Only If You’re Lucky

“It’s on!”

Sloane calls us to the living room and turns up the volume, Dean Hightower’s voice creeping into the silence of the house around us. Bouncing off the newly bare walls. We’ve been moving our things out slowly, methodically, hauling boxes to the new apartment between classes. The furniture that came with the house is staying, of course, and we haven’t decided what to do with Lucy’s room yet. Right now, it’s simply sitting untouched as if we’re all just waiting for her to step through the front door, throw herself down on the couch with a sigh. Hit us with some half-hearted apology for causing such a fuss before crossing her legs and tilting her head, demanding we fill her in on everything.

I make my way out of my bedroom, the sound of snapping cameras and murmuring journalists leaking from the TV, and smile at Nicole when I see her emerge on the landing.

“Can’t wait to hear this,” she says, plopping down next to Sloane. I take a seat next to them and pull my legs up, settling in, trying not to think too hard about how this is probably the last time we’ll all be nestled together on the couch like this.

“Good afternoon,” he says, fiddling with his tie. The dean of Rutledge is as stereotypical as they come: white hair, tortoiseshell glasses, bulbous nose, and a slow Southern drawl. Lucy’s been missing for three weeks now and while he’s held press conferences since Levi’s death, long-winded speeches devoid of any real detail, this is the first time he’s expected to say something about her.

“As I’m sure you all know, Rutledge College has been mourning the death of one of our own: freshman Levi Butler, who tragically passed away at a fraternity function on Saturday, January 12,” he says, refusing to peel his eyes from the paper in front of him. “The fraternity in question, formally known as Kappa Nu, has been suspended amid the official investigation and several members have been brought in for questioning.”

“Okay, get to it,” Sloane says, rolling her wrists. The dean is flanked by a few officers behind him, a show of solidarity, and I can’t help but stare at Detective Frank just off to the left, twirling his wedding ring on his finger.

“Here at Rutledge, we value honesty and transparency above all else, so we would like to inform the public of the latest development. While Mr. Butler’s death is still being investigated as an accident, you may have also heard that police are searching for a missing woman who they now believe may have vital information related to the case. That woman is twenty-three-year-old Lucy Sharpe, who has not only been connected to the deceased but is believed to have been the last person to be seen with him alive.”

“Here we go,” Nicole says, rubbing her hands together. I can feel the giddiness radiating off her, off all of us, this heavy secret we’ve been carrying around slowly being released. Like every other time I learned a new truth about Lucy, though, the initial surprise about her age was replaced with a kind of obvious understanding once I really thought about it: that first day in Hines when she appeared with a case of beer at hand, the rest of us so fresh out of high school, so naïve. Just starting to scheme about how to find our fakes as we searched for upperclassmen with a passing resemblance, maybe. Someone we could bribe into passing one back. But Lucy always felt so much older than the rest of us, so much more mature, grabbing those bottles from Penny Lanes at random. Not at all concerned about getting caught. And while I know that twenty-three isn’t all that old, when you’re cocooned inside a place like Rutledge, a place where everyone is simply a carbon copy of everyone else, it’s old enough to somehow feel predatory, wrong.

We’re only sophomores, after all, most of us just on the cusp of nineteen. Even the seniors are barely twenty-one.

“It is important for our parents and students to know that while Ms. Sharpe deeply embedded herself into the Rutledge community, she is not, in fact, a student enrolled at the college,” the dean continues, pulling me back. “She reportedly spent a significant amount of time last year inside Hines Hall, our female-only dormitory, and while we can understand the concern about a nonstudent gaining access to a college-owned building, we can assure you that Ms. Sharpe was only allowed entry from residents she befriended, which does not, in fact, violate any school rules.”

“I knew it,” Sloane says, clapping her hands before pointing at the dean, accusatory, as if he can somehow see her. “I knew he’d deny it.”

“I mean, yeah,” Nicole adds. “What else would he say? She conned her way in?”

“Furthermore, Ms. Sharpe seems to have befriended several members of the Kappa Nu fraternity, including Mr. Butler. At the time of her disappearance, she was living with several Rutledge students in a private house off-campus, immediately adjacent to Kappa Nu, which also does not violate any school rules regarding nonstudents living in college-owned housing.”

“They’re not going to take any responsibility,” Sloane says, an amused smile on her face. “They’re going to play dumb.”

“Good,” I say, pulling my legs tighter beneath me. “Let them.”

“Ms. Sharpe was reported missing on Tuesday, January 22, when she failed to show up for work for the third shift in a row,” he continues. We watch as he pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabs at the sweat dotting his forehead, and stashes it away without peeling his eyes from the podium. “She is employed as a waitress at Penny Lanes Bar and Bowling Alley, and thanks to the cooperation of her employer, police have been able to identify her parents, who were listed as her emergency contacts and are requesting respect and privacy as they work with authorities to help locate their daughter so she can return to the station for questioning.”

I can’t stop staring at the dean, hanging on to his every word, teeth gnawing on the inside of my cheek as this plan we set in motion takes off so fast.

“At this time, we’d like to reassure the public that there is not a warrant out for Ms. Sharpe’s arrest as it pertains to the death of Levi Butler,” he continues, finally looking up from his notes. He removes his glasses, rubs the lenses with his shirt, and replaces them again. “However, police are collecting new evidence every day, and it is of upmost importance that any person, student or otherwise, with information regarding her whereabouts come forward as soon as possible. Thank you.”

The crowd erupts with questions as soon as he stops talking but the dean simply steps down from the podium and walks away without an offer to answer. The three of us continue to watch as a reporter appears on screen next, a picture of Lucy emerging in the left-hand corner, and I suppress a shudder when I see those eyes again: crystalline and kaleidoscopic. So lifelike I think she might blink.

“That’s enough of that,” Sloane says as the screen goes dark.

I turn to look at her, the remote still clutched in her grip before she tosses it onto the couch again, but when I glance back at the dead TV, Lucy’s face is still there, temporarily burned into the screen like she’s right here with us. Smiling at all the things we’ve accomplished, this stunt we’ve pulled because she taught us how.

Lingering, the way she always does, like she isn’t quite ready to leave.