fact that Maya didn’t idolize me. And it’s not like I treated Maya like she was useless. Our situation was way more complicated than that.
In psychology class we learned that sociopaths are highly intelligent people who don’t have genuine emotional reactions to situations but have become so skilled at faking their responses that they can appear normal even as they’re steadily working on some secret agenda. If they seem upset or excited, the emotion is being deployed rather than felt. It makes them charming but also untrustworthy. I recognized Jefferson as soon as I heard about sociopaths. While Mr. Wachsberger read the description aloud from the textbook I watched Jefferson, looking for a reaction. He’d just finished punching his friend’s leg, and the base of his throat was turning red from suppressed laughter. He wasn’t even listening. I see you, I remember thinking. I see into you, Jefferson Andrews.
“He took people’s weaknesses,” Brian said, “and used them to his advantage. Cheyenne’s vulnerability was schoolwork. Maya’s was romance. Rose didn’t want to suffer the humiliation of a breakup. He knew me best of all, of course, and so he trapped me the easiest. Got me into online gambling, and goaded me into higher and higher priced games until he had to bail me out with his drug money. So that I owed him. That’s what he wanted; that was the end goal. For me to owe him.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
His eyes darted over my face. “I trust you. And I’m miserable—talking should help, right?”
“I’m so sorry, Brian,” I said. “This is just awful, isn’t it?”
He let out a long guttering sigh.
“It’s totally fine if you say no,” I said slowly. “Really, really. But would it be creepy if I told you I wanted to see his room?” I asked.
Brian shook his head. I don’t think “creepy” was ever an issue for him.
The room wasn’t totally shut off, Brian explained, because the crime hadn’t actually occurred there. There was just some police tape, and that was easy enough to duck.
Jefferson had a hot guy’s room. Short gray carpet, orderly shelves lined with drab books and trophies. All his video games had sports leagues’ insignias on the spines. His bed was made neatly enough that the pillows seemed to float an inch over the duvet. At one end of the room sat a glass-top desk with a laptop on it. “Shall we?” I asked, and strode to the center of the room before Brian could answer.
It didn’t smell like Jefferson; it smelled like a room that had been closed off for too long. The air had died. But I twirled in it. A dead boy had lived here. It was a place of gravity and horror and splendor. I expected Brian to say something like “Abby, no,” but he asked me if I wanted soda and then went off to get us some. By the time he came back, I’d turned on Jefferson’s laptop. I had the pictures folder open. One image in particular was filling the screen.
Jefferson and Maya.
She was topless, sitting on his lap. He had on a tank top; it was nighttime on a beach somewhere. His near arm was straining to take the photo, biceps raised beneath his freckled skin. Maya’s cheek was pressed against the edge of his backward Dolphins cap. They were both smiling hugely. I’d never seen her smile at anyone else like that.
“Would you take a look at that,” Brian said, whistling.
I covered the screen with my hand. “They were totally on the down-low. You can’t tell anyone, do you hear me?”
“When was that taken? Do you think Rose knows?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s not worry about it,” and dragged the file to the trash.
“You can’t do that,” Brian said. “This is officially police property or something.”
“It’s your house,” I said. “I don’t see any warrants or whatever. Brian, come on. You care about Maya, too. You know why I’m doing this.” I dragged another file off the desktop.
“Oof,” he said, sitting down
In psychology class we learned that sociopaths are highly intelligent people who don’t have genuine emotional reactions to situations but have become so skilled at faking their responses that they can appear normal even as they’re steadily working on some secret agenda. If they seem upset or excited, the emotion is being deployed rather than felt. It makes them charming but also untrustworthy. I recognized Jefferson as soon as I heard about sociopaths. While Mr. Wachsberger read the description aloud from the textbook I watched Jefferson, looking for a reaction. He’d just finished punching his friend’s leg, and the base of his throat was turning red from suppressed laughter. He wasn’t even listening. I see you, I remember thinking. I see into you, Jefferson Andrews.
“He took people’s weaknesses,” Brian said, “and used them to his advantage. Cheyenne’s vulnerability was schoolwork. Maya’s was romance. Rose didn’t want to suffer the humiliation of a breakup. He knew me best of all, of course, and so he trapped me the easiest. Got me into online gambling, and goaded me into higher and higher priced games until he had to bail me out with his drug money. So that I owed him. That’s what he wanted; that was the end goal. For me to owe him.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
His eyes darted over my face. “I trust you. And I’m miserable—talking should help, right?”
“I’m so sorry, Brian,” I said. “This is just awful, isn’t it?”
He let out a long guttering sigh.
“It’s totally fine if you say no,” I said slowly. “Really, really. But would it be creepy if I told you I wanted to see his room?” I asked.
Brian shook his head. I don’t think “creepy” was ever an issue for him.
The room wasn’t totally shut off, Brian explained, because the crime hadn’t actually occurred there. There was just some police tape, and that was easy enough to duck.
Jefferson had a hot guy’s room. Short gray carpet, orderly shelves lined with drab books and trophies. All his video games had sports leagues’ insignias on the spines. His bed was made neatly enough that the pillows seemed to float an inch over the duvet. At one end of the room sat a glass-top desk with a laptop on it. “Shall we?” I asked, and strode to the center of the room before Brian could answer.
It didn’t smell like Jefferson; it smelled like a room that had been closed off for too long. The air had died. But I twirled in it. A dead boy had lived here. It was a place of gravity and horror and splendor. I expected Brian to say something like “Abby, no,” but he asked me if I wanted soda and then went off to get us some. By the time he came back, I’d turned on Jefferson’s laptop. I had the pictures folder open. One image in particular was filling the screen.
Jefferson and Maya.
She was topless, sitting on his lap. He had on a tank top; it was nighttime on a beach somewhere. His near arm was straining to take the photo, biceps raised beneath his freckled skin. Maya’s cheek was pressed against the edge of his backward Dolphins cap. They were both smiling hugely. I’d never seen her smile at anyone else like that.
“Would you take a look at that,” Brian said, whistling.
I covered the screen with my hand. “They were totally on the down-low. You can’t tell anyone, do you hear me?”
“When was that taken? Do you think Rose knows?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s not worry about it,” and dragged the file to the trash.
“You can’t do that,” Brian said. “This is officially police property or something.”
“It’s your house,” I said. “I don’t see any warrants or whatever. Brian, come on. You care about Maya, too. You know why I’m doing this.” I dragged another file off the desktop.
“Oof,” he said, sitting down
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