by Elise Juska
Her mother slid into the driver’s seat. “Sorry,” she said, shutting the door. She wedged her thermos in the cup holder and her bag on the seat between them. Then she turned to Anna, gripping the wheel in her small, freckled hands, and smiled a strained smile. “Feeling good?”
What could she say? Her insides were shaking. But she was leaving. She was finally going. It was easier to just say yes.
When they pulled onto campus four hours later, the quad was teeming with people. Most were dressed in identical blue T-shirts—WELCOME CREW—ready to greet the new students and help haul their stuff inside. Anna’s RA, Isabel, was a junior, an Early Childhood Education major, and perfect-looking. “Welcome to your new home!” she sang, dropping them off at Anna’s room. It was tiny, half the size of Anna’s bedroom in Stafford. Naturally, she was the first one there. As she waited, alone with her mother, she suddenly realized how much she wished Felicia weren’t coming, and hoped that her roommate (Alexis Riggio from Old Lyme, Connecticut) was next to arrive.
“Knock knock!”
It was Felicia, of course, ten minutes later, breezing through the door. “This is so exciting!” she said, wrapping Anna in a tight hug. Then she approached Anna’s mother, smile bright and hand extended. “You must be Maggie. So nice to finally meet you. Felicia.”
It seemed like not the right thing to say, though Anna wasn’t quite sure why.
“Yes.” Her mother looked surprised, and slightly amused. “You as well.”
Their differences were immediate and striking. Felicia wore an ankle-length halter dress, a long silver necklace, and metallic sandals. Her arms were bare, her toenails painted a deep red. Anna’s mom was wearing her standard jeans and a baggy sweater that hung from her small, hard shoulders like laundry pinched on a line. Then Anna noticed that she had in fact dressed up slightly: pale-pink lipstick, small silver ball earrings. The effort was probably on account of Felicia, yet her mother’s accessories had such a small fraction of the effect, they only made the contrast between them more stark.
“Big day,” Anna’s dad said, kissing Anna’s head. He was carrying a laundry basket with a giant bow on it.
“For you,” Felicia said, beaming, and Anna thanked her. The basket was packed with food: bubble gum, kettle chips, microwave popcorn, M&M’s, a truckload of Swedish fish—was this her unsubtle way of ensuring Anna keep eating? Anna glanced at her dad; he gave her an encouraging smile.
“So,” Felicia said, still beaming. “Maggie. How was your drive? Any traffic?”
Her mother replied that the drive was fine, and Felicia nodded as if she’d said something interesting. “How long is that? Three hours? Four?”
Anna assumed that Felicia talking directly to her mother was deliberate, an attempt to defuse the awkwardness, but Anna wished she would stop. There was something sort of desperate about her cheerfulness, superficial and strenuous—it was just the sort of thing that would put her mother off.
“Three and a half, depending on traffic,” her father answered, and Anna thought she detected a hint of irritation in his voice too.
Then there was a commotion in the hallway and Alexis Riggio burst through the door. The first thing Anna noticed was her size: a two, maybe even a zero, details that had not been so obvious when FaceTiming on her phone. She wore an enormous pair of sunglasses, PRADA marching along one arm in little white letters, a dozen purses dangling from her shoulder. “Roomie!” she squealed, throwing her arms around Anna like they were old friends. Anna stiffened, wishing Kim or Janie were in the room to exchange a knowing look.
“Hi, folks,” Alexis’s father said, wheeling a huge red suitcase, luggage tags flapping from its handle. “Frank Riggio,” he said. “My wife, Liz.”
To Anna’s surprise, Alexis’s parents both hugged her. They were smiling. They appeared to still be happily married to each other. In fact, the entire family looked relaxed and tanned, as if they had just returned from a tropical vacation.
“Bunk bed preference?” Alexis asked.
Anna did have a preference—she was afraid that being close to the ceiling would feel like sleeping in a coffin—but thankfully, Alexis said she didn’t like the bottom and hoisted her shoulderful of bags on top.
