by JC Gatlin
“Hold your horses.” Abbie picked Clem up with both hands and set him down on the floor.
Now a twenty-year-old college student with white skin and dark brown hair that she generally kept pulled back in a ponytail, Abbie had a full day of classes ahead of her. She wore comfortable jeans and a tan button-down shirt tied in a knot above her waist, showing an inch or two of white freckled stomach. Her bare feet were cold on the kitchen tile. Absentmindedly, she clutched the small silver unicorn pendant swaying at the end her necklace. She had a habit of gripping it whenever she felt anxious.
The laptop on the counter had a DVD playing in it. Despite the dramatic music and action on the screen, Abbie ignored the episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She had a cat to feed. Setting the open can in the sink, she bent to grab the food bowl. Clem watched her take the empty dish, then took to licking his front paw.
Abbie brought the dish to the sink and ran it under the faucet, half glancing at her laptop. The blue-and-white Skype logo popped-up and twirled on screen with its bubbly music, interrupting Buffy’s street fight with a horde of vampires. She paused the DVD and answered the video chat. The face of a man in his early fifties appeared on the screen and smiled.
“Clinton Reed…” Abbie returned the smile. She spoke to her father every single day for the last two months, ever since leaving home to attend Bay Harbor University in Tampa. Go Mighty Manatees! Her father wasn’t on board with her moving. To be honest, he wasn’t even comfortable with her leaving the house. And these last eight weeks had been the longest they’d ever been separated.
“Happy Birthday, Abigail.” His hair was a deep shade of grey. It turned early, when he was still a young man of thirty-five. Now, it lightened his heavy face, which, with its worry lines and the dark bags under his eyes, made him look closer to sixty.
“My birthday’s not for another two days.” Abbie rinsed the bowl under the tap as she spoke.
“Okay, then. Happy Pre-Birthday.” He chuckled as if he made a joke, then the worry lines returned. “Did you get the check?”
Abbie set the dish in the sink next to the can of cat food and stretched an arm toward a pile of mail at the end of the counter. She picked up a red Hallmark card with a yellow kitten on the front. There was a check folded inside.
“Yes,” she said, holding it up to the camera. “And the card. It made me cry.”
“That was from your grandparents. My present is… well, I wish I could come down to visit you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Abbie said. Clem meowed loudly, and she glanced down at him. Her father continued, also vying for her attention.
“I should’ve at least driven you up there when you left,” he said. “I wanted to. I really did.”
“I completely understand.” Abbie scooped the Seafood Feast into the bowl with a spoon, then lowered the bowl to the floor. Clem pounced on it as Abbie straightened back up and looked at her father on the screen. “Maybe I can come back home for the weekend. And Thanksgiving is, what, a month away?”
He shook his head. “You should stay up there. Spend your birthday with your friends.”
Abbie laughed at that. “I haven’t had time to make friends yet. I’ve only been here a couple of months.”
“What about your roommate?”
As if on cue, a voice behind Abbie interrupted the conversation.
“All of my Tinder matches got wiped-out.” Susan Nichols stepped out the bathroom holding her smart phone in one hand and running the other through her short blonde hair. Close to six feet tall with an athletic build, her long legs seemed to drive her much higher than she really wanted to go. So she wore flat pumps, like she always did. They matched her white shorts and green BHU tee cut just above the navel. With her head down, she appeared focused on her phone.
“Every single guy! Gone! Caput!” She shook the phone in her hand then looked at it again. “Geez! It’s like my phone is jealous and wants me to stay home on Saturday nights.”
Abbie acknowledged her, then turned back to the laptop. “I have Behavioral Science starting in twenty minutes.”
“Okay.” He looked down a moment. It seemed some pang of regret flashed across his face. When he looked back up, Abbie clearly saw it in his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Be careful today and call me when you get home.”
“Love you.” Abbie moved her fingertips over the mouse sensor on her laptop.
