Chapter 8
Sam
I oversleep the next morning. Part of it is that we were out later than I’m used to.
And part of it is the beers. And part of it is because I’m tired in a way I don’t totally understand.
Something that doesn’t have anything to do with my body, but it feels like some muscle I haven’t used in a long time.
And then, when I finally do wake up, I lie in bed for a while.
The morning is already bright, and a cardinal is singing out in the trees, and I don’t want to move, don’t want to get out of bed, don’t want to go for a run. Just want to lie there for a while.
But I do go for a run. Because conditioning is an important part of a police officer’s job.
When I get back, Gran is getting home too.
Her hair is mussed, and she’s trying to cover it with one hand, and her lipstick is pretty much gone, and when she sees me, she bursts out laughing and darts into the house.
Sometimes, I think she thinks I’m the one in charge and she’s the teenager, like she’s going to get in trouble for breaking curfew.
A voice inside me says she might think it’s funny if I tell her she has a curfew.
And that little voice doesn’t entirely sound like me. It sounds like someone else I know.
I’m not working today, so after I shower, I throw on shorts and another sweatshirt.
It’s the same brand as the one I wore the night before, but this one is oatmeal-colored, and I like how soft it is.
I do some reading. Check over some of my homework before my next meeting with Mr. Somerset.
It’s already finished, but I like to go back and read my answers and fix them up a little.
Sometimes they’re not clear. Or sometimes I think of a better way to say whatever I’m trying to say.
Sometimes they’re too long, and I don’t want to waste Mr. Somerset’s time.
I wish everything in life was like that, so you could go back and do it over and over again until you get it right.
Like last night.
Trying to flirt with those women was bad enough.
I had no idea what I was doing, and Detective Dulac—Gray—called me out on it.
But that’s not the part I wish I could do over again.
If I could go back, I’d redo the part where he was talking to me.
Where we were talking to each other. I don’t know why I acted the way I did.
Why I acted like it was such a big deal when we were only talking.
I don’t know why I said yes in the first place, either.
One minute, I was going to tell him no. Because of all the stuff I said: it’s not honest, it’s not a good idea, and if you want to talk about tripping over a dick, it’s sure as hell going to be easier when there’s a pair of them instead of just one.
But then I said I’d do it, and it’s like somebody else said those words, somebody else taking up space inside my head, somebody I don’t know.
And anyway, he’s right. If people have a problem with it, that’s on them.
After I finish checking over my homework, I get out my laptop, only instead of Stardew Valley, today I pull up a blank document.
I’ve got a project. And it’s an important one, one that I can put my name on, one that I can use to show Chief Peterson and everybody else that I’m connected to this town, that I have good community relationships, all that stuff.
I’ve got a couple of weeks to plan this Greek Life outreach event, and that should be enough.
The only problem is I have no idea what an outreach event is.
I start by doing a quick search. I find results about Greek Life in general, and a few more local articles about Greek Life on Wroxall’s campus.
I scan a couple of those, but I don’t see anything super helpful, although I do note down the names of the fraternities and sororities that get mentioned—Gray told me this is specifically for Sigma Sigma, but it’s not bad to have extra information.
I don’t find any helpful details about events, though. What I want is, like, a report, I guess. Or a documentary. Like somebody went to one of these events and took a bunch of videos and then wrote up a description of how it all went and what everyone did and the music they played and all that.
Music, I write down.
And then I realize I’m thinking of a party.
What I’ve got in my head, in fact, is mostly clips of Animal House; it’s one of Dad’s favorite movies. But now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure that’s not what Gray wants. I mean, how are you supposed to raise awareness about intimate partner violence when everybody’s doing keg stands?
Before I can let myself think about it too much, I take out my phone and text Gray: What is an outreach event?
He’s probably busy, I think as I lower the phone to the sofa cushion. But then it buzzes, and it’s from him.
Whatever you want.
“Well, hell,” I say under my breath. Mr. Somerset would say I need to use my brain and think for myself, but Mr. Somerset isn’t here, and Mr. Somerset isn’t the one who has to plan an amazing Greek Life outreach event—even though he probably could, and it would probably be real easy for him.
