The Darkest Lie

by Pintip Dunn

I quickly respond. Yeah, And the mythical bird. A basketball team, a bunch of newspapers. What other phoenixes can you think of?

  Sam: Some comic book characters are named Phoenix. Comic books? Mr. Willoughby is a comic book fiend. Could that be the connection?

  I peek through my fortress at the psych teacher. He’s flipping through bar graphs on the interactive whiteboard, and threads of silver shoot through his light brown hair.

  I turn back to my phone. Before I lose my nerve, I type: How was your date last night?

  A fly buzzes through the air. Raleigh flips her hot-roller curls over her shoulder. Someone opens their lunch, and the smell of bologna wafts through the air.

  Finally, Sam responds. Fine.

  Fine? Lots of things are fine. My class schedule, for example, or the frozen Hot Pockets Gram eats for her dinner. That’s the best he can do to describe his date?

  Me: She’s pretty.

  Sam: She’s not you.

  I try, and fail, to blot the smile from my face. I could dwell on that statement for hours—probably will, in fact, when he’s not around.

  A shadow falls over me. All of a sudden, I realize the room is silent. Oh, crap. How could I forget where I am? What I’m supposed to be doing?

  “Ms. Brooks, would you like to contribute your thoughts to the class discussion?” Mr. Willoughby asks.

  I wince. “Sorry. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Apparently.” Quick as a hummingbird, he swoops down and plucks the cell phone out of my hands. “You can have this back at the end of the day, after you’ve had a chance to think about your actions.”

  And then, he carries my phone, with its revealing texts about Phoenix, back to his desk.

  * * *

  Mr. Willoughby can’t read the texts. By the time he looks, my phone will have locked up with my security code, right?

  Still, I worry. I worry all the way through sines and cosines, through the lunch I can’t eat, through conjugating verbs in Spanish class.

  But when I arrive in Mr. Willoughby’s office, my phone seems to be the last thing on his mind. He taps his feet as if late for an appointment, and a musky scent emanates from him, something I’ve never noticed during class. Plus, he’s freshly clean-shaven. As in: His cheeks weren’t this smooth earlier today. Did he sneak a razor into the faculty restroom?

  “Hot date, Mr. W?” I blurt out.

  He fiddles with a string bracelet around his wrist. When I look closer, I see images of The Avengers woven into the bracelet. “Of course not. Where would you get that idea? I’ve got a tutoring appointment.”

  As long as we’re pretending, I plaster on a smile. “I mean, you’re a teacher, but you’re human, too. How come you don’t date more? Good-looking man like you?”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Cecilia. But it’s just not a priority in my life right now.” He fishes my phone out of his briefcase and hands it to me. “I’m willing to overlook this infraction, since you’re normally such a good student. And I know there’s been upheaval in your life lately. But will you give me your word you’ll do a better job paying attention in class?”

  I nod, trying to appear contrite. He’s not acting like he saw the texts—thank goodness. But he looks like he’s about to fly out the door any moment, and I can’t let this meeting end without finding out if he’s Phoenix.

  I pinch the inside of my arm until tears well in my eyes. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been having a rough time lately.”

  He glances at the clock, as if calculating how much time he can spare. Then, with a sigh, he gestures to the sitting area. “Would you like to talk?”

  Gotcha.

  I sit in the same folding chair I did a few weeks ago, twisting my hands together. “You know about the topless photo, of course.”

  “Yes, and I’m surprised you haven’t come to me before. I hope you know I’m always here for you.” His voice is gentle and sincere. It’s hard to believe this man could be capable of abusing my mother—or anyone, for that matter. But as Gram says, we always think we know someone. Until we don’t.

  “The photo made me realize how little I knew my mother. At least, how she was at my age,” I say. “But you did. What was she like when she was your student? She was in the first class you taught, right?”

  For some reason, this makes him pick up the pewter frame containing the photo of his dead wife. “Your mother was an extraordinary person, Cecilia. Beautiful and popular. The girl all the boys wanted, the one all the other girls wanted to be. But life wasn’t always easy for her. Sometimes, I’d see sorrow on her face, behind that fabulous smile. Maybe she was depressed even back then. Who knows?”

