by Amy Giles
I open my mouth, ready to drop my pants and show her how he “disciplines” me when she cuts me off again.
“Charlie Simmons, Hadley. Really? What’s wrong with you?”
Her words are sharp jabs, as painful as his kicks. Maybe more so, because I know now for sure I really am alone in this.
I stand up and wrap my sandwich in a paper towel to eat on the road. “Call Casey’s house. Tell them I’m on my way to get Lila.”
I walk out of the house, wishing I never had to come back ever again.
BRADY: The date is January 13. Time: 11:03 a.m. Please state your . . .
MM: Meaghan Maki. Seventeen. Yes, you have my permission to record my statement.
BRADY: You’re getting to be a pro at this. I’m sorry to drag you down here again.
MM: Look, I’m only doing this because you said it’s to help Hadley. I still haven’t heard from her. Do you know if they even let her get letters there? It’s weird that she hasn’t written back.
BRADY: I’m not sure. So, last time you said you weren’t certain that Hadley’s relationship with Charlie was a particularly good one.
MM: I never said that. I said it was just weird how close they got.
BRADY: Let’s focus on their relationship.
MM: Why?
BRADY: We feel Hadley may have been in an abusive relationship.
MM: What? No. No way. I’d know. She would have told me . . .
BRADY: Ms. Maki?
MM: Maybe? . . . God! I don’t know anymore!
She was just . . . different after they started dating.
And Charlie started getting really possessive. I’d see them at her locker. He would be holding her, his arms around her, like, all sweet and stuff, until you got closer and saw his face, and then hers. He looked really intense, and she was uncomfortable.
Hadley started getting weird too. Snapping at us, distracted all the time, forgetting things. She forgot about Lila’s talent show. That was something Hadley never would have forgotten. Ever. Until Charlie.
BRADY: The date is January 13. Time, 11:47 a.m. Please state your name and age for the record.
NB: Noah Berger. Still seventeen, but the way this investigation is going, I’ll be thirty-three when it’s over.
BRADY: Do I have your permission to record your statement?
NB: Sure.
BRADY: Noah, would you say Charlie was possessive of Hadley?
NB: Charlie, possessive? No. Wait . . . did Meaghan tell you that? She’s nuts. I think she’s just saying that because she hasn’t dated anyone longer than five minutes. That girl has serious commitment issues.
BRADY: Did you ever feel that Hadley was in an unhealthy relationship with Charlie?
NB: No, never. If anything, it looked like Hadley was really leaning on Charlie.
BRADY: Why would she need to lean on Charlie?
NB: Things were crappy at home when her father found out about them dating.
BRADY: Crappy how?
NB: [exhales] I don’t know. She’d always say she was grounded. But I think it was worse than that.
BRADY: Could you expand on that?
NB: Okay, so like, she was ALWAYS grounded, but after a couple of days she’d still go out with us or go see Charlie. So how is that being grounded, right? I started to think being grounded in her house was code for something else, you know? But what?
then
Charlie waits for me outside Sal’s Monday morning, despite the cold mist in the air that makes the road a slick mess.
I pull up next to the curb and lower the window.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I wince as the words come out of my mouth. His face is stormy and bothered. He gets in the car, forcing a weak smile, then leans over and pecks me on the lips, dry and platonic, like we’re an old married couple heading for divorce.
I pull away from the curb, trying to focus on the road, but my thoughts are frantic. He stares ahead, not even trying to make small talk.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, waiting for the green turn arrow.
He looks over at me and shrugs halfheartedly.
My hands start to tremble on the wheel. He’s breaking up with me. The light turns green, and I hit the gas too hard; the wheels spin out, and the car swerves.
“Whoa!” Charlie reaches for the wheel instinctively.
“I got it!” I snap, straightening the car, easing into my turn more cautiously.
Maybe Charlie breaking up with me isn’t the worst thing. It will destroy me, for sure. But it will let me focus on Lila. Since I met Charlie, I’ve gotten sloppy. My plans have gotten muddled.
But I’ve been happy. For once.
I drive into the school parking lot. Pulling into the first spot I see, I throw the car into park and turn off the ignition, bracing myself for what comes next.
He shifts in his seat.
“I don’t know how to tell you this . . . ,” he hedges.
I shake my head, staring at my hands in my lap. It was too good to be true. I always knew it.
“Just . . . say it,” I whisper. I can take a hit. But a hit would be easier than this. Physical pain passes quickly. Breaking up with Charlie will take so much longer to heal.
We both take deep breaths.
“Your dad stopped by the diner yesterday.”
My head shoots up in shock.
“What?”
“He made a big scene,” he says. “Told my mom to make sure I stayed away from you.” He looks out his window, as if he can’t stand the sight of me anymore.
Now I understand why he wants to break up with me. I feel my cheeks flame with humiliation.
“Oh, Charlie. I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”
“I didn’t want to tell you. I knew it would upset you.”
A gulp lodges in my throat. “Okay, well . . . I get why you’d want to break up after that.”
“What?”
“You don’t deserve any of this, Charlie. You deserve way better.”
