Utopian Cannibalism

Oliver is having one Hell of a weekend.

                  Dr. Tawney gave us a prompt today in the form of an email.  The printed copy is sitting on my desk right now.  It says,

 

Hey Richard,

                  Long time no see!  I was hoping to get a word from you about the Christian Booker case.  Some boys in the House of Representatives have a bill in the works that will make it possible for Booker to make an appeal.  If I could get a few good neg comments from you, we could easily bash it down.  They listen to you over here. 

                  I hope you’re having a great weekend.  Let’s go fishing the next time I’m in town.

 

Harold Yardley

Senator for Pickens County

Capitol Building, Office 207

 

                  If I can get this response written before the damn dance tonight, I can drop it off outside of Dr. Tawney’s office tomorrow morning.  I wonder if he sends his students’ responses back to the inquiring senators, signed with his name.  I write quickly.  The dance starts in twenty minutes.  An image comes to mind from the old nature magazines of the chimpanzees all sitting in a row, grooming each other’s backs.  Vanessa stands behind me, primping my hair with her curling iron.  I sit here in one of Vanessa’s dresses, typing up a response for Dr. Tawney.  Dr. Tawney sends the responses to Senator Yardley.  Senator Yardley sits in his office in the capitol building with his feet propped on his desk, letting distant, anonymous undergrad students write his speech material for him.

                  “Stay still,” Vanessa says.  She pokes my scalp with a bobby pin.  “You know, I’ve got some earrings that would look great with that dress.  Can I please pierce your ears?  It’ll only take a second.”

                  “No,” I say. 

                  “Here, take this mirror.”  She takes one of my hands away from the typewriter and presses a mirror into it.  “You like it?”

                  My hair is too curly and my eyelids are too dark.  “Yeah, it’s great.”  I put the mirror down and resume typing.

                  Vanessa teases my hair with her fingers.  “Oh, look at you!  That’s the best you have ever looked!  Just straighten out those fake b***s, and you’re good to go!”

                  One of the fakes is sliding down my front.  I adjust it and continue typing my response to Senator Yardley.

                  “Shoes!” Vanessa shouts, “Which one of these looks better?  The flats or the heels?”

                  She has a different style of shoe on each foot, and she models them for me. 

                  “I really don’t know,” I say.

                  “Oh, come on…”

                  I remember that Oliver is a little guy, only an inch taller than me.  “I’d go with the flats.”

                  “What?  Really?” she says.  She looks down at her feet with her face all screwed up.

                  “Yeah, just take my word for it.”

                  “Nah, I’m going with the heels.  Heels make your legs and butt look better.”

                  I’m typing a conclusion when Vanessa stands behind my chair, wraps her arms around me, and puts her head on my shoulder.  Her apple shampoo has mixed with her hairspray, making her smell like children’s medicine.

                  “Who is he?” Vanessa says.

                  “I thought you wanted it to be a surprise,” I say.

                  She pulls away, writhing her hands. “Come on…I’m going to see him in five minutes.”  She taps her foot on the floor.  “Don’t you want to know who your date is?”

                  “I know who my date is.”

                  “Really?  Who is it then?”

                  “Schwartz.”

                  “How do you know?”

                  “His tie smells like pot.”

                  Vanessa sighs.  “All right…if you know your date, why can’t I know mine?”

                  “You told me not to tell you under any circumstances.  Not even if you begged me.”

                  “Is it Josh?”

                  “I can’t say.”

                  “It is!  Come on, say it!”

                  “I can’t say one way or the other.”

                  Vanessa jumps up and down.  “It’s Josh!  I knew it!  Eleanor, you’re the greatest!”

                  “Don’t get your hopes up.  It might not be him.”

                  She doesn’t listen to me.  “He’s so perfect…”  She spins around, her red dress twirling high.  There is a knock on the door.  “Coming!” Vanessa squeals, straightening Oliver’s tie around her neck.  She runs to the door, her shoes slapping on the carpet.

                  Our dates stand just beyond the threshold.  Schwartz wears an old, purple sports coat.  He throws his arms wide and bellows, “Hey!”  I give him a welcoming nod and step through the doorway.

                  Oliver is wearing a more conventional, black suit.  He gives a small bow when Vanessa appears.  “You must be Vanessa,” he says, “I’m Oliver.  It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

                  Even without her shoes on, Vanessa would still be taller than him.  She limply accepts his handshake, her lip trembling.  “Give me a minute,” she says.  She slams the door closed, but not after we see a tear rolling down her cheek.

                  Schwartz, Oliver, and I stand in a cluster in the middle of the hallway.  Schwartz stares at the ceiling.  Oliver stares at his feet.  I clear my throat. “So, why the ‘Spare Nicks’?”