“Wait!” He raised a hand and it jiggled the image. “When it rains…”
Abbie glanced over at Susan, who stood at the door pressing her thumbs on the phone screen. “What’s wrong with this stupid thing?” She screamed at it. Abbie looked back at her father’s face in the monitor. “C’mon. I’m practically an adult…”
“And when it rains,” he said again.
Abbie sighed. “Look for rainbows.”
“And when it’s dark?”
Abbie rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”
He asked it again. “And when it’s dark?’
“Look for stars.” Her tone turned cold. “Now, I’ve really got to go.” Abbie ran a finger over the mouse sensor and closed the Skype window. She looked at Susan.
Susan dropped the phone into her purse and held the front door open. She pointed toward Abbie’s laptop. “You watching the Muffy DVD again? You know we have over three hundred channels on the tube.”
“It’s Buffy, with a ‘B’,” Abbie said. Frozen onscreen, Buffy Summers stood in mid-stride crossing a dark Sunnydale street. The spunky, teenage vampire slayer was headed to The Bronze to save her little sister Dawn, and she sang “Walk Through Fire” as she marched into battle. Abbie had seen this episode a hundred times. It was her favorite, next to the one where Angel turns evil, or where those tall, white, tuxedoed ghost-zombies floated into town and stole everyone’s voices, or the one where…
Susan laughed, tapping her finger nails on the door. “Trust me, it’s Muffy. The producers knew what they were doing. Now let’s go.”
“I’m coming.” Shrugging, Abbie turned off the laptop, jumped off the stool and grabbed her book bag and purse. She slipped a pair of tennis shoes on her bare feet. “You working today? It’s supposed to rain.”
“No, I’ve gotta get my phone fixed and I need that student discount.” Susan pointed to the white block letters spelling “Bay Harbor U.” across her chest. “That’s why I’m repping the alma mater today even though I clashed with all my professors and they accused me of arson.”
Abbie crouched down to Clem, who was still engrossed in the Seafood Feast. She rubbed a hand over the cat’s head and ears, and told him to be good. Finally, she followed Susan out the door, pausing a moment to lock it behind them. Susan rambled behind her.
“Did I tell you one of the hot girls who lives on our floor moved out and now a newer, hotter girl is moving in? I can’t compete.” Susan waved a hand as she talked, walking briskly down the three flights of stairs. Abbie followed. Traffic noise from the street carried in through the open stairwell windows. A baby crying loud enough to be heard in one unit competed with a television turned-up a little too loud from another.
Stepping on the sidewalk, Susan turned to Abbie. “It’s soooo time to move outta here.”
* * * *
Sitting on a bench across the street, a man wearing a brown hat and a tan trench coat held a pen and notepad in hands. He watched Abbie Reed and the tall roommate walk down the three flights of steps to the parking lot. Abbie looked up at the sky and pointed. Perhaps they were talking about the chance for rain, he thought. He couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying from that distance.
Pushing his brown hat lower on his head to shade his face, he remained in the shadows beneath the oak trees and palms. He watched the girls climb into a blue Honda Civic, then scribbled, “8:25 AM leaving apartment.”
The roommate’s car pulled out of the parking lot. He knew it was headed toward the psychology building on the University campus. Sometimes Abbie Reed would walk to class. Sometimes
the roommate would drive her. Either way, Abbie would be in class till four, which gave him some time to kill.
Chapter 3
Rain swept into Tampa that afternoon, which was unusual for late October. Abbie hardly noticed though. For most of Behavioral Science, she just sort of sat there, taking up space. A portly girl with purple streaks in her bleached-white hair sat to her right. The girl squirmed and shifted in her seat, distracting Abbie from the professor’s lecture.
Professor Cunningham spoke as a projector beam cut through the dark classroom, shining onto a pull-down screen at the front. The Professor was in his late forties—at least—with telltale grey streaks in his short black hair. He walked between the aisles of desks until he blocked the beam with his body. A disjointed image appeared on his sleeveless sweater vest, just below the hint of a blue tie knot and a starched white collar. He spoke in a slow, monotonous tone that could put hummingbirds to sleep.