  “All the boys?” I press. “Even you, Mr. Willoughby?”

  The hand holding the frame trembles. Then, he places the picture facedown on the coffee table. “What? Well, no. I mean, she was gorgeous, of course. Anybody could see that. But I was her teacher.”

  “Some people wouldn’t let that stop them,” I murmur.

  “I suppose. I’m not one of those people.”

  “What about later, Mr. Willoughby, when she was your colleague? Did you ever want to ask her out?”

  He laughs, but it stutters and stalls in his throat like a car with a bad engine. “This isn’t a very appropriate line of questioning, Cecilia.”

  “I guess I’m trying to collect as many different viewpoints of my mother as possible.”

  The lines in his face relax. “That’s fair. I guess you could say I had a crush on her. It wasn’t the way she looked, but the utter passion she had for life. When she was around, I felt like I could jump out of an airplane without a parachute and not get hurt. She made me feel like I could do just about anything.”

  I stiffen. This is essentially what my mother said in her journal, right? I struggle to recall the words she’d written. Something about defying gravity and flying without wings. So not exactly, but close. Too close. Uncomfortably close.

  He clears his throat. “I don’t know what happened those last few months of her life. If she had sexual relations with that boy, it was highly inappropriate. But she doesn’t deserve to be vilified the way she has.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a crush,” I say carefully. “You sound like you were in love with her.”

  He rubs the heel of his palm against his chest. “Maybe I was. But she was always married, so I didn’t bother to find out.”

  Chills run up my spine, and I lace my fingers together to prevent my hands from shaking. What, exactly, did Mr. Willoughby just confess? He was in love with my mother, sure. But for how long? Was he her sexual predator? Has he been obsessed with her all these years?

  “Mr. Willoughby, did you send a flower arrangement to her funeral? A glass cube with an all-white arrangement, with a card signed, ‘W.’?”

  “It’s possible I did, Cecilia. To be honest, I don’t really remember.” He glances at the clock. “I hate to cut this short, but I’m late for my appointment. Perhaps we can schedule a time to talk next week?”

  “Sure.” I stand, my mind whirling. I pick up my backpack, holding it zipper-side down. While it’s unzipped. Pens, note cards, textbooks, and paper spill everywhere. “Oh, crap! I’m sorry, Mr. W., I’m such a klutz sometimes. Please, don’t let me keep you. I know you’ve got that appointment to make.”

  He checks the clock again. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I wave my hand. “Go. I’ll be out of here two minutes after you.”

  With one last glance around the room, he leaves. I count to ten and then dash over to his desk. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but there’s got to be something incriminating here. A planner. Manila files with blank college applications. Next week’s lecture notes.

  And then I see it. On the corner of his desk, beneath a stack of junk mail, I find a glossy X-Men comic book, featuring a voluptuous woman in a skintight green costume, complete with gold sash, gloves, and thigh-high boots. Flaming red hair—strikingly si
milar to my mom’s—falls down her back. Her name, according to the cover, is Jean Grey.

  And her story is told in the Dark Phoenix Saga.

  Chapter 36

  The ocean roars in my ears. I gulp and gulp the air, as if I’ve just swallowed a mouthful of seawater. Oh good god. Mr. Willoughby is Phoenix. I can’t believe it.

  But I’m staring right at the evidence, and it makes perfect sense. Who else would name himself Phoenix other than someone obsessed with comic books? Someone haunted by Jean Grey—and other voluptuous, redheaded women like her.

  It can’t be a coincidence. Not when I’ve spent the last day searching for a connection with Phoenix.

  My knees turn to rubber as I remember my last image of Mr. Willoughby. Clean-shaven, smelling of musk. Rushing off to a “tutoring” appointment.

  If he’s Phoenix, it can only mean one thing. He’s meeting a girl. Maybe Briony. Or the student I saw in the parking lot—what was her name? Ashley, Amber? Maybe that’s his MO. Start with late-night meet-ups, and then escalate the relationship by taking the sessions off school premises.

