We Know It Was You (26 page)

Benny scanned the cheerleaders. Instantly their eyes looked brighter. Their cheeks even looked pinker. They started blinking at one another and giggling.

“There. That should do it,” Zaire said flatly.

She turned to leave. The principal grabbed her arm roughly. Seeing it made Benny uneasy. There was hardly ever touching between the teachers and students, except for Mrs. Knox, who forced hugs on everyone and only got away with it because she was eighty years old.

“This isn't funny, Miss Bollo,” the principal was saying in a low growl. Zaire's eyes flickered to Benny. Then the principal noticed Benny too, and immediately dropped Zaire's arm.

“If you can't unhypnotize them, we need to call a professional,” he said, straightening.

“Look, they're fine,” Zaire said. She gestured to the cheerleaders, who were staring around, looking bewildered but alive. Angie and Brittany were shrieking delightedly, “What are we doing here?” They started waving their pom-poms, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Just then Zaire turned and looked Benny in the face. He was used to talking to Virginia, who was several inches shorter than him,
so he was always looking slightly down. But Zaire was his exact height; their eyes met across an even, invisible plane.

“What,” Zaire said, not a question.

“What—what?” Benny stammered. He felt suddenly intimidated by her physical beauty. Winship was full of beautiful girls, but Zaire was different. She wasn't like the other girls, who seemed to capitalize on being girlish and approachable. She was glamorous and imposing, like a statue. And she was a killer. She was pursing her lips and looking him up and down. She was probably thinking up ways to kill him right now. The thought made Benny's whole body tense. His hands felt tingly and numb.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Benny shrugged dumbly. “What are
you
doing?”

She stared at him, not answering. Benny felt the need to look away from her eyes. He noticed Virginia in the bleachers. She was absorbed in conversation with a long-haired guy.

“Gosh, you better watch out,” Zaire said, seeing them too. “As if Gottfried weren't enough competition.”

“Gottfried?” Benny said.

“You didn't know? She likes him.”

Benny narrowed his eyes at her. “I'm not sure that's correct. . . .” Then he looked back at Virginia. Who was that guy? He was sure he knew him from somewhere. . . . It took him a moment to recognize that he was the bass player from Asian Fusion.

Oh my God.

All at once, like a bat to the head, it was obvious who had ransacked Virginia's room, and why.

“Virginia!” he called out.

Zaire folded her arms. “Um, are we having a conversation here or not?”

“Virginia!” he shouted again. She didn't hear him. The bassist stood up with her, like they were getting ready to leave.

“Leave her alone,” Zaire said. “You don't get girls by being a possessive Neanderthal.”

“I'm not—I just—” There was no point trying to explain. He pushed past Zaire and wove through the cheerleaders, who had organized themselves into lines on the track.

“Virginia!” They were walking up the bleacher steps. Were they holding hands? Benny craned his neck to see. They weren't holding hands; the guy was leading her by the wrist.

He heard Angie's voice coming through the megaphone. “Y'all let's make the earth move! It's time for the Wildcat Stomp!”

Everyone in the stands stood up. The clapping started, and then the stomping. People spilled into the steps, blocking Benny's path.

Stomp! Stomp!

“Excuse me, excuse me,” he said, trying to elbow his way through. The stomping filled his ears, and the ground trembled.

Stomp! Stomp!

“Excuse me!” he yelled. He could see Virginia disappearing and reappearing in the crowd. There was no way he would reach her at this rate. He knew he lacked the aggression to push his way through. It was his curse—his inescapable civility. Benny decided to double back around the stadium and catch them at the entrance. It would be about three times the distance, but at least he'd be moving. He turned and ran as fast as he could, the stomping reverberating in his chest. As he reached the edge of the stadium, it was suddenly pitch-black. Benny had to stop and wait for his eyes to adjust. To his right was the forest, to his left the dark underbelly of the metal stands. He ran toward the entrance and turned in circles, looking for Virginia.

There.

She was getting into the passenger side of a badly parked Ford Fiesta on the side of the road, where only teachers were supposed to park.

What does she think she's doing?
he thought frantically.
Don't get in a car with him!

