Drowning With Others

by Linda Keir

  “Not a boy problem, George,” she said. “I just had a quick question for the class project. Liz has told everybody how helpful you are.”

  There was an uncharacteristic silence on the other end.

  “I hope you don’t mind?” said Cassidy tentatively.

  “Well, I’ve always been happy to answer the class’s questions,” said Georgina after the briefest pause.

  Despite the circumstances, Cassidy couldn’t help smiling to herself.

  “Someone, I forget who, said the metalworking class was really popular during the ’96–’97 school year, and everybody was making bracelets.”

  “Well, not everybody. Just the girls in that class. And it wasn’t a craze or anything, but I do remember seeing some of those bracelets around.”

  “Were they all alike, or were they different?”

  “They were definitely different. Everybody was trying to put personality into them and outdo each other. You know, your mom was in that class.”

  Cassidy tried to sound surprised. “She was?”

  “You should ask her. Her bracelet might have been the best. I remember she worked on it for so long she could have made multiple bracelets in that amount of time.”

  Whatever involuntary words Cassidy might have said stuck in her throat. The noise she made was halfway between coughing and gagging.

  More than two—one for herself and one for Dallas Walker?

  “Are you okay, honey?” asked Georgina.

  “Fine,” Cassidy managed to say. “I shouldn’t eat while I’m talking on the phone, but I’m starving.”

  Cassidy bristled at the thought of who in her actual family was keeping secrets.

  Luckily, Georgina had to get off the phone to give instructions to a member of her household staff before she thought to ask why Cassidy wanted to know about the bracelets. Cassidy didn’t have an answer she could share with anyone.

  “Make sure you take care of yourself, Cassidy.”

  “I will.”

  “And make sure you ask your mom if she still has her bracelet.”

  “Definitely,” she promised, hoping Georgina wouldn’t do it first.

  When she got off the phone, she stared at the newspaper photographer’s picture of the bracelet for a full minute before deleting the file from Google Drive and emptying the trash. When she refreshed her browser, there was no sign it had ever been there.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ANDI BLOOM’S GLENLAKE JOURNAL

  Friday, February 14, 1997

  Things have been weird with Dallas ever since last weekend. I guess I should say I’ve been feeling weird, and it was bugging me that Dallas didn’t seem to notice or care.

  At least I thought he didn’t. Then today he left me this valentine in our tree:

  The little castle and the treasure chest

  Always looked fake to you

  You were fascinated by your glass walls

  And how easily they cracked

  You love the air, I’m glad you’re here

  So cool in an unfamiliar world

  Baby, let’s get lost, we’ll keep breaking out

  I love you—do you love me?

  He loves me.

  He.

  Loves.

  Me.

  Monday, February 17, 1997

  Dallas is no fan of organized events, but he took the writer-in-residence job knowing that a performance or presentation was an “expectation, not an option.” Needless to say, he’s been procrastinating because he’s cranky about the whole thing.

  Today, Mrs. Kucinich told him the English Department thought it would be cool to do a poetry slam. He was going to tell her it was a no (he hates poetry slams) until she suggested that he “tap a student from his class” to do some of the legwork.

  We both laughed out loud about that one.

  Not only do we have a legitimate excuse to spend extra time together, but as of today, I am the “coproducer” of the first-ever Glenlake Poetry Slam!

  Wednesday, February 19, 1997

  The official date for the poetry slam is Friday, March 7. Apparently, we have to rush so it falls on a trustee meeting weekend and all the bigwigs can attend. No pressure.

  I talked Mr. Stover, the facilities manager, into letting us have it in the student union lounge. We’re going to set up a stage and a coffee bar so the whole vibe is as authentic as possible.

  Dallas says his only regret is that he didn’t add “gifted event planner” to all the (socially acceptable) superlatives on my college recommendation letters.

  Then he whispered a few of the ones that weren’t.

  Thursday, February 20, 1997

  I want to expand the event so that anyone in the school can perform their poems. Dallas says all the extra “crap” will crowd out the superior work produced by his students.

  “Plus,” he added, “it’s just that much more work for us.”

  It’s kind of funny, but I’m not sure what he’s really done beyond agreeing to the event and “hiring” me as coproducer. He seems a lot more interested in making “good use” of the extra time we get to spend together.

  Which is not to say I mind.

  Well, maybe a little.

  Friday, February 28, 1997

  The poetry slam is now a school-wide event!

  This is huge, because it means we’ll have a lot of people attending instead of just faculty who have to show up, the trustees and whoever, and the handful of seniors who are either dating or friends with someone in the class.

  Dallas signed off after I told him I’d form a committee from our class to screen the submissions, pick the best ones, and give them to him for final approval. His picks will get “selective guest reading slots.” That was Georgina’s idea.

  Georgina (with help from Tommy, depending on the daily status of their relationship) is off and running with marketing and promotion. Wes, who is in jazz band, says he’ll handle the music and solo performers. Crystal is talking to the painting teacher about hanging student artwork in the lounge. Everyone else in the class has signed up to work as a barista, seat people, or set up and tear down.

