by Rae, Nikita
MORGAN’S MOM lets me pick her up the next day, after she signed a contract that Mr. and Mrs. Kepler actually had notarized by a lawyer stating she would attend counseling and rehabilitation sessions at Seabrook House without fail. If she misses one appointment, she’ll no longer be allowed to stay in school and she’ll have to go back to fulltime rehab.
We arrive back at SU in time for me to drop her at her apartment before I leave for class, promising to come by as soon as I’m done. In truth I’m seconds away from skipping; it would mean spending more time with Morgan and making sure she’s okay, and it would also mean avoiding Noah. And I want to avoid Noah like I want to avoid the plague.
There’s no chance I’m getting out of Media Law and Ethics, though—not after Professor Lang’s disappointed speech last time. I arrive exactly on time for class and sit down in my seat, too wary to glance over and look at Noah. Professor Lang has been speaking for twenty minutes by the time I find the courage, and it’s a major anti-climax when I realize he isn’t even there. Noah skipped. He’s skipped class because of yesterday. It’s completely ridiculous that he’d do that, but then his whole reaction was ridiculous. I push him out of my head, sick and tired of worrying about the whole thing. Professor Lang does a damn good job of distracting me, anyway.
“The news is no longer folded sheets of paper that we buy should we happen to remember on our way to work. It’s alerts on our phones, pop-ups on our computer screens, interruptions to our favourite television shows. Global events are instantly reported mere seconds after occurring. With everything so immediate, so push of a button, so in our faces, we need to ask ourselves, how have the roles of journalists evolved in the wider world? What are their duties? Their responsibilities?”
I can’t help but feel like Professor Lang’s gaze lingers on me a little too long. My suspicions are confirmed when he removes his glasses and polishes the lenses on his untucked shirt. “Perhaps you have some thoughts on this matter, Miss Patterson?”
Curse him. He’s never called on me before. All eyes are on me—a sensation instantly unpleasant and confronting. “I, uh…” Sweat beads on my forehead. “I personally feel that there’s an onus on journalists to be truthful in their reporting. The truth has to be the most important thing, right?”
“You’re asking me, or you’re telling me?”
Fuck. If this is some sort of test, I have no idea how to pass it. I imbue my tone with a level of confidence I don’t feel when I say, “I’m telling you.”
Lang frowns, returning his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “Okay. So if we work to that principle—that the truth is the most important factor here—how does a journalist know fact from fiction when they’re required to report on something so quickly? Before someone else can jump in with both feet and beat them to the punch?”
“I…I don’t know. I guess that’s where fact checkers come in.”
“Fact checkers?”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t the seventies, Miss Patterson. Anyone with a smart phone and enough common sense to ask questions can do so freely. You request a fact checker at the New York Times and you’d be fired on the spot. Your job as a journalist is to be able to quickly and efficiently check the veracity of your information in person. I suggest if you need a week to comfortably confirm your sources before going to print or, indeed, to air, then you should perhaps go to the The New Yorker and become a fact checker yourself.”
The class titters at Lang’s remark. I slump down into my seat, wondering why I’m being torn a new one. So far I’ve been invisible in this class, and I’ve liked it that way. But worse than being the center of attention right now, Lang is challenging me to defend my decisions…decisions I’m sure he knows are very personal to me. “Then I’ll revise my statement. The most important responsibility a journalist has is to report as judiciously as possible, including only information they believe to be true after verifying first the legitimacy of their information to the best of their ability. Journalists who choose to sensationalize the news for their own ratings, people who scavenge over the truth like it’s a goddamned buffet and they can take and leave whatever they decide without a thought or care for how their words effect people, that’s the kind of journalism that should be avoided at all costs.”
The room is silent. Lang considers this for a moment, his lips pursed. “I agree. But it’s not always that easy, is it? Emotions often get in the way regardless of how hard a person may try to remain impartial.” He breaks his focus, a reprieve from the intensity of his stare, and takes a look at the rest of the student body. “I have an assignment for you, class, and you can thank Miss Patterson for the extra workload. I want each and every one of you to tell me the truth. Tell me a greater truth about an event that has shaped and formed you into who you are today. And I don’t want to hear anyone telling me such an event in their past does not exist, because that would be…wait for it… a lie. There’s always something. We all have one. But—” he breaks off when the class starts groaning. “But! I want you to tell that greater truth from someone else’s perspective, someone else who knows that terrible incident inside and out. This is where the problems begin, class. We hit brick walls when we start to borrow other people’s truths. Our experiences, our prejudices, our own personal beliefs all color the way we choose to pick over the buffet of truth as Miss Patterson so eloquently worded it. So, in short, be creative. Be bold. Be subjective. Be whatever you need to be, but most importantly, be honest. I’ll expect all of your Pulitzer worthy, vainglorious pieces to be turned in by the end of the week.”
The lecture theatre erupts into conversation and complaints as Lang begins packing his laptop and papers away, and I sit there trying to become invisible again. But I can’t. He’s asking me to do something, to put myself out there—but not only that. He’s asking me to involve someone else in the process, look at my situation through their eyes and report it back in stark black and white without allowing my tormented past to effect the work. It’s just not possible. It’s cruel is what it is.