                  “My sister-in-law, Marcie, came up with the name,” Oliver says, welcoming a break in the silence.  “We’ve got two Nicks in the group, Nick Gray and Nick Cole, so we’ve got Nicks to spare.”  He smiles.  “Well, they thought it was clever.  We teamed up to provide the music for my brother’s wedding a couple of years ago, and we liked working together, so we stuck.”  We all nod silently.  “I like your dress,” Oliver says.  “The green matches your eyes.”

                  “Thank you,” I say.

                  “I was just about to say that,” Schwartz says.

                  “Thank you, Schwartz.”

                  Schwartz looks at the door.  “Do you think one of us should go talk to her?”

                  “Weeping girls are very tricky,” Oliver says.  “They’ll either cry on your shoulder or beat you away.  We don’t know her well, so we should just let her be.”

                  Vanessa comes out of the room with new mascara on.  She hardly looks at us before running off down the hall.  “Hey Josh!” she squeals.  Josh and his date, a delicate redhead in a black dress, stop and greet her.  I can’t make out what Vanessa and Josh are saying, but the longer they talk, the more annoyed his date looks.  Vanessa giggles and then rejoins us.  “Josh just said he can drive us there!”  Before any of us can say anything, Vanessa has gone outside, hanging onto Josh’s free arm.  His date glares at her.

                  Schwartz, Oliver, and I follow them to Josh’s vehicle, a shiny black truck.  Schwartz takes one look at it and says, “I don’t know about this�"“

                  “Don’t be silly!” Vanessa squeezes past Josh’s date and climbs into the front of the truck before her.  Schwartz has already jumped into the truck bed.  He gives me a hand and pulls me up.  Oliver hops in just as Josh starts the engine.

                  We hold ourselves steady against the walls of the truck as we bounce along the road.  My hair that Vanessa had tried so hard to put up falls down, and I salvage her bobby pins.

                  “So,” Schwartz says over the engine, “How has your week been?”

                  “Not bad,” I say, “My political thought class is taking up more time than it should.”

                  “Dr. Tawney’s the toughest in the department,” Oliver says, “At least, that’s what I heard from my Uncle Banks.”

                  “We went over to Banks’ apartment yesterday evening for barbecue,” Schwartz says.  “Seriously, the guy is like a professional chef.”

                  “You should come next time,” Oliver says.

                  I shrug.  “I’ll think about it.”

                  Josh parks the truck, and he gets out with Vanessa and his date hanging on either arm.  The rest of us climb out of the back.  I smooth my dress out and check for tears.  Schwartz pats Oliver on the back.  “She’ll come around.”

                  “It’s all right,” Oliver says.

                  Schwartz puts his heavy arms around our shoulders.  “We should be a threesome.”  Neither Oliver nor I respond, so we continue into the building.  The place is dark, and the floor shakes with the music.  We weave our way through the crowd, catching a glimpse of Vanessa butting between Josh and his date on the dance floor, and make it to the refreshments table.  Schwartz helps himself to the cheese platters.

                  Oliver says something to me, but I can’t hear him.  He offers me a cup of punch.  “It’s probably spiked,” I yell over the noise.

                  Schwartz returns to us with a plate of chocolate strawberries and takes the cup from Oliver’s hand.  “Thanks, man.  Hey, wait a moment…”  He sets everything down on the table and disappears into the crowd.  A minute later, he returns and takes back his food and drink.

                  “What was that about?” Oliver says.

                  “The DJ is taking requests.”

                  The techno song comes to an end, and the DJ says over the microphone, “Here’s one for all you couples out there…”

                  At the sound of the soulful piano and mellow tenor voice, Oliver’s cheeks go red.  Schwartz darts into the crowd and returns dragging Vanessa by the hand.  She struggles and shouts,  “What the hell are you doing?  You’re ruining my dance!”

                  “Do you know who’s singing this song?”  Schwartz shouts, bouncing with excitement and pointing toward Oliver.

                  After a moment Vanessa makes the connection in her mind, and her juicy lips part in shock.  Without a word, she grabs Oliver by the front of his shirt and leads him onto the dance floor.  He looks as though he is about to be eaten by a large animal.

                  Schwartz bows to me.  “May I have this dance?”

                  I take his sweaty, clammy hand and walk with him into the crowd.  We’re meshed into a tiny square of space, the surrounding people fencing us in.  We’re stuck simply stepping back and forth.

                  “I think you embarrassed him,” I say.

                  “That’s just ‘cause he doesn’t know how nice his voice sounds,” Schwartz says. “I understand the guy pretty well.  He’s a rockstar with an inferiority complex.”

                  “Maybe you should have taken him to the dance.”

                  He laughs.  “I totally would, if I could take you too.”

