Reporters scribble notes like mad as Juliet talks. I see where she’s going with this, and I stand up straighter, hoping the reporters quiet down so I can hear her words.
“The person targeted in this attack had been previously kidnapped and assaulted by the alleged perpetrator of the Sheridan Hall shooting. When she reported the kidnapping to the police, they called it a prank by an ex-boyfriend. The restraining order she fought for did nothing to protect her. When we told campus police that we had reason for concern, they told us there was nothing they could do until the perpetrator showed up and did something. The target of this attack is so overwhelmed with guilt that she couldn’t even be here tonight. She blames herself for what happened. I stand here today for her because she’s not ready to stand here for herself.”
I see Juliet’s reds and oranges and can tell she’s summoning the courage to continue. She looks to the cameras again. “Listen…” She pauses, looking down at the podium then back at the crowd. “I’m just a pissed off kid. I don’t have the answers. All I know is this: something has to be done.”
The lights of the cameras flash. God, she’s beautiful. She blinks, blinded by the flashes, then looks behind her toward Ben. “Besides losing Frank, Benjamin Riley has a scar that he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life. He’s lost his chance at a football career.” Ben grips her shoulder, giving her the support he always provides.
She looks back to the crowd. “Sometime along the way, Sheridan became our home. But because of what happened, we’ve lost our freshman year and with it the memories we made those first few months. I even fell in love in the basement of Sheridan. The shooting made me lose that.”
For a minute, I think Juliet’s talking about Ben, until her colors tell me otherwise. For the first time since Pooja told me to feel the colors, not just see them, it happens. I feel them straight from Juliet’s heart. She’s talking about me. The feeling passes, replaced with nausea at knowing I’d been lucky enough to be the person she’d chosen to give her love to, but had fucked it up.
“Our first semester is gone, tapped off with the horror of that day. At eighteen and nineteen years old, we’ve lost our innocence.”
Juliet shields her eyes and looks at the officers behind the cameras, watching curiously. “Let me finish.” Juliet holds up a finger. “I’ll be quick.”
The newscasters ignore the police presence and stay focused on Juliet. She has that effect on people—mesmerizing and glowing and amazing. She continues, “As I was saying, we Sheridan students lost a lot. We know we had to relocate for security reasons, but now the police work is done. Sheridan’s been closed since the incident. We all want our home back.
“I’ve called and written and stormed into every office on this campus. President Hernandez refuses to listen to me. The Housing Department banned me from entering their building. I’ve even reached out to some of you, the reporters, for help getting Sheridan open.
“I know it’s controversial considering what went down there, but we need each other. All I ask is for the University to open the doors for us, for the ones who want to return. Frank was taken from us. Don’t let our home be taken from us, too.”
Juliet talks over the chatter. “Let me be clear. The University has been good to us. We’ve had representatives track us down, and we’ve been given the opportunity for counseling. But we don’t know why the University refuses to acknowledge our housing request. Please open Sheridan Hall. We want our lives back.” Juliet turns and asks the students, “Am I asking for too much?” Those behind her murmur support.
“Like I said,” she continues, her reds swirling passionately above her, “I’m just a pissed off kid. I’m a pissed off college freshman who wants to live in her dorm room with her roommate and her friends to honor her fallen friend and to try to heal. We can’t heal when we are scattered around campus like a bunch of homeless students.”
As Juliet shines, arguing her cause, a man in a suit climbs out of the back of a University security vehicle. Juliet loses the cameras as they turn toward the man, and I hear the reporters murmur.
The president of NJU, Willis Hernandez, towers over Juliet, but she doesn’t back away. When he turns to the cameras, the reporters start yelling questions.
“Is it true that you refuse to let these kids back in the dorm?”
“Is it true campus police failed to investigate the complaint?”
“Do you have any comments?”
President Hernandez lifts his hands to the cameras. “First,” he bellows, “I’d like to let Ms. Anderson finish what she needs to say. Then I would like to make a short statement on behalf of the university.”
The cameras turn back to Juliet. “Thank you, President Hernandez. I don’t have much more to say. I just wanted to get your attention. Since you’re standing here with us, it seems to have worked.”
I snicker along with the rest of the crowd. She’s scary when she has a cause, I remember Ben saying. He’s wrong though. She’s not scary at all. She’s a goddamn force of nature.
Juliet
I’m shaking inside as President Hernandez takes center stage and talks into the microphone. “As I’ve said too many times these past couple of weeks, what happened at this school was nothing short of a tragedy. I didn’t have the honor of knowing Frank personally, but I’ve learned that he was a wonderful man, loved by many. Francis O’Leary was a hero.
“Tonight, I acknowledge that Ms. Anderson’s assessment of the incident is true. This incident was targeted at a brave young woman who did everything she could to prevent it.” I hope Pooja hears his words and gets it through that thick skull of hers that this wasn’t her fault.
“This great state and this great university do not tolerate domestic violence—any violence, of any sort. With that in mind, I have a plan. While nothing can fix the losses incurred on that November night, I’m going to ask that an annual scholarship be funded in Francis O’Leary’s name. His brave act will not be forgotten.”
