Pretty, Nasty, Lovely

by Rosalind Noonan

  She frowned. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  “Have faith, Dean Cho. We’re moving on an important mission, and if you believe in that, it can’t fail.”

  “I’ll give you their contact info, but please don’t come on too strong.”

  He rose and grabbed his coffee.

  Later, when he got the students’ info in an e-mail, he smiled at the first name on the list: Emma Danelski.

  Serendipity.

  * * *

  After class as I walked into Theta House, my cell phone pinged with an e-mail. Dr. Lamont, my A & P teacher, expressed condolences and wrote that I would be allowed to make up the exam on skeletal structure. “Sweet.” A weight lifted. My nursing career wasn’t dead yet.

  While I was on the e-mail server I looked up Dr. Finnegan’s e-mail address and sent him a one-word message: Thanks.

  Enough said.

  The kitchen smelled warm and savory, reminding me that I hadn’t had breakfast. The caterers were prepping for lunch—chicken tacos—and the smell of grilled chicken and chili beans made me wish I could stay. My stomach was probably rebelling because I hadn’t eaten enough these past few days. Snitching was strictly forbidden, so I grabbed a yogurt from the fridge and filled a to-go cup with coffee.

  “Oh, there you are.” Mrs. J moved away from the big stove, where she’d been talking with Juana, one of the cooks. “The police were here again, asking about you.”

  That stabbing pain was back in my abdomen. “Detective Taylor? What does she want now? She could have called me.”

  “She didn’t want to talk to you. She had questions.” The flicker of suspicion in Mrs. J’s eyes was like a jab to my heart. Why was our housemother turning on me?

  “What did she want to know?”

  “Character reference. She asked about your family and your background. She wanted to know if you’d ever been in trouble that I knew of. What your behavior was like here in the house.”

  “Oh my God, they’re investigating me? Why?”

  Her downturned brows punctuated a scowl. “You tell me.”

  “Tell you what? I always tried to help Lydia.”

  “I told them that. I know you had long talks with her.”

  “What about the rest? My family and . . .” I hoped that Mrs. J hadn’t mentioned my dead mother or the crash. She was sort of fatalistic about the toll of loss in a person’s life. As if a crisis damaged a person forever. “What did you tell them?”

  “You’ve never caused me any trouble, Emma, and you’ve never been arrested before.”

  At least she’d been honest about that. “Wait. They’re talking about arresting me?”

  “That didn’t come up, but they were fishing. I defended you as much as I could. Told them about your car accident—not your fault. And that I’ve met your dad. What’s he do again?”

  “He’s a musician.”

  “That’s right. Slipped my mind.” She seemed to mull it over as damaging evidence that I couldn’t be trusted because my father didn’t run a corporation or own a franchise of gas stations.

  “What else did they want to know?”

  “They wanted to know your schedule and where you worked. Oh, and they asked if you owned a dark hoodie.”

  Another stab in my chest. “What did you tell them?”

  “I gave them your schedule and told them yes on the hoodie. You girls posed in your black Theta Pi hoodies for rush this year. Every girl in the sorority has one.”

  “Well, I hope you told them that part.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “It’s ridiculous. Everyone on campus owns a dark hoodie.”

  She squinted at me. “For someone who claims to have done nothing wrong, you’re pretty defensive.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” I slammed an open palm against my chest. “For some mysterious reason I’m being investigated, and I would expect my housemother to stick up for me.”

  “I did what I could, but I can’t stand in the way of a police investigation.”

  Too furious to respond, I took my yogurt and coffee and headed out to my next class.

  CHAPTER 21

  The rear rows of the amphitheater were full when I walked in. Class was starting soon, and most people liked the back of the room, either to exit quickly or to dink around on their laptops or text or sleep.

  But I usually found Dr. Habib’s lectures interesting, so I moved ahead down the steps and took an empty seat on the aisle of the third row. I was opening my spiral notebook when I noticed Dr. Habib at the side of the theater talking with someone. A woman with auburn hair in a perfect A-line cut. She wore a navy blazer and khaki pants and practical shoes, and something about the way she moved seemed familiar. Oprah Winfrey.

