Truly, Madly, Deadly

SIX

There was an electric hum in the air when Sawyer pulled her car into the student lot on Monday morning. Nothing was overtly different; the same cheerleaders were tightening the same bouncy ponytails in rearview mirrors, an impromptu football game had broken out in the back forty, but still something seemed different—alive with an energy that sent Sawyer’s hackles up, sent an uncomfortable prick of fire roaring through her.

Sawyer caught up with Lemon Valour as she beelined toward the brick gym, head bent as her fingers flew over her pink jeweled phone.

“Hey, Lemon, what’s going on?”

Lemon looked up, apparently surprised to see Sawyer standing there.

“You didn’t hear?”

Sawyer shrugged and Lemon stopped, slipping her phone into her jacket pocket. “It’s Mr. Hanson.”

Sawyer felt all the breath leave her body; her skin pinched and suddenly felt too tight, too hot.

“Wh—what about Mr. Hanson?” Immediately she felt his feverish, sour breath on her neck, felt his arms tightening around her waist, and she broke out into a full-body cold sweat. “There were police cars parked out front. Were they here for—did he get—”

Lemon nodded and used her index finger to poke at her eyeliner. “Yep. He’s dead.”

“What?” Sawyer sputtered.

“Dead.” Lemon said it so matter-of-factly. Then her cell phone chirped a jaunty, ridiculous ringtone, and she snatched it up, pressed it to her ear. She cut her eyes to Sawyer.

“Nice talking to you, S. GTG. There’s grief counselors in the main office if you want to get out of trig.”

The click-click-click of Lemon’s heels rang out hollow in Sawyer’s ears as she stayed rooted to the asphalt in the student parking lot.

Mr. Hanson was dead?

Dead.

The word throbbed in her mind.

Sawyer picked her way through the student commons. The final bell hadn’t rung yet, so kids still milled around, some red-nosed and breathing into tissues, most looking around, blank-faced and unaffected. She found Chloe sitting on one of the outside tables, legs swinging as she stared off into space, a hard expression on her face.

“Hey, Chloe, what’s going on?”

Chloe sniffled, her nose a deep red. “Mr. Hanson is dead.”

“Yeah, I heard that. Hey, are you okay? I didn’t even know you knew Mr. Hanson. I mean other than the occasional ogle.” She tried to chuckle, tried to force some lightness into the conversation.

Chloe remained stone faced. “He is—was—the faculty advisor for honor society last year.”

“Hey, how’s your forehead? Did your parents say anything?” Sawyer tried to touch Chloe, but the girl shrank away.

“Can you believe they’re saying the guy was murdered?”

Sawyer’s stomach wobbled and thunked to her knees. “Murdered?”

Chloe sliced her index finger across her neck.

“His throat was cut?”

“Maybe. I’ve heard that, that his lover’s husband came and shot his dick off, that his gay lover shot his dick off, that that weird kid who smelled like feet and corn chips and always wore that black hoodie from last year came back and stabbed him. Oh, and that he slipped and hit his head on a bust of Caesar Chavez.” Chloe shuddered. “Either way, our teacher is dead. That’s scary, huh?”

Sawyer swallowed thickly and nodded. Chloe didn’t know the half of it.

Principal Chappie sped through the commons at that moment, and Sawyer caught up with him.

“Hey, Principal Chappie—is it true that Mr. Hanson”—Sawyer couldn’t say the word, couldn’t believe that she had to use the word died again in her teen lifetime—“passed away?”

Principal Chappie stopped, a look of practiced sympathy on his lined face. He put a soft hand on Sawyer’s arm, his touch so light Sawyer could barely feel it through her sweater.

“Yes, Ms. Dodd, I’m afraid so.”

“Well, what happened?”

“I don’t think I should—”

“Please.” Sawyer could hear the desperation in her own voice. “Please? I think it would help everyone.” She waved an arm, indicating her fellow students. “There are all sorts of horrible rumors going around, and I think it would make the student body feel better to know the truth about what happened.”

Principal Chappie seemed to consider this, but his jaw remained fixed.