I clap along with the crowd, pleased Hernandez acknowledged Frank.
“In addition, I will call for the creation of a committee to investigate, improve, and educate the university community, faculty, and students, on violence issues. I’ll task the committee with improving our student hotline and training our campus officers and hotline volunteers in handling issues of abuse and domestic violence. My first official order of business in that regard is to invite Ms. Anderson to serve on the committee as Student Liaison.”
President Hernandez and the cameras look to me and catch my stunned reaction. He steps away from the podium to speak with me privately. “Will you accept the position?” he asks.
I don’t know what that means, really, but I say, “I’d be honored,” and shake his hand.
President Hernandez moves back to the podium and shushes everyone. “Juliet Anderson makes me proud to be president of this fine university. She exemplifies the spirit of the students here and lives by the code of honor that we encourage students to adopt. She’s brought to our attention our failings in how we handled this tragedy and she has made her points with intelligence and grace. Though she refers to herself as a ‘pissed off kid,’ we see her as a shining example of the excellence of the next generation. The university, however, to borrow Ms. Anderson’s words, is a pissed off institution. An institution that has never had to deal with the horrors faced in the last few weeks, and that hopes to never again. I see now, through these unified students of Sheridan Hall, that Ms. Anderson is right.”
My heart races as President Hernandez looks to me. “Sheridan Hall will open after Christmas break for those who wish to return.”
My jaw drops as those behind me whoop and clap. Ben scoops me up and swings me around, whispering in my ear, “You did it, Jules.” The other residents of Sheridan surround me, and we end up in a group hug.
For whatever reason, I look to the sky and think about Justine. Instead of wishing she were here with me, as I usually do, I thank her for watchin
g over me. Someday I’ll see you again, sweet girl. I have a bit more to take care of down here first. When I look back to the crowd, I see him walking away.
Chase.
I had a feeling he’d be here, somewhere. I watch him disappear toward the train station—our train station—and turn back to the others.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chase
I walk back to the apartment after Juliet’s speech. I can’t believe she was ever mine to lose. Even though it’s freezing outside, I sit on my stoop and look to the sky. My pulse slows, and I become aware of my breathing.
Without looking, I know she’s there.
“You really are in bad shape.” Her soft voice is musical and soothing. “What the heck happened to your face?”
I smile. My jaw throbs. “Ben’s fist happened to my face. What can I do for you, Pooja Pravali?”
“You can invite me in,” she answers, pointing at the door. “It’s fucking cold out here.”
I stand and wave a hand toward the door. She follows me up the stairs. Inside, she sits on my living room couch, flipping through a pile of canvases of Juliet. “They’re beautiful, Chase. You really see her.”
“She was amazing tonight. Did you see it?”
“I did. I saw you, too.”
“Thanks for not outing me. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with Juliet?”
“I wanted to be around you. You know, because you’re like me.”
I smile at her crookedly. “Not really.” I sit on the couch next to her. “I’ve never been in tune like you.”
“I thought maybe being with you would give me better insight.” She stops at the picture of Juliet in purple.
I touch her knee. “I know you’ve probably heard this a million times before, but none of this is your fault, Pravali.”
“I wondered if you thought it was. I mean, I do have the gift. Shouldn’t I have seen this? I had the dream. I could have done more. I should have made them all leave.”
“You aren’t a superhero.” I lean back on the couch, watching Pooja look through my paintings. “You can’t put the weight of the world on your shoulders. Gift or no gift.”
“What’s the sense in having the gift if I can’t use it?”
“If that’s the case, then this whole thing is actually my fault, too.”
Pooja freezes and looks to me. “How could it be your fault?”
I grab her hand. “I had a dream the night before the shooting, when Juliet was with me. I dreamt she was about to jump off a cliff. Frank saved her. Ben was there too.”
“Oh, Chase,” she breathes, her body sagging. Pooja understands dreams more than I do.
“In the morning, I had a terrible feeling in my gut. I didn’t want Juliet to leave. I blamed it on my fear that she’d go back to Ben and never come back to me. Maybe I sensed the shooting—the whole damn thing—and I let her go anyway. I should have made her stay with me.”
“You know that’s not true. This isn’t on you.”
“Well it’s no more on me than it is on you. So give yourself a break.” I’m trying to be strong for Pooja, but really, I’ve thought about that dream a lot. Maybe if I had been more tuned in to the gift, none of this would have happened.
Pooja sighs. “I’m going to have to testify at the trial. Juliet. Ben, maybe even Rocco…all of us. I don’t know how we’re going to do it. I’m going to have to tell them about the kidnapping. Juliet’s going to have to…”
She obviously doesn’t know that I know a bit about what happened. “You’ll all get through it fine. Those three—Juliet, Ben, and Rocco—are the three strongest people I know. That fucker will go to prison forever. He’ll never hurt any of you again. I hate to tell you this, Pooj, but…”
“What?” She tilts her head, studying me.
