Drowning With Others

by Linda Keir

  “Is Mr. Royal here?” she asked.

  He looked baffled for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, Roy.” He pointed behind himself with a thumb. “He’s in there.”

  Leaving the door open, he moved past her to a stack of sidewalk salt, hefted a bag, and carried it over to a small four-wheeler that had been rigged with a salt spreader.

  “Shut the damn door,” said someone inside.

  Stepping inside, she did just that.

  The room was equipped with tables, chairs, a worn-out couch, and a kitchen area that consisted of a fridge, a microwave, and a coffee maker. An industrial gas-powered heater made it almost too hot. A man slumped at the table, his back to her, playing solitaire on a small tablet with a cracked screen that badly needed wiping.

  Crawling up over the collar of his long-sleeved uniform shirt was a faded blue snake tattoo.

  “Trying to let all the heat out?” said Roy over his shoulder as he swiped the electronic cards with dizzying speed.

  “Are you Curtis Royal?” she stammered.

  Roy whirled around. He was old and his skin drooped, but his eyes were hard. Cassidy’s heart thumped, and she suddenly wished they weren’t alone.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Cassidy,” she told him.

  “Cassidy what?”

  “Copeland.”

  She didn’t move while he dragged his chair into position, allowing him to stare at her without contorting his body.

  “Copeland Hall,” he muttered.

  She wasn’t sure if it was a question, so she just nodded.

  When he asked, “What do you want?” she realized that he was interviewing her, which was the wrong way around.

  Get to the point, she told herself, hearing Mr. Kelly’s voice as she did.

  “Did you know Dallas Walker?” she asked, the words feeling thin and fragile in the overheated air.

  “What’s your interest?” he asked, again avoiding an answer.

  Be truthful when confronted.

  “My class, the journalism seminar, is investigating the circumstances surrounding Mr. Walker’s death. We’re talking to everyone who knew or interacted with him at Glenlake to see if they have helpful information.”

  Roy chuckled. “Oh, I didn’t know him at Glenlake.”

  “But you did know him?”

  Roy’s eyes made her uncomfortable. She didn’t like standing while he sat, feeling like he was inspecting her.

  “Does your teacher know you’re here?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she lied, wishing she’d told him. Or Tate. Or anybody.

  Roy glanced at his tablet, seemingly anxious to get back to his game. He reached for it, slid it over, and moved a couple of cards.

  “How long have you worked at Glenlake?” she asked, changing tactics.

  “Long time,” he said.

  “Is it a full-time position?”

  “Usually.”

  “How did you know Dallas Walker?”

  “I didn’t say I did.”

  “But someone told us you were friends.”

  His attention had been drifting toward the game, but now he looked up again, sharply. “Who?”

  My dad.

  “Students,” she told him. “Who were here at the time.”

  Roy looked up, and Cassidy had the uncomfortable sensation that he was scanning faces in his memory and lingering on her teenage dad.

  “They might have made a mistake.”

  “It’s always possible,” said Cassidy, wanting to sit down, wanting to leave. “Which is why it would be helpful to have your version of events.”

  “I have no ‘version of events,’” said Roy dismissively. “Now get back to class and don’t bother me again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  IAN COPELAND’S GLENLAKE JOURNAL

  Tuesday, December 17, 1996

  I am not “going out” with Sarah Ann Janeway, even if a) she did French-kiss me the first time we ever kissed, and b) she basically took my hand and put it up her shirt right before she put her hand down my pants.

  I have never given Sarah Ann any indication that we are boyfriend and girlfriend, but I did agree to go to the Winter Formal with her. There’s no way I’m going stag, especially after Mike told me Georgina said Andi was going with James “Whip It Out” Whitmer. I can’t fucking believe it. James is famous for two things: one, a date he went on last year with a freshman girl in which he supposedly took his dick out of his pants while they were watching a movie and then moved the popcorn when she reached for it so she touched his dick instead. He doesn’t deny it, so even if it isn’t true, he wishes it was.