  This could be the meeting where an innocent student turns into prey.

  I drop to the floor, shoving my spilled stuff and the comic book into my backpack. I don’t have a moment to lose. I’ve got a sexual predator to stop.

  I fly down the hallway. How much of a head start did Mr. Willoughby have? Three minutes, four? I couldn’t have been in his office very long. If he stopped to talk to someone, if he took a detour back to his classroom, I can still catch him.

  I jump into my car and drive to the faculty lot, scanning the vehicles for either the Bug or the Prius I saw the other night. There! On the far side of the lot, I see a familiar silver car. Exactly the type of vehicle Mr. Willoughby would drive.

  Hunkering down in my seat, I pull out my phone and call Sam. It goes straight to voice mail.

  Oh, that’s right. He told me he was going to turn off his phone and work on the article, since his deadline’s first thing tomorrow morning. If I need him, he said, call his home phone.

  Well, if there was ever an emergency, this is it. I root around my backpack for the slip of paper with his contact information, but when I call the number, there’s no answer.

  I frown. Where could he have gone?

  Before I can think of someone else to call, Mr. Willoughby strides out of the building, the momentum swinging his arms like a pendulum. He dumps his briefcase in the backseat, gets in the car, and pulls out of the parking lot. I throw my phone down and follow him.

  We wind through town. There’s never much traffic in Lakewood, but I manage to keep a couple of cars between us. He then turns onto a road that will take us into the country, and the few vehicles evaporate.

  Crap! I grit my teeth and hit the brakes, dropping even farther behind. The pavement disappears. My car bumps and thuds on the dirt, and clouds of dust billow up with each rotation of my tires.

  I glance at the gas gauge. It’s been hovering on “empty” for a while now. And the farther we get out of town, the more my palms slide on the steering wheel. What am I doing? Why am I following a sexual predator to the middle of nowhere? I should turn around. Go to the police, or at least wait for Sam to come with me.

  But what about the girl? If I abandon my tail now, it might be too late for her. She could end up like my mom—or worse. Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I keep going.

  An eternity later, the Prius slows and turns into a long driveway. I pull onto the side of the road. The crickets chirp over each other in a cacophony of music, and the sun flirts with the horizon, its final rays lighting the leaves on fire. Shadows creep up the trees like insidious smoke.

  I rub my bare arms, which the air has pebbled into goose bumps. Slow down, heart! Apparently, it still thinks we’re going forty-five miles per hour.

  I take a deep breath and make my way up the side of the driveway, using the dense shrubbery for camouflage.

  The branches scratch my arms, adding blood to the raised pattern on my skin, and the leaves tangle in my hair. Presently, I come to a small creek lined with rocks. Hearing voices, I perch on one of the rocks, wrap my arms around a tree for balance, and peek around the trunk.

  Two people stand on the front porch of the tucked-away house. Mr. Willoughby. And a girl with her back to me.

  She’s wearing tight jeans and red Converse sneakers, her hair a waterfall of white over the deep black material of her shirt. The hair looks familiar. Straight, shiny, and white-blond. I’ve seen it before, I’m sure of it. But I can’t remember where.

  The girl reaches up and pulls Mr. Willoughby into a passionate kiss. My psych teacher cups his hands around her bottom and lifts her against him. Her feet leave the ground, and she wraps her legs around his waist.

  Hot, smoldering coals burn in my stomach. Mr. Willoughby may be on private property, conducting his personal affairs, but I don’t care. He made it my business when he decided to prey on a student. I couldn’t help my mom when she needed it. But I can do something now. The question is: what?

  As I watch, he puts his hands on her head and presses his fingers on her scalp.

  A line from my mother’s journal floats across my mind. He dug his nails into my scalp, so hard it felt like real metal nails being hammered into my head.

  The coals turn into redhot sparks shooting through my entire body. I can’t stand here any longer, observing. Helpless.

  Sam may not be home, but there are other people who answer the phone all the time. I fumble the phone out of my pocket and dial 911.

  A female voice comes on the line. “Please state your emergency.”

