by Linda Keir
“Thanks, Dallas,” both Crystal and Georgina said.
“My pleasure,” he said, dropping a Toblerone into my pillowcase.
“Thank you,” I managed to say.
“Enjoy,” he said, and I wanted him to wink or brush my hand even though I knew he was smarter than that.
“He seems smaller out of the classroom, older somehow,” Crystal said as soon as the door closed and we headed back down the driveway. “I don’t really get what the fuss is all about.”
“Me either,” I added, glad that Georgina was too absorbed in Tommy to weigh in.
Then I saw Ian coming toward us with his gang and a few girls, including a very giggly Sylvie.
He pretended to be so deep in conversation with her that he didn’t notice me as they headed toward Dallas’s door.
“You okay?” Crystal asked.
“Fine,” I said, feeling better and worse than I ever had.
“Sylvie’s having a particularly challenging Halloween,” Georgina said. “I mean, now that I’m with Tommy, she’s been kind of at loose ends. And then there are her eating issues and everything.”
“Georgina!” I said. “You shouldn’t—”
“She has eating issues?” Crystal asked.
“Bulimia,” Georgina whispered. “But don’t tell anyone.”
I shook my head, but even though I’d like to think I’m a better person than that, I didn’t totally hate that she was talking shit about Sylvie. Not that I’m worried, because Ian would never be into her, but the way she was hanging on him, it looked like she was totally going in for the kill.
When we reached the gym, the Halloween party was in full swing, complete with party games and a DJ to drown out further gossip from Georgina.
Crystal went off to the bathroom, and Georgina and Tommy decided to dance.
I had no interest in hanging around the edges of the party, fielding random questions about my breakup with Ian, but I had to stay long enough to duck out without raising any eyebrows. To pass the time, I rifled through my pillowcase, pulling out the Toblerone—the only candy that held any particular appeal. Back home, I’d have thrown it out upon discovering that the top of the triangular cardboard box opened a little too easily. Since I knew exactly where it had come from, however, I turned it over and slid out the foil-wrapped chocolate.
A small piece of paper slipped out with it.
Checking to make sure no one had noticed, I unfolded the note.
Saturday. 12:30. Our spot. Rain or shine.
Chapter Fourteen
“Hannah Chang? What have you got?”
Mr. Kelly was at the front of the room, ass half-parked on the corner of the desk in that way of his, ready to lunge over to the whiteboard and make more notes in his weird, backward-slanting handwriting. A tattered cardboard pumpkin had been pinned to the bulletin board in acknowledgment of Halloween, but Cassidy guessed it had been put there by someone else in the English Department.
Hannah opened her steno pad—they were all using steno pads now, like real reporters—and flipped through her notes.
“I visited Mrs. Franti in Records, who asked why a student would need a record of every Glenlake Academy employee who worked here during the 1996–97 school year.”
“A good investigative reporter often gathers a hundred times more information than needed,” said Mr. Kelly, “because they don’t always know what they’re looking for until they find it. Did she give you the records?”
“She didn’t want to.”
“And you said?”
Hannah shook her head, like she couldn’t believe her own words. “That I would file a Freedom of Information Act request if needed.”
“And did that work?”
Hannah opened a folder and took out a photocopied list of names, stapled at the corner.
“Good work. We’ll make a reporter out of you yet.”
Cassidy raised her hand, and he nodded at her.
“Mr. Kelly? I thought you said FOIA requests were only for government records.”
Her teacher slid off the desk and unfolded his arms, pacing animatedly. “You are correct, Cassidy. Hannah made an idle threat. We could not have compelled Mrs. Franti to produce those records without legal standing in this case. But if her ignorance of the law caused her to voluntarily relinquish the information . . . I’d call that damn good reporting.”
Cassidy was impressed but still wanted to score a point. “But is that ethical?”
“Excellent question. Reporters must walk a fine but sharply drawn line at all times. If Hannah had misrepresented herself as an officer of the law, an officer of the court”—there was laughter from the class—“or presented other false credentials, that would have been unethical. What she did is more like one citizen saying she’d give another citizen a parking ticket: it’s an empty threat.”
Cassidy had to admit it: she’d never had a class like this. She’d always liked school just fine, mostly anyway, but she honestly couldn’t wait to come to the journalism seminar. The other kids in class obviously felt the same way. You never knew what was going to happen, and you couldn’t wait to see what did.
Most of that had to do with Mr. Kelly—she’d never had a teacher like him, either. It wasn’t just that he was willing to have his students test the rules and question authority—it was the fact that he treated everyone in the class like an adult. He could be a little bit of a hard-ass, but the fact that he held people accountable just made them want to please him that much more.
Mr. Kelly returned to his position at the desk. “Hannah, get that scanned and uploaded to Google Drive if you haven’t already. Tate, what have you got?”
“Well, as you know, four of us were assigned to obtain Dallas’s class roster and to research any students or faculty who might have had extracurricular relationships with the deceased involving clubs or athletics.”
“The deceased,” repeated Mr. Kelly approvingly. “I like it.”
