by Elise Juska
“It’s about your mom, right?” he said, adding, “Maggie Daley.” It bothered her, to hear him say her mother’s name. “It’s about that Facebook post. I told you.”
From above, the bedsprings squeaked as Alexis jumped to the floor. She was wearing rumpled boxers and a white tank top that was basically transparent, though neither she nor James seemed to care. “What’s going on?”
“It’s an article,” James said. “About the shooting.”
“What shooting?”
James looked at Anna, incredulous. “You didn’t tell her either?” He stood and faced Alexis, as if too amped to stay on the ground. “There was a shooting, in August, in Anna’s hometown—”
“Oh, right, right,” she said. “I forgot.”
“You forgot?” James exclaimed, and fake-shot a gun at his own head. “Jesus. We’re not talking about reality TV here. This actually happened,” he said, then rattled off the pertinent data. “Mall food court. Four victims. Shooter was a Central Maine State student. And Anna’s mom was his teacher.”
“Really?” Alexis said, raising her eyebrows, as Anna’s heart sank. “She didn’t mention that. That’s crazy.”
“When was this?” James frowned.
“The day we moved in,” Alexis said, with a glance at Anna. “But maybe it was just too upsetting for her.”
“Yeah,” Anna said quickly. “She doesn’t like making a big deal out of personal stuff like that.”
“Well, too late,” James quipped. “Because now these other students from her class are saying he was clearly fucked up and she ignored him.”
Anna shook her head. “That isn’t what they said.”
James read aloud from his phone. “‘When asked if his writing professor ever addressed Nathan Dugan’s alarming tendencies in class—’”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, clambering out of bed. She felt at a disadvantage, being the only one not standing. “I read it.”
“And?”
“And that’s one person’s memory. One person’s opinion.”
“Anna,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “They remember that he wrote a fucked-up paper. It’s obviously the one she found.”
Alexis turned back to her. “What is he talking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Not nothing,” James said. “There was a paper this guy wrote—”
“Years ago,” Anna said.
“Years ago. That’s the point. He was a freshman. And after he goes on a shooting rampage, she finds this paper and won’t let Anna see it. And now these kids from that class are saying he wrote a paper that was violent. Remember? On Facebook. It was everywhere,” he said, a trace of victory in his voice.
“Let me see,” Alexis said, grabbing for his phone. Anna despaired as she watched the article change hands: the contents of her life at home pouring from one person into the next.
“Look.” Anna was trying to project confidence, but her voice was shaking. “I talked to my mother yesterday. She said this whole thing is totally exaggerated.”
“What else did she say?” James was looking at her intently.
“That’s basically it.” She shrugged, felt James’s arm move, a warm weight across the back of her neck. “The article is over the top. It was written by a student. It’s not, like, real journalism. And I mean, so he was weird. So what? That doesn’t mean she could have done anything—”
“Why not?” James cut in. “She helped all those other students. The suicidal girl. Alison.”
It startled her, the casual mention of Alison Bower. Anna had forgotten she’d even told him about her.
“Who?” Alexis asked, but Anna said, “That was different.”
“Why was it different? Because she was a nice straight-A student and this guy was the freak in the back of the class?”
Anna’s mouth had gone dry. Alexis looked at her, looked at James. “There’s always a freak in the back of the class,” she concluded, then handed James his phone. “We were actually just on our way to brunch.”
James dropped the phone back in his pocket, where it glowed through his shirt. “Right,” he said. Then he looked around the room, as if noticing for the first time where he was standing—the walls above Alexis’s desk shellacked with postcards from Italy and photos of her prep school friends—and finally circled back to Anna. “Sorry,” he said, and pressed his lips to her temple, speaking into her hair. “I was just fired up. I’ll see you later?”
Inside her head, Anna was shouting that she didn’t want to see him later. Didn’t want to go to his depressing apartment. Didn’t want to eat whatever greasy carbs he cooked. Didn’t want to have sex with him, which, having happened once, naturally would be expected again. The line rose to the surface of her brain—I think we’re just too different—but she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“Call me,” James said, and Anna nodded, and he kissed her again and left.
When the door shut, Alexis turned to her, eyebrows arched again. “Well, that was bizarre,” she said, and Anna was unsure whether she was talking about the article or James.
“I know,” she said, pausing. “Please don’t mention this to anyone. The stuff about my mom, I mean. I shouldn’t have even told him.”
“Clearly.” Alexis studied her for another moment, but whatever she was thinking she kept to herself. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s eat.”
Anna claimed she wasn’t hungry, citing her lingering hangover, and picked at a bowl of dry Special K. They’d been joined in the dining hall by Violet Sharma, which ordinarily Anna would have found a nuisance—Violet had a talent for hijacking the conversation—but felt, this morning, like a reprieve. As Anna nursed her cereal, Violet bitched about Carly, who was now leaving little territorial Post-it notes on things: her granola bars, her gum. Did you ask to take these? Anna nodded absently at her stories, sipping at a glass of Diet Coke. “Yesterday I found one on a box of Kleenex,” Violet continued, and Anna felt a quick stab of resentment, of envy, for worries as meaningless as these.
