by Cyn Balog
So later in the afternoon when Lincoln asked us to partner up, I didn’t have to shrink down in my seat in embarrassment. Z and I just looked at each other, and the deal was done.
It was the first of many deals that I wish I’d never made.
Chapter 8
What can you tell us about your daughter?
Victoria’s a good kid. Shy, but a good student.
Has she ever had any trouble?
Trouble? As in… She can be high-strung and anxious, tends to obsess at times. She’s always been that way.
Always?
When she was a child, sometimes I would tell her to get changed, and a few minutes later, I’d find her in her room naked and trying to solve a word-search puzzle. She gets so wrapped up in the details that she fails to see the big picture. But I understand a lot of kids are like that.
You transferred her to St. Ann’s last year. Why?
More demands were put on her in high school. The coursework was harder, and she was worried about getting into college. Her grades were fine, but Duchess High is large and impersonal. The social aspect wasn’t doing her any favors. We felt it was inhibiting her ability to learn. We’d heard good things about St. Ann’s and thought she might be more focused at a smaller school. She doesn’t do well in large group situations, and we thought the lower student-teacher ratio would benefit her. We were just trying to protect her.
—Police interview with Abigail Zell, mother of Victoria Zell
After school I had my meeting with Leary. As usual, when I showed up at his dusty office, which had probably once been a closet, he gave me a pitying smile. Then he shooed a bunch of other kids out so we could talk.
Leary’s old enough to be a grandfather, yet acts like a kid. His desk is crowded with Batman figurines and smiley-face pencils. He always bakes—cookies and pastries and stuff—and he brings them in to share, so his office usually smells of cinnamon. Still, it always kind of freaked me out that he’s, you know, a man of God. Other students didn’t seem to censor themselves around him, but I always felt like I had to watch what I said or he’d strike me down with his divine power. It was the same thing, week after week. He asked me question after question, to which I would provide the shortest and vaguest answers possible.
When I sat down in my usual chair, farthest away from him, he offered me a plate of sugar cookies and asked, “So, Victoria, how was your summer?”
I told him it was uneventful, as my summers usually were.
“Good, good,” he replied. He’s big on repeating positives. “How have things been going for you this year?”
“Fine,” I told him, staring at the crucifix on the wall behind him. Even Jesus looked like he was rolling his eyes at Father. “I’m good.”
“Well, that’s good. You’re fitting in OK? Classes good?”
I smiled. “Everything’s great.”
“Friends?”
I nodded. “I have a few.”
He leaned forward. “Tell me, do you keep in touch with your friends from your old school?”
“No,” I told him. I had a couple of acquaintances at Duchess High, but no one worth keeping in touch with. From the way he grimaced, I knew it was the wrong answer. “I don’t need a bazillion friends though. I mean, I have Andrew.”
Leary didn’t look at me. He was busy plucking some dust off the knee of his black slacks. “Tell me about Andrew.”
I sighed so deeply that Father Leary’s gaze rose to mine. But seriously, had he forgotten? I talked about you nonstop last year, since you’re not only my boyfriend, you’re my best friend. I swear, I’ve probably told him your favorite color and what you eat for breakfast, like, twice. I think Jesus groaned behind him. “What do you want to know?”
He frowned. “What would you like to share?”
“There’s nothing to tell. He still lives next door, still is studying his music.”
And on and on we went, having the same conversation that we’d had every week last year. As if asking incessant questions about my life and making me repeat myself time and again is supposed to be therapeutic. I mean, isn’t that the definition of insanity, repeating oneself and expecting different results? This is probably why I checked the clock on the wall about twice a minute and rocketed out of my seat as soon as the minute hand hit the six. Thank God I had to catch the late bus.
Of course, when I got home, to further me on the road to insanity, my parents made me repeat everything we’d discussed. I set the table in the kitchen, and there they were, helicoptering around me as I set down each utensil, wanting to know exactly what had transpired in the meeting.
Sometimes, Andrew, I swear I feel less like a person and more like a hamster on one of those wheels.
Maybe that’s why all this happened. Maybe I just wanted to escape the wheel.
Chapter 9
Why was Victoria Zell seeing you on a weekly basis?
Her parents had asked me to. She was new to the school and had a few anxiety issues that they were concerned about.
Did she ever talk about her relationship with Z?
Yes, she did.
Was she having problems where Z was concerned?
I’m sorry. That’s confidential. But I will tell you that Victoria didn’t discuss any of her problems willingly.
And why is that?
Simply put, she didn’t think they were problems.
—Police interview with Father Ryan Leary, guidance counselor at St. Ann’s
The rest of the week was mostly uneventful. Z went off with the jocks, leaving me to eat lunch alone again. The way he laughed with them, commanding their attention as they hung on his every word, you’d think he’d been part of their group since birth. And they’d implicitly appointed him leader.
