Sloth (6 page)

They gazed at her from across the table, identical expressions of nervous excitement trembling on their faces.

Harper felt sick at the thought of eating anything, especially the steaming heap sitting before her. She felt even sicker at the thought of sending the idiots away with a bitchy comment or two—much as she longed for some alone time, their words to Reed still hung in the air. They’d just been imitating her; she couldn’t bring herself to repay the favor.

“This is great, guys,” she said instead. “Everything’s fine. Thanks.” She grabbed the Sprite and took a fake sip. Ten minutes, she promised herself, and then she’d be up and out.

“You okay, Harper? You look kind of pale.”

“Yeah, and no offense, but you’re a little, like, sweaty. You sure you’re okay?”

The more times she had to say it, the bigger the lie. But it’s not like she had any other option.

“No worries,” she assured them. “I’m fine.”

“Beth, we still need a head for this article,” the copy editor called out.

“And we’re missing a photo for the Valentine’s Day piece,” the features editor called from the other side of the room.

Beth typed faster, trying to load in the changes to the front-page layout so she could deal with the hundred other
things on her to-do list. It was times like this, rushing back and forth across the newsroom, slurping coffee, cutting and pasting, slapping on headlines, tweaking leads, and refereeing the occasional game of Nerf basketball, that she felt like a real editor in chief, the nerve center of a well-oiled fact-finding machine.

Then she remembered that, despite her best efforts, the paper rarely came out more than once a month—and when it did appear, its heartfelt missives on Homecoming Day hairdos and the debate team s latest victory ended up littering the floor of the cafeteria, crumpled and tossed aside before anyone had bothered to read them.

They weren’t a complete failure, she reminded herself. They’d managed to get a special Kaia memorial supplement out a couple weeks ago, filling it—despite the short notice and lack of sources—with photos, poems, and the occasional testimonial from someone who professed to have known and loved “that dear, departed soul.” Several of Beth’s teachers had complimented her on the fine tribute. It wasn’t the kind of compliment from which you could draw much joy—especially when you were still swimming in guilt.

Now things were back to normal, if you could call it normal when your front page featured an article about the sordid criminal past of the paper’s former sponsor. Beth should have been pleased: It was just the kind of hard news she’d always imagined importing to the
Haven Gazette
when she finally took the reigns. Along with all her other big plans, that dream had fallen by the wayside back in the fall, after her encounter with Mr. Powell.

Perhaps it was only fitting that, courtesy of Mr. Powell
and his misdeeds, the
Gazette
was finally reporting something that mattered.

Beth had long dreamed of covering a story like this, rich with tantalizing details and actual import. But not
this
story. She hadn’t rushed an issue into print, hadn’t assigned anyone to pester the cops or the administration for details. Instead, she’d just picked up the story that had run in the
Grace Herald
earlier that month. It would be reprinted verbatim. And it would have to do.

Police uncover secret identity as French teach skips town

By Milton Jeffries
Staff writer,
Grace Herald

Massachusetts state police are pursuing Jack Powell, aka Julian Payne, for questioning in regard to two statutory rape cases allegedly involving the former Haven High School French teacher. Grace police are similarly eager to question him regarding his relationship with Kaia Sellers, a Haven High senior who was killed in a hit-and-run the same week Powell fled town. Police have ruled the incident an accident and concluded it was unconnected.

Powell joined the Haven High faculty in the fall, professing several years of teaching experience and proffering impeccable— and apparently forged—references. The first indication that anything was amiss came in late January, when an anonymous tip led paramedics to discover Powell unconscious in his apartment. Kaia Sellers’s fingerprints were found at the scene, but she was killed the next day, before she could be questioned.
Powell’s fingerprints, when run through a national database, revealed him to be Julian Payne, a British citizen who had disappeared from Stonehill, Massachusetts, six months earlier when allegations were made against him by two unnamed teenage girls.

Authorities at Stonehill Academy say that both girls are well-behaved, honor roll students who are to be commended for speaking out against their teacher. “We’re all grateful that they had the courage [to turn Payne in] and prevent this from happening again,” said Stonehill principal Patrick Darnton.

In Grace, area parents have expressed deep concern that a teacher with his background could have been employed by the high school; district officials say they had no sign Powell was not what he seemed.

Powell left the hospital, against medical advice, before Grace police were able to detain him. He has not been seen since.

She doesn’t know why she came.

Hospitals have always seemed dirty to her, grimy, as if the grayish tinge to the walls and the floor were just germs made visible, layers of illness, fluids, and death that had built up over the years.

Still, she comes here often, forces herself to suffer through the candy striping, pediatric parties, holiday gift distributions. She knows where the bedpans are stored and which nurses ignore the call light. And she knows where all the exits are; from the moment she steps inside, she is always planning her escape.

She has come to see Harper, but she doesn’t know why, and she doesn’t have the nerve to go through with it. She steps off the elevator and starts down the hallway, but there is Adam, hovering
outside the room next to the Graces, whom she recognizes because, in a small town, there is no one you don’t know. She stops. She has nothing to say to any of these people. She has nothing to apologize for.

She has everything to apologize for.