As they were leaving the dining hall, the three of them parted ways, Alexis and Violet heading back to the dorm and Anna to the library. She was going to work on her next essay for poetry. In a five-page paper, analyze three distinct examples of the poet’s preoccupation with the natural world. But she couldn’t concentrate.
Text Message James: Just looking at this kid’s FB post
Text Message James: Jesus there are 500+ comments here
At library, Anna tapped back. Essay due Mon. She tried to focus on the blur of notes on her laptop screen.
Text Message James: Your moms students are on here too you know
Text Message James: Lots of them
Text Message James: Def remember him as unstable
Text Message James: When are you coming over??
Anna sent back noncommittal answers. Still at library. Still feel kind of sick FYI.
Outside, the sky over the quad was darkening. It was seven o’clock, and the library was virtually empty. Anna pinched her lip, staring out the window. At one point, the lights on the quad all snapped on at once.
Text Message James: Jesus people are ignorant
Text Message James: They blame dugan’s mother just because she’s an easy target
Text Message James: When plenty of people didn’t do shit
Text Message Alexis: Where r u roomie? Not still at library? Come home PRONTO!
At seven thirty, Anna made herself leave. She dropped her phone in the bottom of her backpack and zipped it shut and for a moment, as she stepped out of the library, the cool night air made her eyes fill. It was so still, and so quiet; in the brief window between people eating dinner and going out, the quad was basically empty, and the absence of everything felt like a gift. The sky was purple, softly foggy. It was a Saturday and you could sense it: the way, before parties, the atmosphere feels simultaneously sleepy and alert. But as Anna walked toward the dorm, a long unlit stretch, her pleasure
in the emptiness veered toward nervousness. Call boxes stood along the brick paths, glowing in the darkness, square black poles topped with blue lights, the white word EMERGENCY running down each side. The shadows of the trees yawned across the grass. Anna recalled the tips she’d long ago memorized for women walking alone at night: Tie long hair back so attackers can’t grab it. Walk with a sense of purpose. If you’re alone in an elevator with a stranger look him in the eye so he’ll think twice about attacking, knowing you could identify him in a lineup (though that one had always struck her as flawed: What if, because you looked him in the eye, he decided to kill you instead?). She tried to walk with purpose but was worried about the clop of her boots against the brick, alerting strangers to her presence—like that one, there, sitting alone on a bench. She paused. What was he doing, just sitting there? Was he hunched over suspiciously? Was he hiding something? Watching her approach? Theresa had told her she had a vivid imagination, an instinct for observing details and spinning narratives, that it was part of what made her anxieties so acute. You definitely have the makings of a writer, she’d said. Then the guy stood up abruptly, reaching inside his jacket, and Anna’s lungs burst through her chest—a gun. But no: a phone. Of course a phone. Always a phone. The guy wandered off. Anna resumed walking. Her boot heels were deafening. She imagined someone following noiselessly behind her. Imagined James, in his apartment, waiting for her call. The prospect of going over there, or of telling him she wasn’t—both options filled her with dread. She gave her lip a vicious twist and glanced over her shoulder at the empty path behind her. Stop it, Anna. Stop.
By the time she reached Hightower, she just wanted to climb into bed and stay there but the dorm was buzzing. Music blaring, hair dryers droning. Girls wandering to and from the bathrooms, getting ready to go out. In her room, Anna found Alexis drinking a Corona and flat-ironing her hair. This was one of Alexis’s most enviable talents: Her thick hair, once pressed through the straightener, came out shiny and flat as fresh tinfoil.
“Finally,” she said, setting down the iron. “Where have you been?”
Anna let her backpack slide off her shoulder. “Library.”
“I thought James had kidnapped you or something.”
“Ha ha,” she said. “I was working on my essay.”
“On a Saturday night? You giant dork.” She reached behind her to open up the mini-fridge, handing Anna a bottle, then pointed to the open Chinese food cartons inside. “Eat,” she instructed. “And get changed. And get drinking. There’s a party at Breck’s house and you’re three beers behind.”
Anna paused, staring at the fridge. She was starving; she hadn’t eaten since brunch that morning. Alexis picked up her straightener and clamped a hank of hair and the iron began hissing, unleashing a plume of steam.
“James wants me to come over,” Anna told her, just as the phone started vibrating inside her pack. Reluctantly, she dug it out: Where art thou???
Alexis set down her iron again. “Is that him?” she said, and stood up, removing the phone from Anna’s hand. She frowned, swiping quickly through his recent messages. Anna didn’t try to stop her. Finally she looked up, saying, “You’re not going over there, correct?”
“I don’t know,” Anna admitted.
“Anna,” Alexis said. “Do you really want to be with this guy?”
“I don’t know,” she said again. Then: “No.”
“You don’t owe him anything. It’s been what, like, a week?”
“Twelve days.”
“Well, anything less than two weeks, you’re allowed to break up by text.” She considered the screen, then typed quickly, and held it up for approval: I am sorry to put this in writing but I know it would be difficult to say. I have given this a lot of thought and while I like you I do not feel comfortable moving fwd right now. “Yes?”