I’d talk to him between classes, but only briefly. I’d like to say I got to know Z in lab, but I really didn’t. He had a way of talking about himself—and he talked about himself constantly—without revealing any personal details. He’d say, “If I could live anywhere, it would be in Key West,” or, “I wish my name was Gus.” Many times I wasn’t sure if he was being serious. By the end of the week all I really knew about him was that he was from Arizona, played baseball, and liked to joke around. So pretty much all I’d learned on the first day.
I hadn’t gotten much more comfortable around him either. He was still too beautiful to look at directly. The goggles amplified his eyes, so while I looked like even more of a doofus, he managed to look even hotter. This did nothing to help my nerves. During our first experiment, I kept dropping the stainless steel scoop, and my hands were shaking so much that I nearly spilled hydrochloric acid on him. He noticed too, and from that point on, I was our designated note-taker. Very embarrassing.
I was frustrated. I thought being lab partners would give me insight into Z, the most-talked-about person in the school, but I had nothing. I had no idea what his family was like, where he lived, what he liked to do in his spare time…nothing.
Friday, as he set up the Bunsen burner, he said, “I wish I had a can of hair spray. I should have warned you that I’m kind of a pyromaniac.”
I didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
He continued, “Tip: When you’re with me, always scope out the nearest fire exit.”
I leaned over my notebook and waited for him to start adding the next element.
“You know that song? ‘The Roof Is on Fire’? That’s my favorite song. For obvious—”
“Can you just do the experiment and stop talking?” I grumbled.
He smiled. “If you would talk once in a while, maybe I wouldn’t have to.”
“I don’t have anything to say. We’re supposed to be doing this experiment.”
“And we can’t engage in witty banter at the same time? It’s called multitasking. A very good exercise, mind you, should you choose to enter th
e corporate world,” he said. He tsked with his tongue and tossed his blond curls from his forehead. “It’s obvious who will climb the corporate ladder, and who will be uni-tasking her whole life.”
Now, that detail had potential. I asked, “So you’re going to go into business?”
He leaned over and studied the concoction we were heating. “Is it supposed to be blue like that?”
I looked around. Everyone else’s test tube was blue. “I guess.”
He shrugged and placed our test tube over the burner, then started adding compound to it. We were supposed to note the reaction, but I was infuriated by his lack of response. After a moment he said, “I’m going into the family business.”
“What’s that?” I asked, a little too eager.
“Prostitution,” he deadpanned. He added more compound.
I couldn’t take it. I threw my notebook down as foam began to erupt from our test tube. It oozed over the sides, frothing and hissing. Z stood like a statue, holding the scoop with an amused smile on his face. “Wild,” he said.
Lincoln came flying down the aisle. He extinguished the burner and dumped the test tube in the sink.
“Slowly, guys. Slowly,” Lincoln said, looking at me and only me. “What happened, Victoria?”
Lincoln’s disappointment was palpable. I was his star student, failing him for the first time ever. Twenty-eight goggled faces stared at us. Ian snickered and muttered something that made everyone around him crack up. My face burned. “Sorry, I…” I hadn’t read all of the instructions because I was too captivated by my dumbass lab partner?
Lincoln was already walking away and gesturing at the clock. “You don’t have time to start over. Clean up, and then observe with Parker and Rachel.”
Great. I got some paper towels to mop up the foam that was still frothing all over the table. When we were done, we migrated over to the lab bench in front of us. I did so reluctantly, standing at the very corner, while Z sandwiched himself between the two girls like peanut butter.
“Easy with that Scoopula, boy,” Parker said in her low, sexy voice. “You might get us in trouble.”
Rachel snickered. She lived for adoring Parker, as evidenced by her slightly upturned nose, perfect for brownnosing. Z smiled, clearly enjoying their attention. I fought back vomit.
Parker spent the rest of the class standing so close to Z that molecules of O2 couldn’t pass between them, or across from him, bending over to “observe” so he’d have a perfect view down her blouse at her ravine-like cleavage. Even though it was a foursome, I was definitely a fifth wheel. I stood to the side, wondering if they’d notice if I set my hair on fire.
Two minutes before class let out, Z helped the girls clean up while I finished my notes. Back at our stools, he started copying my notes with his right hand and checking his phone with his left. I snuck a peek at his screen. You have 16 new text messages. Holy cow. He was a texting addict. Was that from one class period? I’d had my phone for more than a year, and I had precisely two texts. Both from Z.
To my embarrassment, he caught me staring. He wiggled his fingers. “You never seen anyone multitask like this before? You are amazed?”
“Yes, that will be very useful in your family business of…prostitution,” I could barely manage the word without blushing. I shoved my books into my bag and watched the red second hand on the clock sweep toward freedom. A few more periods, I thought, and it will be the weekend, and I will be with Andrew. Yes, I was thinking of you.
So that’s why I couldn’t be sure I heard Z correctly when he muttered under his breath, “Except I don’t have any family.”
Chapter 10
Out again?
Yup. Sick.
Want me to get your homework for you?
Nope. Under control.
