CLINE: A girl in your class is missing and presumed dead. I’m not sure what there is to misunderstand here, Mr. Schill.
9
The Party Girl
CLINE: The date is Thursday, December 6, 2018, the time is twelve fifteen p.m. Second interview with Claude Vanderly, so welcome back. We’d just like to reiterate, for the record, where you were last night.
CLAUDE: Seriously? At Jamie’s. I can say it in another language, if you like. Estuve en la casa de Jamie anoche.
CLINE: You got to Mr. Schill’s house after three in the morning. Maybe you can tell us where you were before then.
CLAUDE: Like it matters. You can’t arrest me for crawling through someone’s window at an undetermined time. Yeah, I have some inside knowledge to this little process. For example, I know you don’t have enough evidence to charge me just because I was banging Jamie later than you thought I was, so you’re going to sit here and hope I incriminate myself. Which won’t work, because I have nothing to hide. It wasn’t even my idea to keep my visits with Jamie a secret. It’s only because his Stepford mom would have an aneurysm if she knew I was staying over.
Look, I was at a party, all right? Until, I don’t know. Till three.
CLINE: You weren’t at Jamie’s at three?
CLAUDE: Two forty-five, then. Jesus fucking christ. It’s a ten-minute drive through Jefferson-Lorne.
CLINE: Claude, I’d like you to calm down.
CLAUDE: Don’t tell me to calm down.
CLINE: I’d like you to calm down, and I’d like you to start from the beginning of your day yesterday.
(silence)
CLINE: What did you do yesterday? What was your schedule?
CLAUDE: Fine. Fine. If we keep this short and sweet, maybe I can salvage some of my lunch hour.
Get ready to be shocked: On Emma’s last day, I came to school. Obviously. I drove from home, and got here around eight, because I like to sleep and I don’t move so quick in the mornings. You can confirm my time stamp with the Ham on this one. Then I went to my classes like normal. Precalc, physics, AP Lit. And then lunch, which I always leave school for, because have you seen the lunch they offer at the cafeteria?
My mom’s not really the lunch-making type. Sometimes I make my own, sometimes I buy. I almost always leave school for it, though. It’s nice to just drive.
Jefferson-Lorne . . . sometimes it feels submerged, forgotten. The curves of Highway 7 whip around the canyon above us, and every day cars trundle past on their way to Kansas or Wyoming or Rocky Mountain National Park. They don’t see us, hidden beneath the swirl of aspen and pine. And when I drive out on the highway, I can pretend that I’m leaving Lorne behind forever. No more dealing with people who ask pointedly if I shouldn’t be in school. No one tells me that my dyed hair or thick eyeliner are an “interesting” look. No one whispers nasty names when they think I can’t hear. On the road I’m just me. All the things I want to be, none of society’s judgment.
I had my lunch with me yesterday, so I was going to drive and eat. Maybe take Janine up to a little trailhead overlooking the peaks and just sit. I headed for the car, doing my usual check to make sure the security guard wasn’t going to try and stop me. And . . . Emma was there, actually.
She was talking to someone, but I can’t tell you who. It looked like a girl, but it was a boy’s lacrosse hoodie with the hood pulled up. Number 217. February 17 is my mom’s birthday, so it caught my eye.
I don’t know what they were talking about, but Emma looked troubled. Maybe pissed. And I thought it was weird to see her out here at all, because if there’s one thing I know about Emma, it’s that she was obsessed with becoming valedictorian. She was neck and neck with Gwen Sayer, and we all knew that whoever got to be valedictorian would take the Devino Scholarship.
They didn’t notice me, and I didn’t go say hi. Emma’s life was none of my business. And neither is her death. And that’s the last I saw of her.
I swear it.
Then, as I headed for Janine, my two least favorite people in JLH pulled into the parking lot. Heather Halifax and her Bratz doll of a friend, Holden.
Heather has a voice so shrill it could melt acid. The Geneva Convention has banned the use of her voice in war. And I don’t love bitching about a girl’s voice like I’m trying to fit into the Dude-Bro Nation, but just as often it’s the content Heather spews that fills me with rage. Girls have to be perfect and virginal and part of the church choir in order to get her stamp of approval. All boys have to be is hot. Also, we had a slight altercation concerning Heather’s boyfriend last year, so Heather thinks I can fuck off and die, and she’s not afraid to express that sentiment. So I ended up ditching my plans and stuffing myself into a spare corner at school, turning my headphones up until it was time for AP Comparative Government.
Wait a sec. I guess I lied because I did see Emma in APCoGo. Emma’s always quiet, and for the past few months, she’s been even quieter than normal, pulling her shoulders around like they could act as some sort of shell. That’s . . . sort of how she is. It’s not hard to forget about her. I think that’s what she wants. Wanted.
We were given a practice test to go over in groups. For some people, like Emma, this means putting her head down and doing the test. Heather Halifax was using it as a chance to plan her weekend. “There’s supposed to be a party at Greg’s place, but I don’t know. I mean, he has a hot tub—but Leigh said he’s being treated for chlamydia, and I just don’t know if my parents would let me hang around with someone like that.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “It’s so difficult keeping up with who’s filthy.” She pitched her voice a little louder, to make sure it carried to me. “I’ll bet Claude knows. Claude, you know all about who’s got chlamydia, don’t you?”
“Can’t help you,” I replied. “Though I did see your mom in line at the pharmacy. Maybe the two are related.” I hate your mom jokes. They stink of unoriginality. But where Heather is concerned, I’ll say anything to piss her off. It’s my fatal flaw.
The kid in front of me snorted. Heather’s pencil went sailing past my head. I bit my lip to keep my smile in and leaned over my paper.
“Damn it, I forgot my pencil case.” Heather sighed. “Emma. Hey, Emma.”
I peered through my hair at Emma. Her nose was just an inch above her paper, eyes narrowed as she concentrated. If she heard Heather, she didn’t react.
“Em-ma.” Heather snapped her fingers just under Emma’s ear.
Emma sprang back. Her hands clenched so tight she snapped her pencil in two. Her eyes widened and her mouth parted slightly. She looked like a mouse caught in a live trap. She looked so terrified.
“Whoa,” Heather said. “Don’t freak out. Can I borrow a pencil?”
Emma’s shoulders came up to her ears. She grabbed a pencil from her cloth case and practically threw it at Heather. Then she turned back to her paper, without a word.
Weird, right?
CLINE: What was Emma writing in?
CLAUDE: A . . . notebook?
CLINE: Like a diary?
CLAUDE: Standard, five-subject, college-ruled. How the hell should I know if she was doing her diary? She’d be the type to have one. But it’s not like we took diary breaks in class. And I don’t even know what she’d write about. Dear Diary, Gwennie’s so mean, I’m so smart. Emma’s problems are none of my business.