My Best Friend's Exorcism(61)

No one answered at the first Solomon household. The second one was an answering machine. The third was registered to Francis Solomon. Abby knew it was the right one. It was only two digits different from the number in Gretchen’s daybook. Someone picked up on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” the woman said and then hacked out a smoker’s cough. “Sorry. Hello?”

“Is Andy there?” Abby asked, fighting the instinct to hang up.

“Andy!” she heard the woman scream. “There’s a little girl for you!”

There was a long pause, then a click.

“I got it, Mom. Hang up!” a whiny voice shouted. Abby heard another click and then a boy was breathing in her ear. “Tiffany?”

“This is Abby.” A confused silence followed. “I’m Gretchen’s friend.” More confused silence. “Her best friend.” The silence lengthened. “Gretchen Lang? From camp?”

“Oh,” the boy said. “What?”

It was Abby’s turn to be confused.

“I wanted to ask you . . .” She didn’t know how to get into it. “Has Gretchen seemed weird to you? Or said anything about me?”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “At camp?”

“Or on the phone,” Abby said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m her best friend,” Abby said, hating how childish it sounded. “And I think something might be wrong with her.”

“How would I know?” he asked. “I haven’t talked to her since camp ended. She never called me. I have to go. We don’t have call waiting.”

After he hung up, Abby sat on the phone for a minute. None of it made sense. She vowed that on Monday she would risk being humiliated and confront Gretchen about Andy and figure out what was going on. But that weekend it was Halloween. And by Monday it was too late.





Union of the Snake


“I appreciate you taking the time to be here today,” Major rumbled. “I would like to discuss with you Abigail’s future at Albemarle Academy. It is my opinion that she does not have one.”

Abby sat across from Major. To her left was her dad, jammed uncomfortably into a hard wooden chair. He was all sharp angles and bony knees, awkward elbows, jutting shoulder blades. He’d shaved but missed the spot beneath his lower lip. His palms rested on his thighs, and unconsciously he rubbed them over his worn khakis, back and forth, back and forth. It was making Abby crazy.

On her right sat her mom, leaning forward, keyed up, jaw clenched, ready for a fight; she blinked her eyes rapidly to stay awake. Mrs. Rivers had worked double shifts over the long Halloween weekend, and she was not prepared for a parents’ meeting on Tuesday after school. She clutched her purse in her lap and hadn’t taken off her puffy winter coat. It was overkill for Charleston, but Abby’s mom was always cold.

Major placed a manila folder in the middle of his desk and flipped it open, then he put on his reading glasses and made them wait while he scanned its contents. Once finished, he looked up again.

“Several incidents occurred over the Halloween weekend,” he said. “And I have it on good authority that Abigail was involved in at least one of them. She has also been accused of theft. And while her grades have been excellent up to this point, I do not believe that past progress is indicative of future performance. At least one parent has called and asked me to ensure that Abigail does not interact with her child because she believes, as do I, that she is using and selling narcotics.”

“Are you on drugs?” Abby’s mother snapped, turning on her. “Are you selling drugs?”

Abby was shaking her head.

“No, Mom,” she said. “I promise.”

“You swear to me?” her mother demanded.

“I promise,” Abby said. “I don’t even do drugs.”

Mrs. Rivers turned to Major.

“Who said that about my daughter?” she asked.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss names,” Major said. “But it comes from an unimpeachable source. As does the information that Abigail was involved in the distribution and consumption of alcohol on campus Friday night.”

On Friday night, while Abby worked the closing shift at TCBY, the Albemarle football team suited up and trotted onto home field to battle Bishop England for last place in the division. It was the final game of the season, rescheduled from the homecoming rain-out, and tensions were high.

Ten minutes to game time and Coach Toole was freaking out because Wallace Stoney, his star quarterback, wasn’t there. Someone said he was making out with a girl in his truck, but no one could find him. Then Wallace strolled onto the sidelines, cool as a cucumber, right after the coin toss; Coach Toole was so relieved, he put him in the game immediately. By the end of the first quarter, Wallace was on his hands and knees at Albemarle’s thirty-

yard line, spraying vomit out his helmet. Medics rushed onto the field, thinking he was concussed. It took one whiff to convince them otherwise.

“Get your player off the grass” the ref told Coach Toole. “He’s drunk.”

The game collapsed into chaos, ending only when Major made his way down from the bleachers and ordered Coach Toole to forfeit. Albemarle Academy was officially the worst football team in South Carolina. And it was all Wallace’s fault. His house was egged on Halloween and someone threw a rock through the back window of his truck. He hadn’t shown up for school that morning.