Chubby Chaser (24 page)

She didn’t feel any different.

Sara came in through the back door, quiet as a mouse, and stole up to her bedroom. She took her clothes off and threw them in a trash bag, planning to dump them tomorrow on the way to school. They might have gunpowder residue on them, and she wanted to be safe, not sorry, if anyone tried to accuse her of Jason’s murder. It would be funny, though, if the authorities tried and convicted her for Jason’s murder when the only reason she had killed him was because they had declined to try and convict him for her rape.

She had thought that she would feel different after killing Jason: happier, lighter, back to her old self. But she didn’t. At all. She slid into her bathroom to take a shower. Perhaps she was still in shock (the noise Jason had made when she’d shot him had made her a little queasy, and it had been kind of unsettling to see the look of fear in his eyes when he’d been looking around for the person shooting at him): killing someone—even a lowlife piece of shit like Jason, who had deserved it—probably took awhile to come to terms with. Once she did, her suffering would end, and she’d feel happy she had gotten her vengeance.

The next day, the entire school was abuzz with news of Jason’s murder. The principal announced it over the PA system during first period, but everyone in school had already known about Jason’s demise, thanks to social media. People were scandalized by his murder (
Right in front of his own home
,
and so close to Christmas
,
too
, was a common thread in the conversations). Sara couldn’t believe the plethora of ridiculous reasons people came up with for why someone would want to kill Jason:

“Maybe he was in a gang. A lot of football players are,” some guy said.

(Well, Jason and his friends were dumb and violent, and they did travel in packs and wear certain colors, but they were too soft to be true gang members.)

“Maybe one of the other football teams did it. City hates us ’cause we’ve been owning them ever since Jason became the starting quarterback.”

(Footballers—they thought everything revolved around them and their precious, little pigskin.)

“It was probably steroids or some shit like that. He was always acting like a rabid animal. Maybe someone was giving him some new steroids that are illegal in the states, like from China or some place like that, and he got killed ’cause he wouldn’t pay up or Tallis wouldn’t pay up or some shit. Athletes are always getting special treatment.”

(Sara chortled at how stupid this one was. She would never understand how Michael Adams had gotten elected class president. He was such a crackpot, with all his conspiracy theories and
fight the power
! rhetoric. He was right about athletes getting special treatment though.)

“Maybe he pissed off the wrong girl. Or her boyfriend. Didn’t he and Emily break up ’cause she got tired of his cheating?”

(Amy Reed was closer to the truth than Sara liked, but Sara remained calm and acted as she usually did. It was highly unlikely any of these fools would believe she was the girl in question anyway. Who would ever suspect Mr. Do it Pruitt of pissing off the ugly, fat girl? In
that way?)

Much to her displeasure, Sara saw there was as much mourning and grief over Jason’s death as there was gossip and speculation:

“He was such a great guy.”

(He had been an asshole and a rapist, but Andy Abbott was an asshole himself, and a follower, so it was no surprise he was blind to Jason’s true nature.)

“He was, like, a really nice guy. He gave me a ride home one day when it was raining. He was so nice and sweet.”

(Yeah, he had given her a ride all right. If Kimberly Weitsel weren’t such a stupid slut, who easily gave it up for any guy with a nice car, he would’ve raped her too.)

“Man, that was my homie. He was such a cool-ass guy. He was mad smart and funny. Great sense of humor, too. I’m gonna miss J.”

(Oh, please. Jason hadn’t even known who
Salvador Dalí was, but it was hardly a bombshell Eric Moxley thought Jason had been smart, given that Eric himself was one of the biggest dumbasses she had ever met. And as for Jason’s sense of humor: He had thought
Superbad
was t
he funniest movie ever
. Enough said.)

“This is so sad. My mind feels broken. Jason and me might not have worked out, but I still loved him, and he didn’t deserve to die like a dog.”

(On the contrary, he had deserved that and a whole lot more, but of course a weak-willed slut like Emily Bulstride would think differently. No wonder she and Kimberly were always hanging out. Sluts in tight pleather spread together.)

“This is so crazy! I was just with him last night, and now he’s gone. I miss him already.”

(Sara had known the reason Jason had kept her waiting had been because he’d been with some bimbo.)

“This is such a terrible loss. He was a great quarterback. Could’ve been the next Tom Brady, the next Joe Montana. We’ll do our best to win our last game for him.”

(Okay, this one was probably true, although Sara bet she could disprove Coach Logan’s eulogy as well if she had been knowledgeable about football.)

All the mourning and outpouring of love for Jason turned Sara’s stomach. She thought it said a lot about the world—or at least the people in her town—that everybody loved and cared about Jason, and was hurting over his death despite him having been a depraved bastard, who had gotten what he had deserved, and no one cared about her—except her father—or her assault despite her having done nothing to deserve her attack. His funeral would probably be even more of a love fest, with everyone within the tri-state area blathering on about the late, great Jason Pruitt. She had half a mind to crash the funeral and tell the idiots their golden boy wasn’t so golden. But she wouldn’t do that, not out of respect for Jason or any of his fatuous mourners but because that would cast suspicion toward her.

Sara found two men in suits on her doorstep after school. She tensed up as they approached her. She knew they were detectives.

“Ms. Krason?” one of them asked.

Sara nodded.

“We need to speak with you regarding the murder of Jason Pruitt. He was the one who allegedly—”

“No! Not allegedly! He was the one who raped me!” Sara felt like the world’s biggest idiot. Her outburst would only make her look guilty, but she was sick of the police saying Jason
allegedly
raped her when they knew the truth. They knew! They just didn’t care.

“Maybe it’s best if we speak about this inside?” he suggested.

Sara nodded in agreement. Her father wouldn’t be home for at least another three hours, so she didn’t mind. She unlocked the door and offered them a seat on the couch. She sat across from them on the love seat.

“You spoke to one of my colleagues about a month ago, and he said you very disgruntled about the way your case was handled.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be? I was told my case was dropped because I’m fat and ugly. But that doesn’t mean that I killed him.”

“Well, you certainly have the means,” the other detective said. They were ganging up on her, putting pressure on her so she’d crack. “Your father owns several gun ranges, and he’s also an avid gun collector. Where were you last night at about nine?”

“I was at home, in bed.”

“At nine o’clock? That’s awfully early for a girl your age.”

“It had been a long day, and I wasn’t feeling well. And it was also a school night.”

“Can anyone verify that you were at home and in bed at nine yesterday evening?” the first detective asked.

“My father, but he doesn’t know what happened to me, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“And there’s no way you could’ve snuck out?”

“I want you to leave.”

“Why? Are we making you nervous, Ms. Krason? I see that you are sweating.”

The detective was right: she was sweating (she didn’t usually sweat at home—she kept the temperature low enough so that it wouldn’t be a problem—or around this time of year) because she was nervous, but she kept her poker face on. “I want you to leave because I’m a minor being treated like a suspect without a lawyer or parent present.” Sara locked eyes with the detective. She could tell by his facial expression that he knew he and his partner had lost this round.

“Well, we’d appreciate it, Ms. Krason, if you’d come down to the police station with your father and lawyer, not that you need one, for a more in-depth interview.”

“I’ll consider it,” Sara said, walking them to the door, her heartbeat returning to normal after they left.

Two hours later, her heartbeat accelerated again: she was in her room, on the Internet, when she heard the front door unlock. It could only be her father, but he wasn’t due home for at least another hour. She came downstairs to greet him. “You’re home a little early.” His face was a mixture of angry and concerned. Sara gulped. She knew that look. She was in trouble. What for, that was the million dollar question. “Something wrong, Dad?”

“What problems were you having with Jason Pruitt?”

Those bastards! She had told them that she didn’t want them talking to her father. They hadn’t spared a millisecond to investigate her assault, but when the football stud dies, they’re fucking Sherlock Holmes and working around the clock to solve the case. She decided to play sweet, dumb, and innocent. “What are you talking about, Daddy?” she said, smiling.

“The police came to see me today at work. It was about that boy that you got into it with, Jason Pruitt. He was murdered, and the police wanted to know where you were at around nine last night. I told them you were at home. They also said you had been tutoring him, and you were a person of interest because of that fight you had with him at school, and they wanted my permission to question you, but I told them hell no.”

“Was that all they said about me and Jason, that we had gotten into a fight at school?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

“Yeah. Is there anything else that they’ve should’ve told me about?”

Sara let out a chortle. The police were still bastards for not investigating her attack, but at least they hadn’t told her father about what Jason had done to her.

Her father looked at her, bewildered. “What the hell is going on here, Sara? What happened between you and Jason Pruitt?”

“I don’t really wanna talk about it, Dad. I’m going back to my room. Dinner’s in the kitchen. I made—”

“No!” He blocked her path to the stairs. “You’ve been acting real weird lately, and I want some answers. Now. What happened between you and Jason Pruitt that made you get into a fistfight in the middle of school? Were you seeing him and—”

“No!” Sara said, her voice oozing disdain. She thought her reaction to her father’s question had been too strong, so she said, “No,” again but more softly.

“Then what happened?”

“I . . . he made a fat joke. I overheard him making a fat joke about me, so I punched him. That’s all that happened, Dad. I just felt too embarrassed to tell you is all.” Sara didn’t like to discuss her weight with anyone, but she couldn’t think of another lie, and she wasn’t ready for her father to know the truth. She wasn’t sure whether she would ever be.

“Well, I can see why that would piss you off, but you can’t go around slugging every asshole—forgive me, Lord, for speaking ill of the dead—” he said, crossing his body, “that says something bad about you. What people say about you, what they think—none of that matters.”

He came toward her, his arms outstretched. He was clearly about to hug her, and Sara, girding herself for physical contact, allowed him to, believing she owed him one for having her back with the police.

He was wrong, of course. Dead wrong. What people said about you, what people thought about you did matter. What the assholes at school said and thought about her were the reasons she hadn’t eaten in public in years; what the police thought people would think about her was the reason her assailant had never faced charges; what the police thought people would think about her was the reason she had become a stalker and a murderer. It didn’t matter what type of person you actually were; the type of person you were was the type of person people said and thought you were. It didn’t matter what had actually happened; what had happened was what people said and thought had happened.

Society set the rules, usually rigid, and you had to at least appear to conform. You had to at least appear to be a certain kind of person (physically attractive, confident, extroverted, and popular); otherwise, you weren’t even as important as the dirt on the ground. Dirt at least had several uses. People who were ugly, fat, shy, introverted, intelligent (usually called nerdy and geeky), singular (usually called weird and crazy), insecure, or any combination of those things were nothing but sports. Yes, there was hell to pay for being outside the norm, for even appearing to be outside the norm. Appear. Appearances. Looks. Everything always came down to looks, and alas, Sara had gotten the short end of the stick in that department, which meant she would most likely continue to get the short end of the stick in life. Being ugly and fat in a world that prized beauty and thinness was akin to being a child molester in prison: you were at the bottom of the food chain, and you were on everyone’s shit list.