Those Who Prey

PART ONE

Boston, Spring Semester 1994

"Truth, like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the contrary, is a beautiful twilight that enhances every object.

—ALBERT CAMUS

STEP 1: Introduce yourself to someone new. Try a student sitting alone, or someone who seems upset or out of place. Invite them to an informal activity.

Rituals

I’m nose-deep into Henry James when Christina Livingston storms through the common room. Her stale eye makeup and disheveled hair signal her apparent mental state. She frantically searches every corner of the room, even crouching down on the floor to look under chairs and tables.

Trying not to laugh, I imagine my former roommate, Sadie, mock-singing the first thought in my head: Driving that train. High on cocaine. It was Sadie’s theme song for Christina, but Sadie had other lyric snippets on file just for me, like the chorus to Here Comes Your Man when random guys she deemed undesirable walked by.

I turn the page of my book and pretend to read, hoping Christina will go away. She’s the type who procrastinates until she has to stay up all night snorting Ritalin through a cut-up plastic straw to cram for a test. She actually used to do this in my room with Sadie when they thought I was asleep.

Christina snaps her fingers twice in quick succession. Hey.

I look up.

Where’s my notebook? she asks. The animated bears on her T-shirt gleefully kick their way into a tie-dyed vortex as if mocking me. Christina’s eyebrows lift into an expression that’s both confrontational and patient. As in: I have all morning to calmly harass you until you help me find it.

I have no idea, I say.

She tilts her head and edges closer. "Well, it was here a few minutes ago, and now it’s gone. You’re the only person here, so what do you think happened to it?"

I honestly don’t know, Christina. I just got here. It’s hard to sound nice when it comes to Christina. Why would anyone want her notes for anything other than as entertaining drivel set to the sound effect of a cracked egg sizzling in a pan? This is your brain on drugs.

Christina scratches up and down her forearm as she paces. "You know I really don’t need this shit from you, narc."

The nickname makes me flinch. It’s been inescapable since the morning I finally had to tell someone about Sadie. There was no other choice—her skin was too pale, her pulse erratic. Even when I shook her as hard as I could, she wouldn’t wake up, and I had no idea what she’d taken. I panicked.

Sadie hated you, you know, Christina hisses. My hands begin shaking. I know better than to tell her Sadie thanked me in the ER, where I never left her side, even though Sadie’s other friends never checked on her once. Before Sadie’s abrupt departure, I thought they were my friends too, but I guess the word holds a looser definition your freshman year of college. It took moving up here to realize just how far 1,485 miles (I counted) was to be away from your best friend. Summer stayed back home to work at a restaurant while taking art classes at the community college. It still hurts to remember how Summer rushed me off the phone the last few times I had tried to call her, either running to class or going to hang out with the other friends I left behind. I finally wised up and just stopped trying.

I turn to see Sadie’s other so-called friends approach the doorway looking for Christina. Shit. I don’t feel like dealing with them right now. I clutch my book and barrel out of the room. Good luck with her, I say as I pass, hoping for a sympathetic reaction, but they stare through me with silent hostility. I rush down the corridor, where each metal door flaunts personalized magnets and colorful Post-it notes with friendly messages. I resist the urge to tear them down to make them match mine: a dull, gray slate.

Blinking back tears, I slam my door and lock it. Silence overcomes me. Home sweet home, I say sarcastically to Sadie’s blank side of the room, where pinholes in the wall are the only evidence that she was ever here at all. This has pretty much been my life all second semester—in my dorm, alone.

At times like this, I have two choices: curl up in bed and let myself cry, or perform the ritual that keeps me here even when I want to leave.

My eyes flick to the bed before I get myself together and walk up to my phone and pick up the receiver. The dial tone blares into my ear as I think about what I would actually say to the person who answers. Dad would say: I told you it was a bad idea. Just come home. Even when he’s worried, his voice is laced with a condescension that says I was too young to move so far away. Part of the ritual is never allowing myself to press the numbers when I’m this upset. The dial tone is like an extended wrong-answer buzz—nope, try again. Sometimes I even picture a ridiculously annoying cheerleader: Just give college life one more chance!

Before, Christina’s misdirected vitriol over her stupid notebook was something Sadie and I would have laughed at, easily brushed off, but now it’s just one more reminder that I don’t belong here. That I never did. With white knuckles, I hang up the phone. I will not let them be right about me. I grab my backpack, already running through my checklist of reading assignments as I shrug it over my shoulder before running out the door. The slam echoes as I hurry off, taking me even farther away from home.

