Tragedies Stranger Than Fiction - Chapter 1
"I think we are afraid of ourselves. . . .of seeing ourselves clearly and without disguise."
- Shirley Jackson
Coney Island, New York
September 2nd, 1996
11:30 a.m.
Someday, I'll write everything I see in my journal and turn it into a best-selling novel. I went through dark shit and saw the kind of things that would make you shudder every time you turned the page.
But then again, I'm no Toni Morrison. I doubt my story would get published in The New Yorker, let alone be recognized by my peers. Besides, even if people read my book, I can imagine the skepticism on their faces when they read the part about me dropping out of St. Hawthorne in the middle of the fall semester.
If you've never been to New York, St. Hawthorne is this fancy college where young witches, warlocks, or people with supernatural talents are trained to defend the world from predatory threats.
Every student is accepted here, regardless of race, gender, disability, class, or sexual orientation.
Though the school has courses ranging from Dark Arts to AP Greek Mythology, the students could watch shows like Hey Arnold! or All That in the breakroom, eat unbelievable food, and sign up for extracurriculars as long as they complete their assignments at the end of the day. However, if you're a broke nineteen-year-old with a shitload of student debt and rent, then you're forced to do things you hate.
Around ten thirty p.m., I roll my car window down and peer through the transparent glass of Sweet Mae's Diner. Inside, I notice all the booths are coated in this blood-red color.
Ceiling fans spin, but they rarely perform a perfect 360°. Cynical culinarians operate in the kitchen while depressed patrons abandon their red cushioned chairs and head outside.
My ears heighten as the luminous red jukebox plays songs by Janis Joplin, Emerson Brothers, and Patti Smith. As I sit in my green Volkswagen Beetle, savoring the creamy taste of my vanilla milkshake, I can't help but notice a handsome college student making his way into the diner.
The dark-haired boy stands out in his indigo-blue letterman's jacket, paired with a dark green flannel and an eye-catching orange Ringer tee. His Anchor Blue and his Converse sneakers are drenched in mud and water.
The guy is Jake Nesser, son of future District Attorney Eli Nesser. His mom, on the other hand, wanted no involvement in Jake or her husband's life. So, every once a week, she'd fly to Costa Rica to sunbathe, drink Piña Coladas, and flirt with every guy she saw.
At least, that's what I heard from my ex-college roommates.
Gazing out through the windshield, I observe the slender, blonde server placing two slices of pie in front of a young couple. Jake catches her gaze and playfully winks, flashing a charming grin.
My deep brown eyes widen with interest as I unbuckle my seatbelt and inspect the boy closely.
He's no older than twenty, or so I think. His green eyes can easily gyrate you into his orbit. Even though he has acne scars here and there, they're a bit tamer than mine. Brushing my greasy hands against my torn black pants, I grab my backpack from the floor, open the car door, and head to the retro diner, where I see Jake happily scrape his dessert off his plate with a fork.
An elderly server attempts to take his dish away, but when Jake washes his dessert with a glass of milk, he politely asks her if he could have another slice of pie.
The kind waitress smiles. She goes into the kitchen again to request cherry pie à la mode. I watch Jake's green eyes brighten. His fingers tap to the beat of the drums as the happy boy waits for his cherry pie to return. But to me, it will be the last meal he'll ever eat.
Removing my olive-green trench coat, I tie it around my waist, walk over to Jake's table, and sit before him.
A cool breeze plays with my zebra-striped camisole top. My afro covers half her face until I tuck my dark curls behind my left ear. Upon looking at me, Jake's lips lift into a stunning smile. He relaxes himself in his seat and then asks my name.
"My name's Cassidy," I lie, scratching behind my left ear.
"What a pretty name for a cute girl like you," Jake remarks. "Do you attend Harvard?"
"Yeah," I answer, still lying through my teeth. "But I got bored and decided to come here and surprise some folks."
Jake pushes his chestnut brown hair back with his hand. His green eyes gleam with interest.
"So, you're the Eli Nesser's kid, right?" I inquired suddenly.
"Yeah." Jake laughs awkwardly. "What the hell gave it away?"
"I guess it's your chin."
"My chin?"
I bob my head slowly, replying, "Yeah. You and your dad have the same squarish chin."
