Spontaneous

by Aaron Starmer

  “Shit,” I said. “So you think we’re all drinking tainted water and that’s why—”

  “No,” Rosetti said. “They dealt with all that years ago. Cleaned up and covered up. But this place is a symbol. Something is tainted in your town. But it’s something new. Even nastier than what came before.”

  It made me think of that novel I had been working on. You know, All the Feels? It was set in the town of Cloverton, New Jersey, where seedy secrets are the stock in trade, and the seediest secret is the one kept by the protagonist—the intrepid and smoking-hot Xavier Rothman. I decided that if I was going to write more of it, then I should add a character with Rosettiesque qualities. A scenery-chomping detective with supersleuth abilities.

  “Okay, so then why are we here?” Dylan asked.

  “Because I wanted a moment in private, away from the media, the police, my partner. I wanted to talk to my favorite pyromaniac, his always-in-the-wrong-place-at-the-right-time girlfriend, and our resident . . . field hockey star.”

  Tess looked away and whispered, “I wasn’t technically a star.”

  “So what do you think is tainting us?” I asked.

  “Don’t know yet,” Rosetti asked. “But I have my suspicions. We can rule out chemtrails and other broad factors. But something has gotten into your bodies.”

  A pickup truck rumbled past, and a guy stuck his head out the passenger-side window and yelled something. Vulgar by inflection, though I couldn’t make out the words.

  “Ignore them,” Rosetti said. “Ignore all of them. This town is full of people who think they know why this is happening. But all we really know is that this is happening to you. All four incidents have involved students in your senior class. The odds that this is random aren’t even odds at all.”

  “So you’re saying we’re fucked?” I asked.

  “I’m asking for your help. I want you to come to me with all the rumors, all the gossip, all the things you know and hear about your peers. I want to feel like I’m undercover among your classmates, something I am obviously not equipped to do.”

  Rosetti pulled at her suit jacket to straighten it. She was thirty-six years old—or at least that’s what my research had told me—and she had been something of a prodigy, having graduated at sixteen. Which meant she hadn’t been a high school student in twenty years.

  “So we’re tattletales?” I asked.

  “Volunteers,” she said.

  “So we’re not suspects?” Dylan asked.

  “Everyone is a suspect,” Rosetti said. “However, I don’t think the three of you have been plotting together to take down the senior class if that’s what you mean.”

  “Give us some credit,” Tess said. “We can plot. We’re clever.”

  “Not that clever,” Rosetti responded. “What you are is scared. And scared people all want the same thing.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “To survive,” she said. “So bring me something. Whatever it is that’s finding its way into your bodies. And we’ll get rid of that fear.”

  My mom’s voice whined its way into my head and I blurted out, “Drugs. Maybe it’s drugs.”

  “Okay then,” Rosetti said. “Bring me drugs.”

  hate to break it to you

  Buying drugs is the easiest thing in the world. At least for me. Parents of the world don’t want to hear this, but it’s true. All I had to do was send a text to one of the Dalton twins. Nothing more than a single letter usually did the trick. P for pot. M for mushrooms. E for ecstasy. O for oxy. S for surprise me.

  They would then text back a time and place. 4 Chipotle for instance. I’d show up, they’d hand me something inconspicuous, like a bag with a burrito and the stuff tucked beneath the foil. Then we’d chat a bit and go our separate ways. They always operated on credit and I evened up with them in the cafeteria, slipping them cash long after the transactions took place.

  It served them well. No parents, teachers, or, most importantly, cops ever caught wind. Regulars knew the drill and newbies were vetted and referred by those regulars. People got their jollies and the Daltons got richer. Free enterprise won the day, like every other day in history.

  Two days after Cranberry died and I was deputized (my word, not hers) by Special Agent Carla Rosetti, it was poised to be another winner for free enterprise. I texted Jenna Dalton.

  Me: A.

  Her: A? What’s A?

  Me: All of it.

  Her: All of it? Like everything?