As I step out of my dorm and into the early spring sun, I nearly run into a group of girls who are too busy laughing at something one of them said to notice anyone else around them. One sounds so much like Summer that my heart constricts. She’s probably in her pottery class at the community college right now, or drawing on her deck under her mom’s noisy wind chimes. I miss her, but I was the one who pored over stacks of glossy brochures featuring glittering cities far from home, and students smiling at professors who seemed happy and enlightened. ("So staged," my older stepsister, Tamara, had said, rolling her eyes.)

And maybe Tamara was right. Maybe I couldn’t see past the idea of new possibilities. Dad even offered to let me take a year off first, since I was barely seventeen at graduation. They’d bumped me up a grade in middle school so I could stay challenged. Dad had second thoughts about that decision when it was time for me to move away, but I was more than ready for a new beginning.

The sidewalks in the college brochure photos became uncharted paths through flawless green quads. I pictured them blanketed with layers of jewel-toned leaves that would morph into dark gray mazes carved through powdery snow, and then sprinkled with pink cherry blossoms this time of year—far away from all the things back home that never seem to change.

So I chose Boston, even after Dad was reluctant to let me move so far away. Unless I could change my name, nearby colleges would have been a nightmare. Dad’s trials had started to attract publicity—it turns out challenging profitable industries, and the wealthiest people at the top, also attracted pretty big enemies. And then there’s Tamara’s notorious reputation (for very different reasons). I just wanted the chance to start adulthood with the space to stand on my own, without people waiting to watch me fall. I’d already started preferring my locked bedroom to high school activities and social events. And I’m pretty sure Dad noticed, or at least he started staring at me with that glassy-eyed expression, the one that makes me wonder if he’s worried I’m turning into the person we never can bring ourselves to talk about: my mother.

On my own. I asked for it. It’s what I thought I wanted. But it’s hard to see people so happy where they belong when my uncharted paths turned out to be regular sidewalks where other people’s eyes rarely meet mine.

So now, here I am, every day, walking across bridges that span interstates, drifting through the rectangular shadows wedged between tall buildings, in and out of elevators, and up and down steel escalators. And I’ve learned that if I refuse to turn around, I stay just far enough away from the possibility of giving up and going home.

My secret study spot is a nearby coffee shop where my favorite chair waits against a fractured brick wall and people congregate behind stacks of books without any expectation to socialize. It’s where the outside motion of pedestrians and traffic creates a peripheral energy that allows me to fall deep into faraway worlds that exist only between pages.

Henry James and I have always had issues, the main one being that I cannot get past two pages of his long-winded sentences without my eyes glazing over. But when the story finally does take off, I can actually hear the layered muslin skirts pass by (a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-colored ribbon). Gentlemen click by with their canes. And then everyone around me is sipping tea from dainty cups. At the very moment Mr. Winterbourne is pondering Daisy’s level of virtue (Some people had told him that, after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told him that, after all, they were not.), a male voice speaks.

Do you actually like that kind of stuff, or is it for a class?

Glancing up, I blink as the world around me sharpens back into focus.

A guy with dark, wavy hair looks at me expectantly from the chair next to mine before asking again, I was just wondering what you think of your book.

He leans toward me and pushes his hair off his forehead in a casual sweep. The other details of him register simultaneously: navy T-shirt, worn jeans, hiking boots. He’s tall with a lean muscular build, the kind you wouldn’t really notice unless he gave you a hug. Pretty much the kind of guy most girls would gladly dive into a murky pool of trouble for.

Oh, um, I stutter, dropping my eyes back down to my book. It’s been so long since someone approached me like this. First semester was full of getting-to-know-you activities and parties—now it seems like everyone has settled into closed-off groups, leaving me stranded on a social island with nothing but textbooks.

It’s for a class, I say finally. I guess it’s good if you like long, complicated sentences.

He smiles. I prefer Hemingway myself, he says.

I roll my eyes. "Every guy likes Hemingway. He laughs, and I begin to relax. Are you an English major?"

Yep, the mystery guy answers. You?

Undecided. English is one of the many majors I’m still considering. I fell in love with literature in high school, and Dad says majoring in English would be good preparation for law school, but I’ve never wanted to follow his path. He just doesn’t know that yet.

