Dark Turns

by Cate Holahan

  Peter pointed at Nia’s chest. The action seemed as aggressive as the cop’s behavior toward Theo moments before. She stepped back.

  “Even if she was strangled—like you say, I didn’t see the body—some sicko probably sneaked onto campus and found her by herself. She drowned during move-in weekend, right? There are a thousand people on campus then. Security probably wouldn’t notice a weird adult. Someone could pretend to be a student’s sibling or uncle.”

  Nia’s stomach growled like an irritated dog. Hunger, coupled with the heat and the stress of the conversation, had made her light-headed. She couldn’t keep debating a stranger’s innocence or guilt.

  “I guess . . .” She descended the steps, planning to give Peter some version of a sign-off: See you around. Good luck with everything. Nice meeting you.

  He towered over her as she stepped onto the walkway. His hands hit his hips. His chin jutted out.

  “You know, you really shouldn’t be telling people about any marks on Lauren’s body. You can’t know what caused them. It’s bad enough that the cops are questioning Theo in broad daylight. You start spreading rumors about strangulation and people will crucify the poor kid.”

  Nia copied Peter’s haughty stance. “I wasn’t spreading anything around. I was telling you what I saw because you’re a teacher, and the police were here, and I thought you should know the facts before trying to convince people that this girl killed herself.”

  “She still might have. Maybe she jumped in and got tangled up in a rope.”

  Nia shrugged. “Well, I’m sure the police will have something to say soon. Nice meeting you.”

  Though she’d said the polite thing, her tone conveyed their meeting hadn’t been a pleasure. His lips parted. Before he could retort, she marched past him. As she exited the courtyard, she swore she could still feel his eyes burning into her back.

  7

  Cavalier [ka-val-je]

  The male partner of the ballerina.

  The cafeteria hummed with high-pitched teenage voices. Occasionally, the clatter of silverware pierced the din, like shrapnel hitting a fan blade. Nia chewed a bland bite of chicken salad and struggled to pick out individual conversations from the crowd noise. How could the dean expect her to keep rumors in check when she couldn’t hear anything?

  She glanced at the group of girls sitting to her left at the long, rectangular dining table. A teen with curly brown hair made eye contact and then turned inward toward her friends. The girls’ voices, already unintelligible, lowered another notch.

  Nia ran her tongue beneath her back teeth, dislodging a bit of mayonnaise-glued chicken. She tasted the tangy flavor of the sandwich again. The cook must have put lemon in it to make it seem fresher. The thought made her long for Listerine.

  She still had another fifteen minutes of dining hall duty. Nia scanned the room for her students. She spotted Alexei and June with a throng of upperclassmen. The group’s seniority was evident by the loud sounds coming from their table. No need for them to keep their voices down. They owned the place. Nia thought she recognized the T twins and Joseph at the same table.

  She had seen Suzanne earlier on the arm of a guy with gelled boy-band bangs. Kim had joined them. She’d also briefly spotted Lydia eating at the edge of a long table, mostly with younger-looking students. The girl had seemed unattached to the group, as though she were eating alone rather than with her classmates. She hadn’t stayed long.

  Aubrey was nowhere to be seen. Neither, for that matter, was Marta.

  “Looking for your relief?”

  The voice came from behind her. Nia turned to see Peter standing in the aisle on her right side. He’d changed into khaki slacks and a pale-blue button-down shirt that highlighted his eyes. He’d slicked his hair back into a style that reminded her of the 1920s. The man cleaned up good. He looked appropriate, handsome, stylish. Still a jerk, she reminded herself.

  Instead of a dining tray, he held two books in his left hand. He held them out to her. “Stirk sent me with a present. Take one.”

  She pulled the top book from his hands. The cover depicted a black-and-white picture of a stork standing beside the water on an empty beach. The image was lonely yet peaceful, befitting a condolence card.

  “An e-mail is going out. You’ll see it in your inbox when you get back to your room.”

  Peter slid into the empty seat across from her as he spoke. There was plenty of room for him. No one, apparently, had wanted to sit near the new RA.