“I doubt there are enough drawers on this campus for all the clothes Allie brought,” Mr. Riggio said. “Right, Al?” Alexis rolled her eyes, as if this affectionate teasing was so familiar it barely registered. She was already divvying up the dresser with the matter-of-fact familiarity of a kid who had gone to overnight camp. “Don’t forget to make room for the Dustbuster,” her father added, then addressed the room: “In a moment of delusion, we bought this kid a cleaning implement.” Felicia and Anna’s dad both laughed.
Anna’s mother smiled. She didn’t laugh. No doubt she was unimpressed by Alexis, who was unbuckling a suitcase filled with expensive-looking sweaters—she might be, at least slightly, a candy, Anna thought.
But Felicia chatted easily with the Riggios, the banter that had felt overeager fifteen minutes ago now seeming light and adept. She asked about their drive, recommended a few nearby restaurants, sushi and Vietnamese.
“Oh, you know the area?” Mrs. Riggio said. She fingered her necklace, made of thin gold links. “Didn’t Allie say you lived in Maine?”
“We do,” Felicia said. “In Portland. Tom and I. But I used to live in Boston.”
Anna felt a prick of worry—had her mom even known that they were living together? Would she care?
“Well, Portland’s not so far,” Mrs. Riggio said. “You two can keep watch.”
“Oh, we will,” Felicia said, with a delighted laugh.
Anna looked quickly at her mother. Her expression hadn’t changed but she looked more upright, shoulders back and chin raised. Standing beside the four other adults, Maggie was clearly the odd one out, and not just because she didn’t have a partner. In Stafford, her plainness read as grounded and no-nonsense, but next to these two women, her short ponytail and limp sweater looked almost dowdy. Noticing again those tiny ball earrings, the pale effort of the lipstick, Anna felt a swell of pity roll through her.
As if reading her mind, Alexis’s dad said, “So, Maggie, Allie tells us you’re a professor?” Then he raised his eyebrows kindly, and Anna decided she would love Mr. Riggio forever.
“That’s right,” her mother said.
“Must be back-to-school season for you too, then.”
“Almost,” she said. “Classes start next week.” Anna felt herself unknot a little, glad her mom was getting to showcase this part of herself. Mr. Riggio asked about her teaching, and Maggie sounded almost animated as she described her courses this semester at Central Maine State.
“Central Maine!” Mrs. Riggio interrupted. She turned to her husband, as if searching his face for confirmation. “Isn’t that where that boy went? That shooter?” she said, and Anna’s stomach turned.
“Which one?” He frowned.
“Just the other day. The one in the mall—”
“Yes,” Anna’s dad cut in. “He did.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Riggio exclaimed. She turned to Maggie, wide-eyed, fingers of one hand folding around her necklace. “Oh, Maggie, how terrible for you. How unsettling.”
Anna felt a sharp dot of sweat under one arm. She wondered if her mother would tell the whole story—the truly unsettling version—but Maggie replied only, “Yes. It certainly is.”
“He was still a student there, wasn’t he?” Mrs. Riggio said, shaking her head in a kind of horrified wonder. “He was right under your nose. I guess you can feel lucky he didn’t do anything at the school—although lucky is the wrong way to put it—but he could have. I mean, it was only a matter of time. A ticking bomb. It must be terrifying to even think about,” she said, then paused, clearly wanting her to affirm just how terrifying this was.
Anna could see, in the tightness of her mother’s jaw, that she sensed this woman’s hunger for details and wanted to change the subject. Still, Anna wished s
he would relent a little, offer a notch more feeling. She’d learned this in high school: People love trouble—to be a part of it, gush over it, soft-voiced and wide-eyed—but give them just a glimpse and they’ll be satisfied, move on.
“You didn’t know him, did you?” Mrs. Riggio pressed.
To her dismay, Alexis was now paying close attention, clutching an armful of jeans.
“It’s an enormous campus,” her mother replied. “A state school.” She had sidestepped the question, and Anna couldn’t blame her—if Alexis’s mother heard that the ticking bomb had been her student, she’d go nuts.