                  “He’s trying to hide that he’s in the band.  If you spill that to Vanessa, how do I know you’re not the one who told the cops about Dr. Nix?”

                  Schwartz frowns.  “Those are two completely different things.  This isn’t about life or death, here.  This is about showing Vanessa how awesome my friend is before she finds out that ship has sailed.”

                  “Yes, but do you really think it’s within your power to teach Vanessa a lesson?”

                  “Of course it’s within my power.  I just did it, didn’t I?”  He sighs.  “It’s always about justice with you.”

                  “You don’t know that.”

                  “I most certainly do know that.  It’s one of the few things I do know about you, and I’m pretty good at understanding people.  With all the stalking I do, I’ve got to be good at it.  But you’re an enigma.  I don’t know what you like or don’t like, and I don’t know what you’re feeling.  I don’t even think you know.”

                  “Does it matter?”

                  “Of course it matters!”

                  “Why?”

                  He smiles, eyes darting around the ceiling for an answer.  “Do you see them?” he chuckles, nodding to Vanessa and Oliver through the crowd.  Vanessa has taken off her shoes, but the height difference still looks odd.  She has her arms around his neck and has to look down to make eye contact.  For a brief moment, Oliver glances in our direction with his pleading, Basset hound eyes.

                  “Yep,” Schwartz laughs, “That ship has sailed.  He’ll do it politely, of course.  He’ll walk her back home, all gentleman-like, and thank her for a lovely evening and say how nice it was to meet her.  Then the handshake.  A hug, if she’s really lucky.”

                  The song ends, and the techno resumes.  Schwartz pulls away.  “I’m gonna go ask the DJ to play it again.”  He disappears into the crowd.

 

                  I turn my typed response to Senator Yardley’s message into the drop box outside of Dr. Tawney’s office, and then I come back to the dorm to start the response to the second half of Selected Essays by Governor Ramsay, due next Friday.  At ten in the morning, Vanessa is missing.

                  Ramsay has an analogy he likes to use when talking about social classes.  It occurs in several of his essays throughout the period this book covers.  In an essay from the year seventeen, he writes:

 

…Mosquitoes are pests that have no helpful purpose in our world.  Let us equate these abominable creatures with the lowest tiers of our society: the unintelligent, parasitic citizens we see roaming our streets with picket signs, eating our food without earning it, speaking out against their betters without understanding the charity the state provides for them.  These “mosquito” people are far too numerous to eliminate by our own means.  What we can do, however, is to set another pest upon the mosquitoes to eliminate them.  Just as the dragonfly preys on mosquitoes, we will set the Silver Class on the Bronze.  Do you not see the brilliance, teaching society to prune itself?  Of course, once the Bronze Class is eliminated, the Silver will become the bottom tier of society.  We must be very careful during this period.  A three-class society is stable; no one class can rise up without being beaten by the other two.  However, a two-class society poses a greater chance of conflict.  Two classes, without a buffer class, can potentially destroy each other.  This is why I propose, during this two-class period, to redistribute class titles.  The Gold Class will absorb worthy members of the Silver Class, and the Gold citizens will eliminate the remaining Silver, creating a utopian society of superior race…

 

                  I make myself a sandwich.

                  Fitzroy is a communist, Dr. McKenzie said.  Then what do you call Ramsay?  I recall one guy’s comment from Monday’s class, and I decide on my paper title.  I type “Utopian Cannibalism” at the top of my paper.  Ramsay’s society is made of people who devour other people.  He can eliminate the Bronze Class.  He might even be able to eliminate the Silver Class, like he said.  But when no one is left except for Gold citizens, someone has to take the bottom tier of society.

                  At three o’ clock, Vanessa bursts into the room and lounges on the sofa.  I haven’t seen her since Schwartz and I left the dance last night.

                  “Eleanor,” she sighs. “You’re the greatest roommate ever.”

                  My fingers tap away at the typewriter.

                  “You set me up with a rockstar!  I had the greatest night of my life.  He had a lovely evening too.”

                  “Is that what he said?” I say.

                  “Those were his words!  ‘A lovely evening.’  And he said it was really nice to meet me.  I think he likes me!  You know, at first, I was really turned off.  I’ve always been into guys with really athletic bodies, never the short and skinny type.  But, after a little while with him…oh my god!  He’s so hot!  So freaking hot!  I want to hold him and never let him go!”

                  I nod.

                  By the time society reaches its “utopian” stage, the citizens of Ramsay’s Republic will no longer have any understanding of equality, having lived in a strongly hierarchical state ever since Ramsay “created the world.”  The Gold Class will divide itself into three and start the class elimination process all over again.

                  “I’ve been waiting outside Oliver’s room all day,” Vanessa says.  “I ran into Martin on his way out.  He says Oliver’s at band practice.  He’ll be back at around nine.”  She sighs again. “I can’t wait!  I’m going to ask him out.  Do you think he’ll say yes?”

