Sweetie's Diamonds (16 page)

During the lunch period she chose to remain in her room.
 
It had been a hellish morning and she finally had a few moments in which to relax.
 
Diane sat at her desk, checked the phone for messages, and opened the brown bag she had brought from home.
 
As she bit into the tuna fish sandwich, she listened to an automated message from the principal's secretary regarding a meeting later in the week.
 
When it was done, she erased the message and put down the receiver.
 
Since it was usually off during classes, she clicked on the ringer and then continued to eat.

The phone rang ten seconds later.
 

“Diane Boston,” she answered, her mouth full of food.

“Diane Boston?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Gordon Walton and I'm a reporter with the
National Enquirer
.”
 
It was a young male.
 
Diane thought it might be one of her students, playing a prank.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked sarcastically.

“This is the
National Enquirer
.
 
I'm doing some fact checking on a story that we're running in this week's paper.”

The guy was for real.
 
Diane felt her pulse quicken as her stomach lurched.
 
She put down the half-eaten sandwich and tried to talk but found that her throat had tightened.
 

“Mrs. Boston?
 
I'm sorry, I didn't catch that,” the man said.

She cleared her throat and tried again.
 
“What's this about?”

“It's about you, Mrs. Boston.
 
We're running a story about you in the
National Enquirer
.
 
That you're a suburban mother and high school teacher who is really the former porn star known as Lucy Luv and whose real name is Dana Barnett.”

The room suddenly darkened.
 
All Diane could hear was the pounding of her heart.
 
The dreaded anxiety flooded her chest and she could feel bile rising in her throat.
 

“I need to do some fact checking,” Gordon Walton said.
 
“May I ask you a few questions?”

“No, you may not,” Diane managed to answer.
 
“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Ma'am, if you refuse to answer any questions, the story will run anyway.
 
I'll just have to say that you were unavailable for comment.”

“Where the hell did you get this story?” she demanded.

“I'm sorry, we can't reveal our sources.”

“It's not true, you know.
 
You may be looking at a libel lawsuit,” she said, her voice wavering.
 
She knew that it wasn't a very convincing threat.

“So you have no comment?” he asked again.

“That's right,” she answered weakly.
 
“No comment.”

“Fine.
 
Thank you for your time.”
 

After he had hung up, Diane sat there with the receiver to her ear, completely stunned.

P
eter Davis appeared to be waiting for her when she came out of the faculty ladies' room but it was obvious that he attempted to feign reading his mail as he leaned against the wall.
 
Diane knew better.

“Oh, hi Diane,” he said, smiling.
 

Since she had just thrown up, Diane didn't feel up to the usual sparring.
 
“Hey Peter,” she mumbled and started to walk back toward her room.
 

“Whoa, Diane, wait.
 
Are you all right?”

She stopped and looked at him but she didn't answer.

“You, uhm, look a little pale,” he said.
 

“I don't feel well,” she said and started to walk on.
 

“That's too bad,” he said to her back.
 
“People in the news have to put on a good impression.”

Diane stiffened.
 

What did he know?
 
What did he mean?
 

She whirled around to confront him.
 
“What did you say?”

He shuffled his feet and laughed.
 
“Hey, I'm sorry.
 
I just meant, you know, you're a celebrity here.
 
Teacher of the Year and all.
 
You should always be happy.”

Diane wasn't sure if he was on the level.
 
“That's what you meant?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but Teachers of the Year can have bad days too.”
 
She started to walk away once more.

“You're full of surprises, Diane,” he said, lowering his voice a little.
 
This time she could swear that he was insinuating something.
 
“And the whole world's going to find out about them someday, huh?” he continued.

She halted and turned back to him.
 

He moved to within a foot from her and he wasn't smiling.
 
“You know, Diane, I like a woman who gives good head.
 
You sure you don't want to reconsider going out with me?”

Diane was too shocked to react.
 
After he walked away she realized she should have slapped him but there were students in the hall.
 
As the man disappeared into the teachers' lounge, Diane had to steady herself against the wall.
 

My God, what is going on?
 
What is happening?
 

She didn't know the answer but at least she had a good idea who might be behind it all.

