That’s what good friends do.
I wish I’d done it sooner.
I pick up my pace. Jason is frowning, striding purposefully by my side. He’s probably wondering what Kirby Cahill did to make Annika run off and stay in the bathroom so long. I wonder if he feels it too, this strange sense of doom. It’s almost like an unreasonable panic, and I can’t explain it. We race toward the thick brick building at the far edge of the field.
A girl wearing the other team’s colors—pumpkin orange and black—runs toward us across the pavement. A shrill scream erupts from her O-stretched mouth as she races across the lawn, her arms flailing and eyes wild. Her face is a mask of pure terror.
“There’s a dead girl in the shower!” she screams. “Oh migod, omigod!”
More screams follow, then shouts. Mass chaos erupts. People run from the brick building. Others run toward it. Coach Ted pushes his way toward the locker room. A runner from the other team blocks the door, holding people off. Some people crane their necks around the bathroom door, trying to get a glimpse of the dead girl. Others run off in all directions, their faces stricken with fear.
A scream rises up in my throat. I stumble woodenly toward the bathroom. It seems a mile away. A shrill noise burbles out of my lungs, an otherworldly sound I hardly recognize as my own voice.
It can’t be Annika. Not Annika. It can’t be!
Jason catches me. He blocks my path. He grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me to the side. “You can’t go in there. You don’t know what you’ll see.”
The wailing of distant sirens grows louder.
“What if it’s Annika? Oh, Jason!” I’m sobbing uncontrollably, stifling the urge to scream and scream and scream. It is a completely animalistic feeling. Panic overwhelms me, closing off my throat and choking me. I collapse and Jason holds me up, my anchor
His face is grim. He holds me tightly in his arms. “I hope it’s not her. God, I hope not.” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture I’ve seen him do when he’s agitated. His hand is shaking, the only other sign that he’s upset.
9
It is Annika.
She was found dead on the shower floor, soaking wet, her track shorts around her ankles and her underwear missing. She must’ve been strangled, said the girl who first discovered her, because her neck looked broken and was at a weird angle. Bruises were already forming, big black ones on her thighs and neck. And her eyes. They were wide open, staring out with the vacant, glassy look of someone whose spirit is gone. On her face, people whispered, was an awful combination of fear and sadness, etched into the skin around her grimacing mouth and those chilling, empty eyes.
The rest of the meet is immediately cancelled. I find myself shivering next to Jason in the cold, sterile gym. Both track teams are huddled on the bleachers, and no one is allowed to leave. We are all being interrogated by the police.
Jason and the others who were in the men’s relay are cleared. If people can corroborate seeing each other at the race or during the window of time before Annika’s body was found, then they are also temporarily cleared. Kirby and Billy and some of the others are corroborated by their buddies, which upsets me. Don’t the police realize some kids might cover for each other, because that’s what teenagers do? And who’s to say the killer didn’t murder Annika right before the relay, in the window of time after she left me? The police don’t seem to think so, though, because the bathroom is in use so much. They believe the killer got to Annika when everyone else was distracted by the race.
I’m not sure what to think.
I watch Kirby joking with his friends in a cavalier but subdued way—his cockiness not diminished one bit by the event—and wonder if he or one of his buddies did it. My eyes turn to Billy who is glassy-eyed as usual and huddled in the corner with his stoner friends. What if he smoked some bad stuff and snapped? Anything’s possible.
Right now, everybody looks guilty to me, cleared or not.
Each person on the team is taken to a corner of the gym and interviewed and re-interviewed separately while different police officers take notes. It’s a slow process, and soon I’m bleary-eyed and exhausted with waiting. Around me, girls sob quietly on the bleachers, hugging each other. Their muffled sounds echo through the large gym, bouncing off walls and lending an eerie sound to the quiet. Guys stand around looking confused and aimless, not knowing what to do with themselves. Everyone eyes everyone else, wondering if the killer is sitting among us.
