Messed Up (34 page)

I had already gone over the horrifying episode in my unwilling head at least a thousand times. It is actually kind of astounding that such a small little splinter of time could include so many appalling details. There was the Mr. Bennett’s voice, so cold and evil, the threat of killing Bryce or his sisters, Mr. Fanning’s willingness to sacrifice his stepchild. And then, of course, there was the spine chilling encounter in the bedroom.

I pounded my fist against my head in an attempt to literally dislodge my thoughts before they bulldozed me over yet again. I pressed the latch on the bath with my toe, releasing the stopper and allowing the water to slowly drain. I was shivering in an empty tub, before I finally pulled myself out. Wrapped in a towel, I went to my room, carefully locking the door. I put on my favorite flannel pajamas and crawled back into bed and turned on my TV, again.

I must have drifted off to sleep for a couple hours because when I opened my eyes the eight o’clock news was just starting. The newscasters began their broadcast with an update on the Toby Fanning murder investigation. A press conference was scheduled to begin any minute and the anchors were doing their darnedest to stall for time. They showed footage of the memorial service and had comments from Mr. Fanning and a from a kid I recognized from my Economics class who I don’t think even knew Toby.

Eventually, to the obvious relief of the newscasters, the press conference began. A detective in a brown suit, flanked on each side by uniformed police officers made his way to a podium. He adjusted his tie uncomfortably, before leaning toward the microphone to speak:

“Umm, we have a couple updates on the case. Some we will be able to disclose, but others we’ll have to, umm, keep confidential at this time. Let’s see here… To recap, the body of Toby Lee Higgins Fanning, male, seventeen, was found Saturday, August 8
^th
at approximately 7:30 PM. His body was discovered by two mountain bikers in a remote area of Vistas Park. Umm… Let’s see… The boy had last been seen more than a month earlier on July 6, and was believed to be living with his father. It was our initial assumption that autopsy reports would confirm his death at or around the time he was last seen. However, the autopsy has placed the time of death to be within twelve to twenty-four hours of the body’s recovery. Additional tests will be conducted to better pin point the time of death. The bruising patterns, as well as the victim’s physical health, seem to indicate that he may have been held captive. That is all I can say for now. I will be keeping the press informed as the case moves forward. Umm, we all know how upsetting this has been to the victim’s family, friends, and our thoughts and prayers are with them.”

The detective turned and made a quick departure without answering any of the questions from shouting reporters. The newscasters reappeared and moved on to a report about the trials and tribulations of living through a drought in California.

My mind began reeling with this new information. Toby hadn’t been killed that night at the benches, he’d been kidnapped, held prisoner for more than a month, and
then
killed. I now felt certain that Toby’s death was way more than a prank gone wrong. I couldn’t begin to fathom how or why Toby’s death would benefit anyone. He was just a hopelessly clueless kid with more enthusiasm than a Chihuahua on crack. Why would Mr. Bennett want him dead? I just prayed that the police knew something I didn’t. That was my only hope. It was farfetched I know, but I thought maybe I could get out from under the Bennett curse unscathed if Mr. Bennett were implicated in Toby’s murder. But did I, for even a quarter of a second consider going to the police with what I knew? Nope, absolutely not, I was completely unwilling to put myself in a position that I considered exponentially more dangerous than the one I was already in.

One thing I knew for sure was that the only way I was going to make it through this impossibly long day, without my mind driving itself crazy, was to find some kind of distraction. So after screaming at the TV for its daytime line-up and cursing my email inbox for its emptiness, I took out my sketch pad and a pencil.

I started by doing quick sketches of objects in my bedroom: a pencil can, the corner of a picture frame, my right big toe. Next I set up a still life consisting of a stack of books and my TV remote control. I thought it was a sort of metaphor for the demise of popular culture. At first I could feel myself becoming frustrated. Thoughts kept popping into my head, dragging me out of my artistic zone, but slowly I could feel myself release into the task. I stopped looking at the objects themselves, and focused instead on their shapes, shadows, angles. And magically there it was, my still mind, peaceful and serene. Every cell of my body seemed to exhale.