“German psychologist and scientist Mario Gollwitzer examined one of our deepest instincts—satisfactory revenge,” he said. “Gollwitzer coined two theories as to why revenge is so appealing to the human psyche.” The Professor held the projector remote in his right hand, and aimed its red laser on the wall. Sometimes he would aim the beam at a student as he asked a question. He moved out of the projector beam and the image of a black SUV with a smashed windshield grew clear on the screen behind him. A pick axe had been lodged into the glass.
“The first is the idea that simply seeing an offender get his come-uppance restores a so called emotional balance,” he said, looking from the screen to the class. The slides changed to reveal several examples of revenge and the class laughed at the photos. “Who hasn't said, ‘I hope he gets his,’ or wished that Karma would strike sooner rather than later?”
The blonde girl sitting beside Abbie shifted in her seat again, and ran a finger through the purple streak of hair that ran as a strand from her widow’s peak and disappeared behind her ear. The Professor glanced their way as he spoke. “The second theory is a little darker. A little deeper. Here, the offender’s come-uppance is not enough. Instead, the offender must understand the direct connection between the retaliation and the instigating action.”
The Professor clicked the remote and the image changed to a cherry red convertible with the words “Hope she was worth it” spray painted in black along the driver’s side doors. Abbie chuckled, along with several other students. The Professor looked at her, but pointed the remote’s laser at the fidgety blonde. A red dot lit her shirt, and the girl froze. Abbie didn’t know this classmate by name, but knew she was struggling.
“Miss Larson,” Professor Cunningham said, twirling the dot then aiming at the center of her chest, near her heart. “What were Gollwitzer’s two theories called?”
Miss Larson stuttered. Her cheeks turned red. Abbie actually felt bad for her.
Professor Cunningham always called on this girl for answers and, inevitably, the chubby blonde would stammer for a solid fifteen seconds before he moved on, pointing his little laser beam at the next student. He did this in every class, and it really wasn’t funny. The Professor, in Abbie’s opinion, was a bully—plain and simple.
“Miss Larson?” Professor Cunningham leaned against the desk at the front of the room and folded his arms across his tacky sweater vest. “We’re waiting.”
The girl’s eyes widened.
Abbie discretely scribbled down two phrases: “Comparative Suffering” and “Understanding Hypothesis.” She ever so slightly tapped the notebook with her pen, catching Miss Larson’s eye. Abbie didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but she wanted to help. The professor cleared his throat. “Miss Larson? Do you have an answer for us?”
Miss Larson looked at Abbie, then down at the notepad. Abbie pointed to the two phrases with her pen. “It’s, um…” Her voice wavered as she spoke. “It’s Comparative Suffering and Understanding Hypothesis.”
The Professor unfolded his arms and lowered the remote. The beam vanished.
“Interesting. Yes, that’s absolutely correct.” He gave Miss Larson a sidelong glance of utter disbelief. Maybe he hadn’t caught on? Abbie thought. She hoped. The Professor lifted his hand again and aimed the remote to change the projector slide.
The girl’s eyes narrowed, glancing at Abbie, and she mouthed the words “thank you.” Abbie returned the smile, then noticed the Professor watching her. He shook his head. Abbie sank back in her seat. Guess he did notice after all.
The Professor changed the slide and moved on with the lecture. “Gollwitzer found that revenge can succeed only when an offender understands the reason for the act of vengeance.”
The lecture continued for another half hour and Abbie’s mind drifted to her birthday, moving to Tampa, and about Clinton Reed. She should really buy a bus ticket and go back home to visit him this week. She didn’t have any plans for her birthday, much less the weekend. When the Professor assigned a paper due by the next class, Abbie sat-up straight in her seat. She had no idea what she was supposed to write about. She’d tried to pay attention, but between Miss Larson squirming beside her and the rain falling outside and of course her twenty-first birthday, Gollwitzer’s revenge study didn’t stand a chance.
Professor Cunningham dismissed the class and Abbie rose with the other students. She grabbed her purse and made her way toward the door, when she heard her name called.
“Miss Reed. May I speak with you for a moment, please?”
