The Girl in the Picture

by Alexandra Monir

  “This is Detective Jillian Kimble,” Officer Ladge says, gesturing to the woman now looming over my desk.

  “We have some questions for you,” Detective Kimble says briskly. “We don’t want to take up any more of your teacher’s time, so we’ll go down to the headmaster’s office to chat.”

  This sounds like yet another bad sign in a morning riddled with them. I force myself to get up, to put one wobbly foot in front of the other until I’m in the doorway with them, the third point of a terrifying triangle.

  The officer and the detective lead the way out of the classroom and down the two flights of stairs to Headmaster Higgins’s office, as if they’ve taken this route dozens of times. I wonder if I should call my mom, if I can insist on having a parent with me when I talk to these two. Then again, that might make me seem nervous—like I have something to hide.

  Headmaster Higgins is sitting at her desk, head in her hands, when we enter the office. She stands quickly when she sees the uniformed pair with me, then wraps me in a hug. I let myself lean on her shoulder for an extra moment.

  “Nicole, dear, how are you holding up?”

  I can only shake my head. The headmaster turns to the officers.

  “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but could you have the wrong student? Nicole Morgan is the last person at Oyster Bay Prep I would have imagined being mixed up in anything like this.”

  “We just have a few routine questions,” the detective says in her smooth tone. She pats the empty chair opposite the headmaster’s desk. “Please have a seat, Nicole.”

  Once I’m in the chair, she leans forward, peering into my eyes as if trying to catch me in a lie.

  “First things first. Were you at Tyler Hemming’s party on Saturday night?”

  I shut my eyes briefly.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see and speak to Chace Porter there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me about your interaction with him that night?”

  No.

  “It wasn’t much. We said hi and I congratulated him on the soccer game. That was basically it.”

  Detective Kimble narrows her eyes, as if weighing my responses in her mind. Officer Ladge stands behind her, nodding emphatically every time she asks a question, as though Kimble is reading from a script he wrote.

  “What time did you leave the party?” she presses.

  I don’t know. I don’t remember. But of course, I can’t say that.

  “Around eleven,” I answer.

  She arches an eyebrow.

  “The party apparently ended a couple of hours later. Why did you leave on the earlier side?”

  I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond. Can she tell that I’m holding something back? I touch my cheek, my fingers resting on the scar.

  “I’m not the most popular girl at parties.”

  “But still you went,” she says pointedly.

  What is she getting at?

  “Practically our whole class went. I didn’t want to miss out.”

  “Nicole,” she says, studying me like a hunter eyeing its prey. “Did you have a romantic relationship with Chace Porter?”

  The question barrels in from out of the blue, catching me off guard. For a moment I’m sure I misheard, until Detective Kimble repeats the question. “Were you romantically involved with Chace Porter?”

  “We were friends,” I respond, my voice breaking on the past tense.

  “Just friends?” Officer Ladge gives me a sharp look, and my breath catches in my throat. I don’t know how, but they know things they shouldn’t—and now I have no choice but to tell them more than I want to reveal.

  “We got close. But he had a girlfriend, and it…well, it didn’t work out.”

  Headmaster Higgins comes to my defense.

  “Officers, is this really the time to rehash perfectly normal adolescent drama? Miss Morgan is clearly in shock.”

  “The issue pertains to what we found at the scene of the crime. It currently plays a critical role in our investigation.” Her eyes never leaving mine, Detective Kimble opens her briefcase and retrieves a small item wrapped in plastic. “This was in the victim’s coat pocket when his body was found.”

  She places it on the headmaster’s desk and I’m afraid to look, I can’t bear another shot of pain. But then I catch the familiar edges of a photo-booth strip—and it’s as if he’s in this room with me, answering every question I’ve ever had.

  I push out of my seat in a trance, leaning over the desk to gaze at the plastic-covered images. As I look down at our glowing faces from junior year, the sounds and sights of the happiest day of my life come rushing back to me. I can hear the whoosh of roller coasters and the shrieks of revelers; I can feel Chace’s hand interlacing with mine as we step through the turnstiles into the Long Island Sound Memorial Day Carnival.

