Page 40 of Big Man on Campus

We walk inside.

“Did you think she would let us in if we announced ourselves?” he says as we walk up the stairs to her apartment in 2C. Rolling my shoulders to loosen them, it feels like the muscles are being pried apart, they’re so tight.

“Let me do the talking, Dooley.”

“What the fuck did you bring me for if I’m not supposed to talk? It’s my expertise, n’est ce pas?”

I push him behind me when we reach the door. “Only if I give you the nod. I know how to speak.” I need to talk to this person, to explain myself, but without giving away that I wasn’t driving. The likelihood of failure sends a shiver through me. I have no way to convince her. But I need to try. And I need to find out who the fuck gave her the video clip.

Turning to Dooley before I knock, I whisper, “Do not under any circumstances admit that I wasn’t driving the car. N’est ce pas?”

He nods, grinning because I borrowed his words, almost like I’m sharing his post on social media. He gets a kick out of it. I rap my knuckles on her door and hold my breath. Something tells me she’s home and I won’t asphyxiate myself.

“Who is it? I’ll be right there,” a muffled voice from inside says. I stand front and center where she can see me through the door’s peephole, and I don’t smile, but I make sure I don’t look angry either, because I’m not. Keeping it real, I give her my best I come in peace look because I’m not looking for trouble.

Based on the sounds of footsteps, I can tell she’s at the door. When I hear the muffled “What the fuck?” I know she’s seen me and knows who she’s looking at.

“I just want to talk, Madelyn, to set things straight,” I shout through the door.

“Why should I believe that?” Her voice is strong, far from scared. I look at Dooley, his cue to add his two cents because I got nothing in response to that.

“Because I’m chaperoning, Ms. Fontaine,” Dooley shoulders me aside to get in front of the peephole and stands on tiptoes to make sure he’s seen.

“Is that Dooley—?”

“In the flesh. I can guarantee a civil conversation.”

I mutter under my breath. “Does everyone on this campus know you?” He gives me a look like I’m asking a toddler question.

Sure enough, I hear the sound of locks disengaging and she swings open the door.

The look on her face is far from intimidated and more like the opposite. Triumphant.

“Did you come here to confess?” she asks.

“I came here to tell you the truth which is that I wasn’t drinking and driving,” I say, careful to stick to the truth as much as I can without giving away that someone else was driving the fucking car.

She snorts and steps back, waving us inside, almost smiling at Dooley.

“I have to hear this explanation. You do realize it’s hard to believe a sober person ran the car into that tree. Did you forget to wear your glasses and you’re actually legally blind?”

“No.” I don’t elaborate yet as I look around the apartment. It’s pristine. And so is she. She’s a control freak. Her long dark hair is amazing and her large blue eyes would be pretty except for the pinch at the corners. She has a large regal nose reminiscent of Cher, but that’s the end of the resemblance because unlike Cher she’s not a statuesque woman, she’s petite. Wearing floral leggings and a tank top, she’s clearly in shape, and I look for a limp when she walks to see if there’s any residual effect from her injury. By all appearances, I’d have to say she looks fine, attractive even. If you could get past the boulder-size chip on her shoulder that shows in the sharpness of her expression.

“I didn’t drink and drive. That’s not what caused the crash.”

“So you say. Did the police do a sobriety test?”

I don’t bother answering since she knows the answer. Fuck no. Pushing my fingers through my hair, I will the frustration to pass, to keep control of my temper.

“That’s what I thought.” She’s a smug one.

“I was distracted by a phone call,” I say. “That’s how it happened.” Now I’m lying and my gut shivers in protest, sending a wave of sickness through me and the taste of bile to my mouth.

“Sure you were. Did the police check your phone?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. You have no business assuming that I’m guilty—”

“Now you’re going to play the innocent until proven guilty card? Fine. I’m okay with that. Except for one tiny detail.” She pauses, her eyes sparking with borderline malice, and I have to force myself to stay put, not to back away from her like she’s dangerous. She is dangerous, but not physically.