The St. Ambrose School for Girls(106)
“Yes.” I can picture that open Porsche door and all the rain like the scene is right in front of me. “God, what if Ms. Crenshaw finds out I was the one who put the panties in the car and set her up—”
“Jesus Christ,” Strots interrupts, “Mr. Hollis was porking Greta? Fuck. And he knocked her up? I’ll bet he’s shitting in his pants right now.”
I change tracks in my mind. “His wife knows, too. I saw them arguing down in the parking lot. He must have told her who he was with, but I don’t know if she’s aware there was a pregnancy.”
“Maybe she killed Greta.”
I picture Mrs. Hollis. Sandy. “I don’t think so. She looks like a mom.”
A very smart, well-educated, classy, professional mom, I add to myself.
“Oh, well, then for sure she’s innocent,” Strots mutters. “Absolutely.”
Given that cogent point, I decide not to add that the fact the woman is trying to save people from AIDS is probative of her lack of involvement as well.
“Or maybe it was Crenshaw because she’s creepy obsessed and got jealous.”
“What is this, Clue, girls’ school edition?” Strots cocks her head to the side and affects a narrator voice. “ ‘It was the geometry teacher with the protractor in the woods.’ ”
“Guess you’re right,” I say lamely. “I just don’t understand why Nick Hollis isn’t mentioned anywhere in the news.”
Strots laughs out loud. “You think this school is going to volunteer to the media how an RA was fucking a minor in one of their dorms? Especially when the girl’s last name is Stanhope and he’s married and she turns up both pregnant and dead?”
I think of the article in the New Haven Register, and mention that Nick’s got a history.
My roommate is poleaxed yet again, and I am so satisfied by her reaction that I have a sudden insight into why people gossip.
“You’re kidding me,” she says. “Fuck, this just keeps getting better.”
“The pregnancy really gives Nick a motive, right?” I say this like I am Columbo and I’ve investigated a hundred murders. “Maybe he killed her to cover it all up.”
“But he’d already been fired. What does the murder get him except prison time?”
“What if she was blackmailing him, though? And he couldn’t go to his father for another payout for a girl? The Stanhopes have lost their money, and Greta never was a second-best kind of girl. Maybe she hit on him for major cash.”
Strots’s brows bolt up into her forehead, and it’s a minute before she snaps back into focus. “Well, the Hollises have plenty of cash, for sure, and they’re going to be wicked pissed at him. My grandmother knows the family from Newport, and they’re part of the Old Guard, as she calls it. Those kinds of people? They’re totally old-fashioned, all into propriety and shit. A son who’s messing around with fifteen-year-olds? And got caught, twice? It’s a goddamn stain on the name.”
We both go quiet, and I’m glad my roommate has finally stepped into my realm of overthinking, not because it’s a good habit that will help her in her own life, but because it’s nice to not be alone.
Unsurprisingly, she snaps free of the spin fast. “None of this is our fucking problem. They’re the adults. It’s their job to figure it all out, not ours.”
That’s the thing about kids our age, I think to myself. We’re all for being the big, loud noise until the repercussions get real—and then we just want to hand over situations like this to the grown-ups. It’s like when we broke a toy back when we were five. Here, fix this.
Except there isn’t anything that will bring Greta back. And really… is that so bad an outcome?
“For what it’s worth,” Strots says as she finishes the Coke down to the last drop, “don’t worry about anybody else getting aggressive around here. I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt. I’m not afraid of anyone.”
As a wellspring of gratitude blooms in my chest, I fidget and twitch. I don’t want Strots to know just how affected I am by her heroic nature, but the truth is, I am about to fly away as a result of the lifting, soaring warmth behind my sternum.
I am never going to get used to the way Strots comes to my rescue.
Making some lame excuse about needing a shower before bed, I go over to my closet, gather my toiletries, and leave.
For the first time since the cops showed up on campus, I feel like I don’t have to look over my shoulder as I walk along the hall. I am safe because Strots makes it so.
And I love her for this.
chapter THIRTY-THREE
The following day, the local paper prints on its front page what “Jerry” had told the librarian not to speak of. I find this out at lunch as I sit alone at my table. A number of the girls have brought the Greensboro Gazette in with them, and they pass the first section around, table to table, everybody whispering the p-word like if they say it out loud they’re going to spontaneously miss their period and start gestating.
I read the article for myself when one of them puts the headliner down to empty her tray and then gets distracted by a friend running up to her and demanding to know if she’s heard the news. She becomes so busy establishing herself as a primary source that she leaves the actual news-breaking article on top of the covered bin.