by Derek Flynn
“I don’t know. I can’t meet him, you know that. I’ll have to get a note to him or something.”
“A note?”
“Yeah.”
I shook my head. “That won’t do.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s not going to buy it in a note. He’s notoriously distrustful.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“Ah, you forget, Samantha ...”
“Oh, right, of course ... that you’ve been spying on us.”
“Observing.”
She glanced over at her two friends who were looking at her suspiciously.
“Look, this is taking too long. People are going to wonder what the hell we’re talking about.”
“Meet me after class,” I said.
“I can’t ... I’ve got things to do.”
“Say you have to study. This is important. Meet me in the study hall. We can talk about this. If you’re going to write a note, I can help you write it.”
“I don’t need you to help me write it.”
“I can be very persuasive. You’d be surprised.”
“Oh, I would.” She paused. “All right ... meet me in the study hall after last class.”
How the day dragged. I’m not sure that there was ever a day in my life that went so slow. I had received the royal command; I had been summoned to her presence. All day I thought about it; what would it be like to be that close to her? Sitting at a desk beside her. That would be the closest I’d ever been to her. Closer than that night on the seat in my back garden; closer even than the few seconds I sat beside her on her bed, before she told me to get up. My mind raced in all sorts of directions all day long. I couldn’t concentrate on a single thing.
Finally, the appointed time came, and I raced down the corridors to the study hall, the final bell ringing in my ears. When I got to the door of the study hall, I stopped and scanned the room frantically.
She wasn’t there.
Had she lied to me? Did she have no intention of coming? Was it just something she agreed to, to get me away from her in the corridor? My heart started to beat faster as panic set in. I had a tenuous grasp on this whole arrangement, I knew that. For the moment, she still had control. But I couldn’t lose that grasp. I thought I had tightened my grip, that I had assumed some kind of slight upper hand, by getting her to agree to meet me. If she turned her back on that now, I could lose my grip on the whole thing.
I walked in – trying to look as least panicked as possible – and took a seat at one of the empty desks. I turned around and kept a close watch, alternating between the clock and the door, the clock and the door. The hands ticked by in almost cartoon-like slowness, until it reached twenty past the hour. She was twenty minutes late. The awful realisation set in that she wasn’t coming.
And then, in she walked, looking as disinterested as someone could possibly be. She strolled nonchalantly up the aisle, slowly but purposefully. The girls gave admiring looks; the boys snatched furtive glances under their eyes. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The way she moved, the confident air around her. The shape of her body in the skirt and blouse. The High School uniform never did much for most girls but on her it was like an evening gown. Her hips moving side to side like a runway model, her pert breasts bouncing slightly as she walked.
She slammed her books down on the desk beside me and sat down.
“Hi,” I said.
She didn’t answer for a moment. Then, she said, “You were right.”
“About what?”
“You were right. He won’t trust you. Even if I say it.”
“I know. He’s notoriously distrustful.”
“So, what do we do?”
And there it was. The first ‘we’. The first time we assumed the roles of accomplices. And there I was, the third point in the triangle, the confidant. What do we do? We were in this together, hatching a plan. I’d almost turned her. Charlie was almost on the other side from us, outside of our little clique.
“What do you want me to say,” she said, interrupting my thoughts. “In the note. What should I say?”
“The note’s not going to be enough. I’m going to have to meet him.”
“Are you crazy? He’ll have even less reason to trust you if you show up in the middle of the Black Wood.”
“But I can explain it to him rationally.”
She leaned back in the desk. “You’re saying I’m not rational?”
“You’re involved. There’re feelings, emotions there. I can explain in a detached, emotionless way why this is the best thing for you both.”
“And are you going to tell him how you spied on him? How you want to be our friend? How you want to write a goddamn book about us?”
“It does sound a little far-fetched, I will admit. But you bought it.”
“I know we don’t have a choice. My father’s never going to let me see him. I know I can’t do it on my own.”
She was begrudgingly acknowledging the contribution that I could make.
“I’m going to have to meet him alone,” she went on. “Try to talk him round.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I know I am. I’m always right.” She said it without a trace of irony.
She went to get up and as she did, her arm brushed mine. We were both in short sleeves so her bare skin touched mine. It was so soft and warm. In that moment, I felt something. Some kind of frisson. It was almost like ... what was that movie ... it was about two people who – whenever their hands met or touched – they had some vision of a shared future or shared past. It was like that. I don’t remember now what the vision was, but it was of something in the future. I didn’t know at the time, but we were to share a future. Perhaps not in the way I thought, but nonetheless. Beggars can’t be choosers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Study night.