“Otherwise our parents might be concerned. They probably wouldn’t want us to be here.”

A nervous blushed bloomed on Principal Chappie’s cheeks. “Our students aren’t in any danger, Ms. Dodd. But I suppose we should let everyone know what happened to allay these rumors. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression, and I certainly don’t want to concern any parents. We’ll make a formal announcement.”

“So…?” Sawyer raised her eyebrows, and Principal Chappie looked like he was thinking, choosing just the right words.

“It seems that Mr. Hanson died of anaphylaxis.”

“Anaphylaxis? Like, an allergic reaction?”

Principal Chappie nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“Don’t most people who are allergic like that carry EpiPens?”

Mr. Chappie shrugged. “I’m not sure. But he must have consumed something unwittingly that contained peanuts, perhaps in the teacher’s lounge. He was very allergic.”

Sawyer felt her eyes widen. “So it happened here? At school?”

Principal Chappie dropped his voice. “Unfortunately, yes. That part we’d like to keep under wraps. I don’t think the general population needs to know every detail. Can I count on you, Sawyer?”

“Uh, sure, Principal Chappie. I—I won’t saying anything about that.”

“As you understand, we’ll be canceling this afternoon’s track meet and all other student activities this week.”

Sawyer nodded mutely, stepping away.

“So?” Chloe hissed, grabbing her arm. “What did you find out?”

“Mr. Hanson died of anaphylaxis.”

“What was it? Like a spider bite or bees or something?”

“He was allergic to peanuts.”

Chloe’s eyebrows went up. “Why would he eat peanuts if he were allergic to them?”

“I don’t know. Hey, your mom’s allergic to bees, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Does she carry an EpiPen?”

Chloe nodded. “All the time. Pack of Marlboros, picture of Tom Hanks, EpiPen.”

“Don’t you think Mr. Hanson would have had one of those? I mean, allergic to peanuts.” Sawyer looked around. “In a school?”

Chloe shrugged. “PB and J are the sandwiches of choice for the pre-educated masses. But what are you getting at?”

“It just seems weird to me that Mr. Hanson wouldn’t have had an EpiPen if he was that allergic.”

“Maybe he didn’t get to it in time. You have to do it like, right away. I know; my mom’s doctor made me come in and learn how to do it. When I was six, my mom stumbled in drunk at four a.m. and I stabbed her in the thigh. I thought she got stung.”

“In the middle of the night?”

Chloe shrugged. “Anyway, so what are you saying? Someone force-fed Mr. Hanson peanuts?” Sawyer shook her head, and Chloe frowned. “Maybe he had a death wish,” she said on a turn.

Ice water rushed through Sawyer’s veins and she let out a tiny, involuntary shiver.

Or someone else did, she thought.

Sawyer walked to her first class in a daze, the world moving in a slow motion of blurs and unintelligible sounds. Police officers passed by, and grief counselors ushered students into rooms with the blinds drawn. Sawyer sucked in a quivering breath when she went to her locker, butterflies moving to batwings inside her stomach. She rolled the combination and steadied herself to find—What? She wondered. Mr. Hanson’s head? Another cryptic letter?

“Grow up, Sawyer,” she mumbled under her breath.

She tried to laugh and shrug off the enormous sense of foreboding and gave her locker door a good, hard yank.

All of her books, crumpled papers, and curl-edged photos of her and Kevin poured out onto the hall floor.

“Whoa,” Logan said, jumping back. “Avalanche.”

Sawyer looked at Logan, flushed, feeling heat and sweat prick at her hairline. “Sorry about that.”

She dove to the ground when Logan did, the two thunking foreheads in the process. Logan rolled back, rubbing his, grinning.

“I’m so sorry,” Sawyer said.

“Hey, it’s all right. Are you okay?”

Sawyer began stacking her books, nodding maniacally, eyes searching for any hint of mint green. “I’m fine. I’m just really—really—”

Logan reached out and laid a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. It was as delicate and uncertain as his eyes. Sawyer realized she liked them and allowed herself to breathe. “Sorry, I’m just jumpy.”

