Weaver, page 3
Kelly doesn’t look up, but her hand hovers above the paper for a moment, fingers hanging in the air. As if she is unsure whether to take it.
CAN I TALK TO YOU FOR A MINUTE?
GLEAMSDALE, 2009
The printer growls with irritation—and so does Eddie, standing over it, arms crossed, waiting for it to spit out the last few sheets.
The school day is almost over, just one hour left, and all signs point to Roy Brenner pulling it off again. Getting away with yet another one of his dirty tricks. Everyone knows he is guilty, but no one dares to call him out.
A human eel, impossible to pin down. Just like his old man, who used his slippery nature to secure the mayor’s seat.
Except that Roy is worse. Should he one day decide to follow in his dad’s footsteps and go into politics . . . Eddie can barely stand to finish the thought.
The printer beeps—All done. Eddie grabs the stack of warm paper and heads back to the empty teachers’ lounge, where the smell of hot toner is quickly replaced by burnt coffee and the sickly-sweet stench of old bananas from the fruit bowl.
Behind him, a creak. He turns, expecting to see a colleague, but no.
It’s Kelly Connors standing in the doorway, her bag slung awkwardly over one shoulder. She looks like she is trying to appear relaxed—and failing.
“Mr. Weaver, can I . . . talk to you for a second?”
Eddie nods slowly. Sets the papers down.
“Of course.”
She glances down the hallway before stepping inside and gently easing the door shut.
“What’s up, Kelly?”
“It’s . . . about that thing with Molly. I, um . . .”
She hesitates, perhaps hoping Eddie will jump in, fill the silence for her. He doesn’t. He waits.
“I’ve been feeling really bad about it. I keep thinking about how I’d feel if it were me.”
It’s almost stunning how convincing she is. The trembling lip, eyes rising and falling uncertainly—every detail calibrated. Must be from all those hours in front of the mirror.
But it’s still Kelly Connors standing there. Cheerleader, queen bee, and not least, Roy’s girlfriend. He’d be wise not to forget that.
“I think I know who did it,” she says, while her fingers find a lock of her golden hair and start twisting it. “I mean, I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I, um . . . I saw something.”
Eddie motions for her to go on, but she doesn’t. Instead, she glances over her shoulder once more, even though the door is closed behind her.
“You seem a bit nervous, Kelly.”
She presses her lips together and nods.
“I think they saw me too. When it happened, I mean. And if they see me talking to you, they’ll know that . . .”
Her voice trails off, growing fainter with every word until it disappears completely.
“If you know something, you need to tell me, Kelly,” Eddie says. “Otherwise, I can’t help you. Or Molly. You understand that, right?”
“I do, but . . . not now. Not here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just can’t say it here,” she whispers. “Not during school hours. Not while they’re all still around.”
Eddie hesitates. She’s being dramatic—both in the way she talks and how she moves.
Then again, that’s nothing new when it comes to Kelly.
“Then where?”
“Out at the football field. Behind the bleachers. By the old equipment shed. Tonight, eight o’clock. The football team will be done with practice by then. They are the last ones.”
“At eight o’clock tonight I’ll be home on my couch, Kelly,” Eddie begins, but something about her face makes him hesitate. It’s the way that, in a split second, her expression changes. She goes from seeming anxious and tense to looking . . . completely crushed.
“You know what?” he says. “This is important. I think I can make time. The shed, eight o’clock. It’s a deal.”
“Thank you,” Kelly murmurs. Then she walks out. Quick steps. No backward glances.
THE FOOTBALL FIELD
GLEAMSDALE, 2009
Eddie closes the front door behind him and steps into the entryway, bathed in the warm, golden glow of the afternoon sun. From the kitchen, he hears running water and Nancy Sinatra playing softly from a phone speaker. The sound of home.
“Babe?”
“In the kitchen!”
He kicks off his shoes, leans his bag against the wall, and heads through the house.
Entering the living room, a faint smile crosses his lips. A pair of reading glasses rests on the back of the couch. They’re Maya’s. She has a habit of leaving them in the strangest places—only to forget about them until the moment she needs them and can’t find them.
She is standing at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes. Her hair is loosely pinned up, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hips swaying in time with the song’s bassline.
He steps closer, places his hands on her shoulders and his lips on her neck.
“You’re home early.”
“I’ve only got a little bit of prep left for tomorrow. Didn’t feel like doing it in the staff lounge. Smells a lot better here anyway. What’s in the oven?”
“Nothing yet, but my husband finally agreed to trying, so I’m hoping to change that soon,” Maya says, flashing him a crooked grin.
“Very funny.”
“Oh, you meant that oven?” she says with mock innocence. “Meatloaf. Nina gave me a new recipe. She claims it’s better than a roll in the hay.”
“With Steve? That’s a low bar.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be nice to your BFF?”
“Yeah, but remember I shared a dorm room with him. Slept on the other bed when he had girls over, so . . .”
