by Elise Juska
It was a weak attempt to shift the conversation, turn it into a so-called teachable moment, and the students saw right through it. When Adam dislodged his phone from his pocket, Maggie didn’t care, the distraction so banal that she was grateful.
She dismissed class fifteen minutes early and when she stopped by her office, an email from Bill Wall was waiting on the screen. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. For the moment, she ignored it; she had to. She couldn’t talk to Bill until she knew exactly what the article said. She hurried to the student union, where at least a hundred newspapers sat in slippery piles by the main entrance. CLASSMATE REMEMBERS KILLER. The headline was a bright red. Below it floated a pair of photos: Nathan Dugan, Luke Finch. Both of them looked like high school portraits, probably retrieved from their freshman year viewbooks. At the sight of Luke’s photo, Maggie’s old student came back to her more clearly. The hunched shoulders, shy sweater. Nathan’s photo was familiar too, though it took a minute to remember where she’d seen it: on the mantel in Marielle Dugan’s living room.
Maggie was tempted to just stand there and tear through the article—tempted, for a moment, to take the entire pile—but was conscious of the students grazing in the vicinity, glancing now and then in her direction. She grabbed a single copy, shoved it in her bag, and walked back out the door.
Her breaths were shallow as she made her way toward Strathmere Hall. At five thirty, the quad was already beginning to darken, the clock on the chapel glowing like an eye. Just one week ago, it had been light out at this hour, but now the shadows were bowing across the footpaths. It was the time of day Maggie always thought the campus looked most poignant, the very essence of college—a world-within-a-world—but tonight it felt like a rebuke. “Evening, Maggie,” she heard, and looked up, startled—Marta Crane. Was she looking at her with suspicion? Disdain? Marta was just the type to have read the article and formed a quick opinion on it. By the end of the first faculty meeting, she’d requested an office on the second floor to minimize the chance of being shot at her desk. Maggie could only imagine how she might have handled actually teaching someone like Nathan. “Have a good night,” Maggie said, and kept moving, trying to ignore the growing seed of panic in her chest.
She pulled open the glass door to Strathmere, thin as a window but surprisingly heavy, then rushed up the stairs, down the glass-walled corridor to the faculty offices on the second floor. “Hi,” she said, shutting his door.
Robert was standing in front of his desk, sleeves pushed to his elbows. At the sight of him, she felt briefly comforted, then registered the grim expression on his face. “Have you read it yet?”
There was a copy of the Sentinel in his hand. Maggie unshouldered her bag and set it on a chair. “I just got out of class,” she told him. “I haven’t had the—” but before she could reach for her own copy, he’d handed her his.
CLASSMATE REMEMBERS KILLER
By Juliet R. Brody
Have you ever wondered about that person sitting next to you in English class? That quiet kid you never really got to know? For Luke Finch, the answer to this question was a devastating shock when he heard that a Central Maine State student, Nathan Dugan, was the killer in the August 21 shooting in the Millview Mall.
Nathan Dugan was a senior majoring in Engineering who was planning to graduate this December. Luke Finch only had one class with him: Freshman Composition, taught by Professor Maggie Daley. Though the class was four long years ago, Luke’s memories of it were so vivid and so disturbing that he felt compelled to post them on Facebook the day the shooting happened. “It was upsetting,” Luke said, recalling that fateful day. “Somebody you knew.”
Maggie read on, with a sinking heart, as the article overpraised Luke’s incredible sensitivity, his astonishingly vivid cache of memories—from the stress ball Nathan regularly squeezed to the fact that he rarely spoke, the recollections of Luke Finch clearly point towards a deeply troubled person who was lurking underneath.
As of press time, the Facebook post has been shared a remarkable ten thousand times. Luke said, humbly, “It has been pretty crazy.”
But perhaps it’s not crazy in the slightest. Because Nathan Dugan was clearly an unforgettable presence. Said Luke, “The guy was pretty hard to miss.”