  “There’s a teacher, a sexual predator, who lures girls to his home and takes advantage of them,” I whisper. “I’m watching them right now.”

  I’ve barely uttered the last word when I slip on the rock, and my feet plunge into the creek. I manage to stifle a scream—but there’s nothing I can do about the splash of the water.

  As if in slow motion, Mr. Willoughby and the girl break apart and turn toward the noise. For the first time, I see the girl’s face clearly.

  Even as I hear the operator asking me for the address, the phone slides through my fingers and joins my feet in the water.

  Because the girl is not a student, after all.

  Instead, she’s our school secretary, Ms. Hughes.

  Chapter 37

  Ms. Hughes. A consenting adult. Not a student.

  Not a student. Not a student.

  I was wrong.

  My chest tingles, my throat’s thick. I’m about to throw up all over my wet feet. How could I make such a mistake?

  And I almost reported him. I almost gave the operator his address. His life would’ve been over. Even if my accusation was later proven false, the taint of scandal has a way of lingering. I should know.

  The clouds spin as the ramifications hit me. The branches are suddenly on the ground, the creek in the sky. I sway, swinging my arms to catch onto something, anything. But there’s nothing but the deep, pervasive knowledge of my shame.

  “Cecilia, is that you?” Mr. Willoughby’s voice breaks into my haze. “What are you doing here?”

  Great question. I’m following you because I’m an idiot? Because I thought you were about to prey on a student? Because I was sure you killed my mother? Somehow, none of these answers seems appropriate.

  I sink to my knees, and while I’m there, I fish my phone out of the creek, where it’s nestled between two rocks. When I climb out, my socks weld to my toes like blocks of wet cement. Good. I deserve nothing less.

  I step around the bushes and stop ten feet from the porch.

  “I’m so sorry,” I choke out. They can’t know the truth. That I almost ruined his career—no, his life—is bad enough. No one can know how badly I messed up. “I, uh, followed you home because you dropped something.” My mind whirls. The comic book! It’s in my backpack. I could pretend I’m returning it to him. “But then I saw you ha
d company, and I would’ve turned back. Except my car ran out of gas. And I’m not sure my phone’s working.” I hold out my dripping phone, warming to my story. “I was hoping I could use yours.”

  Ms. Hughes raises her eyebrows. They’re the same white-blond as her hair. How could I have forgotten? Nobody else has hair that color. “Your car ran out of gas. Right in front of Mr. Willoughby’s house.”

  “Oh, yes. You can check my gauge, if you don’t believe me.”

  She doesn’t say anything. A gust of wind blows her blouse open where two of her buttons are undone, and she quickly fastens them.

  “Your hair’s different,” I add lamely.

  “I wear it up at school. More professional.” She confers with Mr. Willoughby with her eyes. “You might as well come in.”

  I chew on my lip. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

  “I’d say you already have.”

  I trudge onto their porch and take off my socks and shoes, so that I don’t leave tracks in the house. But there’s nothing I can do about my footprints on the wood. They stare at me like blemishes, the marks of my shame. Hester had her scarlet letter, and I have my wet feet.

  “What did I drop, Cecilia?” Mr. Willoughby asks as we go inside.

  “An X-Men comic book,” I say. “The Dark Phoenix Saga.”

  As I say the words, part of me dares to hope. Maybe I’m not as foolish as I thought. Maybe he is Phoenix. Just because he’s hooking up with Ms. Hughes doesn’t mean he’s not preying on students as well.

  “Not sure where that came from,” he says. “I haven’t read that comic in ages.”

  Maybe not. He can’t very well be obsessed with Jean Grey if he never reads her story. Unless he’s lying. But how would he know to lie about something so inconsequential?

  My chest deflates. Too many maybes. Too many ifs. If there is a case against Mr. Willoughby, it’s full of holes.

  Ms. Hughes ushers me into the kitchen and hands me a cordless phone. I stare at the black device. Who should I call? Sam? I don’t have much choice. I don’t have any phone numbers memorized, and I can’t scroll through the address book on my waterlogged phone. So I grab the slip of paper from my pocket and dial his home number. No one picks up. Again.