“Pam’s been involved since the beginning. The parents contacted her after it happened, and she’s been counseling the student. Pam was with her today, actually.”
“Good. She needs guidance right now more than anything,” he says, returning to the pizza. “Everything makes sense now.”
“What makes sense?”
“Your attitude this week. It’s understandable why an incident like that would rile you up.”
“That’s what Dr. Walters said, too,” I say, sinking lower into the sofa cushion.
“Well, at least you told her,” Danny says, his tone hurt.
“What does that mean?”
“You said this happened a week ago, right? I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to tell me. Usually you’re more upfront about things.”
Now he sounds exactly like Dr. Walters, as though I’ve done something wrong in not sharing this with him sooner.
“Well, I’m telling you about it now,” I say, feeling the pressure to regain Danny’s approval. “And I think I know who might have attacked her.”
He stops eating again and stares at me. “Who?”
“Do you remember that new student I told you about last week?”
“The one who said fuck in class?” Danny asks, laughing. “Yeah, I remember.”
“I told you she rubbed me wrong from day one. She’s done more stuff since then.”
“Like what?”
“Well, her in-class behavior is as crass as ever. Then she was caught with a knife on the school bus. Bowles, of course, barely punished her,” I say. “And she’s made insensitive comments about the attack.”
“The knife incident is troubling.” He crumples his napkin, places it on the plate. “Wait, you think a girl attacked this student?”
I clench my jaw and close my eyes. I know it sounds unbelievable. Untraditional. There isn’t enough linking Zoey to the attack yet. “I think this girl—Zoey is her name—is disturbed.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong…” Danny pauses, forming his words precisely. “I didn’t think girls typically did that sort of thing. You know, with the violence.”
“That’s why I’m afraid to tell people my theory. No one will take it seriously. Half the school seems convinced the girl’s ex-boyfriend attacked her, but I don’t believe he has it in him.”
“You say this girl—Zoey—is troubled. But why would she go out of her way to hurt another student? There has to be a reason.” Danny isn’t fully convinced. He’s using his pragmatic brain to make sense of everything. “Do you know if Zoey was even at the party?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, I’ve not heard her say.”
“That’s what you need to find out.”
“You’re right.” I’m frustrated that I’m missing this most basic piece of the puzzle. “But it’s all of it together. Zoey is sneaky and smart and able to change her behavior at the drop of a hat. Doesn’t that remind you of someone?”
A look washes over his face like I’ve not seen in years. “Like, your brother? You think Zoey might have attacked one of her classmates because she reminds you of your brother?”
“She reminds me of him in lots of ways. Wouldn’t you be nervous if you encountered someone like him?”
“There’s been a lot of people who reminded me of him over the years,” he says, catching himself. “If you remember, everyone liked him. He was an average guy. No one picked up on the dark stuff.”
“And Zoey is exactly like that. The whole school is mesmerized with her because she can sprint and jump hurdles, or whatever. She made the highest grade on Marge’s stupid chemistry test. But that’s all just a deception.”
That remains, still, the scariest part of Brian. That there was a thin line separating him from the rest of society. But that division was important and deliberate. That division helped him mask his monster. And I think Zoey might be following in his footsteps.
“Don’t hate me for saying this,” Danny begins, cracking his knuckles. “Do you think you just don’t like this girl? Maybe your personalities clash.”
“I’ve had several students I didn’t particularly care for over the years. But I’ve never accused them of attacking their classmates. In fact, we didn’t have an incident like this at Victory Hills until Zoey showed up.”
“I just think throwing a person’s name out there can be dangerous. I wish there was a way you could prove this girl was involved.”
I walk into the kitchen. Danny remains on the couch, no doubt trying to make sense of everything I’ve said. I find my school bag and retrieve the anonymous essay. I hand the paper to Danny.
“This is my proof.”
He slowly takes the paper from my hands. “What is this?”
“Read it,” I say, nodding. “This is what a student turned in today. A student from Zoey’s class.”
He looks at the paper. He sighs heavily, and after a few seconds starts shaking his head. “Dell, what am I even reading?”
“The girl in the purple dress? That’s Darcy. It’s describing the attack.”
“I don’t want to read this,” he says, pushing the paper away. “Why would you let me?”
“You’re sitting here acting like I’m crazy for thinking Zoey is involved. Look at what I got today. Someone wants to mess with me, and it’s more than likely her.”
“I never said you were crazy.” His voice is lighter, and he stares at me honestly. Crazy is a curse word in our house. I spent my whole childhood feeling crazy, like I was the only one who could put together all the disturbing pieces of Brian to see the full picture. “How do you know Zoey wrote the letter?”
“I told you someone shuffled it in with the other essays.”
“And there was no name on it?”
“No.”
“Don’t hate me for this, Dell. But how do you know Zoey wrote it?”
I stare at him, feeling the sudden urge to cry. Earlier, when I thought of Darcy and the pain she experienced that night, I cried from sadness. Now, my tears are arising from a place of anger. I’m livid because I’m confident Zoey did this, and there’s no way to prove I’m right. One… two… three.