"Uh, okay?" Jake snickers. "I thought my brown hair and green eyes were a dead giveaway."
Confused, I lean toward Jake's acne-ridden face and observe his features. "Is that what people say? Because I don't see it."
"My dad used to have dark blond hair, but then he dyed it brown."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I never asked."
Smiling, I was about to ask him a few questions when a black car entered the parking lot. Black Sabbath blared through the speakers. Jeers and screams escaped the car as four boys downed their fizzy beers.
The startling scene scares an elderly couple exiting a closing movie theater. They hold their popcorn buckets together, grab their hands, and stride into their brown Volvo. As the elderly couple drive off, Jake looks at the rowdy boys until I tap him on the shoulder.
"Huh?" he asks, confused. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'Don't worry,'" I reassure. "Everything's going to be alright. I'm sure the boys are taking the bus."
Jake looks at the window again, but this time, the boys ignore the passing citizens and train their ominous gazes on him. The jock clears his throat. He moves away from the window and asks me what brought me to the diner.
"Well, since this is my first time meeting you," I confess. "I wanted to get your autograph."
"Oh, okay," Jake remarks. "Where do you want me to sign?"
Reaching into my bag, I showed him yesterday's news article. Jake's expression shifts from flirtatious to scared as he stares at the wrinkled newspaper. The black-and-white photograph depicts a badly beaten girl lying uncomfortably on her gurney. Underneath the picture are gruesome declarations talking about Jenny Kimble's sexual assault.
"Did you see the news lately?" I question.
"Seen it?" Jake scoffed. "CNN and Fox wouldn't leave me alone."
"Maybe it's because they thought you attacked her," I told him.
As the energetic tune abruptly ends, a lively waiter quickly rushes over to the jukebox to resolve the issue. With satisfied diners leaving generous tips or heading out to catch a movie, the bustling diner is starting to quiet down. Meanwhile, the seasoned server gracefully places a second slice of pie and a glass of cold milk before Jake.
"Enjoy your dessert," the old waitress beams, winking at Jake.
After she leaves, I watch Jake's hands slide off the soft red table onto his shaky lap.
"What?" he snarls. "They're saying I assaulted some girl? They caught the guy who did it. It was all over the campus-"
"I'm not interested in him," I imply, raising my finger at him. "I'm interested in the ex-boyfriend who let it happen to her."
"She wasn't my girlfriend," Jake argues. "She was just some stupid girl I met in AP Literature."
I rest my elbow on the table and place her head against her hand, looking directly at Jake.
"That's where you're wrong," I retort. "Jenny Kimble wasn't some stupid girl. She was a devoted sister, an AIDS activist, and a talented medical student until you took her to that frat party."
Pushing the plate towards Jake, I give him a look.
"Eat your pie," I insist. "We'll talk after you're finished."
Sighing, Jake shakes his head and pushes the dish towards me. "Have at it?"
"Are you sure?" I start to ask.
Jake gets up from his chair, reaches into his jacket pocket, and tosses a ten-dollar bill on the table, stating that he is not hungry. However, just as he was about to leave, I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close to me.
"I don't think you should leave just yet," I reply calmly.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jake scoffs.
"No, I'm not stupid," I answer in a serious tone. "Sit back down and listen to what I have to say."
Jake yanks my hand away from his arm and glares at me.
"What, you think I'm scared of you?" he sneers. "Well, you must have a death wish if-"
An invisible force interrupts Jake's threat as I guide him back to his chair with my left hand. His eyes are as big as marbles. He shuffles to the corner of his chair, then curls himself in a weird ball.
"Holy shit," Jake stutters.
Tasting the sweetness of my vanilla ice cream, I ignore his remark and then explain, "Jake, you're a spineless leech with abandonment issues; the woman who's supposed to protect you is fucking a Cabana boy and your father's in court for tax evasion. So, please respect the fact that I don't give a single flying fuck about what you just said."
Jake is rendered speechless, stuttering in shock.
"What?" he manages to utter. "Just who the fuck are you?"
"You already asked me that."
"Well, you didn't give me a straight answer."
Licking the ice cream off the fork, I look at Jake and relents a sigh. "I'm the witch my clients hired to track you down."
"Clients?" Jake repeats.
