Wrecked(51)

At this moment, shadows appear in the door. Gail and Carrie. Who both, thankfully, carry cardboard boxes.

“Hey, we’re parked on the sidewalk illegally,” Carrie says. “Let’s make this quick.” She drops an empty box, seizes four bags, and stalks out. Gail does the same.

Mona glances at Haley and rolls her eyes again. She begins packing Jenny’s textbooks into a box.

“Such a bossy boots,” Mona mutters.

Haley grins. She grabs the jointed lamp and deposits it in a box.





. . .


Jordan sees them leaving, the girls Exley invited. Except for the tall one he’s dancing with, their group moves toward the door.

Jordan follows, drink in hand. “Hey!” They’re down the stairs, moving along the sidewalk. His ears ring from the party. The night air is cool. “Leaving so soon?”

Marliese turns. “It’s too crowded!” she calls back, laughing.

He takes two steps down, but they are gone, slipping into the dark woods, the winding paths. Jordan turns to go back inside. A guy, standing at the head of a line he only just notices, blocks him with his arm.

“Can’t go in without a freshman female.”

“I was just in there.”

“Sorry, back of the line.”

“You saw me! I was just in there!”

“Yeah, and four girls left ahead of you. Get in line.”

Jordan stares at him, stunned. He moves toward the door. The guy stands in his way. He tries to push forward; the guy pushes back.

Something rises in his chest, like a wave. He hurls his full cup at the door, swearing. It hits the side of the house and splatters. To the sound of angry voices, Jordan retreats into the dark night, away from the house.

. . .





24





Richard Richard manages to avoid Jordan and his uncle most of the day, which is no small thing.


He’d expected them to be lying in wait in the lobby, ready to pounce the moment he emerged from Dean Hunt’s office. But apparently Jordan had class, and Dean Hunt had gone on for a while. Which explains the texts.

Three from Jordan pop up the second Richard turns on his phone.

The first: Went to history. Text when ur done.

The second: Done yet? Text me.

The third: WTF?? get out of there

A fourth chimes as he escapes the building and strides across campus: ????????????

Richard silences the phone. Let him twist, he decides. Might do him some good.

Besides. He needs time to figure out what he’ll tell them.

“I don’t know how ‘productive’ I can be,” Richard had said after the door closed. “I don’t know a whole lot.”

“We always know more than we realize,” Dean Hunt said. He sat back. Regarded Richard in a not--unfriendly way. “It’s interesting,” he said. “I received such long witness lists. Not only from Ms. James, who included everyone who lives on her hall, but also from Mr. Bockus. Especially from him. He listed every single resident in Taylor House, most of those from Conundrum House, and everyone he could think of who attended that party. The list is so comprehensive, it strikes me as odd that you’re not on it.”

Richard stuck to the script. “I didn’t go to the party.”

“Several people on Mr. Bockus’s list didn’t go to the party,” Dean Hunt said. Which was not a question.

So Richard didn’t answer.

“Let’s be honest,” Dean Hunt continued. “These are not ‘witnesses’ in the traditional sense. These lists are about . . . point of view. Who tells the story. Ms. James gives us a list of narrators and Mr. Bockus gives us a different one. All in an attempt to grasp that great, elusive, bothersome thing: the truth. I wonder, Richard, why Mr. Bockus doesn’t want you to tell his side of the story?”

“I’m a math major. I suck at stories.”

The words were out of his mouth before he had time to consider the wisdom of saying “suck” to Dean Hunt.

But he laughed. “I’ll remember that,” he said. “Fiction is not your natural inclination.”

Richard smiled. “You were an English prof.”

“Am I that obvious?”

Richard gestured to the walls. “Your library gives you away.”

Dean Hunt’s eyes automatically trailed to the bookshelves. Richard recognized a few titles he had to read in high school.

“Why did you stop teaching?”

The dean looked thoughtful. “I haven’t. They throw the odd course my way. I fill in when someone’s on sabbatical. But the real answer is: they’re paying me more.”

“Plus you don’t have to grade papers,” Richard said.

“Or read them,” Dean Hunt added. “I lost patience with those endless pages of bull. Admittedly, I got some gorgeous work. Real quality. But more and more it felt like students were writing papers at three a.m. the night before they were due, about books they’d only half read. It amazed me that they thought I wouldn’t notice.”

Richard didn’t say anything. He wasn’t so sure he didn’t fall into that category himself.

“I don’t imagine you would insult my intelligence that way, Richard,” Dean Hunt said.