Chapter 17
Saturday, June 6, 1999
Ethan and Deborah walked into the graduation ceremony holding hands.
The commons area had been redesigned, reconfigured and redecorated. Deborah and Ethan felt that the commons area appeared as if it had been designed with these ceremonies in mind. As Deborah took her seat, Ethan bent over and kissed her on the cheek.
He then walked out from the rows of foldout chairs and onto the stage. To his left were two students of Asian decent. To their right was the valedictorian of Luther S. Dunby High School, class of 1999.
The ceremony was long and boring. Ethan counted down the minutes until the graduation party. He and Deborah would both violate their sobriety pact together at the graduation party. Ethan had already violated his end of the sobriety pact when so many of his friends returned from college with high quality marijuana, but he had not touched a drink or another drug.
Marijuana, he thought. They have to let me have that.
The salutatorian, and Asian American named Michael Yu concluded his speech with a powerful recognition of the politically incorrect occurrences at LSD High. Much muttering occurred amongst the administrators on stage as he spoke.
"The class of 1999 at Luther S. Dunby High School has been through a lot in the past few months. We have been subjected to the loss of six students and one employee in a most unfortunate fashion. We have been subjected to constant interrogation and suppression, yielding no clues as to who could have committed these crimes, or, if indeed, these crimes were committed by students. And through it all, we have remained strong, independent and even trustworthy. We are good teenagers who will do good in the world because we are prepared for life, stronger and tougher than we had ever thought we would be."
The student body applauded and cheered. A few, including Atwood Nash and Rebecca Van Klein, stood.
As Ethan Lee was introduced, the crowd cheered and stood.
After they sat and were silent, Ethan spoke.
"Class of 1999," he said. "I love you all for living through this."
He sat down as the crowd chanted his name.
After the graduating seven hundred students received their diplomas, Ethan walked off the stage and met Deborah.
"What's up, Boston College student?"
"Not much, Berkeley student."
They walked, hand in hand, back to Ethan's car.
Ethan and Deborah were both committed to different colleges when they met, and as thus, they never expected to spend their collegiate years together. They had agreed to wait, to see how badly they wanted each other after four months, four years or maybe longer.
"We're young," Ethan had said on one May afternoon on his porch. "Let's see how strong our love is."
They walked back tot he car, drove home and made love over and over until it was time to go to the party.
Atwood Nash was pumped up for the party. Over the past few months, life had been so melodramatic and sad, with all the memorials and the group healing, his friend's pregnancy, his failure to go to his father's Alma Mada and the fact that he ruined more than a few lives with only one hundred dollars worth of liquid acid. Some of his problems were his fault. Some of them were not.
Atwood didn't care.
The student body president had rented out an entire floor of the Marriott hotel downtown. The only catch was that no one was allowed to drive home until morning. Come eight PM, Atwood hoped to be guzzling beer and champagne, laughing and doing his best to forget murder and mayhem.
Jim Phelps was psyched up for the party as he and Alexandria, his date (his first date ever, technically) exited his parents car and let the Marriott valet driver enter.
"So," Alexandria said as they walked into the hotel lobby. "You weren't at the Highway T party."
"No," said Jim. "And I'm glad I wasn't."
Alexandria was a junior at an all girls Catholic school. Jim had met her in church. He was a little bothered by her interest in his school, but didn't care. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever touched.
"I wonder who that killer was."
"I don't know, but I doubt it was Steven Carter. He couldn't hurt a fly. Someone set him up, I'm sure."
"Aren't you curious who may have done it?" she asked him in the elevator.
"Done what," asked Ethan Lee, standing with Deborah.
"Ethan."
Jim shook Ethan's hand before introductions were made.
"We were just talking about the LSD bonfire murders, were you there?" a curiously beautiful, almost brown-skinned woman asked Ethan.
"No," said Ethan.
"Alex," said Jim. "I think you'll find that no one at this party was there. It's just something we'd all rather not talk about."
"Amen," said Deborah.
"Sorry," said Alexandria.
"No big deal," said Ethan.
The elevator opened to loud music and heavy drinking.
Bottles of champagne sat on tables next to multiple beer kegs in the hallway. The tables outside the pools all wore tablecloths decorated with the school's colors, red white and blue. Loud, popular music jammed over a complex sound system in the back where a DJ stood above everyone like a God to inoffensive music.
Throughout the night, Ethan and Deborah went from room to room, drinking, smoking, toking and having a really good time.
After Deborah passed out in her hotel room, and Ethan saw that she was asleep, he headed outside to see what three in the morning looked like at the downtown Marriott.
Ethan saw a few hyper people, most of them at least half-naked, and figured he was getting too old for such juvenile fun.
"Ethan," he heard a voice say and he turned his head to the left.
Jim Phelps came running up to Ethan, sweaty and shirtless.
"How you doing, Jim."
"Great, man. I feel great." Jim looked fidgety and his pupils seemed rather small. "I just had sex and did coke for the first time. I can't believe how good I feel, how strong and powerful, and you know something, I'm glad I ran into you."
"Why's that?" Ethan asked, feeling woozy.
"Because that was a beautiful speech by you. I think I understand why the killer let you live through this."
"I don't want to talk about this, Jim."
"Trust me, Ethan," Jim extended a hand. "The killer is your friend."
Jim then ran off and his words, "Class of ninety-nine rules," trailed down the hallway.
After a careful search, Ethan found Atwood in a hot tub with three senior girls whose names escaped Ethan.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
"So talk," said Atwood.
"In private."
Atwood got out of the hot tub and walked over to the pool side area where Ethan whispered, "Jim Phelps was the killer."
"Who the hell is that?"
"Don't worry about it. I just wanted to tell someone before I died. Maybe, if this LSD thing blows up in your face you can use that information to help you."
"Fuck you."
"Why the hell did you do it?"
"Ethan, I don't even know anymore. I think I just wanted to give those bastards a small taste of the world their children really grew up in. They always think everything is all fine and dandy like lemonade candy when in truth, we deal with a lot of shit."
"So did they. So do all kids."
"Well yeah, I know that now."
A silent pause divided them until Atwood spoke, "so, who's this Phelps guy."
"Just another fucking friend of mine," said Ethan. "Get back in your hot tub."
"Yes sir, and you can join us anytime."
"Anytime, Ethan," echoed one of the girls.
Ethan went to Deborah's hotel room, card-keyed it open, entered and fell asleep.
Ethan dreamt that he was throwing baseball after baseball at Jim Phelps's pimply face until there was nothing left of him but a headless cadaver. Then Ethan started in on the torso until he had demolished the entire being of Jim Phelps. When Jim finally dissipated, Ethan threw baseballs at the murderer's headstone, chipping away the rock until it was no more.
He did not sleep well.