by Linda Keir
He explained that he’d been delayed first by a “family situation,” and then his flight back to Chicago had been canceled due to weather. He’d been stuck until the airlines could rebook him on a flight last night. Given the grades situation, no one but me seemed to care. The second he finished talking, they all started shouting their questions at once.
Dallas quieted the room with a deafening whistle.
“I gave everyone exactly the grade they deserved based on effort, enthusiasm, and test scores,” he said after everyone was quiet. “And you all know it.”
“But . . . ,” about half the class objected simultaneously.
“But being the key word,” Dallas said. “The English Department, surely at the behest of your parents, who seem to believe their children are incapable of attaining less than an A in a class that shouldn’t be about grades at all, is itself terrified about the effects of said grade on your college acceptances and the acceptance statistics for Glenlake. Therefore, they begged me to revisit each of your marks for the semester.”
No one breathed while he paused.
“To say I’m disgusted doesn’t begin to describe my feelings about the lying and hypocrisy this involves.”
I prayed for invisibility. The thought of Dallas, my secret lover, destroying my friends’ futures was more than I could take.
“That said,” he continued, “I also get the pressure you guys are under to get into the bullshit schools you’ve been talked into.”
Everyone was basically staring at their desks by this point.
“So I’ve agreed to increase everyone’s grade by a full letter. Unless, of course, you already had an A, in which case, there’s nothing I can do to inflate what you’ve actually earned.”
As audible relief rippled through the class, he added, “I won’t be agreeing to anything like this ever again, so don’t expect another free spin this semester.”
I tried not to smile as Dallas confirmed he was, in fact, every bit the man I knew him to be.
After he launched into an uncharacteristically emotionless lecture on Langston Hughes, it took forever for the bell to finally ring. Another eternity passed while everyone crowded around to thank him for upping their grades.
“Such complete bullshit,” he said the second everyone was out of the room and out of earshot. “I should have told the administration to shove it.”
Then he kissed me.
“I might not have come back if it weren’t for you,” he said, and kissed me again. “I didn’t think I’d make it through class with you sitting there, not being able to touch you. Don’t you have a free period right now?”
“Right after AP Calc.”
“I’m headed back to my cottage,” he said with a smile that melted me. “I’ll be there waiting for you when math class is over.”
I could barely focus on Mr. Lyle’s explanation of inverse functions while I listened for the bell to ring.
Dallas didn’t ask how I’d gotten there (by circumnavigating the campus and sneaking through the woods to his back door), so he didn’t hear about how I brushed off Georgina (who wanted to talk about how the change of grades was going to save everyone’s bacon, especially Tommy’s, who’d practically failed first semester). He just pulled me into the house and led me directly to the bedroom.
“You’re all I’ve thought about for weeks,” he said, unbuttoning my coat and pushing it off my shoulders.
“It killed me when I got back and you weren’t here,” I said, looking around for the gift he’d promised as he started on my blouse. “Why didn’t you let me know?”
“Our ‘Mr. Walker’ code doesn’t exactly work when I want to get you a message on campus.”
“But if you got home last night—”
“If it hadn’t been so late, I swear I would have tossed pebbles at your window.”
“Really?”
“I almost did anyway,” he said with a wicked grin.
A car with a very sick muffler rumbled loudly outside.
Instead of leading me toward the bed, Dallas pulled me away from the open doorway.
“Shit,” he said. “Someone’s here.”
My blood froze in my veins as the engine noise grew closer and then stopped. Whoever it was had parked in the driveway.
Dallas kicked my coat and blouse out of sight and pointed me toward the small attached bathroom. “Wait in there.”
While he went into the living room and answered the front door, I stood in the tiny bathroom, calves pressed against the cold edge of the tub, too nervous to even tremble.
Nightmare scenarios flashed through my mind as I fast-forwarded from my inevitable suspension to a future that included a GED and a fast-food job or, if I was lucky, community college and a dead-end career.
“How long do you think this will take?” Dallas said, loud enough for me to hear.
“Not long,” a male voice said.
Was it a maintenance worker needing to do an urgent repair? The thought of cowering in the bathroom while he worked made me feel trapped and panicky.
“Let me just grab my coat,” Dallas said, entering the bedroom.
Putting his head into the bathroom, he mouthed, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
The driver, whoever he was, fired up the vehicle, and Dallas was gone.
I waited. I waited a little longer. I waited until “I’ll be right back” meant that if I waited any longer I was going to miss my next class. Then I grabbed my coat and sneaked into the kitchen. Obviously, my present, if there was one, wouldn’t be coming today.
I was peering through the window above the sink, checking to make sure the coast was clear, when Dallas’s phone rang.
Frozen, I heard four rings, the click of his answering machine, and his reassuring rasp as the outgoing message carried into the kitchen:
“You’ve reached Dallas Walker. I’ll get back to you.”