  No. Detective Taylor.

  They seemed to be wrapping up a conversation, and I was pretty sure I knew the topic.

  With a nod, the detective said her good-byes and started up the stairs to the exit. Leaving my backpack open at my feet, I darted up the stairs behind her.

  “Detective Taylor?” I called, following her up to the door at the top of the aisle. I had to call her three times before she turned to look back at me.

  “Emma. Hey, there.”

  “I just heard that you were grilling Mrs. Johnson about me, and now Dr. Habib. Why are you trying to dig up stuff on me?”

  “It’s all part of our investigation. We need to make sure that—”

  “Isn’t Lydia the one you should be investigating? You should be talking to her professors.”

  “And we are. But it’s not that simple.”

  I wanted to rail at her that it was very simple and I wanted to be left alone. But I was scared, and I didn’t think it would do me any good to piss off a cop. “I just want to be left alone,” I said, keeping my voice level.

  “Listen, if Lydia was your friend, then I’m sure you want us to make sure she jumped of her own volition. That’s why we’re digging. I’m sorry if it’s an inconvenience.”

  “Is this about the person in the hoodie who was on the bridge? Because it wasn’t me.”

  “Do you have an alibi?”

  “I was in bed. In my room.”

  “But no one was there to verify that,” she said. “You see, we talked to your roommate, Angela, who said she stayed with her boyfriend Sunday night.”

  “But that doesn’t make me guilty. It’s not my fault that—” She drew in a breath and held up one hand. “Just go to your class, okay?”

  I didn’t really have any choice.

  Back in my seat, I tried to tamp down the anxiety and focus on the steady timbre of Dr. Habib’s calming voice. This wasn’t a panic attack; there was a very good reason that my hands were shaking as I took notes.

  The police were investigating me, and I had something to hide.

  * * *

  Although I didn’t see Detective Taylor for the rest of Wednesday, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. When someone glanced up at me from a table in the library, I saw suspicion in their eyes and worried that they knew something. As I walked along the paving stone paths and bridges on campus, I felt someone following me, matching my pace, slowing when I slowed. But when I looked back, I saw no cops or detectives, only students, male and female, minding their own business.

  I told myself it was my imagination, that the police department wouldn’t bother having me followed for such a small thing. At least, that was the way I rationalized it.

  That night at dinner as I sat at the table picking at a slice of veggie pizza, Violet came up behind me and leaned in. “Hey, sweet pea. I hear you ended up with those archives from Lydia’s room.”

  “They’re in my closet. Do you want them?”

  “Hell no. I’m overloaded with all the other offices I’m supposed to fulfill. I was just talking with Tori and she agreed. We’re going to nominate you to take over historian and recording secretary. That would put you on the Rose Council.”

  “That’s an
honor, but I don’t have time right now. Isn’t there a junior or senior who wants to do it?”

  “We need some new blood on the council. Most of us are graduating end of this year. And Lydia’s jobs weren’t so hard to do. It’ll take you no time at all. But as your first unofficial task, I need you to pull some photos of Lydia for a collage. We’ll use them for the ritual Friday night, and the memorial pancake supper on Saturday.”

  That damned pancake supper. It was idiocy to think that anyone could be honored with burned pancakes and drunken, horny students lined up for hookups.

  “Don’t you have photos of her online?”

  “Only the one that’s been going around.” A thoughtful portrait of Lydia with her chin resting on her knuckles appeared online and in newspapers, and a framed copy greeted us from the makeshift memorial out front whenever we arrived home. It hadn’t been a bad picture when it was first taken, but now I saw something creepy in her eyes, a dark shadow there that said, I’ve got a secret. “You’ve got our sorority history in that box. We wanted Lydia to make it digital, but who has the time? So you need to pull some pictures for us.”

