The Conclusion (3 page)

Follow me to summer camp, Mom? Did you follow me? Did your sourness follow me all the way to Maine for my one measly summer away at camp?

Dear Buttertubs.

That's how you addressed every letter you wrote to me that summer when I was twelve.

Buttertubs Mathis.
That's what you wrote on the envelopes.

And when the counselor called us together for mail call, she would shout out the names on the envelopes. Shout them out for us to come forward to claim our mail.

“Linda Edwards . . . Marci Kass . . . Buttertubs Mathis!”

They howled, Mother. The other girls—they thought it was a riot.

But I didn't laugh.

When no one was looking, I cried.

Dear Buttertubs,

Are you getting enough to eat up there? Don't dive into the swimming pool. You want to leave some water in it for the others . . .

You wrote only two letters that entire summer, Mother. But they were enough.

Enough to make me look like a total geek in front of everyone. Enough to make sure that I came home without making any friends.

That awful hairdo. Those lipsticked lips, curled into a smug sneer. The perfume . . . Sweet Gardenia, was it?

Where was the sweetness, Mother? Where?

Dear Buttertubs . . .

You didn't give up. Even later. You never stopped.

In my senior year in high school, when I thought I was in love with Mark . . .

Mark, with the laughing dark eyes. The wavy, black hair, so shiny and wild. That insane, yelping laugh. The jokes. Always cracking jokes.

Mark . . .

You did everything you could to keep me from him, Mother. You stayed in the room and never let us talk alone. You listened in on our phone conversations.

You called me
Fat Girl
and
Buttertubs
in front of him.

Do you think I'll ever forget the day you told Mark you had a new game to play? It was called Let's-All-Count-Hope's-Chins.

How many tears did that little joke cost me?

I tried to lose weight. You know I did.

I tried to be the daughter you wanted. So why did you
hate
me so much?

The night I planned to sneak out and meet Mark . . .

Homecoming night. My senior year. I was seventeen, Mother. Old enough to go out with a guy I liked.

But you said I was too young to date. You would never let me see Mark unless you were there to chaperone.

I had to sneak out—because of you. I had to sneak and scheme and plot because you wouldn't let me have a normal life. You locked me in my room. You refused to let me eat.

You refused to let me be . . . normal.

And so I planned to sneak out to go to the game and the dance with Mark. And you called me into the kitchen. I remember it so well.

How did you know my plans? How?

“I have a surprise for you, Hope,” you said. I remember the blank look on your face. So calm and cold. Your eyes so dull, revealing nothing at all.

“I have a surprise for you,” you said. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

I had no choice. I knew you were up to something. But I did as you said.

I held out my hands.

And heard that metallic
click.

And opened my eyes to see the handcuff around my wrist. The heavy chain. The other handcuff—on
your
wrist!

You handcuffed me to you, Mother.

You knew I planned to see Mark. To go to the game. To dance and be normal.

And so you handcuffed us together that night. Together. We were together all night.

We ate dinner with one hand. We did the dinner dishes. You washed and I dried. Together. Together. We even had to sleep in the same bed.

You were so pleased with yourself.

You didn't release me until the next morning.

And then you grounded me for two weeks. You punished me for planning to go out.

In my room for two weeks. Two weeks, still feeling the burn on my wrist from where the handcuff had rubbed.

That's when my friends appeared.

I needed them, and that's when they appeared.

Eden, Angel, and Jasmine. They came to me when I needed them most.

My friends . . . such good friends.

At last, I had someone to talk to. Someone to laugh with and cry with and share my life with.

You couldn't keep me from them, Mother. You couldn't keep Eden, Angel, and Jasmine away.

Handcuffs wouldn't work. Locking me in my room wouldn't work, either.

Insulting me, calling me names wouldn't keep them away.

We were so close, the four of us. Like one person.

I was so happy when I was awarded my scholarship. I was going off to college with my friends.

And there was nothing you could do about it.

Nothing . . .

I stared hard at the photograph on the wall, stared until it blurred before my eyes.

“Stop following me!” I shrieked. “Stop following me! Stop following me! Stop following me!”

I smashed her portrait with my fists. Again. Again.

“Stop following me! Stop following me!”

The glass shattered. And fell to the floor.

Now I could reach the photo. Now I could reach her.

I clawed at her face.

Clawed with both hands.

“Stop following me, Mother! Stop following me!”

I clawed and clawed.

Clawed till my fingernails tore. And my fingers bled. And the blood flowed down my mother's face.

I
closed my French textbook and turned to Mary. She was down on the floor at her dresser, pawing through the bottom drawer. She stopped and scratched her curly red hair with both hands.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Chlorine,” she replied. “It totally dries out my hair. Makes my scalp so itchy.”

I tossed my textbook aside and stood up. “No. I meant, what are you searching for?”

Mary frowned. “I thought I had another swimsuit in this drawer. You know. The blue one?”

I laughed. “Mary,
all
of your swimsuits are blue.”

She returned to the dresser drawer. “But this one is
blue
blue,” she said.

“Where's Margie?” I asked. “Still at the library?”

Mary nodded. “Margie said she'd be studying
late. I think she's taking Perfect Person lessons from you!”

“Hey—I'm not perfect!” I protested. “Stop saying I'm perfect all the time. You're giving me a real complex.”

Mary shoved the dresser drawer closed and climbed to her feet. “Look at your hair, Melanie,” she said, pointing. “When is the last time you brushed it?”

I thought about it. “This morning, I guess. When I woke up.”