The sound of the Professor’s voice made her pause. She didn’t want to turn back. She should just keep moving. When he called her name again, she had to turn around. “Yes?”
The Professor motioned for her to follow. She knew this was about helping the blonde girl in class. He’d noticed. Or this was about the paper on some unknown subject. She hadn’t paid attention. So she followed him out the classroom. Together, they walked through the crowded hallway.
“You’re a bright student, Miss Reed,” he said, moving past several students loitering near a water fountain. He rounded a corner and Abbie followed. He glanced back at her, over his shoulder. “You don’t say much in class.”
“You don’t ever call on me. I didn’t even know you knew my name.” Abbie saw that they were headed toward the faculty offices. He came to a closed door with a title plate reading “Professor Cunningham” in large block letters. Inserting a key into the door knob, he nodded toward Abbie.
“Do you know why?”
Abbie shrugged. “Comparative suffering?”
“Interesting.” The Professor glanced away, his expression unreadable. His coolness was evidence enough; he was not amused. He opened the door and turned on the lights. Abbie followed as he took a seat at his desk. He pushed out an extra chair along the side and motioned for her to take a seat. Abbie sat, hesitantly, as he positioned himself in his own chair. The Professor leaned back, arms folded across his sleeveless sweater vest. “That’s an interesting notion—comparative suffering. But, no, that’s not the reason.”
Abbie didn’t make eye contact. She waited for him to drop the hammer, start the lecture, tell her she needed to pay attention. Anxiously, she focused on his desk cluttered with papers and folders. A tan rain coat draped over the far left corner, covering even more paperwork. The wall behind him was a collage of framed diplomas, degrees and photographs. They took up every square inch of wall space.
“Do you want to know why I don’t call on you, Miss Reed?” His voice was courteous but patronizing. “Because you already know the answers.”
Abbie acknowledged that. “Is that why you always call on that girl?”
“Miss Larson?”
“Yes,” Abbie said. “Miss Larson.”
“I know everyone’s name in my class. I know their story and their potential.” He unfolded his arms and leaned forward. His gray eyes darkened as he held her gaze. “I take an interest in all my students.”
Now Abbie leaned back. She read the framed Master’s Degree hanging behind him.
He’d graduated from Florida State University. Along either side of the degree were black-and-white photos: Professor Cunningham shaking hands with President Obama at a banquet and, the other, standing beside Tiger Woods on a golf course. He didn’t smile in any of the photos.
“Miss Reed, I’m aware of your past.” He shuffled papers on his desk. Abbie wondered if he was looking for something, and watched as he addressed her. “I think you’ve done an admiral job overcoming certain…” He hesitated, picking up a folder and scanning its contents. After a moment, he finished his sentence with a single word. “Adversities.”
Abbie stared at him, waiting for a point. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I knew your father, Miss Reed. He was a good man.” He set down the folder and suddenly swiveled in his chair. He reached for a picture hanging on the wall and removed it using both hands. He stared at it, then handed it to Abbie.
Abbie took the photo. It looked old, like it had been taken fifteen, maybe twenty years ago. The professor was sitting in a bar with several other young men. One of them, the man sitting directly opposite him, was Clinton Reed. He looked so young, care free. A mere shadow of the man he was today. They were holding up mugs, laughing. It was a side of Clinton Reed she’d never seen before.
She looked up at the wall where the picture had been hanging just a moment ago. There were dozens of framed photographs. Professor Cunningham accepting an award from Buzz Aldrin. Professor Cunningham in a robe, speaking behind a podium. Professor Cunningham posing with the mayor and the chief of police. There didn’t seem to be any photos of family, a wife or kids. The closest to anything fun and personal was an oddly colorful cartoon cel of Gareth the Goodhearted Ghoul. The light gray cartoon character was flying against a brilliant blue sky with white puffy clouds and a bright yellow sun. An autograph was scribbled in the lower right-hand corner, barely visible in the cheap black frame.
It looked strangely out of place. Abbie brought a hand to her necklace and wrapped her fingers around the silver unicorn pendant. She squeezed it. The small horn pressed into her palm.