  I couldn’t say no to Violet, who did a lot of work for the sorority. “How many photos do you need?”

  “A dozen or so? And choose another one to blow up. Everyone’s getting sick of the picture we’ve been using.”

  “I’ll see what I can find in the boxes.”

  “Don’t look so glum. With the way Lydia loved herself, there should be dozens of photos.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just . . .” I looked around the table and lowered my voice. “I’m totally stressed about everything, and the police are investigating me. They think I had something to do with Lydia’s death.”

  “Oh, that’s no big deal. They got that young cop following you, too?”

  “Detective Taylor? The Oprah clone?”

  “No, there’s another one. Pretty. She could pass as a student. She and Taylor have been following a bunch of us. Any girl who was Lydia’s friend.”

  “Really? You, too?”

  “Yup. Tori and Courtney, too. Tori stood up to them, told them to leave her alone or she’d have her daddy sue for harassment.”

  “Did that work?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “But you didn’t tell them to back off?”

  “My parents raised me right. Besides, Daddy would be furious if he found out what was going on here, all these suicides. It’s not the sort of environment my parents would want for me. So I don’t care if they speak to my teachers and watch me walk from English to the student union. If that means I’ll be left alone by my parents, the police can watch me all day long.”

  “Why didn’t you guys tell me? I’ve been so scared, thinking I was the only one.”

  “I figured they were just going after the seniors, and honestly, I didn’t want word getting around. I only knew about Court and Tori because they had us corralled together in the beginning. But don’t let them get to you.”

  “I can’t stand it,” I said. “They’re like vultures. The only time I feel safe now is here in the house.”

  “Don’t you be scared, honey. Those officers got nothing on us. In a few days, they’ll leave us alone and move on to some other case.” She squeezed my shoulder as she straightened up. “Don’t forget those photos, now.”

  “I won’t.” Turning back to my cold pizza, I wanted to believe Violet. I wanted to think that they would back off after a few days. But I couldn’t stop the worry that niggled at my conscience. What if they found something?

  * * *

  That night I dragged the boxes to the center of our living area and opened them up on the floor. One box was loaded with standing files, none of which contained photos. I put that one away, but found the other box jammed to the top with photos that seemed to be piled up in no particular order.

  “What a mess,” I said as I grabbed a few photos from the top of the box. “Lydia was usually so anal about being organized.”

  Angela looked down from the sofa, where she’d been working on her laptop. “That’s not Lydia’s style at all. Looks like everything fell out and got slopped back in. What are you doing with the box?”

  When I explained about the archives and the need for a collage, she got down on the floor and started digging through with me. A few minutes later Defiance joined us, calling for organization and setting up stacks of photos by the month and year stamped on the back. Isabel came out to the living room, but kept her distance, snuggling with a blanket and her cell phone on the window seat. She told us she didn’t feel well, but I sensed that she was still uncomfortable being around the photo collection that had been managed by Lydia.

  “You know, this is really Stone Age,” Angela said. “Keeping our sorority history in printed photos. Does anyone have a digital copy of these? Maybe on Lydia’s laptop?”

  “The police have her laptop, but Violet says there are no digital files. I mean, people will have stuff they took on their phones. But as far as the official Theta Pi archive goes? You’re looking at it.”

  “It’s a little chilling to see her alive and smiling,” Defiance said, pausing at a photo of a carefree Lydia with her arms up, her dark hair a stark contrast to her snow-white sweater. “If you forget about her bossiness, she was a beautiful girl.”

  I agreed. “It’s good to remember Lydia before the bathrobe stage. Her smile, it used to light her up,” I said, trying to ignore the desire to cry. Here was Lydia, alive and happy. Of course, these captured moments didn’t hint at the darkness in her heart, but the photos pointed to the woman that might have been.

  It took the three of us more than an hour to sort through the top of the box, which took us back through the last five years of Theta Pi history. We managed to cull twenty photos with Lydia in them. Nothing from her freshman year, which was odd, though it could have been buried in the bulk beneath.

