We're still sitting at the dinner table. I look outside, and see a leaf press up against the dining room window, carried by the chilly Autumn wind.
Dinner ends, and I excuse myself. It's mid-October, and though it usually gets cooler around this time of year, there's still been a few exceptionally hot days. Because of the heat, I've had very intense dreams. Tonight is no exception. I dream of a balloon. The weird thing, though, is that the balloon is orange has Lincoln's face on it. For a long time, my dream is dominated by that ballon; many colors pulse powerfully in the background, like a rainbow, but in the center of my focus is that balloon. Before long, it pops with a painful BANG!, as if a gun went off right next to my head. I wake up in a cold sweat, go downstairs, drank a glass of water, and head on back to bed.
I complete my morning routine, and the slow drag of school begins. I always try to get at least eight, preferably nine, hours of sleep a night to maintain my youthful appearance for as long as possible. Because of my dream, though, I had trouble getting some good time spent asleep, and I am a bit sluggish today. I don't pay much attention in any classes. If I'm called on, I just give a stupid Leni answer, as per usual.
Something unusual, however, happens in sociology class.
"What is the most important part of society?" asks Mr. Carter. It's early, and nobody bothers raising their hand to answer. Mr. Carter looks at me. "Leni, what do you think?"
He's not expecting a good answer, because I never give them. Instinctively, I get ready to say the uniforms, because no society is complete without a good outfit. Look at the honors society at this school. Their outfits are so colorful!
"Society depends upon restraint," I say instead, matter-of-factly, standing up without realizing I'm doing so.
Mr. Carter looks surprised. "That's a very good answer," he says. "However, are you sure that's the most important part?"
"I'm positive. For all of human history, the most successful empires and countries were usually the strictest. The ten commandments suppress all carnal human urges. Theft, lust… murder."
The class is looking at me like I have a plant growing out of my head, taken off guard by my very un-Leni answers. I feel their eyes glued to me.
"But, Leni, does that remain true in our society? " he challenges. "If society depended mostly upon restraint, why are there so many scandals? Why do the most powerful people seem to have the least restraint?"
"That's true, but for every Bill Clinton or Harvey Weinstein or… Ted Bundy, you have thousands of honorable Americans who look down upon their actions and hold themselves to a higher standard."
There's an uncomfortably long period of silence in the classroom. Only now do I realize that maybe I shouldn't have broken character. I begin to wonder why now, of all times, I actually spoke my mind.
I'm cutting balloon strings of very important balloons that keep my facade in the air, above the ground, floating, preventing it from hitting the floor and shattering.
"Very enlightening, Leni," Mr. Carter says at last. "Thank you. You may take your seat."
"What the fuck was that?" Becky asks in the hallway. "Why did you—" she looks down at my wrist. "Leni, why is your watch on backwards?"
I look at my stolen Teal and Yellow Momento Floral Leather Strap Watch, 34mm, by Nordstrom, $1075, and it is, indeed, on backward. I take it off, and begin to put it on the right way.
Blair approaches. "Either of you busy after school today?" she asks. "I'm going to the park."
"No can do," says Becky. "I gotta see my Dad in the hospital."
I finish putting on my watch properly, and turn back to Blair. "I can go," I say, not particularly looking forward to it, but I really have nothing better to do.
When school ends and we begin our walk to the park in the center of town, a different one from the park where I stole a squirrel and a cage, I make sure. The day is cooler. Breezes brush by me and I worry for my hair.
We sit on a bench, and talk about trivial, banal topics for a while like we usually do. Soon enough, we take out our phones and cease any further conversation. A normal day at the park.
A jogger about my age runs by us, and looks back at me and Blair.
"Hi, Lori!" he says. I recognize him as the person I met at the top of the mountain, the person who I kicked off the path.
"Oh, hi, Walter!" I chirp.
A breeze goes by.
"What are you doing here?"
"Just jogging. Practicing for Cross-Country."
I nod. Silence befalls.
"You know," I say, "you seem, like, totes a nice guy. I'd like to be friends with you."
He laughs. "That sounds good."
"Want to eat dinner with my family tonight?"
"Sounds fun! What time?"
"We usually eat around six. 1216 Franklin Avenue."
He nods. "Alright then. I'll see you then, Lori."
As he jogs away, Blair, silent until now, turns to me. "Why was he calling you Lori?"
"I think your watch is on backwards, Blair."
"I invited a friend over for dinner," I tell Dad when I walk through the front door. He's on the couch, watching the cooking channel. "Is that okay?"
"Sure thing, kiddo. I'll be sure to cook a little extra."
Before getting ready for dinner, I go into my room, sit on my bed, and take out my notebook hidden in my pillowcase. Alone, I open to page six, and I review some of the notes that I have collected over the years:
16. if your binging on dry things make sure you drink extra fluids to get it all to come up, othersise its sucks ASS!