Therefore, it’s no surprise that other classmates have been coming out of the woodwork to contribute their equally worrisome memories of Nathan too. The most haunting was a paper of a personal nature written by the future killer for Professor Daley’s class. Asked what the paper was about, Luke cannot claim with certainty but ominously hypothesized, “I think it might have been about hunting.” Other classmates confirmed that they remember the paper was violent. Speculations about the subject include zombies and war.
One thing is definitely certain, however; they all agree that Nathan Dugan was a person with a disturbing inner life. In fact, Luke claims they were all worried about him at the time. “A lot of us felt that way,” he insisted. “I wasn’t the only one.”
Professor James Rush in the Engineering Department also taught Nathan, although he doesn’t remember his violent tendencies. He points out that his students don’t write essays of a personal nature, however. “It’s a different sort of course,” Professor Rush emphasized.
Despite several attempts at contact, Professor Daley, the Freshman Composition instructor, declined to be interviewed for this article.
“Jesus Christ,” Maggie breathed.
When asked if his writing professor ever addressed Nathan Dugan’s alarming tendencies in class, Luke said he had no memory of this happening. Asked if he thought his professor had been negligent, Luke admitted, “Probably, yes.”
Clearly, in hindsight, that intervention was necessary—not only that, it might have prevented a tragedy.
Maggie stared at the page until the words bled together, too shocked to speak. She looked, incredulous, at Robert, leaning against his desk. “How did this happen?”
He shook his head. “Beats me.”
“I don’t even know what this is—it’s exploitative. Manipulative.”
“Agreed.”
“It’s defamation of character,” she said. “Not to mention, an objectively awful piece of writing.”
At this, he chuckled. “It’s the student newspaper, Maggie.”
“And?”
“And they might not have your journalistic standards.”
“Well, then, they shouldn’t take on a subject as important as this,” Maggie snapped. Robert, she thought, always expected too little of the students. Not only that, it might have prevented a tragedy—it was like a line lifted from a television show. “This is totally irresponsible.”
“It’s bad,” Robert said. “Okay. But is it true?”
“Is what true?” She looked at him, looking at her. “Which fucking part?”
“Was he as messed up as they say he was?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “This was four years ago, remember?”
“Well, did she really contact you? The reporter?”
“She’s a student, not a reporter—”
“You know what I mean. Did she?”
“She left one message,” Maggie said, an edge in her voice. “And emailed me once. From her phone.”
“And you declined to comment?”
“I didn’t decline. I just didn’t respond.”
“And is there a difference?”
“Of course there’s a difference. There’s an enormous difference. Decline makes it sound like I refused, or resisted—”
“Okay, then, why didn’t you respond?”
Maggie could feel her tension mounting but fought to stay on top of it. She pinched the skin on the back of her hand. “She left a cell phone, Robert,” she said. “Her personal cell phone number.”
“And?”
“And it didn’t seem professional. Or appropriate, even, calling a student to discuss another student, especially in a situation like—I have no idea what Jim
Rush was thinking. Not to mention, this was four years ago. Who knows if any of us remembers him accurately? Do I want to go on record saying something that may or may not be true and have it show up in print? Especially in the hands of this—what’s her name again?”
“Julie Brody.”
“Juliet.”
“She goes by Julie,” he said. “I had her.”
“You had her? She’s an English major.”
“Well, then, she’s an English major who’s politically engaged. She’s actually not a bad kid. She’s just—passionate about things.”
Maggie stared. “You’re defending her?”
“All I’m saying,” Robert said, “is maybe you should have just explained why you didn’t want to be interviewed. You could have nipped this thing in the bud. Because the fact that you just ignored her comes off sounding a little weird.”
“Weird.” Her eyeballs felt hot. “Weird? What does that mean?”
“Weird means weird. Strange. You know what it means.”
“No.” She let out a short laugh. “I truly don’t.”
Robert gave her a measured look. To the extent they’d ever argued—they weren’t arguments so much as debates—Maggie was the one who remained even-keeled while Robert grew heated, but now the dynamic had shifted: As her temperature rose, he became practical and grounded. “Maggie,” he said. “I think you’re missing the point.”