  “We are expected to provide twenty-four-seven counseling about Lauren’s death,” Peter continued. He waved his own copy of the book. “This is supposed to give us guidance on how to help the students deal with their loss. Stirk wants us to read it.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  Nia’s flat tone didn’t convey any appreciation. Grief counselor would have been her last chosen occupation. She wasn’t good with tears or providing solace. She preferred her emotions—and everyone else’s—kept on the inside.

  Peter offered a sheepish smile. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  Nia shrugged. “No, I get it.” She recalled her conversation with the dean before. “It’s how we earn our free housing, right?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. But I didn’t mean about bringing you more work. I know we got off to a bad start.”

  He glanced at the girls at the other end of the table and lowered his voice. “It’s just that I feel protective of Theo. Rumors are swirling about him. I guess the girl’s dad asked a few classmates questions, which started a whole ‘It’s Theo’s fault’ thread on Facebook. Last night, I found him throwing up in the bathroom. The kid is sick about Lauren. He thinks she killed herself because of him.”

  “I wasn’t accusing him of anything.”

  “I know. But I talked to him until four in the morning, and then, when I finally get him off the ledge, the police show up and intimidate him. If the school doesn’t handle this better, that kid’s going to jump out a window.”

  Nia tapped the book on the table in front of her. “Well, guess that’s why we have these.”

  Her pocket buzzed. She recognized the vibration as her cell’s silent ring. She reached into her sweater. Her mother had called before to ask how she was settling in. She hadn’t had a chance to phone back.

  Peter’s hand grazed her forearm. A familiar tingle tickled her spine as his fingertips brushed her skin. She didn’t want a man, but her body missed the touch of one: the thickness of a man’s fingers, the breadth of a male palm. The way a man’s hand could engulf a shoulder or a thigh or a breast.

  “Shit. That wasn’t an apology as much as it was an excuse.” He again rubbed the back of his neck. The gesture made him appear shy, almost humble. “I was in attack mode this morning and I lashed out at you unfairly. I’m sorry.”

  Her phone continued buzzing. Nia stopped trying to find it. “It’s okay. I’d be edgy too under the same circumstances.”

  He smiled and extended his hand above the table. “I never introduced myself properly. Peter Andersen. I teach tenth- and eleventh-grade European literature. I also advise the student poetry magazine: Wallace Words.”

  His boyish grin invited an answering smile. She clasped his hand.

  “Nia Washington. I’m the new teaching assistant in the dance department.”

  “Very nice to meet you.”

  Her phone beeped a loud response, announcing a missed call. “Sorry about that.”

  “No, don’t be. Feel free to get it. I have the next shift and I’m already here. No reason for you to stay too.”

  “Really? Thanks.” This time she meant it. Her foot throbbed. With any luck, she’d be able to soak it while scanning her homework.

  She slid out from the table and stood in the aisle. “It’s really nice of you to take over early.”

  “No problem. Hope to see you around.”

  “Likewise.”

  Nia exited the cafeteria into bright sunshine. A wall of sticky heat greeted her
. She swapped her new book from one hand to the other as she pulled off her sweater. Once free, she grabbed the phone from the pocket. Time to tell Mom about her strange first day.

  A text dominated the home screen.

  Missed call: Dimitri Bovt.

  She froze, feeling vaguely nauseous. Was that what love became when it ended? Blind fear? Sickness?

  He hadn’t left a voicemail. Why would he call after a year? What could he possibly want?

  She stared at his name on the screen.

  The night he’d ended things, all the lights had been on in the apartment. They were constantly penny pinching, turning off every bulb in order to save on the electricity bill. But that evening, she’d walked in to the equivalent of a theater with the house lights turned all the way up. Closing time. She should have gotten the hint.

  The apartment had smelled of whisky. The physical demands of their jobs kept them from drinking much, but there’d been a brand-new bottle of Johnny Walker on the coffee table, a third gone, and a glass half-filled with amber liquid. No ice.

