by Dori Lavelle
A group of skinny girls dressed in tight-fitting prismatic patterned sportswear, push open the heavy doors of the Dunkin Hall gym, where some of the hottest guys hang out to show off their six packs before or after lectures.
My phone rings. This early in the morning, the wind chime ring tone is gentle on my ears. I lick drops of smoothie from my lips and pick up. I don’t bother to check the caller I.D. I know who it is, and I can’t avoid her forever.
“Ivy Hollifield, I’m your mother. How dare you not answer or return my calls?”
“I’ve been busy settling in, Mom.”
“It took that long?” Mom coughs her raspy smoker’s cough.
“I just moved into a new dorm room. A pipe burst above my old one and we had to move out.” I place my smoothie glass on the coffee table.
“We?”
“My roommate Chelsea and me.” My throat is tightening, and I swallow. “What is it, Mom? If you’re calling to tell me what a mistake I’m making, I’m not in the mood for it. I have to get ready for class.”
“Ivy, are you really stupid enough to throw away your life like this? God blessed you with beauty and you’re letting it go to waste.”
“Just because I no longer want to model doesn’t mean I’m wasting my looks. Seriously, I can’t do this. Not now. Not ever.”
“Think of all the money you’re throwing away.” The dark poison dripping from her voice makes me shiver.
“I earned money from pageants as a kid. I modeled for your agency for years. I earned a lot of money, yes. But do I need to remind you where it all went? I’m no longer interested in funding your gambling and plastic surgery addictions.”
“You rotten, ungrateful piece of—”
Before I can stop myself, I end the call and switch off the phone. I’ve never done that to her before. Coming to Oaklow has shown me another side of myself, one brave enough to stand up to her. I feel rotten all the same. The tight knot inside me begs for release. I’m almost tempted to switch the phone back on, to call her, to apologize. Almost.
Our conversations will always end in tears. Why torture myself more than I already have? She should be the one apologizing, not me.
I drop onto the couch with my head in my hands, drawing in deep breaths, and expelling them slowly. Maybe I really should try yoga.
The doorbell rings. For an insane moment I wonder if it’s my mother, and she was in Oaklow when she called. But it can’t be. My mother is incapable of leaving her precious modeling agency in anyone else’s hands, even for a day.
Maybe Chelsea forgot her key.
Opening the door, I drop my gaze to find a large bouquet of baby pink roses resting against the doorway. The Pansy Blooms logo sparkles on a glossy piece of paper hanging from the end of the string that holds the slender stems together. I pick up the flowers and bring them inside, pulling out the little yellow envelope tucked between them. Maybe they’re for Chelsea, from Neil. I place the flowers on top of the small fridge and sit on the couch. There’s no name on the envelope, so I take a quick look inside.
Ivy, don’t deny us the chance to create something beautiful. Milton
I run a frustrated hand through the ropes of my still-damp hair. After the upsetting conversation with my mother, the last person I want to deal with is Milton. When I bump into him—and I most certainly will—I’ll have to make it clear once more that I’m not interested.
“Stay away from guys like him,” Chelsea warned me when I told her about my latest encounter with Milton at the study hall. “I heard he’s nothing but a player who’s dying to get between the sheets with a cover girl.”
Maybe it’s my need for a balsam for my wounds after Mom’s insults; maybe it’s an attempt to search for the romance I’m failing to find in guys like Milton. But before I know it I’m back on my bed, surrounded by Jennifer’s letters. I tell myself I’ll only read one, but I keep going. I’m scared Chelsea will return from yoga to find I still have the letters, but I can’t stop myself. The letters are like a forbidden fruit, calling for me to take one more bite.
I have a visual communications lecture in an hour—one whole hour to myself. As I read, I’m afraid, guilty, and aroused all at once. And in a weird way, I feel as though there’s someone else in the room. Him? He’s not talking to his girlfriend, Jennifer, anymore. He’s talking to me. It’s so hard to believe the man behind these sensual, loving words is capable of taking someone else’s life. Maybe it’s a lie, a rumor. Surely Chelsea got the wrong information.
I run the tips of my fingers over the pages, the words caressing me back. Is this how Jennifer felt when she read them? His words reach out like fingers, touching my heart, my skin. Following the path my desire wants me to take, I drop one of my hands from the letter I’m currently reading, and push my fingers under the waistband of my jeans and then my underwear.
I’m unable to stop myself from responding to his words, from doing what he tells me to do to myself. I gasp when my finger slides deep inside. My muscles clench around it as my back arches. Blood surges from my fingertips to my toes as I move my finger in and out, imagining it’s him inside me. Then my whole body tightens as the orgasm takes hold of my senses. A delicious shudder heats my body, and the air in my lungs gushes out, followed by a low groan.
My head is spinning as though I’ve just stepped off a rollercoaster. Even though I’ve never felt a man inside me, I’ve touched myself before. But I have never experienced an orgasm like this.
When my body relaxes again, the heat of shame rushes to my cheeks. I start to pack away the letters, but stop. As I lift the last letter—one I had been saving—I find another underneath. This one is inside an envelope, with a return address on the back and Jennifer’s full name on the front.