  The sun beams down on us as the band begins playing a cheerful Disney tune, and I have the sudden desperate desire to bottle this moment—because this kind of perfect happiness can’t possibly last forever. As if reading my mind, Chace nods toward a photo booth, situated between the lines for the Ferris wheel and the cotton candy cart.

  “I think we need a souvenir from our first real date,” he says with a grin. “What do you say?”

  “Nicole? What do you have to say?”

  The detective’s brusque voice jars me out of my reverie. I blink, my mind joining my body back in this tense office, my eyes refocusing on the pictures in front of me.

  In the top photo, I’m nestled in his lap like I belong there, my face lit by a soft smile while his lips rest on my shoulder. The second picture has us giddy, turning to each other instead of the camera, our faces crinkled with laughter. His hands are wrapped around my waist in this shot, while my palms press against his chest.

  The last picture has always been my favorite—when we forgot the camera’s existence entirely, and it froze us in a moment of unbridled affection. His head bent down as he whispered to me, his fingers cradling my chin. All I could do then was look up at him, my eyes filled with the wordless awe of being loved.

  It was just an interlude, a crescendo in time, and before I was prepared for it to end, life swung back into its monotonous chorus. And then my accident happened, shattering any notion that the happiness in these photos was real or lasting.

  I thought he’d forgotten this—us. I thought I was the only one holding it in, storing it for safekeeping in the most secret part of myself.

  The detective clears her throat loudly.

  “So can you explain to us, Miss Morgan, why the boyfriend of Lana Rivera had these photos of you two in his pocket when he died?”

  I lie on my bed, arms folded as I watch my unexpected roommate putter around our dorm, folding dull-looking clothes and pinning up posters of wrinkly old violinists on her side of the wall. Living with her is going to be some party, all right.

  “So,” she says, turning to me with a bright smile. “Was that guy you were with your boyfriend?”

  “Not yet,” I say lightly. “What about you? Dating someone other than Bach?”

  She bursts into giggles.

  “No. I mean, there is this one guy in Virtuoso with me, but…” She shrugs. “He’s not really worth it.”

  “Worth what?” I ask, surprised to find I’m actually curious about this frizzy-haired creature.

  “Worth the distraction.”

  “You’re awfully serious, aren’t you?” I wonder if she’s going to be one of those naggy, disciplined types who gets all pissy if I stay up late texting on school nights. She better not be.

  “I have no choice,” Nicole says with a wry smile. “If my performance slips even a little, Headmaster Higgins could pull my scholarship.”

  A scholarship kid. Now it all makes sense.

  My phone buzzes on the bedside table, the screen flashing Mom’s name. With a roll of my eyes, I pick up.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi, mija.” That’s my mom
’s nickname for me, short for “my daughter” in Spanish. You might be fooled into thinking the nickname makes my mom the warm and fuzzy type, but no. It’s what her own mother called her when she was young; I simply inherited the name, like a hand-me-down coat.

  “How did today go? Your schedule looking good? Did you get into the classes we wanted?”

  My mother is one of those slightly scary politico types, a fast-talker with ambition oozing from her veins. I wonder if it’s her fault that the idea of being a superachiever is so unappealing to me. She makes it look exhausting.

  “My schedule is fine,” I tell her. “I didn’t get into the APs, but whatever, I’m glad. It’ll be easier this way.”

  I glance at Nicole, who politely turns away, riffling through her bags. On the other end of the line, I hear Mom cluck her tongue.

  “That’s a shame. The Ivies will expect to see some AP classes on your transcript. You’ll need to work harder, Lana, and then try again for next semester.”

  I stay silent, waiting for her to finish her chiding.

  “Just promise me you’ll apply yourself, and that you won’t perpetuate the stereotype of the pretty girl who falls behind academically. You know you’re better than that.”

