Wrecked(37)

“I’m not mad,” she says angrily. She resumes her march to the barn.

After a moment, he follows, a few paces behind. “You sure do a great imitation of mad,” he says as they quickstep down the row of apple trees.

No response.

“Can we talk? Please?” They’ve drawn even with an apple--picking family, and without breaking stride, Haley holds up one hand, signaling Richard to keep his mouth shut. As they hurry past, the children stop what they’re doing and watch them pass with wide eyes. Their voices must have carried.

At the barn, Haley moves straight to the checkout with the scale. Richard gets in line behind her. He stands just short of touching her, speaks quietly into her ear.

“Let me buy you a piece of pie.”

She shifts slightly forward, away from him.

No response.

“Cider donut? Cup of coffee? They sell Wicked Joe here. I could really use some Wicked Joe.”

“I need to get back to campus.” She turns her face only slightly in his direction as she speaks. “Ton of work to do.” It’s her turn at the scale, and she places her bag on it. When she pulls out her wallet, Richard reaches around and places one hand on hers. “I’ve got this,” he says.

She proceeds as if he’s invisible. “Seventeen fifty,” the woman at the scale says. Haley hands her a twenty, pockets the change, and without a backward glance stomps off with her apples to where they’ve parked the Subaru beneath a bright orange maple.

Richard heaves his bag onto the scale and tosses two tens on the counter. His apples weigh pretty much the same as Haley’s. “Keep it,” he says before the woman hands him change. He grabs his bag and heads to the car.

It’s going to be a long drive back.





. . .


There’s a line at the door. Raised voices.

“Sorry, man,” they hear. “No entry without a freshman female.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I don’t make the rules. You want to come in, you have to be accompanied by a freshman female.”

There’s a scuffle. Elbows, pushing. Tamra jumps to the head of the line, the cluster of red--faced guys. “Hey.” They all turn. “Six freshmen, right here,” she says.

Once inside, they lose the guys.

. . .





17





Haley


Tamra, known as “T” to her friends, corners Haley at breakfast.

She’s just sat down, is looking forward to tucking in to some seriously good banana pancakes drenched with syrup, when Tamra slides her tray across the table.

“May I join you?” she asks as she settles into a chair.

I have a choice? Haley refrains from asking. Instead, she smiles politely.

Soccer and all its demands had insulated her from the Tamras of MacCallum College. Haley had arrived for pre-season, two weeks before freshman orientation, to a team full of insta--friends, unlike the NARPs on her hall, all searching for their tribe. Haley watched as they spent weeks trying on different people, sorting out where they fit in. They’d all been warned that this was part of the process of going to college and they had to be patient. But knowing didn’t make it easier.

And people like T definitely made it harder.

It was like they spoke some secret language, or knew the club handshake that signaled One of Us. It wasn’t spoken. It wasn’t seen. You might think it was money, but there were rich girls who didn’t make the cut, and you might think it was looks, but several of T’s besties were practically barking. It was something more akin to unquestioned confidence. Entitlement you could practically smell, like a fragrance.

And like a fragrance, it was impossible to grasp. You just waited to see if you were one of the anointed, one of the Pack of T.

Or not.

“So how are you?” Tamra begins. She rips open a Splenda and tips the contents into her black coffee.

“Good. You?”

Tamra raises one finely arched eyebrow. “That makes one of us. So I guess it’s true? You didn’t get the letter?”

Haley wills her face into a Carole Patterson – like expression of blankness. You want to keep the upper hand with T. “What letter?”

Tamra glances around, then leans in closer. “About the investigation. What Jenny is saying?” The second eyebrow arches.

That was quick.

Jenny had warned her: stuff was about to get real. Jenny had to make a list of “witnesses,” anyone who could shed light on what happened at Conundrum that night. Those names would be given to an investigator, who would interview each person individually.

Those interviews probably wouldn’t happen for a while. But the notifications that you were on the list for questioning? Right away.

Haley imagines someone like Tamra would be none too pleased to find herself on that list.

“No,” Haley says, “I didn’t get a letter. But I do know about the investigation.”

Tamra’s face lights up. She gets out of her chair and moves to the other side of the table, alongside Haley. “So what’s going on? The letter was sort of vague. A lot of stuff about violating community standards, blah blah, but it definitely mentioned Jenny’s name and that she’s charging somebody with . . . what? I think it said ‘sexual misconduct’?”