23rd July 2007
Arlington University

""Hey, Em, bad timing. I'm a little busy with something right now," I hold the phone between my head and my shoulder, struggling with the sleeves of my jersey. "I'll definitely catch up with you later in the evening though."

"You really picked that up?" She frantically whispers, fidgeting with her blonde tresses stuck in the hook of her metallic blue bralette, not bra–as I had come to understand from one of my previous mishaps and the lecture that followed. Although, I wouldn't have minded a earful from this one. Nothing too extraordinary, just that those golden locks of hers, tragically remind me of someone else.

"Hey, you don't get to reprimand me for not being into it, unless we are dating. Right?"

"I'm not dating you, Bailey," she clearly states and yet throws a smirk in my direction, giving some very mixed signals.

"But I am the perfect guy. Top athlete of the university, scary enough to shove any guy who tries to make advances at you, and a brainiac to top it all." She simply stares. "Or is it true that Rachel Stinson is now into geeks?" I ask, having heard of her recent break up with this spectacled, Garfield obsessed guy in her environmental sciences classes.

"First of all, I know you are talking about Jake, and, no, he wasn't a geek. At least, in the sack he wasn't," she mumbles, well aware I heard it all. "Secondly, I would say that you left out 'a great sense of humour,' but the speech was a proof of it." A prideful grin makes itself home on her glossed lips, while I'm partially offended and partly in awe of her. "As much as you flatter yourself for all these qualities, there isn't a chance here. However, I'll give you one for those blue eyes."

"That's even better. The diva of Arlington had a fling with George Bailey. Sounds amazing if you ask me."

"You better not open your mouth about this in front of anyone," she hisses, while her baby pink painted nails rest at the nape of my neck. Ferocious and aesthetic never looked better.

"Alright, alright, I won't tell anyone." As much as I wanted to keep my well coveted image of being referred to as Arlington's OG player, both on and off the field– the creases on my jersey staying conceited for sometime won't be a matter of trouble. In fact, just reminiscing it over and over in a loop, makes my entire being go into a state of frenzy. As it turns out, caffeine didn't stand a chance in front of the sugar laced tongue of Rachel Stinson.

Not a thing to complain about, but I'd prefer if it wasn't so dark out here. I'm not denying that scream's taught us a grimy house has its own kinky appeal, but the occasional strain of sunlight falling on the slick of our bodies didn't seem as good as I had hoped. On the other hand, it was indeed surprising to finally discover that our university had a basement. Judging by all the off brown sheets wrapped over the furniture and the clusters of cigarette butts on the creaky floor, it appeared the authorities have forgotten all about it too.

Now I usually don't care for scouting spots around the campus, but one could always make an exception when it came to Rachel Stinson.

All those hours spent sweating it out on the lacrosse field finally paid off when I saw her cheering for the captain of the home team by the stands amongst my growling guy friends. I didn't make much of it until I found my prided post game stench being let down by the misty scent of Chanel hovering above me. It was better than trying to make it through the smell of nicotine with Lisa last week.

"Shit! I think I touched something gross," Rachel's shrieks bring an unfortunate end to my escapade diaries.

"What happened?" I stay slumped on the couch, well aware it's an exaggeration.

She lifts herself off my lap and grabs onto the sleeve of my letterman jacket, taking shelter behind the blood red emblem. I look over to where she had been pointing, but can barely see anything, except for a rocking chair someone must have left in the nineties. For her sake, I even try turning the chair around, but it feels heavier than it should have. My fingers graze across the scathed wood— unfazed, until they grab onto something mush like. Like someone's decaying flesh.

That's really all that takes for me to grab my wrinkled jersey and stumble my way through the dark, with some hefty screaming in tow. Rachel takes a leap from the corroded table as well, and runs as fast as her pencil heels would allow— the consecutive clicking of her heels surpassing the tread of my oversized sneakers. I frantically follow her lead all the way to the iron gates of the university, which seems more like the ones those paranormal movies depict, owing to our thrilling circumstances.

"What the hell was in there?" Rachel asks while I recover my breath for what seems like the third time today. Although, this time around it isn't nearly as satisfying.