17. Say your going for a shower or bath then when you puke run the water and after have a shower or bath. i also turn my bathroom radio on, gets a little more noise going…
18. if you're purging in a public toilet, flush the toilet with each puke episode… it covers the sound & you can always say that the toilet isn't flushing forcefully enough (like it's broken)
19. Stand up when putting your finger down your throat… when it is down… breath in… lots of air… then bend over it will come out
20. instead of just sticking your fingers down your throat what you have to do is find the hole in your mouth that you breath out of (not the one that leads to the esophagus) and slightly stick your finger in it (careful you might hurt yourself if you do it too hard unlike the regular esophagus thing).. it makes you more nauseous and makes more food come up
21. instead of rising suspicion by going to the bathroom after every meal, go to your room, turn the stereo up and purge in a garbage can. you'll get a chance to see how much actually came up and it'll be easier to hide if you make any noise
22. Use soft food to purge, it's easier
23. Use markers such as Doritos, so you know everything is up when you see the orange
24. Rock backwards and forwards while you are making yourself purge… I've found the rhythm and momentum help make being easier
I think of a new thing to add to the list, something I'm surprised I haven't thought of until now, and flip a few pages ahead until I find the end of the list. I write:
67. ice cream is #1 for puking…tastes SO GOOD (fatty, but hey that's what bingeing is for) and practically pukes itself out
I put my notebook back away and spend the next couple of hours before dinner laying facedown on my bed, motionless. I make sure I don't fall asleep because that would only make it difficult to sleep when night comes, and I require more than all else at least eight, preferably nine, hours of rest. In this period of time, I pity myself a little, but most of the time I spend thinking about the night I killed Coyle. I play the situation over again and again in my head, reviewing every second of it.
The doorbell rings. I go downstairs to answer, but Lola beat me to it. Walter is in the doorway.
Lola inspects Walter. "Who are you?"
"I'm here to have dinner," he says. "Lori invited me."
"Oooooo! Lori brought a boy over!" Lola is being a little shit and I hate her for this.
Poor Walter blushes.
"Lola," I say, walking behind her and gently moving her out of the way. I want to fucking "That's no way—" crucify you— "to treat—" with a nail gun,— "...a guest."
Walter, though shy, strikes up an interesting conversation with my parents while we eat.
"I bet you don't see many families quite this big," Father says, and chuckles.
Walter smiles. "Overpopulation is an issue, sure, but you guys seem like such nice people. I wish there were more families like yours."
Father stabs a green bean with his fork. "Overpopulation, huh?" He begins chewing. "I'm not aware of any immediate issues with overpopulation."
"Immediate, no," says Walter, "but in America alone, the population's going to rise by fifty percent in the next four decades. Think about how crowded the exurbs are already, think about the traffic and the sprawl and the environmental degradation and the dependence on foreign oil. And then add fifty percent."
Even with fourteen usually chatty people at the table, there is an awkward silence.
"Have you heard of the Club of Rome?" asks Walter, breaking the quiet.
Father thinks for a moment. "No, I can't say I have. Enlighten me, Walter. What's the Club of Rome?"
"They're a non-profit organization of highly educated individuals who are concerned about the future of mankind, mostly about overpopulation."
"Well, I—" Father begins.
"I hope to one day become a member myself," Walter quickly adds.
After another uncomfortable pause, Father speaks back up. "Well, I hope they're successful."
After dinner, I wave Walter goodbye as he leaves, go to the bathroom, complete my routine, and come back downstairs. I sit down the couch, patiently awaiting the end of the hour when the local news comes on, hoping that they'll talk about Coyle Haven. In the meantime, I sit and watch Lincoln play video games. He plays them like they're crack and he's an addict.
On the screen, Lincoln's character takes a bat and swings it hard into another player's head.
"Ouch," I say.
The opposing character falls to the ground, and Lincoln proceeds to hit him again, again, and again.
"He should be bleeding by now," I say.
"Mom only lets me play T rated games at the most," he says. "There's no blood in this game."
"A human skull can't sustain that many hard blows to the head," I say, ignoring him. "His head would at least be cracked by now, and he's gonna have lots of brain damage. It's a miracle he's still even conscious."
Lincoln slowly turns around and looks at me like I'm crazy.
I need to stop talking about un-Leni things.
The doorbell rings, and I stand up quickly. "I'll get it!" I announce, and go to the front door. Opening it, I see a man who looks to sixty but is probably only in his late forties. His hair is greying, and he has visible lines of stress under his eyes. A ripple of fear goes through me, and I momentarily lose my focus. He's holding a suit and wearing a briefcase (...wait, no, he's wearing a suit and holding a briefcase) and he looks apprehensive.
"Hello!" I chirp, trying to hide my fear. Is this man here because of what I did to Coyle? "How can I help you, mister?"
The man adjusts his tie and holds his hand out. "I'm Donald Elbert," he says. "Detective Donald Elbert."
I reach out and shake his hand firmly. I quickly realize that, no, if I was a suspect in Coyle's death, the police would be here, not a detective. I was careful. I made sure to use gloves and leave no fingerprints, strands of hair, or any other sort of DNA behind. Why, then, is there a detective at the house?
"May I speak with one of your parents?"
Before I can say anything, Father speaks up from behind me. "I'm right here. What do you need?"
"Mr. Loud, I understand that you have several daughters currently enrolled in Royal Woods High,.the same school that Coyle Haven had used to attend. May I have the privilege of speaking with a couple of them? Just briefly."
Father puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes lovingly. "Leni here goes to that school. You can start by talking to her."
Donald looks at me and smiles. "Is that okay, Miss Leni?"
I'm starting to not really like Donald. He's friendly, charming, and charismatic, but under all that, I know he's only going to cause trouble. I don't consider him even a man, now, just an obstacle, something annoying and in my way.
"Of course!" I chirp, forcing a smile, and though I've done it hundreds, no, thousands of times, faking a smile, for some reason, is really hard to do right now.