Finals Read online

  Chapter One

  Crawling out of bed most mornings doesn’t come easily to me, but this was not a typical morning. I usually dreaded heaving myself out of bed so I could head into the shower only to find my roommate’s disgusting body hair blanketing all three walls, but today, as the hot water assault continued, the only thought racing through my head was my urgent need to get to campus.

  Once fully clothed, I darted over to the University of St. Elizabeth, the private Catholic university I attend, in hopes of finding an unscathed edition of The Gazette. Currently, I’m the assistant editor-in-chief and although my only child tendencies give grounds to my vanity, I rarely gloat over my work. But today I was eager to sit back and examine the fruits of my labor because this was no ordinary article. Blood, sweat and tears had gone into this project.

  The first building you find on campus once you pass the parking lot is the university’s snack bar, known as the Round Table, an ideal spot for off-campus coffee addicts who require caffeine to start the day. Despite my pressing desire to head for the news rack and snatch a paper, I refrained momentarily and instead greeted the lone barista with a hearty “Howdy-do.” At 6:30, the Round Table was virtually empty, so once I had my Irish cream latte, I grabbed a Gazette from a nearby rack and found a suitable table near the back of the room.

  With my feet up, I flipped to the front page and excitedly began reading.

  “Mystery and Mourning Hit St. Elizabeth,” the title read as I started on the introductory paragraph. “Senior finance major, Brent Crane, was found dead in the library’s downstairs men’s restroom early Tuesday morning. Portland police and St. Elizabeth officials have not disclosed many details about Crane’s death but certain information is very clear. Sophomore Tommy Waters was the first to find Brent face down in the library bathroom.”

  Tommy was still shaken up about the mess when we spoke, but he was able to give me a few decent quotes. “Brent’s blood covered the entire room. My stomach felt queasy when I saw his limp body sprawled out on the floor. His blood filled the bathroom like an overflowing toilet. I have no words to describe it.”

  I skipped the rest of Tommy’s melodramatic reenactment of the scene. Not that it wasn’t worth reading, but I was familiar with the traumatic tale. I didn’t need to go through it once again.

  “Paramedics on the scene stated the cause of death was a severed carotid artery on the right side of Crane’s neck. Due to substantial blood loss, the paramedics were unable to save him. The Portland Police Bureau have not identified a suspect, but have released a statement that the department is keeping all possibilities open until more evidence is gathered.”

  The story continued for about another page, mostly commentary about Brent’s life as well as information about his funeral service. His parents and a few of his friends gave statements. “Brent was a great friend. He seemed perfectly sound to me. I can’t image that he would kill himself,” stated classmate, Sasha Ortiz. One of Brent’s professors said that he was “Well liked amongst his classmates. He was an excellent student and will be missed by the whole St. Elizabeth community.”

  I couldn’t help but snicker as I read that last sentence. I highly doubted the whole community would miss Brent. In fact, if more than ten people show up to Brent’s funeral service, I’ll be shocked. The God’s honest truth is that Brent was a douche. This pathological liar, this narcissistic, sexist pig was a living virus waiting to inflict damage. Like a Kevin Federline track on an iPod or a hairy upper lip on an otherwise beautiful woman, there was no place on Earth, let alone on the campus of St. Elizabeth, for this walking plague.

  As I took one last gulp of coffee, a warm sensation coursed through my veins. The feeling may have been joy or a sense of achievement, but it definitely wasn’t guilt. I was happy to be rid of Brent, and I’ll tell you, if I had it to do all over, I would concoct the same scheme and kill that dick again in a heartbeat.

  Chapter Two

  I met Brent freshman year. We both lived in Andrews Hall, the one co-ed dorm on the west side of campus. Brent and his roommate Scott were only a few doors down from me. That first year, I roomed with a kid named Dewey Chaps. Dewey was a drama major and not to be stereotypical, but we both knew within mere seconds of meeting one another that we weren’t going to be pals. Unlike the thespian, I did get along with Scott and Brent rather well. Both were nerdy, had gratuitous amounts of electronic equipment, played sports, and had a lust for powning bitches at Halo.

  It may be hard to believe, but Brent and I were an inseparable duo my freshman year. We were both finance majors so we would go to class together, do our homework, and then go hang with Scott and his girlfriend in their room. It was a carefree year. There were no problems, schoolwork was easy, our social circles were developing, and it seemed we were beginning to build lasting friendships.

