Slain

by Harper, Livia

  Principal Hendricks stares at me. I can’t tell if he’s scrutinizing my honesty or galled that I would try to hide my relationship with Jackson under such a flimsy cover.

  I hope, more now than ever, that my flawless history will count for something. But Mike has the same history I do. Whatever he’s said, it’s his word against mine. I decide to continue.

  “I only learned this morning that Mike posted something online that challenged my character. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet and have no idea what he said against me. But I think you should know that we broke up recently, and Mike was not happy about it.”

  “And you believe he’s retaliating?” Principal Hendricks asks. I still don’t know what he knows. I still don’t know if Mike has told him about Jackson. But it’s too late now.

  “I don’t know what he’s doing,” I say, too angry, and I’m tearing up, and my voice is getting shaky because all of this is so unfair. Mike and I have done nothing, and even if we had, why is my sex life any of the school’s business? In any other school this would be a vicious rumor. Embarrassing, maybe, but nothing more. Here, it’s linked to my whole life. I can’t stand it anymore.

  “Please calm down, Miss Grant,” he says. “There’s no need to get emotional.” He slides a box of tissues toward me, then leans back in his chair, scrutinizing me again.

  I dry my eyes and try to get my breathing under control. I have to be the rational one. Principal Hendricks is not the type of man who responds to tears.

  “It saddens me very much to think that one of the two of you is lying to me,” he says, “and one of you most certainly is. Whoever it is, they will be severely punished.”

  “It’s not me,” I say in the most controlled way I can manage, and look him straight in the eye.

  “I’ll give you one last chance, Ms. Grant, to tell me your side of the story, to save yourself from possible expulsion. If you have anything else to say, you’d better say it now.”

  “I have nothing else to add,” I say.

  “Very well. I will take this matter under consideration and notify you as soon as I’ve made my decision. In the meantime you will be allowed to attend classes as usual.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I say, and get up to leave.

  “Oh, and Ms. Grant?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Please speak to the custodial department about obtaining the necessary materials to clean off your locker. I expect it to be spotless by the end of the day.” A punishment. In his eyes, no matter what I’ve done, I am guilty by association.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, and it takes everything in me not to spit the words back in his face.

  Out of his office, I race to the bathroom. Tears are blurring my vision again, and I have no idea how much time is left in first period. I really don’t want anyone to see me like this, and I have to know what Mike said. I make it into the farthest stall and fumble inside my backpack for my iPad. I turn it on and go directly to Mike’s Facebook page. I read through the post, and I feel both victory and alarm as I process what he wrote last night.

  I need to ask all of you for your forgiveness, and I picked Facebook because I just can’t stand hiding this from anyone anymore. I’m not as strong as you thought I was. I’ve fallen in the worst possible way. I’m not a virgin anymore.

  I know this will shock a lot of you. It sorta shocks me too. I believe exactly what I’ve always believed, that sex is a sacred rite reserved for marriage. But I messed up. I thought I was following my heart. I love her so much, and I just wanted to make her happy. She said she’d done it before, and I didn’t want to lose her. I should have been her spiritual leader, but I wasn’t strong enough to say no. I broke a promise to my Heavenly Father. I’m so sorry. I’ll understand if none of you wants to be friends with me anymore.

  I’m praying a lot, and I’m not seeing her anymore. It wouldn’t be right. And frankly, it’s too much of a temptation still. Please pray for me.

  Your Brother in Christ,

  Mike

  I feel a small sense of victory, because I was right. Mike said we slept together. Not outright, but the meaning is there. He doesn’t have to mention my name. Everyone will assume he’s taking the high road, and everyone will know it’s me anyway. They haven’t seen Mike with anyone else for nearly a year. At least my defense to Principal Hendricks was the right move, the only move. If I had said anything else, I would have buried myself so much deeper.

  Mike’s post is crafted so well, though, that I can’t imagine anyone believing my side of the story, ever. If he had been boastful or angry, I would have had a chance. But he’s not. He’s humble and regretful. I actually marvel at the genius of it. I didn’t know Mike had it in him.

  My anger’s been replaced by a sense of defeat so strong I can’t force myself to leave the stall. Everything is falling apart. The police think I’m guilty of murder, my parents hate me, my friends won’t trust me anymore, and I might get expelled.

  The bell rings, and I stay inside as the room fills up with chatter, trying to be silent so no one hears me. I can’t stand them looking or not looking or their whispers or wide-eyed surprise. It’s just too much.

  I hear Paige’s voice.

  “No, I didn’t, but it’s really none of our business,” she says.

  “Do you think it’s true?” It’s Katie. “It’s just, when I talked to Emma this morning she seemed, like, genuinely shocked by the whole thing.” It’s weird to hear Katie defend me, even a little bit. I thought she’d be dancing in the streets when she heard we broke up.

  “Only they know the answer to that,” Paige says, “but I don’t see any reason for Mike to lie about it.”

  “I guess she could have been surprised he told everyone,” Katie says, and I realize from her tone that she wasn’t defending me at all. “She probably thought she had him wrapped around her little finger,” her voice is so haughty, so gleeful that my anger is coming back. I want to slap her.

