Part 69: Victoria / Bobby / Courtney

Away not gone away not gone away not gone away not gone . . .

*

“Hey, Cic, Bobby, just calling back to check in, see how it’s all going, hope you not answering means you’re busy writing or even better editing, haven’t seen anything posted online yet, so. Just please for the love of God tell me you’re not going to try and go the actual newspaper, magazine route, it is the year two-thousand-and-seven for Christ’s sake, online is better for quick dissemination anyway, and I’m thinking sooner the better here. Oh and by the way, I’ve been thinking, and don’t feel like you’ve got to hold back or anything. Don’t spare my feelings, do me any favors because of what you think of as our friendship. Make me sound real evil, real like Dick Cheney, Henry Kissinger, ninth circle of hell sort of evil. And if you need any soundbites, I’ve got some names for you. There’s this super uptight girl named Christina and a freakishly boyish middle-aged guy called Jacob from my hometown, they’ll give you some stories. Small town, first names will do you just fine. Alright. Don’t call back, just keep writing, don’t even listen to the rest of this voicemail, actually, just---”

*

Courtney Collins was on fire Wednesday afternoon from three-thirty to five. It was one of the most intrinsically rewarding experiences of her life - not just so far, but ever. She was a maestro conducting an orchestra, cuing here the violins, here the clarinets; a world-class chef pirouetting around her kitchen; a puppet-master holding all the strings and manipulating them adroitly. With no Victoria and no Hannah and now no James, everyone was coming to her to find out what was going on with the three of them. Finally, all the tedious work she had done getting herself into position was paying off, and she could come alive.

She had at least eight different chat windows open on her computer screen at any given moment, and she was able to move between them swiftly, deftly, telling each person exactly what they needed to know at the right moment. She knew all the answers, even when she didn’t. There were no sides here, no right and wrong. There was simply the truth and people who craved it.

By four-thirty, she had even constructed a handy timetable of all the important events, which she then began copy-pasting to anyone who messaged her (as well as many who didn't.) It went through many drafts, but the final one looked like this:

fri nite -> h + v go to obm concert, meet guys, j hates v

sat morn -> h + j fight (mys) over v

sat pm-> j + sean fight at school over h

sat nite -> h fights drunkmom, runs away from home w obm guy 

tues nite -> hannah post (mys)

weds morn -> j tells court he’s gonna follow her (hannah)

weds (2day) -> vic yells at mr brown at school, gets det

This was only an primer, though; an overview. Courtney was eager to expound on any one of these events, depending on which part interested someone the most. This, too, she could sense intuitively. Someone like Devin Phillbrick, for instance, would want to know about James and Sean’s fight: how they were both in love with Hannah; how James punched Sean in the gut, a cheap shot; how Sean returned it with a sock to the face (“thats why james had a black eye on mond,” she explained, and everyone felt bad they hadn’t noticed); and then ended things by pulling out his pocketknife, which was why James was afraid of him now.

But to Kelly Castleman, you played up the altercation between Hannah and her mom on Saturday night. (Kelly had been online, she had seen Courtney’s away messages.) The screaming, the yelling, the shouting (three different things); the three-to-five letter words they called each other, which Courtney would only type if people specifically asked for them; the half-empty bottle of vodka in Hannah’s mom’s hand as she stumbled out onto the porch, chasing Hannah; the flashy red car that pulled up just long enough for Hannah to jump in the passenger seat, driven by some guy (not a kid, a guy) Hannah had met at the OBM concert, who was saving her.

And to anyone who wasn’t in Victoria’s English class, you told them all the things she had called Mr. Brown: a liar, a pathetic loser, a pedo, a total creeper who probably lives in his mom’s basement and ****s *** (Courtney wouldn’t even type this one out) to pictures of Harper Lee. And God only knew what he was doing to her in detention right now. Plus, Victoria’s mom, a “total complete b****” had taken away her computer, so if you wanted to find out you’d have to ask Courtney later.

But every conversation finished the same way, with the one thing that was absolutely certain, no speculation involved: the reason James wasn’t answering anyone right now (“dont believe me? try it urself!”) was because he had stolen his mom’s car (Lexi confirmed the SUV wasn’t in James’s driveway) and was on his way to “rescue” Hannah from the guy she actually liked. And he found out where she was by hacking into Victoria’s Myssenger account and reading her conversations with Hannah - this bit came from Sean, who told her (after she declined his request to join in harassing James [“i’m busy rite now but mayb l8r”]) he got a “weird message” from Victoria’s screenname earlier when she was in detention. When he complied and sent the conversation to Courtney, she knew immediately what it meant. If the Proper Capital Letters hadn’t been a big enough clue, the idiot had gone and written his own name! It was astounding how stupid some people could be.

Five o’clock or so hit and the crowd began to thin out. People went to dinner or started their homework now that their parents were home. The flashing windows reduced to a slow trickle. Courtney Collins sat back, pleasantly exhausted, the way some people claim to feel after vigorous exercise, the way soldiers must feel right after a long, hard-fought battle, finally emerging triumphant. The slowing down was itself a sign of her success. She had done good. Thanks to her, the people were informed.