by Sean Platt
I look up to find Chelsea is gone.
It’s a beautiful cool, crisp day in the middle of nowhere.
We’re sitting in Blake’s new boat — a present from Daddy for being a douche, I assume — in the center of Lake Harrison, with nothing but water and trees for as far as I can see in every direction. I can see the shore about twenty minutes away if I squint, along with Blake’s pickup and trailer.
There’s an open tackle box at my feet, and inside is a big fat knife practically begging me to stick it in Blake.
I can’t help but wonder if Chelsea is right. It sure as hell feels like Fate wants me to kill this spoiled rich bastard.
Blake is sitting in his seat in the bow, fishing pole in one hand, beer in the other. We haven’t caught anything, but I guess that isn’t the point of fishing with these two. It’s been mostly talking about football, chicks, and cars, topics I’m not exactly well-versed in. Fortunately, Rocco practically lives and breathes all three of those things, so responses are floating like low hanging fruit in his mind. Easy pickings, so long as I don’t overdo it and get too technical. It’s easy to talk with Blake since 90 percent of the conversation is him going on and on about these things. I think maybe he’s only friends with Rocco because the guy never disagrees, is an eager audience, and practically reveres him.
Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d think Rocco has a bit of a crush on his friend.
Blake looks back at me, as if he senses something’s off. He lifts his shades, and his blue eyes pierce through me.
“Aren’t you gonna drink, man? What’s wrong with you?”
“Yeah, sure.” I lean forward from my spot in the center of the boat and dip my hands into the cooler full of ice, imported beer, and a few plastic bottles of water.
I grab a Heineken, even though I have no interest in drinking, and take a swig.
“There ya go.” Blake lowers his shades and gives me the charming grin he’s honed to perfection.
Chelsea’s voice startles me from behind. “Ask him about me.”
I jump up and drop the Heineken, nearly sending my pole into the lake.
“Shit, dude, what the fuck?” Blake asks, startled by my surprise.
“Sorry, I thought I saw something.”
Not the best response.
“You did see something,” Chelsea says. “Me.”
I turn to see her smiling.
“Oh, look,” she says, leaning over and looking into the tackle box, “a knife! How convenient!”
I want to tell her to go away, to shut up, but then I’d be talking to myself, and Blake will be on the defensive.
I grab the Heineken, having only spilled a bit, and take a quick drink.
Blake is looking at me. It’s hard to read his expression from behind the shades.
“So, what did you see?”
“Huh?”
“You said you thought you saw something, what did you think you saw? The Loch Ness Monster?”
I laugh, probably too forced, surely too nervous.
“No, just like a shadow or something. Ever see a shadow out of the corner of your eyes and it startles you?”
“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugs, then turns his attention to his line in the water, watching the bobber dip.
He sets down his drink and reels in the line to tighten it. The bobber dips down and reels faster.
Then the line goes slack.
“Shit!” he says, pulling in the now-empty hook. “Had a bass at least two feet wide.”
He digs into a Styrofoam container of worms, baits his hook again, and casts his line.
“Ask him about me,” Chelsea repeats.
I look back at her, noticing that even though a nice cool breeze is blowing through Rocco’s hair, hers is unfazed by the wind.
I mouth the word, fine.
“I don’t know,” I begin, “I’ve been spooked ever since Chelsea tried to kill herself.”
“Hmmph,” Blake says.
No other comment?
I look back at Chelsea, who yells, “Is that it, you fuck? Hmmph? Fuck you!”
I really wish she’d vanish, maybe spend some time with Carla.
“Do you think about her?” I ask.
“Who? Bible Girl?”
“Yeah. Do you think about her, or what we did?”
“What we did?” he hasn’t turned to look at me, which I find interesting. Is he suspicious of my line of questioning? I probably do sound like I’m wearing a wire. I should probably tone it down.
I turn back to Chelsea. She’s staring at Blake, awaiting his answer.
