by Rachel Rust
Chapter Thirty-One
She’s a Stereotype
Being yelled at by my parents was never fun. It didn’t happen often, so when it did I usually absorbed what they were saying, feeling the sting of their ire and disappointment with each syllable spoken. Usually I cared that I had broken a rule and upset them.
Usually.
But sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the black napkin holder in the center, I zoned them out, letting their words and their anger wash over me like lukewarm water. It was nothing more than a moment in time that I had to endure. With everything that had hit me in the past thirty-six hours, I was beyond parental intimidation. And in a matter of mere minutes, I’d be sent to my room to think about what I had done. My parents were ridiculously predictable.
“And how do you think your mother feels when she’s pulled out of a meeting with an urgent call from your school?” My dad’s face was beginning to get as red as his hair.
“I was worried sick,” my mom said. “I thought maybe you had been kidnapped, or worse.”
The urge to roll my eyes kicked in. I blinked hard instead.
“Now, I want you to go to your room and think about what you did,” my dad said. “And do not even think about coming out until tomorrow.”
I walked out of the kitchen without a word. Without an apology. Too tired to explain myself, too sickened by circumstances to talk about Nathan. Plus, I wasn’t sure how a conversation about Nathan would go.
Maybe my parents would be super helpful. They were smart. They knew people. Maybe they’d have just the right answer and make just the right phone call … and like magic, Nathan would be released with an apology from Rollins.
Or my parents would yell at and lecture me, forbidding me from ever communicating with Nathan again—let alone seeing him again—and lock me in my bedroom until I was ready to leave for college.
Could go either way. It was a complete toss up, and that was one coin I wasn’t willing to flip.
I collapsed onto my bed and stared at the purple wall next to me. It was the same shade of purple as my room in Minneapolis had been painted. My mom had thought having the same color bedroom would help my transition when we moved. It hadn’t. It had only served to make me miss my Minneapolis bedroom even more.
With a sigh, I rolled over onto my side and shoved my hands under my pillow. Eventually, moonlight streaked across the purple, bathing it in a cool white. I wondered if Nathan’s cell had a window. I hoped he could see the moonlight.
It was such a simple human experience, seeing the moon. The notion that it might have been taken from him sent a warm gush of tears to my eyelids.
Sleep eluded me all night.
****
In homeroom the next morning, I stared at my desk top, silent and ignoring Nina and Taya’s discussion of last night’s Bachelorette. I couldn’t get myself to engage in the trivial plight of narcissistic men and women when my own life was in the pits of hell.
Someone stepped up next to me, blocking the overhead light, shadowing the desk. “Lydia, Principal Jackson wants to see you in her office,” Mr. B said, holding a hall pass in front of me.
My stomach plummeted. “Did she say why?”
“No.”
I took the pass from him, and my cheeks flushed as I grabbed my bag. All eyes in the classroom plastered on me, probably unsurprised that the girlfriend of the town delinquent was being called into the principal’s office.
I left the room, fighting the urge to flip the bird to all of them.
A minute later, I stepped into the main school office. My eyes wandered around the room. Stacks of papers gathered on the desk behind the counter. Several yellow post-it notes adorned the computer monitor. Next to the keyboard was a CD with school song scribbled on it in black sharpie. A droopy fern sat on the edge of the counter—a failed attempt to bring life into the gray haze of academic administration.
I mentally checked education off my list of potential college majors. Total snooze fest.
“Please come with me, Miss Lanski,” a voice said behind me.
I turned and came face-to-face with Principal Jackson. Her short bleached hair was shellacked into place. Her face up close appeared too thin. Gaunt, almost. She couldn’t have been older than mid-thirties, but she had deep creases across her forehead. Too much scowling.
I followed her to her small office which smelled of disinfectant.
“Please have a seat.” She motioned to the blue chairs in front of her wood veneer desk. I sat down as another body entered the room: Sergeant Rollins.
He sat in the other blue chair between me and the door.
“Miss Lanski,” Principal Jackson said, “We would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay.”
“You’re friends with Nathan Stone, correct?”
“Yes,” I replied, seeing no need to argue semantics.
“The night The Pit Stop got shot up,” Rollins said, “did you see him there?”
“Nathan? No.”
“Are you sure? Think hard, Miss Lanski. You need to tell us the truth here.”
“I am telling you the truth. Nathan was not there.”
Rollins. “The thing is, we have evidence that he was there.”
“His gun?” I asked. “How does an inanimate object prove someone was in a specific location? Anyone could have the gun.”
“We’ll ask the questions, Miss Lanski,” Rollins said with a deadened glare. “We have evidence he was there, so I’ll ask one more time. Did you see him?”
“No, he wasn’t there. If he had been there, I would have included him in my list.”
“Did Nathan tell you to tell us that he wasn’t there?”
“My God, this is ridiculous.”
Rollins leaned forward, elbows on knees. “If you’re covering for him, Miss Lanski, you’re looking at getting into a hell of a lot of trouble.”
“I’m not covering for him!” I snapped. “He wasn’t at the Pit Stop, that’s the honest to God truth.”