  And two, he thinks it’s hilarious to piss on people in the shower room. He wouldn’t dare try it with me, but I saw him sneak up behind Grady Sylbert after football practice and start whizzing. Pee’s warm, water’s warm, and Grady had no clue until we all started yelling. James wasn’t even embarrassed, just told us his dad used to do it when he was in high school, and his big brothers did it, too.

  So Andi, who I’ve managed to mostly avoid since Thanksgiving break, is going to the Winter Formal with this asshole. Are they going out? Did she actually BREAK UP WITH ME so she could be with him??? No one will tell me. Maybe everyone is afraid to tell me.

  Sylvie keeps sending me notes. She told me she wishes we could go to Winter Formal, but she understands that I can’t ask her because of her “close” connection to Andi through Georgina.

  “Can I introduce you to our owner?”

  The sales associate with the gelled, spiky hair, whose name Ian had momentarily forgotten even though he remembered the hair as a reason he almost hadn’t made the hire, touched the customer’s elbow to turn him toward Ian.

  The locked-door VIP event the team had been jokingly calling “WhaleFest” was well underway, even though Ian had just arrived. Ten minutes ago, he had been signing invoices on a pallet of imported beer when he discovered a crucial shipment of holiday champagne had been billed but not delivered. Five minutes after that, he’d taken a call from the Webster Groves store and learned that a seasonal hire had gotten a full-time job and would not be coming to work that evening. And just now he’d realized he’d forgotten to tighten the knot on his tie.

  “Ian Copeland,” he said, offering his hand to the customer, trying to hide his disappointment at how few guests had arrived.

  “Vinay Patel,” said the customer, helpfully adding, “Jared was just telling me a little bit about your new offerings.”

  “He means old,” added Jared, laughing a little too hard at the lame joke.

  As much as Ian wished his staff felt more confident after Preston’s training, he appreciated Jared’s caution in not wanting to put a foot wrong. The inventory sent down from Chicago was so varied that by the time they learned the pitch on a 1963 Bénédictine, it was replaced by something different and equally hard to describe.

  Ian would rather have been on his way to Glenlake to pick up Cassidy and get some pictures of her and her date (whom she’d refused to reveal) at her last Winter Formal, but Cassidy wanted to fly home on her own, and he had reluctantly conceded he was needed more urgently in St. Louis. This December was make-or-break if he planned to pay off Simon’s loan on time. The five-week period from Thanksgiving to New Year’s could account for as much as one-third of his annual sales, and if he had any hope of joining Andi and the kids for their annual skiing trip in Colorado over winter break, he had to put in the work now.

  And Patel, dressed in Banana Republic casual but with shiny $300 shoes and a massive Rolex, looked like exactly the kind of customer they needed to cultivate.

  “So what’s the deal with this stuff?” asked Patel. “Looks like a museum case in here.”

  “It does,” said Ian. “Except in museums you can’t touch, and the treasures aren’t for sale. Here you can touch, taste, and take home whatever you want. Want to know what a martini tasted like to a Madison Avenue advertising man in 1960? Mix it with this gi
n and this vermouth, both of which were bottled that year.”

  Ian saw Patel light up at the Mad Men reference. “Just like Don Draper, huh?”

  “You’ll have to supply your own secretaries,” Ian told him. “And I recommend fresh olives.”

  The chitchat went on for another ten minutes while Ian watched the front door, willing more invitees to arrive. Several did, but it wasn’t going to be enough to create the boozy buying atmosphere he’d hoped for. He probably should have invited Andi and asked her to bring some guests as ringers—Georgina could probably outsell half the people on his team—but by instinct he hadn’t even told her about the party. The last thing he needed was to bring her to ground zero of his source of stress, or to have her make any connection between his new investment and the reason he needed it to be successful.

  Patel pondered almost $1,500 worth of purchases but, in the end, dropped just under $300 on 1970s manhattan mixings.

