Limerence: Chapter 4

Mickey’s room stays encased in bright yellow crime scene tape, and hazmat suit-wearing men show up Wednesday morning to perform a chemical peel on the blood-splattered sidewalk, but slowly, things begin to crawl their way back to normalcy.

Classes resume the rest of the week.

All the senior-level professors send out their own versions of the same email: a thinly-veiled reminder that they will not be extending deadlines on any assignments with some fine print about making an appointment with the grief counselor if you’re struggling.

Even the sad remembrance posts that clogged up my social media feed days prior start to dwindle. People begin filling in the blanks. Mickey becomes a poor scholarship kid who couldn’t keep up with Lionswood’s hyper-competitive academic environment and cracked in the worst ways.

Gossip turns to an old video of the Lacrosse team, drunk off their asses, and speculation as to whether BeeBee Landis got a breast augmentation over the summer.

I blink and Mickey’s death finds its place in the pile of all of Lionswood’s other stale scandals.

And then I find a flyer taped to my door on Friday.

Mickey’s awkward smile stares back at me in black and white, followed by details for a candlelight vigil being held in the quad this Saturday. I don’t miss the nearly-microscopic print at the bottom of the page that says the event is being completely sponsored by the Ellis family.

Go figure.

I know that Adrian has been nothing but generous from the catered lunch to what I’m sure will be a very elaborate memorial – but my gut still churns with uncertainty.

People only lie when they have something to hide.

That’s what Rick, Mom’s current boyfriend and my pseudo-step dad, tell me. Then again, Rick gets most of his news from Facebook conspiracy theories and seems perpetually convinced I’m stealing the change out of his pickup truck.

I’m probably overthinking it.

Maybe Adrian lied about being in the library to prevent an overreaction from Sophie and her friends. Maybe he didn’t hear me call out for Mickey. Maybe he just didn’t want to spend the rest of his night being questioned by detectives in some cold interrogation room.

***

In true Lionswood fashion, there’s nothing small or understated about the candlelight vigil. Meticulously positioned across the grassy quad, thousands of candles and lanterns glow like stars under the twilight sky.

Memorial roses and forget-me-nots are woven into the big, green arches that line the path to the stage, which is where Dean Robins sits, head bowed and hands clasped next to an older couple unmistakable for anyone but Mickey’s parents.

They share the same frizzy curls as their son, and they’re looking at the giant screen, which projects the same awkward yearbook photo from the flyer. I feel a little bad for Mickey – I’d hate to have my freshman yearbook photo be the one everyone remembers me by.

Not that anyone, save for his parents, is looking too closely. It might be about Mickey on paper, but for the students, these events will always be about something else.

Image.

Who’s best dressed, who’s recycled something from their closet, who pre-gamed too hard and made a fool of themselves.

Sophie, of course, seems to be campaigning for Best Dressed if her vintage black Alexander McQueen is any indication.

I cross my arms in an attempt to hide the slip of ripped fabric in the midsection of my own black dress. It’s more than snug around the chest and hips, no doubt a side-effect of sitting in my closet since middle school.

It’s all I can do to keep envy from rearing its green head whenever I spot another gorgeous cocktail dress passing by.

I’m here for Mickey.

And I can grieve just as well in the decade-old department store dress as I can in a designer one.

Once the crowd settles, Dean Robins takes to the podium, the candles casting a warm glow on his umber skin.

His speech is short, sprinkled with statistics about suicide and reminders to make an appointment with the ever-elusive grief counselor. He thanks Mickey’s parents for allowing their son to attend his school, and expresses regret that Mickey’s bright future had to stop here.

It’s delivered without tears, though he keeps his handkerchief bundled in one hand and at the ready.

It is the kind of perfectly vague speech I’d expect from Dean Robins – apologetic without conveying any remorse that could be linked back to the school. I imagine he’s already had Mickey’s parents meet with the school lawyer and sign paperwork to ensure they won’t hold Lionswood liable for the suicide.

Mickey’s mom gets up next, a round, middle-aged woman with the same blue eyes as her son. “Lionswood was Mickey’s dream,” she says through her tears. “He loved this school. He’d call me all the time and tell me how many friends he has, how much he loved his classes. He was so happy here, I never thought he would’ve…”

The emotional dam breaks, and she bursts into heaving, wracking sobs. I look away, feeling as if I’m intruding on a moment not meant for me.

As I do, I catch sight of someone else crying. And not just dabbing at her eyes like most of the student body, but full-on crying. Weeping.

She hangs back by herself, on the edge of the congregated students like she’s not actually one of us, and I squint – curiosity sparking – because the longer I look, the more sure I am that she’s not.

She’s not a Lionswood student.

The more I look at her, the more obvious it becomes.

I’m good with faces and hers isn’t one I’ve seen before.

She’s dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt and jeans, her shoulders shaking so hard her dark brown hair keeps falling in her face.

A family friend, maybe?

But if she is, I’m not sure why she wouldn’t just join Mickey’s parents on the stage instead of sneaking into the student section.

As if she can feel me staring at her, the girl looks up and locks eyes with me just long enough for hers to widen with alarm.

And then bolts.

I watch, confusion rolling over me, as she heads straight for the exit and slinks through the large iron gate that borders the campus and boxes in the quad.

No, definitely not a student.

I glance around, hoping that someone else caught that, but everyone’s attention is on the stage, where Mr. Mabel is helping his distraught wife back to her seat.

Weird.

Next, they project a slideshow of Mickey against a piano instrumental. Most of them are childhood memories, but there’s a handful from his time at Lionswood. Big group shots that feature Sophie and Penelope and a host of other popular kids, and in almost all of them, Mickey’s been sectioned to the end. Never the middle, never the star.

He’s the smiling kid stuck to the tail-end of their group.