Rollins and Jackson exchanged a long glance. Jackson then walked to the door and held it open and nodded with her head for me to leave. “Miss Lanski,” she said as I approached. “I understand the two of you are friends, but perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think you do. If you think of any more information that you feel will be helpful, let one of us know. Okay?”
Anger boiled inside me. The urge to scream took root. With a deep breath, I gathered all the composure I had within me. Jackson and I connected eyes. My fists balled up.
I channeled my inner stereotype—the one I hated the most: The fiery redhead.
“Listen,” I said. “I do know Nathan. And unlike some people, I’ve allowed myself to get to know the real him instead of just accepting the ridiculous caricature this town drew up long ago. I mean, do you really think you know him?” I turned to Rollins. “Time spent punishing someone does not equal a relationship. You know nothing about him because you’ve never cared enough to learn anything real about him. The only thing you guys are doing is letting an innocent man be dragged through the mud because you’re too lazy and pathetic to find out what’s really going on.”
I walked out the door before anyone could grab me and yank me into detention. Principal Jackson would for sure be stamping PAIN IN THE ASS across my file as soon as she found the time. Although with my title of Nathan Stone’s girlfriend, she had probably proactively labeled me as such.
I spent the rest of the school day with my head on my desk, or my eyes gazing out the window. I asked every teacher if I could use the restroom, only to sit and stare at a stall door. When the final bell rung, my feet slowly sauntered down the hall and out the front door. In no rush at all. I had nothing to rush off to. No job. No boyfriend. No dance class.
I had nothing to do in a nowhere town in an insignificant state. Nesting dolls of dullness.
At home, I grabbed the mail from the black mailbox in front of our house. Bills, a credit card offer
for my mom, a colorful flyer full of pizza coupons. The monotony of everyday mail bored my eyes to the point that I nearly missed the plain white envelope at the bottom of the pile, addressed to me.
I threw the rest of the mail on the kitchen counter and rushed into my room. The envelope had no return address. I tore it open and pulled out a small piece of paper with slanted block penmanship. My heart fluttered. The envelope fell haphazardly onto my lap as my hands grasped the letter harder, bringing it mere inches from my face.
Lydia,
They only gave me this one little piece of paper so this is going to be short. I just want you to know I’m ok. It sucks in here I’m not going to lie but I’m ok. I don’t want you to worry about me. I know you’re rolling your eyes at me and want to tell me to shut up, so I’ll say it again—don’t worry about me. I want you to smile. You’re too damn cute to be unhappy.
I just want you to promise me one thing. Whatever happens from all of this, please do not let my mess cause you any problems. You don’t need to get involved. It’s not worth it. You’re a good person and you deserve good things.
I miss you and I’ll see you when I see you.
N
P.S. – don’t worry about me
Over and over again, I read the letter, then pressed the paper to my nose, hoping to catch a whiff of him. All I smelled was paper. My fingers lightly ran across the words, the slight indentations from the pencil, imagining him hovering over it, creating it while holding that same piece of paper in his hands.
I grabbed my laptop and opened a new document. My eyes stared at the blinking cursor for a while before finally shutting the computer. I grabbed a notebook and pen. Nathan deserved more than impersonal Times New Roman. With half-cursive chicken scratches, I wrote him back, blabbing on about the cold weather, my knee, the questionable goulash served at school that day. Anything but his gun, or The Pit Stop, or Rollins.
For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, I laid on my bed.
As the night set in, I ignored the light switch and let the darkness shroud me, perfectly matching my frustrations and fears. Sleep eventually came, but it was colored with vivid dreams. In one, I was lost in a forest, thick with humidity and vines. In another, my parents moved me back to Minneapolis. That one was the worst.
Chapter Thirty-Two
He’s Got a Lotta Names
The first shift guard’s name was Matt. Most mornings, he spent his time doing paperwork while singing along to a scratchy country radio station. I fucking hated country music.
That morning, Matt went home early after puking into a trashcan. My money was on a hangover, not a virus.
The holding room was quiet for once. No music. No TV. The silence made the thoughts in my head louder, but it also allowed for more clarity. Not that there was much of that these days.
Theo was covering for Matt until his replacement arrived. He sat at the small desk in the corner, reading papers. I ignored him, lying back on the cot, feet up on the wall, ankles crossed. I held Lydia’s letter to my chest.
Her words—hell, her existence—was a dizzying mix of good and bad. She was comfort in the most uncomfortable place I had ever been. But she was also a fucking knife in my gut—a reminder of the things I had to lose.
Maybe I didn’t have much to lose—no parents, no big college plans, not many friends. But the things I did have—those few people and possessions I had managed to scrounge up and keep for myself throughout the years—meant everything, even if I never had the guts to say it out loud.
Lydia’s letter under my fingers crinkled a bit with every breath. She was everything I wanted, yet my messed up life was everything she didn’t deserve.
And someone was apparently hell-bent on taking my already messed-up life to a whole new level of fucked.
My face flushed hot. Someone, somewhere knew exactly what was going on, exactly what the truth was about why the crime lab report linked my gun to the shooting.
