THE STUDENT COUNCIL

Her bag was packed, ready to go. Amy slipped into her red Zumba outfit, then covered it with a Samaritan hoodie and blue jeans. Her ball cap matched the sweatshirt and she tucked her ponytail beneath it.

Noticing last year’s Samaritan yearbook on her desk, she sat down and leafed through it for a minute. Taking scissors from a drawer, she cut out a few photos. Then she added the book to the contents of her bag.

As she left her bedroom, Amy paused at the door. She looked back at the wicker hamper and considered the money inside it. If she never returned, her mother would be forced to do laundry herself. Emily would eventually find it, more than enough to pay off the mortgage on the house.

After rolling her bike out of the garage, she went back inside to grab a small plastic crate from a stack of empty ones. The size of four shoe boxes, the white container would be bulky to carry, but light as a feather. She could hold it with one hand.

With her tote bag in the bike’s basket, she headed down the long driveway. At the street, she turned and saluted her home. Just in case. In case she never saw it again. The yard looked great. Not a weed in sight.

Passing the Barner house, she saw Paul’s Hummer in the driveway. The custom license plate read: OCITY73. A new bumper sticker shouted: NITTANY LIONS. Big Seven Three not only played another great game last night, he came through for Google. Paul deserved all the best in life. No one was more worthy of her protection. More accurately, she realized, no one was less deserving of the trouble she caused with her stupid pie-in-the-sky idea.

She continued to Diamond Street and turned left. Sorvino’s car was parked on the street in front of 312. She cruised by, retracing her path from a few nights earlier. The neighborhood looked different in daylight.

The parallel street was fairly quiet. A group of kids played in a front yard, half a block away. A woman was walking her dog, headed in the other direction. Most adults were in front of their flat screens; the Pirates had made the playoffs and were taking on the Cardinals.

Amy wasn’t overly concerned about being seen. Samaritan clothes had become the Oil City uniform. Wearing them, she’d be inconspicuous, just another neighborhood kid.

Between houses, she could see Sorvino’s door. Amy took the disposable phone from her bag and called the number he gave her.

“Yeah,” he answered. She could hear a baseball broadcast in the background.

“It’s me. I have what you wanted.”

“About time. You were testing my patience.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I was up really late and then had chores.”

“I know. I drove by a couple times. You were mowing that big, fat lawn.”

He’d been watching her! She hadn’t noticed his car at all. The phone shook in her hand. He could have followed her just now! To his own apartment! She never considered the possibility. Never even looked over her shoulder. Stupid girl! Her confidence was plunging.

She tried to stay calm. “If you wait for me in the exercise room, I can be at the school in ten minutes.”

“I can do that. Don’t make me wait long. I don’t wanna miss much of the game.”

Her heart pounded as the door opened and he emerged. Everything was suddenly real. With her bag hanging on her right shoulder and the crate in her left hand, she waited half a minute. Leaving her bike parked on the sidewalk, she crossed the street, walked between the houses, past her maple tree, and to his doorstep.

She heard the baseball announcers through the door. Was someone else in his apartment? Who else could be watching the game? She moved to the window and peeked inside. Empty. Total relief.

Amy placed the crate, upside down, in front of the door. The porch light was too high for her to reach without help. She secured the key, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

The black and white cat looked up at her from the couch, indifferent. A large suitcase laid open on the floor. Sorvino was in the process of packing or had never unpacked. Amy took a manila envelope from her bag and shook the contents onto the coffee table. She then scooped up his laptop and power cord. After stuffing them in her bag, she made a quick tour of the place, looking for other documentation of his research. Before leaving, she turned off the TV. Sorvino wasted electricity, she thought. Not a thoughtful person.

Outside, she climbed back on the crate, wiped the key on her sweatshirt, and returned it to the hiding place. Walking between the houses again, she was careful not to look toward any windows. She could be seen, as long as she wasn’t really noticed. If no one saw her face, her presence would likely be forgotten.

Back on her bike and pedaling, Amy knew she had passed the point of no return. To her surprise and dismay, Trisha Berman filled her head again. The teacher had come to Oil City to be near her father! Her married father. How sick was that? How pathetic. All her smiles and fond attention had been contrived. She was a total fake. A poser like Roger Cooper. Even worse. Why hadn’t Amy seen through her teacher’s masquerade? “I’m a stupid girl,” she declared out loud. “A stupid, stupid, stupid girl.”

As she approached the Allegheny Mall, her thoughts shifted to the high school. Saving Westin Construction and helping her parents had been wasted effort. Her school, however, was a huge success. Would she be remembered for it in a good way? Would Google talk about her contribution once she was gone? How about William? Would he marry Sadie some day? Wouldn’t that be ironic? Capital I.

Amy rode past the mall and circled behind it. She stopped at the rear of Pizzarama, next to the huge blue dumpster that the bustling business filled every day. She tossed the white crate into the bin first. Then she smashed the computer on a sharp steel corner. Other items from her bag went in next. Sorvino’s power cord and the recording device. Her disposable phone. The yearbook. An empty manila envelope. His phone number. She stripped off her hoodie, jeans and hat. Chucked them in the garbage too.