I point my finger at the dirty window, where four boys stand outside their black car, wearing dark clothes. Coarse hands wield brass knuckle rings and wooden bats as the boys wait for Jake to come outside.
A terrified Jake reclines back down on his chair and mutters, "What the hell?" in a quivering voice.
"Look, I don't know what the fuck you did." I sigh, digging her fork into Jake's dessert. "But Vinny claims that you and your friends attacked his half-sister in some college basement."
Jake's face begins to sweat. "Vinny? Wait, you work for the Russo family?"
The Russo family is a big crime family in New York. They run every illegal trade from the slums of Harlem to the suburbs of Louisiana. No one can touch them - not the judge, the police officers, or even Jake's father. All they can do is kneel and kiss Vinny's polished shoes.
"I'm a changed person now!" Jake whimpers. "I stopped drinking and cut ties with those clowns."
Setting down the fork near the half-eaten pie, I slip my hand into my backpack again. However, I retrieve a file with Jake's name on it, place it in the middle of the table, and open the folder to reveal various newspaper clippings, notes, disreputable photos, and receipts documenting the hefty quantities of drugs he bought for the frat party.
"Tell that to Jenny, stupid," she replies coldly. "I'm sure she'd love to hear your story."
As Jake scans the empty diner, hoping for a helping hand, his search becomes fruitless. The waitstaff is still preoccupied with the jukebox, and the cooks would instead light up a cigarette than help a wealthy kid escape from a mobster's vengeful son.
In one last desperate attempt to save his life, Jake grabs me by the arm then promises to pay me twice the amount Vinny's father spent in exchange for his safety. Feeling the tension radiating off of him, I yank my arm away and rise from my seat to grab my backpack.
"I'm sorry, Cassie!" Jake yells, tears streaking down his pale face. "I'm sorry I called you a bitch and—"
"And I'm real sorry that I called you stupid," I reply sarcastically. "I seriously thought you knew."
"Come on, Cass," Jake pleads, ignoring my insult. "Just let me call my father! I swear he'll give you all the money you want. Name your price."
"Did you apologize to Jenny about what you did?" I continue.
"Listen, those guys made me do it," Jake says, ignoring my question. "I didn't mean to drug her, Cassie."
"Still," I shrug. "You could've told the police."
Jake's disbelief was evident in his cracking voice.
"And throw away my scholarship?" he shrieks. "Ruin my father's career? Are you fucking crazy?"
Sighing, I glance over to the chaotic scene of servers and staff, who are frantically gathering their belongings and paychecks. Once they have everything they need, the employees take one last look at the neon-red establishment and rush past the boys, who taunt Jake through the diner's glass exterior.
Startled by the revelation, Jake cries, "Please, don't let them do this to me! I'll give you anything!"
But I only smirk in response. I sling my backpack over my shoulders, walk towards the glass door, don my thick, black headphones, push the PLAY button, and listen to "Venus in Furs" by The Velvet Underground as I leave the diner.
The rapid guitar strings dampen the angry threats. Lou Reed's voice drowns out Jake's uneasy crying as the rowdy teenage boys barge through the doors and forcibly drag Jake out of his chair and outside the diner.
Closing my backpack, I walk across the empty parking lot. Darkness hangs over my head. The frigid air stabs my deep brown hands as I tuck my loose bangs behind my ears. My Doc Martens clicks against the filthy concrete floor until I unlock my car door with my keys, then crawl back inside my Volkswagen Beetle.
Adjusting the rearview mirror, I witnessed the boys throw Jake's broken body into the dumpster behind the diner. With deliberate malice, they douse Jake's clothing in gasoline, smug grins plastered across their hardened faces. Fueled by their cruel intentions, the boys pass around the jug until it runs out.
Once the syrupy brown liquid takes its course, an older boy with strawberry blonde hair steps up to play. He whips a lighter from his pocket, presses the lever with his bandaged thumb, and tosses it into the dumpster.
Flames emerge from the gasoline. Smoke ascends into the night sky. The blaze takes its time to devour everything in its sight until all the boys can see nothing but ash and burnt fabric from the coward's varsity jacket.
A cacophony of whoops and slapping backs erupt from the boys as they revel in their chaos.
I watch it all unfold without a word. I don't call the police or tell the boys to stop. Instead, I take the camera from my backpack and capture every move those bastards make. In case they decide to drag me down with them.