“Virginia, stop!” he shouted. “Virginia!”

He started running again. But Benny was an endurance runner, not a sprinter. He was still about fifty yards away when the car lights turned on and it pulled out of the parking spot.

“Virginia! Get out of the car!”

In seconds the car was gone. Benny was panting from
running so hard. He felt his hand stinging and looked down. He was still gripping his flute, his knuckles white, the keys pressing into the skin of his palm.

He pulled out his cell phone and stared at it, as if waiting for it to tell him what to do. There was no one to call. Even if his mom could come pick him up, he had no idea where Virginia and the Asian Fusion guy were going. He should have made Virginia get a cell phone. That was obvious now. But he hadn't wanted to embarrass her by pointing out that she was the only girl in school who didn't have one. And now she was driving off with a pervert and a room ransacker and who knew what else, all because Benny couldn't shove his way through a crowd, or endure the social awkwardness of telling Virginia she needed a phone.

He stood there on the street, not knowing what to do.
Virginia can take care of herself,
he thought. But he wasn't sure if he really believed it.

The track, 8:30 p.m.

Stomp! Stomp!

Zaire sat on the bench next to the water cooler, waiting for the god-awful Wildcat Stomp to be over so she could leave. The principal was watching the whole thing, making sure the de-hypnotism worked this time. Because God forbid the world should be without a bunch of imbecilic girls screaming into megaphones about how great it is to be a Wildcat.

The mascot suit didn't appear. Someone had gotten
rid of it or something—that was the rumor anyway. Zaire didn't know. She didn't care, either. Kirsten Fagerland was jumping around in what looked like pretty much a burlap sack with a pair of plastic eyes and ears glued to it. Kirsten had obviously been instructed to be as energetic as possible to make up for how awful and cheap it looked. The bulging eyes looked manic and imploring.
Love me! Love me!
But it wasn't possible. Never again would anyone at Winship look at a mascot and be anything but creeped out. The thought should have made Zaire very pleased with herself, but it didn't.

It was getting harder and harder to feel satisfied. She used to get a rush of power from her little pranks, but lately nothing seemed to penetrate her numbness. So what if she could make Brittany say she loved Satan? So what if she could make Winn Davis spill his orange juice? It didn't feel powerful anymore; it felt pathetic and masturbatory. Zaire knew what she really needed to do, but she couldn't seem to do it. Her first plan had gone completely haywire, and now apparently Benny Flax was watching her, which was annoying because she couldn't hypnotize him. He had too many mental walls or something. Zaire didn't know. She wasn't an expert on this stuff. She'd only started doing it to get close to Gottfried.

Gottfried was famous in the Boarders for his insomnia. Back in Germany he'd seen an experimental sleep therapist who'd used hypnotism as a sleep-inducing device. Learning
this, Zaire had immediately set about teaching herself to do it, as an excuse to be alone with him in his bedroom. She was good at it, which shouldn't have surprised her. Zaire was good at everything she set her mind to. All it took to be a hypnotist was confidence and tranquility, and for one's subject to have the right kind of mind—loose, willing, pliable. Soon Zaire was hypnotizing Gottfried to sleep at least five times a week. Gottfried relied on her,
needed
her. And Zaire had seized on that need like a parasite. But it wasn't enough. Gottfried needed her, but he didn't love her. He loved “American girls.”

She spotted him in the front row of the bleachers. A fat blond woman with cheap highlights was practically sitting in his lap. She was feeding him a hot dog and occasionally licking ketchup off his lip. Gottfried had the stupidest grin on his face. Zaire wished she could hate him, but she loved those idiotic expressions of his. She envied his goofy charm and effortless happiness. He was the only person Zaire had ever met who seemed to actually live in the moment, instead of just pretending to.

Zaire watched as the woman whispered something in Gottfried's ear. Gottfried laughed delightedly. Zaire had never been able to make Gottfried laugh.
She's ugly!
Zaire thought, wanting to shout it in Gottfried's face. Why did he like ugly old trailer park hags better than her? What was wrong with him?