I pack up my laptop, my desire to escape becoming more and more pressing as the seconds tick by. I have three text messages waiting for me when I get outside. Just what I need on top of my new, terrifying assignment: more boy drama. And that’s exactly what it is. My stomach pitches when I see one message is from Luke, the other two from Noah. Noah’s first message reads,
Noah: Sorry, Avery Patterson. I know what you’re thinking right now, and yes, I feel stupid.
I skip over Luke’s message in the middle to read Noah’s second text—not because I’m so much more desperate to read Noah’s, but because I’m more apprehensive about what Luke might have to say.
Noah: It’s funny how sometimes one apology just doesn’t feel quite enough. I need to say it again: I’m really sorry. I can’t bear to see you again until you say you’ve forgiven me, and that you’ll give me a second shot. Please?
Me: There’s nothing to apologize for. And of course I want to see you. Come by the apartment after five if you aren’t busy.
It takes me until I reach Margo’s diner to talk myself into opening Luke’s text. His is a little more concise and less pleading, but it’s an apology all the same.
Luke: Didn’t have time to look through our homework yesterday, sorry. Something came up, so no news. Will call later if I have anything.
I reply and tell Luke not to worry about it, and then order two extra large coffees for me and Morgan to drink once I’ve made it home. My hands are in heaven the whole journey back to 125th Street thanks to the scalding takeaway cups, but the rest of me is a frigid ice block. Worse still, it starts snowing halfway home and my hair is damp and ratty, running melted water down the back of my neck by the time Morgan lets me into her apartment.
“Sheesh, you look like crap, Patterson.”
“Thanks. You look terrific, yourself.” She actually does look pretty good, aside from the shadows under her eyes and the way she seems to flinch whenev
er she moves, like every joint in her body aches.
“Is that a coffee? For me?” she demands, relieving me of one of the takeaways.
I snatch it back and thrust the other one out to her. “Trust me, you don’t want that one.”
Morgan shakes her head and eases herself down onto her computer chair. “I’m surprised you have any teeth left with the amount of sugar you imbibe.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t all be sweet enough without it.”
Morgan snorts and wraps herself in a thick blanket. I take off my boots and flex my toes out, trying to get the feeling back.
“You’re gonna dirty up my place with your foot stink,” Morgan moans. I ignore her and snap the cookie I bought along with the coffee in half to share with her.
“Ooh, chocolate. You know what an occasion like this calls for, don’t you?”
I quirk my eyebrow at her and drink deep on my coffee, needing the heat to defrost my insides. “Go on. Enlighten me.”
“Charlie St. Cloud.”
I laugh and make myself comfortable on her sofa. “Y’know, I’ve tried to watch that movie twice now but things just keep getting in the way. My uncle doesn’t appreciate Zac Efron the way he should.”
“The way everyone should,” Morgan corrects.
“Right?”
She cues up the DVD on her laptop, and we both snuggle under a blanket, watching the titles and getting chocolate chip crumbs everywhere. Wouldn’t happen in my apartment, but Morgan doesn’t care about things like that. It feels good that I can be a slob here and then maintain the order and routine of my own space. Kinda selfish, I know, but still. The movie is about fifteen minutes in when my phone buzzes in my bag. I panic, thinking it might be Noah already upstairs waiting for me. The clock on the wall reads one-forty, however, so it can’t be that. But the text is from Noah, and there’s an attachment on it. I hit open, half watching the screen and wiggling to keep Morgan from shoving me off the couch while I wait for it to load. The cookie in my mouth turns to sawdust when I see the picture he’s sent me.
It’s me.
Really me.
Iris Breslin.
The poster bears the picture from my high school yearbook, under which my real name is printed in neat italics. Along the top of the poster, the words, ‘Way Out Of Wyoming killer’s daughter among you. Columbia’s very own murder spawn.’
SamO’BradyJeffersonKyleAdamBrightSamO’BradyJeffersonKyleAdamBright. Morgan’s laptop nearly crashes to the floor when I jump up, staring at my cell phone screen. “No, no, no, no!” I sob, collapsing a little with each repetition. The print at the bottom of the picture is too small to read but I know what it says. My fingers are useless, and I barely manage to close the attachment so I can read the line Noah has sent.
Noah: Looks like we have ourselves a lying little psychopath! :) I knew you weren’t an Avery. Perhaps I should call you Murder Spawn?
“Avery, what the hell? You nearly smashed my Mac. What’s wrong with you?” Morgan hops up, too, but has to sit back down when I start frantically pacing.
“Someone knows,” I mutter.
“Knows what?”
“Someone knows!” She suddenly realizes what I’m talking about. The blood drains from her face,
“But how? I swear I haven’t told anyone. I swear!”
I don’t reply. I know she hasn’t told anyone but I can’t reassure her. I’m too busy sobbing uncontrollably. My legs collapse out from underneath me and I sink to the floor in a heap.
“You want me to call Noah?” Morgan asks, her hands fluttering nervously on my shoulder.
“He’s the one who sent me the picture!”