  I put my hand on the stall door, ready to slam it open.

  “Shut up, Katie!” Paige yells, really yells, at her. “It’s none of your business either way, okay? You shouldn’t be talking about it.”

  I hear Katie snort, and I can imagine the look on her face, eyes wide, pretending Paige is the one whose behavior is inappropriate. It’s the last straw.

  I storm out. “Yeah, Katie, shut the fuck up,” I say. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Wow. Language,” Katie says. “You really think you need to get in any more trouble than you already are?”

  I could tell her everything, but I refuse to defend myself to her. She’s not worth it. I will forget her the minute I have my diploma in my hand.

  “Don’t lecture me, Katie. You’re only a technical virgin yourself. Isn’t that right?”

  “Shut up,” she says, and blanches because she knows exactly what I know about her. She told me herself. I continue, heedless of the fear in her eyes.

  “Paige, did you know Katie let Derek Halls have anal with her after the Harvest Festival junior year?”

  “Emma. Stop it.” Paige says.

  “So, by all means, please go around telling everyone else that I’m the slut. See how that works out for you.”

  “I told you that in confidence,” she says. Her eyes are welling up, and I can tell my words have hit her hard.

  All of a sudden I realize that none of this matters. I’m holding her to a standard that I don’t even believe in anymore. I’m so messed up. I don’t know how to navigate living both inside and outside this world at the same time. I don’t belong anywhere.

  Katie turns to Paige. “Please don’t tell anyone. It only happened once.”

  “I don’t care what you do,” Paige says.

  Some freshman girl bangs the door open, but when she sees our faces, she leaves.

  “I’m sorry, Katie,” I say. “You’re right. That was private. I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “Whatever,” Katie says
, and I know it’s as close as I’ll get to an apology from her. It doesn’t matter.

  The second bell rings, and Katie wipes at her eyes quickly in the mirror.

  “Come on, Paige, we have to get to class,” Katie says.

  She starts to go, but Paige doesn’t move.

  “Are you coming?” Katie asks.

  “In a minute,” Paige says.

  Katie huffs out, biting her lip so she doesn’t cry again. It makes me think of her when I met her in first grade, blonde pigtails and an awkward, too-toothy smile. It was hard for her coming in even a year after the rest of us had started. She used to give away parts of her lunch, and go home hungry, just so people would like her. It’s the same with her today, some part of her believing that she’s not worth friendship, only now her fruit snacks are tiny bits of gossip.

  I turn and realize Paige is still standing there, staring at me. I meet her eyes.

  “What’s wrong with you, Emma? That was really mean.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It was stupid.”

  Paige purses her lips and looks away from me. “Is it true, what he said?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “I’m sorry, Paige, but no.”

  She nods. I can’t tell if she believes me or not. I get the sense that she’s tucking away these details for later when she’ll have time to figure it all out, just like me. I wish I could tell her everything. I wish I could be honest without losing her. But a part of me knows I already have lost her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  IT TAKES ME MOST of the day to clean off my locker. All the janitor, Mr. Rassmussen, gives me is a scrub brush and a bucket of bleach water. No hard candy today. The bleach water doesn’t do anything at all, but it takes two hours of scrubbing, my fingernails spongy and splitting, my skin raw from the chemicals, before he believes that elbow grease will not do the job.

  I wait for another hour while he goes to the hardware store and comes back with an assortment of cleaners to try. My cuticles crack from the harshness of the chemicals, but eventually they work.

  After school I force myself to go to cheerleading practice, just to have something to do. There’s not much in the way of sports left to cheer for. All we have left are a couple of routines we’re planning to do for the end-of-year assemblies. We’ve done them a thousand times by now, and it feels good to get lost in the movements.

  Once practice is over, I barely have enough time to shower, change, check in with my mom, and grab a quick bagel from the Connections Café before youth group starts.

  I find Pastor Pete before things get going. My parents have told him everything. He’s the one who suggested I speak with Miss Hope.

  “I really don’t think I should be leading worship services anymore,” I say, and it feels like such a relief.

  He frowns, “Come on. I know everyone would love to see you up there. Maybe singing will help you feel better.”

  Singing would make me feel better. But not these songs. Jackson flashes in my mind, playing his guitar, us sitting on his bed a couple months ago, me singing along. I wish I could go back to that night. I wish it so badly.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t anymore.”

  He hesitates, not sure what to say, then falls back on, “Okay. It’s up to you.”

  Then I remember something else.

  “Oh, and…” I start, not knowing how to ask the question. “I was in your office yesterday with Miss Hope, and I saw that pig again, and…”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s just, you said it was your favorite as a kid, but…um…it looks brand new. All my old toys are pretty beat up.”

  His brow furrows. Then he smiles and leans in conspiratorially, “Don’t tell anyone, but I was a little bit of a neat freak as a kid.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say, even though it’s hard to believe. What sort of toddler is a neat freak?

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “I was just wondering. Did Nicolas or June ever come to you for any counseling?”

  “I’m afraid that’s private, Emma. Just like I wouldn’t talk to someone else about the things we’ve discussed, I can’t talk to you about them.”