  “I like that Mad Men line,” said Jared after they’d all shaken hands and Patel had gone off to pay. “I’m going to use that.”

  “I think we’re going to have to work some 1970s sitcoms into the mix, too,” said Ian, trying to keep it light.

  But not feeling it at all, especially after Ross Woodston, trust fund barfly and alcohol overenthusiast, popped into the store like he always did when there was a free tasting.

  “What are we drinking tonight?” he asked far too loudly.

  “A 1957 J.T.S. Brown,” Jared said, as per Ian’s pre-event instructions. “Just like ‘Fast Eddie’ Felson drank in The Hustler.”

  As Woodston downed the sample and handed his glass back for more, Ian managed to shoot Jared the go easy with this one look.

  “Gotta spread it out so everyone gets a taste of yesteryear, my good man,” Jared said, getting Ian’s drift.

  “I hear you,” Woodston said. “But I swear this tastes identical to a brand-new bottle I opened yesterday.” He swished and swallowed. “Definitely the same.”

  “Crazy how consistent some of the brands can be. Even over time,” Ian said, stepping in.

  He took a sip, mainly to dull the stress of having one of his intended targets overhear Woodston’s loud pronouncement. To Ian’s consternation, he couldn’t completely deny that Woodston had a point. The vintage J.T.S. Brown did taste brand-new.

  Was it possible?

  Saturday, December 21, 1996

  I don’t know any other way to tell this except by starting at the beginning.

  I feel like killing myself. Or somebody.

  Sarah Ann wanted to preparty with her friends, so I told Mike I’d meet him later and went to Rosen House, mainly because there was zero chance I’d run into Andi. Sarah Ann kept going on about a big “surprise” that turned out to be a bag of dried-up weed and a box of warm white wine. It started snowing again while we walked to the old ballroom in McCormick for the dance, and Sarah Ann wouldn’t stop complaining about how wet her feet were getting.

  “Do you want me to carry you?” I finally asked, but I guess I didn’t sound nice enough because she started to pout.

  Once we got to the dance, she got over it and started acting like nothing was wrong. I told her I didn’t feel like dancing yet, so she went out on the floor with her girlfriends and did that thing where they all dance together in a circle. Mike and the guys weren’t there yet, and I’m guessing they were having a better preparty than I did.

  The faculty chaperones were Mr. Matheson, Mrs. Henry, and Dallas Walker, who I figured warmed up on a cold night with straight bourbon or some other manly drink. I actually thought about asking him if he had a flask or something—I mean, he gave us beer, right?

  I kept watching for Andi and Whip It Out, and sure enough, they came in, just the two of them, making me wonder if they’d had a long, romantic walk in the snow.

  All of a sudden, Sylvie was next to me, looking all serious and sad.

  “Ian, are you all right?” she asked, and I was so sick of being asked and so disgusted at seeing Andi with Whitmer that I said, “I need to talk,” even though I didn’t want to.

  We went upstairs into a dark hall, and I didn’t say anything, just started kissing her, and she was really into it.

  Then I realized she was crying. I stopped kissing her.

  “This is so nice, and I like you so much, Ian,” she said, “but I know you’re really thinking about Andi.”

  “You have no idea what I’m thinking,” I said, and left.

  I went through the balcony doors and sat there for a little while. I saw Sarah Ann looking for me. I saw Mike and the boys show up with their dates, and it looked like they were having a lot of fun. I saw Andi slow-dancing with Whitmer, and the thought of him grinding his crotch against her made me want to bash his face in.

  After a while, Mike found me. I guess Sylvie told him where I was.

  “Have one of these,” he said, handing me a little airplane bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “Louis Johnstone’s aunt is a stewardess.”

  I opened it and drank it right down. My stomach felt warm.

  “Dude, Sarah Ann looks smokin’ tonight,” said Mike. “And she’s totally into you.”

  Down on the dance floor, Andi was laughing with Georgina.

  “Come back down and at least pretend to have a good time, dipshit,” said Mike. “Stop acting like your life is over. You’re Ian Fucking Copeland.”