  I feel myself bristle at her words.

  “Okay, Mom, I’ll be sure not to perpetuate anything.”

  “No need to take that tone. I’m only looking out for you, mija. Now, tell me about Congressman Porter’s son.”

  I flop back onto the bed. How am I supposed to explain to my all-business mother—especially with this new roommate of mine listening—the feeling I got when I saw him? The one that wiped clean any sort of agenda and replaced it with unbiased desire.

  “It’s not a good time. I did what you asked, though.” Before she can interject, I add, “Talk to you later, Mom. Tell Dad I said hi.”

  Nicole turns back to me as I hang up.

  “What’s your mom like?”

  I’ve never been asked that question before. Most people know exactly who she is and what she’s like.

  “My mother is Congresswoman Diana Rivera, representing New York,” I recite. “She was elected House Majority Whip in 2014 and was recently named Glamour magazine’s Woman of the Year. In her spare time, she and her attorney husband are spearheading the fund-raising efforts for DC’s first museum of Puerto Rican Arts and Culture.”

  “Wow,” Nicole remarks. “That was quite the official bio.”

  “Yeah. It’s from the USA.gov website.”

  Nicole laughs.

  “Well, she sounds incredible. You must be so proud to have a mom like that.”

  “Yep.” And it’s true, I was—right up until the moment I realized I was expected to follow in her formidable footsteps. That’s when the pride grew into something else.

  I’m already tired of this topic, so I turn it back to Nicole. “What about your parents?”

  Her expression twists, as if she just tasted something sour.

  “I don’t know my dad. My mom had me pretty young, so…they weren’t exactly a couple. But she’s awesome. She just has to work a ton, being a single mom. She’s an assistant to a financial adviser back home in Pittsburgh.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure how to respond to any of that. “So where did the music thing come from?”

  Nicole shrugs.

  “I was born with it, I guess. My dad, wherever he is, must be a musician.”

  I try to imagine not having a father, and the thought sends a shudder through me. My dad is pretty much my favorite thing about home.

  A knock on the door interrupts us, and Stephanie waltzes in.

  “Can you believe they separated us? I thought for sure this would be my room—” She notices Nicole. “Oh, hi. I’m Stephanie.”

  Nicole smiles shyly.

  “Nicole Morgan.”

  Stephanie grabs my hand, pulling me toward the door.

  “Come on, we’re meeting Jen and Kara in the Media Room before dinner.”

  I wonder if proper roommate etiquette would have me inviting Nicole to come with us, and introducing her to my inner circle. But I don’t. I simply give her a wave and a smile, and head out the door with Stephanie.

  I can’t help but feel a flicker of relief as I leave her behind.

  Chace sits with the soccer team at dinner that first night, and even though we’re on opposite ends of the table, I can feel his eyes intermittently flickering toward mine. I pretend to be engrossed in the chatter all around me; I smile and play along with the banter of my two closest guy friends, Brandon and Derek. But I’m just filling a spotlight.

  You know how you can be part of one conversation while your ears strain to pick up another? Somehow I know Chace and his teammates are talking about me, and I crane my neck as subtly as possible, hoping to catch a snippet of their dialogue. Are they telling Chace how lucky he is to have grabbed my attention, how they’ve all tried and failed?

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see that hideously un-cute pair of overalls. Nicole is approaching our table, looking like a deer in headlights as she scans the benches for an empty space. A flare of annoyance flashes through me. Doesn’t she have friends and a table of her own? Is she honestly expecting us to become besties now, just because we’re stuck in the same dorm?

  But before she can make her way to me, Chace turns in his seat and calls out her name. I watch, transfixed, the same way other people are fascinated by the sight of car wrecks. Why is the most eligible guy at this school paying even a smidgen of attention to my socially and fashionably challenged roommate?

  Chace starts gesturing to his teammates, making a violin motion with his hands that’s rather adorable—and it hits me that he wasn’t just being nice in the theater. He’s actually impressed with her. Before he can invite her to sit with him, I stand up.

