21 Dares: A Florida Suspense Mystery (4 page)

Despite
pre-algebra and creative arts, Abbie thought of nothing else all day. The
conversation with the Professor bothered her enough to bring it up with her
therapist late that afternoon.

“So,
what’s
your father’s 411 on this professor?” Dr.
Wachowski sat in an upholstered lounge
chair with his legs crossed. Barely thirty, he looked like he could’ve been a
student himself.
Or at least trying to pass off as one.
Wearing a powder-blue shirt open at the collar and brown Pali Hawaiian sandals,
he carried the casual theme to his face with a reddish-brown beard beneath a
crop of thick, uncombed, shaggy reddish-brown hair. Abbie sat on a couch across
from him.
 

“Oh, no.
I don’t bring up the past with Clinton
Reed.” She
glanced back out the
window and watched the rain tap against the glass.
She shifted on the
couch but kept her eyes focused outside. The downpour wasn’t letting up.

There
was a pause, and Dr. Wachowski tilted his head. “Do you ever think about it?
Think about that night?”

“What?”Abbie
turned away from the window. She caught a hint of the blue tattoo revealed by
his open collar.

“The
night your sister died.” Wachowski’s voice lowered, as if he was trying to make
his words sound as gentle as possible. “Why don’t you tell me about that
night?”

Chapter 4

A
bbie’s answer to her therapist was abrupt,
ending any possibility to continue that line of conversation. She never thought
about
that night
. It seemed more like
a bad dream now. One she didn’t want to remember. Or talk about. Or relive in any
fashion.

She
realized her grip on the little unicorn pendant was so tight that the horn
actually pressed into the soft fleshy skin under her thumb. She released it and
looked at the red indentation in her palm.

Dr.
Wachowski leaned back in his seat and
put down his pen and notebook
. A blue and black tattoo wrapped
around his left forearm and disappeared beneath the sleeve rolled-up to his
elbow.

“The
struggle is real. Hashtag: Don’t Go There” He raised a hand to his bushy beard,
smoothing the hair, his voice steady. “You’ve been attending BHU for what, two
months now? Talk to me about your swag. Who’s your posse?”

Abbie
closed her eyes and considered the question. She could
lay
down, but remained sitting. It seemed rather cliché to actually lie on a couch
across from the therapist. True, it might help her think about the answer. The
only problem was
,
she didn’t like the question. She
wasn’t sure why she was being so combative this afternoon.
Probably
because Professor Cunningham got under her skin.
Maybe it was
Wachowski’s attempt to sound hip and connect with college students. After a
second, she finally said, “I have lots of friends.”

“Who
are?”

“Clem, of course.
He’s my best friend.”

“Your cat?”
Dr. Wachowski shook his head. She could
hear the disapproval in his voice. She didn’t realize he knew about Clem.
Regardless, she wasn’t lying. Clem was her best friend in the whole word.
Had been for the better part of five years.
Obviously, that
wasn’t the answer he wanted. Probing further, he asked, “Let’s get legit
wichit.
Gimme someone who can carry on a two-way
conversation.”

Abbie
shrugged, opening her eyes.
“Clinton Reed.
We talk
every day.
And my grandparents, of course.”

“I’m
not talk’n about the fam.” He crossed his legs, resting his left foot on top his
right kneecap. No socks.
Just sandals that exposed a big toe
with the same reddish-brown hair as his beard.
It also revealed another
tattoo spiraling up from his left ankle into his jeans. “Talk to me about your
roomie?”

“Susan?”
She looked away from him, returning her gaze to the gray, rainy world outside.
           
“She’s got swag, right?” He
paused, as if waiting for Abbie to elaborate. When she didn’t, he added, “You
two are tight.”

“We’re
friendly, I guess.
As long as I pay my rent on time.”
Abbie chuckled at her little joke. Dr. Wachowski didn’t.

“Do
you hangout, watch TV, cook a lil’ somethin’-somethin’ or talk-up the jam?”

