The sorority pin I’d thrown away hadn’t belonged to me. I was supposed to give it to Maggie after she was officially initiated into our house. But instead of the celebratory brunch we’d planned to throw for the end of pledge week, my sisters and I attended her funeral.
I’d never told my mother what happened after Maggie’s service; her reaction would have been too unpredictable. I’d called Aunt Charlotte instead, but I hadn’t confided that I’d been pregnant. Richard only knew part of the story, too. Once when I woke up in his bed after a nightmare, I explained why I wouldn’t walk home alone at night; why I carried pepper spray and slept with a bat by my side.
As I’d lain in Richard’s arms, I described how I’d gone to offer condolences to Maggie’s family. Her parents had merely nodded, so dazed they appeared incapable of forming speech. But her older brother, Jason, who was a senior at Grant University like me, had gripped my outstretched hand. Not to shake it. To pin me in place.
“It’s you,” he breathed. I smelled stale liquor on his breath; the whites of his eyes were streaked through with crimson. He had Maggie’s pale skin, Maggie’s freckles, Maggie’s red hair.
“I’m so sor—” I began, but he squeezed my hand more tightly. It felt as if he were grinding the bones together. Someone had reached out to hug Maggie’s brother, and he released his grip, but I felt his eyes following me. My sorority sisters stayed on for the reception in the church’s community room, but I slipped away after a few minutes and stepped outside.
As I walked through the door, I encountered exactly what I’d sought to avoid: Jason.
He stood alone on the front steps, tapping a pack of Marlboro Reds against his palm. They made a steady smacking sound. I tried to duck my head and move past him, but his voice stopped me.
“She told me about you.” He flicked a lighter and inhaled deeply as he lit his cigarette. He exhaled a stream of smoke. “She was scared to go through pledge week, but you said you’d help her. You were her only friend in the sorority. Where were you when she died? Why weren’t you there?”
I remember stepping back and feeling Jason’s eyes hold me, just as his grip had done.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, but it didn’t douse the rage in his expression. If anything, my words seemed to fuel it.
I began to retreat slowly, clutching the railing so I wouldn’t fall as I edged down the stairs. Maggie’s brother kept his eyes on me. Just before I reached the sidewalk, he called out to me, his voice harsh and raw.
“You will never forget what you did to my sister.” His words landed with as much force as fists. “I’ll make sure of it.”
I didn’t need his threat to hold on to Maggie, though. I thought about her constantly. I never went back to that beach again. Our sorority had been put on probation for the rest of the year, but that wasn’t why I took a job waitressing at a campus pub on Thursday and Saturday nights. Fraternity parties and dances held no more appeal for me. I set aside part of my tips, and when I had a few hundred dollars, I tracked down the animal shelter, Furry Paws, where Maggie had volunteered and started anonymously donating in Maggie’s honor. I promised to keep sending money every month.
I didn’t expect my small donations to absolve me of my culpability, my role in Maggie’s death. I knew I would always carry it with me, would always wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t veered away from the group of girls walking to the ocean. If I’d waited even just one more hour to confront Daniel.
Exactly a month after Maggie’s death, I awoke to hear one of my sorority sisters shrieking. I ran downstairs in my boxers and T-shirt and saw the overturned chairs, the shattered lamp, the obscenities spray-painted in black across our living room wall. Bitches. Whores.
And the message I knew was meant for me only: You killed her.
I sucked in my breath and stared at the three words proclaiming my guilt for everyone to see.
More girls came downstairs as our chapter president called campus security. One of the freshmen burst into tears; I saw two other girls pull away from our group and whisper to each other. I thought they were sneaking glances at me.
The smell of stale cigarette smoke permeated the room. I saw a butt on the floor and I knelt down to look at it. Marlboro Red.
When the guard arrived, he asked us if we had any guesses as to who might have vandalized our house. He knew about Maggie’s death—by then most people in Florida did.
Jason, I thought, but I couldn’t say it.
“Maybe one of her friends?” someone ventured. “Or her brother? He’s a senior, right?”
The guard looked around the room. “I’m going to need to call the police. That’s procedure. Back in a minute.”
He stepped outside, but before he reached for his car radio, I intercepted him. “Please don’t get him in trouble. If it was her brother, Jason . . . we don’t want to press charges.”
“You think it was him?”
I nodded. “I’m sure it was.”
The guard sighed. “Breaking and entering, destruction of property . . . that’s pretty serious. You girls should start locking your doors.”
I looked back at our house. If someone came in and climbed the stairs, my room was the second one on the left.
Maybe being questioned by the police would inflame Jason even more. He might blame me for that, too.
After the police came and took photographs and collected evidence, I put on shoes so the glass from the smashed lamp wouldn’t cut my feet and helped my sisters clean up the mess. As hard as we scrubbed, we couldn’t remove the ugly words from the wall. A few of us went to the hardware store to pick up paint.
As my sisters considered the various shades, my cell phone rang. I reached into my pocket. Undisclosed number, the screen said, which probably meant the call originated at a pay phone. In the instant before the dial tone sounded in my ear, I thought I could hear something.
Breathing.
“Vanessa, what do you think of this color?” one of my sisters asked.
My body was rigid and my mouth dry, but I managed to nod and say, “Looks great.” Then I walked directly to another aisle, the one containing locks. I bought two, one for my bedroom door and one for my window.
Later that week, a pair of police officers came to the house. The older of the two officers informed us that they had questioned Jason, who’d admitted to the crime.
“He was drunk that night and he’s sorry,” the officer said. “He’s working out a deal to get counseling.”
“As long as he never comes around here again,” one of my sisters said.
“He won’t. That was part of the arrangement. He can’t come within a hundred yards of this place.”
My sisters seemed to think it was over. After the officers left, they dispersed, heading to the library, to classes, to their boyfriends’ places.
I stayed in our living room, staring at the beige wall. I could no longer see the words, but I knew they still existed and always would.
Just as they would always reverberate in my head.
You killed her.
My future had seemed bursting with possibilities before that fall. I’d been dreaming about cities where I might move after graduation, considering them like a hand of cards: Savannah, Denver, Austin, San Diego . . . I wanted to teach. I wanted to travel. I wanted a family.
But instead of racing toward my future, I began making plans to run away from my past.