  Me: Yep. Make me a sampler. Like a gift basket.

  Her: Tough week, right?

  Me: Perry. Then Cranberry. FUCK!

  Her: Fuckin fuck. At least there’s no school. Can you do noon? Dunkin.

  Me: I’m so there.

  I would go alone. Both Tess and Dylan were with me during the texts, but it made no sense for them to come to the handoff, because I always met the Daltons alone. Not that the Daltons would be all “I smell a rat” or “pat her down for a wire” or anything, but they might notice something was off. They might not give me what I needed.

  I needed all of it. Rosetti assured us that she wasn’t going to arrest anyone. She didn’t even care who was supplying the drugs. Not yet, at least. For now, she only wanted samples of the drugs most likely to be consumed by our peers.

  It’s no exaggeration to say that the Daltons were the primary drug source for our school. As I’ve already pointed out, Katelyn was a loyal customer. I couldn’t tell you about Brian, Perry, or Cranberry, but if they had taken a hit off a joint in the last two years or popped a pill so they could stay up all night to dance or study—or dance while studying, for that matter—then chances are the original source was the Daltons.

  The plan was that I would procure every drug they had and, if one of those substances proved to be volatile, then Rosetti would go after their supplier. “I don’t care about a couple of schoolyard hustlers,” she had told us. “I’m after big fish. Because the big fish is often bigger than you might ever suspect.”

  As much as I wanted to think of the Daltons as big fish, I had to admit that big fish don’t do deals in doughnut shops with girls who show up on pink bikes. That’s right, I rolled up to the big drug deal on the beach cruiser my grandparents bought me for our annual trips down the shore. Because, again, that’s what I always did. I didn’t want to arouse suspicions.

  Joe was waiting in the parking lot when I arrived, fastening a bike rack to the back of their RAV4. “Slap that bad boy on here,” he said. “We’ve got your stuff, but we’re getting the fuck outta Dodge. Cool?”

  “The coolest,” I said.

  at the edge of dodge

  If the Daltons were big fish, this probably would have been the moment for them to drive me to an alley behind a strip club and pistol-whip me as the rap blared and a sneering, arms-folded bouncer named Sergei stood guard. But no, they definitely weren’t big fish. Jenna played a comedy podcast (that none of us laughed at) as she drove us down a private road past the Covington Club until we were hidden behind a patch of shrubs alongside the twelfth green of the golf course.

  “No one should bother us here,” she said when she cut the engine. “Security guard doesn’t come until at least eight, if he comes at all.”

  “We’re so glad you texted, Mara, because we need this as bad as you do,” Joe said as he sparked up a fully packed bowl.

  “Man, do we need this,” Jenna added.

  “Have at it, sis,” Joe said without exhaling, and he passed the bowl to Jenna.

  Spark, spark. Suck, suck. Cough, cough. Then, having had at it, Jenna thrust it in my face. “Hit that shit.”

  In any other situation, I would have been all “well, if you insist.” This, however, was a situation where the burning weed was perhaps a burning fuse. Call me silly, but I had begun to put stock in the Say No to Drugs theory. It made more sense than anyt
hing else at that point.

  “Rain check,” I told Jenna.

  “More for me then,” Joe said, snatching it back for another hit.

  “We got shrooms,” Jenna said. “Acid. Some meth.”

  “What?” I said. “No. Hell no. When did you start selling meth?”

  Jenna passed me a Dunkin’ Donuts bag. The top half consisted of Munchkins disguising what was beneath—a plethora of prescription bottles and plastic Baggies. “You said you wanted everything,” Jenna said.

  “I did,” I said. “I do. I just didn’t know you guys were selling hard shit.”

  “Ever since kids started blowing up, hard shit sells,” Joe said, launching a billowing sail of smoke my way.

  I held my breath as it caressed my face, seemingly crooning, Suck me in, sweetie, and I promise I won’t turn you inside out. I waited a full ten seconds after it passed and then drew in a small breath and whispered, “I think I better take the stuff and head home.”