So, would you read it for fun? he prods.

Eh, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I should admit this, but it’s my third attempt. Henry James is, like, the king of semicolons.

He laughs. Well, there’s nothin’ worse than a mess of semicolons, he says, this time revealing the hint of a familiar accent.

I scoot forward in my chair. Where are you from? I ask.

Louisiana.

Really? Not many Gulf Coast grads choose to make the move up north, if only for the preference of sun over snow.

Yes, ma’am. But don’t tell anyone. He whispers the last part.

This time, I recognize the smooth drawl, the blurred syllables most people up here pronounce differently.

I take it you aren’t from here either.

Wow. How’d you know? I’m sarcastic. I learned to hide my Southern accent at school by talking fast—or not at all—to avoid the mocking that inevitably followed, but sometimes, like now, I can’t stop it from loosening into its natural rhythm.

Okay. Let me guess where. He squints at me. Alabama.

Nope.

His eyebrows shoot up. No? Well, I guess you’ll have to give me a hint, then.

I think for a second. Our states are connected.

So, we’re connected, huh? His eyes light up with intrigue.

Something flutters inside my chest and dissipates into a slight dizziness.

Arkansas? he guesses.

I shake my head no, my lips sealed into a smile.

He leans in closer and narrows his eyes. I know. He looks around as if making sure no one else can hear us. Say ‘y’all,’ he whispers.

I laugh and look straight into his pale green eyes, the edges crinkled in amusement. Y’all, I whisper like a secret, laying the accent on thick.

He holds me with his stare. Well, I can’t wait to get to know you better, Emily, so I can hear all about Mississippi. He extends his hand. I’m Josh, he says.

I reach out to shake it then pause. Wait. How’d you know my name?

He nods down at the table where my name is Sharpied in all caps on the front of my notebook. He grins at me. You think I’m psychic or something?

Releasing his hand, I try not to seem embarrassed.

His face contorts into an odd expression like he just thought of something else. A few of my friends are meeting here tomorrow. Want to join us around seven thirty?

Oh, yeah, sure. I’m too surprised to say anything else.

Josh picks up his book and stands. Great. I look forward to seeing you then, Emily. And then he’s gone as abruptly as he appeared.

I look around the room disoriented, as if waking from a dream. A guy in gray sweatpants is snoring on the tattered couch beside me. A coffee grinder punctuates the faint sounds of jazz. Two girls with backpacks open the door, letting in the rushing sound of traffic. I catch myself staring at the window for signs of Josh. There’s nothing except the constant passage of cars, but I can still hear his parting words: I look forward to seeing you.

Smiling into my anthology, I flip back to Henry James. I don’t even notice the semicolons this time as the scenes rattle back to life.

STEP 2: Get to know the person you invited. Find out what you have in common. Make a real connection.

Pollock Knows Best

Art Appreciation is my favorite class, but today I can’t stop staring at the bits of paint and plaster stuck to my desk. They sharpen in and out of focus as I trace the bumpy patterns with my finger.

Dr. Cranston is lecturing, yet her words don’t register. She’s pacing in front of us, her hair sticking out at messy angles. When she clicks the slide projector, I snap to attention. A Jackson Pollock painting appears on the giant screen. Aesthetics, she says. "Remember that word we learned in our first day of class? What is our personal response to art? How do we attempt to define it? She turns her back to the screen and waves her arm toward the image. Can you define this?"

I stare into the curved lines of splattered paint where the stringy sweeps of white seem to dance in front of the darkness behind them. The classroom is quiet. Dr. Cranston grabs the cat-eye glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and places them over her eyes. She tilts her head at us, squinting through that moment when professors expect more than we’re capable of giving. Sometimes I wonder if they forget we’re all just teenagers waiting to receive prepaid knowledge.

Nothing? she asks.

A male voice behind me says, Random splatter. Someone laughs.

She glances at the back of the room with controlled irritation. I don’t mean in the literal sense. Anyone else?

Chaos, a girl with braided hair in the front row answers—a drama major, no doubt, judging by her breathy enunciation of the word.

Chaos. Hmm. I like that. Maybe. Dr. Cranston rubs her chin with cautious optimism. The projector reflects a white light onto her glasses until she turns to tap the screen. "But what if defining it isn’t the point? Maybe the point is to experience it as a field of energy—and as, in the words of your textbook, ‘moving remnants illuminating the act of creation.’"