Why wait any longer? I unfold the last letter on top of the envelope. It has a different tone to it—no longer sweet and sensual. There’s a desperation to the words now, as if each letter is dipped into the ink of pain and frustration.
Ma chérie,
Don’t be fooled into thinking your body could belong to someone else. After tasting what we had, it would reject anyone who dares touch you in the places that belong to me. My hands have marked you; my lips have sealed you. You belong to me, my love. All of you. Please write back and we’ll pick up where we left off. You know you want this as much as I do.
I fold up that letter and pick up the final one, the one inside the envelope. My heart is thudding as I pull it out. A tinge of disappointment taps my heart; there will be no more letters after this.
Your silence is thick and solid in the night, a silver sword that plunges into my heart, burns my soul to ashes. I want to see your smile, to hear the laughter between your words. Life without you is an empty shell. Worthless. Death is more appealing than a second of knowing you don’t want me.
This is the last letter I’ll write to you. If you don’t respond by the 10th of September, I’ll be left with no choice but to leave this empty world behind. Only you can choose if this is truly goodbye.
Forever yours,
J.D.
The letter slips from my hand and flutters to my lap.
Monday, the tenth of September, is less than a week away.
Shit. What do I do now? I have to do something—I don’t want to be responsible for a suicide! My stomach burns. Why didn’t I listen to Chelsea and just throw the damn letters away?
5
After my second lecture of the day—design technology—I rush out of the lecture hall, waving Milton away as he approaches me.
“Thanks for the flowers. I’ll see you around,” I throw over my shoulder and rush off before he can respond. I’m not trying to be rude, but there’s something I need to take care of.
Five minutes later, I’m on the third floor, entering the Student Support Department. Breathless, I knock on my guidance counselor’s door. The name Paulette Stevens stands out in bold black letters.
“Come in,” she calls from inside. Her husky voice has a soo
thing effect on me. As I push the door open, I know I’ve made the right decision. I need to talk to someone or risk going crazy.
Paulette is standing at her window, watering a small indoor palm with a brown plastic watering can. When I enter, she turns, her narrow cornrows sweeping the shoulders of her pinstriped suit.
I close the door and take a few steps toward her. We shake hands. Since coming to Oaklow, I’ve only met her three times; mostly we correspond through email. But what I have to discuss with her today requires a face-to-face conversation.
“Have a seat, Ivy.” She puts the watering can on the floor next to a portable air conditioner. The scent of lemongrass hangs in the air.
“Thanks.” I force a smile and sit at one end of her armless faux leather couch. She sits in the middle of it, legs crossed, hands clasped in her lap.
“I’m sorry I came without an appointment,” I say.
“That’s all right. Today is not a busy day.” She narrows her chestnut brown eyes. “Are you settling well into your new room?”
I hesitate before answering. “Yes… Yes, I am.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Her lips curl into a faint smile.
Paulette is one of those people who are both distant and approachable all at once. But I like her. She makes me feel comfortable.
“What can I do for you?”
“I have something to show you. I didn’t know who else to go to with this.” I reach into my drawstring backpack and pull out the letters. “I found these under my mattress the day we moved into the new dorm.”
Paulette reaches for the stack and pulls at the ribbon holding the letters together. The envelope is at the top. She regards it for a moment. “They’re addressed to Jennifer Hanson.” A deep furrow forms in the milky brown skin between her eyebrows.
“Yes she... she must have lived in our room before us.” I’m hesitant to tell her I read them. I know I have to, and I will… but the thought of the sexual content in the letters stops me.
Paulette lifts one of the letters to eye level but doesn’t open it. “I used to be Jennifer’s counselor.”
“She’s no longer a student here?”
Paulette is quiet for a heartbeat. “Not anymore.” She gives me a ghost of a smile, and something unreadable flashes in her eyes. Before I can try to work out what she’s thinking, she expels a breath and stands. “Tell you what—thank you for showing me these. I’ll hold on to them. Should I see her again, I’ll pass them on. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
I take a deep breath and nip at the corner of a naked nail. I never wear nail polish, preferring to keep my nails short and buffed to a shine instead. “There is something else. I… I read the letters.”
“You did?” She taps her chin, eyes narrowed.
I nod and feel my face turning scarlet. “They’re love letters sent to her by someone named Judson—”
“Devereux.” Paulette sinks back down onto the couch, her chest rising and falling way too fast.
“You know him as well?”
She bobs her head. Her eyes take on a serious expression. “He was an art history professor… a part-time adjunct, who only lectured here during summer semesters.”
I want to ask her if he works full-time elsewhere, but I bite my tongue. It’s none of my business, and it’s also not why I’m here.
“In one of the letters he threatens to commit suicide if she doesn’t respond by the tenth of September.”
Paulette glances at a nature calendar on the back of the office door. “That’s next Monday.” Her voice is as calm as a still pond. How can she remain so serene? I’m a complete mess inside.
“I… had to come and see you. I wasn’t sure what else to do. I couldn’t keep it to myself.”