She stared at the page. Despite several attempts at contact, Professor Daley, the Freshman Composition instructor, declined to be interviewed. What Robert didn’t know was that in avoiding the interview Maggie had been trying to stay honest, but that didn’t matter. He was right. It did sound weird, and surely Bill Wall would think so too.
Quietly, she said, “You know the sort of teacher I am, Robert.”
He cracked a small smile. “Obsessed to a fault?”
“I’m being serious,” she said. “You know how committed I am to my students. How much I care about them.” Her voice caught, and Robert stepped toward her, wrapping her in his arms.
“It’s going to be fine.”
“You just said yourself—”
“It’s not that bad,” he said, with such conviction that she almost believed him. He drew her in close, tucked her hair behind her ear. “You just need to get ahead of it,” he said. “Get in touch with Bill.”
“He already emailed—”
“Okay, then. Call him back and tell him what you told me. A student contacted you and it didn’t seem appropriate. Bill is all about appropriateness.” He paused, lips grazing her hairline. “He’ll see this article for what it is—immature, written by a twenty-year-old kid—and nobody who knows anything will take it seriously and soon it will be forgotten.”
He leaned down and kissed her, and for a moment, Maggie gave herself over—to the warmth of him, the weight of his hand on her hair, the pump of his heart, steady and certain beneath the panicked gallop of her own. Then she pulled away.
“Robert,” she said. “I need to tell you something.”
He moved to kiss her neck. “I’m listening.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “It’s about that essay. Nathan Dugan’s essay. I might have made a serious mistake.”
He pulled back a little, looking at her. “Okay,” he said, and waited.
“The essay that the students remember,” she said. “I have it. I found it.”
He paused. “What do you mean you found it?”
“The morning after the shooting. Out in my barn.”
Robert studied her, gaze shifting from side to side. “And that’s the reason you didn’t want to talk for the article?”
“Yes,” she said, but she couldn’t look him in the eye.
“How bad is it?”
“Honestly—I don’t even know anymore.”
“What do you mean, don’t know?”
“I mean, it’s not that clear-cut. It’s certainly less clear-cut than—” She gestured toward the paper on the chair. “At first I thought the essay was just kind of—obsessive. Like he was. But now—I don’t know. It’s so colored by what happened, by the shooting, it’s hard to be objective—”
“It can’t be that hard,” Robert said, cutting her off. “Does the guy sound violent? Does he say he wants to kill people? Threaten to shoot up a public place? What?”
“No, no—” She took a breath. “It’s nothing that explicit. It’s not explicitly threatening. But it does—it involves guns,” she said, and Robert let out a moan, dragging one palm down his face. “It involves hunting,” she amended. “It’s about hunting. With his father. But the thing is, Robert, remember, a kid from rural Maine going hunting, that’s not unusual. That’s not uncommon. It’s not like that’s out of the realm of—”
“What did Bill say?”
“I didn’t show Bill,” she admitted, filling with shame. “I fully intended to, but I just, in the moment—I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because I thought it might look bad,” she said. “Might make me look bad.” When she glanced at Robert again, his face was rigid with worry; it looked almost like anger. “You think I might have missed something,” she said, in a whisper. “What if I did? Am I—what, Robert? What? Could I have prevented this?”
“Hold on,” Robert said, raising one hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He pushed the hand through his hair, exhaling, but spoke sensibly, firmly. “Big picture,” he said. “There were lots of people who interacted with him. You weren’t the only teacher he had. This paper wasn’t the only thing he wrote. What about all that stuff online?”
“That’s different,” she said. “That’s on the Internet. It’s out in outer space. This was an actual paper turned in for an actual class, to an actual authority figure—”
“Okay. Okay.” He still sounded calm, but a seam of worry had appeared across his brow. “Can you show it to me? I need to read it.” He looked at her, and when she didn’t reply right away, he said decisively, “I need to read it, Maggie, or I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.” And she knew that it was true. That surely, when she told him, she had known that he would ask to see it—had even, on some level, wanted him to. Though a part of her was terrified, another part was desperate for a second opinion, for the relief of unloading that weight from her bag, handing the paper to someone else.
She walked to the chair, unzipped the inside pocket of her bag, and returned with the thick paper square. “Here,” she said, placing it in his palm.