Someone had the power and means to set me up, and so far had done a damn good job of it.
The fear this conjured up made me want to drop to the ground, but I was unwilling to let anyone else—especially goddamn Rollins—see such weakness. But it was more than pride that kept my chin up; someone needed to pay for whatever fucked-up reason they’d put me in jail, and not just as retribution for myself, but for the others who were affected by this dickhead sense of justice. My aunt and uncle had dropped a few thousand dollars already just to retain a lawyer, my friends weren’t allowed to see me because they weren’t eighteen, and Lydia’s whole future had already been upset by moving to the middle of nowhere and busting her knee… She didn’t deserve to add jailbird boyfriend to that list of shitty life circumstances.
I folded her letter up and replaced it back inside its envelope. I stared at Theo through the bars.
“What?” he asked without barely a glance my way.
“Can I get a couple pieces of paper and a pencil?” The humility of having to ask permission for something so simple from someone who not so long ago was a close friend was a dollop of embarrassment on a shit sundae.
Theo opened a drawer and produced the paper and pencil, and also an envelope. He passed the materials through the bar.
I stared at the envelope for a second. “Aren’t you supposed to read my letters before putting them in an envelope?”
“Are you conspiring with Lydia to smuggle in drugs or break yourself out?” Theo asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “No.” But only because I’d never get away with it.
Theo grinned. “Didn’t think so. Go ahead and seal it up when you’re done, and I’ll get it in the mail before it gets collected in an hour.”
“Thanks.”
I sat on the cot and scribbled a letter to Lydia with little conscious thought. Light and easy—that was my communication goal. Make her think jail wasn’t really that bad. Feign calmness and hope. Maybe she’d be able to relax a little if I just lied a little.
After finishing the letter, I sealed it in the envelope and scribbled her name and address on the outside. “Done,” I said, holding it between the bars for Theo to grab.
I sat back down and placed the second piece of paper in front of me. I needed a list. A list of scenarios—who would set me up and how? Brainstorming was never my big thing. It took too much patience, and I preferred impulsiveness over contemplation. Which, I supposed, explained why I had fucked up so many times in life.
My mind went around and around—people who hated me, people I had wronged, people with money, people with power. I placed the pencil to paper, and names poured out onto the white sheet until it was soon covered in scribbled lead. Names covered the paper top to bottom, front and back.
The sheer number of individuals who disliked me was actually a surprise. And there were probably even more names that could be added if I sat and thought a little longer.
I stared at the endless list of names for over an hour and came up with no connections, no clues about who was messing with my life. The possibilities were infinite. Either that or I was just too damn stupid to spot something obvious. With a sigh, I crumpled the paper and chucked it in the toilet.
There was no point. And even if I knew where to start and how to investigate it, sitting in a cell left me few avenues to pursue any of it.
It would take someone on the outside to figure it out—someone with more access and more sense than I had in that moment.
My attorney was supposed to come that evening. A speck of hope.
I lay back on the cot and closed my eyes. But as usual, sleep never came.
Chapter Thirty-Three
She’s a Party of One
Someone pounded on my door. It brought my mind out of the blackness of sleep, but still sounded miles away.
They pounded again.
I rolled over, taking my blanket with me, pulling it over my head to block out the wretched sunlight which dared to rouse me. My head and neck ached, as though they had been s
crunched up all night.
“Lydia!” my father yelled through my bedroom door. “Get up! School starts in twenty minutes. If you’re not ready, I will drag you out of bed and bring you in your pajamas.”
A sleepy smile crossed my face. School in pajamas seemed like an excellent idea.
I fell back asleep—for about a minute before my father picked my lock and yanked my covers off me. As soon as I was on my feet, he pointed out the door. I shuffled past on my way to the bathroom, glaring at him, barely able to make out the details in his face due to the sleep in my eyes.
“You have ten minutes to get ready,” he said.
My dad sucked.
****
In gym class, it was mile day. The day all students dreaded. Jogging four times around the lap, which somehow was supposed to prove to Coach Donnelly that we all had athletic grit. But mile day didn’t bother me. Because I chose to opt out. Sure, my bum knee would’ve kept me from having to run regardless, but I opted out of the entire gym class.
Between the school and the post office, I lay on the cool grass, staring at the blue sky punctuated with thin streams of white clouds. The autumn wind encircled my body. I didn’t mind the chilled goosebumps though. They were the only thing I could feel. Everything inside was numb. Confusion and helplessness proved a powerful anesthetic.
I didn’t even care about the chewed-up wad of gum clinging to grass blades a few inches from my head. Or the countless cigarette butts littered all through the grass, some of which were probably underneath me at that very moment.
In my peripheral vision, movement appeared. It advanced closer. I expected Coach Donnelly, but instead was greeted by the spikes of Alex’s blond mohawk.
“What the hell’re you doing?” he asked with a laugh. “Donnelly’s gonna notice you’re missing and come looking for you.”
“So?”
His foot nudged mine. “Get up.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel like it.” I didn’t feel like doing anything.
