Games We Play

by Angel Lawson

  BD: Eden. A place of pristine and abundant beauty? From your photo I imagine being with you is like entering the garden, a paradise on Earth. Tell me, what’s your idea of paradise?

  My heart slams into my chest and I toss the iPod down on the bed, hopping out and pacing around the room. I’d put up this account in the hopes of luring him out. I intentionally made myself look similar to Rose. And here he is. Weeks after she’s gone, trolling—no, complimenting—another girl.

  It’d worked.

  What the fuck do I do now?

  I stare down at the device for a long time, hands on my hips, trying to make a decision. Do I ignore it? Do I reply? Do I pretend none of this is happening?

  Light shines outside my window and I look up, seeing Finn entering his bedroom. He looks my direction and smiles, giving me a little wave.

  I told Finn I wasn’t going to quit looking for answers. This guy, this pervert, BD? He’s probably one of the few people that may have them.

  I walk over to the bed, pick up the iPod and type in a reply.

  Hi BD! My idea of paradise is not having to worry about bills and student loans, being able to take care of my family. But most of all, I want to find someone to spend my time with that has the same desires in life that I do. Too bad paradise is lost, right?

  Before I lose my nerve, I press send, watching the little button turn into a heart.

  I shove the device into the drawer and slam it shut, then cross the room and grab my towel.

  I definitely need a shower.

  13

  Ezra

  “This setup is pretty sweet, Holloway,” I say, his name coming out in a grunt. I’ve got a twenty-pound weight in both hands and my biceps burn with each curl.

  Finn hangs from a chin-up bar, pulling himself up and down with a quick pace. He drops and exhales, wiping his forehead with the bottom of his shirt.

  “My dad got pretty into helping me set it up this summer. It’s way easier than dealing with gym hours.”

  He walks over to a bench and grabs his water bottle. I rack the weights and pick up my own, drinking half of it in one swallow.

  “What happened with Kenley yesterday? She looked upset when Ozzy and I got back to the house.” She left before I got a chance to ask her what was wrong. For a second, I thought she was upset with me. We hadn’t really talked about what transpired between us in my room the night before. I couldn’t get the whole scene out of my head, the way she felt, looked and sounded, coming apart like that, but maybe she had regrets.

  She was barely out of the driveway before the other kids started talking about it— there’d been some kind of scene with Monica Chandler.

  “She started asking Mrs. Chandler questions about some girl that was murdered that went to Thistle Cove back in the '90s.”

  “Murdered? I’ve never heard about that.”

  “Yeah, that’s her point. Someone just told KK about it, and she’s really worked up. She’s convinced the town or powerful people in town are hiding something.” He reaches for a medicine ball and gestures for me to move back. I get into position and he thrusts it toward me. I catch it, the weight slamming into my chest. “To be honest, I think she’s still struggling with losing Rose and she needs an outlet.”

  If she needs an outlet, I think to myself, I’ve got a couple ideas.

  “For what it’s worth, I think she may be on to something. Calling Rose’s disappearance a suicide without a body or any other evidence doesn’t feel right.”

  I frown. “Seriously? If that’s how you feel, why haven’t you said anything about it?”

  He grimaces and thrusts the ball at me again but doesn’t reply to my question.

  “Are you afraid they’d make you a suspect again?” I ask, flinging the ball toward him. He catches it but stumbles back a step.

  “Am I glad they took the heat off of me? Yeah. I didn’t kill Rose, but that doesn’t mean I fully buy this suicide story either and I never thought her parents would stop looking for her or for answers.” He drops the ball with a heavy, solid thud and sits on the bench.

  “That’s the thing,” I say, sitting next to him, “I’m not really that surprised.”

  He gives me a perplexed look. “Why?”

