Exposure (10 page)

A guttural harmonic drone echoed up into the rafters and sent a hush over the bleachers. A lone bagpiper's slow and sobering rendition of “Amazing Grace” led the procession of Duncan's parents and two younger sisters — who carried a pair of their brother's skates and his hockey stick. They placed them next to an easel stand displaying a poster-sized photo of Duncan. I fought back the urge to cry, but noticed plenty of people around me had lost it. Despite Jillian's directive, I felt uneasy about taking pictures, realizing it would be callous and intrusive. I placed the camera on the metal bench beside me and let my heavy heart join those around me, purposefully not scanning the crowd to see where Craig had gone. Wearing blinders seemed a better option at this moment. I tried willing myself to be as stoic as forged steel. Instead I felt like a piece of ceramic with a hairline crack, about to lose all of its structural integrity.

Three eulogies, one tactless cheerleader routine, and a moment of silence later, the memorial service was over. I found Jillian and traded her the camera for the return of my bag. The night air was bracingly cold, so I practically jogged over to the car, then sat shivering inside waiting for the windows to defrost. Would Craig ever confide in me about what really happened, and, if so, was I ready to hear it? The god's honest truth? No. I wondered if the goose bumps on my flesh were from the temperature or the instinctive fear that things were going to get worse before they got better.

When I arrived home, I went straight down the hall to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I powered down Craig's cell, removing the SIM card. The only eyes that watched me as I wrapped the phone in an old T-shirt and hid it in the back of my closet were those of Jeff Buckley, who stared tragically down at me from the poster above my bed. I tossed the SIM card into the trashcan under my desk and tumbled onto my bed in exhaustion. Now I was going to put this whole incident behind me. In all probability, the best thing I could do would be to stay as far away as possible from Craig MacKenzie and Beth Morgan. Whether Kristy was joking or not, those two did seem to be cursed with bad luck. Why did I have to be caught up in all this? It seemed like I was never going to put it behind me, no matter how hard I tried.

WITH MIDTERMS CLOSING in and the college application deadline looming like a ruthless, ugly ogre, December had me clamped in a vise grip. The tension at home was ratcheting up, and with every spare moment my brain reeled with speculation and angst about Duncan's death. Was I an accessory to murder for keeping quiet about what I knew? And yet, what
did
I really know? Only that Craig and Beth were involved in it up to their necks. Even if I had any intention of ratting them out, what facts did I really possess? Besides, it was already too late; Duncan was dead and there was no changing that fact. If it
was
an accident, like they'd said outside the Jeep that fateful night, how could I put Craig through any more hell than he was already in?

Wrestling with my conscience, and searching for the loophole that would absolve me from any sense of moral or legal obligation to come forward, I sought refuge in my usual hiding place: behind my camera. I threw myself wholeheartedly into assignments for the newspaper, tearing through dozens of rolls of film for superfluous photo features around campus — any pretext would do.

“Skye, Principal Schaeffer was raving about your snowflake series last week,” said Jillian at our Monday staff meeting. “Of course, that was
after
he gave the bird to our First Amendment rights.”

“What do you mean?” asked Megan, swiveling on her office chair, a Bic pen keeping her wavy blonde tresses held together in a knot on top of her head.

“Oh,” Jillian said with a sigh, “He kindly requested that we eighty-six any more articles about Duncan's accident. Or should I say so-called accident. Claims it's insensitive to the grieving family.”

I thought Schaeffer might have a point. Like a bad supermarket tabloid, we'd been running the story into the ground for weeks, with nothing new or enlightening to say about the matter. Jillian didn't think so, of course.

“It sucks, too, because I'd just gotten a copy of the coroner's report from the fellas over at the
Daily News
,” she continued. “You'll never believe what it says.”

“What?” She had my full attention now.

“Well, we already know Duncan died of exposure on the riverbank after falling into the freezing water, right? But the autopsy shows that he had contusions on his face consistent with a violent assault, along with a busted lip that he incurred
before
he'd fallen through the ice.”