                  She stretches her leg in the air and sighs.  She’s thinking about sex. 

                  A one-class society is absolutely impossible.  The government needs to stop molding society to its own visions and let society mold the government.  All this constant division, this containment, is like trying to swim upstream.  Humans are not organized creatures.  They don’t fit into pigeonholes. 

                  “Did you get far?” I ask.

                  “Well,” Vanessa says playfully, “If he had stayed another few minutes, we totally would have been making out.  But he’s got a really sexy handshake.”

                  Vanessa leaves for dinner, and when she returns, she decides to listen to the entire Spare Nicks collection.  They’re a talented group, and the music is pleasing to the ear.  It’s difficult to concentrate with music turned up so loud, so I put off the rest of my paper and pick up my journalism textbook.

                  As nine o’ clock approaches, Vanessa primps her hair and applies makeup.  She’s wearing a low-cut tank top and tiny shorts.  Sometimes, she dashes out the door only to come back a minute later, depressed that he isn’t back yet or relieved that she has more time to prepare.  At nine-thirty, she is visibly worried.  She runs in and out of the room, and eventually comes to me.  “Do you have his cell phone number?”

                  “Yes.”

                  “Can I have it?”

                  “No.”

                  She whimpers and juts out her lower lip, but it doesn’t elicit a response from me.

                  At midnight, my cell phone rings. “Hello?” I say.

                  “Hey, it’s Oliver.”  He sounds exhausted.  “Eh…Can I ask you a favor?  It’s going to sound weird.”

                  “Sure,” I whisper, turning my back to Vanessa.

                  “Well, I’m stranded at Cornwall’s Tavern just up the road, and I need a ride back.  I’m not drunk or anything…it’s just that my sister-in-law’s car has been confiscated.“

                  “Aw, man, I’m sorry.  My car is still in the shop.  Do you have Schwartz’s number?”

                  “Yeah, I thought about calling him but he’s probably high right now�"“

                  Vanessa pipes up.  “Who’re you talking to?”  She crosses the room in two steps and takes the phone from me.  “Hey!” she squeals into the phone.  “You need a ride?  I’ve got a car.  Eleanor got in a wreck a few days ago.  Her car’s still getting fixed.  Where are you?...Oh, okay.  I’ll be right down there!  Don’t you worry, I’m coming!”

                  She hangs up the phone and gives it back to me.  “Will you come along?” she says.  “For moral support?”

                  I put my wallet in my back pocket and follow her out the door, through the hall, and into the parking lot.  She has a lime green sports car in a reserved parking space.  I climb into the passenger’s seat and almost sink into the upholstery.  All the seats are leather.  The steering wheel cover and the floor mats are made of the same pink, fluffy material.  I hesitate to let the bottom of my shoes come in contact with any surface of the car.

                  Vanessa turns the key and the engine roars.  She swings out of the parking space and out into the road.

                  “Do you know where this place is?” I say, clutching the door handle.

                  “It’s in Traveler’s Rest,” she says, “Like, three minutes away.”

                  We fly up the ramp and onto the highway, swerving around a car with its bright lights on.  “I’m coming!  I’m coming!” Vanessa shouts, bouncing in her seat.  Her voice drowns out the radio.

                  We arrive at Cornwall’s Tavern in no time at all.  Vanessa gasps.  There are four cop cars parked in a ring around the front of the bar.  Inside the perimeter formed by the cars is a ring of yellow crime tape.  In the crime scene is a red convertible parked on the curb and a white sheet on the sidewalk corner, covering a body-shaped lump.

                  Vanessa parks the car, straddled over two parking spaces, and we both climb out.  She stands for a second, examining the parking lot.  Then, she sees Oliver sitting on the curb outside of the crime scene, sharing a beer with a young, red haired woman. 

                  Oliver stands up and waves to us.  Vanessa runs to him and hugs him tight.  “Oh my god!  What happened?  Are you okay?  I’m so glad I got to you!”

                  He gently pulls away.  “Long story,” he says, his voice weak.  “By the way, I’d like you to meet our lead guitarist--”

                  The red haired woman exchanges a handshake with Vanessa and me.  “Marcie Buranek,” she says.  “My sister is married to Oliver’s brother.”  Her voice sounds like a train, as though it takes more effort for her to whisper than to yell.  Now that we’re all standing in the floodlights, Marcie looks about three or four years older than myself.  Her arms and legs are thick with muscle.  She wears her ruby hair short.  Her pants, cropped at mid-calf, are suitable for wading barefoot through a creek.

                  “Oh, okay,” Vanessa says, her voice dropping.  “So, Oliver, what happened?  Martin said you’d be back at nine!”

