Truly, Madly, Deadly (8 page)

Sawyer worked lightness into her tone. “Are you telling me you’re over looking at Ryan’s butt?”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t looking at Ryan’s butt. At least not the whole time. But seriously, we can leave.”

Sawyer shook her head, steeling her jaw. “No, I’m okay.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.” Sawyer rubbed her palms on her jeans and turned to Cooper. “How was your hot dog?”

“It was everything I’ve always wanted in a snack, plus nitrates.”

The first few bars of music crackled over the PA system, and Sawyer sucked in a deep breath, glancing up at the screen just as one of Kevin’s baby pictures flashed nine feet tall in front of her.

There was a pang of hurt, but nothing she couldn’t handle. When a shot of a teenaged Kevin in his football uniform flashed, Sawyer felt the hot dog bulging in her stomach, making her nauseous. At least that was what she told herself, not willing to admit to the guilt—and to a slight twinge of fear.

The slide show continued the whole length of the song, and Sawyer watched, strangely riveted, her emotions rising and crashing with every other picture. As the photos got closer to the end of Kevin’s life, Sawyer felt her heart start to pound; she felt sticky and hot underneath her thin Hornets T-shirt. The people in the bleachers seemed to lean in on her, lean closer toward her, leering, staring. Anxiety burst in her chest, tendrils, like needle pricks, racing through her.

“I have to get out of here.” She stood up and shimmied past Chloe, past the row of students, and ran down the bleacher stairs, taking them two at a time as she neared the bottom. Once she was at the snack shack, she was in the midst of a full-blown panic attack and she backed into the cool, dark space under the bleachers, doubling over and working to suck in bursts of cold air. Her skin felt too tight, and she felt overwhelmed, guilt, anger, sadness, and panic washing over her in body-wracking waves. She didn’t even know when she started to cry.

“Sawyer?”

She could barely make out his form in the darkness underneath the bleachers, but she recognized his voice. “Cooper?”

“Yeah. You took off like a shot. I tried to catch you, but you disappeared into the crowd.”

“I’m sorry, Cooper, I’m just…” She shook her head, hating the way her words sounded, choked by her tears. “Crazy,” she finally whispered.

Cooper carefully picked his way toward her in the darkness. Sawyer felt his fingers first on her wrist, then walking up her arm. His touch gave her goose bumps even though her body was seizing in a panic.

Before she knew it, she was slumped against Cooper, his arms around her, fingers laced at the small of her back. And she was crying. Huge, body-wracking sobs that left a wet spot on his chest, and Sawyer hiccupping and coughing. She broke their embrace, feeling the immediate cold of Cooper’s absence on her chest.

“I’m sorry.” She stopped crying, using her fist to push away the tears on her cheeks.

Cooper stepped into her, his arms wrapping around her again, cautious, this time not pulling her close. “Don’t be. He was your boyfriend, Sawyer. You loved him. It’s okay to be sad.”

A tremble, so heavy it made her teeth chatter, started in Sawyer’s body, and she began to cry all over again.

I
did
love
Kevin,
she thought,
once.
But she hadn’t for a long time. Toward the end, he kissed her as often as he slapped her, and a severe hatred had started deep in Sawyer’s chest. She wanted to break up with him; she had tried a dozen times, but each time he drew her back in with promises, pleas, and threats.

I’d kill myself if you ever left me, Sawyer,
Kevin had said when they lay, bodies intertwined, on the grass.
I
could
never
live
without
you.
At the time she had found the sentiment passionate and deep and a true statement of their unyielding love. But eventually it became a threat that she found so real it filled her with dread—with guilt. He needed her. Kevin Anderson needed her so much he couldn’t live without her.

It made so much sense, then.

The tears stopped abruptly, and this time it was Sawyer who pulled Cooper toward her. She crushed him against her chest, and her lips, chapped from crying, found his. She kissed him hard, with passion and blazing anger for something she had missed. Her lips parted and her tongue slipped into his mouth just as her arms slipped around his neck, clawed at his back. She didn’t know why, but she
needed
this. It was almost as if she needed Cooper to wipe the taste—or the memory—of Kevin away.

Cooper groaned when Sawyer leaned into him, her body fitting smoothly into his angles, that burning zinging racing through her bloodstream, firing every synapse in her body. She wanted Cooper Grey.

Her eyes flashed open as her mind started to slow, to clear. That was when she saw the figure under the bleachers with them. It moved slowly, tentative at first, so much so that Sawyer wasn’t sure she’d even seen it. She broke her lips from Cooper’s and narrowed her eyes. Then Logan stepped into the light.