An hour later, when my home phone rang loudly, I tuned it out almost completely, intent on keeping hold of my place of tranquil calm. I didn’t want to let anything in as my pencil moved confidently over the paper. I finally lost my concentration with the knocking at my door, followed by my mom’s head peeking in at me. I looked up, and groaned, “Mom, I’m busy!”

“Chelsea,” she mimicked my tone, “The phone’s for you. It sounds like a man,” she said this looking inquisitive.

I felt the color hightail it out of my cheeks as my mind immediately flashed on Mr. Bennett’s chilling voice. I picked up the phone and swallowed hard before speaking, “Hello?”

“Hi Chelsea, this is Mr. Miller.”

“Oh! Mr. M.,” a huge smile spread across my face as I experienced pure relief, “How’s it going?”

“Good, thanks. I was calling because I’m going to be at Montecito today, and I thought you might want to come by and pick up your art work from the summer class. I have it with me,” he sounded slightly flustered.

“Thanks. That is really above and beyond of you Mr. Miller,” I was about to tell him I’d just pick it up when school started, but I figured an outing would be a good diversion, “I’ll come by in a couple hours if that’s alright.”

“That’d be fine. See you soon.”

“Hey Mr. Miller,” I said before he could hang up, “It’s funny you should call me just now. I was in the middle of working on a still life in my sketchbook,” I knew this was the kind of thing that would make his day.

“I’m glad to hear that, Chelsea.”

He did sound pretty thrilled.

Anytime I have ever been at a school, any school, when it is not in session, I kind of get the creeps. There is something so wrong about the silence in a place that is typically overflowing with activity.

The halls of Montecito High were less empty than they had been when Conner and I had committed our file stealing caper. There were a few stray teachers here and there and the occasional incoming freshman registering for school. But all in all, it was pretty much a ghost town. The eeriness of it reminded me that I was probably being followed by one of Levi’s henchmen. I wasn’t sure if seeing my former art teacher would qualify as a punishable act, but I knew Levi would clear that up for me real quick.

I found Mr. Miller standing on a ladder removing staples from a bulletin board at the front of his classroom. He was a good looking man, considering was a teacher. His dark hair was wavy and he had a body that probably took in some exercise, not a weightlifting body, more along the lines of a runner or cyclist.

“There you are,” he said smiling and climbing down from the ladder, “Why don’t you sit down for a minute, I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Oh I see, this was a set up,” I laughed, taking a seat in a wooden rocking chair that Mr. Miller kept in the corner.

“Actually, it kind of was,” he closed the classroom door, and sat on the edge of a table facing me, “I wanted to talk to you about something that I’ve been worrying about. I hope you won’t think I’m overstepping here.”

I shook my head slowly anticipating what was coming next. I was ninety-nine point nine percent certain that the name Bennett was about to escape his mouth.

“Well, the thing is… Ever since you told me that you are dating one of the Bennett boys, I’ve been worrying about you. Your safety that is,” poor Mr. Miller looked like he had just swallowed a box of tacks as he tried to get the words out, “The thing is Chelsea,” he repeated, “I knew that family quite well when I was in high school, and…”

“I know, Mr. M. They are a severely screwed up bunch of freaks. You don’t need to tell me that. I already know. But listen, I appreciate your concern. Especially in the summer when you’re not even on the clock,” I got up to leave. The last person who should be losing sleep over me was my former art teacher.