I push further. “I dunno, I feel bad. I mean, I know I didn’t want that video to get out there like that. I didn’t tell Kris to do it, but she did, and then, I dunno, shit just snowballed. Everyone seeing it and bullying her.”
“Bullying her?” Blake spins around and glares at me through shades. “Boo-fucking-hoo. Some people called her a slut; so fucking what? She was a slut. If you don’t want to be called a slut, don’t be one! What, and now you feel sorry for her?”
“I am not a slut!” Chelsea stands up and yells with her fists at her sides like an angry little girl, though it does no good.
“Well, yeah, I kind of feel sorry for her. I mean, we ruined her life.”
Blake laughs, takes off his shades, and sets his fishing pole down. “Let me get this straight, the dude who gets girls drunk or slips them GHB and rapes them, records it on video no less, is worried that we made a Christian hypocrite slut sad? Wow, this is rich! Maybe you did grow a pussy!”
“You’re right. I’m a hypocrite. I didn’t see it until someone tried to kill themselves because of shit we did.”
Blake stands. “What are you saying, Rocco?”
“I’m turning myself in. I think you should do the same.”
Blake looks like someone smacked him. His smile is gone, replaced with something stone cold sinister, devoid of life.
Is this a peek behind the sociopath’s mask?
“The hell I will.”
He’s starting toward me.
What the hell is he going to do, start a fight in the boat?
He gets right in my face, so close I can feel the hot air from his nostrils on my skin.
His blue eyes are now two icy marbles, staring right through my skull. “I strongly suggest you reconsider.”
“No,” I say.
“Give me your phone.”
“No.”
He shoves me back.
I stumble and fall.
Chelsea screams, reaching out to smack him, but her hand goes right through his body. How can she lock a bathroom door, but not hit a person?
Blake is on me in a second, reaching into my jacket pocket and grabbing the phone before I can stop him.
He seizes it, stands up, and chucks it into the water.
“What the hell?” I yell.
He turns back to me, glaring. “I just saved you from fucking yourself.”
“No, you’re saving yourself.”
Blake laughs. “You think my dad would let me get railroaded over some fucking video where some slut is spreading herself for me? Really? He’d have the state’s best lawyers, better lawyers than your dad, make that shit disappear faster than a donut at a Weight Watchers meeting. No, Rocco, I’m saving you. Because you think your father can save you from a dozen or two rape charges? Maybe one or two, dude, but not that many.”
I stare at Blake, weighing my next move. I don’t think he’s truly looking out for Rocco’s interests. He’s pretending to, but in reality, he’s hoping that Rocco won’t turn them in. Maybe he’s right, maybe his father will get him off, but there’s no way his reputation survives a scandal like this.
His body is tense, and for the first time, I’m sure Blake poses a serious threat to Rocco.
Chelsea is standing silently to my side, watching, glaring at him so hard she probably wishes she could grab the knife herself.
I have to play him like he’s playing me.
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I look down at the water, solemnly, almost ashamed to look at him. “You’re right, man. I’m sorry. I just … I don’t know. I feel like that bitch’s ghost is following me around or something, making me feel like shit.”
Blake sits down across from me, the tackle box, and the blade inside it, close enough for him to grab if he wanted.
I don’t even look at the box, staring at the water instead.
Blake says, “This shit has got you feeling guilty, man. It’s okay. We didn’t make Chelsea try and kill herself. She was a confused girl. Embarrassed about her affair with Ms. Valencia, afraid of what her Christian Daddy would say. That’s why she OD’d. This shit would’ve gotten out with or without us, believe me. A student-teacher scandal always gets out, man. You watch the fucking news, all these MILFs fucking teenage boys. It’s an epidemic, man, and this is the same, except this time with two dykes. But shit would’ve leaked, with or without us.”
I finally meet his eyes. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
He gives me that fake grin that gets him whatever he wants, including a Get Out of Jail Free card.
