Hannah Jayne - Truly, Madly, Deadly

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.”

The tremble that started at Sawyer’s fingertips spread through her entire body until her teeth were chattering and her bones, it seemed, clattered against each other. Her throat closed to the size of a pinhole, and she struggled to breathe, feeling the blood rush to her head in a thunderous pound that brought tears to her eyes.

Is this what it’s like to suffocate?

She clamped her eyes shut and tried to focus on bringing her sensibilities back under control.

Is this what it was like for Mr. Hanson?

Vaguely, she felt the vase slip from her fingers, heard the echo of glass shattering on the floor, the water pooling at her feet. The roses scattered, blood-red petals scarred with shards of glass, cut, torn, turning in on themselves.

“Ms. Dodd?” Sawyer heard from a thousand miles away. “Ms. Dodd?”

She felt the slight weight of a hand on her shoulder, felt her eyes try to focus on the figure before her. She worked to move her mouth, her body, but all she could do was ball the peanut oil label up in her fist, the telltale crinkle of the cellophane screaming for everyone to look at her, to look at the girl who could cause a man to die.