What's wrong with me?
Zaire thought, which was the
real question. She was smart and sophisticated and mature. Why didn't he want her? She pretended to examine her nails in case Gottfried caught her staring at him. Not that he would. He was too wrapped up in his big-boobed, puffy-lipped, cheetah-print-wearing white-trash cougar to notice anything else.

I have to finish this,
Zaire thought, suddenly determined.
I have to get this done. No more dicking around. Benny Flax can fuck off and go to hell. I'm finishing this tomorrow.

Chatahoochee Mall parking lot, 9:15 p.m.

A security cruiser circled past slowly. Min-Jun didn't seem anxious about it. He just checked the rearview mirror to make sure it was gone, then started rolling a joint on his knee.

“You smoke?”

Virginia shook her head. Maybe she should have said yes, to stay in character. But Min-Jun didn't seem to care either way. He lit the joint and inhaled deeply. Virginia looked at his hands. They were smooth and long-fingered. Musician hands. When he blew the smoke out, he said, “Mind hotboxing?”

Virginia shrugged, not knowing what he meant. She looked out the window for the reassuring presence of the cop car. She knew it was stupid to wish it would come back with the Fiesta full of pot smoke—they'd probably be arrested—but she had the anxious feeling she'd be safer in jail than alone with Min-Jun in the parking lot of this vast,
empty strip mall. Half the stores had closed down in the recession, so it was mostly dark, desolate storefronts abutting a shoddy discount warehouse with its rows of forty-cent soda machines and grizzled old cashiers who must have screwed up pretty badly in life to be ringing up condoms and quarts of milk at the age of eighty-five.

What am I doing?
Virginia had asked herself at least five hundred times since deciding to get into Min-Jun's car. But then she'd hear Benny's voice in her mind:
Do you want to contribute or not?

“So,” Min-Jun said. “Here's the deal. I've got an international distribution network, but no inside guy anymore. The money's not fantastic—I mean it's just tits and ass—but at least I can sleep at night. I'm voyeur-only, that's where I draw the line. With underage girls it's way dicey. I need to sleep at night, you know?”

Virginia looked at him. “Uh-huh . . .”

Min-Jun took another hit of the joint. Then he unbuckled his seat belt. For a second Virginia was alarmed, like maybe he was about to pull down his pants or something. But he just twisted in his seat to reach into the back. He rustled around for a while. His face was so close to Virginia's that she could smell his unwashed hair. Finally he produced a small stack of videotapes. He thrust them into Virginia's lap.
Locker Room Wildcats Vol 4, Locker Room Wildcats Vol 8.
The covers were splashed with cheap clip art of pom-poms and still-shots of boobs.

“We use old-school tech because it's harder to rip off. I bet you've never even seen a VHS, have you, you little baby. . . .” Min-Jun leaned back in the driver's seat and looked at her with a cool, admiring grin on his lips.

Virginia was having trouble breathing normally. It was scary, the way he was looking at her, but also undeniably flattering. No one had ever looked at her like that before—like they wanted to eat her. Like she was a scrumptious, very-bad-for-you dessert.

He kept staring at her. “I'll be the only one on the scene with an inside
girl
. I bet you can get me some real slumber party shit, can't you?”

Virginia shrugged. Then she asked, in what she hoped was a matter-of-fact tone, “How was Choi getting all this footage? Was he always in the mascot suit?”

“Nah, nah,” Min-Jun said. “Volumes one through ten were made with crappy little hidden cameras. We thought we could ratchet up the price if we got more
intimate
footage. Up close and personal with your fave Wildcats, you know?”

“Totally,” Virginia said, starting to feel a little ill.
Breathe,
she told herself. Then she realized maybe it was the pot smoke making her feel strange.
Don't breathe.

“So is it true the football players realized he was in the suit and chased him off the bridge?” Min-Jun asked.

“No, that's just a rumor.”

“So what the hell happened?”

Virginia shrugged. “Maybe he had an attack of conscience.”

Min-Jun scoffed. “I doubt it. Like I said, I sleep at night. It's just a little skin. They're just girls. What they don't know can't hurt 'em.”