Then Felicia said, “Must be easy for problems to get lost in the shuffle in a school so big.” Anna glanced at her—did she know about Maggie’s connection to the shooter? Was she trying to make her feel better? Felicia gave her a knowing wink.
Anna’s nerves were quickening. Her hands were tingling. Her dad was smiling at her sadly, and her mother’s face was made of stone.
Mrs. Riggio was still talking. “Well, even so,” she said. “There he was, for four years, just sitting in those classrooms. He was walking around the quad just like any normal person.” She waved one hand, as if to take in the whole of campus, an agitated flutter. “He was probably living in the dorms. My God, I hate to even think—”
Anna blurted out, “This friend of mine, Laura, she was there.” She felt everyone turn to look at her. She didn’t meet her parents’ eyes, unable to bear their stricken faces. Instead, her eyes flew to Felicia’s. “At the mall. She was hiding in a dressing room,” she said. “In the Gap. She heard everything. She was afraid for her life.” Her voice was trembling.
“That must be scary, sweetie,” Felicia said, and reached out to squeeze her arm.
“Poor thing,” Mrs. Riggio said. “I honestly can’t imagine what you all must be going through.” Mortifyingly, Anna’s eyes thickened with tears. “Aw, roomie,” Alexis said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. Anna stared furiously at the floor. Her dad said, “We got very lucky.” From outside, someone chirped into a bullhorn—“In fifteen minutes, all first-years on the quad!”—but inside the room it had gone hushed and still.
“That kid,” Mr. Riggio said. “He’s dead now, isn’t he?”
Alexis’s arm still hung around Anna’s shoulders. The arm was cool, near weightless, but Anna’s neck was sweating.
“He killed himself, right?” Alexis’s dad was still addressing Anna’s mom, apparently seeing her as the authority on the subject. “Suicide?”
“He did, yes,” she said.
Felicia added, “They usually do.”
“What was his deal?” Mr. Riggio said angrily. “Was he mentally disturbed or just one of those kids who’s pissed off at the world—”
“Dad,” Alexis interrupted. “I know this was a terrible thing. And I feel sorry for these people. But it’s our first day of college. Can we please talk about something a little less morbid?”
Mr. Riggio chuckled. “That’s our girl,” he said. “Poster child for sensitivity.” But Anna was grateful. She smiled at Alexis, who rolled her eyes as she unlatched her arm from Anna’s neck. Below their open window, engines started revving. An eager tumble of voices rose from the quad. Inside, the parents’ conversation turned briefly to lighter topics, but Anna just wanted them all to leave. Her dad said, “Remember, we’re just a phone call away.” Felicia hugged her extra-hard. Her mom stood waiting by the window, gripping her sweatered elbows in her hands.
“Bye, Mom,” Anna said, when everyone else had headed downstairs.
Her mother’s eyes roamed once more, quickly, around the room. Then she said, “I guess it’s that time,” and gave a little laugh. “Okay.” She kissed Anna’s cheek. “Don’t forget to call me,” she said. Then she started down the hallway, her old canvas bag hitched to one shoulder. As Anna watched her go, she was seized with a surprising feeling of sadness, and worry, picturing her mother driving back to that empty house, down those long quiet roads, nothing to occupy her but her endless spin of thoughts.
Seven
Luke knew the feeling of not being noticed: It was how he moved through the world. As a kid he’d been so quiet people tended not to register his presence, sitting in the corner of the living room, or in the back of his dad’s truck, to the point where sometimes—Luke, honey, you’re staring, his mom would say, and he’d snap out of it, embarrassed.
What he remembered most about his English class freshman year was Meredith Kenney. She was the kind of student Luke could never hope to be. The kind who always raised her hand in class and seemed to genuinely care, and somehow made this seem admirable instead of annoying. Her eyes were different shades of green on different days, like sea glass. Once, that semester, she’d read an essay Luke had written about a family trip to Deer Isle when he was little, and left comments in the margins in her neat, round handwriting. Great job, Luke. Your relationship with your mom is so sweet. Can’t wait to read what you write next!