His face was set hard, his eyes having obviously witnessed the way Sawyer had torn into Cooper—the Sawyer who had told Logan that she just wasn’t ready to date.

He blinked at her, and Sawyer thought she saw the light catch, glistening on the moisture on his bottom lashes. He turned to walk away, and Sawyer felt herself consumed with guilt and shame.

“Logan,” she called. “Logan!” She stepped away from Cooper and ran after Logan, but by the time she stepped into the light-flooded mezzanine in front of the snack shack, Logan had disappeared into the hordes of kids lumbering around. “Logan?” Sawyer tried again.

Cooper came up over her left shoulder, wiping his mouth with his hand. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes looked slightly dazed. “Was that Logan kid watching us?”

Sawyer looked at Cooper, her mouth open. Bathed in the stadium lights, she didn’t know what to say. Finally, she shook her head, looked him in the eye, and said, “I’m sorry, Cooper. We really shouldn’t have done that.”

There was an electric hum in the air when Sawyer pulled her car into the student lot on Monday morning. Nothing was overtly different; the same cheerleaders were tightening the same bouncy ponytails in rearview mirrors, an impromptu football game had broken out in the back forty, but still something seemed different—alive with an energy that sent Sawyer’s hackles up, sent an uncomfortable prick of fire roaring through her.

Sawyer caught up with Lemon Valour as she beelined toward the brick gym, head bent as her fingers flew over her pink jeweled phone.

“Hey, Lemon, what’s going on?”

Lemon looked up, apparently surprised to see Sawyer standing there.

“You didn’t hear?”

Sawyer shrugged and Lemon stopped, slipping her phone into her jacket pocket. “It’s Mr. Hanson.”

Sawyer felt all the breath leave her body; her skin pinched and suddenly felt too tight, too hot.

“Wh—what about Mr. Hanson?” Immediately she felt his feverish, sour breath on her neck, felt his arms tightening around her waist, and she broke out into a full-body cold sweat. “There were police cars parked out front. Were they here for—did he get—”

Lemon nodded and used her index finger to poke at her eyeliner. “Yep. He’s dead.”

“What?” Sawyer sputtered.

“Dead.” Lemon said it so matter-of-factly. Then her cell phone chirped a jaunty, ridiculous ringtone, and she snatched it up, pressed it to her ear. She cut her eyes to Sawyer.

“Nice talking to you, S. GTG. There’s grief counselors in the main office if you want to get out of trig.”

The click-click-click of Lemon’s heels rang out hollow in Sawyer’s ears as she stayed rooted to the asphalt in the student parking lot.

Mr. Hanson was dead?

Dead.

The word throbbed in her mind.

***

Sawyer picked her way through the student commons. The final bell hadn’t rung yet, so kids still milled around, some red-nosed and breathing into tissues, most looking around, blank-faced and unaffected. She found Chloe sitting on one of the outside tables, legs swinging as she stared off into space, a hard expression on her face.

“Hey, Chloe, what’s going on?”

Chloe sniffled, her nose a deep red. “Mr. Hanson is dead.”

“Yeah, I heard that. Hey, are you okay? I didn’t even know you knew Mr. Hanson. I mean other than the occasional ogle.” She tried to chuckle, tried to force some lightness into the conversation.

Chloe remained stone faced. “He is—was—the faculty advisor for honor society last year.”

“Hey, how’s your forehead? Did your parents say anything?” Sawyer tried to touch Chloe, but the girl shrank away.

“Can you believe they’re saying the guy was murdered?”

Sawyer’s stomach wobbled and thunked to her knees. “Murdered?”

Chloe sliced her index finger across her neck.

“His throat was cut?”

“Maybe. I’ve heard that, that his lover’s husband came and shot his dick off, that his gay lover shot his dick off, that that weird kid who smelled like feet and corn chips and always wore that black hoodie from last year came back and stabbed him. Oh, and that he slipped and hit his head on a bust of Caesar Chavez.” Chloe shuddered. “Either way, our teacher is dead. That’s scary, huh?”

Sawyer swallowed thickly and nodded. Chloe didn’t know the half of it.

Principal Chappie sped through the commons at that moment, and Sawyer caught up with him.

“Hey, Principal Chappie—is it true that Mr. Hanson”—Sawyer couldn’t say the word, couldn’t believe that she had to use the word
died
again in her teen lifetime—“passed away?”

Principal Chappie stopped, a look of practiced sympathy on his lined face. He put a soft hand on Sawyer’s arm, his touch so light Sawyer could barely feel it through her sweater.

“Yes, Ms. Dodd, I’m afraid so.”

“Well, what happened?”