                  Oliver’s face turns pale.  “Yeah, Martin…”

                  “Martin’s dead,” Marcie says, pointing to the body in the crime scene. 

                  Vanessa’s hands fly to her mouth.  Something about her surprised expression seems forced. 

                  “Whoa,” I say.  “How’d that happen?”

                  Oliver takes the beer from Marcie’s hand and takes a swig.  “Well,” he says, “He called me at eight-thirty saying that he was at the bar, totally hammered, and needed a ride back to campus.  I don’t have a car, so Marcie drove hers…”

                  “We’ve told the police this, over and over…” Marcie says.

                  “…and there he was, on the corner.  And he had a gun…”

                  “It happened really, really fast, dude.”

                  “…And then another car came along.  I only got a glimpse, but someone in the passenger’s side had a weird, long gun…”

                  “It was a silent gun, you couldn’t hear it…”

                  “And we ducked down below the windows…”

                  “Martin fired five rounds, and two of them hit my car door!”

                  “And when it was all over, we looked, and Martin was…dead.”

                  Oliver stands, shifting on his feet.

                  “You know,” Vanessa says softly, “University code says that if your roommate dies, you get an automatic A for the semester.”

                  Marcie glares at her.  Oliver’s eyes seem to droop.

                  “What?” Vanessa says, looking at Marcie.  “It’s true!”

                  Marcie puts an arm around Oliver’s shoulders.  “I think we’ll go tell the cops we’re leaving now.  You stay here,” she says to Vanessa and me.  They walk over to the crime scene where the cops have congregated with their cameras and clipboards.

                  “Can you date your in-law?” Vanessa whispers.  “I mean, it sounds weird, but you’re not blood-related, so…”

                  “Vanessa,” I say, “That really doesn’t matter right now.”

                  “Yes, it does!  I mean, did you see that earlier?  They were drinking out of the same beer bottle!  It’s like they’re kissing!”

                  “No, that’s nothing like kissing…”

                  “But it is!  They’re sharing cooties!  It’s intercourse.  I don’t like it.  I don’t like her.”

                  “Keep it to yourself, then.”

                  Oliver and Marcie come walking back to us.  “We’re good to go!” Marcie says.

                  “Okay!” Vanessa says, grabbing Oliver by the arm and walking him to the car.  “Oliver gets shotgun!”

                  “No, that’s fine,” Oliver says, “I’ll just sit with Marcie--”

                  “Oliver’s claimed shotgun!” Vanessa yells, “You two, back seat!”

                  We all get into the car.  I sit with Marcie in the back.  She smirks and gives me a sideways look.

                  Vanessa drives out of the parking lot.  The radio announcer mumbles something, but it doesn’t register in my brain.  “So,” Vanessa says, “Marcie, where do you live?  I’ll drop you off first.”

                  “Actually, I think I’ll spend the night with Oliver,” Marcie says.  Her face looks smug.  “You know, when tragedies like this happen, we need to stick together as much as possible.”

                  “Well, I don’t know how Oliver feels about that,” Vanessa says.

                  “Actually, Marcie,” Oliver says, “It’d be weird being alone in the dorm.  I was actually going to ask you to stay over.  We could get the whole band together.  Have a sleepover, just like high school.”

                  “Nah,” Marcie says.  “Don’t want to get too crowded.  Just us two.”

                  I can’t see Vanessa’s face, but from where I’m sitting, she looks very stiff.  Marcie narrows her eyes at the back of Vanessa’s headrest, grinning like a cat.

                  “So, Oliver,” Vanessa says, “I had a really, really nice time last night.  I’ve been thinking about you--”

                  Oliver’s cell phone rings, and he takes it out of his pocket.  “It’s Banks calling me back,” he says.

                  “Finally!” Marcie says.

                  “Hey, Uncle Banks,” Oliver says, “Martin….what?  How do you know?”

                  Marcie leans forward.  “He knows already?”

                  “Oh,” Oliver says, “Okay, have you said anything to my parents?...Better wait until tomorrow.  They’re asleep…No, I haven’t told them yet.  I figured you wouldn’t freak out as much as they would…Yeah, I agree…Do you want to talk to Marcie?”

                  He hands the phone to Marcie.  “Hey, Uncle Banks!” she says, “We’re okay.  Still a bit shaken, but we’re doing all right…Wait, I’ll ask him.”  She lowers the phone.  “Oliver, what do you want for a midnight snack?  French toast, omelet, or pancakes?”

                  Oliver turns around in his seat.  “What kind of pancakes?”

                  “What kind of pancakes?” Marcie says into the phone.  She listens, and then turns back to Oliver.  “Okay, Granny Smith apples aren’t in season yet, but you’ve got a choice of a mixed blueberry and blackberry, peanut butter, or butter pecan.”