"I think it was a who," I try to collect my hazy thoughts. I couldn't see what thing or being was sitting on that chair, but it was very clear that something apart from old furniture had been rotting in that basement.

"This was such a bad idea," she scrunches her nose, visibly baffled, and I couldn't agree more.

"Should we check on it?" I'm unable to shake the dead or alive pendulum looming in front of my eyes.

"Are you crazy? I just said that I am never going back in there," she sternly declares, pulling out a compact from her bag to take care of the unnatural white popping over her bronze hued skin.

"All right, but we can always inform someone. The authorities maybe?"

"And what will you tell them, when they ask you about your business in the basement?"

Good question. "We–I, I was just exploring the university?" My mind has obviously been rendered dumb with shock.

"Look, Bailey, I don't want this to get out and if it does... you won't be alive to see what happens next," she threatens me, or at least tries with her teeny tiny figure.

But I decide to leave the matter, anyway. I kept telling myself that it was for her sake, but subconsciously I'm aware that an important game is coming up, and I'm not stupid enough to wreck my chances with this silly stint. Not again.

                                   
***

The clock strikes and four, and I don't spare even a minute to pull my sneakers out and begin my trail.

Emma and I are partnered up for a psychology assignment, and she's already reminded me to be there on time, nearly thrice since morning. Okay, I agree that she does most of the important work, but you've still got to give me credit for walking 20 blocks for the heck of it.

Not that I don't have an ulterior motive– I was equally in awe of the house and the beauty residing within. A powder blue one story bungalow with an exquisite vine garden encircling it's boundaries, resembling the set of a Walt Disney movie. One where you can just paint a mental picture of an unreasonably happy family, comprising of a set of model parents, two adorable twins, a girl and a boy, and a high on cocaine pet dog who cannot get shit done without licking every household members' faces the first thing in the morning.

An ideal family.

The last of the trek really gets to my nerves, and I shakily settles down on the cemented stairs leading up to the marble white door of her house. Panting and huffing, I am greeted by a pair of arms wrapping around my neck. I glance up to meet her warm gaze, the fleck of green in her eyes the same as her sweater's hue, paired with a plaid skirt that perfectly matched my mental sketch of the beautiful girl in the otherwise pointless Disney movie.

I know her all too well, every curve and dip of her body, and the fact itself makes me giddy and terrifies the hell out of me at the same time.

"Get up, Loser," she pats my shoulder, flashing thar sunshine like smile of hers. The one that stretches from end to end, glimmering amongst the blues of my life. Those 20 blocks were worth every step to experience this rush of ecstasy, and without having to spend even a dime.

She leads the way and I gladly walk behind, having her in the vicinity of my gaze at all times." Y'know, I wish I was the lucky one to be living here. If I had that kind of money, I would definitely buy this house."

"I could just hand you the keys over if you are so hell bent." She seems to be kidding, but the pleading tone said otherwise.

"You don't like it?" I question, half kidding and half wanting her to open up. Just for once.

"The house is fine, but the home doesn't quite match up to my  standards," she sighs, skedaddling her way over to the glass top coffee table and to some unprecedented dark humour within a matter of seconds.

I have touched the wrong topic, of course. Letting that wave of awkward silence subside, I jump in the very next moment. "Let's get started on the project, huh."

"Sure, and just so you're prepared, I am going to make you work this time," she claims with such great confidence, I can't help but nod and surrender to it Although, she sees right through how much I mean it, and hits me with a spiral bind file while I erupt into laughter. The sonorous bell hears ghastly for it shatters the moment and she's up on her feet, the mildew fragrance somehow bunched in her freckled arms now so far away. "That must be the pizza," she says, the prospect of something gathering my attention so I don't lisp away the coffer worth of feelings I've been harbouring since forever, isn't all that bad until there's something akin to giggles by the door.

With the round of hallucinations I might or might not be having, it's my first reaction to let it slide the kilter. "I remember getting nervous and holding your hand." Second, a rather emotionally fuelled one is to march outside to see what all fuss is about anyway, coming across some ginger head dressed in Papa Jones' green and with a grin directed towards Emma, I myself can't muster.

"Oh, George. Remember, Dele, he used to be in our freshman history class," she introduces, the recognition dawning. On Dele, who's suddenly darkened features contrast his otherwise palish self, the perfect concoction of fear and regret mounting on his sweaty face.