  “Let’s stop here,” I said. “We’ve all got other things to do.”

  “I can drop off the pictures we picked,” Angela offered. “I’m on my way to meet Darnell. Who gets them?”

  “Leave them with Violet,” I said. “Thanks for your help, guys.”

  Isabel donated plastic Baggies to keep everything organized. I noticed that she held her breath as we covered the box and then tucked it back into the closet.

  I got that. I think we all breathed a little easier with the photos stashed, the memories allowed to rest. Rest in peace.

  CHAPTER 22

  Thursday and Friday were more of the same, swimming against the tide, struggling my way to the surface to grab a breath. Classes, work, two hundred pages of reading, an essay, an article review. The makeup quiz for anatomy was painful, but at least I was able to answer most of the questions. Just in time to begin studying for next week’s test.

  Thursday night there was an awkward moment in the A & P lab when I found myself staring at a woman’s hand, her fingernails still bearing a chipped coat of coral nail polish. It struck me that those hands had been touching the world a year ago. Buttering a slice of toast. Patting a child’s shoulder. Cuddling a cat.

  With all the mysticism of death, losing my mom and Delilah and now Lydia had taught me the reality of the survivor—the simple disappearance of someone from your daily world. Now you see me, now you don’t.

  I groaned when I got an e-mail from Dr. Finn about joining the suicide task force. As if I had time for some idiotic committee.

  And there was the added suspense of knowing I was being watched and followed. When I scanned a crowd, I wasn’t sure who was a cop and who was a student, so I assumed everyone had their eyes on me. The slightest rustle of a dead leaf sent my heart racing. Paranoia can really zap your energy.

  I had to remind myself that I’d survived much worse things. The accident . . . the aftermath.

  No one here knew the details of the accident, circumstances that had made me hate my sister for years after it happened. Delilah had insisted on driving
, and then while on the road she had badgered Mom about a three-day concert my parents had refused to let her attend. All the classic ploys—all my friends are going, I’ll pay for it myself, don’t you trust me?—weren’t working. In a tantrum, Delilah sent the car speeding ahead. Mom shouted at her to stop, but that made her go even faster. When the car went into a spin, I think Delilah regretted it. She yanked the wheel, and in the rearview mirror I saw a look of panic in her eyes. That raw fear, gritty and dank as mud.

  “It wasn’t suicide,” I told my father afterward. “She was speeding, but she didn’t mean to crash.”

  “We’ll never know.” He seemed so gray and wrinkled then, as if he had aged overnight. Only the ponytail at the back of his neck hinted at the cool, young dude he used to be.

  We didn’t discuss it much, but I made myself an expert on suicide to prove him wrong. I wanted to point to signs and symptoms to discount my sister’s motives. I wanted to say, “See? Look at that. Definitely not Delilah.” But the facts were inconclusive.

  Ironic that I was here all these years later trying to convince the police of the exact opposite. It was suicide. It was, you idiots. Lydia Drakos killed herself. End of story.

  Sometimes people just didn’t listen.

  * * *

  White dresses, white candles, white flames. Each of us held a white, long-stemmed rose twined in crimson ribbon. The velvet ribbon had been Violet’s idea—red to symbolize sorrow and heartbreak. The woven thread of color was startling against the field of white. We all wore our diamond-shaped Theta Pi pin, an engraved gold pin framed by tiny inlaid diamonds that occasionally winked in the light. The bright glow of white fabric and light against the muted shadows of the room always brought quiet and reverence to the usually noisy girls.

  The semicircle of sisters surrounded a little table, a makeshift altar bearing photos of Lydia, a scarlet-red rose floating in a glass bowl to symbolize sorrow, and the Theta Pi banner with our sorority insignia. I inhaled the scents of wax and ceremony. Theta Pi rituals could be a little bit sanctimonious, but like church, they were just intimidating enough to make people behave and be their best selves.