Chapter Thirty-Seven Naomi

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Naomi

January 2023, four months before her death

Liam and I find Zee crumpled on the sidewalk across the street, heels splayed next to her.

“Zee!” I shout, dashing across the busy street. An angry driver swerves around me, laying on his horn. I shout and give him the finger.

Zee lifts her head—mascara is smeared down her cheeks—and tears up again. When I reach her, she’s muttering something to herself, something about so wasted and not good.

“Come on, let’s get you home.” I pull out my phone to call an Uber.

A few minutes later, Liam pulls his motorcycle over next to us.

“Is she okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. It’s been a rough night. I called an Uber.”

Ten minutes later, the car arrives. Liam hauls one of Zee’s arms, and I have the other, but she’s not making it easy.

When we’ve managed to get her seated, the driver turns around and frowns at Zee. “No.”

“What do you mean, no ?” I demand. “She needs to get home.”

“Not in my car.” The driver turns and looks out the front window, tightening his grip on the wheel.

“Are you serious?” I say, struggling to keep my voice down. “I’m going with her.”

“Come on, man,” Liam says, and begins trying to level with him, speaking fluent white-guy Spanish. I close my eyes, embarrassed. Judging by the man’s reaction, this was definitely the wrong move.

When it’s clear the driver won’t budge, Liam pulls out his wallet and offers the man a hundred-dollar bill.

The driver looks at the hundred, then back at us. “No.”

“I don’t want to go,” Zee says, trying to stand.

“What part of no do you not understand?” The driver is speaking loudly now, growing frustrated. “—muy borracha.”

Just then, I see Professor DuPont and his fiancée, Sara, leaving the front door of the building. They’re walking in our direction.

Zee lifts her head, squinting into the dark before shaking her head and mumbling something I can’t understand.

“Close the door,” the driver says, and then, when we don’t respond. “Did you hear? I said, Close the door. ”

Zee stumbles back, pointing at DuPont and yelling, but it’s hard to understand her; it’s a jumble of slurred words.

The driver gestures wildly, yelling over Zee about drunk girls and how this is his livelihood. “You have five seconds before I drive away,” he shouts.

“Relax, man,” Liam says. “We’re going.”

“That’s it!” The driver releases his foot from the brake, and the car jerks forward. The door hits us, throwing us onto the sidewalk as he zooms away, tires screeching.

I turn to DuPont apologetically. As much as I dislike the man, I don’t want any professors seeing Zee like this. “I’m sorry, we’re trying to get her home,” I explain, but before I can stop her, Zee stumbles into them, grabbing onto Sara’s arm to steady herself. Sara lurches back, panicked, as if she were being attacked by a pit bull, trying to loosen herself from Zee’s grasp.

DuPont grabs Zee, tearing her away forcefully.

“Hey, get off her! What are you doing?” I scream, catching Zee as she stumbles back onto the sidewalk, trying to stop her from falling headfirst into the street.

A police siren sounds out of the dark. Every inch of my skin tenses as two white police officers park their car next to us and get out of the vehicle, hands on their guns. “Is there a problem here?”

“No,” I say quickly, clasping onto Zee, trying to get her to her feet. “We’re fine.”

I tug on her elbow, hard.

She looks up. “Ow.” And when she sees the police officers, her face falls.

The first officer, a stocky man with a thick neck, turns to DuPont. “Everything okay here, sir?”

DuPont brushes off his suit. “Yes, thank you. We were just leaving an event.”

The cop looks at Sara. “I want to make sure these folks aren’t bothering you.”

Sara smiles. “Thank you, Officer. We’re okay now.” She shoots us a fearful look and reaches for her fiancé’s arm. “Let’s go home.”

DuPont looks at me, then back at Liam and Zee, before walking away. As they disappear down the sidewalk, Sara looks over her shoulder at me, her eyes trailing down my dress, untrusting, suspicious. I can’t believe DuPont is just walking away from this situation like that—we’re still his students.