© kstorm68q
- Shirley Jackson
Coney Island, New York
September 2nd, 1996
11:30 a.m.
Someday, I'll write everything I see in my journal and turn it into a best-selling novel. I went through dark shit and saw the kind of things that would make you shudder every time you turned the page.
But then again, I'm no Toni Morrison. I doubt my story would get published in The New Yorker, let alone be recognized by my peers. Besides, even if people read my book, I can imagine the skepticism on their faces when they read the part about me dropping out of St. Hawthorne in the middle of the fall semester.
If you've never been to New York, St. Hawthorne is this fancy college where young witches, warlocks, or people with supernatural talents are trained to defend the world from predatory threats.
Every student is accepted here, regardless of race, gender, disability, class, or sexual orientation.
Though the school has courses ranging from Dark Arts to AP Greek Mythology, the students could watch shows like Hey Arnold! or All That in the breakroom, eat unbelievable food, and sign up for extracurriculars as long as they complete their assignments at the end of the day. However, if you're a broke nineteen-year-old with a shitload of student debt and rent, then you're forced to do things you hate.
Around ten thirty p.m., I roll my car window down and peer through the transparent glass of Sweet Mae's Diner. Inside, I notice all the booths are coated in this blood-red color.
Ceiling fans spin, but they rarely perform a perfect 360°. Cynical culinarians operate in the kitchen while depressed patrons abandon their red cushioned chairs and head outside.
My ears heighten as the luminous red jukebox plays songs by Janis Joplin, Emerson Brothers, and Patti Smith. As I sit in my green Volkswagen Beetle, savoring the creamy taste of my vanilla milkshake, I can't help but notice a handsome college student making his way into the diner.
The dark-haired boy stands out in his indigo-blue letterman's jacket, paired with a dark green flannel and an eye-catching orange Ringer tee. His Anchor Blue and his Converse sneakers are drenched in mud and water.
The guy is Jake Nesser, son of future District Attorney Eli Nesser. His mom, on the other hand, wanted no involvement in Jake or her husband's life. So, every once a week, she'd fly to Costa Rica to sunbathe, drink Piña Coladas, and flirt with every guy she saw.
At least, that's what I heard from my ex-college roommates.
Gazing out through the windshield, I observe the slender, blonde server placing two slices of pie in front of a young couple. Jake catches her gaze and playfully winks, flashing a charming grin.
My deep brown eyes widen with interest as I unbuckle my seatbelt and inspect the boy closely.
He's no older than twenty, or so I think. His green eyes can easily gyrate you into his orbit. Even though he has acne scars here and there, they're a bit tamer than mine. Brushing my greasy hands against my torn black pants, I grab my backpack from the floor, open the car door, and head to the retro diner, where I see Jake happily scrape his dessert off his plate with a fork.
An elderly server attempts to take his dish away, but when Jake washes his dessert with a glass of milk, he politely asks her if he could have another slice of pie.
The kind waitress smiles. She goes into the kitchen again to request cherry pie à la mode. I watch Jake's green eyes brighten. His fingers tap to the beat of the drums as the happy boy waits for his cherry pie to return. But to me, it will be the last meal he'll ever eat.
Removing my olive-green trench coat, I tie it around my waist, walk over to Jake's table, and sit before him.
A cool breeze plays with my zebra-striped camisole top. My afro covers half her face until I tuck my dark curls behind my left ear. Upon looking at me, Jake's lips lift into a stunning smile. He relaxes himself in his seat and then asks my name.
"My name's Cassidy," I lie, scratching behind my left ear.
"What a pretty name for a cute girl like you," Jake remarks. "Do you attend Harvard?"
"Yeah," I answer, still lying through my teeth. "But I got bored and decided to come here and surprise some folks."
Jake pushes his chestnut brown hair back with his hand. His green eyes gleam with interest.
"So, you're the Eli Nesser's kid, right?" I inquired suddenly.
"Yeah." Jake laughs awkwardly. "What the hell gave it away?"
"I guess it's your chin."
"My chin?"
I bob my head slowly, replying, "Yeah. You and your dad have the same squarish chin."
"Uh, okay?" Jake snickers. "I thought my brown hair and green eyes were a dead giveaway."