"Sure, I remember Dele. Hey, by the way, I think there's something burning on your stove."

"What?" She, in her usual adorable franticness, makes a run for the kitchen and leaves me with the perfect opportunity to do a little tête-à-tête with our old bud, who's apparently not got the George Bailey memo yet.

"So, Dele. You were getting all smiley there for a minute, something funny happened between you and Emma?"

"I... No, nothing, I should leave. I've got more places to go, I'd get fired if I stay," he scrambles in his worn out converse, the treading poor he realises when I catch the collars of his shirt with popping knuckles, turning him around and backing away until out of the gates.

"I'll tell you. You thought she's a pretty girl, let's flirt a little, what's the harm."

"George, I'm so sorry, I—"

"Too late, buddy. You fuck around, you've got to deal with the consequences," I push him against the picket fence, my dominant arm aiming for his earlier dimpled cheeks, never halting until they're busted enough to have heckled written in the dug outs I took the liberty to make. "If I see you anywhere within 10 miles of Emma in whatever near future you've got, our next meeting will not end with you and a rib cage with perfect breathing space, both intact. Understand?"

A hurried nod works in favour of my dissipating fury, him struggling and groaning in pain while away on his delivery bike taking care of the rest. "George," I turn to find Emma, anxious as to what she saw and heard. "The pizza's getting cold."

"Of course," a relieving sigh transpires into a satisfied smile as I fall in step with her, the gratifying knowledge that I  was her saviour even if for mere minutes enough to ice away the pain. Pain of not being able to call her mine.

***

Back at her home, while she gathers all that was needed, I look around the living room, gazing at the freshly painted ceiling and realising that it's hardly a few inches above my head. Everything around is in monotone, and most furniture appears to be made of an obnoxious combination of cigarette ash and bleached wood. We sit on an apathetically grey couch while Emma furiously types something on a laptop. The frown creased on her forehead makes it look like she is figuring out world peace or some shit. I stifle another cackle, very well aware that it won't be received nicely.

She catches me in due time, and I immediately shifted my gaze around in a miserable attempt to mask it— coming across an unusual thing in the room as I did so. A wooden trunk. It doesn't really match with the modern furniture and the overall decor of the house. Mostly because of the grey and white tones surrounding the intricately carved, cylindrical chest.

I go on to ask Emma about it, but she's got some very different questions lingering in her mind. "Did you bring printouts for the research?"

There's research involved? "Umm... See I wanted to, but..." She heaves a sigh at my fumble.

"I have a printer upstairs, just give me two minutes to get it." Announcing in thin air mostly, she leaves me all by myself in the dreary silence.

The aura of the room, as Jessica used to describe before creating one under the sheets, dimmed down since Emma left. Nothing but the occasional movements of the wind chime by the draped curtains. I linger on the couch for a while before getting up to help myself with some sparkling water in the kitchen. Still wondering about the misplaced trunk,  I can't help strolling to it.

There probably would just be old stuff in there, things no one needs anymore, yet I feel a sense of curiosity germinate. As I move closer, I realise it has a series of Arab letters calligraphied, giving an impression that it's been stolen right from Baghdad. Another Disney reference. I see a book peeping out from the edge, pages blunt at the end, some fringed. I try pushing it back inside, but it falls back on the floor instead and guilt entraps me. A glance at it and I deduce it definitely belongs in that chest; a typical brown leather bound cover and tattered pages making it seem more ancient than it otherwise might be.

I pick it up whilst layers of dust gathered on its cover descend into thin air as I flip it open to come across a bunch of sloppily written pages, each one of them carefully dated. It looks like a journal which I safely assume to be Emma's, when a heart dotted 'I' catches my gaze.

I debate whether to look in there or not. It's not as though there would be something exceedingly personal in these vanilla scented pages, something so incriminating I can't sweep through a few words even. She wouldn't hide anything from us, right?

A glance over the last entry dated as '14th July', gets me piqued, and aa seconds tick by, I'm flipping pages, scanning through the black ink. "We were hanging out at our usual spot. It was this woody.... hooked up with George Bailey.... hit her head with a log..." the book drops off of my numb palms before I can read any further.