Before she knows what she’s doing, she turns around, is back at the elevators, pressing the button, waiting. It has been like this all week. Doing things without knowing why. Making decisions without even noticing She wonders if she is in shock. Not over Kaia’s death—none of that seems real yet; it all has the feel of a bad movie she wandered into that will surely end soon. No, if she is in shock, it is over what she has done, which is all too real and tangible, like the empty box on the edge of her nightstand that used to contain two yellow pills. She should throw it out, now that it’s not just a box—now that it’s evidence—but she can’t bring herself to do so.

The elevator doors open and she steps on blindly, just as she does everything, which is why she doesn’t see him until the doors close and it’s too late.

”Now this
is
a pleasant surprise,” he says, in the soft British accent she still hears in her nightmares. “And here I thought I’d have to leave without saying good-bye.”

She ignores him. There is a vent in the ceiling of the elevator, and from a certain angle she can see through the slits and watch the walls of the shaft sliding by. There is a fan in the vent, its sharp blades spinning fast enough that they would slice off a finger if she were tall enough to reach.

”I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he says. Unable to help herself, she glances toward him. There is a large white bandage on his forehead. His skin is pale. “Just a concussion, nothing to worry about.”

“I wasn’t ” she says sharply.

He smiles at her, and then his face goes flaccid, his eyes flutter, and he stumbles backward, slamming into the console of buttons, catching himself just before he slumps to the floor. The elevator jerks to a stop. Beth says nothing, does nothing. He breathes deeply once, twice, as if willing the color back into his face and the strength back into his body. His head lolls to one side, and he grasps the railing on the wall for support. There is nothing Beth can do to help; she need not feel guilty for doing nothing.

She feels guilty for being glad about it.

More deep breaths, and soon, his face is no longer white, and the smile is back. And the elevator is not moving.

”I’m fine now,” Powell says, touching his forehead gently. “Happens sometimes. ”

She doesn’t say anything.

He steps away from the wall to look at the console. “I must have hit the emergency stop button. Not to worry, I’ll have us moving again. Momentarily. ”

”You just need to flip the lever,” Beth says, hating to acknowledge him but needing to escape. “It’ll start up again. ”

Instead, he turns his back on the console and steps toward her. She jerks away, but of course, there is nowhere to go. Beth, who knows all the exits, knows that better than anyone.

”You’re never sorry?” he asks, and he sounds almost plaintive.

”For what?”

”You misjudge me, you know.” His voice is soft, and his eyes kind, as they were at the beginning, when the two of them worked long hours in the tiny newsroom, bent over layouts, their heads together. She’d called him Jack, cried on his shoulder, imagined what it might be like were she ten years older. She was no longer fooled. “We understood each other, or we could have. I
could have taught you a lot. I could have been a friend. Things might have been . . .” He looks off to the side and sighs. “Different. ”

”Flip the lever,” she says through gritted teeth. “Now.”

”Scared?” He takes two rapid steps toward her and, before she can move, he’s planted his arms on either side of her, pinning her against the wall. She is trembling. “You’re a smart girl.” His face is inches from hers, his breath sour. She knows she should do something. Spit. Scream. But she’s frozen. “I could do anything.” He leans closer, his eyes locked with hers. When their lips are about to touch, he stops. “But I won’t.”

His arms drop to his sides, and he steps backward again. “Disappointed?”

”Go to hell.”

He shakes his head. “There’s a part of you, Beth, that wants it. I knew it the moment we kissed—”

“When
you
kissed
me, “
she snaps.

”When
we
kissed, I could tell. You want a lot of things you’re not allowing yourself to want. You don’t let yourself do anything about it, but that doesn’t change the facts.”

”You don’t know anything about me,” she whispers. Her throat is tight, as if she’s having one of those dreams where she wants to scream but can’t make a sound.

”I know girls,” he says, nodding. A lock of brown hair flops over his eyes, and he brushes it away. The gesture reminds her of an old Hugh Grant movie. Adorable British charmer fumbles through life and gets the girl. She’d wanted a romantic-comedy life, maybe. But she hadn’t wanted him, she insisted to herself, not really. She hadn’t wanted this. “And I know you. You may be fooling everyone else with that good-girl act, Beth, but you can’t fool me. I’m just sorry you felt you had to try. ”

He flips the lever, and the elevator jerks into motion.

As the doors open, he gives her a cheery salute. “Until we meet again . . . and something tells me we will.”

She doesn’t say good-bye.

Anyone with information about the whereabouts of Jack Powell or knowledge of his relationship with the late Kaia Sellers should contact the Grace Township Police Department, 555-4523.

“Beth, are we set with that article? We’ve got to lock the front page,” the deputy editor reminded her.

She had an hour left before the paper went in for final proofing, then she had a history presentation to give, and afterward would rush off for yet another job interview, then home, where she could divide the rest of her night between studying for her math test, babysitting her little brothers, and working the phones to finalize logistics for Spirit Day and the senior auction.

She didn’t have time to linger over Powell anymore. She clicks a button on the mouse and locks the article. “This one’s set,” she told her deputy. “Let’s move on.”

Miranda heard the chorus of blondes before she saw them, and their voices—high, flirtatious, infused with a permanent giggle and inevitably ending on a question mark— told her everything she needed to know. As she rounded the corner and approached the lockers, one look confirmed her suspicions. A harem of sophomores, outfitted in standard uniform: high boots, short skirt, midriff-baring shirt, and enough makeup to paint a house.