  The liquor had tipped her off to trouble—just not what kind. She’d immediately dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter and joined Dimitri on the living room couch. She’d expected him to spill a story about his disapproving father or maybe share unwelcome news about his grandparents.

  Dimitri had leaned into her and then abruptly scooted away on their Ikea sofa.

  “What’s wrong?” she’d asked.

  “We need to talk.”

  The infamous phrase. Still, she hadn’t realized what was happening. At worst, she’d thought he would ask her to pay a larger share of the rent.

  The discussion had lasted hours, even though only a few points were made. Dimitri’s family thought that they had become too serious for a pair of twenty-one-year-olds. They were living together prematurely, and at his age, he shouldn’t be subsidizing her rent. Most importantly, they had too little life experience to know whether or not they really wanted each other.

  Shock had turned Nia into a lawyer. She’d protested each point without emotion: they weren’t like other young people; their careers had made them grow up faster; they saved money by splitting a studio apartment, even if they didn’t divide the rent fifty-fifty. After an hour of arguing, though, her adrenaline had faded. She’d grown quiet while he justified “their” need to “have experiences outside of each other.”

  She’d held the tears at bay during the whole cab ride to her mother’s house. It wasn’t until her mom had handed her a box of Epsom salt that the faucet started flowing. Her mom had directed her to the bathroom with two well-worn mantras in the Washington household: “Tears aren’t a social drink” and “A soak does more for the soul than wasted salt water.”

  Her tears could have filled the tub. She’d cried until she was dehydrated. The following morning, she’d collected her things from Dimitri’s apartment while he was at practice. Three days later, she’d auditioned for the traveling group and gotten a soloist position. He’d called her twenty times before she left. She hadn’t returned one message.

  Deep down, Nia knew he didn’t deserve the silent treatment. She understood his argument. How could anyone know what they wanted at twenty-one? It was a question she had asked herself.

  But she hated him for answering it.

  She wouldn’t call him back.

  8

  En Croix [ahn krwah]

  In the shape of a cross. Indicates that an exercise is to be executed to the fourth position front, to the second position and to the fourth position back, or vice versa.

  “Sudden death can bring up many feelings to deal with all at once.”

  Nia peeled back the page of the book propped against her knees, struggling to focus on the large print. It didn’t help that the sun had long set, leaving the fluorescent bulb in the living room to fight, alone, against the darkness invading from the bay window. She adjusted her position on the bed. The comforter underneath her beckoned.

  “It may seem incredibly unfair, especially if the person is young.”

  Nia snorted. She closed the book and glanced at the name under the big, bold title: Understanding Grief and Grieving by Harrison Lovett, MD, MSW. The degrees were unnecessary. A hundred pages in and Nia hadn’t read one revelation on dealing with grief or helping others cope with loss. Common sense, drawn out into pointless paragraphs, littered each page.

  An opportunity to apply the book’s chestnuts had yet to present itself. Though Nia had sequestered herself in the room to wait for the students, no one had knocked. She wasn’t surprised. Who would talk to a stranger when friends were next door, if not in the same room? Besides, her building housed juniors and seniors. Judging from June’s comments in dance class, most of the upperclassmen didn’t know Lauren well enough to grieve her loss. The few conversations Nia had overheard referred to the victim as that girl Theo cheated on.

  The school’s e-mail had upped the volume on the hallway chatter. Though it had encouraged students to discuss their feelings with faculty, the teens seemed to take the letter as a permission slip to publicly share theories. A bookmaker listening to the gossip would put the short odds on suicide. Nearly every teenage girl thought it natural that a smart, attractive sophomore would end her life after her older, popular boyfriend cheated. The assumption said something about the smallness of the students’ world. Life and death revolved around high school romances and college acceptance letters.

  Then again, her world wasn’t much bigger. All she’d cared about two years ago were ballet companies and her boyfriend. Now, though, she had to focus on her health and rebuilding her career.