“I have a feeling,” I say, finally.
That’s enough for Danny. He’s a practical person, but he trusts my instincts. “Keep an eye on Zoey. You could very well be right,” he says. “I only want to make sure you’re handling this the right way.”
He rubs the skin from my shoulders down to my elbows. After a few strokes, he pulls me in for a hug. He’s trying to mend whatever strings he tore during our debate. He can’t validate my suspicions, or erase Darcy’s pain; a hug is the best he can give.
Sixteen
Now
I arrive at school early on Monday and wait in the parking lot until I see Pam’s dark blue minivan. She often arrives at school early, juggling a slew of different responsibilities. On any given day, I’m performing the same tasks. I’m interacting with students, typing lessons and grading papers. Pam’s schedule differs from one week to the next. One day she could be signing students up for classes, the next day she’s administering the ACT and she might end the week by making a phone call to Child Protective Services about abuse claims.
I’m sure the last thing she wants is to be bombarded before first block begins. She’s probably dreading the arrival of Darcy, which is supposed to be today, even more than I am. At the same time, Pam would want to see this.
Pam gets out of her car, an empty Styrofoam cup falling to the ground as she does. I exit my vehicle, walking straight for her. “You have a second?” I ask.
She’s bent over retrieving the cup. She raises her head, sees me and smiles. “Morning, Della. I wish I could talk, but—”
“It’s really important,” I say, stopping her. I know her morning is busy due to Darcy’s return, but I’ve been holding onto the letter since Friday. I can’t stand one more minute of keeping it to myself.
When we enter the building, I don’t even b
other going to my classroom. Instead, I follow Pam to her office. She fiddles with the lock, and I push the door open for her as she puts the items in her hands on the desk.
“So, Della,” she says, staring down at her calendar. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I’ve been wanting to speak with you since Friday,” I say. “I didn’t want to bother you over the weekend.”
“It’s no bother, Della,” she says, looking up.
I grab the essay from my bag and pass it over. “You need to read this.”
She takes the paper, flips it over to inspect the empty back. “What is it?” she asks, looking at me.
“A student turned this in on Friday. They included it in a pile of research essays.”
She takes a seat and begins reading. After a few seconds, she covers her mouth, her eyes still studying the page. “You think this is about Darcy?” she asks finally, looking back at me.
“It has to be,” I say. “I mean, look at the details. Her dress. The emphasis on her leg. And what are the odds of receiving something like this a week after the attack?”
“And someone just typed this, printed it off and turned it in with the other essays?”
“Well, you know how it is in the computer lab. Students do their own thing and print their own materials,” I say, regretting I hadn’t been more aware of what students were doing that day. “Whoever wrote this must have printed it off in addition to their essay and slid it in the stack for me to find.”
“Why would someone do this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to brag,” I say, shrugging. “Maybe to mess with me.”
“Do you have any idea who might have written this?” she asks, looking at me with an intense stare.
“I think so,” I say, my pulse quickening as I prepare to drop the name. “Zoey Peterson.”
“Why her?” she asks. “Has she said something about Darcy? Did you see her messing with the essays?”
“I think she might have been the one who hurt Darcy.”
“You think she attacked Darcy?” She acts like she misunderstands. “What makes you think that?”
“There are several reasons I find her suspicious,” I say, knowing I won’t be able to explain all my doubts in such a short amount of time. “Could I speak with you during your planning?”
“Sure,” she says, lifting the paper still in her hand. “May I make a copy of this?”
“Of course.”
“I need to prepare for Darcy’s return. She should be coming to my office any minute, which means she’ll be in your classroom shortly after.”
“Thank you, Pam,” I say, standing to leave. “How is Darcy doing?”
“Better. She thinks coming back to school will be easy. I hope she’s right,” she says, holding her office door open as I leave. “Unfortunately, I’m not as hopeful as she is.”
I hurry to my classroom and unlock the door. I’ve been dreading seeing Darcy since I heard about the attack. I know the looks she’ll be receiving all day. That victim look. People can’t help it, of course. Most people, like me, are truly heartbroken by what she’s been through. That’s why they look at her, their eyes wide and glossy. Their mouths strained.
That’s the way everyone looked at me after Brian did what he did. Like I was a poor victim. Of course, that’s better than the angry reaction. People staring at me with contempt, even going so far as to blame my family for what he’d done. Only one death was really my fault. I’m sure Darcy will get loads of those looks, too. The darting eyes and arched brows. Like she brought this on herself.
Darcy is the third student to enter the classroom. She’s wearing jeans, a black shirt and a sweater tied around her waist despite the warm temperatures outside. Her hair is in a ponytail. I give her a smile and nod before looking elsewhere. She doesn’t smile back, instead taking her seat and pulling out her phone.
Adam is only a few steps behind her. He picks the seat closest to her and skids the chair across the floor. Normally, I would tell him to leave the chairs alone. But today, I’m willing to let protocol slide. She doesn’t stop him from moving closer, but she doesn’t acknowledge his presence, either.