"What was that sound?" Emma shouts from upstairs, yet barely audible beyond my staggering heartbeats.

"Nothing, I just dropped my bag," I attempt to put the journal back in the trunk, but my hands keep slipping off of the weathered cover. Once I succeed I quickly go back to take my earlier position at the left corner of the dense couch, wanting to shrivel to dust if possible.

I can hardly control my erratic breaths that seem to be demanding a barf bag to spill all the excess air struggling in the confines my throat. I can't believe she did this. She killed Kylie. To even think of it is horrifically jarring, yes, but deep in the trenches of my gut I can't help but wonder how Kylie found out about us.

I struggle with how to wrap my mind around the fact that she could have even pulled off something like this, let alone keep it a dirty secret. Worse, I feel like a compliance in this dubious activity.

So, was it her in the basement today? No, that can't be it, it had to be something else, for our sake it had to be. Later during gym, I slipped it past Archie in the locker room, and he dismissed it a crazy hallucination after calling me a attention seeking dipshit. The regular, although his tone felt oddly cold when he advised me to keep away from the basement.

I keep trying to convince myself that it's nothing like it seems on paper, but my trembling calves tell a different story altogether. When I hear loud steps trudging down the stairs, the sweat dripping down my neck freezes to a prick.

"You seem awfully weird today. Is everything okay?" She asks, settling herself right beside me. The warmth I would've otherwise felt, is replaced by shivers running down my spine instead.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, everything is fine." I manage to pull off my best smile. Better than the one I did when Lisa practically blew smoke off her bong on my face back in the university stalls.

Emma looks convinced, but not entirely as the doe eyes scan me with a hint of suspicion. "So, I have got the research papers, but I still need your support to complete this thing."

Her intent gaze works like a wonder to my panicky state. In fact, it immediately transpires to a faint memory of the day I met her; the sun shining a little too bright, my pulse sprinting faster than usual. Tryouts season had just begun, and I was going for my first game when I bumped into her and almost tripped on the laces of my knockoff Adidas. As unlikely as it sounds for someone like me, I had my heart in my mouth at the moment.

Something happened back then, and I can affirm I'm going through a similar feeling right now, surrendered to her in all of my throbbing entirety. My nervousness reduces down to the residual of a frothy milkshake and the air goes back to being purple. The journal, that entry, everything turns irrelevant in a flick of seconds, and what remains is the reminder of her lips on mine, the tequila in our systems a match to our eagerness, and our bodies so close I couldn't figure where each of ours begun and ended.

I'm not oblivious to what I read, but I trust her. More than myself. "I will always support you, Emma." The words come out heavier than intended, my voice so croaky you'd think there are shards of glass stuck in there.

I receive an eye roll, one of hers palms settling on mine, a skosh short of the certainty of it belonging there. Although, I don't forget how her lips tug into a small smile at the same time, ridding me of any last blemish of doubt lingering.

***

15th February 2015

The line goes dead before I can explain anything to Mia, and so do my cramped up legs in the decaying closet, sitting in the further more decaying basement of the University. If I hadn't taken a stop along the way, I would be at the clinic right now.

Now that prospect seems to be as far as I am, from that ever present star in the moonlit sky, keeping me alive. This might not be the best time, but whilst I am sweating buckets in this closed casket I can't help but wonder how things would have gone, if only... if only I had held onto her. I don't know if it happened the way they say it was, and most days I think I'd be better off never knowing. Then there's times when I am alone with my thoughts and I ponder; I'm responsible for someone's life long misery. If the press doesn't know, does it redeem you of all the bad you've still done? Even if in hiding.

I almost lose hope on changing the turn of events at this point, when my phone rings again. I pick it up in a haste, scrambling with the torn navy blue jersey I dumped it beside. "Mia?"

"George," she whispers, coming across as flustered as I am. "Where are you?"

"I am in the University basement, it's a long story. Look, I don't have much time to explain, but I think I know who is behind this prank. I saw her in the basement that day, and I still didn't do anything. I could have saved her, Mia." I acknowledge the tremble in my voice, followed by a sudden thud on the other side of the line. "Hello? Mia?" No response.

Are they here? Did they get to Mia as well?