Cassidy felt proud of her boyfriend.
“We have a total of sixteen names on the class roster,” continued Tate.
“Have you learned anything?”
“We haven’t started calling anyone yet.”
Mr. Kelly sighed, rubbed his face with both hands, then stood and started pacing. “Look, I get that you are all just high school students, and you’re consumed with trick-or-treating and college applications, but this is an honors seminar. You guys are supposed to be the best of the best. Show some initiative. We’ve got four groups, right? Group one, led by Hannah, is school records, faculty, and extracurriculars. Group two interviews the students in Walker’s class—that’s you, Tate. Group three is research, with Rowan in charge. I want you guys to dig deeper on what was reported at the time. Group four is captained by Felicia and will act as librarians, keeping us organized and constructing a detailed timeline that takes into account everything we’ve learned. Got it?”
Liz, assigned to group two, raised her hand. “Besides the obvious background stuff, what else should we be asking in the interviews?”
“Find out who was unhappy—and with whom and why. Happy people don’t commit crimes. Unhappiness leads to motives. Who among the adults didn’t like Walker? Which students might have had a reason to hate him?” Mr. Kelly sat down and then sprang up again just as quickly. “You’re all obsessed about grades—did he flunk someone? Did he give someone a C minus, and they couldn’t get into Harvard as a result? If we can’t see transcripts, we can always ask.”
Tate spoke up. “One thing we have learned is that three of Walker’s former students have kids who are currently enrolled at Glenlake. One of them is in this very class: Cassidy Copeland.”
Everyone looked, so she gave them a royal wave.
“An interesting coincidence,” Mr. Kelly said with a nod. “But a potential red flag for objectivity.”
Cassidy raised her hand, feeling confident she’d interviewed her own parents more thoroughly than any other student could. “I took
the initiative to interview my parents twice. Once right after the project was announced and then again the other day.”
“And you felt you were able to maintain a professional distance?” asked Mr. Kelly, his smile showing that he was kidding. Probably.
“I pretended I barely knew them. It wasn’t hard.”
That got a laugh.
“What did you learn?”
“My mom was the one who had him, in this same room, I guess, and she seemed to like him. She said one really interesting thing—that once, in class, he told everyone that what scared him most was the future.”
Heads nodded. A couple of kids scribbled in their notebooks. For the first time, Cassidy pictured Mom in this room, writing in her own notebook, looking up toward the front of the room at Dallas Walker.
Now deceased.
“What about your dad?” prompted Mr. Kelly.
“He said Dallas Walker seemed like the kind of guy who could live a double life.”
“Was he basing that on anything in particular?”
“Well, apparently, Walker took the Cue Sports Society—that’s what they called the pool or billiards club or whatever—to an actual bar to play pool, which is where they met some scary people. One guy in particular.”
“I heard something about that.” As Mr. Kelly walked to an unused whiteboard at the side of the room, Cassidy wondered if he’d heard it from her dad, and, if so, why her dad would have gone out of his way to share that. But if Mr. Kelly knew more than he was letting on, she was grateful that he was playing dumb. Having Dad involved wasn’t just puzzling—it was embarrassing.
“And what was so scary about the one guy?” he continued. “Why did your father mention him?”
“Well, I guess he was this huge, tattooed biker dude, and Mr. Walker seemed to love hanging around with guys like that,” said Cassidy. “But the weird part is that he works at Glenlake now.”
There was an actual, audible gasp, and it gave Cassidy a rush to be the one with news that could silence a room.
“I presume he’s teaching physics?” asked Mr. Kelly.
“He works on the grounds crew,” said Cassidy over rising laughter.
“Well, if your class hypothesis is that Dallas Walker was murdered, at some point we need a list of suspects, even if only for the purpose of elimination. Should we add this mystery employee?”
Nods and murmurs of assent rippled around the room while Cassidy suddenly wished she could take it back. It had all seemed like fun and games, but now, watching Mr. Kelly write MYSTERY EMPLOYEE on the board in block capitals, idle speculation was becoming cold, hard reality.
Mr. Kelly put the cap back on the marker and dropped it in the tray. He turned around and faced the class.
“Cassidy, since you sourced our first potential suspect, how about you take the lead on what will now be group five: persons of interest.”
“Okay,” she said. “How do I start?”
“First, find out this man’s name. Then see if you can prove him innocent.”
Chapter Fifteen
ANDI BLOOM’S GLENLAKE JOURNAL
Saturday, November 2, 1996
Dallas put down his yellow legal pad and patted the space beside him. He’d put the blanket far enough back from the cliff that I wouldn’t be scared, but close enough that I could still see silvery ripples on the water’s surface.
“What were you working on?” I asked, sitting down.
“Poems.”
“How surprising,” I said. “About?”
“Man’s search for meaning, the indifference of nature—the things I usually write about on sunny days.” He kissed me gently.
“It killed me not to see you all week,” I said.
“We saw each other every day,” he said.
“It was impossible to pretend everything was normal between us.”
“Agonizing. I felt like I was living for that moment every morning when I first saw your beautiful face.”
