Bloody Bloody Apple

by Howard Odentz

  Principal DesRoberts is probably shaking his head back and forth and tenting his fingers in front of his face, not only to cover the frown on his mouth as he hears the news, but to hide his embarrassment for not quite remembering who Claudia Fish is in the first place.

  There will be more police officers at the high school, and homeroom will go uncomfortably long. Finally, someone will come and hand a folded white piece of paper to each of the teachers for them to announce what happened. A brown-noser from Key Club or student government will dash out to the flagpole in front of the circle where everyone is dropped off and lower the flapping fabric of red, white, and blue to half-mast.

  After that, Claudia Fish’s name will be passed from student to student like a game of telephone, until someone remembers her stupid nick-name and passes that along, too.

  Crawdaddy Fish. Crawdaddy Fish.

  Chief Anderson slowly drives his cruiser into the high school parking lot. Thankfully, he doesn’t drop us off at the circle. Instead, he pulls into one of the empty spaces where the teachers park their cars.

  “Have to go inside today,” he mutters, as he opens his door and unfolds himself to his giant stature. His silver gun scrapes against his seat belt as he gets up, and I wonder if he’s ever going to shoot it at the person who’s responsible for all this misery. I wonder if one of his little slugs of lead will ever find its way to the heart of the evil that’s plagued Apple for so long.

  Newie opens his door a little too forcefully and lightly grazes a tiny Hyundai parked next to the cruiser.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” his father roars and cuffs him upside the head with a sharp thwack. Annie tenses—so do I.

  “Ow,” cries Newie. “Ow.” The chief leans over and examines the little car to see if Newie left any marks. Thankfully he hasn’t.

  “You’re lucky,” growls the chief. “Or I’d be running that plate right now to find whatever ass-wipe teacher parked this piece of crap here, and you’d be shelling out your summer savings to fix what you did.” His nostrils flare, and he curls his upper lip. “Dumb fuckwad.”

  Newie says nothing. He rubs his ear, pulls his backpack and his sports bag out of the back of the cruiser, and lightly closes the door. He does it so daintily that he has to pull it open again and close it a little bit harder so it will click shut.

  “Idiot,” the chief seethes, then hikes his belt up and swaggers away from us toward the front entrance to the high school. There are no goodbyes or catch-you-laters—no father and son high-fives—only a lingering sort of animosity that permeates the air between Newie and his father.

  It’s always been like that, like the chief somehow blames Newie for everything wrong in his life.

  As we walk into school behind Chief Anderson—way behind, so we look like we have no connection to him at all—I can’t help but think that the three of us are alone today. We’re together, but alone, and the thing that binds us together is a dead girl lying on a slab somewhere in a coroner’s office, waiting to be carved up to see how badly she suffered before she died.

  My guess is she suffered a lot.

  16

  “I DON’T WANT TO talk about it anymore,” Annie hisses at me. Her words hurt, because Annie doesn’t hiss. She’s sweet and easy. The last thing I’d be doing is dating someone who hisses, but she does it just the same.

  “Talk about what?” asks Newie.

  Annie practically stumbles over her words as they pour out of her mouth. “What do you think?” she snaps at him, giving me a dangerous look that means that she really doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  “Oh,” he says, because he thinks we’re talking about bloody Claudia, not bloody Annie. The three of us are in the cafeteria before homeroom, so Newie can have his second breakfast, and I can down a cup of black coffee. He spreads his arms wide. “Good luck with that,” he says as he gestures to the room. “Everyone’s going to be talking about it pretty damn skippy.”

  I sigh and take a sip of my coffee. I wish I knew what to say to Annie, but I don’t. There isn’t anyone to talk to about what she’s doing—about the cutting. Everyone in Apple is as messed up as she is or I am, or even Newie. We all live with monsters. At least Annie has a release from it all.

  I decide to change the subject, mostly because I have no choice. “Why didn’t you tell me about getting the job at the BD Mart?” I ask her.