“Chelsea,” he said firmly, his face looking pained, “I need to explain something to you. Please hear me out.” I slunk back down in the chair and rolled my eyes. “You may know some of what I am about to say, but I am certain that you don’t know the whole of it,” he took a deep breath and began to tell his story:

“When I was a freshman I started high school at St. Jacobs. Everyone knew about a secret fraternity called the Delancey Society. The fraternity had been an institution at the school for close to a century. It wasn’t an official club, but the teachers and administrators turned a blind eye to its existence. Everyone wanted to become a Delancey. It meant being respected by your peers, getting to date the Delancey Girls, and having a free pass when it came to making sports teams or getting good grades. Somehow Delanceys were always the most popular and successful students at school. Alumni of the Delancey Society were graduates of Ivy League Colleges, so their connection was another incentive to being part of the fraternity.”

“
Yeah. I know about all this,” I said trying not to sound too impatient, he wasn’t
trying
to be annoying, that’s just a byproduct of being a teacher.

“
A couple weeks before the start of school, the Delanceys host a party for the entire incoming freshman class at St. Jacobs,” Mr. Miller plowed right on without skipping a beat. I wondered if he’d rehearsed this little speech, “I went to the party with a group of my friends. One of my buddies had a brother who was a Delancey, and he’d explained that the new pledges had already been selected. We were just to show up and hope that we were tapped to be part of their group. I remember feeling so incredibly lucky when my name was called. It was like I’d won the lottery. Little did I know that I would spend the next four years as a virtual slave to the Bennett Empire. I am still living with the guilt and shame of what those years as a Delancey meant for me.

“In the beginning it seemed like what I had expected. I quickly became one of the popular kids at St. Jacobs. There was hazing, where we were all publicly shamed, branded with the Delancey symbol, and beat up if we objected. I remember that it was all completely ritualized, so it seemed like part of the tradition. All the hazing had the effect of creating a fearfully loyal group of soldiers. It wasn’t that we were all that loyal to each other though, we were made to obey the leader and by extension his sons.

“The leader was, and as far as I can tell, still is, Alistair Bennett. He had two sons at St. Jacobs at the time, Steven, who was in my year, and Damian who was a senior. Damian was responsible for keeping us all in line. If someone rebelled against him or his father’s orders he would devise these extravagant displays of supremacy. They would make sure that many of us would be there to bear witness, so that we would understand that stepping out of line was forbidden and held true consequences. And of course we would be responsible for relaying this message to other Delanceys.

“One time a kid in my year, Paul, began to get sick of being kicked in the ribs constantly by older Delancey Boys. That was part of the tradition of hazing that lasted our entire freshman year. Without warning an older kid would come up to you and say,
head up soldier
, and you would have to stand perfectly still as he kicked you once in the ribs. If you flinched too much, or didn’t freeze quick enough, they would hold you against a wall and take turns kicking you. Paul began objecting, and even said he wanted out. But nobody can get out of the Delancey Society.

“So one night we were all at the beach having a bond fire. Most of us had been drinking or doing drugs, which was another unspoken requirement of being part of the club. Out of nowhere came a group of large men in black ski masks. Like I said before, once a Delancey always a Delancey, so guys who had graduated long ago were often called to participate in demonstrations of power like this one. Two of the men were carrying a huge pole. Gagged and hog tied to the pole by his ankles and wrists was Paul. They put the pole over the fire like they were roasting a pig.

“We all watched him, as the flames jumped up licking at his naked back. He moaned in agony, but nobody did anything. We were all too immobilized by fear to stand up for Paul. Eventually, we all began to ignore him and went on partying. I remember how his whimpering cries began to sound like background noise, like the crashing waves or the cracking of the fire. Paul was gone from school for a couple weeks after that, but when he returned he was more fiercely loyal to the Delanceys than practically anyone.

“As I went through school, I was careful to stay in line and do as I was told by the older kids, and the Bennett’s. I eventually became close with Steven. Like the entire Bennett clan, Steven was, when he wanted to be, an incredibly charismatic guy. The kind of person that is so easy to become close to. For the first couple of years I thought our friendship went beyond the Delancey Boys. But just like them all, he had a dark side. If he ever felt disrespected he would snap and just like his brother, he would make his power blatantly clear.