  We even have an official name for the event:

  Give Me Poetry or Give Me Death.

  Friday, March 7, 1997

  I’m okay with Dallas putting his arm around someone and helping her off the stage—as long as it’s not Georgina, who, still tongue-tied for the first time in her entire life, sobbed in Dallas’s arms while he stroked her fire-on-the-hearth hair.

  I avoided both of them for the rest of the night. It was easy enough to do with Dallas, because he was busy accepting praise for the poetry slam I organized. Avoiding Georgina was harder.

  “I’m so embarrassed I feel like I could just die,” she said, collapsing on her bed the moment we got back to our dorm room.

  She smelled like Dallas’s aftershave.

  “Everyone gets stage fright,” I said.

  “Tommy picked a fight right before I went onstage,” she groaned.

  “What a bastard,” I said, even though he was the person I was third maddest at.

  She plumped her pillow and wedged it under her head, getting comfortable. “This is all his fault. I hate him so much.”

  “There are other fish in the sea.”

  “That’s what Dallas said,” Georgina said.

  “I’m not surprised,” I told her.

  Georgina looked at me. “Why do you say that?”

  “He seemed pretty into comforting you.”

  Instead of denying it or playing it down, she giggled.

  She fucking giggled.

  Chapter Forty

  IAN COPELAND’S GLENLAKE JOURNAL

  Friday, March 7, 1997

  I am journaling again because I need to vent.

  Mom and Dad are here for another board of trustees meeting or whatever. Tonight was the “poetry slam” hosted by Dallas Fucking Walker and his senior poetry seminar, featuring Andi as “coproducer.”

&nbs
p; That’s rich.

  I wasn’t going to go, but Dad made me. He said it would “look bad” for him as chairman of the board if I wasn’t there. He and Mom thought Andi was the reason I didn’t want to go. If only. I probably shouldn’t have told them she was the teacher’s pet, though.

  It was pure torture, and not only because it was almost two hours of poetry, ha ha. DFW started things off by stepping up to the mic and reciting some poem from memory, and everybody clapped their hands off. He didn’t give a big speech, thank god. Just said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the poets of Glenlake Academy.”

  What made it extra torturous is that it wasn’t just the kids in his class—it was every kid at school who thinks they have a poetic bone in their body. The students in his seminar kind of helped out and read their own poems here and there. Although some of the poetry students were lame, too. Georgina tried to do hers from memory but got stage fright, something you’d never expect from her. After some long, awkward pauses, Dallas put his arm around her and helped her off the stage.

  I kept waiting for Andi and wondering what her poem would be about, but she went last—the last of the students, anyway. I could barely move or breathe because I was sure I was going to lose my shit, right there, sitting in between Mom and Dad.

  The only lines I remember went something like:

  My heart beats as fast as a bee beats its wings

  I’m lost in the clover, I’m seeking my lover

  She didn’t say anything about getting stung.

  Saturday, March 8, 1997

  Today, while I was gimping my way to the student union with Mom and Dad to get some lunch, the sun was shining on the doors, so I couldn’t see who was coming out. And guess who was suddenly right in front of us?

  Dallas Fucking Walker.

  I just kept my head down like I didn’t see him, but he stopped so I couldn’t get around and said, “Hi, Ian! Are you going to introduce me to your parents?”

  He was totally fucking with me. I didn’t move or say anything. It was like this red mist came down in front of my eyes, and I wanted to push him down and just whale on him with my crutches until his face was a bloody pulp.

  “Ian!” Mom said, all shocked at my manners.

  “Cope Copeland,” Dad said, sticking out his hand. “I’m the father of this somewhat uncommunicative boy.”

  Count on adults to stick together.

  “And I’m Biz,” said Mom.

  “I haven’t seen Ian at Cue Sports Society recently,” said DFW, patting me on the shoulder while I clenched my teeth.

  “I’m sure it’s not as comfortable to play with his broken leg,” said Mom.

  “Is that the problem?” DFW asked me.

  I nodded, still not looking at him.

  “Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping that, without being able to play basketball, you might have more time on your hands.”

  “I have a lot of homework,” I said.

  There was an awkward silence, which I kind of enjoyed, to be honest. Then finally Dad said, “Well, we’d better get to lunch.”

  Dallas stepped to one side, opened the door, and held it for us. When I went past him, I shouldered into him intentionally.

  “Whoops,” he said, staring at me.

  If he didn’t know I knew, he’d better know now.

  “Ian,” said Mom once we got inside. “What is going on with you? You treated that teacher like he was . . . like you were enemies.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t like him,” I said.

  Dad put his hand on my back. “I don’t care if you don’t like him. You are a Copeland and will behave as such. He’s temporary, but our family will always be a part of this school.”

  I wondered what he’d say if he knew the truth about Dallas Walker.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The deputy behind the bulletproof glass at the front desk of the Lake County Adult Corrections Facility assumed Cassidy and Tate were brother and sister, and that they were there to see their father. After they’d given their real names and admitted they were not related to the inmate, Cassidy was sure the visit would be over before it began. But the deputy picked up his phone, pointed them into chairs, and said, “I’ll see if he wants to see you.”