  “Ah, kid,” Jenna said. “I know you’re sad, but we can’t let you get high alone. And if you haven’t done some of this stuff, you’re gonna need a spirit guide. Especially with the acid.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Dylan will be with me. We’re gonna . . . we’ll be together.”

  “Dylan?” Jenna asked as she took another hit. “As in Hovemeyer?”

  Joe snagged the bowl back and went in for round number three. He closed his eyes and held the smoke tightly in the fists of his lungs. “You didn’t know,” he grunted. “Dylan and Mara are like—”

  God bless headrests.

  The splatter hit the windshield. It painted Joe’s window velvet red. It drenched one half of his twin, the right half, plastering Jenna’s long brown hair to her face. It streamed back, splashing on the seat next to me like a spilled cherry soda. But yeah, God bless those headrests, Joe’s in particular, because it shielded me from what was left of him.

  The car shook for a second, as if hit by a gust of wind. Then Jenna began to moan. “Ohhhhhhhhh.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Jenna? Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.”

  “That wasn’t . . . that wasn’t . . . that wasn’t . . .”

  The explosion was loud, but not so loud that my ears were ringing. I still had my wits about me. I’d been down this road before. “Jenna, honey,” I said. “This is not good. But we’ve got to get out of here. I know someone who can help.”

  “That wasn’t . . . he wasn’t . . . oh God, oh God, oh God.”

  I reached forward and put a hand on her shoulder. “Jenna,” I said. “We’ve got to go. We’ve got to get to my friend. She’ll take care of us. We’ll be okay.”

  Not that I really believed the words, but I had to say something.

  Jenna looked into the passenger seat, winced, and then collapsed on the steering wheel. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” she cried. “He was a good boy. He was the best boy.”

  “Can you drive?” I asked. “Because I’m going to make a call and I’ll lead us somewhere safe.”

  Rather than wait for a response, I reached forward and turned the key. The engine rumbled, which made the car vibrate and the blood shake and shimmer in the autumn sun. I suppose I could have gotten behind the wheel myself, but that would have required me unbuckling Jenna, pushing her over, and actually having the will and desire to drive a car.

  Jenna’s body suddenly went rigid and she gasped. Of the girls I knew, she was by far the toughest. She could deal with anything and anyone. Parents. Cops. You’d think she was twice her age because of how goddamn smooth she usually was. At that particular moment, it seemed like she was fighting to channel her calm and cool, but she was also trembling. And when she flipped on the windshield wipers, they didn’t help push away the gore. So she cried, “It’s staining the glass. It won’t ever wash off!”

  “Deep breaths,” I said. “It’s on the inside. The wipers won’t work. Use your sleeve. Clean a patch so you can see out.”

  She filled her lungs again and became a good little soldier, doing as asked, sopping her twin brother up in her cable-knit sweater and creating a gauzy but mildly transparent ruby circle.

  “Okay, now press your foot on the brake,” I told her. “Because I’m gonna put the car in drive. All you have to do is, you know, steer and accelerate.” I reached forward and eased the gearshift down to the D.

  Another deep breath and she said, “I can do this.”

  “Yes, you can. Yes, you can.”

  The car lurched forward and off we went. Phone in my lap, I searched my contacts under the C and R for Carla Rosetti, but didn’t find her there.

  “Where do I go? Where? Where?” Jenna pleaded.

  “Head toward Wooderson Road,” I said, because that old factory was chosen to be the rendezvous spot with Rosetti. “Go fast, but be safe.”

  Be safe. It was that mom nonsense again, but it was all I could think to say to a girl who had just watched her twin explode. I know it wasn’t like they were identical or anything. They didn’t share matching DNA. But they did share a womb, and it must have felt like part of her body had torn apart right then and there. A part she loved and hated in equal measure. What could I possibly say to that?

  Be safe, and that’s it. I let the dull roar of the car do the rest of the talking. The golf course coursed by the window. Then, in a tone-deaf but entirely endearing voice, Jenna began to sing.