  “Nicole!” I call out, fixing a wide smile on my face. “There you are, I was looking for you.” I pat the sliver of bench space next to me, ignoring Kara’s annoyed glare.

  Nicole’s face lights up. She gives Chace and his teammates a little wave before hurrying toward me. Chace meets my eyes, and this time I let my gaze linger. His smile is warm and admiring, as though I’ve just confirmed his most flattering suspicions about me. Taking Nerdy Violin Girl under my wing is just what he needed to see to prove that I’m not simply the stock pretty and popular type—that I’m actually a good person.

  And right now, as Nicole plops into her seat beside me, I sort of wish it were true.

  The next morning is the first official day of junior year, and it begins with a screech. I throw my pillow over my head, inwardly cussing out my roommate, who can’t even manage to wait until after I’m awake to start playing her schmaltzy music.

  “Sorry!” she says at the sound of my groans. “I thought I could be your slightly-more-pleasant alarm clock today.”

  Seriously?

  “My alarm does the trick just fine,” I tell her, not bothering to hide the bitchiness in my voice. She flinches, and I’d maybe feel bad, if it weren’t for the fact that my sharp tone clearly did the trick. She puts the instrument away.

  There’s no hope of falling back to sleep when I’m twitchy with irritation, so I heave myself up to a sitting position and grab my phone. I find half a dozen texts from Stephanie, Kara, and Brandon—and an email from Headmaster Higgins that sends my stomach plummeting.

  Hi, Lana! I hope your summer was fantastic. I’d like to set up an appointment as soon as possible to discuss some areas of concern for you this year. Can you come by my office after your last class today?

  Oh, joy. Could an email scream doom and gloom any louder? Plus, who has “areas of concern” before the school year has even begun? I guess that’s one domain where we can call me an overachiever.

  “Are you okay?” Nicole asks, watching me.

  “I’m just not a morning person,” I grumble.

  She takes the hint. We get dressed in our matching uniforms and pack our matching schoolbags,
all without making conversation. Soon Stephanie is at the door, asking if I’ll trade my Chanel sunglasses for her Burberry headband (accessories are the only personal touches allowed with our uniforms, so we have to take advantage), and as we swap the goods and head out the door, leaving Nicole to follow, I feel myself starting to relax. I’m about to be in my element. Not in the classroom, but on the social stage. I may not be a virtuoso musician, a killer athlete, or a 4.0 student, but somehow I’m the girl everyone wants to be with—or just be. I guess that’s one thing I learned from my mother: how to win the popular vote.

  After a jam-packed first day of rushing between new classes and catching up with all the friends I didn’t have time for yesterday, I find myself at the headmaster’s door, debating whether or not to blow off the appointment and pretend I never received her email. But then I see him in the waiting room.

  “Hey.”

  Chace Porter gives me that sexy, dimpled grin of his as I walk in. “Finally a familiar face.”

  I settle into the seat next to him with a smile.

  “I’m guessing there aren’t a lot of those for you just yet?”

  He chuckles. “Not exactly. I’m still getting used to everything. I owe you one, though. If you hadn’t shown me that shortcut yesterday, I might have missed chemistry altogether.”

  “Well, hey, that wouldn’t have been so bad. But I’ll start thinking up ways for you to repay the favor,” I say with a sideways grin.

  He looks right into my eyes, his expression managing to be both teasing and intimate. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel myself growing shy, looking away first.

  “So.” I give him a conspiratorial nudge, regaining my cool. “What are you in here for on your first day, anyway? Organized crime, weed, seduction of a teacher?”

  He leans in closer.

  “I have my secrets, but they’re none of those.”

  A thrill radiates through me.

  “I’m good with secrets,” I tell him.

  Just then, a dour-faced girl I don’t recognize—must be an underclassman—walks through the door and plops into the third chair, filling our little circle and interrupting the moment. Chace leans back in his seat.