Confused, I lean toward Jake's acne-ridden face and observe his features. "Is that what people say? Because I don't see it."
"My dad used to have dark blond hair, but then he dyed it brown."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I never asked."
Smiling, I was about to ask him a few questions when a black car entered the parking lot. Black Sabbath blared through the speakers. Jeers and screams escaped the car as four boys downed their fizzy beers.
The startling scene scares an elderly couple exiting a closing movie theater. They hold their popcorn buckets together, grab their hands, and stride into their brown Volvo. As the elderly couple drive off, Jake looks at the rowdy boys until I tap him on the shoulder.
"Huh?" he asks, confused. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'Don't worry,'" I reassure. "Everything's going to be alright. I'm sure the boys are taking the bus."
Jake looks at the window again, but this time, the boys ignore the passing citizens and train their ominous gazes on him. The jock clears his throat. He moves away from the window and asks me what brought me to the diner.
"Well, since this is my first time meeting you," I confess. "I wanted to get your autograph."
"Oh, okay," Jake remarks. "Where do you want me to sign?"
Reaching into my bag, I showed him yesterday's news article. Jake's expression shifts from flirtatious to scared as he stares at the wrinkled newspaper. The black-and-white photograph depicts a badly beaten girl lying uncomfortably on her gurney. Underneath the picture are gruesome declarations talking about Jenny Kimble's sexual assault.
"Did you see the news lately?" I question.
"Seen it?" Jake scoffed. "CNN and Fox wouldn't leave me alone."
"Maybe it's because they thought you attacked her," I told him.
As the energetic tune abruptly ends, a lively waiter quickly rushes over to the jukebox to resolve the issue. With satisfied diners leaving generous tips or heading out to catch a movie, the bustling diner is starting to quiet down. Meanwhile, the seasoned server gracefully places a second slice of pie and a glass of cold milk before Jake.
"Enjoy your dessert," the old waitress beams, winking at Jake.
After she leaves, I watch Jake's hands slide off the soft red table onto his shaky lap.
"What?" he snarls. "They're saying I assaulted some girl? They caught the guy who did it. It was all over the campus-"
"I'm not interested in him," I imply, raising my finger at him. "I'm interested in the ex-boyfriend who let it happen to her."
"She wasn't my girlfriend," Jake argues. "She was just some stupid girl I met in AP Literature."
I rest my elbow on the table and place her head against her hand, looking directly at Jake.
"That's where you're wrong," I retort. "Jenny Kimble wasn't some stupid girl. She was a devoted sister, an AIDS activist, and a talented medical student until you took her to that frat party."
Pushing the plate towards Jake, I give him a look.
"Eat your pie," I insist. "We'll talk after you're finished."
Sighing, Jake shakes his head and pushes the dish towards me. "Have at it?"
"Are you sure?" I start to ask.
Jake gets up from his chair, reaches into his jacket pocket, and tosses a ten-dollar bill on the table, stating that he is not hungry. However, just as he was about to leave, I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close to me.
"I don't think you should leave just yet," I reply calmly.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jake scoffs.
"No, I'm not stupid," I answer in a serious tone. "Sit back down and listen to what I have to say."
Jake yanks my hand away from his arm and glares at me.
"What, you think I'm scared of you?" he sneers. "Well, you must have a death wish if-"
An invisible force interrupts Jake's threat as I guide him back to his chair with my left hand. His eyes are as big as marbles. He shuffles to the corner of his chair, then curls himself in a weird ball.
"Holy shit," Jake stutters.
Tasting the sweetness of my vanilla ice cream, I ignore his remark and then explain, "Jake, you're a spineless leech with abandonment issues; the woman who's supposed to protect you is fucking a Cabana boy and your father's in court for tax evasion. So, please respect the fact that I don't give a single flying fuck about what you just said."
Jake is rendered speechless, stuttering in shock.
"What?" he manages to utter. "Just who the fuck are you?"
"You already asked me that."
"Well, you didn't give me a straight answer."
Licking the ice cream off the fork, I look at Jake and relents a sigh. "I'm the witch my clients hired to track you down."
"Clients?" Jake repeats.
I point my finger at the dirty window, where four boys stand outside their black car, wearing dark clothes. Coarse hands wield brass knuckle rings and wooden bats as the boys wait for Jake to come outside.