Robert chuckled. “Well,” he said. “That was easy. What, were you afraid to let it out of your sight or something?” As he unfolded the wad of pages, he added, “Feels like you’re passing me a note in algebra class,” and Maggie felt fleetingly reassured. But as Robert registered the title, his face went still. “Christ,” he said.
“Just remember,” Maggie said, but weakly, “you have to pretend you have no context. Pretend you’re reading this four years ago—” though within seconds she could see there was no point. She watched Robert scanning the pages, mouth tightening at the corners. Maybe this had been a mistake. Robert was so matter-of-fact, and had no real experience with personal essays—not only that, he was moving through it quickly, too quickly, pupils darting back and forth.
“Are you really reading it?” she asked him.
“I’m skimming it. I just want to get a sense of it.”
“But you won’t understand the ambiguities—”
“Ambiguities?” He looked up sharply. “Maggie. I’m looking at an encyclopedia of firearms here.”
She was stunned into quiet. Just then the office phone began to ring. Robert glanced at the number and reached for it. “Hi,” he said. “Yeah. I’m just finishing up.”
Maggie averted her gaze, as if to give them privacy, but there was no place to safely rest her eyes: the bike propped against the wall, the phone in Robert’s hand, the paper in the other. He sat on the edge of the desk, angled slightly away from her. “Everything’s fine,” he said, voice softening as
it did sometimes when talking to Suzanne. “How did it go today?” he asked her, and suddenly Maggie needed to get away. One more second in that office and she would scream, or sob. She stood, looking at Robert, who looked back at her, eyebrows raised. She considered grabbing the essay from his hands, showing it to him again some other time—but no. She had asked for his opinion, and she wanted it. She deserved it. She trusted him. And if she snatched it back while he was on the phone with his wife, it might come across as petty, or jealous. Instead she grabbed a block of Post-its, tore one off and scrawled call me, the pen’s tip biting through the paper, and pressed it to the page in his hand. Then she ripped off another, scrawled sorry, and stuck it on top of the first. Robert held up one finger—wait, he mouthed—but she grabbed her bag and left the office and hurried down the hall. It was fully dark out now, and her reflection in the glass was disorienting, as if there were another woman moving in tandem beside her, a more frayed and vulnerable version of her, walking side by side.
Eleven
To Kim and Janie, James Baird-English could best be described as the diametrical opposite of Gavin Newland in every way. He was obviously smarter. He didn’t follow sports and didn’t watch television (and not just because he didn’t have one: The decision had a faintly moral tinge). If Gavin was mainstream, James wasn’t afraid to go against the grain; he embraced it. He was passionate and principled and unafraid to speak up about things. Objectively, James was maybe less attractive—Gavin was cute in a universal, backward-baseball-cap-wearing sort of way—but James’s looks were less generic. An acquired taste, Alexis described him, a phrase that Anna repeated to Kim and Janie, adding, and he looks nothing like those old Facebook pix—knowing that they could, and surely had, scrolled through his photos, including that painful series on the brown couch.
It had been ten days since they’d met, and they’d seen each other seven times. This consisted largely of hanging out at James’s place, a real apartment five blocks from school: There was a landlord, a neighbor who was a single mother, a mailbox bearing his name on a curling piece of Scotch tape. James didn’t go to campus parties (he considered the fraternity system primitive and patriarchal), and as with most of his stances, Anna thought she agreed; at least, she didn’t disagree. James more or less avoided campus except for classes, and even those he seemed to attend on a need-only basis (I’m a paying customer, right?), so they defaulted to hanging out at the coffee shop, or at his apartment, eating dinner (some version of pasta) and having long in-depth conversations and almost having sex. The apartment itself was objectively depressing—a narrow bed with an itchy mustard-yellow blanket, a tiny kitchen with one working burner—though Anna found herself charmed, and somehow calmed, by the fact that James owned things like a colander and a vacuum, that he’d stocked his cabinets with eight kinds of tea. Still, when she returned to Hightower—to Alexis and their dorm room and the cozy checkered rug—it felt, at least a little, like she’d been holding her breath.