Darcy attempts to look normal, like nothing happened and this is an average Monday at Victory Hills. Even though everyone on campus is aware something did happen to her. I imagine what her scar must look like under the tight denim fabric around her legs. I wonder how deep it is, if it’s covered by a bandage and if it’s already starting to heal.
“Good morning,” I say to the class once the final bell rings. As they retrieve their textbooks per my instructions, I realize Zoey is absent. I’d been so focused on Darcy, I’d forgotten about her. That seems to be the stance the entire school has taken. Forgetting there is someone out there to blame for Darcy’s hurt.
We’re not in class ten minutes before there’s a knock at the door. I look through the tiny pane of fiberglass and see Zoey standing there, peering into the room. I open the door to let her in.
“Zoey.” I study her reaction. If she wrote the essay, she must know I’ve read it by now. Perhaps that’s why she’s late today, so she can have me, briefly, all to herself.
“Here’s your note,” she says, holding eye contact.
“Excuse me?” I say, my mind immediately returning to the anonymous paper. I look down and see the miniature pink slip she’s holding between two fingers.
“My tardy slip,” she says, holding it out further. She offers a smug smile, but that’s no different from a typical day.
I take the slip, looking away as she walks past. She sits three rows in front of Darcy. I expect the two to ignore each other; instead, Darcy raises her head and nods. Zoey returns the gesture. The only other person who seems to notice the exchange is Adam, and he doesn’t seem happy. He clenches a fist and stares at his desk.
All weekend, I’ve been considering how Darcy might act in front of Zoey. If she knew her attacker, the pain of being in the same room must be unbearable. Darcy, however, seems unbothered. She’s got both hands back on her phone, tapping away.
“Have you graded the essays?” asks Ben, snapping me out of my trance. My eyes instinctively go to Zoey, who is already staring at me, the smile on her face still there.
“Um,” I start, but my voice sounds not fully awake. “Yes, Ben. Most of them. I’ll have them all done by tomorrow.”
There are a few grumbles, my students disappointed by their teacher’s sudden struggle to keep a deadline. But none of them know about the distractions I’ve faced this weekend. Well, one of them does.
“Will we get a chance to revise them?” asks Melanie.
“As usual,” I answer. “You’ll have an opportunity to read my feedback before submitting a final draft.”
“Will we be going back to the computer lab for that?” Zoey asks.
Is she thinking of typing another note, I wonder? Sharing more details of the grisly account only she can remember. I can’t completely hide my irritation toward her. “Do you think that’s necessary?”
“I don’t have access to a computer at home,” she says. Suddenly, I’m the teacher picking on the poorest kid in class.
“Yes, Zoey,” I say, adopting a more professional tone. “We’ll be returning to the lab soon.”
Given Darcy’s return, this isn’t the best day for group work. I give them an individual assignment, hoping some quiet and introspection will help Darcy ease back into routine. Adam takes the assignment and immediately starts working, as though through him, Darcy would see how to adjust. How to be normal again. Zoey starts working, too. Occasionally, she looks toward the back of the classroom. Everyone is writing or reading, except for one person.
Darcy unwraps the sweater from around her waist and bundles it on her desk. She places her head on the makeshift pillow and closes her eyes.
I’m waiting outside of Pam’s office before the fourth block bell even rings. I’ve been dying to hear her take on the letter.
She walks do
wn the hallway, carrying a takeout food box. Pam’s able to leave school grounds during the day and pick up her lunch, on occasion. She’s still talking with another teacher but acknowledges me at her door by offering a simple wave.
“Can you talk now?” I ask when she approaches.
“Yes, just give me a minute,” she says, opening her door and allowing me inside.
I wait as she deposits her leftovers into her miniature fridge. She flattens out her pants before sitting, twisting in her chair to face me.
“How was Darcy in class today?” she asks, folding her hands together on the desk.
“A bit testy,” I say, thinking of how much she reminded me of someone else. “I was dreading seeing her, really. I thought she might be despondent, defiant. She didn’t do any of her assignments.”
Of course, it didn’t bother me she didn’t do her work. She has more on her mind than completing worksheets. However, I think her refusal to participate says a lot about where she is mentally.
“That’s a normal reaction for girls in her situation. They’ve lost control in a horrendous way, so they’re trying to take it back any way they can. It wouldn’t surprise me if her attitude gets worse in coming weeks.”
“I understand,” I say. “Have you talked to her today?”
“I have,” Pam says, looking down. “I think today has been tougher than she expected. I wish the parents weren’t so insistent about her completing the semester.”
“What do you think about the essay?” I ask, having waited long enough to hear Pam’s response.
“I find it very concerning,” she says. She reaches into a folder on her desk and retrieves the paper. “I can’t figure out why a student would write this considering what happened. I think all our students are too mature to view something like this as a joke. I’m wondering if it’s not more a cry for attention.”
What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense Page 10
