4
My
first conversation with Morgan Dona Tigh in over a year came early one morning
in late April, our second year in the Trap.
This time, it was longer than her just trying to get free chocolate
milk, but it was even more unpleasant.
I
was where I’d been for our conversation that last morning before the Trap fell. The trial still ongoing, I was trying to stay
out of it as much as possible this time, only attending when called as a
witness. So, I spent most mornings in the cafetorium, very
early before the breakfast crowd filtered in, writing segments for the soap
opera The Sands of Loren. Yes, that was
still going on. Students loved it, and
the TV equipment was still working (although Mr. Resart was starting to stress
that our inventory of replacement parts was beginning to dwindle).
I
did have Vice-Principal Charles Stein and Student Council Representative Wilbur
Jones reviewing my script to edit any political or social commentary. Sometimes it was easy to fool them. Sometimes
it was not. My best strategy was to have
something blatant for them to pounce on, distracting them from smaller things
that would slip through.
As
I tried to figure out a new joke for Nurse Rackett, I looked up and saw Morgan
approach, wearing a nurse’s uniform, a white dress, a little tighter than you
would expect, and two buttons left undone at the top. She was sexy, I admit. Not as in your face as Nurse Rackett, but
Morgan got her intent across.
She
could not take her eyes off me. I don’t
mean in a sultry way. She looked
angry. She looked like she wanted to
take me out. At that time, she probably did.
“Hello,
Lance,” she said, dripping scorn.
I
tried to croak out, “Hi,” but was unsuccessful even at that.
She
didn’t sit down. She put her hands on
the table and stared at me. “I see you’re
working on that little play you do.”
“Y-yes,”
I managed to say.
“You’re
real good at that, aren’t you, Lance?
You like ‘playing’ at things, don’t you?
You have quite the imagination.
You make up all kinds of things.” She smiled, a chilling, cold smile.
“It’s
just a story,” I said, trying to get my voice back. “I know the difference between what’s real
and what’s not.”
She
laughed. “Do you? Really?
Wow, can’t prove that by the wild fantasies you’re spinning about Mark.”
“It’s
true! He’s a killer!”
“Is
it? Are you sure? You know, you’ve been after Mark ever since
the Trap fell. Why, I wonder? Are you jealous?”
“No!”
I shouted. “Why would I be jealous of
him?”
She
put a hand to her chin and looked up in mock puzzlement. “Hmmm.
Let me think. Maybe you never got
over your ridiculous elementary school crush of me.”
“That’s
ridiculous!”
“Is
it, though? Maybe you thought your way
would be clear once you got Mark out of the way. Look, I don’t believe you’re the killer. You’re too big of a wimp to be that. But to
take advantage of the chaos and try to blame Mark? Oh, yes, that is for sure in your wheelhouse.”
“You
honestly think Mark is innocent? Come
on. You know him better than most of
us. I saw you hesitated to alibi him for
Lisa’s murder. You must know something
is wrong.”
She
hesitated, just for a second. Did she have
doubts? I suspected she did, but instantly
her guard was back up. “You’re right.
And that’s why I know most of what you say about him is bull hockey.” Okay, Doctor Duncan, that’s not quite the
word she used, but that’s what I feel comfortable writing.
She pushed away from the table but kept up her
deadly stare. “And just to make it crystal clear, your little plan is going to
fail. I will never fall for you. I will never even like you, you worthless,
chubby over-protected Principal’s son! I
wouldn’t fall for you even if we were the last two people left in this godforsaken
Trap!”
At
that, she huffed away.
Never
fall for me?
Well,
that turned out not to be true.