I lived now for study night. Samantha had to make like there really was a study night, in case her parents ever ran into my parents and started gushing about how great it was that we were study partners. So, one night a week became study night. Of course, as far as her parents were concerned, there was more than one study night. But, in reality, those were the nights she met Charlie. Samantha didn’t think it was a problem. Once the facade was in place – once her parents believed that we had study nights – they were happy. They weren’t going to go looking into the details of how many nights we met.
So, there we were every Thursday night, sat at the kitchen table, as the sounds of Seinfeld and my parent’s laughter bled through the wall from the sitting room. I think my parents liked the fact that we were study partners as much as Samantha’s parents. They were suddenly looking at me in a whole new light. Especially my Dad. I’d made friends with Harry Pierce’s daughter. How’d I manage that? Could that be an ‘in’ for my Dad, to ingratiate himself with Harry Pierce? My mom was delighted too. She made us lemonade. At first, she clucked around us endlessly, saying how wonderful it was that we were so studious. Samantha would throw me daggers and I’d have to give my Mom the evil eye until she got the message and retreated back to the TV.
Then, the study would start. Or the pretend study. I had to pretend I was teaching her stuff, but she already knew most of it. If I did come across anything she didn’t know, she’d get all pissed. She didn’t like the idea that someone else was better than her at something. That never really happened to Samantha. So, she’d demand that we take a break, and by the time we’d come back, she’d move us onto something else.
If it was a warm night, we’d take our lemonade outside on our break. Out to the bench, the original scene of the crime. There wasn’t a lot of talk at first. In the kitchen, during the study there was. Well, it was mostly me talking and her feigning interest. But, on our break, we’d both sit in silence sipping our lemonade. I made a few – albeit somewhat lame – attempts. I’d ask her if she’d seen whatever the latest movie out was.
“That’s for nerds,”
would usually be her reply.
“Have you read Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy? It’s really funny.”
“Why would I be reading books about outer space?”
You get the idea. But eventually she broke down. She had to. She kept it professional at first. Talk about school, final exams. Funnily enough, she avoided any talk about the prom. I don’t know if it was for my benefit – she knew I probably wouldn’t be going – or if she just didn’t want to talk about it herself. Eventually, she loosened up enough that I chanced sneaking in a few personal questions.
“So, what’s the story with you and Charlie?” I asked her.
“This for your book?”
“Yeah. Call it research.”
“What about us?”
“C’mon, you’re not stupid. You know the question everyone’s been asking.”
She let it hang in the air for a minute, and then said, “What are Charlie and I doing together?”
“Yeah.”
“What does everyone say we’re doing together?”
“Lots of things.”
“Like?”
“Like you’re just doing it for the attention. To shock. That he’s doing it because he wants to fit in with your crowd.”
She laughed out loud at that one.
“That it’s a big joke,” I went on, “that you’re not really hanging out, you’re doing it for the laugh. That he’s blackmailing you, to make you hang out with him. Some dark secret you’ve got.”
“Well, as you now know, Charlie’s the one with the secret.”
It was the first time she had mentioned the ‘drugs’ thing to me.
“How did you find out about him and Dale?” I asked her, even though I already knew the answer.
“I don’t know if I like all these questions. Maybe we should get back to our study.”
With that, she got up and walked back inside. But I wasn’t giving up that easy. I persisted and finally, she told me.
“It was Dale,” she said. “Dale told me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because I made him. Guys are such pussies. They can be made to do anything ... very, very easily.”
She wasn’t looking at me, but I wondered was it directed at me. Was she manipulating me too?
“What did you do to him?” It came out sounding more voyeuristic than I would have liked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Yes. Yes, I would.
“Let me ask you something,” she said. “You like to watch? Sorry, observe.”
“It’s essential for a writer to observe.”
“I bet it is. So, you think Stephen King goes around spying on people? Shinning up drainpipes?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not a fan.”
“Who do you like?”
“Joyce, Kafka, Dostoyevsky.”
“Never heard of them.”
I wasn’t sure if she was trying to get a rise out of me, or whether she was telling the truth.
Another night, I asked her, “So, what’s it like growing up Ms. Popular?”
“Sometimes it’s great and sometimes it sucks.”
“When does it suck?”
“When you don’t want to be on all the time. When you don’t want to have to be gorgeous and confident and outgoing. When you just want to curl up into a make-up-less, silent ball in the corner.”
She said ‘gorgeous’ without a hint of irony. But then, I suppose, why wouldn’t she?
“You want to curl up in a ball in the corner?” I said.
She turned to face me. “I bet you have moments when you’re suddenly self-confidant, right? Like the night you climbed in my window.”
“Occasionally.”
“So, what makes you think it doesn’t swing the other way? What makes you think someone who’s super-confident can’t doubt themselves?” She was staring at me intently. It was the most honest I’d ever seen her.
“I never really thought about it that way,” I said. “I guess, I never really thought it was possible. I never thought someone like you could feel ...”