  “When the red red robin comes bob-bob-bobbin’ along . . . along!”

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Driving,” she said.

  True enough. Though only barely. She was keeping the car on the road, but not in the correct lane. Luckily, we had this stretch of the pavement to ourselves until we reached the Old Post Road. Then we’d be in the thick of antique shops and farm stands.

  Jenna fell back into the tune, but louder this time, singing, “There’ll be no more sobbin’ when he starts throbbin’ his old, sweet song.”

  “What I meant was, why are you singing?” I asked.

  “It’s my calming song. It’s my happy place.”

  “Does it help you drive?”

  “It does.”

  “Okay then. Carry on.”

  In retrospect . . . a lot of things. I’m not going to play the in-retrospect game here or anywhere else. Because it doesn’t change a thing. What I am going to do, however, is celebrate good choices. Jenna’s song was a good choice. Sure, it was dopey and weird. Sure, she was a crappy singer, but it calmed her down and it calmed me down too. It helped me focus.

  As Jenna sang, “Wake up, wake up, you sleepyhead,” I remembered something.

  “S!” I hollered. “She’s under S for Special Agent Carla Rosetti of the FBI!”

  As Jenna sang, “Get up, get up, get outta bed,” I placed my call.

  We passed the Covington Club, its stately whiteness all horror show through our smudged windows. The phone rang, and as Jenna sang, “Cheer up, cheer up, the sun is red,” Rosetti answered.

  “Agent Rosetti,” she said, because chicks like her don’t ever say hello.

  “Thank God,” I said. “We’re heading to the rendezvous spot early. There’s been another.”

  As Jenna sang, “Live, love, laugh, and be happy,” she turned the car onto the Old Post Road, put her foot on the gas, swerved to avoid an oncoming UPS truck, and promptly blew up.

  Bam. Red. Wet. Fuck.

  Not again.

  Without a driver, the car would go no faster, but it would continue under its own momentum. The phone slipped out of my bloody hand and I lunged forward to try to grab the wheel, but I was still strapped in, so the belt yanked me back against my seat. As I reached down to unbuckle, the car hopped a curb and even though the windows were now completely red and opaque and I couldn’t see a thing, I knew impact was imminent. I braced myself.
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  That’s when the blood-soaked RAV4—occupied by me and a shit-ton of narcotics—crashed through the front window of the Covington Quilt Museum.

  what you have to understand

  I had broken a promise. Back when I was starting freshman year, Dad had said, “Can you do something for me?”

  “Probably,” I had replied.

  “Make sure I don’t ever receive a phone call from either the police or the hospital. That’s all I ask from you.”

  “Consider it done.”

  As I climbed my way to consciousness amid the huffing and beeping machines of a hospital room, I saw the old man slumped in a chair in the corner. To defuse things, I made a joke. “So which one called you first?”

  His phone and the TV remote were resting on his chest, and when he sat up, they fell to the floor, which changed the channel on the TV from a football game to a newscast with a scroll across the bottom that my blurry eyes couldn’t read but my blurry brain guessed was about the death toll in Covington, and how it was now up to six. Jack the Ripper killed only five people, in case you were wondering. (Though I don’t know why you’d be wondering about Jack the Ripper. Weirdo.)

  “Baby,” Dad said as he leapt to his feet. “Sweetie. Cutie.”

  His foot must’ve been asleep because he hobbled over and put his hands on my face and held my cheeks, really held them, like he was trying to hold me together, which maybe he was.

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked.

  “In the café talking to your friend,” he said as he pulled his hands away and gazed in my eyes.

  “Dylan?” I asked. “Tess?”

  Dad shook his head. “The FBI agent.”

  Notice how he didn’t introduce Rosetti as “that hard-ass fed who’s super pissed at you for messing up her perfectly good drug sting.” He said “friend.” As in friendly. Which wasn’t a side of the special agent I knew, but one I wanted to know. What with her being my hero and all.