When it’s my turn, I’m ushered to the corner of the auditorium where the interrogation center has been set up. The interviewing cop has a handlebar mustache coated with bits of food—a powdered donut?—and his partner is a worn-out looking woman with red hair pulled into a severe bun. Her hair is so tight that her ears stick out and her eyes are yanked back as though the result of a bad facelift.
“Name?” the handle-bar cop asks.
“Winter Reynolds.”
He writes it down. The female cop assesses me with intense gray eyes. She must do this to everyone, but it unnerves me. Do they know I was one of the last people to talk to Annika?
“How do you know the deceased girl?” Handlebar asks.
Deceased. The word hits me like a shovel to the face. I swallow hard, fighting back tears. “She was my friend. From the track team.”
“Did you speak to her before she died?”
“Yes.” The word catches in my throat, and Handlebar looks at me over his glasses. He and Red exchange a glance.
“What was your conversation about?”
“She was upset about something a guy on the track team did. Kirby Cahill.”
Handlebar leans back. “Ah, yes. Mr. Cahill already told us about the incident. Seems the young lady wasn’t too fond of his advances.”
“No, she wasn’t,” I say, pressing my hands against the portable table. “He was harassing her.”
“Witnesses have said they had a mild discussion which ended amicably,” says Red. “We couldn’t find one person to say a bad word about Mr. Cahill. Do you have other information?”
Anger wells up inside me. Why aren’t they taking a good look at Kirby? “He was always pestering her. He wouldn’t leave her alone!” There is a shrill urgency in my tone.
Handlebar looks at me again over his glasses, a pointed blue-eyed stare. “Young lady, are you implying something we should know about it? Don’t beat around the bush.”
“Well, he . . . he kept bothering her. And he does that to a lot of us! He’s not a nice guy.”
Handlebar chuckles. “Miss Reynolds, that is not enough to go on. And off the record, let me just say that boys will be boys. Do you blame a young male for wanting the attention of young females such as yourself and . . . the deceased?”
The deceased. Why does he have to keep referring to Annika like that, like she’s . . . dead?
A sob escapes me involuntarily. I clamp my hand over my mouth, closing my eyes against the hot, smarting tears.
I open my eyes to see Handlebar and Red looking at me sympathetically.
“Miss Reynolds,” Handlebar says, “I don’t mean to imply that your assessment of the matter isn’t valid. However, you need to know that your statement about Mr. Cahill contradicts the overall picture. He seems to be one of the best-liked athletes in your school. In fact, your coach had nothing but glowing words about him.” He jots a few things down, pushes a pen toward me, and nods toward the paper on the table.
I nod and mumble thank you. What the hell am I thanking them for? To them, Annika is just another day in the job. The deceased. Not a person anymore. I mechanically sign the form—my statement apparently—and they tell me I can go. They’ll call me if they have any other questions.
I walk back to the bleachers in a daze, my legs moving robotically like numb, rubber stumps. Jason pulls me close and wraps his sweatshirt around me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I shake my head.
There’s nothing else to say.
&nb
sp; ***
Afternoon turns to evening, and then it’s dark out. Finally, the police start letting some of us go to the bus. Others are picked up by parents. When the police are finished interviewing everyone, Coach Ted does a head-count, and then we’re on our way home. Our dark, somber bus ride is punctuated by muffled sobbing. Coach Ted tries to say a few words to the team, something about how we need to honor Annika in all future races, but he just ends up sounding stilted and insincere because, really, nothing can be said. Even he looks culpable to me, with his shifty eyes and fake-sounding words.
I am numb. Sobs escape me intermittently. It’s as if I’m in some horrible, twisted nightmare. Jason sits quietly next to me, lost in thought. I look around the bus at all the grim faces, and every single person appears guilty to me. The killer could be among us, sitting here on this bus after having choked the life out of my friend.
