“Over Columbus Day weekend.”
“Are you going to go to the administration?”
In this, I can be absolutely truthful. “No. They wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
“Yeah, totally.” She doesn’t bother to apologize for that gibe, but again, I am not offended. “Someone needs to tell on them. And it’s not because I want him or something. It’s just wrong. We’re children, for godsakes. And he’s married.”
I nod, even though I’m not exactly sure I believe her. Given how she was looking at Nick Hollis on that bus? I think boundaries could have been crossed with her, too, if he were so inclined. Something tells me Greta’s the only one he’s been with here at Ambrose, though—not because he has any particular virtue, but because she wouldn’t stand for any competition.
Except then there was that name I overheard him say on the phone when he was fighting with his wife.
The idea that there is a predator in our midst curdles my stomach.
“His wife is through with the traveling,” I say. “I just talked to her. It sounds like she’s going to be around more. She told me her grant is over. Or whatever.”
Francesca stares off to the side. And then a hard smile hits her face. “This is going to be fun to watch.” She glances back down to me. “Are you sick? Because you should really use the Lysol if you are.”
As she points to the white and yellow aerosol can on the back of the toilet, I shake my head. “No, I’m not coming down with something.”
“Oh.” Her brows lift in curiosity. And then she shrugs. “If you’re just starting out, you need to bring your toothbrush with you. Turn it around and put the handle deep into the back of your throat. Fingers don’t always go far enough, and besides, it’s gross to have your hand in your mouth.”
As she mimics the motion in front of her open lips with her Oral-B, I think of stewardesses on planes showing people how to use a seat belt and where the exits are. Then she nods, like she’s done what she can with the stray dog, and walks off.
I sag against the toilet seat.
A split second later, she leans back into the stall. “Have you told anybody?”
“No.” I am relieved this is not a lie. “She already hates me. I don’t want any more trouble.”
Francesca seems disappointed by my lack of follow-through. In a low voice, she says, “Someone needs to take down that bitch.”
“I thought she’s your best friend.”
“I found out at the Fall Fling that she fucked Mark on the Fourth of July. Just to prove she could.”
Funny, how she assumes I know who Mark is. But because I used to eavesdrop on the three of them down at the river, I do.
“And it’s not the first time she’s stabbed me in the back.” Francesca crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes. “Everyone I’m with, she tries to fuck.”
“Why are you friends with her?”
“Sometimes I could kill her, I really could,” the girl mutters absently, as if she hasn’t heard me.
For a moment, Francesca’s eyes go opaque with a rage that shocks me. In spite of the plaid skirt and the navy blue thigh highs, the quilted ballet slippers with the double-Cs and the cute top… she suddenly looks like a boxer.
Who’s wearing brass knuckles under her gloves.
As the silence stretches out, I’m willing to bet she’s seeing blood in whatever fantasy she’s playing in her head, and when she turns to leave, I’m not surprised she doesn’t say anything else to me. She seems unaware I’m in her presence, and not just because I’m a social pariah.
Alone again, I drag myself off the tile using the toilet seat. Then I spray Lysol on a just-because, and go over to the sinks to wash my hands.
Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I see nothing of my face or hair. I am thinking about the black hatred in Francesca’s eyes.
Greta has more enemies than I would have guessed. And some of them are right in her back pocket.
chapter TWENTY-SIX
You are not going to believe this shit.”
Strots throws open our door in the middle of this sentence, and as I crank around in my desk chair, my lungs contract like a fist. It is the next afternoon, just before sunset. I know this because every minute of the previous twenty-four hours has been like a cut in my skin, the lashes all over my body, stinging and itching. I have tracked the passage of time in my every cell.
My roommate is careful to shut things up before she speaks, and yet she still comes over close and drops her voice. “Nick Hollis is getting fired.”
I put my eyebrows up and try to look surprised. Which is not hard. Holy shit, I think to myself. It worked?
“He is?”
“He was fucking a student.”
I shake my head as if I’m struggling to hear her right. “Are you serious?”
I feel weird that I’ve talked about this with Francesca and not with my only friend at St. Ambrose. But I’ve been worried that if Strots knows what I’ve engineered, even more bad things will come her way if it blows up.
Strots goes over to her bed, leans to the side, and in a burst of movement, throws her window open almost all the way. As she lights her cigarette, she exhales out into the middle of the room, too animated to do proper air quality control.
“Keisha’s work job is in the headmaster’s house, right? So she saw Hollis go into the big office there along with the dean of students after class today. Hollis came out an hour later and was all upset.”
“How do you know what he was upset about?”
Strots slashes her cigarette through the air like she’s frustrated with stupid questions. “After he left, Keisha overheard the dean of students and the headmaster talking. They hadn’t closed the door all the way. Hollis has been fucking a student and he’s out for fraternization.”
“Who’s the student?”
“They didn’t use a name. Keisha said they referred to her as ‘the minor in question.’ ”
“Wow.” I look down at my hands, which I’m twisting in my lap. “His wife just got home, too.”
As I picture Sandy trying to keep me from falling at the stairs, I feel really, really bad.
“I wonder who the hell it is.” Strots points her smoldering cigarette at me. “Trust me, the name’ll come out. These things never stay completely quiet.”
“What’s his wife going to do?”
“Divorce his ass, I’ll bet.” Strots laughs a little as she reaches for her Coke ashtray. “Who’d have thought the shit with me would get put on the back burner so fast. Gay doesn’t look so bad when it’s compared to statutory rape, right? Anyway, I thought you’d like to know the gossip.”
“Thanks.”
There’s a hiss as she drops her half-smoked butt into the plastic bottle, and then my roommate leaves quickly and without saying goodbye. My feelings aren’t hurt. She just proved she was taking me into account by reporting the news with timely gusto.
At that moment, I hear voices down below in the parking area. I rise half out of my chair and look over the edge of the big window. Nick Hollis and his wife are arguing with each other. Her car, a Honda hatchback, is parked off to the side on the grass because there’s no official spot for it, and I feel as though her presence in the world of Ambrose seems paralleled by the out-of-kilter way her Civic is jammed where it’s not readily accommodated.