Interim by S. Walden Page B

staring at him with those doe-like eyes, sharing in his hurt and humiliation. He would never call her stupid. Naïve, yes. But never stupid. She trusted him, to her detriment, and that was the end goal.
    “I’m sorry for tackling you like that,” he said.
    “You scared me half to death,” she admitted.
    “I can’t believe I did that. I’d never hurt you,” he replied. He wanted to believe it.
    She smiled. “I believe you.”
    He thought a moment. “Where did you find my journal?”
    Regan blushed. “It fell out of your locker. You . . . you didn’t notice your locker didn’t shut all the way.”
    He frowned.
    “I-I closed it—” She dropped her voice to a low whisper. “—and kept your journal to give to you.”
    “After you read it, of course,” he said.
    “I’m sorry,” Regan replied.
    Jeremy looked away, trying hard to push down the rising anger.
    “Do you want me to walk you home?” he asked grudgingly.
    “No. I’m hanging here for a while,” she replied.
    “Really?”
    “It’s a cool tree if you hadn’t noticed.” She pointed above her head.
    He looked up. The branches stretched out almost horizontally, twisting and climbing in fat, crooked fingers. The leaves were still green, but fall hinted its imminent arrival. He couldn’t see it, but he could smell it.
    “Yeah, it is,” he said.
    “Jeremy?”
    “Hmm?”
    She paused. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to keep that journal. I mean, I believe you when you say all that stuff about killing people is just a . . . I don’t know. Coping fantasy?” She looked up at him.
    He nodded.
    “But I found it, totally by mistake, and it freaked me out. I’m sure that would never happen again with someone else, but if I were you, I’d get rid of it.”
    She was quiet, trying to shake the odd feeling that she was a conspirator in his plot to kill. But I believe him .
    “Maybe I’ll rip out those pages,” he suggested.
    She frowned as she nodded. Not a conspirator. No. Forever linked to him in an intimate way? Perhaps. They certainly shared one intense secret, and that formed the bond almost at once. She wasn’t sure what to do with that bond. Are we friends now? she thought. Does he even want to be friends?
    “I feel weird leaving you here,” Jeremy said.
    “Don’t.”
    He wasn’t sure what else to say. “Goodbye” seemed too abrupt, yet he’d run out of words. He hadn’t spoken that much to a fellow classmate since Kevin. He didn’t even talk to Hannah that much. He was tired, drained of energy—that cajoling effort to convince her of his goodness. He couldn’t walk away on his own volition, though. He needed her permission.
    “I’ll see you around, Jer,” she said.
    And with that, she released him.

~
    I worry sometimes that people will discover me, my plan. I worry more that they won’t believe me when I say it’s just a fantasy. I see my words betraying me—shedding their costume to reveal who I truly am: a killer. What would I do if anyone suspected me? Lie? I don’t think I’m a terrible liar. I think that’s innate in all of us. But could I lie under the pressure? I might fold. I might confess to everything—my plans, motivations, feelings. They may take pity on me. They may see that what I cooked up wasn’t so off the wall. It had merit. Reason. But that’s still not enough to let me go home afterwards. No. I wouldn’t be going home. I’d be going somewhere else—somewhere far away with people whose jobs it is to rework my brain. Try to make me “normal.” I can see myself strapped to an ancient table, dressed in white, biting down on a piece of leather. They cut open my head, tinker around, put me back together, and hope for the best. Seems unfair, really. Why aren’t my enemies’ brains being reworked? They’re the real problem, not me. But I’ve come to learn through reading too much news that it’s always the victim’s fault. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was wearing a