So, I do some more searching. Instead of Greek Life, though, this time I start looking at organizations that raise awareness about—and provide support for—victims of intimate partner violence.
Some of the stuff, I already know. The statistics, like one in four women will experience intimate partner violence, and one in seven men.
That an average of twenty-four people per minute are victims of rape, physical violence, or stalking.
And some of it I don’t know—like purple is the color for raising awareness about intimate partner violence.
I write Purple on my document.
So, now I’ve got Music and Purple.
“Great,” I say. “We’ll get out Gran’s Ouija board and call Prince.”
Gran picks that moment to come out of her room. She’s in her kimono—it’s the same red as her hair—and she’s taken off her face. That’s how she says it, meaning she scrubbed off all the makeup.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” I ask. “You were up all night.”
“I can’t sleep.” She opens the fridge to take out a seltzer. As she pops the can, she looks at me, and I groan.
“Gran, no.”
“I’m in love!”
I drop my head back against the sofa. “You’re not in love. You’re in lust because you’re eighty years old and you can’t keep it in your pants.”
“Samuel!” But nothing I say can get through right now, so she giggles. “Do you know Dr. Jacobson was in the military?”
“Who’s Dr. Jacobson?”
“He’s a veteran. Isn’t that marvelous? I love a man in uniform.”
“Take off the part about a uniform,” I grumble toward the computer, “and you more or less got it.”
“We’re going to Vietnam. He’s going to show me where he served.”
“He wants to go back?” I ask.
“Oh Sammy, it could be an overseas wedding. A destination wedding! You have to come! We won’t invite anyone except close family and friends. It’ll be an intimate affair.”
“Does he know about it?”
She sighs, leans against the fridge, and sips her seltzer.
“What’s his middle name?”
“Hm?”
“Dr. Jacobson. What’s his middle name?”
“We haven’t even talked about that yet. Isn’t that cute?”
I don’t know why, but what jumps up in my head is the fact that Gray’s middle name is Alexander. And he doesn’t like it. I only know because one time, Foley saw his driver’s license and was giving him shit about it, and you could tell Gray didn’t think it was funny.
“What’s his first name?”
“You are such a stick-in-the-mud, Sammy. Romantics don’t get bogged down in details.”
“So, you don’t know?”
“It’s Roger. Or Robert. Oh, you know, it might be Rodney?”
“Great. I hope the four of you have a fantastic time getting married in Thailand.”
Laughing, she comes into the living room and plays with my hair. “What’s got you in such a mood?”
“I’m not in a mood. I’m trying to make sure you don’t get your heart broken.” Somehow, I manage not to say again.
“What’s this? Purple music? Are you talking about Prince?”
“No, I’m trying to plan an important event.
” And then all of it pours out of me, and Gran sits there drinking her seltzer.
She’s wide-eyed and nodding, and there’s no sign she’s been up for close to twenty hours.
When I finish, I say, “But I have no idea what this is supposed to be or how to do it and I can’t get anything done. I guess maybe a guest speaker?”
“Sammy, they’re boys in a fraternity. They don’t want a guest speaker. They want a party.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know how that’s supposed to raise awareness.”
“Because you give them a little of what you want, and a little of what they want. It’s like any relationship, sweetheart: it’s all about compromise.
Do you know, my friend Judy used to invite me to these lovely parties.
Pink Parties, they were called. And they were all about raising money for breast cancer.
And they had some tables set up, and people you could talk to.
But they had a live band, and drinks, and dancing.
And you put some money in a clear plastic box when you went in so everyone could see you donated. ”
I’m not sure if that’s what Gray wants, so I text him. Could the event be casual?
It takes longer this time for a response to come back. In the silence, Gran asks, “Who’s this friend of yours?”
“A friend from work.”
“I know he’s a friend from work, Sammy. What’s his name?”
Gray Alexander Dulac, I think. But I say, “Gray.” And then I add, “He’s a detective.” I don’t mean to say it, and as soon as I do, my face is hot.
But fortunately, the phone buzzes, and it’s a message from Gray: Whatever you want.
I manage not to grind my teeth. I text back, Do you think that would be a good idea?