“I don’t think I should—”

“Please.” Sawyer could hear the desperation in her own voice. “Please? I think it would help everyone.” She waved an arm, indicating her fellow students. “There are all sorts of horrible rumors going around, and I think it would make the student body feel better to know the truth about what happened.”

Principal Chappie seemed to consider this, but his jaw remained fixed.

“Otherwise our parents might be concerned. They probably wouldn’t want us to be here.”

A nervous blushed bloomed on Principal Chappie’s cheeks. “Our students aren’t in any danger, Ms. Dodd. But I suppose we should let everyone know what happened to allay these rumors. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression, and I certainly don’t want to concern any parents. We’ll make a formal announcement.”

“So…?” Sawyer raised her eyebrows, and Principal Chappie looked like he was thinking, choosing just the right words.

“It seems that Mr. Hanson died of anaphylaxis.”

“Anaphylaxis? Like, an allergic reaction?”

Principal Chappie nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“Don’t most people who are allergic like that carry EpiPens?”

Mr. Chappie shrugged. “I’m not sure. But he must have consumed something unwittingly that contained peanuts, perhaps in the teacher’s lounge. He was very allergic.”

Sawyer felt her eyes widen. “So it happened here? At school?”

Principal Chappie dropped his voice. “Unfortunately, yes. That part we’d like to keep under wraps. I don’t think the general population needs to know every detail. Can I count on you, Sawyer?”

“Uh, sure, Principal Chappie. I—I won’t saying anything about that.”

“As you understand, we’ll be canceling this afternoon’s track meet and all other student activities this week.”

Sawyer nodded mutely, stepping away.

“So?” Chloe hissed, grabbing her arm. “What did you find out?”

“Mr. Hanson died of anaphylaxis.”

“What was it? Like a spider bite or bees or something?”

“He was allergic to peanuts.”

Chloe’s eyebrows went up. “Why would he eat peanuts if he were allergic to them?”

“I don’t know. Hey, your mom’s allergic to bees, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Does she carry an EpiPen?”

Chloe nodded. “All the time. Pack of Marlboros, picture of Tom Hanks, EpiPen.”

“Don’t you think Mr. Hanson would have had one of those? I mean, allergic to peanuts.” Sawyer looked around. “In a school?”

Chloe shrugged. “PB and J are the sandwiches of choice for the pre-educated masses. But what are you getting at?”

“It just seems weird to me that Mr. Hanson wouldn’t have had an EpiPen if he was that allergic.”

“Maybe he didn’t get to it in time. You have to do it like, right away. I know; my mom’s doctor made me come in and learn how to do it. When I was six, my mom stumbled in drunk at four a.m. and I stabbed her in the thigh. I thought she got stung.”

“In the middle of the night?”

Chloe shrugged. “Anyway, so what are you saying? Someone force-fed Mr. Hanson peanuts?” Sawyer shook her head, and Chloe frowned. “Maybe he had a death wish,” she said on a turn.

Ice water rushed through Sawyer’s veins and she let out a tiny, involuntary shiver.

Or
someone
else
did,
she thought.

Sawyer walked to her first class in a daze, the world moving in a slow motion of blurs and unintelligible sounds. Police officers passed by, and grief counselors ushered students into rooms with the blinds drawn. Sawyer sucked in a quivering breath when she went to her locker, butterflies moving to batwings inside her stomach. She rolled the combination and steadied herself to find—
What?
She wondered.
Mr. Hanson’s head? Another cryptic letter?

“Grow up, Sawyer,” she mumbled under her breath.

She tried to laugh and shrug off the enormous sense of foreboding and gave her locker door a good, hard yank.

All of her books, crumpled papers, and curl-edged photos of her and Kevin poured out onto the hall floor.

“Whoa,” Logan said, jumping back. “Avalanche.”

Sawyer looked at Logan, flushed, feeling heat and sweat prick at her hairline. “Sorry about that.”

She dove to the ground when Logan did, the two thunking foreheads in the process. Logan rolled back, rubbing his, grinning.

“I’m so sorry,” Sawyer said.

“Hey, it’s all right. Are you okay?”

Sawyer began stacking her books, nodding maniacally, eyes searching for any hint of mint green. “I’m fine. I’m just really—really—”

Logan reached out and laid a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. It was as delicate and uncertain as his eyes. Sawyer realized she liked them and allowed herself to breathe. “Sorry, I’m just jumpy.”

“Yeah, it’s not every day someone drops dead on campus.”

Sawyer glanced up at Logan. The words sounded odd and rough coming out of his mouth. He glanced back at her, a hint of a smile at the edges of his lips. “I mean, you know.”