Although Duncan's untimely end had been the only topic of discussion for days on end, I still felt queasy when it was mentioned, and the word “autopsy” wasn't helping.

“You mean….?” said Lenny, leaning forward in his chair.

“Mmm hmm,” Jillian nodded as if it had been what she was thinking all along. “Foul play. Chief Towers is going to announce tomorrow morning that he's stepping up the investigation.”

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the newspaper office, I played with the frayed hem of my jeans and tried to look unfazed as I let this new revelation sink in.

“I wonder if that means they'll re-interview everyone who was at the party,” Megan said. “Somebody's
got
to know something.”

Lauren Baker, our resident music critic and DJ of her own weekly podcast, “Anchorage Air Radio,” walked into the office and dropped her heavy nylon backpack near an empty computer.

“Are you guys talking about Duncan?” she asked. “It's just so crazy sad. To think that he was actually probably still alive until sometime Saturday morning.”

“If they'd only known where to search for him they could have gotten to him in time,” said Megan. “I can't imagine slowly freezing to death like that, all alone in the dark.”

I felt my throat tighten and my eyes started to well with tears. I had to get out of here. NOW. I grabbed my bag and coat and made for the door with my head lowered.

As I rushed through the hallway and down the stairwell, footsteps echoed toward me from below. I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself.

“Miss Kingston!” a frail voice said. “I've been meaning to confabulate with you all week.”

Whatever “confabulate” meant, the last person in the world I wanted to do it with was Mr. Kirkpatrick. He paused on the landing, making it impossible for me to pass by. I prayed that he was too nearsighted to tell I'd been crying. But wasn't it his job to listen? Maybe he was just the person I needed to talk to.

“I was hoping to schedule a meeting with you about your college applications.” He smiled faintly. “I noticed you're only applying locally, and while your choices are fine, to be sure, I think you might consider some other options.”

“Yeah, well,” I stammered. “I'm not sure….”

“If you're worried about tuition, I know of several scholarship opportunities for someone with your grade point average and curriculum,” he kindly explained. If he only knew that college tuition was the least of my worries. “I've been saving some pamphlets for you from institutions with reputable photography programs. And let me think … you scored a 1560 on your SATs, is that right?”

It never occurred to me that Mr. Kirkpatrick even knew who I was among the hundreds of students at school. I'd never so much as exchanged two words with him before, beyond responding with an unexpressive “here,” during study hall roll call. Who knew he actually had a mental dossier with my name on it? As he droned on about Pell Grants and campus tours, I started to formulate how I could broach the subject that was weighing on me. He seemed like he genuinely cared. Could I trust him?

“I'm so sorry, but I'm late for a meeting right now. Drop by my office on Thursday morning and we can discuss some of your options,” he said, smoothing down his thinning combover as he continued up the stairs, taking two hurried steps at a time. Whether or not I would divulge my shocking confession became a moot point. Now you see him, now you don't.

• • •

While loading the dinner plates into the dishwasher, I managed to work myself into a red-alert panic about the likelihood of being called in to talk to the police. I'd somehow avoided the first round of interrogations that took place in Principal Schaeffer's office in the week following the accident. Students who'd attended the party had been called out of class to give statements to a trio of detectives that included Tiffany's dad, the chief of police. To my relief and semiconfusion, I was never summoned. Overlooked, no doubt, because I was a forgettable nonentity. School authorities didn't associate me with “that crowd.” But now that they were stepping up the investigation, they'd leave no stone unturned, meaning I probably couldn't get away with hiding under my proverbial rock much longer — especially since the police chief's daughter knew I'd been there.