  “You’re going to be working up at the BD Mart?” exclaims Newie as he shoves a huge cruller into his mouth. “Score. Free shit. Sweet.”

  “I don’t think so,” she says to him. “You’ll get me fired, and we, I mean I, need the cash.”

  I know full well she means that the Bergs need the cash, because her mother isn’t pulling down enough at Tenzar’s, and Mr. Berg is drinking whatever is left over.

  “Besides,” I say to Newie. “You’d hoover the place.”

  “Hey,” he says. “I can’t help it if I’ve got a red-hot metabolism.” He slides his giant hand through his hair and shakes his head like he probably does after he shaves and takes a shower in the morning. He’s probably even imagining that he’s doing it in slow motion for a GQ photographer.

  The thought makes me want to throw up a little in my mouth.

  Just then, Newie catches sight of Erika Tenzar as she saunters into the cafeteria. She’s followed by three other girls who all look the same, with long blond hair and perfect bodies. He sighs and shoves the rest of the sugarcoated pastry in his mouth.

  I follow his gaze. “Give it up,” I tell him. “I thought you weren’t into ‘bitch.’”

  “‘Bitch’ is right,” Annie says as she liberates the cup of coffee from my hand while making sure that the sleeves on her sweater don’t slide up to reveal the recent resurgence of her most dangerous hobby. “Hate her.”

  “I don’t care about her personality,” says Newie as he wipes his mouth on his letter jacket. “She’s hot.”

  Annie rolls her eyes. “You’re a man-whore,” she says to him.

  “Guilty.” He shrugs and heads off to secure his future weekend activity. Of course he’ll say something all smooth and macho, and she’ll turn ripe for the picking. He’ll ask her if she wants to hang out after school. She’ll say yes, and Newie’s thoughts will be eaten up with images of whatever Erika Tenzar will allow him to get away with, which is literally everything, because she’s a total skank.

  I shake my head as I watch him go, then turn to Annie and take my coffee back from her.

  “I didn’t plan not to tell you,” she whispers. “About the BD Mart, I mean. I sort of forgot. Between Ruby and Claudia and that Ralphie guy, I’m not exactly happy about getting the seven-to-eleven shift three nights a week.”

  “When do you start?” I ask her, dreading that I think I already know the answer.

  “Tonight,” she says. “I’m training with Julie Dopkin. You know her, right?”

  “Yeah. She’s the one who told me.”

  Annie looks puzzled. “When?” she asks.

  “Last night,” I tell her. “I had to go grab some milk. The stuff we had in our refrigerator was nasty.”

  “You went out last night?” Annie hisses again, like it’s starting to become a habit. “After everything that happened, you still went out last night?”

  “I had to,” I say. “We ran out of milk. If my father found out, he’d be pissed, and he already has too much on his plate.”

  I take another sip of coffee and think about what I just said. Between my grandfather, my mom, and Becky, he does have too much on his plate, but instead of doing something about it, he’s shutting down and building crucifixes in the garage—and praying.

  He’s freaking praying.

  I shut my eyes and shake my head. What part of praying does he think is going to help Becky? She’s sick, and he’s
fooled himself into thinking that there’s something more sinister going on with her than her illness.

  Screw that. The only thing evil and wrong in my house is what my father’s allowed to happen to my sister. Hell, what he’s allowed to happen to my mother.

  They both need help, real help, not the kind that comes from his biblical book of fairy tales.

  “It’s getting bad, isn’t it?” Annie asks me.

  I could be a complete asshole and ask her the same thing, but I don’t want to open up that can of worms again, so I only nod. The demons under my roof are no worse than the demons under hers. Besides, it doesn’t do any good to get into it with her about my family, just like I know it doesn’t help to say anything about her absentee mother and her pickled, handsy father—or the box of razors she keeps in the upstairs bathroom.