“Yeah, it’s not every day someone drops dead on campus.”

Sawyer glanced up at Logan. The words sounded odd and rough coming out of his mouth. He glanced back at her, a hint of a smile at the edges of his lips. “I mean, you know.”

Sawyer went back to gathering her books. “Yeah, yeah I guess so.”

Logan stayed hunched down but was silent for a beat. He licked his lips and said, “Hey, I wanted to thank you again for the ride the other day.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sawyer jammed the last of her books back in her locker and slammed the door shut. “Sorry again, Logan, but I’ve got to get to class.”

“Right.” And then, “Oh, wait. Hey, Sawyer—is this yours?”

Sawyer stopped without turning around, her stomach gone leaden. She didn’t want to see what Logan was offering her. He stepped in front of her, grin still wide, eyes still soft. He offered Sawyer a songbook. “This is yours, right?”

Relief flooded over her in waves. “Oh. Right.”

“Sawyer Dodd?” The voice that came over the PA system was deep and gravelly and bounced off the plethora of sterile metal and linoleum in the hallway. “Sawyer Dodd to the administration office, please.”

Sawyer’s eyes went up to the overhead speaker.

“Sounds like someone might be in trouble,” Logan tried to joke, but Sawyer couldn’t find the humor. He flushed red immediately and looked at the floor. “I’m kidding. I know you’re not—you know, the kind of kid who gets in trouble.”

“Thanks, Logan. Apparently, I’ve got to go.” Sawyer turned, songbook clutched to her chest, and Logan kept step with her.

“How about I walk you?”

“That’s really okay.”

“Too late.” Logan gestured toward the fall leaves taped to the open door of the administration office. “We’re here.”

Logan turned and offered Sawyer his awkward salute, and she was left standing in the hallway, watching his back as he headed down the hall.

“Sawyer Dodd to the administration office, please.” The overhead speaker squawked again, this time slightly more insistent. Sawyer blew out a sigh and pushed the door open.

The administration office was a cavalcade of students zigzagging through the bright orange half doors that separated the back office from the front. Most of them carried file folders or thick stacks of copy paper while they went about their work study office duties.

Sawyer cleared her throat. “I’m Sawyer Dodd,” she said to no one in particular. The girl at the closest desk blinked at her and blew a bubble the size of her head. She sucked it in, eyes still focused on Sawyer. She pressed the black button on the intercom in front of her, and Sawyer could see her wad of gum protruding in her cheek.

“Sawyer Dodd?”

“That’s me.”

“Oh.” The girl looked surprised to see her. “Principal Chappie wants to see you.”

“What about?”

The girl shrugged, went back to chewing her gum. She pointed to a bank of chairs lined up in front of Mr. Chappie’s closed office door. “You can wait over there, please.”

Sawyer hiked up her backpack and did as she was told, sliding her feet out in front of her. She absently studied the toes of her sneakers, then clapped the sides of her big toes together, a pleasing cloud of red clay dust puffing off the soles.

Sawyer looked at her shoes, looked at the fine red powder that now littered the gray, industrial-grade carpet. Her skin started to prick and she sat up straighter, her left hand slowly reaching out in front of her. Her fingers flicked. She imagined reaching under her bed in the dim, near-dawn light. She remembered her fingers falling over the soft leather of the single metallic flat as she looked for her sneaker. She remembered rolling the hard buds of dirt under her index finger.

Then she remembered the photograph that Detective Biggs had slid across the table to her.

Sawyer’s throat constricted. Her tongue darted out to lick paper-dry lips. How had the shoe—just one shoe—ended up under her bed?

Her body started to tremble, a slow, painful jitter.

How did the mud get there?

Sawyer remembered the hollow ring of Detective Biggs’s voice when he mentioned that someone might have been there when Kevin was killed. That a woman may have pushed the passenger seat back, gotten one shoe stuck in the mud when she slipped away.

One metallic, mud-covered flat.

Sawyer doubled over and held her head in her hands, her mind racing, trying to go back to that day, trying to go back to the day she had spent the last three weeks desperately trying to block out.