People keep saying it must be someone from the other team, but I’m not so sure. Right now, everyone looks like a suspect. Kirby Cahill is busy playing a video game. He doesn’t seem much bothered by what happened, just going about his business as usual, except with less gregariousness. He was double-cleared by Coach Ted and vice versa. Maybe they really are a team—a “bromance,” as Miranda would say—and Annika was right about their solidarity.
Coach Ted is staring out the window. He was probably a handsome guy in his younger days, but now he just looks like any other middle-aged graying man. The problem is, he acts like a teenager, joking and jostling with the jocks on the team as if he’s still seventeen. I remember his grin when he told Annika he was proud of her for winning. Did I see the hint of a perverted gleam in his eyes? It’s possible. Right now, he looks like a disgusting old man to me. I can almost picture him ripping off Annika’s shorts. I wouldn’t put it past him.
My eyes turn to Billy. He’s sitting across from Miranda, whispering with a buddy. When we got on the bus after the interrogation, Billy smelled thickly of pot. What if he, in his drugged state, followed Annika into the bathroom and killed her? He was pissed when he thought we were laughing at him. I could see him murdering someone in a rage because of his anger issues and home life.
I study Miranda, sitting by herself and looking out the window. She was jealous of Annika. What if she . . . no, it’s impossible. She would’ve had to stage the killing to look like a rape. I shake off the thoughts. I must be losing my mind. Miranda would never do something like that! I’ve known her all of my life. Or do I really know her? Anything seems possible right now.
I lean back and close my eyes. It’s late, and I’m exhausted and dizzy with grief. My mind is in overdrive, spinning in circles. I just want to get home. Mom had sounded frantic with worry when I’d called her and told her what happened.
“There’s a killer loose!” she’d shrieked. “I’ll come get you. I don’t want you riding back on that bus alone.” But I’d reassured her I would be okay because Jason was with me.
And he is. Jason is with me. He sits next to me like a friend. Like someone I can lean on.
Someone I can trust.
***
While the bus jostles me, I have weird, fragmented dreams of Annika, of her eyes staring out at me from her dead body. “Help me,” she whispers. “Help me.”
I jolt awake. It isn’t just a nightmare. She’s really dead. I’m here on this bus with Jason next to me, looking out the window. It’s dark, people are crying and whispering around me, and we’re pulling into our school parking lot. And Annika is gone.
A sob escapes me. Jason turns quickly.
“I can’t believe it,” I say, tears rolling down my cheeks.
“I know,” he says. “I can’t wrap my head around it, either.” His eyes are red, and I wonder if he’s been crying, too. “Who would want to hurt someone so sweet?”
We look at each other with the same question on our minds. Yes, who?
As I file off the bus, I see Mom outside pacing with the other hordes of parents. She grabs me and hugs me tightly, stifling a sob. We stand like this for a good long minute. Normally, I would be embarrassed by my mother hugging me in front of the whole track team, but that silliness suddenly seems unimportant right now.
Jason says goodbye and lopes off in the direction of his car. As Mom helps me with my gym bag, Miranda walks up. Her face is wet and contorted. She throws her arms around me and hugs me tightly, the way she used to when we were friends. I hug her back, and then we’re both crying uncontrollably about Annika. Her small body is wracked with sobs, and I’m sorry I ever doubted her.
“Honey, I’ll meet you at the car,” my mom says gently. She grabs my gym bag and throws a hopeful, worried look over her shoulder. She knows how much I’ve missed Miranda.
Miranda stares at me with a mascara-streaked wet face. “You have to find out who did this,” she whispers. “You’ve got to use your power.”
My heart stops. “No.” I shake my head. “No way. It ruined our friendship. It’s gotten me into trouble. It’s a dangerous thing. I’m afraid of it now.”
“Don’t you see? You could find out who did this to Annika.” She grabs my arm urgently. “She deserves justice.”
I blink. “What am I supposed to do, go around kissing everyone?”
“Yes, exactly.”
We stare at each other. I’m dumbfounded. On the one hand, she makes sense. On the other, I’m terrified. What can of worms would I be opening?