  “Your parents are cool—like normal people—people that have normal jobs and activities. People that didn’t live here their whole lives. But Waller? My dad? They’re tied up in this community. Both of them need it to survive, financially, politically, professionally. Waller’s election is next week. Sure, Rose’s disappearance was enough to get him the sympathy of everyone in town, but you and I both know Rose wasn’t squeaky clean. The more they pushed this—the sugar daddy shit—the more questions people would have, and the more skeletons may fall out of the tightly locked closets of the Thistle Cove elite.”

  “That’s cold, man.”

  “That’s how these people work,” I say, grabbing my towel and wiping my face. “They’re playing a long game and I can’t imagine they’d let Rose, missing or not, fuck that up.”

  Finn stares down at his feet, processing what I’ve just said, what I’ve been holding in for weeks. I agree with him and Kenley, I have no idea what really happened to Rose, but I’d bet the state championship that it wasn’t a suicide.

  14

  Kenley

  “Excellent use of neon,” Mrs. Gimple calls to me as I pack up my books. “And I like the rubber bracelets. Ten points, extra credit.”

  I smile, knowing I needed any extra credit I could get. The last few weeks have wreaked havoc on my grades. Part of the homecoming week traditions include “Theme Days.” These are notoriously lame, and students aren’t motivated to participate. Extra credit is the only way they can get people involved.

  Since we’re celebrating the centennial, each day is a different decade. Monday, '80s. My mother, ever the packrat, pulled out a box of clothing that belonged to my aunt, who was a decade older than her. Rubber bracelets, a gray and pink wide-necked sweatshirt and large, neon-pink, hoop earrings were exactly what I needed to secure extra points in all my classes.

  The boys tried. A little. Ezra and Finn in pink Izod shirts, plaid shorts, and loafers with no socks. I find them both strangely attractive like this—channeling their inner “Blane.” Ozzy wore a Stray Cat’s T-shirt. I think he got an extra point. Not like he needs it anyway.

  He waits for me outside the door, but I wave him off and walk over to Mrs. Gimple’s desk.

  “Kenley,” she says, looking up from the piles of paper on her desk. She’s a disorganized mess. “Can I help you with something.”

  I reach into my bag and pull out the old yearbook. “I was doing a little work on the centennial issue of the yearbook and saw that you started teaching here in 1991.”

  She looks at the open book and the photo of herself standing in front of blackboard. “Wow, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen that picture. Man, I had a lot of hair—all brown, too. Although that didn’t last long. Teaching made me gray early.”

  “Did you start teaching right after college?”

  “Actually, I graduated a year early and started the year as a student teacher. Principal Brown hired me full-time after Christmas.”

  “Principal Brown? Mr. Russell wasn’t here?”

  She laughs. “Oh, he was here,” she flips a page and places her finger on another staff photo. He’s also incredibly young—surprisingly handsome. Under his picture it says Phillip Russell, History. “He went to school at night to get his administrative degree and became the principal about a decade later.”

  “Interesting.” It’s possible I’ve fallen into the stereotype of a student that doesn’t fully realize her teachers and administrators have a life outside of school. “I wanted to ask you, for the centennial issue, what do you remember most about your first year?”

  It’s a set-up, narrowing it down so specifically, to see if she’ll bring up Jacqueline.

  “I remember a lot of things. The football team winning
the state championship, that was huge. Fighting with parents over the reading list. A few had problems with the books I’d chosen.”

  I write down her answers.

  “I heard that similar to this year, there was a tragedy that happened to a student,” I prompt. A flicker passes through her eyes, but her expression stays blank.

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about?”

  “Jacqueline Cates.”

  Her jaw sets, and her cheeks turn pink. “Ah, Jacqueline. Yes, that was a tragedy.”

  “What do you remember about her death?”

  “Not much,” she says absently, as she starts to straighten the papers on her desk. “I was new, I told you that. I didn’t know many students, and there was the fight about censorship, the rest is a blur.”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  Her eyes flick to the clock over the door. “Kenley, this is my only free period and I have a lot of work to get to. I’m sure you have a class to attend.” She grabs a square of paper off the desk and scribbles a note. “Take that so you don’t get a tardy.”

  “Thank you.” I take the paper from her. “If you remember anything, let me know.”

  She gives me a tight smile and the slight dip of her head, gesturing for me to leave.

  I walk through the door, annoyed and irritated, and run straight into Ozzy.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “I told you to go ahead.”

  He tightens his grip on his backpack strap. “I have a free period. Were you asking her about Jacqueline?”

  Of course he knew what I was doing. “Yeah, she gave me nothing—barely even admitted it happened.”

  “Maybe the staff was told not to talk about it. That’s happened before.”

  He’s right. There have been a few situations at school; bullying, threats of violence, rumors, that have caused the administration to clamp down on any and all discussion on a particular topic. Any violators will get a swift punishment.

  “It looks like if we want to get any more information about this we’re going to have to figure out a different source,” he says. “One not affiliated with the school.”

  I sigh. “I think you’re right.”

  We start walking, my class is around the corner and Ozzy usually spends this period in the library. I’ve got my late slip in my hand but that doesn’t stop me from jumping when I hear an adult voice bounce off the lockers.

  “Ms. James, although the dress code is lax during Homecoming week, that outfit violates several policies.”

  I glance at Ozzy. His eyebrow raises. There’s no doubt who’s speaking; Coach Chandler. I peer around the corner. He’s standing in the doorway to his office speaking to Kayla James, a sophomore on the dance team. She’s wearing purple spandex tights and has pink legwarmers wrapped around her ankles. A cut off sweatshirt reveals a large swath of her stomach and the tights are rolled low enough to see her belly button. It, to put it lightly, is a lot, and way out of the bounds of any and all dress codes.

  “Are you going to send me to the office?” she asks.

  “That’s the policy.”

  Kayla sighs. “Mr. Russell is going to send me to in-school suspension, and Mrs. Jackson, the dance coach will bench me from the game on Friday.”

  Coach Chandler crosses his arms over his chest. He’s a big guy—it’s obvious without knowing details that he was once an elite athlete. Tall, broad-shouldered. He was probably bigger back then when he played high school and college football. His eyes sweep over Kayla.

  “You’re a friend of my daughter’s, right?”

  Kayla perks up. “Juliette? Yeah. We hang out.”

  “I hate to ruin anyone’s homecoming week. It’s a big game and everyone, including the dance team, is there to support my team. I don’t want something like this to throw anyone off.”

  “I’d hate that. They’re so good this year. I really think they can go all the way to the finals.”

  He smiles, which lights up his handsome face. He’s pleased with the assessment of his team. Kayla’s not just pretty. She’s smart, too.

  “You’re a beautiful, talented girl, Ms. James. Showing off your body is part of who you are as a dancer. I understand this. I’m an athlete. We’re proud of our hard work, but not everyone sees it that way.” Again, his eyes skirt over her body. “As the father of a girl, I hate the double-standard for females in the dress code. There’s a sexist implication that boys can’t control themselves and it’s the girl’s responsibility to manage those urges for them. It’s bullshit.” Kayla gasps at his language. “Well, it is, and unfortunately it’s a decision well above my pay grade, but, how about this, we head into my office and find you some sweats to wear over those tights. Cover up and we can make this go away.”

  Kayla’s shoulders relax. “Really? That would be awesome.”

  “Yeah, follow me, I’m pretty sure there are some small JV boy’s sweats in the storage room.”

  Kayla follows him into his office and the door shuts behind them.

  I turn and face Ozzy, who has seen and heard it all.

  “Holy shit. Did he just ogle the shit out of that girl while spewing about the patriarchy?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Yeah, that was a masterful move.” I hit him in the stomach and he frowns, rubbing the spot. “It’s not a compliment. It was manipulative and shady as hell.”

  I stare at the door, feeling like I should go in there and interrupt. Except that Kayla willingly went with him, and ultimately, he was helping her out, and what would I say, anyway?

  Ozzy places a hand on my back, encouraging me to move. We part outside my classroom, where one thing lingers on my mind. One of Rose’s exchanges with BD when they first started talking…

  BD: Have you ever been with an older man before?

  R: Yeah, I have. My friend’s dad.

  15

  Finn

  I’ve just pulled into the driveway; tired, sore, and starving. Practice ran late, and coach was on a tear. I knew we’d have to pay him back for the time off the other day.

  I’m pulling my gear out of the back of the truck when Kenley parks in her driveway. I pause, waiting for her to get out.

  “Hey,” she says, “You just getting home?”

  “Yeah, long practice. You coming from Ezra’s?”

  “I spent a few hours over there after school. The float is starting to take shape.”

  “Good. I hate missing it, but—”

  “Coach Chandler has other plans. I get it.” She glances up at the house, seeming to notice for the first time her parents' car is gone. “Ugh, I forgot. They went to that rally Mr. Waller was holding tonight. They were very interested in hearing what he had to say about sanitation procedures.”

  I look at my own dark house.

  “I guess my parents went, too. Hey,” I say, “did you eat?”

  She makes a face and shakes her head. “There was some kind of mystery casserole for dinner at Ezra’s. I passed.”

  “I know my mom left dinner. Want to come over? We can eat and, you know, study.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  I can’t fight a smile. “Cool. Let me go shower and clean up. Thirty minutes, okay?”

  “Yeah.” Her smile in return warms my belly. “I’ll come over then.”

  We part, and I head up the porch steps, tossing my football gear by the door. Mom gets pissed when I don’t air it out, because damn, it reeks after practice. But I don’t have time for that tonight. I pass through the kitchen, smelling the lasagna and garlic bread Mom left warming in the oven. My mouth waters, but I climb the stairs, stripping off my clothes as I go, not wasting any time.

  I turn on the shower, walking back in my room for my towel. The lights are off, and I glance out the window and see Kenley walk into her room. For years we kept the shades drawn, blocking one another out, but now it’s different. We’re trying to rebuild that bridge of friendsh
ip between us. Friendship and something more.

  I walk into the bathroom and hop in the shower, feeling the warm heat beat against my tired shoulders. I desperately want her to know I’m serious about this—about her. The way I treated her wasn’t great. A little communication could have gone a long way. When she got mad at Rose, she turned her back on me too. I didn’t know it was because she thought I was involved with the vandalism on her house. I should have tried harder—done better. I can’t take away the past, but I can control the future. A future I want to include Kenley.

  I lather up, scrubbing off the dirt and grime. I emerge with pink skin and clean hair. I change quickly, knowing she’ll be back over soon. We can’t go on a date right now—not so close to Rose dying and definitely not with our current dating circumstances. We may not be able to go out, but we can stay in.

  I’ve just opened the oven when I hear a tap on the side door. Kenley peers through the window. I wave her in.

  “Smells good,” she says, taking off her coat. Her hair is up in a smooth ponytail and she’s wearing a gray sweater covered in small blue stars. It fits her perfectly, revealing her curves and the narrow taper to her waist. It’s been years since Kenley was in my house and it strikes me at how much I missed having her here. “What can I do to help?”

  I grab the bubbling dish with a potholder and place it on the table. “Uh, grab two plates? They’re in the—”

  “I know where they are,” she says, opening the correct cabinet and reaching for two dinner plates. Next, she pulls open the silverware drawer and picks out utensils. By the time I have the bread out, she’s set the whole table, including napkins and glasses.

  “That looks amazing,” she says, pulling out her chair. I want to kick myself for not going over and doing it for her. I’m just a little stunned at having her back in my house again. “Your mom has always been a really good cook.”

  I use a big spoon to scoop out a square and place it on her plate. With a crunch, she takes a bite of bread and moans her approval.