“No, never.”
Something flickered far
back in her eyes. Susan had a life that moved at light speed, with bartending
in the evenings and various boys in the mornings and her own friends in
between. Susan was a couple of years older, but Abbie wasn’t really sure of her
exact age. She often said,
In
the twenty-three
years I’ve been on this earth, I’ve learned it’s okay to lie about your age
.
Susan was surely older than twenty-three. Still, she seemed to have quite a few
friends at the University. Abbie would see them on campus from time to time,
and sometimes in the apartment. Abbie rarely spoke to them. It didn’t
necessarily bother her. It was just a fact. “Susan has her own friends. Her own
life,” she said, shifting her leg on the couch.

“And
you’re not included?”

“I
don’t think Susan considers me someone to hang-out with or watch TV with.” She
wanted to tell him that Susan deemed her a little weird. She wasn’t even sure
that Susan liked her. “Susan thinks of me as someone to split the electric bill
with.”

“Okay.
What do you do when you come home?”

“I
go to my room.” It’s what she did every day.
Immediately.
As soon as she walked through the front door.
And she
would shut the bedroom door and spend time with Clem, and watch old episodes of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
on her
laptop or study or both. Sometimes, she’d just sit on her bed and read. She
liked real, physical books with pages as opposed to reading on her tablet. Most
of the books she had to read for class were available only through her tablet,
but not the books she read for pleasure. Those proudly crowded the bookcase in
her room to the point she was running out of shelf space. And there were four
shelves in that case. She’d bought every single one since moving to Tampa.

She
had to leave her real collection back home.
 
Her bedroom in Pembroke Pines was filled with hundreds of books. Books
that she’d collected over her lifetime–from
Green
Eggs and Ham
to
Encyclopedia Brown
to
Little Women
to every romantic
suspense novel ever written by Sydney Sheldon. She wanted to take them, at
least some of them, with her. Clinton Reed wouldn’t let her. She took a bus on
the eight hour drive to Tampa, and only had room for Clem, two duffel bags of
clothes, some jewelry and her seven
season
DVD box set
of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
. Now
those same clothes were in the small closet, but her bedroom runneth over with
new books.
Lots of them.
Soon she’d have to add
another bookcase, then maybe another.

“And
where do you chill and Netflix?” Wachowski’s question interrupted her
introspection, and she answered him quickly.

“You mean, where do I
spend my time?”
He nodded. “Where do you eat? Watch the tube?”

“In my room.”

“Doesn’t
that seem…
”
He paused, caressing his bearded chin.
“Dope?”
 

“No.
I think it’s actually polite.”
Abbie
turned away from the window and looked at him. He’d picked up his notebook and jotted
something down. She waited for him to finish. “
She always has her
friends over. I’d just be in the way.”

He
scribbled another note. “Do you know that for a fact?”

“Well,
I don’t see my companionship being a need she’s actively pursuing.” Abbie
smiled, knowing that was a smart aleck comment. She couldn’t help herself.

“Abbie,
I want you to do something for me.” He put down his pen. The notepad rested in
his lap. “I want you to get all up in Susan’s bidness. Go out with her and her
friends. Break out of your shell. Hashtag: Celebrate Yo-Self!”

“Oh,
I don’t think she would—”
 

“I
disagree.” He didn’t let Abbie indulge her insecurities. “Susan and her friends
are yo party posse potential.”

“But
Susan really isn’t the type of friend I’m looking for.”

He
nodded. A knowing grin tipped the corners of his mouth. “So you
are
looking for friends?”

“I
guess.
Maybe.”
Abbie knew he’d caught her and,
honestly, he was probably right. She did long for friendship, but not friends
like Susan. There wasn’t anyone at the University who she considered
posse potential
either. She wanted real,
tried-and-tested friends-like-family cohorts. She wanted a Scoobie Gang, like the
group of friends on
Buffy the Vampire
Slayer
. Buffy
Summers
, the fearless, pretty leader
who shucks the shallow popular crowd to befriend the geeky, goofy Xander Harris
and the shy brainiac Willow Rosenberg.
 
Those were true friends. They had Buffy’s back. They had each other’s
backs. Susan was a… Abbie thought about it a moment. Susan was really no more
than an acquaintance. She hadn’t known Susan for more than a couple of months.
And Susan would never be a Willow.
Or a Xander.
Or
even a Rupert Giles.

She
looked up. Dr. Wachowski was watching her, probably evaluating something she
said. After a pause that stretched for several seconds, he asked, “So, what
kinda Styles and Maliks make-up
your
One Direction?”