My blood boils as I realize that Chelsea, and even Blake, is right. He won’t pay for what he did. Not ever. Yeah, I could probably turn Rocco in and still get him locked up, even without the videos on his phone, but Blake will go free no matter what.
That’s just how it is.
He offers his hand to help me stand.
“We good, Bro?”
I take his hand.
As he pulls me up, I grab the knife from the tackle box. He doesn’t even notice.
He pulls me up, and I slide the blade into his gut.
“Yeah, we’re good,” I say, driving the knife up into his lungs.
His eyes go wide.
He reaches out for my throat but doesn’t have the strength to mount a defense.
I drive the blade deeper, pushing forward, fueled by rage.
I move closer, eyes now boring into his. I’m so close he can feel my breath on his face as I say, “This is for Chelsea.”
I slide the knife diagonally, spilling Blake’s guts onto the floor of his shiny new boat.
I watch as his body drops.
“Fuck yeah!” Chelsea yells.
She grabs me into a big hug, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
I hug her back, but all I can do is stare at the corpse, feeling almost like I’m outside of my — or rather Rocco’s — body.
I killed someone I didn’t need to kill. Someone who wasn’t an immediate threat.
And … it felt good.
Chelsea pulls away to look at me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just going to go turn myself in and confess to killing Blake. If that doesn’t put Rocco behind bars, I don’t know what will.”
She looks at me.
“Or you could not take any chances, and kill him too.”
I stare at Blake’s corpse, blue eyes staring up at the sun.
“No, I don’t think I can. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says, embracing me again.
Her hug feels good, like a sister going through this hell, displaced beside me.
“Besides,” I add, “If I turn Rocco in, I can confess to all these rapes. Maybe give these girls closure.”
She doesn’t say anything, just keeps her arms wrapped tightly around me.
Finally, she pulls away, meets my eyes, and in what feels like a goodbye, says, “What happens next? Will I see you again?”
“I don’t know. Just think of me, I guess. But wait a day or so. I don’t want you getting stuck in jail.”
She laughs.
It feels so good to hear it.
Chapter Seven
I wake up in Billy’s body.
I’m not sure why I’m still with this family, but there’s a small comfort in the thought that I am, and that maybe I’ll see his sister in ghostly travels again.
Now that Blake is dead and I confessed — as Rocco, to the murder, to the rapes, and how we conspired to ruin Chelsea’s life — I’m betting that Rocco is waking up wondering about the fuck bomb dropped on his life. Before turning myself in, I recorded myself on Blake’s phone confessing to his murder, and I even posed with his corpse a bit, to give the jury something to think about when considering his guilt. I’m guessing I’ve screwed him so hard he’ll have to cop a plea, but even then, I can’t imagine he’ll get out quickly. Plus, he’ll be persona non grata in this town, especially if Blake’s father somehow maintains his power.
My bedroom door opens.
Billy’s mom peeks in. “You awake?”
“Yeah,” I say as my eyes adjust to the light bleeding in from the hallway.
“Come on. We’ve gotta take a ride.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
A half hour later, we’re pulling up to the hospital, and my heart begins to race.
The whole ride, Billy’s mom and dad could hardly contain their happiness. Chelsea must have come out of her coma.
I ask, but they tell me to wait.
It’s the first time I’ve seen either of them happy since I woke up in Chelsea’s body. Is it possible that this family can heal? That they can overcome all of the hell that they’ve been through? If Chelsea is out of her coma, what’s next? Will they allow her to see Carla again? Will Carla ever be able to forgive Jack Caldwell for his torture?
So many unknowns, but as we get out of the car and head through the hospital entrance, I dare to hope for a happy ending. If anyone deserves it, it’s Chelsea.
We take the elevator to her floor and get out. I can’t contain my excitement. I run toward her room, leaving Billy’s parents behind.
I open the door and see Chelsea, her eyes open, smiling at me.
“Billy,” she says, her voice still frail.
