21. Petra
PETRA
Wordless shock pilots my steps to the shaggy willow tree in the center of the courtyard. A woozy static makes my temples throb, and nausea makes it all so much worse.
Once I reach the tree, I kick off my shoes and dig my feet into the springy grass.
It feels like a cool, prickly blanket and helps to finally calm my breathing.
I take deep breaths to fight the general queasiness before popping an orange candy into my mouth.
The clean, citrus tang helps settle my stomach.
Not caring about how absurd or needlessly dramatic I may look, just standing barefoot on grass under a willow tree, I spend the next several minutes breathing deeply.
Just then, my phone pings. It’s Amelia again.
So I also wanted to talk about this date I have tonight, she writes, as if still continuing the same conversation we were having before I had learned about . . . the rats. In Edwin’s chest. Which had been hollowed out.
These recollections threaten to send me over the edge, so I force myself to focus on the words on the screen in my hands.
It’s happening, Petra! I’m losing my v-card. It’s high time.
I stare at the message for a while before the words start to make sense. What do I write back? What would a friend say in this situation?
Wow, Ames, that’s a big step. Are you sure you’re ready?
There, that sounds like a coherent enough response.
Yup, 100%. But I’m nervous lol.
Again, I surprise myself by reacting appropriately.
Yeah, that’s understandable.
Got any advice? What was your first time like?
Again, I’m yanked into another unsettling memory: Blurry images and sensations from that night with Sin flood my mind, and I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. I type slowly, choosing my words carefully.
Tbh, I wish my first time had been better. Just . . . make sure you know what you want. I wish I did.
And still do.
This time, several minutes pass by before she writes back:
Thanks for that, Petra. Was it not good tho? Your first time?
Do I even remember enough of it to answer the question? And what about the result of that encounter, that “first time” that left such an indelible mark on my body?
All these unanswerable questions further swell the growing mass of despair in my heart, and I hold back a fresh stream of tears when I type:
Nothing like that. Just be careful, okay. Promise me you’ll be safe.
I promise, Petra. Pinky promise.
She sends a string of heart and hug emojis. I put the phone away and return to my panicking senses.
I just need to breathe. I just need to center myself. I just need to SCREAM AND SCREAM TILL I GO DEAF OR MUTE OR BOTH. I just need to breathe. Just breathe.
And so, I keep standing under the willow tree, chanting to myself in a fruitless bid to calm down. Fruitless because in a few minutes, the PA system crackles, and a dull voice resounds in the air.
“Petra Valentine, please report to the principal’s office.”
My heart drops to my stomach, and my feet freeze in the grass.
What now?
How could a single day be full of so many unexpected incidents? Before I can rage against the universe, the same message blares over the speakers again, so I start putting on my shoes.
By the time I reach the principal’s office, I have already been asked to do so thrice. The secretary, Mr. Grenville, gestures for me to sit on a wooden bench outside the door. Inside, muffled voices are locked in a serious conversation.
I sit and fiddle my sweaty thumbs until the door swings open and Principal Rhodes steps out with a carefully blank face and says, “Petra, please come in. The detectives need to ask you a few questions.”
Detectives? Questions? I can barely begin to process these words when I find myself inside Principal Rhodes’s office, an old-fashioned affair in green leather and dark mahogany.
Don’t panic, Petra, you haven’t committed a crime. Unless getting knocked up as a teen is a crime.
The irony of that sentiment is not lost on me, so I almost crack a smile, but the sight of the two detectives in the room ensures it doesn’t blossom fully on my face. Not to mention my parents and what they will think once they hear about this.
“Hi, Petra, I’m Detective Fiona Bedford, but feel free to call me Fiona,” says the wavy-haired woman in a dark blue suit.
Medium in height but well-built with stately proportions, Fiona smells good too—something with vanilla and coffee—and for some reason, it helps me relax.
“And I’m Detective Phil Martinez,” says the tall, lean man next to her. He’s dressed in a grey suit that’s a little too loose around the shoulders. But his face has a boyish charm, and his smile is friendly as he gestures me toward a chair next to Mr. Rhodes’s desk.
“H-hi,” I begin hesitantly before clearing my throat and using a firmer voice.
I am no criminal, and I have rights!
“Hi, Fiona and Phil. What is this about?” I ask, emulating my mother’s tone while talking to the landscapers who regularly mess up her plans for the garden.
