“April, you want to join us?” Brent did this too, out of respect for Sri. Sri liked everyone, no matter what. Sussannah and Marla tended to be scared of April and impatient in equal measure. But when they were all sitting around the house—eating, drinking, watching TV—if Sri was there, he would invariably reach out to April, with a kindness that made Sussannah’s eyes tear up at the memory.
“Uh, sure,” April said, a bit to their surprise. She paused in front of the table and did her soundless dance, arms akimbo. She backed away two steps, then rushed the table so hard the utensils clattered. She took a bite of food, then pushed away from the table like she was launching a boat (clattering utensils once again) and staggered to her room even though she hadn’t had any Vinho Verde. Within minutes, the sweetish scent of pot wafted out.
“RUE student,” explained Marla to Al. “Although kinda old to be such a pothead. She smokes so much she hallucinates—she’s always going on about the little kids playing in the house.”
“Oh my, I can’t believe it: we just learned about that,” said Al. “And cannabis—ah, that makes sense.”
“About RUE students?”
“No, no. The little kids. And chorea.”
“Korea?” Marla echoed. Sussannah shrugged when everyone looked at her.
“No, c-h-o-r-e-a, which means ‘dance’ in Greek. It’s a symptom, along with seeing little kids: a dopamine thing. And lots of people with that self-medicate with cannabis. So, how long have you all known that April has Huntington’s?”
Huntington’s disease! They’d all vaguely heard of it, but not what it did. That it was genetic, degenerative, fatal. And it made you go crazy: the hallucinations were caused by dopamine upregulation problems (same thing happened to Parkinson’s patients), and the jerky movements, the dancing was all neurological. Huntington’s patients could also be very, very violent.
“We’re stuck in the house with a crazy person,” Marla whispered. “Remember? She told us she had a terminal disease—I thought she was just saying one of her crazy things like, Life is a terminal disease or something.”
“I’m a little surprised you didn’t know,” Al said. “But I suppose HIPPA and all that, probably Brown couldn’t tell you.”
“Do you think she’ll kill us?” Sussannah asked, her thoughts turning to Sri.
“I don’t think she’s homicidal,” Al said. “I mean, it’s not that Huntington’s patients haven’t been homicidal, but she doesn’t seem like it. I think.”
But once he left, the three of them looked at each other.
Sri. He was too nice to her.
“She probably lured him out somewhere,” speculated Sussannah.
“Stabbed him and hid the body,” added Marla.
They ran up to the cupola, breaking the yellow Danger No Entry tape, half-expecting to find Sri’s body cut up in little pieces. They did find one of his favorite Pilot pens and a roach clip.
“Um, April’s not in the best physical shape, and Sri’s like six feet tall,” Brent pointed out. “She’d have to kill him without making a mess and then get rid of the body.”
“Maybe if they went to India Point Park, and she stabbed him and pushed him off the pier?” This was Marla.
“Unlikely, but . . .” said Brent.
The three of them spent the night dreaming up ways Sri could have been killed by April: poison, carbon monoxide, car accident, railroad tracks. This made them really start hating April. It was unseasonably warm, and in their un-air-conditioned house (of course) their anger heated it up even more.
Sussannah was also mad at herself for not figuring this April thing out earlier—she was so creepy, how could they have missed it? Marla was mad at Sussannah for lying to them about seeing Sri only at dinner. Brent was mad at her as well, and for not loving him back in that way.
Sussannah thought back to the night, because it was the last thing she had of Sri.
Yes, they’d gotten a little drunk. Little bottles of booze glug, glug, glugged into those big thirty-two-ounce soda things they had at Metro Mart.
Tipsy but not enough to be detected, they’d sashayed into the SciLi.
“Covered container!” Sri had said, saluting the attendant with his alcohol-laced Big Gulp. The SciLi was where Sri (and most of Brown) procured Ritalin and Concerta so he could stay up all night and write his plays; and he was definitely buying that night, having trouble on his latest, which was due the next day.
“I know what’s good for writer’s block,” she’d said, and given him a smoldering look. They both knew this was going to happen at some point, why not now?