“You did the right thing.” Paulette’s expression is unreadable as she stands again and walks over to her desk. She picks up a jug from a tray and pours a glass of water. The gurgle of it spilling into the glass calms me. “Want some?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
She takes a sip, and brings the glass with her as she sits down on the couch. “Ivy, I don’t know how much information you got from reading the letters, but maybe you should know the whole story, in case Professor Devereux sends a letter to your dorm again. You have to be careful.”
Paulette downs her water and wraps both hands around the empty glass. “Jennifer was Judson’s student here. Though it’s against university policy, to my knowledge, they dated for a few weeks. Then something tragic happened.”
I hold my breath, waiting for the whole story. Did he kill Jennifer? If so, why would he send her letters?
“Professor Devereux claimed he caught another one of his students raping Jennifer.” Paulette inhales deeply, and glances at the door as though afraid someone might hear our conversation.
My breath comes out in an audible gush. “That’s horrible.”
“Jennifer said it didn’t happen, but Professor Devereux was adamant.” Paulette nods and blinks several times. “That student was found dead two days later… he’d been murdered. It all happened at the end of last semester, a few days before break.”
“Professor—” I’m finding it hard to think of this man—who makes me feel all kinds of things—as Professor Devereux. “Do you really think he murdered the student?”
Surprise flashes in her eyes. “You already know?”
“I thought—”
“It’s not proven yet, but all evidence points to him. It’s been a difficult time for the university. Professor Devereux is now in police custody, awaiting trial.”
It must have been a huge scandal. Why is it that no one at the university is talking about it? Not even Milton has brought it up. Are they all trying to shut it out, cover it up in some way? I wouldn’t be surprised if the students are forbidden from discussing what happened. What university wouldn’t want to hide such a stain on its reputation? But how about the community as a whole? Everyone acts as though there are no skeletons in Oaklow’s closets. Though perhaps I wouldn’t know what people talk about off campus, since I hardly go out. I remind myself to change that.
“And Jennifer, what happened to her?”
Paulette runs a slim finger around the mouth of her glass, as though wiping away invisible dust. “She left town.”
“Did she transfer to another university?”
Paulette clears her throat. “I’m afraid I don’t have any information on her whereabouts.” One of her knees is bouncing up and down. For the first time since entering her office, I detect a slight tremor to her calm exterior. She doesn’t want to talk about this. But I can’t let go—I need to know more.
“Shouldn’t we try and get a hold of her? Judson… Professor Devereux might commit suicide if she doesn’t respond.”
“Professor Devereux is obsessed with Jennifer. At least he was before she left. The threat of suicide is a manipulation tactic.” Paulette sighs and rises. The strength has returned to her voice. “Ivy, I suggest you move on with your life. Focus on your studies. Even if his suicide threats are serious, it’s not your responsibility to save him. He’s safe in police custody, anyway. Thank you for coming to me with this. If he sends any more letters to the dorm, let me know immediately.”
I leave Paulette’s office feeling heavier than when I’d entered.
“I’m so fed up with his guilt episodes,” Chelsea says as she braids her hair for the night. He makes me feel bad about having sex, and I’m not even religious. He cries after every damn time we sleep together. Who does that?”
I say nothing as she spits out her frustration.
“The sex is so good. But we’ve been dating for a year—he either wants it or he doesn’t. I’m only twenty-one once. I want to go wild, and I want to do it with him.”
I envy Chelsea for her free sexual spirit, her hunger for experimentation. I want to feel what she feels with a real man… not a mysterious murderer I know only through letters.
“But you love him, rig
ht?” I ask.
“I do. He’s crazy, but he’s mine. I’d strangle any bitch who even looks his way.”
“Well then, you have no choice but to wipe away his tears.” I laugh and pull my sheet up to my chin.
“I guess you’re right.” Chelsea climbs into her bed and switches off her lavender shabby chic bedside lamp.
“I went to see Paulette Stevens today.” I’m braver in the darkness.
“Your guidance counselor? What for? Are you having problems? I haven’t seen mine in ages.”
“I made a huge mistake,” I admit.
“Spill.”
“Remember when you said I should get rid of Jennifer’s letters?” I chew on my bottom lip. “I kind of didn’t.”
“Kind of?” Light floods the room again as Chelsea switches on her lamp. She’s sitting up in bed now, hand on her chest. Her pearly nail polish is chipped. “Are you crazy? The man is a murderer.”
“I know.” I slide my gaze from her face, planting it on the faint cracks in the ceiling instead. “I guess I was curious.”
“So you read more of the letters?”
“Yes, and in one of them he threatened to kill himself if Jennifer doesn’t respond by Monday.”
“Which Monday?”
“Next week Monday.”
“Fuck.” Chelsea’s voice rises in pitch. “That’s messed up. We don’t even know where Jennifer is. Do you think she read that letter? Maybe she did but couldn’t care less? After what he did, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’d have run from the monster as fast as I could.”
“I don’t think she read the letter.” I place my hands over my eyes like a toddler playing hide and seek. “That particular letter was inside an envelope… unopened.”
Chelsea’s mouth drops open. “Oh my God, you opened it?”
I swallow hard and force myself to look at her. “I didn’t want to. It… well, it just happened.”
“Just happened, huh?” Chelsea laughs. “That’s what they always say. So what do we do now?”