Sawyer went back to gathering her books. “Yeah, yeah I guess so.”

Logan stayed hunched down but was silent for a beat. He licked his lips and said, “Hey, I wanted to thank you again for the ride the other day.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sawyer jammed the last of her books back in her locker and slammed the door shut. “Sorry again, Logan, but I’ve got to get to class.”

“Right.” And then, “Oh, wait. Hey, Sawyer—is this yours?”

Sawyer stopped without turning around, her stomach gone leaden. She didn’t want to see what Logan was offering her. He stepped in front of her, grin still wide, eyes still soft. He offered Sawyer a songbook. “This is yours, right?”

Relief flooded over her in waves. “Oh. Right.”

“Sawyer Dodd?” The voice that came over the PA system was deep and gravelly and bounced off the plethora of sterile metal and linoleum in the hallway. “Sawyer Dodd to the administration office, please.”

Sawyer’s eyes went up to the overhead speaker.

“Sounds like someone might be in trouble,” Logan tried to joke, but Sawyer couldn’t find the humor. He flushed red immediately and looked at the floor. “I’m kidding. I know you’re not—you know, the kind of kid who gets in trouble.”

“Thanks, Logan. Apparently, I’ve got to go.” Sawyer turned, songbook clutched to her chest, and Logan kept step with her.

“How about I walk you?”

“That’s really okay.”

“Too late.” Logan gestured toward the fall leaves taped to the open door of the administration office. “We’re here.”

Logan turned and offered Sawyer his awkward salute, and she was left standing in the hallway, watching his back as he headed down the hall.

“Sawyer Dodd to the administration office, please.” The overhead speaker squawked again, this time slightly more insistent. Sawyer blew out a sigh and pushed the door open.

The administration office was a cavalcade of students zigzagging through the bright orange half doors that separated the back office from the front. Most of them carried file folders or thick stacks of copy paper while they went about their work study office duties.

Sawyer cleared her throat. “I’m Sawyer Dodd,” she said to no one in particular. The girl at the closest desk blinked at her and blew a bubble the size of her head. She sucked it in, eyes still focused on Sawyer. She pressed the black button on the intercom in front of her, and Sawyer could see her wad of gum protruding in her cheek.

“Sawyer Dodd?”

“That’s me.”

“Oh.” The girl looked surprised to see her. “Principal Chappie wants to see you.”

“What about?”

The girl shrugged, went back to chewing her gum. She pointed to a bank of chairs lined up in front of Mr. Chappie’s closed office door. “You can wait over there, please.”

Sawyer hiked up her backpack and did as she was told, sliding her feet out in front of her. She absently studied the toes of her sneakers, then clapped the sides of her big toes together, a pleasing cloud of red clay dust puffing off the soles.

Sawyer looked at her shoes, looked at the fine red powder that now littered the gray, industrial-grade carpet. Her skin started to prick and she sat up straighter, her left hand slowly reaching out in front of her. Her fingers flicked. She imagined reaching under her bed in the dim, near-dawn light. She remembered her fingers falling over the soft leather of the single metallic flat as she looked for her sneaker. She remembered rolling the hard buds of dirt under her index finger.

Then she remembered the photograph that Detective Biggs had slid across the table to her.

Sawyer’s throat constricted. Her tongue darted out to lick paper-dry lips.
How
had
the
shoe—just one shoe—ended up under her bed?

Her body started to tremble, a slow, painful jitter.

How
did
the
mud
get
there?

Sawyer remembered the hollow ring of Detective Biggs’s voice when he mentioned that someone might have been there when Kevin was killed. That a woman may have pushed the passenger seat back, gotten one shoe stuck in the mud when she slipped away.

One metallic, mud-covered flat.

Sawyer doubled over and held her head in her hands, her mind racing, trying to go back to that day, trying to go back to the day she had spent the last three weeks desperately trying to block out.

Had she taken a pill? Had she blacked out or blocked it out?

Her breath caught in her throat as her heart tried to hammer its way out of her chest. She shook her head.

No. There was no way. I would have remembered…right?

She felt the wind on her face, the moist, biting sting of the wind as she jogged down the hill, picking up speed as she put precious distance between her and Kevin.

“I was running,” Sawyer mumbled. “If I was running, I wasn’t wearing flats.”

She thought back, clamping her eyes shut, trying to remember the way it felt each time her foot hit the ground. Before a track meet she would pinch her eyes closed and concentrate on the feeling of her feet falling in perfect quick-time rhythm, hitting the red clay of the track just softly enough to propel her forward one more step.

How
did
her
foot
feel?