Had she taken a pill? Had she blacked out or blocked it out?

Her breath caught in her throat as her heart tried to hammer its way out of her chest. She shook her head.

No. There was no way. I would have remembered…right?

She felt the wind on her face, the moist, biting sting of the wind as she jogged down the hill, picking up speed as she put precious distance between her and Kevin.

“I was running,” Sawyer mumbled. “If I was running, I wasn’t wearing flats.”

She thought back, clamping her eyes shut, trying to remember the way it felt each time her foot hit the ground. Before a track meet she would pinch her eyes closed and concentrate on the feeling of her feet falling in perfect quick-time rhythm, hitting the red clay of the track just softly enough to propel her forward one more step.

How did her foot feel?

“Ms. Dodd?” Principal Chappie poked his head out of his office, his voice shaking Sawyer out of her revelry. She sighed as her mind failed to grasp the image of her leaving that night.

“I’m right here,” Sawyer said, standing up slowly.

Principal Chappie stood aside and ushered Sawyer down the hall. He pushed open the door and she followed him in.

“Sawyer,” Principal Chappie said, arm extended. “This is Ms. Alum, the grief counselor.”

Sawyer swallowed hard, looking from Principal Chappie to the tiny, dark-haired grief counselor who couldn’t have been more than five years older than she was. She had heavy black lashes over wide, eager, brown eyes and a pin-tucked charcoal suit that was all at once businesslike and sexy.

“I don’t need to see a grief counselor, Principal Chappie. Sorry, Ms. Alum. They already make me see a psychologist twice a week. I’m really kind of grief-counseled out.” Sawyer hiked her backpack up her shoulder and turned to go, but was stopped when she came chest to tweed-coated chest with a mustached man, his stubby fingers clutching a black leather notebook.

“And this is Detective Biggs.”

Sawyer’s breath hitched. “Oh.”

Heat washed over her cheeks and Sawyer fought to stay cool, thinking that the detective could somehow sense her guilt, her confusion over the night, over the muddied shoe underneath her bed.

“Hello, Sawyer.”

Sawyer forced her muscles to move and felt her head bob in a semblance of a nod.

Detective Biggs offered a smile that wasn’t really a smile, his teeth a faded, nicotine yellow. “I’m sorry we have to meet again this way. Under these kind of circumstances.”

“Yeah,” Sawyer said, licking her bottom lip as her pulse started to speed. Up until Kevin’s death, she had never even seen a detective that wasn’t on television. Now, she seemed to have her own personal one.

Detective Biggs stared at her, and Sawyer felt the insane urge to bolt. She didn’t want any of this to be happening. She wanted to be normal again, to be staring at the clock in biology class, deciding which dress to wear to prom.

“Can you take a seat, please, Ms. Dodd?” Principal Chappie’s voice was kind.

Sawyer took a small step back, the detective’s eyes still on her. His face broke into what passed as a smile for detectives, Sawyer guessed. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Sawyer.”

Sawyer didn’t like the way the detective used her name when he spoke to her, holding it in his mouth and then pressing out the syllables. Sawyer sank into a chair opposite Ms. Alum, and Detective Biggs sat down next her, pulling out the same leather notebook he’d had at Sawyer’s house. Sawyer vaguely wondered if he bought them by the case. “This is just some routine questioning, you understand.”

Sawyer looked at the ring of faces around her: Ms. Alum’s was pretty but pinched with an attempt to look both serious and sympathetic; Principal Chappie’s lips were pressed together and he kept rubbing his thumb over the face of his watch, his impatience evident; and Detective Biggs looked as though he’d just waddled out of a cop show with a few crumbs of powdered sugar at the edge of his mouth, his caterpillar eyebrows sharp Vs.

“Routine questions about what?” Sawyer wasn’t sure she’d actually asked the question. The voice that came out was subdued and strange, and though she couldn’t understand why, she felt herself flush, felt her knees weaken and the all-too-familiar salivating that came before vomiting.

“Oh God. I’m sorry but I think I’m going to be sick.”