Like an afterthought.

I used to think Mickey never noticed the way they treated him, but he must’ve felt more like an outsider than I realized.

I mean, to do that…

Something burns in my chest, and it’s not guilt.

I tried.

I tried to be friends with Mickey. To bond over our shared outsider status, and he shot down every single time.

And given all that’s happened in the last week, I’m not sure his efforts to rebuff me and blend in did anything more than just make us both feel alone.

It’s pity I feel.

At least I can admit, despite my best efforts, I don’t really belong here.

Or maybe Mickey just saw through your little act and realized you’re an outsider in a way he never was.

The thought rises unbidden, but I stomp it down before I can spiral.

There’s a sigh of relief when the slideshow ends – only for Dean Robins to call Adrian Ellis to the mic. An excited murmur ripples through the student body.

“Thank you for that lovely speech, Dean,” Adrian says, and to absolutely no surprise, he’s dressed to the nines in a sleek, black suit that probably cost more than this candlelight vigil. There’s no point in pretending he doesn’t look gorgeous, his dark curls tamed and styled on top of his head, especially when half the student body seems to let out a collective sigh at the sight of him.

He takes his time situating himself at the mic. Like he’s gathering the courage needed for this next part.

“As many of you know,” Adrian starts, the grief in his voice obvious. “Mickey and I were friends. I suppose you could say I took him under my wing when he arrived at Lionswood. He was, to those who knew him, an incredibly kind person. I don’t think there was a bad bone in his body. When we volunteered at the soup kitchen junior year, we’d regularly work twelve-hour shifts and Mickey never complained. Not once.”

Appreciative murmurs roll through the crowd, but I’m pretty sure they have nothing to do with Mickey’s dedication to volunteer work.

“But as many fond memories as I have of Mickey,” he continues, “I can’t help but wonder how many of them he was secretly suffering in. What’s happened to Mickey is not something I could’ve ever –”

His voice cracks. He pauses, blinking away unshed tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get want to get emotional tonight.” It comes out in a breathless huff that has Mickey’s own mother shooting him a reassuring smile. Dean Robins finally wipes away a tear.

It should be endearing, watching a rare moment of vulnerability unfold from Lionswood’s golden boy of all people, but I’m looking at his large hands, laid flat on the edge of the podium.

There’s no tension in them.

He’s not white-knuckling the podium like I do when I’m nervous. They’re simply resting there, completely relaxed.

Probably a useless observation, but this whole display, it just feels so…

Hollow.

Fake.

Like he’s rehearsed the exact moment his mouth will tremble or he’ll swipe away the tear gathering in the corner of his eye.

The grief of Mickey’s mom? That was real.

The mysterious girl who vanished the moment I noticed her? Also real.

This does not feel real.

It’s a terrible thought, and I’m clearly the only one thinking it because Adrian’s brief display has stirred up more emotion in the crowd than I’ve seen all night.

It leaves a bitter taste in the back of my throat.

I tune out the rest of his short speech – something about checking in with our friends and making sure they’re doing okay – and watch as Dean Robins steals the mic again.

Before he departs the stage, Adrian hugs Mickey’s parents. He’s the epitome of empathy the entire time, even when Mickey’s mom breaks down again in his arms and he has to soothe her.

Really, something must be terribly, terribly wrong with me, because the longer I watch, the more I can’t shake the thought that something is off.

It feels like I’m watching an actor perform the part of grieving friend, not an actual grieving friend.

Lionswood’s golden boy weaves through the crowd, receiving pats on the shoulder and praise for his moving speech with nothing but a humble smile.

He walks right by me, and in a move that’s purely fueled by impulsivity, I do something incredibly unlike me – and snag Adrian by the sleeve of his designer suit.

And then I speak my first words to him ever.

“You said you were close to Mickey,” I say. “It must’ve been awful seeing him like that. After it happened.”

Up close, it’s unsettling how tall he is, how broad his shoulders are. I have to crane my neck up to even meet his eye-line.

I must sound like another simpering student ready to sing his praises because he doesn’t even so much as glance at me. “Oh, I wouldn’t know. I was fortunate enough to be in the library when Mickey jumped.”

Too quietly for anyone else but him to hear, I say, “No, you weren’t. You’re lying.”

Now that gets his attention.

Adrian turns and levels me with the full weight of his dark eyes.

My breath hitches, half-fear and half-surprise.

His eyes, framed by long, inky lashes, are so dark they might as well be black – and even more hollow than they look from a distance.

He gives me a once-over that does not feel like the appreciative glance a teenage boy would give a teenage girl but something else entirely.

Like he’s sizing me up, seeing what kind of threat I am.

It takes everything in me to avoid fidgeting under his gaze.

After a moment, his full lips curl into a smile, but it looks a little too practiced to be genuine. “I suppose you’re right,” he says, “Not in the library when it happened. On my way out.”

“No,” I retort, “You weren’t in the library at all that night. You were in the boys’ dorm when it happened. Mickey’s floor. You must’ve seen his body. Or heard the screams.”

His smile never falters, but his eyes narrow. “I think you might be mistaking me for someone else.” And before I can refute that, he tugs his sleeve from my grip. “Excuse me. I think I see a classmate trying to get my attention.”

I don’t reach for him again.

If I try to keep him here any longer, it’ll just make a scene.

He steps around me, and I think we’re done, but then he pauses and gives me one last parting glance. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

I swallow. “Poppy.”

“Poppy.” It rolls off his tongue like butter, and I suddenly understand why Sophie lights up whenever he addresses her by name. “It was lovely to meet you.”

He disappears into the crowd and it isn’t until he’s several feet away, engaged in conversation with a bunch of Lacrosse players, that my heart stops trying to hammer through my chest.