She waited patiently for the psychologist seated at a desk across from her to finish a conversation with a local psychiatrist who specialized in pharmacological solutions to teenage angst. They were discussing a prescription for Ritalin, the preferred drug to deal with ADHD. The psychologist, a frowsy, angular young woman probably only about ten years Jordan’s senior but trying hard to look more mature, was being careful not to use any names, because Jordan was present. The issue appeared to be a refill order that shouldn’t have been necessary. Jordan knew exactly why this anonymous student had run out of Ritalin early: because he had sold some or had some stolen, or maybe both. It was a favorite party drug.
Fun for some, she thought, and now the kid can’t concentrate enough to get his history term paper finished. She wanted to laugh at the dilemma, and the pathetic way the student had tried to talk the psychologist into getting more pills. Jordan knew the school monitored the number of pills each student was supposed to have on hand at any given time: just enough for a once-a-day respite from distraction.
The psychologist gestured in the air as if to make a point and then, with the phone still to her ear, waved in Jordan’s direction, a just a minute motion that turned Jordan back to the window. She could just make out her reflection in a corner of the pane-pale, as if the image was of some different Jordan. That’s Red Three, not Jordan, she decided.
In that moment, Jordan wondered whether the Big Bad Wolf had electronically visited the YouTube entry for Red Two. It had not taken Jordan long to post two messages on the website: RIP Red Two and We will miss you, your friends 1 and 3.
She didn’t know if he would see them. But she thought they were a nice touch.
The psychologist hung up the phone with a chorus of “Okay, okay, okay” before slumping back. She smiled. “So, Jordan, tell me about what you saw last night.”
She doesn’t waste any time, Jordan thought. “Maybe if I had a prescription for Ritalin…” Jordan began.
The psychologist managed a laugh. “That was a pretty predictable conversation, wasn’t it?”
Jordan nodded.
“But unsuccessfully trying to talk the staff out of a class two substance isn’t the same as seeing a woman kill herself,” the psychologist said.
Straight to the point, Jordan thought again. “We were driving back to school after the game. I was the only one staring out the window. I spotted the woman climb up on the bridge barrier and saw her jump. Then I screamed. Just a natural reaction, I guess.”
The psychologist bent forward, expecting more.
Jordan shrugged. “It wasn’t like I killed her.”
But now she’s free, Jordan thought. It was a little like seeing someone else get a gift that she particularly wanted. She envied Red Two.
Jordan shifted in her seat. The psychologist was asking more questions, probing feelings, impressions. It was inevitable that she would try to steer this conversation into some discussion about her parents, her grades, and her bad attitude. Jordan waited for this to land in front of her, replying as succinctly as she could. She just wanted to get out of the psychologist’s room with as little damage as possible and get back to the task of saving her life. She was willing to say anything, behave any way, or act as appropriately as she possibly could to achieve that result.
Nothing I say here means anything. For a moment she considered telling the psychologist everything. The letters. The video. All about becoming Red Three. It was like telling herself a joke, and she had to stifle a smile.
And what will she do? She will think I’m crazy. Or maybe she will call the dean. He’s a well-meaning idiot and he’ll call the police. More well-meaning idiots. And then the Big Bad Wolf will just disappear into the woods and wait until I’m on my own again, and he’s free to do whatever he wants. Maybe I’ll get a year or two and then I’ll be Red Three all over again. And I know what he will do then.
Jordan could hear herself replying to the psychologist’s questions, but barely paid any attention to what she was saying. The words coming out from between her lips were flimsy and had no real connection to what was happening to her. She believed the real forged iron and steel was within her, safely stored away for the time being, being held back for when she truly needed it. That will be soon enough. The Big Bad Wolf is our problem, she told herself. And we’re going to solve it ourselves.
She smiled at the psychologist, idly wondering whether a smile was actually the right bit of performance, thinking that perhaps the fastest way out of the office and the meeting was to concede some small bit of trauma, so that the shrink would have something to write in a report to send to the dean and everyone would think they were doing their job. Jordan considered this for a moment and said, “I’m a little afraid of having some really bad nightmares. I mean, I can see that poor woman as she jumped. It was so sad. I would hate to be that sad myself.”
The psychologist nodded. She wrote something down on a pad of paper. Sleeping pills, Jordan thought. She’s going to give me a prescription for sleeping pills. But just a couple so I can’t kill myself.
There was a single weak light over the entrance to Health Services, and Jordan paused for an instant as she exited to survey the nighttime stretching in front of her. The Health Services building was tucked off on a side street in one of the less-frequented parts of the campus, so Jordan realized that she would have to pass through a great deal of darkness before reaching a spot where other students were likely to be walking the pathways.
Hunching her shoulders against a wind that had picked up, she hurried forward.
She had not traveled more than a half-dozen strides when she saw the figure in the shadows, right where a large oak tree brushed up against the back of one of the now-empty classroom buildings. It was like seeing a ghost. Jordan nearly stumbled and fell. She had the sensation of her heart stopping, then starting again, all in the same microsecond.
The figure was dressed in black. A scarf and hat obscured his face. The only feature that seemed to glow with life were his eyes.
She lifted a hand, sweeping it through the nighttime in front of her, as if she could erase the vision. The figure remained still, watching her. Slowly, she saw the man raise his hand and point directly at her. The voice seemed muffled, as if the breeze had steered it toward her from a dozen different directions.
“Hello, Red Three.”
A part of her was riveted in place. A part was panicked, as if it had broken loose from some mooring inside her. She wanted to break into a run, but her feet felt mired in the ground. It was as if fear had bisected her body and that, like droplets of mercury hitting a floor and scattering, parts of Jordan were spreading in different directions. Jordan felt conflicting commands racing through her head, all out of control. She felt weakness in her knees spreading infection-like through her body and she thought she might crumple to the ground and crawl into a fetal position and just wait. It’s happening now ran through her head, followed by He’s going to kill me now!
As if struck, Jordan staggered back.