                  “Peanut butter.”

                  “Two votes for peanut butter,” Marcie says into the phone.  “Okay!  See you in two minutes.”  She hangs up and gives the phone back to Oliver.

                  “Where am I driving?” Vanessa says.

                  “You know the apartments on campus?” Marcie says.  “He’s in that building way, way in the back.”

                  Vanessa grunts.  “I didn’t know any teachers lived on campus.”

                  “A few do,” Oliver says.  “It’s almost free for them to live there.”

                  Vanessa drives at ten miles below the speed limit.  She stops at a yellow traffic light.  “So, Oliver,” she says, “I was just thinking about you today, and I wanted to see you again.”

                  “We call that irony,” he says.

                  Vanessa laughs, a little louder and longer than necessary.  “You’re so funny!”

                  “The light is green,” Marcie says.

                  “I know,” Vanessa snaps.  She slowly passes through the intersection.

                  “Thanks for driving us back,” Oliver says.  “It’s good to have you as a friend.”

                  The car comes to a halt in the middle of the empty highway.  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Vanessa says.

                  “What’s what supposed to mean?” Oliver says.  He inches toward the window, away from Vanessa.

                  “Friend?  Friend?  That’s all I am to you?”

                  “Drop it, girl,” Marcie says.  “This is not the night.”

                  Vanessa stomps on the gas.  The momentum pushes me back into my seat.  “But I waited for you all day!  I dressed up really nice for you!  I’m giving you a ride!”

                  “Well, I definitely appreciate the thought,” Oliver says.  “Why don’t you slow down a bit, and we can talk this over tomorrow?”

                  “No!  I’m head over heels for you!  Why can’t you love me back?  Are you gay or something?”

                  “No.”

                  “Then what did I do wrong?  Why am I not good enough for you?”  Her voice breaks.

                  “You can turn here,” Marcie says.

                  Vanessa whips the car down an off road.  “Why?  What did I do?”

                  “Hey, Vanessa,” Oliver says.  “Listen, you’re a very attractive woman, and your confidence is appealing.”  His mellow voice has a calming, hypnotizing effect.  I noticed that on some of the Spare Nicks songs Vanessa played today.  “And under different circumstances, I would have been wildly attracted to you.  We just got off on the wrong foot.”

                  Vanessa does not slow down.

                  “By the way,” Oliver says, “Josh is really into you.”

                  “We’re not talking about Josh!  We’re talking about you and me!”

                  “I am not saying another word until you stop this car.”

                  “Turn here,” Marcie says.  “That’s the building right there.”

                  Vanessa stops the car in front of the apartment building and sits, crossing her arms.  Soft techno music plays on the radio.

                  “Now turn off the car,” Oliver says.

                  Sniffling, she takes the key out of the ignition, and the radio dies.

                  “Good,” he whispers.  “Now, the reason why I’m not attracted to you, plain and simple, is that you didn’t say one word to me until you knew I was in the Spare Nicks.”

                  Vanessa makes a pitiful sound, something between a scoff and a whimper.  “So, if someone likes your music, you just push them away?  You’re all chummy with that Schwartz guy, and he’s totally obsessed with your band!”

                  “Schwartz is that friendly to everyone,” Oliver says.

                  Vanessa wipes her nose on her arm.  “Can I have a second chance?  Please?”

                  “Sorry, that’s life.”

                  Her head drops on her steering wheel, and she hiccups.  Oliver raises a hand as though to pat her on the shoulder, but he draws it back.

                  “Drive safe,” he says, and moves to open the door.

                  Vanessa’s head snaps back up.  “I’m such an idiot!  Why should anyone like you anyway?” she squeals.  “You…you dwarf!”

                  “Uncalled for,” Oliver says.

                  “What are you?  Five foot four?”

                  “Five foot four and a quarter.”

                  “You tell ‘er, Ollie,” Marcie says.

                  Vanessa spins around in her seat and slings her cell phone charger behind her by the cord, probably aiming for Marcie, but it whacks me square on the forehead.  I see little black dots, like fruit flies.

                  “Oh my god!” Vanessa squeals, “I didn’t mean to do that!”

                  Marcie holds my head in her hands and looks me in the eye.  “Dude, are you okay?”

                  “I’m so sorry, Eleanor!  I’m so, so sorry!”

                  “Shut up!” Marcie yells.  “All right, everyone out of here before this psycho blows us all to hell!”

                  Oliver, Marcie, and I step out of the car.  Vanessa has launched into a new wave of tears.  “Eleanor, I’m so sorry!”

                  Oliver stands next to me, his hands in his pockets.  Marcie approaches Vanessa’s window, slapping her hand down hard on the roof.  That shuts Vanessa up.