I reach for the door handle, wanting to escape to the nearest bathroom so I can fall apart in private. He grabs my arm and pulls me back.
“Who said anything about breaking up?” He stares at me quizzically.
“Didn’t you?” I ask.
“No!” He laughs, despite everything.
I throw my head back in my seat and breathe. “I’d be relieved if I wasn’t still freaking out that my father went to your mom’s work.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “What are we going to do?”
He pulls me into his arms and rests his chin on the top of my head. “I’m trying to figure that out too.”
More cars start to park around us; it’s time to face the day. Charlie takes my backpack and meets me in front of the car, wrapping an arm around me.
“How’d he find out? Was it my hoodie?” he asks as we walk toward the building. I nod, and he groans. “Crap! This is my fault!”
I shake my head. “It’s not your fault, Charlie. He came home in a mood. He could have found anything to get pissed at me about.”
“What happened?” he asks.
“He smacked me and then sent me to my room.” I look away when Charlie winces. “I expected it to be worse. Does your mom hate me now?”
“No, of course not. She’s not a fan of your dad’s, though.”
Charlie walks me all the way to my locker, clearly deep in thought.
“Listen, Hadley.” He ducks his head down to talk to me privately. “You need to report him,” he says, trying to make the words stick.
I shake my head no.
“Why not?” He grabs my arm. “He’s—”
“Shhh!” I cut him off with a harsh hiss.
I glance around at everyone darting past us. Any one of them could overhear.
“Hey, kiddies.” Meaghan slides up to us, making my point. I shoot him an “I told you so” look.
“What’s going on?” Her eyes dart between us. “Did I interrupt something?”
“N
o,” I assure her, slamming my locker. Charlie doesn’t play along as well.
“Charlie, you look like you’re going to have a stroke or something,” Meaghan says, eyeing him. “What’s my girl been doing to you to get you so worked up?” She winks at me and loops her arm through mine.
Forcing a smile I don’t feel, I say, “I’m keeping him on his toes.” I reach over to squeeze his hand. “I’ll talk to you later. Okay?”
His eyes widen, and he raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Yes, you will.”
Meaghan and I walk over to the stairwell.
“What was that all about?” She thumbs over her shoulder. I notice her new manicure.
“I like the new color.” I take her hand, admiring the dark burgundy on her nails. “I could never get away with something that dark.”
She flips her hands back and forth to show me. “Yeah, you like it? I wasn’t sure at first. It’s really dark. But it’s growing on me.”
Sometimes I wish I had the kind of problems I could tell my friends. But my time with Meaghan and Noah is too precious. I get to choose who I want to be, how I want to be seen, without any dark shadows looming over me. I won’t give that up. It’s bad enough Charlie knows the truth. If Meaghan and Noah find out too, then my father will be everywhere. I’ll have nothing left that’s mine.
This isn’t over. We need to talk.
I know what you’re thinking. Trust me, I’ve thought about it. A lot. It’s not as easy as you think.
I’ll help you.
Promise me you won’t do anything. Please.
Let’s talk more later.
Promise me, Charlie!
“Put the phone away, Hadley, or I’ll take it away,” Mr. Roussos says, interrupting his lecture. I slide the phone in my pocket and pick up my pen. Friday’s notes are underlined three times:
Virgil leads Dante through the gates of hell. Inscription: “Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”
“As I was saying,” Mr. Roussos continues. “One of Dante’s major themes is God’s justice. The sins committed on earth have to correlate to the torments received in hell. Today’s readers will probably find many of the punishments to be . . . cruel and unusual. Does anyone recall the contrapasso . . . the punishment of souls . . . for homosexuality?” Silence. “An eternity of walking on hot sand.”
Noah looks at me from across the room and feigns shock with a hand to his mouth. Mr. Roussos glances down at Noah. “What was that?”
Noah lifts a shoulder. “I’m just saying, if the hot sand is in St. Bart’s, I’d manage.”
The class laughs; even Mr. Roussos with his strict rules—alphabetical seating, no talking ever without first raising your hand—cracks a smile before continuing.
“So let’s review. The first circle is limbo, right? The next three circles are for those who harm only themselves through lust, gluttony, avarice.” He counts off on his fingers. “Then we have greed, wrath, heresy. Premeditated sins of malice.”
He gives us a moment to jot down notes. “The last two circles, as far away from God as you can get, are reserved for fraud and treachery.”
Mr. Roussos paces around the classroom for dramatic effect, then stops and looks around the classroom. I glance up from my notes at the worst time, making direct eye contact with him. He lobs the rest of his lecture right at me.
“Treachery. The ninth circle.” Mr. Roussos’s eyes bore into mine. “‘The lowest and blackest place, farthest from heaven.’ Reserved for those who betray their loved ones, friends . . . family.”
I break away from his intense stare to draw and label the ninth circle in my notebook, but Inferno and Mr. Roussos are way too deep for me today. They’re downright depressing.
I find Charlie at his locker before Spanish.
“Good,” he says as I walk down the hall to meet him. “We need to talk about this.”
I come up right under his chin, looking around to make sure no one’s listening.
“Charlie, you can’t tell anyone.”