  Dimitri had not called again. Maybe he’d never meant to phone in the first place. He’d probably pocket dialed her. Soon, he would realize and delete her number so it wouldn’t happen a second time. Her chest tightened at the thought. She squeezed her eyes shut, an attempt to blind herself from the memory of his face. She couldn’t speculate on Dimitri’s call anymore. It was almost eleven o’clock, and she needed sleep. Round-the-clock counseling sounded good in a letter, but the school couldn’t require such vigilance. She taught in the morning. Injuries happened to tired bodies.

  Nia marked her place in the book and set it on her nightstand. She extended her legs until they dangled off the edge of the bed, pulling her weight toward the floor. Time to get ready for bed. Soap, shampoo, shave, stretch, and sleep—in that order.

  She plodded over to the bathroom. A knock echoed in the room. Nia stopped, unsure the sound she’d heard came from her door. It sounded again: three staccato raps.

  Nia ran through bullet points she knew without the book. Listen. Reassure the student of her own safety. Refrain from any mention of Jesus, God, Allah, or any other deity. The school was officially nondenominational, despite the massive Christian chapel lording over the main campus. Besides, most students wouldn’t take comfort in the idea that a master plan somehow included a young girl’s death.

  She opened the door. The overweight girl from ballet class stood in the hallway. Marta wore a boy’s Wallace sweatshirt that hid her belly. With it covered, she didn’t seem heavy. Youth, not added pounds, rounded her face. The girl’s big brown eyes shone like river stones. Red rimmed the bottom lids. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  Marta checked over her shoulder before stepping into the room. She shut the door behind her.

  Nia gestured toward the gray-and-tan-striped sofa in the center of the room. It appeared pilfered from a retirement home. Even Wallace had to skimp on something. Clearly, the RAs’ furniture budget was not a high priority.

  Marta sat on the couch like it was upholstered with cement. Nia joined her on the opposite cushion.

  The girl’s hands folded in her lap. She rubbed the back of her knuckles with her thumb. Her bottom lip trembled. “I, um, just didn’t have anyone else to talk to . . .”

  “I’m glad you came. Would you like some water?”

  Fresh tears fille
d Marta’s eyes. She shook her head.

  “Let me grab you some tissues.”

  Nia realized she didn’t have tissues as the words escaped her mouth. She left Marta on the couch to grab a roll of paper towels from the kitchen counter. Marta stared at her lap as Nia held out the poor substitute for Kleenex.

  The girl accepted the roll without eye contact. She unwound a sheet and pressed it to her eyes before balling the rough paper into a giant worry bead.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Nia said.

  The girl’s head snapped upward. Her mouth dropped like she’d seen a ghost. Her eyes darted toward the door.

  Nia didn’t understand why the words bothered her. Didn’t everyone say that when someone died?

  “Were you and Lauren close?”

  Marta’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t know her. I’m not here about Lauren.”

  Then why are you crying? Nia folded her hands into her lap and, like a television shrink, said, “I’m here to listen.”

  Marta twisted the paper towel into a rope. “You can’t tell anyone what I tell you, right?”

  Can’t? No. Attorneys and real psychiatrists had client–patient privileges. Nothing Marta said fell under protected speech. But she couldn’t help if Marta didn’t feel safe.

  “As long as what you tell me isn’t a crime, I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  Tears carved their way down Marta’s cheeks. She tucked in her lips and looked at the ceiling. “It’s not a crime. But maybe it should be.”

  The words fit everything together like a final puzzle piece. The girl’s belly, her uncertain posture and off balance, the reason she sat here confessing to her RA rather than one of her friends: Marta was pregnant—or she had been.

  “You can talk to me.”

  The girl met her eyes for a moment, as if agreeing to a pact. “I had an abortion three days ago. I went to a clinic in Claremont on Saturday, as soon as my parents dropped me here. I wanted to do it sooner, but I was home for the summer and there was no way to get to a doctor. My parents are Armenian Catholics—that’s basically double Catholic. They think abortion is murdering a baby. It’s, like, the worst kind of killing a person can do. They would think I’m worse than a terrorist.”