What I needed more than anything was a distraction, something that could quiet all the worrisome thoughts bouncing around in my brain — at least for a few hours. It suddenly dawned on me that I couldn't go on this way. I couldn't hold this secret inside anymore. It was too hard, and it wasn't fair. This was too big for me. It was time to stop hiding from the truth and turn to the one person who'd always been able (at least until lately) to make it better. I poked my head into the bathroom where Ollie was chuckling his pudgy little head off, slapping his little palms against three inches of tub water and sporting a beard of soapsuds.

“Look, Skye — baby Santa,” said Dad, who was kneeling in front of the tub with his sleeves rolled up. He shot me a second glance, brow furrowed. “What's with the coat and car keys?”

“I thought I'd go hang with Mom while she waits for the last show to wrap up. I'll be home before eleven, I promise.”

“Well,” he said. “I guess you can't get into too much trouble with your mother. Just drive slowly out there. The side streets are still a little icy from last night's storm. And hey — bring back a tub of popcorn if there's any left.”

Driving out of the subdivision, I rummaged through the armrest compartment and popped in the copy of Bob Dylan's
Blood on the Tracks
that Kaya had burned for me a few weeks ago. The skeletal trees in the neighborhood sported twinkly white lights, and evergreen wreaths graced a few of the neighbors' front doors. Two huge, illuminated plastic reindeer lit up the front yard at the end of the block, looking nothing like actual reindeer. I'd developed a true love/hate relationship with Christmas in recent years, but maybe it would be more fun now that Ollie could get into the Yuletide spirit. Sometimes I thought that his wide-eyed wonder at the simplest and stupidest of things was my one salvation from being completely jaded and cynical.

Before the defrost setting on the dashboard had officially completed its job, I did a clumsy but sufficient parallel parking job in front of the Regent. The neon-lit markee proclaimed in bold black letters that
Rear Window
was the featured movie. The ticket booth out front was closed up for the night. Walking through the entrance, you were engulfed in a vampy bordello vibe: black walls, dingy red carpet, and posters of old movies in garish gold Rococo frames. Behind the glass concession counter, a youngish guy with bleached hair was Windexing the outside of the popcorn machine. He must have been a relatively new hire, because I'd never seen him here before.

“Excuse me?” I said. He glanced over his right shoulder. His earlobes were pierced with black rubber and hung unnaturally long. “I'm looking for Patricia?”

“She only works on Thursdays and Fridays.” He'd turned completely around at this point, and I saw that his nametag read “Mitchell M.”

“No, I think she's working here tonight. Patricia Kingston?”

“Yeah, I know. Like I said — it's not her shift.”

I instantly felt like I'd just been punched in the gut. The bright packaging of Raisinets and Skittles under the glass case started to blend before my eyes like a watercolor painting. Mindlessly, I started for the exit, but before I reached the door, I turned back.

“Hey, can I go ahead and get a ticket?”

“The movie started a half-hour ago — ”

“Yeah, I know. I don't mind.” I reached in my bag and pulled out my wallet, searching around for the ten-dollar bill I thought I still had on me. Mitchell M. must have felt sorry for me because he waved me off.

“It's fine. Just go on in.” I headed for the theater entrance and up the stairs to the balcony. There was no one else in the upper level and maybe only half a dozen filmgoers down below. I grabbed a seat in the middle of the front row of the balcony.

A Hitchcock classic probably wasn't the best movie for my peace of mind, especially one about a guy who thinks he witnesses a murder, but where else was I going to go? Home, to tell Dad that his wife was up to god-knows-what when she'd claimed to be slaving away for her family? I don't think so. Where
was
she, anyway? If she had a class, she would have just said so. Instead, she lied, which could only mean that she was having some sort of torrid affair.
Sickening
. I felt stressed and overwhelmed to the breaking point. Here I was trying to tell the truth — an awful truth — and I run into Mom's own wall of lies! Why was I doomed to carry the burden of everyone else's dark secrets? No more. It was settled now: I was officially done with trying to do the right thing. From here on out, I was just going to worry about myself. When you bury your head in the sand, at least you don't get slapped in the face.