For a split second, Maya looks genuinely shocked. Then she lets out a laugh he could listen to all day. In truth, the need to hear that laugh was the real reason he came home early today.
He realizes he’s not just looking but staring at her—and that makes him turn his head away.
Too late. She caught him, and now, her freckled face grows serious.
“You look beat. Rough day?”
He shrugs and takes a seat at the table.
“They can be so mean sometimes. Like, really vicious.”
“The kids?” she asks, drying her hands on a dish towel before sitting down beside him. “What did they do this time?”
“A video. One of the quiet girls got tricked into reading lines for what she thought was a school project . . . but then they edited it to make her sound like she is insulting herself.”
“Little fuckers,” Maya mutters, resting a hand on the back of his neck and massaging gently. “I’m sorry, hon. Did you get them?”
“Not yet,” Eddie replies. “But I’m meeting with a student later. She says she saw something.”
“Later? As in today?”
“Tonight. She didn’t want to talk with other students around, so we agreed to meet out at the football field after practice.”
“Isn’t that . . . a little weird?”
“Yeah. But I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt. After all, I don’t know what she saw, or how bad it is. Maybe she has her reasons.”
“Or maybe she just wants some alone time with her charming philosophy teacher.”
“Really? You really just said that?”
For a moment, there is a strange flicker in Maya’s eyes—something bold, challenging, maybe. Then she waves it off.
“It . . . was just a bad joke. I’m sorry.”
Eddie brushes it off with a shrug, though something about all this still nags at him.
It’s not that he suspects Kelly Connors is planning to seduce him. He’s at least twenty-five years too old—and a good twenty-five pounds too heavy—for that.
But a hidden agenda. One that serves her interests. That wouldn’t surprise him at all.
The last light of day hangs low over the trees to the west, painting the sky in copper and ink, as Eddie—reluctantly and with his hands in his jacket pockets—steps onto the empty sports field. It still bears signs of recent use: a forgotten water bottle under a bench, a few cones scattered in the grass. But the balls are gone, and there are no jarring sound of whistles. Only the wind and the electric buzz of the stadium lights can be heard.
He looks around. The seats are empty. Soon, their dark blue color will be swallowed by the twilight.
He checks his watch. Three minutes to eight. Perfect. That’s about how long it takes to walk over to the shed behind the bleachers, where he is supposed to meet her.
A creak somewhere behind him, followed by hurried footsteps. He spins around.
It’s her. Kelly Connors. Running down the aisle between the plastic seats—and something isn’t right. Something about the way she moves.
Now, she steps into the cone of light beneath one of the tall lamps, and his premonition is confirmed.
Her hair is a mess, her shirt hanging off one shoulder, her makeup smeared as though she has been crying.
“Kelly?” he says, taking a step toward her. “What happened?”
“Help me,” she gasps, casting a frantic glance over her shoulder. “Please, Mr. Weaver, help me!”
“What happened?” he repeats as she reaches him.
She doesn’t answer. She just stares at him, eyes wide, her chest heaving with ragged breaths.
“Kelly, slow down,” he says, placing a hand gently on her arm. “Whatever happened, you’re safe now, okay? I’m here.”
Her gaze drops to the ground for a moment. Then she looks up again . . . and that’s when it happens.
She takes a sudden step back, as if he had struck her, and her whole demeanor hardens. Gets cold, furious.
“LET GO OF ME!” she screams.
Eddie freezes.
“Kelly, I don’t understand. What’s . . . going on?”
She takes another backward step, tugging her shirt up over her naked shoulder like she is trying to cover herself.
“I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE!” she cries, her voice cracking with desperation. “I DON’T CARE IF YOU FAIL ME, I JUST WANT YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE!”
“Kelly, what are you talking about?” Eddie exclaims, taking a hesitant step forward. Or rather, his foot does—because at this moment, he is no longer in control of his body. “Kelly, I—”
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” she screams, and just as the last word rips from her lips, she drops to her knees in front of him. She even throws a hand up in front of herself as if she is afraid he is going to hit her.
Eddie is paralyzed by shock and disbelief. He can’t even raise his hands in a defensive gesture—let alone manage to say something reassuring.
A movement over in the bleachers behind the girl catches his eye. A shadow emerging from behind one of the plastic seats.
He has just enough time to think that it might be a person before everything vanishes in an explosion of blinding white light.
The flash of a camera.
Two more flashes follow the first, this time from somewhere off to the right, and as Eddie rubs his eyes, Kelly scrambles to her feet. She bolts across the grass and disappears through the back exit.
Two additional silhouettes—one with a hoodie pulled low, the other with his face hidden behind a phone—sprint in the same direction as her, then veer off into the shadows between the locker buildings.
Meanwhile, Eddie remains, standing alone on the empty field, his vision streaked with afterglow from the flashes, and his heart pounding wildly in his chest.