Ms. Alum patted Sawyer’s back soothingly. “Shall I take you to the ladies’ room?”

Sawyer shook her head, and Detective Biggs pushed a Styrofoam cup of water into her hands. She took a small sip, her eyes flashing behind the cup.

“I think I’m okay,” she said finally.

Seated there in the school conference room, Sawyer worked the rim of a Styrofoam water cup with her fingernails for a full minute. No one said anything. Finally, Ms. Alum broke the silence. “Are you feeling better?”

Sawyer nodded.

“It’s perfectly normal to have visceral reactions to emotionally charged situations.”

Sawyer nodded again, letting Ms. Alum’s textbook conversation drift over her. “There’s just been a lot going on.”

“You mean because of Kevin.”

It had become the stock answer and Sawyer gave the stock response: a mute nod followed by a watery-eyed stare—a broken-hearted teenager mourning the death of her first love.

Ms. Alum reached out her hand as if she wanted to pat Sawyer’s, but she thought better of it, or remembered the litigious nature of school parents, and folded her hands in her lap. “Do you want to talk about him?”

“No.”

“Then how about Mr. Hanson?”

Sawyer swallowed heavily, feeling the need to vomit again. “Why are you asking me about him?”

“We’re asking everyone. I understand that Mr. Hanson was a popular teacher among the junior class. You had him for Spanish sixth period, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“His death must come as quite a shock and especially to you, after what happened.”

Sawyer felt her jaw tighten. “You mean because my boyfriend died? Because I’m fragile and they make me take drugs?”

Redness bloomed in Ms. Alum’s cheeks. “No, that’s not it. And antidepressants are nothing to be ashamed of, Sawyer. They’re medicine for an illness that you have. You’ll get better.”

She batted her big eyes, and Sawyer felt slightly sorry for the curt way she bit off her words.

“I’m just here in case you want to talk, to share any feelings of unfinished business or if you want to talk about how you are feeling.”

Sawyer pinched a piece of Styrofoam from her cup. “I feel fine.”

“Okay,” Ms. Alum said slowly, “then you won’t mind answering a few questions for Detective Biggs.”

“Wait, what? Why do I need to answer more questions?” Sawyer spun around in her chair to focus on Detective Biggs, trusty notebook still poised in one hand, pen in the other.

“Again, I’m sorry we have to meet again this way. I’ll try my best to make it quick and painless.”

“Are you allowed to do this?” Sawyer asked, suddenly nervous, suddenly gripping the armrests of the cheap leather chair she sat in.

“Principal Chappie got the okay from your parents.”

“From my parents? My mother is an attorney. There is no way she’d let you question me especially when I don’t know anything—anything about Mr. Hanson.” She began gathering her backpack. “I need to get back to class.”

Detective Biggs pushed the end of his pen against Sawyer’s arm. “Your mother was at home when we called.”

“No, she—Tara? You mean Tara. You talked to Tara, my stepmother. She can’t—she can’t say what I should do.” Sawyer felt her words trailing off. “She doesn’t know what I can do.”

“Your father called back and agreed. I spoke to him personally. Is there a reason you don’t want to talk to me today, Sawyer?” Detective Biggs’s deflated balloon cheeks pressed up into a weird smile. “You’re not in any trouble. We’re just trying to get a clear picture of what happened in the hours before Mr. Hanson’s death.”

Sawyer pulled her sleeves down over her hands, fisted them. “Then why are you asking me?”

“Mr. Hanson had his grade book open to your file. It looked like he was making notes. Did you talk to him about that?”

Sawyer just shook her head, staring at the sweater wrapped over her knuckles.

“Did you see Mr. Hanson after school, Sawyer?”

Sawyer felt the same prick of disgust crawl up the back of her neck. “Yeah. Just for some”—she paused, sucked in a steadying breath—“just for some homework help.”

“About what time was that?”

Sawyer shrugged. “Two, almost three o’clock, I guess.”

“And can you tell us what transpired when you saw Mr. Hanson for homework help?”

“What transpired?”

“What happened, Sawyer?”