                  “Learn some tact, girl,” Marcie says, her face level with the window.  “Oliver here just saw his roommate get killed tonight, and all you care about is getting in his pants.  You disgust me.  If I ever catch you hurting my little brother again…I know how to find you.”

                  Black mascara drips down Vanessa’s cheeks.  “My dad’s a senator,” she whispers.

                  “Screw him,” Marcie says.  “This don’t concern him.  It’s about time daddy’s little girl starts to grow some balls, in a manner of speaking.  You get along, now.”

                  Vanessa drives away.  Her green sports car disappears behind some trees.

                  “I’m sorry about that,” I say.  “I didn’t want her to come along, but she just snatched my cell phone from me.”

                  “I figured that’s what happened,” Oliver says.  “Don’t worry about it.  I know you’re dependable.”

                  Marcie claps her hands.  “All right!  Peanut butter pancakes!”  She sounds very chipper all of a sudden.

                  “You wanna come up, too?” Oliver says to me.

                  “No, thanks,” I say.  “It’s after midnight, and he’s my teacher…”

                  “Oh, height of weirdness,” Marcie laughs.  “Well, at least come get some ice for your head!”

                  “And I don’t feel comfortable with you going back to your dorm,” Oliver says, “You know, with Vanessa there.”

                  “I’ll spend the night in someone else’s room, I guess.  Schwartz might be up.”  Come to think of it, Schwartz is the only other friend I have.

                  “I’ll call him.”  Oliver dials a number on his phone.  “Hey, Schwartz, it’s Oliver…yeah, crazy night, I’ll have to tell you later.  Long story, but Eleanor needs a place to stay tonight…Wow, I didn’t even have to ask…Okay, I’ll see you around, man.”

                  He hangs up.

                  “I like Schwartz,” Marcie says.  “Let’s all hang out sometime.  Eleanor, too.”

                  I yawn.  “Okay, I’m going to head on down there…”

                  “Take care!” Oliver says. 

                  I leave them behind.  As they walk towards the apartment building, I can hear Oliver say, “Schwartz asked me if he could be a roadie for us…”

                  “Oh, I’d love to have him!” Marcie says.

                  The residence hall is at the bottom of the hill, and I make it there quickly and without trouble.  I climb the staircases and knock on Scwhartz’s door.  He opens it for me, revealing a half-sized, single person dormitory with a couple of beer posters on the walls.  “Hey, rough night?” he says.

                  “Do you have ice?” I say.

                  He brings me an ice pack from his mini-fridge, and I slap it on my forehead.  Schwartz has put some blankets down on the floor in a makeshift bed.  I lay down on it.

                  “No, I’ll sleep there,” he says, “You take the real bed…”

                  I’m already drifting into sleep.

 

                  Schwartz wakes me up at ten in the morning.  The ice pack slid off my face in the night, and now it’s sitting by my ear.  “What’s up?” I say.

                  “Oliver’s roommate is dead,” Schwartz says.

                  “Yeah, I know.  Happened last night.”

                  “Well, everyone’s talking about it.  It’s kind of a big deal.”

                  I get up and walk to the mirror.  My forehead is still sore, but I don’t have a bruise.  I shake my hair out a bit.

                  “Your car’s fixed, by the way,” Schwartz says.

                  I groggily follow him down to the parking lot.  A lot of alcohol awareness posters have cropped up during the night, maybe in response to Martin’s murder.  A prohibition group has dropped pamphlets in the residence halls and on the sidewalks that read, “The People Have Spoken, Senator: We Want A Minimum Drinking Age!”

                  We get into Schwartz’s truck, and he drives away.  “All this crap about alcohol,” I say, “And it was a gun that killed Martin.”

                  “How’s Oliver doing?” Schwartz says.

                  “He seemed all right.  Last time I saw him, he was going to Dr. McKenzie’s place…geez, my roommate is psycho, do you know that?”

                  “Well, I figured something wasn’t quite right.”  Schwartz stares at the road.  “How well did you know Martin?”

                  “I talked to him briefly,” I say.  “He was an art major.  That’s all I know.”  Schwartz is quiet.  “Why do you ask?”

                  He clears his throat.  “It wasn’t suspicious then, but it is now,” he says.  “On Thursday, Oliver, Martin, and I went to Dr. McKenzie’s place for barbecue.  We were all talking, and I told Dr. McKenzie that I’m a computer science major and that I can track cell phones, intercept radio signals, and hack just about anything.  Then he said, ‘I bet you can’t hack police records,’ and so, just to show him I could, I got on his computer and hacked the site with my password disc.  He was impressed.  While Oliver and Martin were washing dishes, Dr. McKenzie came over to the computer and took a look at the site.  I asked him for a name to put in the search box, just to try it out.  He said, ‘try Martin Acerbi.’”