She snatches the phone out of my hand and starts mashing buttons while I let myself fall apart. All of the constructing, all the time spent fighting to build a new life for myself, all the hours spent feeling like I’m barely holding on by the skin of my teeth, it’s all been for nothing. Nothing. Morgan starts talking quickly, low and quiet, into my phone. I only start paying attention when her voice raises, and suddenly she’s shouting.
“…so answer your phone, you selfish prick!”
“Who did you call?”
“Noah,” she spits out. “I can’t believe he said that to you. It rang forever and then went to voicemail.”
“He’s probably pissed at me.”
“He has no right to be pissed.”
I blow out a sharp breath and roll my eyes. “I didn’t tell him the truth.” Morgan drops to her knees beside me and grabs hold of my shoulders, shaking me until I look up at her.
“Don’t you dare defend him! I’m sure there are plenty of things Noah hasn’t been truthful with you about. You guys don’t owe each other anything.” The sharp look in her eyes takes me back. “I’m gonna throttle that douche bag when I get hold of him. Hold on, he doesn’t have my number. He might pick up if I call from my phone.”
“Please don’t. This is bad enough already. No, Morgan, don’t!” But she isn’t listening. She gets up and rifles through the bag she had at the hospital until she finds her cell phone. She plugs it into the power outlet and switches it on. Before she can dial in Noah’s number, alerts start chiming in her hand. I lose count after five.
“What is it?” I ask, holding my breath. Morgan frowns as she scrolls through the messages on her phone, her expression growing angrier and angrier as the seconds stretch out. “Morgan!”
“It’s…” She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “It’s the girls from Upsilon. They want to know if it’s true. Apparently there are posters up all over campus, and a couple of girls were handing out flyers on the street.”
People were handing out flyers? My heart starts pounding in my chest. People were handing out flyers. They’d done that at high school before the teachers put a stop to it, but the damage was already done. And now it’s happening here, too. I stagger to my feet and race across the room to bend over Morgan’s trashcan before I start throwing up. I don’t stop for what feels like forever.
“I’m going to find out who those bitches are and destroy them,” Morgan growls as she rubs her hand up and down my back. “Hang in there, chica. This will all get sorted out. Melissa, hey, where are these girls?”
I groan and rock back onto my heels. Morgan is nodding her head while pulling on her shoes. This—a confrontation—is unlikely to score her any points with the administration after her recent absence. “Morgan, don’t make a scene.”
“It’s about time someone made a fucking scene. This isn’t your fault. They don’t have the right to do this to you, Avery. This is five years past due.” She storms out of the apartment and leaves me there bowed over the trashcan, shaking so violently I can hardly keep myself upright. My phone starts ringing while she’s gone but I ignore it. Morgan comes back twenty minutes later shaking out her hand. She’s too furious to speak at first, but eventually her rage dissipates.
“They were in our building. They were in our fucking building! They’ve been kicked out now, don’t worry. I can’t believe they’d go to all this effort just to make your life miserable.”
I can totally believe it. “What did they look like?” My voice is monotone, betraying how hollow I feel.
“Both prissy, stuck up bitches. One of them was called Casey. I didn’t catch the other one’s name. She had short blonde hair.”
“Maggie,” I say. “Maggie Bright. Her father was one of the men who…” my dad killed. God, I can’t bring myself to say it. Maggie was the person responsible for my nickname back in Breakwater; it can only be her. She’s a hundred different kinds of vindictive, so storming the building where I now live totally fits her M.O. But Casey? Why the hell has she gotten involved? “I know them both. The blonde went to my high school, and Casey is Luke’s ex. I ran into her outside his apartment the other week. He called me Avery. That must be how she figured out I was here.”
Morgan raises her eyebrows. “The one with the black hair is Luke’s ex? She was a super bitch. Should have seen
her face when I knocked her on her ass.”
“You knocked her…ugh, Morgan, hand me my phone.”
She passes it to me and I prop myself up against the wall. It takes ten seconds to dial Luke’s cell, but he doesn’t pick up. He isn’t at work. He said on Friday he has three days off. My mind instantly goes blank. I had one natural reaction as soon as I read Noah’s text, and that was to run. And the only person I feel comfortable running to isn’t picking up his phone. I slip it back into my pocket and look up at Morgan.
“Can I borrow the Jeep? I have to get out of here.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know, I just…I have to get away.”
A troubled frown pushes Morgan’s brows together. “There’s quite a crowd out there, Ave. It’s probably not a good idea. I could go and get the car and drive around. You wouldn’t have to walk through them all that way.”
I nod my head and get to my feet. “I’ll need some stuff from my place. I can’t stay here tonight.”
“Forget that, babe. I’ll come back and grab some stuff for you later. Let’s just get you someplace else first.” She snatches up her keys and dodges out of the apartment, and I hover by the window, trying to work out if the gathering on the street has anything to do with me. The people, hunched over against the cold, all wrapped in hats and scarves, beeline for Morgan as soon as she appears, answering that question for me. Of course they’re there because of me. They’re either there to demand answers or hurl abuse, and from past experience I’m leaning towards abuse. It takes a while for Morgan to collect the Jeep from the parking garage. I see her turn onto the street and decide it’s time to make a run for it.