Sawyer tucked her knees to her chest. “Nothing. He gave me my test. I got a bad grade. He told me how I could improve it.”

“And how was that?”

Sawyer bit her lip. “Um, extra credit.”

“Extra homework, worksheets, stuff like that?”

Sawyer nodded. “Uh-huh. Stuff like that.”

“And how was Mr. Hanson when you left him?”

Lecherous, Sawyer wanted to reply, blue-balled. Instead, she just shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

“No signs of respiratory distress?”

Sawyer wagged her head, bit her thumbnail. “No.”

Detective Biggs wrote something on his notepad, tapped the end of his pen against it as if considering his next question carefully. “Was he eating anything? Did he have any food on his desk that you could see? Did he offer you anything to eat?”

“No. Nothing that I could see,” Sawyer said. “And he was fine when I left.”

Biggs puckered his lips. “And you didn’t give him anything? A snack, a cookie or—”

Sawyer felt herself gape as terror seized her heart. “You think I did this?”

“No, no,” Ms. Alum broke in.

“We’re just trying to get a clear picture of—”

“Of what transpired, I know. But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t force-feed him peanuts or anything. Is that what you think?”

“We know that you wouldn’t do anything deliberate like that. But just so I know, how did you know it was peanuts Mr. Hanson consumed?”

Sawyer’s mouth fell open. “I—Principal Chappie told me.”

Principal Chappie’s eyes widened, pinning Sawyer. “But everyone knew it,” Sawyer backpedaled, “everyone knew that was what Mr. Hanson was allergic to. He had a no-peanut sign up in his classroom.”

“A no-peanut sign?” Detective Biggs asked.

“You know, like, Mr. Peanut with a red slash across him.” Sawyer made the sign of a circle and a slash with her hands, then felt immediately ridiculous doing so. “Everyone knew,” she finished softly.

“That’s fine, Sawyer, thanks. Now, after you met with Mr. Hanson, did you drive home right after school?”

“No. I mean, yes. I took a kid home. I dropped him off and then, yes, I went home too.”

Detective Biggs pressed his lips into a thin, hard line and read over his notes, which Sawyer guessed must have been a series of no’s and nothing else. “Okay, well, that’s all I need from you.”

Relief washed over Sawyer. “That’s it?”

“Yeah.” Detective Biggs’s grin was kind, almost fatherly. “Unless there’s something you want to admit to.” He chuckled, the buttons on his shirt vibrating.

Sawyer pushed back in her chair. “No, thanks.”

As she wound her way out of the conference room and through the administrative office, Sawyer breathed deeply, peeling her suddenly damp T-shirt from her back. Her heart rate had just slipped back to normal when she heard someone calling out to her.

“Oh, Sawyer! I was about to send a note to you.” Mrs. Cambert, school secretary, from the top of her silvery bun to the bottom of her sensible shoes, smiled up at Sawyer. She slid an enormous bushel of blooms toward Sawyer. “These came for you.”

Sawyer blinked at the velvety red roses, blooms as big as fists interspersed with sprays of eucalyptus and tiny budding baby’s breath. She felt the smile press across her face. “These are for me?”

Mrs. Cambert plucked a small white envelope from the foliage and pressed it into Sawyer’s hand. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

Sawyer nodded at her name typed across the front. “Sure is.” Sawyer snaked one arm around the glass vase and clutched it against her hip, still smiling. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Cambert.” She stepped into the hall and rested the vase on the edge of the water fountain, sliding a finger under the envelope’s seal.

She took one look at the enclosed mint green card and sucked in a sharp whoosh of ice-tinged air.

Sawyer—

You know I’d do anything for you.

It wasn’t the message that scared Sawyer so much—it was the curled piece of plastic that slid out with the card. With fingers shaking, she unfurled the thin label.

“Arachis oil?” she mumbled to herself. “What the heck is—” Sawyer’s heart stopped when she read on: 100% Cold-Pressed Gourmet Peanut Oil. A black circle was drawn in Sharpie around something in the bottom corner. It was flanked by a hand-drawn smiley face. Sawyer squinted. “Caution: allergen.”