While everyone else shifts forward to write it down, I picture the words—energy, remnants, creation—and stare into the dust-speckled light of the projector.

Dr. Cranston clicks to the next slide, a quote from Jackson Pollock. She reads it out loud: ‘When I am in my painting, I’m not aware of what I’m doing.’ Have you ever felt this way about anything you do? She scans the room.

I think about exploring museums—a place where I feel the least alone. Circling the same statue or gazing at the same painting has a way of connecting people, even if it’s just for a few moments. I also love volunteering at a nearby soup kitchen. It started with a mandatory freshmen volunteer day when Sadie and I signed up to visit with elderly guests for a meal. Although Sadie never showed up, I enjoyed chatting with a nice eighty-year-old lady named Helen. Ever since Sadie left, Helen is sometimes my only human contact.

Dr. Cranston paces again, catching my attention. Here’s a tip. If something makes you feel that way, it’s probably what you’re meant to be doing with your life.

I stare at my paint-splattered desk and try to imagine the place I’ll spend every weekday after college. I wish I could picture it, but I just can’t. This is why I’m here. And it’s why I stay.

I spot Josh first. I’d been nervously excited to hang out with him—I could barely concentrate during any of my classes today, not just Art Appreciation, and spent an embarrassingly long amount of time choosing my outfit, only to end up in the same thing I’d been wearing all day.

Josh sits on a couch in the back corner with two other students: an attractive well-dressed guy and redheaded girl. They seem relaxed, just happy to be hanging out together. I hesitate at the door, suddenly unsure how to approach their familiar dynamic. Then I lock eyes with Josh, and my apprehension softens.

He stands up to greet me. Hey, I’m so glad you came. I want you to meet my friends, he says, guiding me toward them.

The girl with red hair is even more striking up close. She’s staring at me in an inquisitive way, yet still friendly—the exact opposite of Sadie’s friends.

This is Emily, Josh says. His hand is warm on my back. I can smell the clean scent of soap radiating from his skin.

I’m Heather, she says. Her eyes are wide and watery and slightly tilted in kittenlike contours, with minimal if any makeup. Her mouth is pursed to the side as if she’s amused.

Nice to meet you, I say.

I look over to the other couch where the preppy guy with floppy brown hair keeps tucking it behind his ears like it’s a habit. Hi, he says. I’m Andrew. He stands up and shakes my hand. His hands are soft with long, slender fingers, the kind you’d want to tangle into your own during a movie. He’s incredibly good looking, but his smile seems forced. And he keeps glancing at the others as if he’s distracted.

Want some coffee? Josh asks me.

Sure. I stand there awkwardly as he walks away.

Andrew sits back down and pats the empty spot on the couch. Have a seat.

Josh is already standing under a giant blackboard crammed with chalk-scribbled options, so I sit beside Andrew.

Heather bends forward to put her bag on the floor. When she sits back up, her hair springs with her. Her curls are loose in a Julia Roberts sort of way, and Heather radiates that same magnetic energy. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to draw the attention of an entire room. Josh said you’re from the South, she says. I have good friends from Nashville. They’re the nicest people I’ve ever met in my life. They’re like my family.

Yeah. I guess we Southerners are known for our hospitality, I say. Heather offers me a genuine smile.

Andrew shifts to face my direction and crosses his leg, exposing a blue Polo logo on his tan sock. "You know, you really don’t have a thick accent. Not like that guy, at least." Andrew points to Josh, who is casually propped against the brick wall, still waiting for my coffee. Heather laughs at Andrew like it’s some sort of inside joke.

Yeah, just ask Dr. Davidson, Heather says. Andrew bursts out laughing.

Who is Dr. Davidson? I ask.

You’ll have to ask Josh about that, Andrew says. It’s hilarious.

Ask me what? Josh hands me my coffee and sits down next to Heather.

Dr. Davidson, Heather says with a smirk. She leans over and elbows his arm.

No. Josh sinks back into the couch and smiles at me. It’s too embarrassing.

You should tell her, Andrew says. She’ll totally understand.

I take a sip of my coffee and watch expectantly.

Josh exhales a dramatic sigh. I said ‘yes, ma’am’ to my psych professor. In class. By the way, don’t say ‘ma’am’ to a female professor—or any female north of Nashville.