Abbie
inhaled, deeply.
One
Direction?
Really?
Maybe he was older than thirty.
There was no way she was going to tell him
anything about the Scoobie Gang. He clearly wouldn’t get it. Buffy wasn’t dope.
Buffy didn’t have swag. Abbie didn’t need him jotting that down too.
Acquiescing to his request, she said, “Okay. Okay. I’ll ask Susan and her
friends if they would like to do something...
Sometime…
Someday.”

He
didn’t let her off that easy. “Something like what?”

“I
don’t know.” She gave him an impatient shrug. “Watch TV?”

“How
about something that gets you out of the apartment?
Something
that gets you out of your room.”

Abbie
hopped off the couch and picked up her purse and jacket. “You know,” she said,
glancing at her watch. “I think our hour is almost up.”

Dr.
Wachowski leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands,
looking for
all the
world as if he were about to lead
her in prayer. He stared at her a moment, then said, “
You only live once. So at least one
time in your life, scream ‘YOLO’ in your bedroom, your office, your school,
maybe your funeral. And laugh.
Celebrate Yo-Self!”

A few minutes later, Abbie stepped out of Dr. Wachowski’s
office and shut the door behind her.
 
She
turned to the waiting room, filled with dusty plants and five empty chairs. In
the sixth, a young man with thick rimmed glasses sat reading a copy of Time
magazine. His white, heavily starched, button-down shirt and red tie seemed at
odds with his sun-tanned skin.

He glanced up, and Abbie saw the fluorescent
lighting reflect in his smeared lenses. He removed his glasses and wiped them
clean using the bottom flap of his shirt. He had dark wavy hair atop a long,
oval head and a thin, lanky frame. Sitting down, he looked to be easily over
six foot. She watched him a moment as he put his glasses back on. They
exchanged a quick glance.

The door behind her opened, almost hitting Abbie
square in the back. She moved as Dr. Wachowski poked his head out his office
and motioned to the young man. The boy got up from the chair and brushed past Abbie.
She looked away. He slipped into the office as Dr. Wachowski patted him on the
shoulder. “You’re look’n legit.
Those new threads?”

He shut the door behind them.

Abbie stared at the empty waiting room for a
minute, considering the young man and wondering what kind of problems someone
like him could possibly have. For a second, she wondered if he was socially
awkward too. It was a silly idea, though. She’d only noticed the boy because
Dr. Wachowski had filled her head with pointless ideas about needing friends
and hanging out with Susan.

Still, she could imagine him being her Xander
Harris.

Dismissing the notion, Abbie rushed out of
the waiting room into the building hallway. Clutching her purse close to her
side, she made her way down from the third floor to the double glass entrance
doors, zipping her light jacket to protect her from the rain. Outside, she
stood on the top step of the front stairs for a moment, listening to doors shut
behind her.

Between the wind and the downpour, she knew
it would take an hour to walk home. She had a solid ten blocks ahead.
Abbie shivered against
the rain. An angry gust rattled the snap-hooks on the flag pole in front of the
Cypress Center Building. They clinked like some kind of Morse code message.
Another gush of wind lifted her purse, as if to snatch it away. She held it
tighter. Dr. Wachowski’s voice ran through her head again, saying,
I want you to get involved with something Susan
is doing
. Abbie wondered if Susan would be willing to pick her up at the
corporate park, in the rain. For the briefest moment, she actually considered
dialing Susan’s number.

But why go to the
trouble? She’d probably be bartending by now anyway.

Abbie
slipped her purse under her jacket,
then
raised the back
shoulders of the fabric over her head to protect her hair. She looked like the
Hunchback from Notre Dame, darting across the corporate park to the sidewalk
that ran along Fletcher Street.

* * * *

Coming out the double doors of the Cypress Center
Building, he stood on the top step. The wind whipped the flaps of his tan
trench coat tight to his legs. It almost blew the brown hat from his head. He
squashed the brim down tighter, hiding his face. Looking down the steps toward
the sidewalk below, he watched Abbie Reed make her way across the parking lot
toward Fletcher Street. He wondered if she’d called the tall roommate to pick
her up, then decided she hadn’t if she was braving the wind and downpour. It
would take her an hour to walk home from here.