  “Did you know Nicolas proposed to her?”

  He looks at me, confused. “But she was so young.”

  Unless he’s a good actor, the answer is no.

  “She didn’t accept, but…” I say. “I don’t know, I think she was trying to. She wanted to get baptized first.”

  “I’m sorry she didn’t have that chance.”

  “Were you planning to baptize her?” I ask.

  “No,” he smiles softly. “I usually leave that kind of thing to your dad. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, just some things she said before she died made me wonder.”

  He tilts his head, curious. He seems to sense that there’s more to the story than that, but doesn’t press me. Instead, he puts a hand on my shoulder, looks into my eyes. “Remember our conversation?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “You don’t have to make any decisions about God right now. Just remember to keep listening, okay?”

  I nod. I’m not about to get into that discussion again.

  “I’m praying for you, Emma.”

  Everyone is praying for me.

  What Pastor Pete said about the toy doesn’t make sense, and it’s weird enough to make me uneasy. Then I remember that there was a manufacturer’s tag on the pig. Maybe I can look it up and find more information.

  There’s still a few minutes before youth service starts so I go across the hall for a little privacy, into the empty gym. I pull out my iPad and look up the toy’s manufacturer: Joya Toyco. They have a website, and I click over to their Products page, but it’s just a paragraph explaining that they specialize in plush toys, not a list of any of their specific products.

  I move on to their About page. Sure enough, it says the company wasn’t even formed until 2002, way too late to be Pastor Pete’s toy in the ’80’s.

  It’s definitely a lie. Why would Pastor Pete lie?

  And how much do I really know about Pastor Pete?

  I know he’s been at the church for five years. I know he graduated from Bethany Bible College and that this is his first job out of school. Which, honestly, is sort of incredible. Most pastors have to put in a lot of time in smaller churches before getting hired at a place like this. He either impressed the heck out of my dad, or he had some very powerful connections.

  I doubt it was connections. I’ve never met his parents, or seen any brothers and sisters, or any other relatives for that matter. Paige’s grandparents and aunts and uncles visit all the time. Why wouldn’t Pastor Pete’s do the same? He’s always said that his parents raised him as a Christian. But they haven’t visited even once to see him preach?

  Maybe it’s just my head being soaked in all of this June stuff right now, but all I can think of, the only thing I can think of, is that the pig in his office is the toy from June’s testimony. Did she give it to him? Did he take it from her? Or am I making too much out of this? Plush pigs aren’t exactly rare. Is there some other story behind that toy that he doesn’t want to tell for a totally innocent and unrelated reason?

  I feel jittery. What if there’s more to Pastor Pete’s story than I know? Or what if, more likely, I’m seeing something that’s not there? What if I want to find a scapegoat so badly I’m making connections where there are none at all? I have to be careful. All I know for sure is that I need to find out more.

  I hear the music starting across the hall, the slow strum of his guitar, and know I have to get myself under control. Youth group is starting. I need to get back over there.

  Instead of my usual place in the second row, where I sit with everyone after the worship part of service is over, I pick a spot in back. Paige stares at me from her place at the piano, not so much confused as she is disappointed. There’s a long, hard conversation ahead of me with her. But it’s going
to have to wait until I have this all figured out.

  Soon Ruth takes my place at the mic, and it’s as if I never existed. Several people glance back at me, curious, but no one seems brave enough to ask. They’re probably thinking it has something to do with Mike’s Facebook post. They’re probably thinking that not being on stage isn’t my choice at all.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen things from this angle, down in the seats instead of up on stage. What felt earnest and smooth, even at my worst, now looks amateurish and hacky. Pastor Pete’s strumming on the electric guitar feels simple. Greyson’s drums are off beat. Paige is competent on the keyboard, technically proficient but not passionate. And it may be my own pride speaking, but Ruth’s voice sounds sharp—shrill and trying too hard to impress.

  There’s this trend in Christian music right now, maybe for a long time, to make it sound like secular music. But when they do that, it always sounds so wrong. Whether they’re mimicking sexy ballads (for Jesus) or emo crooning (for Jesus), or rocking hard (for Jesus) it just makes you feel a little icky. Especially the sexy stuff. I mean, all that breathy groaning is about sex, right? So it kind of feels like all these Christian kids are totally horny for Christ.

  Just as I’m thinking this, Ruth hits one of those breathy groans and closes her eyes. She’s trying to show how totally into God she is right now, how totally drowned she is in the Spirit, but it makes me certain, absolutely certain, that this is the exact face she makes when she has an orgasm, if she’s ever had one at all.

  I let out a little giggle. Okay, maybe not a giggle. The laugh explodes from my nose in a snort. If I was drinking milk it would bubble out of my nostrils. The guy sitting a couple chairs down turns to look, and I see that it’s Chuck. Making eye contact with him only makes me laugh harder, and soon he’s laughing too.

  An adult at the back of the room, Roger Smith, standing watch for troublemakers, gives us a harsh look. Chuck scoots closer as I try to stifle the urge to break out in full-blown howls of laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks in a whisper.