Heather and Andrew burst out laughing.

A sudden heat spreads across my face. I actually made this exact same mistake my first week of school. Luckily, it happened in the privacy of the professor’s office, but it did not go over well. I’m still too humiliated by the look of horror on my professor’s face to share this with anyone.

What did she do? I ask Josh.

Well, she called me ‘sweetheart’ and suggested we reintroduce ourselves.

Heather cringes dramatically. And …, she says, hitting Josh’s arm as if prompting him to finish the story.

Josh looks up at the ceiling with an amused embarrassment. He shrugs but doesn’t elaborate. And now she picks on him, Andrew chimes in. Trust me. I’m in there. She calls Josh ‘Mr. Ma’am’ in class. Heather and Andrew start laughing again.

Heather pulls her feet up under her thighs as if making herself at home. She smiles at Josh again. I promise. We aren’t making fun of you. She tries to hold in her laughter, but can’t stop another outburst.

I notice Josh is laughing with them, as if resigned to the humiliation.

Isn’t that the most hilarious thing? Heather asks me.

Pretty funny, I agree. Josh’s laidback attitude is refreshing. I was so horrified when I made the same mistake that I almost dropped the class.

So, Emily. Heather shifts her attention to me. Are you in a sorority?

I let out an abrupt laugh. Um, no.

I immediately regret my judging tone. Greek life was never something I wanted to be a part of like a lot of girls I grew up with. Oh, Em. It’s such a good way to meet people, Tamara always said. She was just as quick to judge the other sororities though. Full of QRs, she’d say, then add in a conspiratorial whisper, "You know. Questionable. Reputation." (Irony wasn’t Tamara’s specialty.)

Sorry—are you in a sorority? I ask Heather. I could easily see her as the girl at the front of the group photo, draped over a giant Omega or X or triangle—a prime recruit.

Oh, no, Heather dismisses with a flip of her hand. I’m on full scholarship, so there’s no time for that. Also, I like to focus on … deeper things, she says. "There are way more important things in this world than watching 90210 with fifty other girls in a common room or getting so wasted that you can’t even remember what you’ve done."

Amen to that, Andrew says, raising his coffee cup as if to toast.

I sip my coffee through a smile. Where were these people last semester?

I don’t think I’ve seen you around, Emily, Heather says. What dorm are you in?

The Towers, I answer.

Oh, nice! Do you like your roommate? Heather asks.

Oh. Uh. I don’t have one, I stumble. Sadie, um … I pause. She moved back home over the break. I guess she missed the California sunshine. I realize the irony in this statement, as Sadie pretty much holed up in our blacked-out dorm room all day and stayed out all night only to do it all over again for weeks on end.

Ugh, I’m so jealous, Heather says. My roommate gets on my last nerve. She never shuts up. Thank goodness she’s taking eighteen hours this semester and is always in the library, or I swear I would’ve killed her with my bare hands by now.

I laugh politely. Sadie was likable on her good days, and I actually miss our camaraderie of opposite upbringings (as she called it). With her gone, I would welcome an overly chatty roommate.

I shake off the encroaching loneliness and add, Well, if it makes you feel better, it’s never quiet in the Towers, even without a roommate.

"So that’s why you study here, Josh says. He turns to Heather. I met Emily here reading Henry James for the… What was it? Third time?" He turns back to me and gives a small wink. I blush.

Heather cups her coffee in both hands just under her chin, her eyes wide with interest. Oh, tell me about your class!

Yeah, it’s just a survey class, but I’m really enjoying it. Heather, Josh, and Andrew all look at me, urging me to continue. My words dry up and I shift nervously with the awareness of the attention directed at me from every angle.

Andrew must notice my discomfort and thankfully cuts in. I adored my survey class. The classics and all. Of course, I’d already read them in prep school, Andrew says.

Where are you from? I ask Andrew.

The Midwest, he says vaguely, straightening his posture. He tucks his hair behind his ears again. But I was pretty much raised by boarding school headmasters. He leans forward to pick up his coffee and glances at his watch. Guys, we’d better get going soon or we’ll be late, he says to Heather.

Heather looks at her watch. Oh my goodness, where did the time go?

My mood suddenly deflates as I helplessly watch them gather their things.

Sorry, we have a symposium tonight, Josh explains to me, slinging