Wearing only red Spandex, she rode back toward the front of the mall, her ponytail bouncing in the breeze. She welcomed the goosebumps that rose beneath her skin. They had nothing to do with wind chill or fear. They meant only that she was ready.

Sorvino’s car was parked a few doors down from the old Forever Fit, the only vehicle in front of the school. Amy left her bike at the curb and took the master key from her bag. She also withdrew her iPhone and clutched it in her left hand. Lastly, she hung her bag on her right shoulder, allowing it to rest against her hip.

Stepping inside the tinted glass door, she saw nothing but vacant space. Sorvino’s head popped out from behind the door to the locker rooms. “Back here,” he ordered. Then his face disappeared.

Inside the outer locker room door, she found him holding the swinging door to the men’s room open. She turned left instead, and through the entrance to the ladies’ room.

He shrugged and followed her. “How much did the Barner kid say?”

“Everything. I have your recorder right here.” She plunged her right hand deep into the bag, feeling around. “It’s here somewhere.”

She reached across with her left hand, as if to hold the bag open. As she did, her phone fell from her fingers.

It seemed to drop toward the floor in slow motion, as if it were moving through water. Sorvino’s head instantly dipped. His right arm extended downward. He was going to retrieve the phone for her, just as he had picked up Google’s camera in her classroom. The dirty cop was such an anomaly. Bad people weren’t supposed to have pets, love baseball, and display good manners, were they? At least he would go out as a gentleman.

As Sorvino continued to bend over, Amy lifted the knife from the bag. As she raised the blade above her head, her left hand overlapped the right on the antler handle. Yes, she could drive a knife into his back. She’d been stabbed twice today herself, by her father and Vermin. Still, before she struck, she pictured her target as nothing but the belly of a dead deer.

She slammed down the knife with a double-fisted punch, burying the blade to the hilt. She expected to hear a scream or yell, to see him collapse to the floor. Instead he gasped and jerked upright. The surprising movement separated her hands from the knife handle. She was suddenly standing face to face, completely at his mercy.

He stared in wide-eyed disbelief. “What did you ... hit ... me ... with?” He reached over his shoulder with his left hand, searching for the source of his discomfort. Unable to reach the knife handle, he started grabbing at his back with both hands, elbows high, stretching further, changing angles, becoming increasingly alarmed.

Amy stood dumbstruck. What should she do? Why hadn’t he fallen? He seemed angry and confused more than hurt. Her instinct was to run for safety, but no place was safe - not if he lived. He had to die. There was no other option.

His fingertips finally grazed the knife handle. “You little bitch! You stabbed me ... tried to kill me!”

He lunged at her, swinging his right fist. Like the falling cell phone, the hand seemed to move in slow motion. She was too bewildered to react. The man had a knife in his back! The fist landed below her left ear, knocking her backward into the wall. Her head bounced off the tile and she slumped to the concrete floor. Sorvino’s momentum spun him and carried him into the wall right after her. His back collided with the ceramic surface, pushing the knife even deeper. He screamed in anguish and fell heavily to the floor beside her.

Amy didn’t hear the holler or see his fall. With her right cheek pressed to the cold floor, her eyes fluttered open. She saw the detective’s colorless face on the floor in front of her, barely three feet away. His breathing was rapid and shallow, producing a raspy sound, the only noise in their world. His eyes, not connecting with hers, showed fear more than anger. He no longer appeared to be a threat, but his right hand reached toward her nonetheless.

The trembling hand stopped at her phone, midway between them, directly between their noses. He pressed the 9.

Amy watched in a trance, until realizing his mission. He was trying to summon help. She glanced at her left hand, lying limp just a foot from the phone, and willed it to stop him. Why wouldn’t it move?

His index finger crept to the 1. Tapped it. Tapped it again.

Her hand responded before he could push SEND, pulling the phone away.

He drew a deep, labored breath and exhaled, “You little bitch.” Or it might have been “witch.” A mist of red spittle accompanied his words.

As blood started leaking from the left corner of his mouth, she stared into his eyes in wonder. That was it? All he had to say? No prayers? No pleas to God for forgiveness? Nothing but you little bitch? He was doing his best to ease her conscience.

Amy’s mind wandered to forgiveness. She wasn’t asking any for herself. Her own action had already passed introspection; Sorvino gave her no choice. Her thoughts were on giving it. Didn’t Trisha deserve her forgiveness? She had certainly asked for it. Even cried for it. Was it such a huge sin for her to have been enamored with Grant Westin? Amy herself had always viewed her father as a flawless man. He had deceived both of them. Trisha Berman had been a victim, not a villain. And then there had been that clumsy kiss. Trisha didn’t respond, but she didn’t pull back either.

Refocusing on the dying man in front of her, Amy wondered if there would be a funeral. Google said he had no wife or children. Were there brothers or sisters? Surviving parents? Would there be mourners? She hoped so. For his sake.

The pond of blood in front of Louis Sorvino’s mouth kept growing, but his eyes looked vacant. His breathing had stopped. It was official: the black and white cat would need a new owner. She could now push SEND.

Before she did, Amy heard her name. She heard it called again. As the dressing room door swung open, she closed her eyes and laid still. This ending was better than the one she scripted.