S
he was in the warehouse… dead bodies everywhere… Sweetie with blood in her hair…

No, it wasn't the warehouse, it was the barn at the ranch… They were up in the hayloft…

Sweetie wanted her necklace… “It's mine, you can't have it!”

Oh my God, Sweetie, there's blood in your hair!
 
There's a bullet in your head and THERE'S BLOOD IN YOUR HAIR!

Diane almost screamed but her body jerked, waking her from the nightmare.
 
After a few seconds of disorientation, she sighed with relief and sank back into the bed.

The bad dreams had begun again.
 
She thought she had gotten past that stage of her life but ever since the phone call from the reporter at the
Sun-Times
, she hadn't had a decent night's sleep.
 

She lay in her bed for a few minutes, slowly shaking away the remnants of the nightmare.
 
Her stress had not lessened in the past two days.
 
It was as if she were waiting for a heavy ball to drop—some new revelation that would destroy her peaceful existence.
 

Before she could will herself to get out of bed, the phone on the night table rang.
 
It startled her, causing adrenaline to burst through her body.
 
She reached over and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Boston?”
 
A woman.
 
She sounded familiar.

“Yes?”

“This is Trish Hunter with the
Chicago Sun-Times
again.
 
How are you this morning?”

Diane suddenly grew livid.
 
“Why are you calling me this early?
 
What do you want?
 
I don't want to talk to you.”

“I'm sorry to call at this hour but I wanted to get your opinion on the story about you in the
National Enquirer.
”

Once again Diane felt the dreaded surge of anxiety flow through her chest cavity.
 
It was a sensation quite like being unable to breathe.

“What story?” Diane asked, although she knew what the answer would be.

“The story claims that you're really a former porn star known as Lucy Luv.
 
Is that true?”

Diane shut her eyes.
 
“Don't you people have anything better to do than snoop into people's private lives?
 
No comment.”
 
She slammed down the receiver and jumped out of bed.

Quickly, she pulled on blue jeans and a T-shirt, put shoes over her bare feet, grabbed her purse and car keys, and ran out of the bedroom.
 
David's door was still closed.
 
She didn't have to get him up for another half-hour.

Diane went through the kitchen and into the garage.
 
She punched the button for the automatic garage door and moved around to the driver's side of her Honda.
 
By the time the garage door was up she had settled into the car and started the ignition.
 
She looked through the rear windshield and noticed a white van in the driveway.
 
There were two men and a woman standing beside it, apparently removing equipment from the side door.
 

Diane stopped the car and got out.
 

“What are you doing in my driveway?
 
I need to back out,” she called.
 

The woman looked up and said, “Look, there she is!
 
Is the camera ready?”
 
The woman carried a microphone with a television channel 7 logo attached to it.
 
She was young and attractive, probably someone that Diane had seen before on the local news.
 

No, not this!
 

Diane yelled, “Get the hell out of here!”
 

The woman approached the open garage with microphone in hand, followed by a man holding a large camera.
 

“Mrs. Boston, could we please have a word with you?” the woman asked.

Diane didn't answer.
 
She got back in the car, put it into reverse, and backed out, barely missing the reporter and her cameraman.
 

“Is it true that you used to work in porn films?” the woman called.

The van was a good ten feet back from the garage opening.
 
Diane jerked the wheel to the right so that the Honda's rear angled toward the front lawn.
 
She continued in reverse at a particularly unsafe speed.
 
The car's front wheels screeched on the driveway and then the Honda plunged onto the lawn, missing the van.
 

“Mrs. Boston!” the woman pleaded.
 
“Please wait!”

Diane put the car into drive and stepped on the gas.
 
The Honda kicked up grass and dirt as Diane turned the wheel away from the complex.
 
The car flew off the property, over the sidewalk, and into the street.
 
It then sped away, leaving behind the bewildered camera crew.

David saw the entire thing from his bedroom window.

D
iane pulled into the little strip mall that was less than a mile from the new apartment.
 
The White Hen Pantry convenience store would surely carry copies of the
National Enquirer.

She got out of the car and went inside.
 
The cheery middle-aged woman behind the counter greeted her but Diane went straight to the magazines and newspapers that were on display and quickly found the
Enquirer
.

At least she wasn't on the cover.
 
It was a picture of Michael Jackson doing something strange again along with other blurbs announcing that various celebrities were having affairs or entering rehab clinics.