“Wait, no—” Anna said. “Let me see.”
She clutched the phone in both hands. She felt anxious, of course. And guilty. And torn. For though it had been only twelve days, it felt longer, and to send a text this important seemed unkind. At the same time, she could feel already the relief of having sent it; she knew how hard it would be to say out loud. She reread the message, tinkered with it. Changed fwd to forward. Inserted a truly before the sorry, a really before the like. Then she handed it back to Alexis, who nodded. “Bueno,” she said, and tapped SEND.
Anna’s chest tightened like a rope yanked hard. By the time Alexis had handed her the phone, it was already ringing. “Oh God,” Anna said, and Alexis reminded her, “You don’t have to answer,” but she took a breath and picked up. “Hi.”
“Is this a joke?”
She had been braced for James to be angry; instead, he sounded hurt. Anna looked down at an orange square of carpet. Just hearing James’s voice brought him into sudden focus, out of the realm of the abstract and into the real: James, who just three days ago she had wanted to have sex with. James, who had cooked her dinners. James, whom she had let herself confide in, really open up to. The truth was, he knew far more about her than Alexis did. She remembered that first afternoon in the coffee shop, the way her heart leapt as they talked, the warm pressure of his hand on her knee.
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t feel comfortable moving forward? Since when?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at Alexis, who was standing there listening. “I guess today.”
“Was this your roommate’s idea?”
“No.” Her eyes dropped back to the floor. “I just—I think we’re just really different.”
He let out a wry laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m just not as passionate as you are. I’m not as opinionated about things—”
“Oh no. Of course, it’s my fault,” he said. “That’s perfect. I should have known.”
“That’s not what I meant. If anything, it’s mine. I should care more about—”
Alexis made a throat-cutting gesture.
“Look,” James said. “Anna. I get that you’re easily freaked out. You’re an overachieving type-A who grew up in a small town with an overprotective family, which is why you’re unable to deal with fucking reality,” he said—it was startling in its briskness, and mean, like a sharpened stick. “But I don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing here. You think if you break up with me, all the upsetting things in the world will just disappear?”
Anna paused in the silence. She looked at Alexis, who gave her a firm nod. “I just don’t feel comfortable,” she repeated.
“Well,” James said. “God forbid you feel uncomfortable. We wouldn’t want that.”
When she hung up, she cried. But not for the obvious reasons. Not because she felt sad about losing James, or regretted breaking up with James, but because she’d told him things about herself she had planned to tell nobody, and now he had them. He owned them. To be yourself around someone was a trap, she thought. A trick.
Alexis rubbed her back in circles as they chugged the rest of the Corona, ate the Chinese food. They consulted on Anna’s outfit, and she alerted Kim and Janie. “Don’t worry, roomie,” Alexis promised as they left for the party. “We’ll find you a nice, normal boy.”
Text Message Kim: If it helps I always thought he sounded too intense
Text Message Janie: Good riddance!
Text Message Janie: (too soon?)
For the next five days, it was as if James had disappeared. He didn’t text her, didn’t call her. Anna drowned herself in homework, partied with Alexis. Crunched her stomach in/out, in/out. Thursday, when his text appeared, her stomach leapt—Text Message James. For a moment Anna almost missed him. But it was a link to another article, a worse article, and two words: READ THIS.
Fourteen
Maggie was sitting in her office with Andrea Gardner—that childhood beach essay was, against the odds, turning into something interesting—when the phones began to ring. First her office phone, then her cell phone. “Go ah
ead and answer,” Andrea said kindly, but Maggie brushed the calls away. She smiled at Andrea and posed the usual questions about her essay: “Why is this piece worth writing? What is it really trying to say?” Andrea nodded, diligently taking notes. The minute she left, Maggie shut the door and listened. With each message, her alarm rose another degree. The first had been left the day before, a reporter from the Reed County Intelligencer, asking to speak with her about a paper written by her former student. Then, fifteen minutes ago, Bill Wall telling her to contact him. Five minutes later, Anna saying, Call me back as soon as you get this, a thread of panic in her voice.
Maggie Googled maggie daley nathan dugan—noting the very improbability of their names together in the search bar, and the resulting spill of results. The most recent had been posted two hours earlier. It was from the local paper, the Intelligencer, the headline KILLER’S HOMEWORK RAISES RED FLAGS.
Just one month ago, 21-year-old Arlen Mackey, a senior at Central Maine State University, was engaged to marry his childhood sweetheart, Doreen Howard, a 19-year-old hairstylist from Reed. The article went on to describe how someone—an anonymous sender—had mailed a package to this boy, Arlen, the fiancé of the shooting victim, earlier that week. The package contained an essay written by Nathan Dugan for a college composition class—Professor Maggie Daley, the instructor, could not be reached for comment—along with the article from last week’s Sentinel and a brief sympathy note. The implication was clear: This was the essay from Luke Finch’s viral Facebook post. Mackey went on to speculate that one of his classmates might have sent the essay, perhaps Luke Finch himself.