  I followed him downstairs. I danced with Sarah Ann and told her Sylvie was just an old friend. I saw Andi dancing with Georgina and rolling their eyes at the guys who were mouthing, Dykes. She never gave a shit about anyone, that’s one of the things that was so great about her.

  Except now she didn’t give a shit about me.

  Mike and I split another airplane bottle of Jack in the bathroom. I felt good, which means I wasn’t feeling much of anything.

  And when Andi and Whip It Out left, I did, too. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. I just slipped out the nearest exit and ran around to the other side of the building, where I saw them disappearing under a footpath light, the snow swirling around them like a snow globe.

  My coat was still in the gym, but it was too late. I followed them, just far enough behind that they had no idea I was there. Maybe I was hoping for a reason to kick Whitmer’s ass. If he whipped it out, I’d do it.

  But he just walked her to the door of her house, and that was it. I could tell he wanted to kiss her, but I could also tell, even from a hundred yards away, that she didn’t want to. She just gave him a little wave from the step and went inside.

  Whitmer looked pissed, but what could he do? He kicked the snow and turned around, probably headed back to the dance to see if there was someone else who wanted to look at his dick.

  Andi’s light went on, and I walked toward it, stopping under the shadow of a big tree. I pictured her getting ready for bed, writing in her journal, maybe opening a book to read. I was getting wet and cold and starting to feel a little creepy for spying on her when suddenly her light went out. Maybe she’s really tired, I thought.

  Then I saw movement on the back porch.

  Andi came out, wearing a parka over her dress and snow boots.

  What the fuck, I thought.

  I followed her again. She went across the soccer field, between Leggett and the Science Center, almost like she was heading for the main driveway, before she suddenly turned off Campus Drive and cut through the woods. I couldn’t figure it out. It was like she told herself, Screw this place, I’m out of here.

  If it wasn’t for the snow on the ground, it would have been impossible to follow her, but the whiteness made everything glow, so I could see her footprints along the path she took and, every now and then, her figure up ahead.

  I almost yelled at her. Something like, Andi, where the fuck are you going?

  But I was afraid she’d lie to me. And I wanted to know the truth.

  At least, I thought I did.

  After a couple hundred yards, we came out of the woods onto the
street with the faculty cottages. I was starting to think she was just taking a shortcut to town or something.

  Then she turned left.

  I had to let her get really far ahead so she wouldn’t see me, but at least there were a couple of streetlights so I didn’t lose track of her. Not that it really mattered, because as she reached the last house, the one set apart from all the others, I suddenly realized exactly where she was going.

  I want to write something like, Then it all made sense or I saw it coming, but nothing about it made any sense at all. It was like one of those movies where someone rips off a mask, and you realize they aren’t who you think at all. That the person you love, and who you thought loved you, has betrayed you in a way you couldn’t ever have imagined in a million years.

  But it wasn’t her I wanted to kill.

  When Dallas Fucking Walker opened his door, kissed Andi, and let her inside, I wanted to stop that smug bastard from ever smiling again.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ♥: How’s Colorado?

  CC: Cold. How’s Florida?

  ♥: hot

  CC: Been nice talking to you

  ♥: haha

  She was only teasing Tate, but it was true that she found texting a less than satisfactory way of communicating with her boyfriend, even if she still stumbled on the b-word. Still, she supposed it was true that if you stayed in daily contact over winter break, it was more than a casual thing: you were going out.

  Unlike most of her friends, Cassidy actually preferred talking on the phone to texting, Snapchat, and Instagram. But talking on the phone wasn’t exactly going to work at this moment while she waited for her dad to come out the door of the ski shop with his loose binding tightened.

  She considered taking her own skis off and ducking back into the shop—the hand from which she’d removed a mitten so she could text was getting cold, and she could already see the chill starting to drain her battery—but decided against it. With perfect Ian Copeland timing, Dad would be finished the moment she unzipped her jacket indoors.