“And look at it!” Mary declared. “It's four in the afternoon, and your hair is still perfect. Even the bangs are perfectly straight.”

“Give me a break,” I sighed. “You've lived with me all semester. You know what a total slob I am.”

“Hah!” Mary cried, putting her hands on her hips.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

“It means
hah!”
she replied.

Mary is a very sweet person, and I love her dearly. But she's not very good at arguing.

Margie is the great discusser and debater in our room. She loves to tear things apart and put them back together again. She loves to tear
people
apart too. What I mean is, Margie is very critical. Very opinionated.

But Mary is from South Carolina. She says people in the South are too polite to be opinionated. So she usually ends every argument with a “Hah!” And that's that.

Margie and I both grew up outside of Boston. Sometimes Mary thinks we two Northerners are ganging up on her.

Margie and I will talk about anything.
Anything.
But Mary often gets embarrassed. She's actually very private. She doesn't like to talk about herself. And she hates to gossip about others.

I often wonder if the three of us will be friends after college. We're all so different. But I think the horrible things that have happened this semester have made us a lot closer.

Mary glanced at the clock on her dresser. “Hey, we're late, Melanie. Aren't you going to swim practice?”

I shook my head and reached for the French book. “Can't. I have a make-up test in French in half an hour.”

Mary's mouth dropped open. “You? A
make-up
test? How did you miss the test?”

I sighed. “You remember. I went to see that shrink. Because of my nightmares after the whole thing with Hope across the hall.”

Mary nodded solemnly. “Oh, yeah. Right.”

“I saw the doctor three times that week,” I told her. “She really helped me a lot.” I opened the French book. “But I missed a bunch of classes.”

Mary's blue eyes studied me. “I guess you're not perfect after all,” she said softly.

I laughed. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

Mary didn't smile. She shuddered. “I can't believe it's been over a week, and the police haven't found Hope.”

“It's really scary,” I agreed.

Mary bit her bottom lip. “My mother keeps calling me. Asking me if I want to come home till they catch her.”

“Huh? The murders were on the news down there?” I exclaimed.

Mary nodded. “I guess it's a big story because Hope has all those personalities.” She frowned again. “I don't understand it. I really don't. How can one girl think she's three other girls?”

“And a boy,” I added. “But that's not the scariest part. How can a normal-looking girl go out and murder two boys? Cut them to pieces, and then just go back to her dorm room as if nothing happened?”

Mary raised both hands in the air. “Enough. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I really don't.”

“Hey—
you
brought it up,” I replied.

“It—it's just because I'm still so frightened,” she confessed. “I mean, Hope lived right across the hall from us. A crazy murderer—and we
knew
her!”

“I used to hear her talking in there,” I recalled. “Arguing. Laughing. I thought she was talking on the phone. I never dreamed . . .”

“Enough!” Mary repeated. “I mean it. It's so scary. Everyone on campus is scared. Scared to go out at night. Scared to cross The Triangle after dark. Scared to do anything.”

She turned away from me and pulled her swim bag out from under her bed. Then she started stuffing things into it.

“They'll catch Hope,” I assured her.

Mary shook her head. “Melanie, it's been over a week. The girl has disappeared. No one knows if she's still around campus or not. That's what's so scary.”

She zipped the bag. “I'm afraid to walk to the swim center. I really am. It's way on the other side of
campus. You know. The neighborhood isn't too great there.”

She sighed. “It's just so horrible to be afraid all the time.”

I jumped up. “Tell you what. I'll walk you to the swim center,” I offered. “Then I'll go to French from there.”

“No thanks,” Mary replied. “You've got to study. I'll be okay. Really.”

“You sure?” I asked. “Sure you wouldn't feel better if I walked you?”

“No. Thanks. I'll be fine. See you later.”

I said good-bye and watched her walk out the door.

I felt a little guilty. Mary looked so scared. I think she really did want me to walk her to the pool.

I should have. Maybe I could have helped her.

But I had no way of knowing that I would never see her again.

I
'm watching you, Mary.

I've been watching you for days. Following you from your dorm, Fear Hall—which used to be my home too. Following you to your classes.

I can't go to classes anymore, thanks to you. Thanks to you and your roommates. Since you talked to the police, I can't lead a normal life like the rest of you. I have to hide like a criminal.

Well, maybe I
am
a criminal, Mary. Maybe I'm a very dangerous criminal.

I guess you'll soon find out the truth.

Because I've been following you every day. I know your schedule by heart now. I know when you have classes and when you don't. I know where you eat lunch, and I know where you go to study.

And I know when you and Melanie go to the swim
center for your team practices. I've been watching you swim. Yes, I have.

You're not bad. Not as strong or fast as Melanie, of course. But she's perfect. That's why they named her team captain.

How do you feel about that, Mary? How do you feel about having to compete with a roommate who is always perfect, always the best?

She even looks better in her swimsuits, doesn't she. Her legs are so long and slender. No chubby thighs like yours.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Does that annoy you sometimes, Mary? Does it make you wish you didn't know Melanie? How do you
really
feel about living with perfect Melanie?

Oh, well. It doesn't matter. You're not going to be living with her for much longer.

I've watched you practice all week. I've seen you work on your butterfly stroke. That's really a hard stroke, isn't it? You have to be as strong as Melanie to perform the butterfly well.

You've got to keep your head down, Mary. You've got to steady your breathing. That's what the coach has been telling you.

I could hear every word. You haven't seen me. But I've been watching you so closely.

I'm up here in the high balcony above the pool. Where the newspaper reporters sit. There's no one else up here during practices. I can watch you and listen. And make my plans.