“You need to man up, baby.”
I know my choice of words will elicit a reaction, and she doesn’t disappoint. “You mean, woman up, don’t you?”
“Well, whatever. I wouldn’t want to offend your goddesses, but when we deal with the tough guys like Rocco and Ben and Juliet, we can’t be wimps.” We smile at each other.
“The tough guys.” She shakes her head. “They’re like the X-Men or the Justice League.”
I tug a strand of her long, dark hair. “If you think that, you’ve been hanging around Rodrigo and Winston too long.”
Pooja grins again, and it’s like medicine. “It’s nice to see you smile. It helps.”
“Juliet tells me that every time I feel like shit over this, Cameron wins again.”
“She’s a smart woman.”
“She is. But no matter what everyone says, I can’t seem to keep it together. I don’t know what I’d do without Rocco and Juliet. I’m so glad I didn’t get on that flight back to San Diego after the shooting.”
“How is Roc?”
Pooja sighs. “Not so great. I think he’s using every ounce of energy to take care of me and Juliet.”
My chest tightens. “How is she, Pooja? I mean, how is she really?”
“You know how she is. She’s tough. But she certainly didn’t need you breaking her heart after all we went through.”
That’s just like Pooja, telling it like it is. She’s right though. “I let her down.”
“Kind of. Don’t get me started on how she walked in on you and Sara the day of Frank’s memorial. I told her you were an asshole. Sorry about that.” She cringes and hides her face in her hands.
“Just for the record, Sara and I didn’t do anything.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“And please don’t apologize. I am an asshole.”
“You’re not. You’re figuring things out, like the rest of us.” Pooja turns to face me. “Juliet loves you, you know.”
I shake my head. “When I saw her at Frank’s grave, she told me it’s over. She said I’d given up, so she was giving up, too. I don’t blame her.”
“Maybe it’s not about her giving up on you. Maybe it’s about you fighting for the both of you.”
I lean my head back on the couch and run my fingers through my hair. “Tell me what to do, Pravali, and I’ll do it.”
“Well for one thing, stop getting drunk and doing drugs with your ex,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Done. I’m back in AA. I have Rob here helping me stay straight. I told Sara I can’t be around her. Still, I don’t know if that’s enough.”
“Because you’re lost.”
“I am.”
“When you’re lost, how do you find yourself?” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, then pulls a painting of Juliet from the floor. “I’m going to borrow this one,” she says, inspecting it. She winks at me and heads for the door.
Art. I need to paint. I need to paint for Frank, for Juliet, for Ben, for Pooja.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Juliet
On Christmas morning, I wake up early and raid the pantry for pancake mix. I fire up the stove, find the griddle, and heat it up as I mix the ingredients. My parents don’t come downstairs until the coffee brews.
“Coffee?” my mom says, dragging herself into the kitchen. I point the spatula at the pot.
“All brewed and ready,” I say.
Dad is right behind her. “Do I smell pancakes?” He stands behind me and looks over my shoulder, then kisses my cheek. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“We haven’t had pancakes on Christmas since…” my mom starts.
I sigh. Here we go. “Justine. Not since Justine. You’d sneak down early and the smell would wake us up.”
Mom tears up and turns her back to me. “Sit,” I order them.
They do. The table is already set, and I neatly stack a few pancakes for them.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” Dad touches my hand as I pour him a cup of coffee. “It’s nice to have you home.” I know he’ll never be the type of dad to pull me into his arms and squeeze me, but I appreciate his gesture.
I join them at the table. “Well, it’s not nice to be home.”
Mom recoils at my words. “Excuse me?”
I take a deep breath and start clawing my way out. “Ever since Justine died, I don’t feel welcome in my own home. Since the dorm is closed, for now, I don’t really have a choice but to be here. And I’m sorry if you don’t want me here.”
“We never said that!” My father grabs my shoulder. “How can you think such a thing?”
I cross my arms over my chest, shrugging him away. “Because I know. I know that you blame me for Justine’s death. I know she was the smart one, the better one, the one who would never disappoint you. But I’ve realized something since the shooting, and I’m not sure if you realize it.”
I pause as my parents stare, waiting. I shake my head as I talk. “I didn’t kill her. I didn’t. As much as I blame myself for putting us in that situation, I didn’t kill her. And I’m done with feeling like I did.”
“Sweetheart, we never blamed you.” Dad’s eyes water and he touches my shoulder again. “I’m so sorry that you thought we did.”
Mom stays silent. I know she blames me, even if he doesn’t. I turn to her.
“Mom, Justine’s dead. And whatever you’re thinking about me, all the horrible things, I’ve already thought them about myself—every day for the last four years. But we have to make a choice.”
Dad stands, grabs a tissue box off the counter, and hands it to my mother, who silently wipes her tears. I continue, “We have to choose to live. We still have each other. I know I’m not her, but I’m all you have now. Do you want to lose me, too? Because I don’t want to lose you.”
She Laughs in Pink (Sheridan Hall #1) Page 27
