Todd Strasser - Kill You Last

I got back to school just as lunch began, and as soon as I stepped into the cafeteria, I sensed that something was off. People stared at me, and tables actually got quiet when I passed. When Roman, sitting at our regular table, saw me, her eyes widened.

“What’s going on?” I whispered as I sat down.

“You don’t know?” she asked, obviously surprised.

I shook my head and felt apprehensive. Based on the looks I’d just gotten, I realized it was not only something I didn’t know, but also something I probably didn’t want to know.

“There are three missing girls,” Roman said. “And all of them got head shots by your father. It was on the news a couple of hours ago. There’s this Web site called Team Hope where the parents of missing kids compare notes and try to help one another. The parents of Peggy D’Angelo and Rebecca Parlin got together there. And when the parents of the third girl heard about the first two, they got in touch, too.”

It took a moment to digest. On the news…my father and three missing girls? The whole cafeteria knew. No wonder they’d stared. Aware that some kids were still gazing in my direction, I looked down at the lunch table, too uncomfortable to meet their eyes. I would have left, but that would probably draw even more attention.

“What else did they say?” I asked.

“Not much. So far the only things that link the girls are the head shots and going to malls at lunch to meet someone. The police are reviewing security videos from the malls.” Roman leaned close and spoke in a low voice. “Last night, when we thought it was just two of the missing girls who’d gotten their head shots from your dad…I think I could believe that it might have been a coincidence…”

“But not three.” I finished the sentence for her. “Did they say where the third one was from?”

“Trenton, New Jersey.”

My insides began to knot. Three girls from three different states who all went to my father for head shots, and now all three were missing and the police were investigating. It was bad and awful and upsetting in a way that could compare to nothing thus far in my life. And then there was that feeling I’d had last night that Dad hadn’t been completely honest with me. “Be right back.” I headed for the small outdoor courtyard beside the cafeteria, careful not to look anywhere except straight ahead. I didn’t need to see all those eyes watching me. I could feel them, and that was bad enough.

In the courtyard, I dialed Dad’s cell. He answered after the first ring. Given the sudden tumult in my life, there wasn’t much I felt I could count on, but one thing was his always answering the phone when I called. “I know why you’re calling,” he said. “I wish I had an explanation for you, Shels, but I don’t.” He sounded uncharacteristically glum.

“It can’t be a coincidence that all three girls got their head shots from you and now they’re all missing.”

“I agree,” he said, and I felt relieved. At least he wasn’t being evasive. I waited for a moment, hoping he’d say something more. Maybe offer some possible explanation. Then I remembered my conversation with Roman the night before. “Dad, there’s something else I don’t understand. I saw the pictures of two of the girls on the Missing and Exploited Children Web site. They really didn’t look like modeling material.”

Dad was quiet for a moment. “Well, think about it, Shels. Those were probably family photos with crap lighting and all that. Most of the girls I work with don’t look like models until they’ve had their hair and makeup done, not to mention airbrushing afterward.”

“But one of them was five six and weighed a hundred and thirty-five pounds,” I said.

“Maybe she wanted to be a plus-size model,” Dad said. “There are a lot of possibilities.”

It didn’t sound right, and I felt my insides twist anxiously. Yes, there probably were lots of possibilities…Including the possibility that once again I wasn’t getting the truth.

I waited, hoping Dad would say something reassuring, something that would make me believe him, but instead he said, “Hey, what about Sarah Lawrence? Wasn’t the interview this morning?”

“It was okay,” I said. “I still-”

Before I could finish, Dad interrupted. “Hold on a second?” He was gone, then returned. “They need me in the studio, sweetheart. Talk later?”

“Sure.” I made no effort to hide my frustration and disappointment. If he didn’t have time and wasn’t going to be completely honest with me, I almost didn’t want to speak to him.

Feeling upset, I headed back into the cafeteria. I’d always felt closer to him than I had to Mom. Closer to him than anyone else, period. My earliest childhood memories were of him tucking me in every night. Sometimes Mom came into my bedroom, but sometimes she didn’t. Even back then, I sensed her absenses had something to do with my little brother, who’d died of pneumonia when he was only six weeks old. But I could always count on Dad being there every night. If I couldn’t trust him, who could I trust?

“Uh, excuse me. Hello?” I was passing a table when a voice stopped me. It was Tara Kraus, a loud, aggressive, politically active type. The other girls at the table were sort of emo-punk, with an emphasis on black mascara and piercings.

“How does it feel to have a creep for a father?” Tara asked.

To say I was flabbergasted was an understatement. I was blown away. It was such a nasty, bizarre, and unexpected question that I couldn’t even begin to figure out how to answer it. Instead, I went around them and back to my table.

“What was that all about?” Roman whispered when I sat down.

I told her what had happened.

“You’re shaking,” Roman said.

She was right. I hadn’t realized it, but I wasn’t surprised. Only now, shock and outrage were giving way to the emotional turmoil that always spelled tears. Thank God my back was to those girls.

Getting through the rest of the day at school wasn’t easy. There were moments when I felt angry, others when I felt scared. Mostly, I just couldn’t wait for the day to end so that I could be alone. Finally, the last bell rang, and I rushed toward freedom.

In the car, I thought about stopping by the studio, but I decided against it. I was too upset by Dad’s evasiveness. When I turned onto my street and saw cars and vans parked along the curb, it didn’t register. Sometimes people had parties, and caterers came with vans. And there were always workmen around who drove vans, too. It wasn’t until I was in front of my house that I realized they weren’t caterers or workmen. They were journalists and camera people hunting for a story.

And I was their prey.

Escape was imposible. The media crowded around my Jeep, just barely leaving enough room for me to pull into my driveway. I parked, and they surrounded the car like a swarm of hungry pigeons fighting for bread crumbs. Not that they were banging on the windows. They just pressed close with their cameras and microphones.

For a few moments I sat with the doors locked, frozen with apprehension and disbelief, totally unnerved by the faces staring in at me. It felt like a standoff. They couldn’t get in, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to get out. But I couldn’t stay in my car forever.

I got out and they moved in, shoving microphones at me, blinding me with flashes, and overwhelming me with questions.

“What did your father have to do with those missing girls?”

“Does he know what happened to them?”

“Do you know where they are?”

Backed against the Jeep, I was scared and bewildered. After all the stress of the afternoon at school, it was too much. The whirlwind of emotions was like a cloudburst, and tears began to pour down my cheeks. Some of the reporters sympathetically backed off, but others pressed forward with more questions, as if sensing that my weakness was their opportunity.