A terrified Jake reclines back down on his chair and mutters, "What the hell?" in a quivering voice.
"Look, I don't know what the fuck you did." I sigh, digging her fork into Jake's dessert. "But Vinny claims that you and your friends attacked his half-sister in some college basement."
Jake's face begins to sweat. "Vinny? Wait, you work for the Russo family?"
The Russo family is a big crime family in New York. They run every illegal trade from the slums of Harlem to the suburbs of Louisiana. No one can touch them - not the judge, the police officers, or even Jake's father. All they can do is kneel and kiss Vinny's polished shoes.
"I'm a changed person now!" Jake whimpers. "I stopped drinking and cut ties with those clowns."
Setting down the fork near the half-eaten pie, I slip my hand into my backpack again. However, I retrieve a file with Jake's name on it, place it in the middle of the table, and open the folder to reveal various newspaper clippings, notes, disreputable photos, and receipts documenting the hefty quantities of drugs he bought for the frat party.
"Tell that to Jenny, stupid," she replies coldly. "I'm sure she'd love to hear your story."
As Jake scans the empty diner, hoping for a helping hand, his search becomes fruitless. The waitstaff is still preoccupied with the jukebox, and the cooks would instead light up a cigarette than help a wealthy kid escape from a mobster's vengeful son.
In one last desperate attempt to save his life, Jake grabs me by the arm then promises to pay me twice the amount Vinny's father spent in exchange for his safety. Feeling the tension radiating off of him, I yank my arm away and rise from my seat to grab my backpack.
"I'm sorry, Cassie!" Jake yells, tears streaking down his pale face. "I'm sorry I called you a bitch and—"
"And I'm real sorry that I called you stupid," I reply sarcastically. "I seriously thought you knew."
"Come on, Cass," Jake pleads, ignoring my insult. "Just let me call my father! I swear he'll give you all the money you want. Name your price."
"Did you apologize to Jenny about what you did?" I continue.
"Listen, those guys made me do it," Jake says, ignoring my question. "I didn't mean to drug her, Cassie."
"Still," I shrug. "You could've told the police."
Jake's disbelief was evident in his cracking voice.
"And throw away my scholarship?" he shrieks. "Ruin my father's career? Are you fucking crazy?"
Sighing, I glance over to the chaotic scene of servers and staff, who are frantically gathering their belongings and paychecks. Once they have everything they need, the employees take one last look at the neon-red establishment and rush past the boys, who taunt Jake through the diner's glass exterior.
Startled by the revelation, Jake cries, "Please, don't let them do this to me! I'll give you anything!"
But I only smirk in response. I sling my backpack over my shoulders, walk towards the glass door, don my thick, black headphones, push the PLAY button, and listen to "Venus in Furs" by The Velvet Underground as I leave the diner.
The rapid guitar strings dampen the angry threats. Lou Reed's voice drowns out Jake's uneasy crying as the rowdy teenage boys barge through the doors and forcibly drag Jake out of his chair and outside the diner.
Closing my backpack, I walk across the empty parking lot. Darkness hangs over my head. The frigid air stabs my deep brown hands as I tuck my loose bangs behind my ears. My Doc Martens clicks against the filthy concrete floor until I unlock my car door with my keys, then crawl back inside my Volkswagen Beetle.
Adjusting the rearview mirror, I witnessed the boys throw Jake's broken body into the dumpster behind the diner. With deliberate malice, they douse Jake's clothing in gasoline, smug grins plastered across their hardened faces. Fueled by their cruel intentions, the boys pass around the jug until it runs out.
Once the syrupy brown liquid takes its course, an older boy with strawberry blonde hair steps up to play. He whips a lighter from his pocket, presses the lever with his bandaged thumb, and tosses it into the dumpster.
Flames emerge from the gasoline. Smoke ascends into the night sky. The blaze takes its time to devour everything in its sight until all the boys can see nothing but ash and burnt fabric from the coward's varsity jacket.
A cacophony of whoops and slapping backs erupt from the boys as they revel in their chaos.
I watch it all unfold without a word. I don't call the police or tell the boys to stop. Instead, I take the camera from my backpack and capture every move those bastards make. In case they decide to drag me down with them.
© kstorm68q