“Are we friends again?” I ask.
“Let’s see if your power still works,” she says, and pecks me on the lips. Flash! I see her remorse, her sadness, her loneliness. She really missed me and wants our friendship back. She’s forgiven me about Billy. She doesn’t like him anymore, anyway. She’s in love with Victor. And she’s still going to have the baby.
“Does Victor know about the baby?” I ask.
Miranda smiles. “Looks like your power is still working. Yep, Victor knows. He also knows it’s Billy’s. He doesn’t care. He said we can get married and raise it as our own.”
“But you’re only seventeen. Aren’t you scared? What if Victor changes his mind?”
Miranda shrugs. She looks strangely serene on the topic. “All I know is that I love Victor and want to have this baby. It’ll all work out.”
“But what about college?”
“I guess I’ll have to go to night school after the baby is born.”
“Do your parents know?”
Miranda doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to tell me; it’s obvious by her expression that her parents don’t know. She won’t be able to keep this secret for much longer, though, not even with all of the baggy clothes she’s been wearing.
Being with Miranda like this feels comforting, familiar. For a moment, talking with her reminds me of old times. Almost. Except everything has changed. Miranda is no longer the ambitious, Ivy-league bound student but a pregnant, unwed teen. I’ve got a strange power that I don’t know what to do with. Jason Stumblemeyer is now the hottest guy in school and has eyes only for me.
And Annika, sweet doe-eyed Annika, is dead.
10
Annika’s parents fly her body back to Sweden to have her buried in their hometown. There is talk of having some sort of memorial for Annika here in the States, but nothing ever materializes. In the weeks that pass, no one is arrested for Annika’s murder, although word has it that some shot-putter from Westchester is the main suspect. He missed his metal ball throwing event and was seen going into the men’s bathroom around the same time Annika went into the women’s.
The autopsy report states Annika died during an attempted sexual assault, but no DNA turned up on the rape kit. She put up a fight, apparently, due to the bruises on her legs and arms. Her panties were not found, so there’s speculation the killer took them.
Annika’s mother releases a statement saying the panties were part of a monogrammed set of custom-made silk underwear that had been sent from her grandparents in Sweden, and if anyone locates a pair of panties like that,
to please contact the police immediately.
I go about my days in a funk. Life resumes without Annika in it, and it doesn’t seem fair. Within a few weeks, her name isn’t mentioned as much as before. People go about their lives, talking about the trivialities of grades, football games, homecoming, who’s having sex with whom, and which teachers suck donkey balls. Jason is on my periphery, sitting gloomily with me during practice, texting and calling after school, but we don’t spend much time together because we’re both so messed up.
I knew Annika better than anyone because I saw into her soul. I feel so alone in my singular type of grief.
All I want to do is stay in my room and sleep. My grades slip, but I don’t care. The goal of college seems trivial now that my friend is dead. I don’t even return Miranda’s calls because I can’t handle talking about anything. Nothing makes sense, and I can’t shake the doom that now follows me wherever I go. I keep coming back to the unfairness of life and how Annika didn’t deserve to die. Especially not like that. She’s just gone, and it feels so weird, so wrong. Is this all there is? Do we just go about our lives, eat our burgers, brush our teeth, worry about silly things, and then one day simply disappear? Die? Gone—poof? Just like that? Life, and all the people in it, suddenly seems so fragile.
Mom seems distracted and worried. One night while I’m buried under the covers sobbing, she comes in to check on me. She strokes my forehead then kisses me lightly on the lips. Flash! Her mind is filled with anxiety and a deep concern for me. I see how exhausted she is, how worn down by her job at the store, and how her hopes for me and my future are the only things that keep her going. I’d never realized Mom hung so much of her dreams on me. She has always seemed so practical, so unsentimental, just taking care of the necessities and doing what needs to be done. But in the kiss, I see her lifetime of disappointments and heartache flash across her mind in a montage of images. They are raw and painful, so much so that my body begins to physically ache.
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