The bigger cop looks at his partner, and I expect them to get back in their car, but instead he turns back to Zee, who’s hunched over my arm, trying to keep herself from throwing up. He gestures to her. “Ma’am, please come here.”

My back straightens, and I tighten my grip around her protectively. If Zee pukes right now, who knows how these cops would react. “She’s fine,” I tell him.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Just cooperate with the man,” Liam says, tightly.

I glare at Liam. What is he doing? He’s standing there, back straight, feet glued to the sidewalk, like he’s cool with these guys. Like he has no clue what’s going on right now.

Movement in my periphery draws my attention. To my right, a guy in a Red Sox hat has his phone raised, pointed at us, and I realize—to my horror— is that what this is? He thinks something is going to happen here? I feel my palms go slick with sweat, perspiration accumulate under my arms. I just want to go home and sleep in my own bed.

I put one hand up and keep the other firmly around Zee. This is fine. We’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no reason to feel scared right now. I look somewhere around the cop’s chin, avoid direct eye contact, make my voice as calm and white as possible. “Sir, I’m really sorry. We are not trying to cause any trouble. We’re just trying to get home.” I’m proud of the control I’d had over my voice despite the adrenaline.

“And where is that?”

I try to say it casually with the same control I’d had a moment ago. “Princeton.”

He stiffens. When he speaks his voice is louder this time, as if he is about to explode. “ I’m going to ask you one more time. ”

I keep my head lowered, eyes on his shoes as my heart flutters in my chest. Please, calm down. Please, just go away. “We’re going back to Princeton. We’re students—”

“ Priiinnnce-ton, ” he says mockingly. The cop reels back with a sarcastic laugh before shooting a look at his partner. When he’s done, he steps closer, and I go still. Sweat drips down my spine as I think of what he might do next. I imagine him shoving us against the car, forcing my hands behind my back, tightening handcuffs around my wrists—and what would he do to Zee?

My eyes drift to his gun, wondering if he might use it, and he catches me looking. His hand tightens around it. All of a sudden, static tears through the silence. His radio.

“ We’ve got two armed suspects on foot heading south on Lafayette at Fourth. ”

The officer responds into the radio and then looks up at me. “You’re lucky I don’t have time for this.” He nods at Liam. “Get them out of here. I don’t want to see you again.”

The officer nods at his partner as his radio goes off. They run to their car and I hear the engine roar and tires screech away. I put a hand over my chest; my heart is beating fast.

Once they’re gone, I turn to Zee. “You okay?”

She nods, but she’s clearly shaken.

“Come on, let’s get her home,” Liam says.

I turn to him, furious. “You could’ve done something, you know.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. Not stand there like an idiot.”

“You were asking for it,” he says, “talking back like that. They were just doing their jobs.”

Talking back? I’m so angry I can hardly see straight. I tense my jaw. “Do not speak to me right now.” My hands shake as I help Zee back toward the front steps of an old church.

The messed-up thing is the officer was right, we were lucky. They could’ve beaten us, arrested us, and gotten away with it. I glare at Liam, who sits on the curb scrolling through his phone. I want to tell him these men’s jobs were created to police us. That these patrol laws meant to keep us safe felt anything but.

—

That night, I’m too filled with adrenaline to sleep, and the next morning, I’m staring at the ceiling when there’s a knock on the door. Outside our door, a bouquet of peonies, my favorite flower. I pick them up carefully, wondering who sent them. Liam?

After setting them on my desk in my room, I search for a note, and my fingers close around the small card buried in the cellophane: Naomi, I’m sorry about last night. Let me make it up to you. —M.

My hands curl into fists, crushing the edges of the card. Matthew DuPont left us there. Stranded. With cops who could have done who the hell knows what? It would have been so easy for him. All he had to do was tell them to leave us alone.

I feel the anger rise up in me, and without thinking, I grab the flowers by the neck and hurl them at the trash, just barely missing, scattering petals and leaves all over the floor.