Perhaps my tone surprises them because they exchange a look before turning to me. “We won’t beat around the bush, Petra,” Fiona begins softly. “I trust you already know about Edwin Greenfield?”
This is about Edwin?
My brows furrow. “Yes . . . that he’s dead. And . . . the rest. Whatever the rumors say,” I finish lamely.
“You had a class with him last semester, right?” Phil continues.
“Yes, we were partners on a project.”
Fiona starts making notes on a small pad.
“You two must have spent some time together. Care to tell us more about him?” Her tone has changed into a brisk, interrogative one.
“Sure. He was really smart, so he didn’t have to do a lot of work on his half of the assignment. But instead of taking it easy, he—” I break off for a bit as the memory hits a tender spot in my heart. “He helped me with my portion of the project as well. And he never took credit for that either.”
The detectives are nodding as I narrate. “And can you tell us about his other friends?” Phil asks when I fall silent. “Did he have any bullies or rivals or . . .”
“Or someone else who wanted him dead?” I blurt out and immediately reprimand myself. Being a smartass with the cops isn’t advisable.
“Yeah,” Fiona says with a little chuckle. “Something exactly like that.”
“Honestly, I don’t remember anyone being mean to him,” I reply to the best of my recollection. “He was a good guy and had his own friend group. We barely hung outside of the project, so I couldn’t tell you much about his social life either.”
At this point, Principal Rhodes steps forward, clearing his throat. “Petra, sometimes the smallest details can help. So try your best to remember, will you? Even if something seemed insignificant at the time, it could be important now.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “He seemed fine the last time we talked, but that was . . . months ago. I didn’t know he had dropped out until this week.” I shrug.
“Did you notice anything unusual about him recently?” Phil asks next. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
I wrack my brain for anything that might help.
“He did mention once that his parents were strict, and he felt pressured by them to succeed. But I can’t imagine how that can be connected to something like this.”
Fiona’s eyes narrow slightly. “Following up on that, did he ever mention feeling threatened or scared?”
“Not to me, he didn’t,” I reply with a sigh. “We weren’t really that close.”
“But just now you said he spoke to you about his parents?” Phil points out.
“So? Doesn’t mean he had to confide everything to me,” I snap back, feeling testy by now. They could be out talking to the kids Edwin actually hung out with instead of grilling me, but that’s how cops work, I guess.
The detectives must have sensed the change in my tone and mood, because Fiona adds, “I know this must be very difficult, Petra, but we want to find the culprit as soon as possible. So, why don’t you tell us everything you know?”
She has put on a pleasant expression meant to pacify me, but it’s fake as shit, and two can play this game.
“I already told you everything I know,” I reply in a harsh voice.
“And again, I haven’t even spoken to him in months, so I fail to see why I have been summoned away from my classes to speak to law enforcement officers.
In the absence of a guardian or an attorney, that, too,” I address the last barb at Principal Rhodes, who knows the exact figure the school stands to lose if my parents learned how their daughter has been treated today.
Mr. Rhodes looks abashed while the detectives exchange another look before Fiona puts away her writing pad. “We understand how you feel, Petra,” Phil begins in a sugary tone that annoys me to no end. “All we ask is that you let us know if you recall anything else that can help.”
“We can tell that you admired him, Petra,” Fiona adds gently, though my hackles are still raised against her. “And we know you want to help us find whoever did this to him.” She stops and looks me in the eye. In that moment, I know I can trust her.
“Yes,” I reply shakily. “I do.”
“Good, here are my details. Call me if you remember anything.” Fiona hands me a small card with her name and number on it.
“I will.” I carefully put away the card in my bag and nod at her and Phil.
“Thank you, Petra. You’ve been very helpful,” Phil says in a final-sounding tone, and I know the interrogation is over. For now.
As Principal Rhodes walks me to the door, he says, “Take care, Petra. I hope there are no hard feelings? Please remember that, given the circumstances, I must cooperate with the police.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Rhodes,” I reply in a weary tone.
The day has taken a heavy toll on my mind and body, and I just want to get away for now. But the conversation lingers with me, right alongside the haunting images of Edwin’s mangled body.
As I head toward my next class, my classmates’ whispers and looks are added to the pile, but I push through. I have one more class until the end of the day, and I am capable enough to survive without having a public meltdown.
I haven’t fallen that far.