  Across the cafeteria, Newie towers over Erika Tenzar. He’s got his hands on his hips, exactly like the chief stands. Erika’s banished her court to one of the cafeteria tables, just far enough away so that she and Newie can talk.

  I see her make a fake pouty-mouth as she looks up at him. He brushes her arm with his hand, which makes her smile. Then he starts bobbing his head up and down like he’s totally into what he’s saying—performing the mating dance of the American Blue-Balled Teenaged Quarterback. I’m surprised she doesn’t mount him right there. That’s what animals in heat do on the Discovery Channel.

  After a moment, I see her drop her arms and step back from him—only a little—and fold them across her chest. She shakes her head as she looks at him intently. All the time, Newie is getting more and more animated, and Erika’s turning rigid like a yardstick.

  “Oh, no,” I say under my breath as I watch that big, stupid idiot kill a free lay with one of the hottest girls in school.

  “Oh, no, what?” says Annie. I tilt my chin over to where Newie and Erika are talking, and Annie immediately figures out what’s going on.

  “Wow,” she says. “It he really that stupid?”

  “He’s your friend,” I tell her, ignoring the fact that he’s been my friend longer. When he’s stupid, he’s her friend.

  Erika Tenzar covers her face with her hands and runs out of the cafeteria. Newie stands there like a moron, not knowing what he said or did to make her run away like that.

  His father’s deep, booming voice echoes inside my head. Dumb fuckwad.

  Newie’s told Erika that we found Claudia in the woods between the middle school and the high school. It’s not like everyone isn’t going to hear the news as soon as Chief Anderson talks to the administration, and they get the word out to the teachers. The thing is, the chief doesn’t know that his brilliant son has just done his dirty work for him.

  He’s told Erika, and Erika will tell Dina Bridge or Heidi Baker, or worse, Zina Butterfield, whose mouth’s been stretched open so wide by any guy with a jockstrap that the news can’t help but pour out of it.

  Within ten minutes, the entire school will know. It’ll be like electricity, shocking everyone who hears it, followed by the numbing realization that there are no longer two murders in Apple this year.

  There are three.

  Newie finally puts his hands down, shrugs, and lopes back to us through a sea of heads that, at best, reach up to his shoulders.

  “You’re an idiot,” says Annie, as he reaches us.

  “What?” he says with that dumb Newie look on his face. It’s the one that probably infuriates the chief the most.

  “What?” I repeat to him. “You really have to ask?”

  “Yeah,” he says, getting all huffy. “I really have to ask.”

  I shake my head, grab my backpack, and reach out for Annie’s hand. “You know when you almost scratched that car in the parking lot, and your dad called you a dumb fuckwad?”

  “Yeah,” says Newie, as he gathers his things together.

  “He was right,” I say.

  We all leave the cafeteria and head off to homeroom, where we’ll sit there for way too long, until someone comes in with that damn piece of white paper to confirm what half the school is going to be talking about in the next few minutes.

  “Why?” Newie whines again as he follows us, but I can already see the looks on people’s faces. Some have turned the color of ash, and others are filled with cheerful relief that it wasn’t them who got killed.

  “Just shut up,” I say to him as we walk, a growing buzz forming around us like a cloud of flies. “Just shut the hell up.”

  Eventually he does.

  17

  AFTER THE BELL for homeroom, there’s an announcement telling everyone that first period will be delayed. Fifteen minutes later, when there’s a simmering murmur about another murder, there’s a knock on the door, and one of the senior hall monitors quietly steps in and hands the teacher, Mr. Robbins, the dreaded piece of white paper.

  Mr. Robbins is from Ludlow, which is over an hour away from here. He makes it a habit of telling anyone who’ll listen that he drives that far to teach in a shithole like Apple because he’s committed.

  He should be committed. Only someone crazy would do that.

  I’m numb through the announcement, and I cringe when I hear a few people say things like “Who?” and “Crawdaddy’s dead?” Finally, we’re sent off to first period.