“Chelsea!” I run up and hug her, careful not to mess with any of the wires running from the machines to her bed, tears streaming down my cheeks.
Jack and Susan join in the hug.
“Thank you, Jesus,” Jack says, “for bringing my little girl back.”
Susan is crying. “Oh, honey, I thought we lost you.”
“Not that easily,” Chelsea says.
And just like that, everything feels almost normal.
We talk; well, mostly Jack and Susan talk. Chelsea doesn’t seem like she’s pissed at Jack for what he did. She’s acting as if things are okay. I wonder if she remembers.
After a bit, Chelsea asks if she can talk to me alone.
Jack and Susan look at her, surprised.
I put on my best innocent smile.
“Okay,” Jack says. “Do you need anything? Want me to get some ice water or something?”
“That would be nice,” she says.
They leave.
I look at Chelsea, wondering what she’ll say to Billy. Will she tell him how much she missed him, maybe thank him for defending her?
The door swings closed. With Jack and Susan out of earshot, she whispers, “Thank you, Ella.”
“You can—” I start to say see me, but stop. Of course she can.
“Yes, I can see you. Thank you for coming back.”
“Like I said, I don’t get to choose where I go.”
“I’m still glad to see you, for real.”
I hug her.
We talk some more, mostly her asking questions about what happened after I turned Rocco in, then a bit about what I think will happen with Carla and her father.
As the door starts to open, and her parents step inside, Chelsea squeezes my hand and says, “Thank you” again.
At lunchtime, the doctor comes to take her away for some tests.
Jack suggests we all head to an Italian restaurant nearby, then return in a few hours when Chelsea can receive visitors again.
We get into the elevator along with a doctor and an elderly couple who are talking so loud to one another despite being in such a confined space. What are the odds that both of
their hearing aids are on the fritz?
The elevator doors close, and I feel a sudden uneasiness that I can’t explain.
I look at Billy’s parents. They’re holding hands and smiling. Nothing like a little kidnapping and torturing of your child’s teacher/lover to spice up a marriage, I guess.
I hear the faintest sound of static.
Oh, no. Not now.
My heart racing, I strain to hear a woman’s voice relaying instructions, but the elderly couple turns every sound to mush.
As the black square above the doors counts down to ground level, the static grows louder.
No. No. No.
The Collectors have found me and are coming to collect my soul. They know I won’t kill a child to escape them.
The doors will open, and there they’ll be, their blank eyes somehow staring right through me. Then they’ll …
The elevator doors open.
The static crackles and is replaced by the dulcet tones of Kenny G. coming over the elevator’s tinny speakers.
We step outside the box, and I’m relieved to find that no one is waiting.
“You okay?” Jack asks.
I look up at him. “I am now.”
Chapter Eight
One Saturday later
The last week has been foggy, as if it means nothing.
All that matters is that I’m back in Chelsea’s body.
I’m not sure where she is now, though I can feel her more than I’ve ever felt anyone else. I can feel her with me, though I’m not sure if she’s aware of my presence. She’s not talking to me like the ghost who met me in the bathroom or the girl who talked to me when she came out of her coma — yet she’s here just the same.
I feel odd inside her with this awareness that she may be feeling me as much as I’m feeling her.
I spent most of the morning with her family, all of them in Recovery Mode — that odd space between forgiveness and moving on. They’re on eggshells around me. Overly nice. I wonder if they’re afraid I’ll overdose again or wondering if they’ll drive me back into Carla’s arms.
From what I can tell, mostly from what I’ve overheard, as nobody is specifically discussing the matter with me, Waylon paid Carla off, so she won’t be pressing charges. In exchange, he found a way to make sure that student-teacher affair stayed behind closed doors, and that the investigation never leaked, at least not through any official channels. Of course, Waylon couldn’t stop every whisper, but Carla’s face and name wouldn’t be splashed all over the evening news for the muckraking journalists and vultures lying in wait for their nightly feast of misery to prey upon.