I was much less calmed by the incoming message:
“Hi, Dal,” a woman said, with a too-sweet lilt that made my skin crawl. “Miss you already! Tulsa isn’t the same without you. Come back soon. ’Kay?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
IAN COPELAND’S GLENLAKE JOURNAL
Saturday, January 11, 1997
We played Forest Heights last night, but I didn’t go. Coach keeps telling me that even though I can’t play, I’m still part of the team, but I’m sick of wearing my stupid jacket and tie and sitting next to him on the bench. He pretends like I’m part of the coaching team since I’m team captain, but basically that means he shows me the play he wants after he’s drawn it up and before he calls time-out. We’re losing anyway. Griff can’t guard anyone to save his life, and we look like shit on the floor.
So I told Coach I was getting a cold and didn’t want to give it to anyone on the team. When I mentioned to Sylvie that I wasn’t traveling with the team, she asked, “But Mike is going, right?” Yeah, Mike was going. He’s been getting more minutes with me out, too. “What time does the team get back?” she asked.
She had this look in her eye, and right away I totally knew what she was getting at. Sylvie is kind of this weird combination of a little bit mousy and smart, but definitely cute, and when she gets this look, it makes me think she might have a wild side.
After she sneaked in and up to my room, I found out I was right.
I wasn’t right about the gift bag someone left in front of my door. I figured it was from either her or Sarah Ann (who wants to tell everyone we’re together even though I told her I’m not making it official). They were both pissed when I asked them about it.
My bad, I guess.
Chapter Thirty-Three
ANDI BLOOM’S GLENLAKE JOURNAL
Sunday, January 12, 1997
I’ve been avoiding Dallas since I left his place on Friday.
I don’t want to see or talk to him, maybe ever again. I have too many questions, and I’m afraid of the answers.
I’m also not a fan of water park
s and couldn’t care less about slides, lazy rivers, and wave pools, but since Georgina, Tommy, Crystal, and a bunch of other actual seniors were all going on the Sunday outing, I agreed to tag along.
I wish I hadn’t for the following reasons:
1. The main reason I went was to get away from thoughts about how pissed I am at Dallas. (It didn’t work.)
2. Georgina and Tommy got into a big fight because she thought he was flirting with Tara “Tits” Tomlinson. (He was.)
3. I got my period and didn’t have a tampon. Even the machine in the bathroom was jammed. The only thing I could scrounge up was a pad, so I couldn’t even swim.
4. Sylvie asked Georgina if I was “still with” James Whitmer. (Like I didn’t totally see that one coming.) When Georgina said we were never together, Sylvie went in for the kill. (Not that I care.)
5. I did care that Ian came on the outing after all. “With” Sarah Ann.
Monday, January 13, 1997
I told Georgina I had cramps and blew off poetry class today. I even waited until I knew Dallas was having office hours before I went out to get something to eat at the union.
He was standing outside my dorm, waiting for me.
“Long time, no see,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said, avoiding looking at him. “I haven’t been feeling well.”
“I didn’t have a good way to get ahold of you.”
I wanted to say duh, so I didn’t say anything.
“While I was standing here, I realized that we can leave each other messages and things.” He pointed to a hollow knot in the tree beside us. “Right here. We’ll both check every day.”
“Like Scout and Boo Radley?”
“Only neither of us has to be a shut-in,” he said. “Obviously, we don’t sign any notes.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re still mad about the other day,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m fine.”
“I really didn’t mean to leave you at my place for so long.”
Before I could think of what I wanted to really say, Georgina and Sylvie came up the footpath.
“Hi, Andi, hi, Dallas,” both of them said as they passed.
“That Sylvie is an interesting one,” Dallas said as they disappeared into the dorm. “She signed up for cue sports.”
“Oh great,” I said. “She goes after any guy that’s ever shown any interest in me.”
Dallas wrinkled his nose. “She’s so skinny.”
“Maybe you can get her to eat while she’s not playing pool and coming on to you,” I said.
“That’s way above my pay grade,” he said.
“Just watch out for her,” I said. “She’s got problems.”
“Will do,” he said, literally watching her. “But only if you tell me what’s going on with you.”
“I thought you were with family over the holidays and then your flight got delayed,” I finally told him.
“I was.”
“But you were really in Tulsa?”
“So that’s what this is all about?”
“It’s not like I was snooping,” I said, feeling defensive even though I’d done nothing wrong. “I was just standing there when the message started to play.”
“That was Tracy.” He paused. “An old friend. You have nothing to worry about.”
“But you flew to Oklahoma to visit her?”
“I admit the ‘family situation’ was BS for my Glenlake masters. If I lose this job, I lose you. Tracy has a very comfortable guest room in a home that’s incredibly conducive to creative inspiration,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
“You’re really cute when you’re jealous.” He smiled. “But don’t be.”
Friday, January 17, 1997
It’s hard to stay mad at someone when they leave you a handwritten message on fancy paper in a secret hiding place. Even though the envelope says Merry Christmas and is three weeks too late, when what’s inside is the most beautiful love poem you’ve ever read, it’s all but impossible.