That Meredith took his dumb papers seriously embarrassed him, but that she took her own so seriously impressed him. Toward the end of the semester she’d written an essay about her brother, who had been killed somewhere in the Middle East, and read it to the entire class out loud. The room had been silent except for the sound of her voice, which shook and faltered, sometimes dropping to a whisper. At one point the overhead lights, on motion sensors, snapped off, and a few people twitched their feet and hands to bring them back. Luke knew the abruptness of losing a person without warning—how they were there, then suddenly just gone—but he couldn’t bring himself to write about it, much less read about it out loud. As he listened, his admiration for Meredith Kenney translated into personal shame. It was this alone that made him try harder on his next paper: an essay about his grandfather, who had died of a heart attack three years earlier. After he read it to the class, he looked up to find Meredith smiling at him sadly. I’m sorry, Luke.
They had never had another class together, and in a school so big he rarely saw her. Junior year, he heard she’d transferred to a college in Massachusetts to be closer to her family; remembering her brother’s death, Luke thought this made sense. Since then, he had Googled her occasionally but hadn’t found her. Facebook turned up dozens of Meredith Kenneys, but as far as he could tell they were all somebody else.
When Luke heard the news about Nathan Dugan, it felt like a punch to the throat. It was a Friday in August, still and sweltering, the kind of heat they rarely got in northern Maine. He’d worked the five a.m. shift at Dunkin’ Donuts and was sitting in his room, too hot to do anything but poke around on his computer, when things started appearing on Facebook and Twitter, links to headlines like SHOOTING AT ME MALL and SUSPECTED GUNMAN STUDENT AT CENTRAL MAINE.
Luke clicked one of the links and when he saw the picture, he froze.
That morning, Nathan had walked into the Millview Mall with a duffel bag packed with guns and ammunition and started shooting. The mall was right near campus—Luke had been to it once, spring of senior year, when April Peale dragged him along with her to go shopping for a dress for graduation. Nathan had killed at least three people there, then shot himself. No one knew why. As Luke roamed online, alone in his silent house—his father was at the auto body and his brother still in bed at nearly one thirty—he pored over descriptions of what happened, of a YouTube video Nathan had posted that morning, and grew nauseated. His mouth filled with spit, and he kept swallowing it down. His stomach hurt the way it used to when he was little, pain growing bigger and darker, like ink in water, until it was so intense he had to run to the bathroom and throw up. Then he brushed his teeth and splashed his face, and when he returned to his desk it was almost unthinkingly that he began to type.
He wasn’t too active on social media, though he constantly checked his accounts. Now and then, he would post one of his drawings on Facebook or Instagram and tag it #nature or #art or #justscrewingaround and it would get four or five comments and likes. Aunt Millie, his
mother’s only sister, who liked everything. Matt, his best friend from growing up, who now had an apartment with his college roommates down in Portland: nice dude. Occasionally, Luke heard from one of his fellow ES majors. But he never got more than a few responses, and that was fine. He didn’t expect anything more. That, he thought, was the Internet in general: a lonely landscape, a largely barren place but with these rare bursts of not-loneliness, these moments of connection that made it worthwhile sometimes.
That afternoon he started writing, not really thinking, just wanting to connect to anyone else who had known Nathan and might understand how he felt. As he typed, random memories kept popping into his head. The boxy headphones Nathan used to leave hanging around his neck. The way he sat, index fingers pressed together on his desk. The dog he sometimes brought to class. That creepy paper, that big green coat. The stress ball he would squeeze until his knuckles went white. He tagged it #nathandugan and #millviewmallshooting and #freshmanyear and wrote: If anybody else from class is reading this please write back.
After he posted it, he sat in silence. He was vibrating. He almost never talked about personal things online, or in general—April used to urge him to talk about his feelings, something he didn’t miss about her—and his first instinct was to just delete it. What if someone was offended he was posting about Nathan, or thought he was remembering him wrong? But it wasn’t like anyone would really read it. Maybe, with luck, he’d reach a few old classmates. He realized he was hoping mostly to hear from Meredith Kenney, hoping his post would find its way to her through the online alumni chain. (Aw, he imagined, that sympathetic smile.) He changed his privacy settings to “public,” just in case.
