guess who dancerbaby93 is. No doubt about it. Chris has incriminated herself bigtime. And Hannah most likely was her accomplice.

What about the video?

Staring at the computer, I rub my temples. “Maybe she is that stupid.” Sinking onto the couch, I reboot her laptop and stare at the file folder. I open the video and watch the same footage that’s been circulating around the web for the last few years.

I tap my finger on the coffee table. I need to think about this objectively. None of it proves that Chris instigated the prank as Penny had claimed, but now I’ve got more questions than ever. If Chris is innocent, why did Hannah send these to her? And why did Chris play it off like she had no clue what was going on?

I search through the other categories. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Retracing my steps, I dig deeper. The first folder is full of system files needed by the OS to run everything.

However, the second one takes me to a separate folder labeled Scanned Documents. I open the first jpeg file. It’s a handwritten note on lined paper. Christy’s diary?

“September 3, 2007... The first day of high school sucks. Enough said.”

I smile. I probably felt the same way. I flip through the saved documents. There are at least twenty entries written at various times. Some of them are short and sweet, others are longer. They aren’t in order. Sorting through them chronologically, I finally find the first one.

“May 2005— Why do I have to write in this stupid notebook? It’s not like I have anything interesting to say. Apparently, Mrs. Donovan, our new principal, and Ms. Eppley, the school psychologist, are concerned about me. They want me to write down my thoughts to help me deal with my dad’s death. Ms. Eppley says if I won’t talk about my feelings, this might help. I doubt it. But I don’t have much of a choice. I have to spend every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday during lunch in Ms. Eppley’s office like a side-show freak. Luckily, I don’t have to show her my journal. That was the deal. Maybe writing will help. The adults have no clue what’s going on. I am angry. And hurt. And tired of being everyone’s favorite punching bag at Rochester Hills Junior High.

I clutch the sides of the screen, my pulse thrumming against my neck. I recheck the date of the first entry. This can’t be Chris’ diary. She wasn’t living here in 2005, and her father is alive. Not to mention she’s never been bullied in her life.

“Pen...”

I swallow hard and pull up the next file:

“Two weeks ago, Miranda humiliated me in front of everyone at the Halloween party when she told Mrs. Donovan—loudly—that she didn’t want me eating cupcakes because I weigh 160 pounds. And yesterday, she threatened to send me to a diet camp if I gained any more weight. You wanna know why I’m angry? Because I’m not supposed to be here.

My heart hurts as I quickly scan the rest of the entry.

My mother admitted I was a mistake. She never wanted a daughter.

And finally:

Fate is cruel. Dad died, leaving me with the one person in the world that hates me more than she hates herself. Why couldn’t it have been me that died?

I touch the scratchy cursive filling the screen, pity tearing through my soul. “Jesus, Pen.” She couldn’t have been more than twelve years old when she wrote this. Had she really wanted to die?

Reluctantly, I choose a new entry, despite feeling like I’m violating Penny’s psyche. It’s dated the summer before her freshman year—she was fourteen at the time.

Since Ms. Janson wants me to write out all my feelings, here is my dear diary confession: I think I’m in love with my brother’s best friend. I didn’t realize it until Janey Matthews came up to me during P.E. the last day of school and asked about Luke. Apparently, she’d heard he spends a lot of time at our house and that we’re neighbors. She wanted to know everything about him... what he likes, if he’s seeing anyone, and so on. Then she asked me to give him her number. It made me angry. I told her if she likes him so much, then she can tell him herself.

Jealousy makes people ugly. Right?

Luke spends every Saturday at our house lifting weights with Colt. I watch him all the time. It’s hard to ignore the feelings I get when he’s around... warm and gooey all over. He treats me like a person. He always sticks up for me. Not that my feelings matter. He doesn’t know I’m alive, except as Colt’s sister.

Closing my eyes, I sigh. I’m not sure what to do with this information. I knew she had a little crush on me. That’s exactly why I threw it out there the night of her car accident. But to see it firsthand in her own writing?

Have you checked her computer? Do it! I dare you. She’s saved every one of those photos and that video...

“And her journal.”

The memory echoes through me like a blast of dynamite. I clench my jaw, raw anger eating me from the inside out.

Christy lied to me.

I rub the tip of my nose, trying to piece everything together. The Homecoming incident happened over three years ago. Christy supposedly turned the SD card she found in her mother’s camera over to the police and told them Hannah was the instigator. A year later, Chris cornered Pen at work and threatened her with said pics, the video, and her journal.

I trace the loopy letters of Pen’s childhood cursive. Beyond a reasonable doubt—the law lives by it. This proves she was telling the truth. I can only use the facts I have, right? It’s pretty damning. If Chris is innocent, why would she have such incriminating evidence?

Grabbing a spare thumb drive, I insert it into the side of the computer and copy every file from the scanned documents and the Barnyard Brawl folder. It’s a risk, I know. If anyone catches me with these, I’ll be liable for charges of child pornography. But I can’t ignore this. Once Chris finds out I snooped, she might get rid of everything.

Logging out of all folders and ribbons, I clear the search history and shut the laptop.

And halt.

Chris and Hannah set Pen up with the guy who assaulted her. Penny had refused to name him, and the police didn’t have enough evidence to convict anyone except Hannah. Since she was a minor, she wasn’t charged—and because of her father’s power play and my father’s pressure to let it go, she was never held accountable. Did this Brandon guy buy his way out of trouble, too?

I don’t put it past Joe Donovan to be so conniving. All he cared about at the time was being elected to higher office. For years, he’s been instrumental in sweeping crap under the rug, starting with the death of Robert Ramsay. Not that I have evidence of any of that, either.

Rebooting the machine once more, I connect to my wi-fi signal, log into Chris’ email account, and try the same password. Her inbox flashes.

Seriously? “She really needs to change her fucking password.”

She will when she finds out what I’ve done.

Scanning through her contacts, I finally find what I’m looking for. “Brandon Ellis, is it? You’re on my shit list, buddy.” I write down the guy’s email address and log out of everything. Closing the laptop, I turn it off, my mind whirling.

Unfortunately, this newest piece of the puzzle leaves a million questions running rampant through my mind, and I can’t leave it alone. I blame my insatiably inquisitive nature.

Fine... I’m obsessed. Whatever. I have to know what happened that night or I’ll lose my mind.

But the bottom line?

Penny never got the justice she deserved.

“I don’t know what the truth is, but they won’t get away with this.”

Tearing a piece of paper from my notebook, I scribble We need to talk and tape the note to the top of Christy’s laptop. Taking a deep breath, I push it all aside. I can’t deal with this right now. I have a statistics test tomorrow and a big meet on Saturday.

But I need answers. If all Chris has are stupid excuses as to why she has everything from that horrible night, we’re finished.

*****

Three months later

This is the private journal of Penny Elaine Ramsay. Do not read!!

MARCH 15, 2011

The Ides of March... do I have a bad omen attached to my soul? I’ve had my high school diploma for three months, and now I have to work multiple jobs just to save for college. I won’t turn eighteen until next month, but even if I wanted to move out, how can I? My mother has drained every source of money we had, including my college account.

She forged my signature. After the temper tantrum she threw when I wouldn’t sign my college pension form, she big fat did it anyway. She used my high school transcripts and proof of early graduation to sign over the benefits. Because I’m still underage, they freaking allowed it.

So now I’m working at the theater on weekends, babysitting during the evenings, and pulling in nearly thirty hours a week as a bank teller. All minimum wage jobs.

At this rate, I’ll never save enough to escape this hell.