When every damn thing reminds me of you
The curve of the road
your hips
The fire on the hearth
your hair
Even the can of beer I crack at the end of the day
Is a bittersweet reminder of
your kiss
I toss and turn in these motel-room sheets
Thinking I need a dog so it can run away
Because if I lose my job, I’ll lose you, too
As every country-song cliché comes true
He told me he made my hair red in the poem because he submitted it to a poetry journal. I asked him why it had to be red (was he thinking about Georgina?), and he said blondes make for boring poetry.
And that I am his muse.
Saturday, January 25, 1997
There are definite downsides to having a secret relationship.
Dallas and I were planning to sneak off campus together at some point today or tomorrow, but Glenlake is completely snowed in. The off-campus activity became an on-campus movie and hot chocolate night, and I had to watch him ladle hot chocolate into mugs and fake flirt with Mrs. Darrow, who he calls “Dimwit Barbie.”
On the other hand, maybe it’s for the best, because it turned into drama night for all the out-in-the-open couples:
Sylvie and James, who got together at the water park, broke up by the end of the movie.
Georgina started a fight with Tommy over him hanging out too much with his friends and ignoring her.
Worst of all, I watched a just-dumped Sylvie corner Ian outside the bathroom and pull him to an out-of-the-way spot by the maintenance room. I wasn’t totally surprised when she basically threw herself at him.
I guess I was surprised that he let her.
Chapter Thirty-Four
IAN COPELAND’S GLENLAKE JOURNAL
Sunday, February 2, 1997
I’m going to take a break from journaling. I don’t really feel like writing anything else. What’s the point?
Maybe I’ll make THIS my senior page.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Every morning, after hustling the twins off to school and sitting down for a quick cup of coffee with Ian before he left for work, Andi detoured into Cassidy’s room before getting ready for her own workday. Sitting down at her daughter’s desk, she checked the Google Drive folder for recent developments.
Andi was both relieved and troubled there’d been no updated information about Roy’s arrest since Georgina had blabbed the news to Ian.
Primary Suspect: Curtis Royal
Age: 63
Currently in police custody, charged with possession of a controlled substance.
Criminal record includes one charge of aggravated assault and multiple misdemeanor drug charges.
There were, however, additions, updates, and changes to the Persons of Interest list the class had apparently been investigating simultaneously, despite the arrest of Roy. Under the heading Glenlake Staff, nothing had changed in regard to two of the three names:
Lincoln Darrow (headmaster). Dallas Walker flirtatious with his wife, Miranda?
Scott Stover (facilities manager). Dallas Walker reportedly irritable about issues regarding the heating and cooling in his classroom.
The third name, Lucy Kucinich, then the chair of the English Department, had been crossed off. She’d made the list for Repeated verbal altercations with Dallas Walker over rule violations, grading policy, and unorthodox teaching style. The latest note, contributed by Audrey T., read, Contacted Mrs. Kucinich at nursing home in southern Illinois. She recalled Dallas Walker as “a fine man who cared deeply about educating his students. We clashed on methods, but I respected his work and his commitment to the craft of poetry enormously.”
Also crossed off the list were two students: Tommy Harkins, whose attendance at the University of Illinois, as opposed to one of the more prestigious private schools to which he’d applied, turned out to be h
is choice due to a superior engineering program at U of I. Connor Cotton was removed from the list because his decision to take a gap year had come after he’d already been accepted to Cornell—he’d spent six months learning Spanish in a Mexican orphanage and another three months touring South America. All in all, a fatal blow to the class’s imagined motive of murderous anger over a bad first-semester grade in poetry.
She was pleased there had never been any changes of note to either her name on the list of poetry students or Ian’s name as a member of the Cue Sports Society.
Still very much on the list, however, were:
Sylvie Montgomery (student). Member of Cue Sports Society.
Georgina Holt Fordham (student). Suspiciously frequent alumni source of information?
They had certainly been on her list back in the day, not for their murderous intentions toward Dallas but their amorous ones.
Even though she’d warned Dallas that Sylvie was troubled and went after anyone even vaguely associated with her, he had not only welcomed her to Cue Sports Society but given her private catch-up lessons.
“In public,” he’d said. “The rec room was full of people.”
None of whom missed Sylvie’s flirtatious giggling.
Andi hadn’t worried too much about Georgina, given that Tommy had kept her distracted during most of senior year.
Distracted enough to stay away from Dallas?
Andi had never been entirely sure of the answer. Maybe it was time to find out.
Chapter Thirty-Six
For once, Mr. Kelly didn’t have to tell everyone to shut up and sit down. People could tell by his face as soon as they came in the door: something had happened. When the bell rang, he didn’t even have to raise his voice.
“Last night while all of you were using Snapchat to distract yourselves from homework, I took a local photographer out for a beer,” he said. “She’s a stringer who covers the North Shore for various outlets and was working for the Chicago Tribune on the day Dallas Walker’s hot rod got winched out of the lake.”
Cassidy glanced at her classmates. Not what she or anyone had been expecting.