                  “And did he have a criminal record?”

                  “No, there was just some basic information like his hometown, employer, vehicle, and social status.”

                  “What specifics?”

                  “Man, I can’t remember numbers…”

                  “What can you remember?”

                  “He’s twenty, Silver Class, drives a really old BMW, he was born in Orangeburg but lives in Easley, he’s got an art studio that hasn’t really gotten off the ground, he works for the SMD, his parents are divorced…”

                  “SMD?”

                  “Yeah, I’ve never heard of it either.”

                  “Huh.  He doesn’t sound like the kind of guy to get into gunfights.”

                  “Nope.”

                  I lean back in my seat and watch the highway go by.  For the last few minutes of the drive, I imagine the crime scene.  Maybe Martin was in trouble with a gang, for what reason, I don’t know.  He was a struggling artist with a tuition to pay, so maybe he borrowed money from the wrong people.  He was stranded at the bar, waiting for Oliver to pick him up, and he knew someone was coming for him.  Oliver arrived too late, and he and Marcie nearly got killed in the shootout.  As Schwartz and I walk into the repair shop, I wonder how gangsters can acquire silent guns, which are restricted to the military.

                  A woman named Colleen owns the garage.  She has mousy gray hair and an eye patch that Schwartz keeps staring at.  “Fixed ‘er up real good,” she says in her gruff voice.  She stands behind her desk and fingers through some papers in a manila folder before pulling out the bill.  “I’ll make it an even nine hundred.  I accept checks.”

                  Schwartz frowns, scribbling in his checkbook. 

                  Colleen hands me my set of keys.  “It’s parked out back,” she says.  “Battery’s charged and everything.”

                  “Thank you very much,” I say.

                  She gives me a little salute.  “Enjoy.”

                  Schwartz hands her a check and she puts it in one of her musty desk drawers.  He and I leave the garage and find my car parked on the grass.  The dents are gone, and the windows are whole and spotless.  The body is still rusty, but it’s clean.  I have never seen my car look so nice.

                  “Are we even now?” Schwartz says.

                  “Yeah,” I say.  “You did well.”

                  I peer through the windows.  The seats have been vacuumed.  “I told her to fix that trunk door,” Schwartz says.  “Check it out.”

                  For the first time since I started driving this car, I press the button by the driver’s seat, and the trunk door opens.  “Nice,” I whisper.  I look in the trunk.  The mats have been washed.  “Damn it…”

                  “What?” Schwartz says.

                  I flip the matting up.  The secret compartment below is empty.  “Damn, damn, damn!”

                  “What’s wrong?”

                  “I’m dead, that’s what’s wrong.”  I turn up the rest of the mats, looking for the manila envelope holding Karabatsos’ manuscript.  I don’t remember ever taking it out of the trunk. 

                  “Tell me what happened!” Schwartz says, “Maybe I can help!”

                  I kick the back tire.  “There’s a…document.  It’s not here.”

                  Schwartz runs back into the garage.  Mentioning this to Colleen won’t help.  It will probably make her suspicious.  Maybe I did take the manuscript out of the trunk.  I can’t remember when I did it.  If I had left it at the hotel, a maid probably would have thrown it away.  If the maid had turned it into the police, I would have been arrested a week ago.  Or Frank White’s intern might have broken into my car and stolen it, but he seemed so incompetent when I met him.  And why would he only have taken photographs from the outside of my car if he was able to break in?  Even if he did get the manuscript, he assured me that Frank White doesn’t want to incriminate me.  Maybe the situation isn’t that bad.  Come to think of it, I never read Karabatsos’ manuscript.  I don’t even know if the content is dangerous or if his taboo name is anywhere on it.

                  I’m fooling myself.  The manuscript was in the car, and now Colleen has a piece of incriminating evidence against me.

                  Schwartz comes back.  “Sorry,” he says, “She didn’t find anything in the trunk.”

                  I climb into my car and start the engine.  The manuscript is gone, and there is nothing I can do.

Author's Note

I'm open for criticism of any sort!

Reviews

[UponATyme]

When I saw SMD the first thing I thought of was Secrets of Mass Destruction. I don't really know why. I agree with Emily, you have described Oliver in a way that makes him very appealing! I consider that a success as far as creating a realistic character goes. Be careful about your nonchalant way of handling Martin's death. I don't know if you're going to explore it further in later chapters but, if not, it's strange that a student's mysterious murder has taken no notice by the campus whatsoever.

[Emily Elizabeth]

Oliver is hot. No wonder Vanessa fancies him so much!
The plot is intricate, but clear. The SMD almost seems like KGB in Soviet Russia. Dr. McKenzie is very cool, there's always one awesome teacher.