  They sat down in the molded plastic bucket seats and looked at each other nervously, Cassidy wondering if Tate felt the same way—half hoping the answer would be no. Her brain was so full, and her thoughts were so slippery, she had no idea how detectives ever solved a case or journalists ever wrote a story. Roy had seemed like the perfect suspect: a sketchy local with a criminal record who inexplicably hung out with the rebel poetry teacher, who had been overheard threatening his life, who even had a nasty neck tattoo, for crying out loud.

  But now things weren’t making much sense. In all likelihood, her mom had made the bracelet Dallas Walker was wearing when he died. Cassidy assumed that the person her mom had been seeing when she broke up with Dad senior year was another student—but what if it was her teacher?

  There could be a reason Mom was so weird about her and Mr. Kelly.

  Maybe I’m just concerned about the amount of time the two of you are spending together. . . Working on something that closely, that intensely, sometimes leads to a familiarity . . .

  What was the timeline? If she and Dad got back together after Dallas Walker disappeared, died, wouldn’t that make them . . . suspects? Stronger suspects than any of the other people who hadn’t been cleared by the class?

  Of course, she hadn’t said a word about these new suspicions to Tate. All she’d told him was that she hoped Detective Gavras wasn’t rushing to judgment on Roy, and that it would be an amazing scoop if she got an interview with the suspect even before real reporters did. If his lawyer was letting him talk.

  Tate insisted on coming along for her protection. She liked the gesture, even though she was just now realizing he couldn’t accompany her into the interview—not if she was going to ask the questions she needed answered.

  “We don’t have permission for this, Tate,” she said. “What if you get in trouble again?”

  “I’m off probation, and I don’t think they would have suspended me, anyway. My family’s not as big a deal as yours, but I am a legacy.”

  She was saved by Roy, of all people.

  “The inmate says he is willing to speak with Cassidy Copeland only,” said the deputy.

  Cassidy was standing before she knew it, nerves tingling, hearing Tate’s voice as if from far away.

  “We can tell him no, it’s both of us or neither of us,” he said stoically.

  “It’s probably for the best,” she told him. “Just in case you get in trouble again.”

  “Cassidy—”

  “It’s not like he’ll be able to hurt me,” she said as a guard opened a nearby door and motioned her through. “Right?”

  Tate didn’t have an answer, just looked at her despairingly.

  And maybe the tiniest bit relieved.

  She went through the door, filled out a visitor’s form, turned over her backpack and her jacket, and then submitted to a metal detector and a pat down from a female guard. They let her keep her phone but that was it.

  Roy was waiting for her. She’d thought they would talk on a phone, separated by bulletproof glass, like she’d seen on TV, but he was just sitting on the other side of a table in a room with eight other tables. An inmate and his visitor stopped talking and watched as she walked slowly over to Roy’s table.

  “Cassidy Copeland,” he drawled as she sat down, drawing out her last name. “Here for the follow-up interview?”

  Trying to compose herself, she held up her phone. “Do you mind if I record this?”

  Roy shrugged.

  She opened the voice memo app and pressed “Record.” Should she ask him to say yes for the record? Under the table, her knees bumped a solid divider. She guessed it was so visitors couldn’t pass things to the prisoners.

  “Can you tell me why you’re here?�
��

  He snorted. “The reason I’m here is the reason you’re here.”

  “I want your version of events. I’m not assuming you’re guilty.”

  He looked at her with a glint in his eye. “That’s good, because I’m not.”

  “Someone thinks you are.”

  “I’m here because some jailhouse snitch heard me giving some shit to my buddy Dallas two decades ago. Fucker’s trying to plead down on an armed robbery and thought he’d trade me for three to seven years.”

  “Do you have an alibi?”

  “They don’t even know for sure what day Dallas disappeared.”

  Cassidy watched the time counter on her phone’s screen, hoping his voice was audible. She became suddenly aware of how close he was to her, just an arm’s length away.

  As if reading her thoughts, he lifted his hands out of his lap and set them on the stainless-steel table, the chain of his handcuffs rattling loudly.

  “Were you friends?” she said.

  “We were friend-ly. I sold him some dope, but the statute of limitations is way over on that.”

  “Did you kill him?” she asked, wanting to sound tough and no-nonsense, but quavering, barely able to get the words out.

  He looked at her for a second, then shook his head. “Everyone in here is innocent. Even the guilty ones. Nobody believes a word we say.” He leaned forward. “But don’t worry. I’ll get out of here.”

  “How do you know?”

  Leaning back, he raised his cuffed hands and scratched the loose skin at his neck, making his serpent tattoo wiggle. “I have faith in what you might call higher powers.”

  The breathtaking naivete of his statement startled her. How did a guy like him, in a place like this, hold on to such illusions? If Roy was innocent, he was going to need more than belief in God to set him free.

  “Listen—”

  “I know why you’re here.” His eyes bored into her.

  She felt cold chills all over her body. She wanted to look away but felt hypnotized by his watery blue eyes. “Why?”