What the hell just happened?
FUCK!
GLEAMSDALE, 2009
It takes three tries before Eddie’s trembling hands manage to get the key to cooperate and unlock the front door with a faint click.
He steps into the hallway, closes the door behind him, and stands there for a moment in the dim light. The hood of his jacket is wet. When did it start raining? He has no idea. The entire trip home is a blur.
He shrugs off his jacket and moves into the kitchen. The house is dark, which means Maya must’ve already gone to bed . . . but she has left a pot of coffee for him. It’s waiting on the machine.
He picks up the pot and carries it—extraordinarily carefully—over next to the sink, where his mug from earlier in the day still sits.
He still hasn’t turned on a single light, so the only illumination comes from the dull orange glow of the streetlamp outside, filtering through the window. For some reason, he prefers it that way right now. Staying in the dark.
He flinches as the phone in his pocket starts to vibrate. He pulls it out.
Two messages. Both from Jen.
What the hell, Weaver?
Check the school intranet. NOW!
Eddie’s hands feel clammy—and as he taps into the school’s intranet, his fingers leave oily smears on the screen.
There it is, front and center:
Video uploaded by: Anonymous
Today’s assault? #weaverwatch
The preview image is static: Kelly, on her knees, hand raised defensively, Eddie’s shadowy figure looming above her.
“What?” he murmurs into the dark kitchen. Then taps Play.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Kelly’s voice shrieks, thin and trembling.
A flash of light. Then his own face, twisted in confusion.
Another flash. His hand on her arm. Above it, her bra strap, white and askew on her bare shoulder.
Flash. An outstretched hand. Kelly fleeing across the soccer field.
“I DON’T CARE IF YOU FAIL ME, I JUST WANT YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE!”
More flashes. An expression on his own face that he doesn’t recognize.
The whole thing takes twenty-three seconds.
It feels like a lot more.
Panic wraps around Eddie like water in a sealed car. He scrolls down. The comment section is already a wildfire.
Jesus fucking Christ!
He teaches PHILOSOPHY???
#cancelWeaver
Just saw it—absolutely fucked up.
Wait . . . is that Kelly Connors?
Yep. And fucking Weaver.
This is not okay. At all.
Sick pedo freak.
The letters start to blur, and Eddie has to grip the edge of the table to keep from falling. His head is filled with a thousand thoughts—and no thoughts at all—at the same time.
He needs to sit down. Yeah, sit. Otherwise, he’ll fall.
He glances at the chair across the kitchen. It’s no more than six feet away. Might as well have been sixty. Or six hundred.
He lets go of the counter, staggers across the kitchen, and drops into the chair. For a moment, he just sits there, staring into nothing.
Then he does it again. Taps Play.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!”
Pause. Rewind.
“DON’T TOUCH—”
Pause. Rewind.
“DON’T—”
Stop.
A door creaks, and the hallway outside the partially open kitchen door fills with soft orange light. A second later, Maya appears—robe, tousled hair, eyes reduced to tiny little cracks.
“What are those weird noises?” she asks. “Are you watching a movie?”
For a second, Eddie doesn’t even understand the question. Then it clicks. He flips the phone over, screen down.
“Just a, um . . . video that some students put up,” he says, trying to sound exhausted so she won’t ask any more questions. “I’ll turn it down.”
His plan fails. Maya doesn’t drop the subject. Instead, she steps closer and flicks on the overhead light.
Brightness floods the kitchen, blinding him—and for a second, he is back on the football field. Caught in the camera flash.
“Is it that thing you told me about? With the quiet girl?”
“It’s nothing, really.” He half-lifts the phone, then sets it back down, like that’s proof everything is normal. “I just couldn’t sleep, so I was reading up on a thing for tomorrow.”
She looks at the phone, then at his face. Her brow furrows deeper.
“Nothing . . . that makes you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
Eddie forces a smile and shakes his head.
“It’s just a joke from class. They’re messing around with video editing software. They love taking stuff out of context. I, um . . . I can show you once they’re done with it.”
Maya hesitates. He can tell she has more questions—but exhaustion wins.
“Come to bed soon, okay?” she says, pulling her robe tighter. “I don’t want you sitting here in the dark all night.”
“I will. Ten minutes.”
She smiles and kisses the top of his head, after which she leaves the kitchen.
Eddie stays put, listening. Footsteps on the stairs. The bathroom door. The toilet flush.
Only once the house has gone completely quiet again does he pick up his phone.
The screen lights up, and he scrolls back down to the comments.
How long was Maya with him in the kitchen? Five minutes? Not long, at least. Yet in that short time, hundreds of new comments have poured in.
Maybe thousands.
Fuck.
ARON HANSON
WHAT & WHY
THE INTERROGATION, PART 3
GLEAMSDALE POLICE DEPARTMENT, 2018
“That’s quite a story.”