“Human emotions?”
“No, I wasn’t going to say that.”
She sat back and shrugged. “I wish I didn’t. Sometimes I don’t. And it’s wonderful. I can close my eyes and erase every last thought about anyone else. Every last feeling sorry, feeling guilty, feeling sympathy.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“You’d think it would be, wouldn’t you?”
“They have words for people who don’t feel emotion, who have no empathy. Sociopath.”
“You think I’m a sociopath.”
“I don’t know what you are. I suppose that’s what I’m doing here. If someone was going to shut out the world like that, there’d have to be a reason. There’d have to be a damn good reason.”
“Session’s over, Freud. Anyway, you wanna analyse me, what about you?”
“What about me? Not much to analyse.”
“Really? The guy who wants to observe and write about two people he doesn’t even know.”
“‘Write about what you know’ is a fallacy. If everyone wrote about only what they knew there’d be no science fiction, fantasy, crime stories. There’d be very little fiction at all. Just family dramas.”
“What? Is your family too mundane to write about?” The way she said it was as though she knew the answer.
“It’s not that. It’s just ...”
“It’s just what? What is it about me and Charlie that’s so interesting? I mean, I’m the first person to think I’m fascinating, but a book about me? Even I’m not that big-headed.”
“It’s not about being big-headed. It’s an interesting story.”
“But don’t you have your own stories that you want to tell?”
“This is my story.”
She looked at me kind of funny, but I think she understood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
My initial excitement about things soon began to dissipate. Both nights she used me as her alibi, said she was going to the library to study with me. Both days in school she told me she was meeting Charlie that night and asked me to deliver the note. They decided that the best way to exchange notes was to put them somewhere that was accessible to both of them but where no one else would see them. There was an old lot that was dilapidated and falling down, and there was a letter box out front in the same condition. They used that as the drop off spot. I put the note in for her so she wouldn’t have to risk being seen. As much as I was enjoying doing it, it still bothered me that he didn’t know.
Even though I’d arranged for them to meet twice, she still hadn’t told Charlie about me. She’d used me as an alibi – her study partner – and I’d hand-delivered the note on both occasions that told him when and where to meet. I’d dropped them right in his letter box, but he never knew it was me.
Now that I was part of this, I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t tell him. It made it all the better for them if they had a go-between that they could use. I knew she was nervous about telling Charlie that there was a third person involved; she was worried about his reaction. But still, it was better than all the secrecy and subterfuge. As it was, there was enough subterfuge going on; telling him about me would only make things easier.
That night, I was crouched behind a tree, waiting and waiting to hear her say something about me, to mention my name. I wanted him to know, to know that I was a part of this, that I was helping.
She said nothing.
Was she doing this deliberately? She must have known that I was there. I mean, she never told me where they’d be, but she must have known I’d prise open the envelope and read its contents. She didn’t think I wasn’t going to go there, now that I was a part of this.
I couldn’t see them do anything; it was too dark, and they seemed to be under a blanket. If I strained hard enough, I’d catch glimpses. Did she know I was there? A few times I thought I saw her glance around, search through
the trees, but that could have been my imagination. It didn’t bother me that I didn’t see anything; that’s not what I was there for. I wasn’t some kind of pervert. At the same time, it didn’t seem in any way strange that I was standing there watching them. I was part of them now. I couldn’t be called a voyeur because I wasn’t standing outside looking in. I was a part of the circle.
If she’d only tell him.
I managed to corner her quietly at school the next day. “Why haven’t you told him yet?” I asked her.
She motioned me into an empty classroom. “I’m not sure if it’s such a good idea,” she said, closing the door behind us.
“What are you talking about? That was the whole point.”
“I thought the whole point was for you to write your book about us?”
“Yeah, but to do that, I need access to you. Both of you.”
She sat down on the corner of the teacher’s desk. “You don’t seriously think you’re going to be able to go on watching us ...”
“Observing ...”
“... observing ... us after I’ve told Charlie. You think he’s just going to let you go on observing us even though he knows you’re there. Doesn’t that strike you as a little weird?”
“Well, I don’t have to. I’m part of you now.”
“Part of what?”
“Part of the group.”
“We’re not a group. We’re ... I don’t know, we’re two people, not a group. Ever hear the phrase ‘third wheel’? Besides, we have very little time together as it is ... we’re hardly going to spend that time with you.”
I had to admit, she had a point. I hadn’t really thought this through well enough.
“So, what do you suggest?” I said.
She walked over to the window and pulled back the blind slightly, looking out into the recess yard. “There’s only one thing ... I don’t tell him.”
“And just go on like this? I don’t want that.”
“You were happy enough all along.”
“Yeah, but things have changed. I’ve changed. I don’t want to be just observing anymore. I want to be part of it now.”