He shakes his head, arguing already. “You honestly think I can just sit around knowing he’s hurting you? No, Hadley. We have to—”
“Listen to me.” I grab his hand and squeeze. “I am going to be eighteen in three months. I am not the problem anymore!”
He blinks down at me, confused.
“It’s Lila I’m worried about,” I continue. “The only way for me to protect her is to stay close. Until she can leave too.”
“Hadley.” He bends his head down closer to mine. “That’s a long time from now.”
I nod and gulp. “I know.”
“You can’t honestly expect to stick it out that long.” He looks at me as if I have a couple of screws loose.
“It’s not a perfect plan.”
“It’s the most fucked-up plan I’ve ever heard!” he explodes. I shush him, glancing around the hallway at a few curious stares, waiting for them to pass before I continue.
“I know. I just don’t have another one.”
“Yes you do!” He hunches down so we’re face to face. “You call CPS.”
“You say that as if I haven’t already looked into it. My mother is the friggin’ president of the PTA twelve years running. And my dad donates so much money every which way he makes Bill Gates look stingy. He does it for the tax write-offs, but still. It makes him look good.”
Charlie pauses, then opens his mouth to argue back. I cut him off. “Look at me, Charlie. I have a good shot at salutatorian, I’m the captain of the lacrosse team, I even went over the required number of community service hours by a mile. Do I look abused to you? No. We’re a rich white family. No one is going to believe me.”
“Convince them,” he insists between gritted teeth. “I saw the evidence.” His eyes glance down to my hip. “Do it for Lila.”
My eyes well up. Everything I do, I do for Lila.
“Charlie, they don’t just sweep in and take kids out of their homes after one phone call. They do an investigation. And if CPS interviews Lila, she’ll have nothing to say.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “What? Why?”
“Lila doesn’t know,” I say. “She’s scared of him. Even just the way he yells at us is terrifying. It’s like . . . I can’t even describe it. Like he’s possessed. She knows he’s hit my mother a few times. Those nights were horrible for Lila. But she’s never seen him hit me. I made sure of that.”
He blinks several times. Then he shakes his head as if to clear my words.
“No. Sorry, I don’t buy it. There’s an out; there has to be. You just don’t know what it is yet.” He pauses, and his face lights up. “Your grandmother! Tell her what’s happening. She could get custody of Lila.”
I scan the ceiling, my eyes stinging.
“And be publicly humiliated? He’d never let that happen.”
“He wouldn’t have a choice!” he shoots back.
The bell rings. I sigh, sadder for Charlie than for myself. This is my reality. I’ve had plenty of time to adjust. This is all new for him.
“Vamos a llegar tarde.” I take his hand and walk him to Spanish. We’re going to arrive late to class.
Date is January 15, 9:37 a.m.
Reviewing my notes, this case is not adding up.
Weather wasn’t a factor; the skies were clear. Pilot never radioed in that he was having any kind of mechanical trouble. Still waiting for autopsy and toxicology reports, but medical records don’t show any kind of condition—heart, seizure, diabetes, anything that would incapacitate him. Nut allergy, that’s it. And if it were a medical emergency, there were other passengers on the plane who could have radioed in to air traffic control.
The fuselage caught on fire soon after the crash, burning much of the evidence. The sole survivor, the daughter, is being held in the psychiatric wing of the hospital after a suicide attempt. She’s the only person who knows what happened in that cockpit that day. I’m waiting for the hospital to allow me to interview her. They don’t think she�
�s ready to talk about it yet.
Wondering if there’s more to this case. Possibly criminal.
then
My father hasn’t made me go running since before the gala. That first Monday, I thought it was because he was still too mad. On Tuesday, I heard the coffee grinder whirring. I was zipping my jacket when I heard the front door slam. Looking out the window, I saw him stretching in the driveway and then he took off down the darkened street alone, the motion lights tracking his path. I should be relieved, but I’m not. The reprieve is a ticking bomb that’s sure to detonate when I least expect it.
On Thanksgiving, we go to Grandma’s like we do every year. Dad is in one of his dark, brooding moods. We walk into her house like a storm front, all of us tentative and silent, careful not to set Dad off.
Dad goes out of his way to avoid talking to me. Mom and Lila do their best to fill the awkward moments of silence with safe conversations. Grandma glances between Dad and me with concern all afternoon. I want to take that worried look off her, but I can’t seem to find a conversation that’s safe to talk about in front of Dad. College, lacrosse, school, Lila’s talent show . . . they’re all land mines that could blow up in my face with one misplaced step. As soon as Dad finishes his coffee, we’re out the door and heading back home, leaving Grandma to clean up by herself.
On the Monday after Thanksgiving, I make Charlie study with me for Wednesday’s Spanish test. Even though he’s ridiculously smart and barely needs to crack a book, I still have to keep my grades up.
As we review together at his small dining table, I ask him something that’s been on my mind.
“Sooo . . . are you looking into any colleges?”
“Sure,” he says, like it’s a no brainer. He glances up from his notes. “Probably Suffolk Community.”
I uncap my highlighter, something mundane to deflect the bigger question I really want to highlight. “You could get into a better school, you know. You have the grades.”
