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Chapter 16: I Know What You Did Last Semester
 By Jim Caple |
Previously at 24 College Avenue: After getting caught taking steroids at a track meet two summers ago, former State College sprinter Nicollette Mayle is trying to qualify for the Olympics with a clean slate as part of Athena Athletics’ “Born Again’’ program. She has been harassed by a mysterious stalker who has been sending her very disturbing emails signed “TrackFan.’’ John Higgins is a vice-president for Athena and a former housemate. Danny Edmonds is a sometime student, fulltime slob. Steve Hamilton is a photographer on the school newspaper. Paul Fairhaven is a film student. . . .
Nicollette’s sweat-soaked blue Athena running shirt clung to her body as she gripped the knob and opened the front door. She was out of breath, her lungs still burned, her legs were sore and the salt of her sweat was seeping into and burning her eyes. She felt great.
Banned from competition for more than a year and a half, Nicollette occasionally felt her training was going nowhere. It was one thing to run to your own routine; it was another thing to run in an actual race against world class sprinters. But thanks to Higgins, Athena was holding informal indoor workouts with some of its top athletes at State College during the week, providing Nicollette the chance to compete against some of the best in the world. And during the afternoon, she had beaten them. She had pulled ahead with 100 meters left to go and held on to win. No, it wasn’t the same thing as a real track meet. But it was a win nonetheless and gave Nicollette hope that maybe, just maybe, she could qualify for the Olympic team in the summer.
The win left Nicollette exuberant, feeling better than she had in months, perhaps better than she had felt since she still was competing at State College. She sprinted all the way home from the field house and took the steps to the porch of 24 College Avenue in a single bound.
“Hey,’’ she shouted to her housemates as she stepped into the moldy Victorian. “What’s everyone watching?’’
“The steroid hearings in Washington,’’ Josh answered from the living room couch.
Nicollette stepped into the living room. “Is that still going on? It started before I left for my workout.’’
“Yeah, and it doesn’t look like it’s ending anytime soon,’’ Josh said, pulling a beer from an ice bucket set up on the coffee table. “But we’ve turned them into a drinking game. We all have to drink whenever a player or congressman says something about setting an example for the children.’’
Josh was sitting on the couch with Steve, Danny and Fairhaven. Hands on their beer bottles, they watched a Democrat from Nebraska take his turn at the microphone.
“I know some have criticized these hearings as a waste of taxpayer money,’’ the Congressman said, “but let me assure you, this is not a TV opportunity for us. This issue is deadly serious and we need to hold these hearings to deliver a message to our children . . .”
Nicollette could not hear the rest of his speech under the noise of Josh, Steve, Danny and Fairhaven shouting and chugging their beers.
“How many is that now, seven?’’ Steve asked.
“Eight,’’ Danny said, emphasizing the number with a loud belch. “And that’s only since we started the game.’’
“Yeah,’’ Josh said. “If we had been keeping track since the start of the hearing, we’d be at 20, easy.’’
“The whole thing is such a joke,’’ Nicollette said. “What I would love to hear is someone say to the committee, ‘Yes, sir. You’re absolutely right. The use of steroids in sports is deadly serious business. After all, more than 4,000 Americans have died from steroid use and tens and tens of thousands of innocent civilians have died as well. No, wait a minute. That’s the war that’s caused all those deaths. Steroids haven’t been medically proven to have killed anyone. So what were you asking me again?’ ’’
Josh laughed. Steve nodded. Fairhaven stared at the outline of Nicollette’s breasts in her running shirt.
“Yeah, like, shouldn’t they be discussing the war or the recession or whatever?’’ Josh said. “Isn’t that what we elect these guys to do? Not call in athletes so they can ask for their autographs.’’
“On the other hand,’’ Steve said. “If they’re holding these hearings, it means they aren’t wasting time passing some pork barrel bill or taking away our rights. The whole system is so @#$% up.’’
“You’re out of order!’’ Fairhaven shouted. “You’re out of order! The whole trial is out of order! They’re out of order!’’ (1)
Nicollette rolled her eyes. Even after six months back at the house, she couldn’t get used to Fairhaven, the film student who spoke only in movie quotes. She turned to leave and head up to her room.
“Hey,’’ Josh called after her. “You got a package in the mail.’’
“Really?’’
“Yeah. No return address. Just a couple hearts stamped on it.’’ He got up and staggered out to the dining room, where the package was on the table. He picked it up and brought it to her, trying hard not to be obvious while he stared at her sweaty body.
The package was wrapped in plain brown paper and about half the size of a shirt box. It weighed only a couple ounces. She shook it but heard no noise and could feel nothing moving inside. “I think we can rule out a bowling ball,’’ she said, looking at the red and pink hearts stamped where the return address would go. “Looks like a Valentine’s present.’’
“I hate Valentine’s Day,’’ Josh said. “Just an official reminder that I don’t have a girl friend and I’m not getting any.’’ He said this in part, because that’s how he felt, and also because he was hoping Nicollette would take the hint and give him a hug or a kiss or a card or somehow acknowledge him. She didn’t.
“Who needs a @%$& girl friend,’’ Danny called from the couch. “The swimsuit issue came this afternoon, too. That’s all I need.’’
Disgusting, Nicollette thought. She began her way up the stairs to the second floor, gazing at the package and beginning to worry. It had been awhile since she had received any emails from the internet stalker, TrackFan, and hadn’t seen any sign of anyone spying on her since that one night when Higgins had come over to the house. In fact, she had stopped worrying about TrackFan for the most part. But now the worries came rushing back. A package with hearts but no return address? And her address had been typed on with a label. In other words, no handwriting to trace. Could it be from the stalker? Or was it simply a harmless present from a friend or relative who liked using a printer?
Nicollette walked into her room and sat down on her bed, staring at the package and wondering what to do. She weighed her options, torn between dread and curiosity until curiosity won out. What the hell, she thought. Even if it was from the stalker, there was nothing to lose by finding out what was inside. She ripped away the brown wrapping, opened the box and gasped. Delicately wrapped inside pink tissue paper was a pair of lacey black panties and a black bra with a broken strap. Nicollette recognized the underwear immediately. It was the same pair she had worn for her photo shoot more than two years earlier. But how had someone gotten a hold of it?
Nicollette picked up a slip of paper that was with the box, dreading to find out who had sent the package and already sick to her stomach that she knew. Her body began to shake as she read the message that, like her address, had been written with a computer printer.
“Will you be my Valentine?’’ the message read. “P.S. Would love to see you in these again. But this time in person, not a photograph.’’
Nicollette ran to the bathroom to throw up when she saw the name at the bottom of the card.
TrackFan.
Next: Beer Pong
(1) Arthur Kirkland in "And Justice For All''
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