Wrecked(45)

“Carrie and I call it ‘The Bored,’ as in haters who don’t have anything better to do with their lives,” she explains. “But this is beyond bored losers. It’s totally the same person who wrote on your door. C’mon!” She strides to the café counter, tossing her apron in a plastic bin near the bussing cart. She disappears into the small kitchen out back, and Haley hears her urgent conversation with someone. When she emerges, she carries her backpack and a jacket.

“How do you know it’s the same person?” Haley asks, hurrying to keep up as Gail exits the café.

Gail’s got her phone out, reading as she racewalks. “Damn!” she repeats. “The comment field is huge. God, people are sick.”

Haley stops. “How do you know it’s the same person?”

Gail interrupts her sprint to explain. “When you start a thread, you label it,” she says. “This one’s called ‘Lying Bitch.’”

Haley feels the vomit threaten to rise again. Gail resumes jogging, and this time Haley follows.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Carole Patterson’s office,” Gail replies. “Whether Jenny likes it or not, we’re reporting this.”





. . .


“Having fun?” he shouts.

“Jenny,” she shouts back.

Tall Boy leans closer. Motions for her to repeat herself.

“Jenny!” She’s practically yelling. How funny is that? She laughs.

He smiles down at her.

“What’s your name?”

He replies. She points to her ear, shakes her head, laughing. Tall Boy laughs, too. They abandon conversation.

He serves punch as she stands alongside, listening to the music, sipping.

. . .





22





Richard


The khakis are wrinkled, the starched shirt stiff. It makes for an interesting contrast. Not that Richard gives a damn how he looks. But Uncle Bruce had been very clear about what they should wear when they meet with the investigator.

“No ties or blazers,” he said. “You’ll look like you’re trying too hard. But you do want to appear respectful, so go with button--down shirts, nice pants. No sneakers: wear real shoes. Loafers, if you have them. With socks. Nothing screams ‘douche bag’ louder than loafers without socks.”

You would know, Richard didn’t say.

As he sits in the reception room of the Dean of Students Office waiting for Jordan—is the guy really going to be late for his own inquisition?—he almost feels relieved. An hour, maybe two, and it’ll be over. All he has to do is keep his mouth shut and look clean--cut while Jordan answers questions. Then he can wash his hands of this whole deal. Plus the entire Bockus clan.

He’d gone out for dinner with them the night before: Jordan, his mom, and his dad. They’d surprised him. Literally. There he was in his room, attempting homework—actually, he was stalking Haley on Facebook; she has bad privacy settings and he could check out photos going back to her sophomore year in high school—when there was a knock. He opened it to find Jordan, flanked by two adults who looked creepily like him.

“Hey,” Jordan said, nervous fake smile on his face. “My folks are in town and wanted to meet you.”

He got up from his chair. He’d wanted to push the door shut and lock it; instead, he invited the “Bocki” into his cell of a room and shook their hands. Made small talk. Couldn’t think of a single excuse when they asked him, on the spot, to join them for dinner at the inn where they were staying.

Which just happened to be the same bed and breakfast where Uncle Bruce had checked in. Two days earlier, it turns out. He didn’t join them for burgers and steaks, but “would really like to chat before you head back to campus,” Mrs. Bockus told Richard when the coffee came. Hand on his forearm. Red lacquered fingernails. They’d sandbagged him, totally.

At least he’d gotten a decent sirloin out of it.

Later, in Uncle Bruce’s room, Mrs. Bockus explained they had all driven in to “support” Jordan. Well . . . support was her word. Flutter--nervously--and--bug--the--crap--out--of--everyone was more her thing. Richard thought she was nice enough, but Jordan was barely civil to her, especially when she lapsed into tearful, random comments.

“You’ll do great! It’ll all be fine! We’ll be through this soon!” After a while, you tuned her out, like a mosquito buzzing in the corner of the room. This thin woman in stretchy black pants.

Jordan’s dad, in contrast, barely spoke. He glowered, Jabba the Hutt – like, from where he sat in a deep armchair, the folds of his thick neck swaddling his face and his eyes gleaming like blue pinpricks. He scarcely reacted to his wife, but Richard could tell he registered, critically, everything Uncle Bruce had to say.

Which was plenty.

“So, the investigator,” Uncle Bruce explained, “is a MacCallum dean. Rather than hire a pro from outside, the college has decided to save money. Although my sources say this dean—his name is Elliot Hunt—has actually taken an investigator training course, so he might not be a total bozo. Let’s just hope he’s not a crusader.”

“Crusader?” Jordan asked.

“Out to cleanse the campus of predators like you,” Uncle Bruce said.