Think you’ll be in tomorrow?
Why? Miss me that much?
Miss you too, Precious.
Just got in trouble with Lincoln because your lab report is exactly the same as mine. How did that happen?
I heard a rumor about you.
U ok?
—Cell phone records, courtesy of the Duchess Police Department
I knew what your stepdad was doing to you, Andrew. I’ve always known.
You didn’t fault me for not trying to stop it. I think you loved me more because I stayed out of it, because I turned a blind eye to the cigarette burns on your neck and pretended not to hear when he called you a little faggot. You didn’t want anyone to know how pathetic your stepdad thought you were. You liked music, not hunting, beer, and porn. His anger is because you are gentle and soft-spoken and nothing like him. He saw that as weakness, but here’s what I should have told you a long time ago: There was never anything wrong with you, Andrew. None of this was your fault.
It was mine.
Friday night, you were upset. Having to wake up at four the next morning would do that to anyone. Deer season was starting. That meant spending two hours driving in your stepdad’s pickup to his favorite hunting spot, then another two hours on the drive back, listening the whole time to the twangy country music you detested. You said he’d gotten a new bow for his birthday and couldn’t wait to try it out. I think you joked that you wanted me, wanted anyone, to shoot you with it.
I’m sorry that I wasn’t paying better attention. A few minutes before I met you at our spot, I’d been rifling through my purse for my Juicy Fruit and was surprised to find a message from Z.
Want to do something tomorrow?
I checked the time on the text. He’d sent it right after school, before dinner. I wondered if he’d sent it to the wrong person. Maybe his phone had autocorrected his message and he’d really meant to say something else. He didn’t really want to hang out with me, did he?
I was so lost in my head that I nearly tripped over my own two feet crossing the lawn to our place at the fence. You were focused on your stepdad, wondering if he would permanently excuse you from hunting excursions if you accidentally shot an arrow through your foot. You laughed about it, but I know you were scared. Every time you came back from a trip with him, you always looked a little smaller, a little more wounded.
I tittered along with you, all the while thinking of how to respond to Z.
Sure, sounds good.
Let me check my schedule and get back to you.
Are you serious?
I’m sorry, did you mean to send that to me?
Then you said, “Are you still there?” which broke me out of my reverie.
“Um, yeah.”
“Thought I lost you for a second.” I looked over my shoulder and could see the porch light reflected in your eyes as you peered at me through the slats in the fence. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Tired, I guess.”
“School was OK?”
“Yeah. Same old thing.”
“What are your plans for tomorrow?”
Up until Z’s text, I didn’t have any. I liked not doing anything on weekends but lazing around and watching television. My parents preferred that because it made keeping tabs on me easier. Tomorrow, they’d be prepping the gymnasium at St. Ann’s for a spaghetti dinner to raise funds for a new church organ. “Same old thing,” I said again. Right then, it was the truth.
You started to speak, and I wish I could take back what I did right then. I scratched my shoulder against the fence and wiggled to a standing position. “I’d better go. I’m getting destroyed by mosquitoes.”
It was early. We usually stayed out together longer. Your voice was a little hoarse when you replied, “Oh. OK. See you, Vic.” You stood up and made a lame attempt at cracking a joke, “See you…if I survive tomorrow.”
I’m not even sure I said anything back. Before I knew it, I was inside. All my surroundings melted away except that one little sentence on my phone display. I took a few deep bre
aths and typed in: Like what?
Then I began counting the seconds, waiting for Z’s response. My mother and father were in the kitchen, busily counting boxes of spaghetti and loaves of garlic bread and doing their best to pretend they hadn’t just been spying on me in the backyard. Why do they always have to spy? I don’t know if they think you and I are having dirty, nasty sex in the rosebushes or what. It’s not like you or I have ever done anything even remotely depraved. I mean, we’ve known each other since we were seven. Your family had moved in, and you showed up on my back porch with a red ball and asked me if I wanted to play. We ended up pretending to be royalty, and the bushes were our fortress. We’d hide out there for hours every afternoon, and guess what? Shockingly, we’d both managed to keep hold of our virginities.
When my phone dinged, my parents turned and stared as if it had announced that the house was on fire. “What’s that, Victoria?” my father asked.
“It’s a device for communicating with people,” I snapped, heading to my room as I checked the display. I slammed the door behind me before my parents could ask the inevitable follow-ups.
Torture animals?
I should have known he’d joke around. I responded quickly with Ew and spent the next few moments wondering if that made me seem like I was three. I expected him to say that he just wanted to go over our trig homework together. That was the kind of invitation I was used to. I was an “early afternoon girl.” Parker, now, she was a Saturday night girl. She probably hadn’t had a free Saturday since fifth grade, considering that her line of ex-boyfriends stretched across the state. And I knew from the way she’d been showing him her goodies in chem lab that all Z had to do was ask her out. So why was he texting me, if not to ask for math help? But a few minutes later, the response came back:
