Perennial (2 page)

Driving to school in the black
Ford Explorer Sport that Dad bought me. I’m trying to push away the troubling
news about Mr. Watkins, so I think about Mom instead.

She was the best. Martha Keener
taught middle school science for twenty years. Then, on a beautiful Friday
afternoon just over a year ago, a pathetic excuse for a man consumed a massive
amount of alcohol at a bar and decided to drive. Mom was coming home from work
when the drunken asshole blacked out at the wheel on a busy four-lane road and
crossed over into oncoming traffic at more than sixty miles per hour. His SUV
slammed head on into Mom’s aging two-door compact, killing her instantly and
injuring four other motorists in nearby vehicles. Mom was the only fatality.

The medical people assured us
that she didn’t suffer, a fact that did little to help me at the time but has
brought some comfort since. As for the drunken asshole, he survived with only minor
injuries. He’s currently in prison and will be for at least twenty years.
Personally, I wish he were dead. I think Dad feels the same. Maybe one day
we’ll both let go of the anger, but right now that’s a long ways off.

Mom’s death made us rich. There was
a hefty life-insurance policy and other investments involved. I don’t know how
much money we have, but obviously Dad and I would rather be broke and hungry
with Mom alive than millionaires with her dead. I miss her so much. I miss
talking with her. I miss watching her with Dad. They were such a perfect
couple. She was such a perfect mom.

Dad didn’t buy anything with the
money for several months. I think he felt guilty about having sudden wealth due
to the loss of his wife. He finally started purchasing things around the time
he went back undercover. What I’ve noticed is that each of the three big-ticket
items he’s bought has some connection to Mom. We haven’t discussed this, but
I’m sure he’s aware of the link. The Cadillac Coupe for him because Mom loved
fast Cadillacs. The new Ford Explorer for me because he thinks I’m safer in an
SUV than Mom was in the old two-door. Most recently, the stately, white 1920s
colonial in Beaconsfield, Michigan, the wealthy community we now call home. Mom
and Dad dreamed of buying and renovating an old home during retirement. Well,
Dad now has the house, and he’s five years away from retirement and a full
pension, so it won’t be long before he has all the time in the world to
renovate. With the money, he considered retiring early but admitted he wasn’t
ready to stop working yet.

Beaconsfield. Twenty minutes
northwest of Detroit but it might as well be another planet. Everybody has
money here. It’s a far cry from Wayne, the blue-collar city I called home until
a month ago. Beaconsfield houses are huge and old. The people wear expensive
clothing and drive pricey cars. I get the sense they’re competing with each
other and enjoy displaying their wealth in public. I don’t fit in here, but I’m
not complaining. I picked Beaconsfield because of the high school, which
consistently ranks among the best academic public high schools in the nation.
As for private schools, they weren’t an option. Mom was a staunch proponent of
public education and would surely come back from the dead and haunt me if I
spent even one day in a private school.

I’m lost in thought and don’t see
the man until it’s almost too late. He’s just suddenly standing there, ten feet
away in the middle of the wide neighborhood street. My eyes bulge like
baseballs. I hit the brakes hard. The tires squawk, and my seat belt locks.

The Explorer stops barely three
feet from him, but it’s not a “man.” He looks more like a teenager, although
the glare of the bright morning sun through the canopy of mature, leafy green
trees makes it difficult to see many details. My heart races and feels like
it’s in my throat. I adjust my glasses and swear at myself for daydreaming at
the wheel. Then again, somebody needs to teach this kid how to cross the street
safely.

As he rounds the front of the
Explorer and approaches my window, I decide he looks anywhere between seventeen
and twenty-one. He’s incredibly beautiful too, tall and slender with long, wavy
black hair. He reminds me of somebody, but I can’t quite put my finger on it—a
famous musician or actor maybe. I check my rearview mirror and am relieved not
to see any approaching vehicles. There’s no traffic in front of me either, and
I don’t see any nosy neighbors watching from their lush, green lawns.

Everything Dad has taught me over
the years tells me to hit the gas and not say a word to this stranger, but the
sight of the retro yellow Beaconsfield High logo on the backpack slung over his
right shoulder and the same logo on the left breast of his black hoodie
convinces me this guy is harmless.

After a quick, paranoid double check
for any sign of my dad, I power down my window and prepare to apologize, but
the boy with the rock-star black hair and aqua-green eyes that look like
tropical lagoons beats me to it.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he
says, adjusting his backpack. “I didn’t even see you coming.”

“Likewise,” I say, finding it
hard to maintain eye contact with him. “No worries, but we’re lucky nobody got
hurt.”

“True.” He looks beyond me toward
the passenger seat, where my own plain black backpack rests. “Beaconsfield?”

“Yes,” I say, obsessively
checking my mirrors. “And I’m guessing from your backpack and hoodie you go
there too.”

“It’s my first day,” he says. “My
parents work in China right now, so I’m staying with my grandparents for senior
year.” He nods toward his backpack and hoodie and smiles. “They bought me a lot
of Beaconsfield gear. They went to school there ages ago and love it when I
wear this stuff.” He pauses. “So, what year are you?”

“A senior as well,” I say.
“Actually, this is my first year at Beaconsfield too. My dad and I moved here
about a month ago.”

“Cool,” he says, shrugging and
glancing up and down the street. “What a coincidence. The first year for both
of us, and we’re both seniors.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

We exchange a quick smile, and I
pray to God I don’t look as awkward as I feel.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” he
says. “My name’s Lewis, by the way. Lewis Wilde.”

“Lewis Wilde,” I say. “Got it.
I’m Alix. Alix Keener.”

There’s a silence, during which a
look of surprise crosses his smooth, pale face.

“Wait,” he says. “Keener. You
live in that big white house on Maple Grove, don’t you? Your dad’s the cop,
right?”

“Yup,” I say, raising my
eyebrows. I’m not surprised he knows. Mom’s story was huge in the state and
local media. Dad still gets occasional calls and e-mails from reporters and
journalists. “Word travels fast around here,” I add.

“Everything travels fast in
Beaconsfield, Alix,” he says. “Get used to it.”

We stare at each other for a
moment, but something doesn’t feel right, so I look away and gaze into the
rearview mirror, almost thankful to see a car finally approaching in the
distance.

“Good to meet you, Lewis,” I say,
shifting to drive. “Be a little more careful the next time you cross the street.”

“Will do,” he says. “Hey, Alix,
can I ask you something?”

“Make it quick,” I say. “There’s
a car coming.”

He spots the car behind me, leans
toward the open window, and in almost a whisper says, “What do you know about
that house you moved into?”

“What are you talking about?” I
grip the steering wheel hard. “Jesus. I thought you were going to ask me for a
ride to school or something.”

“You don’t know what happened, do
you?”

“No. I guess not,” I say,
shooting him a glare. “Good-bye, Lewis. Have a nice day.”

He takes a few steps back and
calmly says, “I’m sorry about your mom. I mean it.”

I don’t know what to say, so what
I do is shake my head, power up the window, and drive off, but when I realize I
should at least thank him for his words about Mom, I pull over curbside and
wait for the car to pass, which it quickly does.

When I check my mirrors, Lewis
Wilde is nowhere in sight.

Beaconsfield High School is a
beautiful and enormous ivy-covered brick building that dates to the early 1900s.
Everything about the place, from the finely manicured, sprawling grounds, to
the modern technology that dominates the interior, reflects the wealth and
attitude of the community. I was expecting my share of glares and comments from
my fellow female students, but what I experience goes beyond any worst-case
scenario I imagined.

On my appearance: “Oh
my God, those baggy jeans. They’re so Wayne.” “She has money now. It’s okay to
quit the resale shops.” “She must be gay with such a butch haircut.” About my life:
“My parents said her dad is the first cop to ever live in Beaconsfield.” “It’s
sad about her mom, but why did they move here? It must be like Mars for them.” “I
hear she’s supersmart but superdifficult. Just stay away from her.”

I developed a tough skin when I
was bullied in middle school. It was then that I first realized I was more
comfortable alone than around kids my age. When it comes to my education, I’m a
firm believer in the “If you want things done right, do them yourself”
philosophy. Thanks to Mom and Dad’s guidance, I have a specific career path I
won’t let anybody steer me away from. Yes, I’m confident, but I’m not mean. The
problem is my peers often interpret my confidence for arrogance and decide I
must be a bitch.

Whatever.

My point is that bullying is
nothing new for me, and so although some of the girls at Beaconsfield bombard
me with stinging verbal put-downs from day one, I force myself to hold my head
high and stare right through anybody who says something mean. That’s another
thing I learned from Dad. He calls it The Look. Dad believes that a menacing
stare is a powerful conflict-resolution tool. You’d be surprised how well it
works. For example, every mean girl I give The Look to today breaks eye contact
before I do, which tells me two things: First, they don’t want any real
conflict with me. Second, like most bullies, they’re engaging in petty behavior
to mask their own problems.

Dad was right about Mr. Watkins.
His death goes public shortly before lunch, but it’s too soon for authorities
to reveal its violent nature, so rumors about what happened swarm through
Beaconsfield High like maggots on spoiled meat. Carjacking gone bad. He was
with a prostitute who happened to be a serial killer. Heart attack while
driving. Severely depressed and shot himself. The list goes on, and I have to
bite my tongue several times to keep from revealing what I know.

News of the death and subsequent
rumors go viral via students’ electronic devices, so the principal makes a
special announcement on the classroom TVs confirming the unfortunate news,
pointing out that nobody knows any details yet, so please disregard any and all
unofficial stories. He says grief counselors are available all week for anybody
who might need to speak with an adult about the tragic loss of such a wonderful
person and teacher. I’m touched to see several students, the majority of them
very studious looking, in tears as they come to and from the counseling office.
It all serves as a reminder of what an incredible reputation Marc Watkins had
among his students and colleagues.

So why would anybody want to
murder a man like him?

Lewis Wilde is one of ten seniors
who earned a prestigious spot in my sixth-hour Independent Study in American
History class. A sign on Mr. Watkins’s second-floor classroom door instructed
his classes to report to the media center today, and when I enter the mammoth
library I spot Lewis sitting with the other students in a side conference room.

I slide into an empty desk beside
him and listen as one of the assistant principals explains to us that the
search for a qualified educator to replace Mr. Watkins has already begun,
although he agrees it will take time and somebody like Mr. Watkins will never
truly be replaced. He runs out of things to say after ten minutes and suggests
we spend some time brainstorming research topics for the semester project. It’s
silent as the ten of us look around at each other, wondering what to do, but
voices soon fill the air as the people who know one another group up and try to
talk history even though the history teacher is dead.

“This is insane,” Lewis says,
turning his desk toward mine and tucking his black hair behind his ears. “What
do you think happened to him?”

“Beats me,” I say, noticing again
how perfect his green eyes and pale skin are. “Look, I’m sorry I drove off like
that this morning. It’s just … I don’t know. It’s hard for me to talk about
my mom with people I don’t know, but thank you for mentioning her. I pulled
over to tell you, but you were already gone.”

“Oh, that,” he says. “There’s a
little shortcut to school my grandpa told me about. It involves some
backyards.”

And that’s likely a total lie
, I say to myself. I know this
because the lovely Lewis glanced to his right when he said it. A little
interrogation tip from Dad: people tend to avoid eye contact when lying and
often look off to the right.

“It also freaked me out a little
when you asked about our house,” I say. “What happened there?”

“Do you really want to know?”
Lewis says, holding my gaze now.

“You tell me, Lewis,” I say,
rolling my eyes. “Do I?”

“Well, I’m not telling you,” he
says, a slight smile crossing his face. “I just decided that. If you want to
know, it’s something you’ll have to look into.”

“Because I might not want to
know. Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Something like
that.”

We listen to the chatter around
us. The assistant principal has stepped out to speak with the media specialist
in the library. Two male students sit silently nearby, jotting things down in
notebooks, while the other six, all girls, actually discuss possible research
topics.

“I think we’re the only ones not
on task,” I say. “Have you thought of any topics you’d like to pursue?”

“Yes,” he says, smiling.
“Murder.”

“That’s not funny,” I say, a sour
feeling spreading through my stomach.

“I don’t mean it to be,” he says.
“I’ve thought a lot about it. I’d like to examine some of the most famous
unsolved murders in American history and explore the likelihood or unlikelihood
of DNA evidence helping to solve them.” He shrugs.

“Cool,” I say, nodding. “That’s
actually interesting. Sorry I snapped at you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.
“It’s been a weird first day.”

“Agreed.”

“You want to know the craziest
rumor I heard today about Mr. Watkins?”

“I’m afraid,” I say, sliding off
my glasses to clean the lenses. “But go ahead.”

Lewis says, “I heard some kids at
lunch saying his death had something to do with Perennial.”

I almost vomit when I hear the
word.

Help me, Alix. Perennial is all around you.

My glasses fall to the tiled
floor. My pulse quickens. My body trembles. The safe and orderly world I
cherish spirals instantly into chaos.

What’s happening to me?

Dream Guy.

Perennial.

A murdered teacher.

Now a strange guy who appears out
of nowhere this morning, this guy saying cryptic things about my house and a
rumored link between Mr. Watkins and something called Perennial. I manage to
hold down the vomit as I grab my glasses, gather my belongings, and stand,
feeling dizzy and unable to look at Lewis.

“Alix, what’s wrong?” he says.
“You don’t look so good.”

“Don’t talk to me,” I say,
noticing the sudden silence in the room. I’ve drawn an audience. Great. “I have
to go,” I say, lowering my voice to a whisper others hopefully can’t hear. “And
don’t ever say that word around me again.”

“Alix, I’m confused,” he says.
“What word? What are you talking about?”

“You know what word,” I say.
“Perennial.”

I quietly exit the room.