“I hated not knowing when . . . if—”
He kissed me again. “Our rules have to be different.”
“I know,” I said.
“Then we both already know everything we need to know about . . . what we are to each other.”
We ate a crazy but somehow delicious lunch that he must have picked up at the convenience store just outside of town, consisting of beef jerky, cheese sticks, yogurt, Doritos, and some of his leftover Halloween chocolate. We drank the half bottle of wine he’d brought. When we were finished, he picked up his notepad and started writing again.
I lay down beside him, closed my eyes, soaked in the warmth of the late fall sun, and waited for him to take a break.
To touch me some more.
Saturday, November 9, 1996
I usually love it when Simon comes to Chicago for business. He always makes sure to schedule time for just the two of us. No Lorraine and no babies.
This time, he surprised me by showing up at school to take me to the city for the weekend. The plan: dinner at Spiaggia, a two-night stay with him in a suite at the Four Seasons, shopping on Michigan Avenue, and something cultural on Saturday night. Theoretically my dream weekend. On past visits he’s taken me to plays at Steppenwolf and the Goodman and concerts at the Chicago Theatre, so I knew I’d love whatever it was he planned to surprise me with.
“How are you doing, baby?” he asked as we drove away from campus in the Viper he’d rented “for shits and grins.”
“Good,” I said. I was almost touched that he’d decided what I needed most was a surprise getaway from the stress of school, college apps, and my breakup with Ian.
The thing is, I already had plans.
Dallas and I had worked out all the details. On Saturday night, I’d walk to the outskirts of town, he’d pick me up, and we’d disappear to someplace in the city where no one could possibly recognize us.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: in surprising me with a “dream” weekend, my father had ruined my fantasy of going on my first proper date, in public, with my secret boyfriend.
“I figured a weekend away would get your mind off everything you have on your plate,” he said as I picked at the clam bucatini I usually crave. “But you seem distracted.”
Understatement of the year.
When Simon showed up on campus, I nearly shit a brick. I used his cell phone to call “all” my teachers to let them know I’d be missing my Saturday morning classes, including poetry, which I didn’t have on the weekend. Everyone answered their phones and wished me a good weekend.
Everyone but Dallas.
For him, I had to leave the most awkward, fumbling message I’ve ever recorded. I could barely get out the words Mister and Walker, code for This is important. I had to focus to keep from sounding as shaky and upset as I felt while I added, “It’s Andi Bloom from your poetry seminar. I won’t be in class tomorrow, Saturday, because my father came into town and surprised me with a weekend in the city. I’m really sorry for any problems my absence may cause. Please know I’m eager to make up anything I missed when I return on Sunday. Afternoon. Again, I’m sorry. If you need to reach me, I’ll be at the Four Seasons, and I’m also available on my father, Simon Bloom’s car phone. The number is . . .”
“Jesus, Andi, it’s one class, not a semester,” Simon said when I finally hung up.
“I was supposed to have a test tomorrow,” I said lamely.
“I’ll write you a note,” he said. “He’ll let you make it up.”
“I’m sure the message I just left will be fine.” The mere thought made me queasy.
As I looked across the table at my father, for the first time ever I felt weirdly self-conscious about being out with him. Dallas was younger than my dad, but how much younger could he be? Dad was forty-five and Dallas had to be at least thirty-five. Did any of the other diners at Spiaggia think we weren’t father and daughter—but on a date? When and if we were ever able to go out in public together, would people think Dallas was my father?
“You haven’t said anything about Ian,” Simon said.
“There’s not much to say,” I said. “We’re not together.”
“Is it permanent?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Got someone else on the line?”
“No!” I said too quickly and too loudly.
He arched an eyebrow but thankfully let it go at that.
Saturday morning, he took me on a shopping spree that included visits to Marshall Field’s and Neiman Marcus, and my choices, Guess and the Gap. We had lunch at Bandera because of the view, and headed back to the hotel to chill before the evening’s cultural event, which he promised I was going to absolutely love.
I still hadn’t heard from Dallas. It was bumming me out, but I started to think maybe it was for the best: What if Simon answered when he called?
“You know, honey,” he said, sitting down beside me on the couch in the living room of our suite. “When your mom died . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about Mom,” I said.
“I understand, but you need to know that when you suffer a loss, it sometimes feels like you’ll never love again.”
“I broke it off with Ian,” I told him. “Not the other way around.”
Before he had a chance to respond, his cell phone began to vibrate on the end table beside the couch.
He picked it up, looked at the number, and handed it to me. “Local area code. I’m guessing it’s for you. I’m going to stretch out on my bed for a few minutes before the show.”
I said hello just as the door closed to his room.
“Can you talk?” Dallas said. No Hello, Andi.
“Yes,” I said, trying to sound like I was talking to a teacher, which I was.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Simon just showed up out of the blue,” I said, crossing the room and lowering my voice to a whisper. “I literally had to call you from the car.”
“Simon?”
“My dad.”
Silence.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice suddenly scratchy. “I really wanted to be with you.”