  As I head out the door, Mr. Robbins stops me. “Mr. Gill?” he says. He always calls everyone Mr. or Ms. instead of by our first names, like a normal person.

  “Uh huh?”

  He holds out a yellow slip of paper. I take it from him and mumble a thank you. He stares at me without smiling, then pushes his glasses up on his face and goes back to his desk.

  I unfold the yellow slip of paper as I walk out into the hall and read the words written on the pre-printed lines. I’m being called to the guidance office. It says I have to go immediately. I have to skip first period, which is gym, and go directly to the guidance office and ask for Ms. Hutch.

  She’s my guidance counselor, but I don’t like her much. The last time we talked was two years ago. That was after Margo Freeman was murdered, and everything happened with my grandmother and Becky. I didn’t want to talk about it then. I was really angry at the world. Now, two years later, I’m still sort of angry at the world, and I still don’t want to talk about it.

  Ms. Hutch is fake. She has ruby red lipstick and an out-of-the-bottle blond dye job that makes her look like some sort of caricature instead of a real person. She also has a hard time making eye contact when she talks.

  It’s creepy, but I guess I don’t care. I don’t plan on making eye contact with her, either. I know she’s going to ask me things that I’m not prepared to deal with, like feelings and crap.

  What a total waste of time.

  As I walk down the hallway, I see Newie’s massive head rising out of the moving current of students.

  “Fuckwad,” I yell out. His shoulders slump and he stops.

  “You’re a douchebag,” he mutters when I catch up to him. Then I notice that he has an identical yellow slip of paper between his fingers. I roll my eyes and hold up my own.

  “Annie’s got one, too,” he says. “Right when we were leaving homeroom. She went to the bathroom, though. I think she needs a couple minutes of girl time.”

  The air momentarily leaves the space around us, and I’m afraid to breathe. All I can picture is Annie pulling a razorblade free from wherever she secreted it away, going into one of the stalls, and sitting on the dingy toilet. Even worse, I can picture her cutting herself too deep with the shiny bit of metal, and everything that makes up who she is dripping down her jeans and pooling on the tiled floor.

  Someone foul, like slimy Tawny Sanders, who gives blowjobs to guys on the Giant Steps for pills, will probably find her sometime later and poke at her lifeless body with her foot, before sauntering down
to the custodian’s office and telling Mr. Meekham, the one-armed custodian, that he’s got a cleanup in the girls’ john.

  “What’s with you?” Newie asks, because he probably sees the weird look on my face—half terror and half something else.

  “Nothing,” I say, trying not to think the worst about Annie. “This sucks.” I shove the yellow slip of paper into my pocket and push past him. I figure if we take our time, Annie will catch up to us, because she’s not stupid enough to hurt herself in the girls’ bathroom. Everyone has their standards, and no matter what her father says about her, she’s better than that.

  We slowly walk down the newly polished linoleum floor and up a short flight of stairs to the main hallway where the gym, principal’s office, and guidance offices are. Still, by the time the river of students thins out to nothing, and the bell sounds, Annie’s nowhere in sight. Almost before we know it, we’re standing in front of the guidance office with Newie’s big hand resting on the doorknob.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he grimaces.

  “Fine,” I say, trying to remember that the horrific Annie-images in my mind aren’t real. Still, all I can imagine is her slouched down on the floor of the girls’ room as a scarlet river pours between her fingers, and her eyes grow dim.

  Newie pushes through the door and is immediately ushered away by his guidance counselor, Mr. Colton. Mr. Colton’s a withered, old husk of a man, inordinately wrinkled, with teeth so gnarled and yellow that people actually talk about how nasty they are. He’s been a guidance counselor at Apple High for millennia. He’s a permanent fixture here—something that took root a long time ago.

  As they walk away, Mr. Colton swivels his head and stares back at me through his half-glasses. He smiles a little, but nobody wants to see that, because even if it’s genuine, he has a sinister grin—all teeth and bite.