  Looking back, I knew Brent had some faults; we all do. I just never imagined he would be capable of performing certain feats later in our college careers that would lead to my decision. Then again, I doubt Brent ever imagined I would kill him in the men’s restroom either.

  As sophomores, Brent, Scott and I were elected to the Andrews Hall Student Council. I was the treasurer; Brent, vice president; and Scott, the secretary. The president, a guy named Gavin Jones, happened to be my assigned roommate that year. Gavin was outgoing, friendly and completely bipolar. His moods swings were as frequent and diverse as wardrobe changes on Sex and the City. Since I was able to endure the scene queen’s ever-changing temperament, the living situation was bearable.

  The reason Gavin won, or the most likely reason he claimed the presidency, was due to pity. My roommate suffered from a mild case of Hemophilia A. He would bring up his medical condition constantly to friends, professors and anyone within earshot. He bruised easily, but because he took the synthetic hormone replacement Desmopressin (DDAVP), he stayed in check.

  A few weeks before school ended freshman year, Gavin somehow managed to cut his thigh on a wrought-iron fence trying to shortcut his way back to the dorm one night. I was the one who found him on the ground, faint and writhing, not because of pain, but due to his fear of dying from blood loss. One ambulance trip later, the ER doctors reassured Gavin he’d live. When he was released the next afternoon, he returned to the dorm just as the class elections were winding down. For the most part everyone in our dorm rallied around Gavin, welcoming him home. It was almost impossible, even if you didn’t like Gavin, to not vote for the hemophiliac. His win wasn’t so much a landslide as it was an excuse to rally around the weak, but regardless of how he arrived at his seat, he was still one of the men of the Andrews Hall Student Council.

  I mention hall council because this is when I first discovered Brent’s diabolical side. As a freshman, I learned Brent was an avid liar but it mostly consisted of telling girls exaggerated tales at parties, which I didn’t mind so much. Besides, everyone lies; it’s one of those unwritten facts of life. What I didn’t realize at the time, was how useful this skill could coincide with his ability to manipulate others.

  The Mr. Andrews contest was an annual event orchestrated by hall council every spring semester. This glorified male beauty pageant had contenders walking around in Speedos, lifting weights and debating how best to achieve world peace. Gavin’s job was to select the location and arrange the set, a relatively easy task that wouldn’t involve much human interaction, thus making it an ideal job for him. My job was collecting the revenue from the contestants, as all the money was to be given to the selected charity of choice. Besides showing off their goodies, the guys had to fundraise. This year the proceeds would be sent to Bangladesh or some other impoverished nation to improve their quality of life by building a well. But more likely, it would be used to purchase ammunition for their artillery stash or cocaine
.

  Brent was responsible for collecting donations as well as purchasing raffle prizes and rewards for the contestants. The Andrews Hall Student Council allocated a few hundred dollars for prizes, so logically I imagined they would be bomb, but I was incorrect about my assumption.

  The event took place in St. Victoria’s Theater, the only stage on campus where such an event could be held. The boys strutted their stuff, in both the literal and figurative sense, and overall the pageant turned out to be quite a success. However, I was baffled when most of the raffle prizes turned out to be cheap DVDs with the top prize to the pageant winner being a twenty-five dollar gift card to a local pizza joint.

  After assisting Gavin with cleanup, I headed back to Andrews Hall to question Brent about his frugality. The door ajar, I found Brent with his feet up watching a movie on his computer with Scott.

  “Dude,” was the only thing out of my mouth before Brent cavalierly tossed me a palm-sized box.

  ”Hello, Mr. Treasurer,” he smirked. “Have a look at your new iPod.”

  I fumbled the box but caught it before it dropped to the floor.

  “It’s awesome, man. The prizes were all donated. My friend at Freddy’s gave me a stack of DVDs, and Luigi’s donated all the gift cards. I kept some so we can order enough free pizzas to last the semester,” Brent said, never taking his eyes off the computer screen.

  “Brent and I knew you needed an iPod, considering you’re living in the 20th century with that hunk of metal you call a ‘Walkman,’” Scott chimed in.

  “That’s selfless of you,” I said.

  “If you look at my desk you can see that I wasn’t too selfless,” Brent said, letting out a laugh.

  I couldn’t believe I had missed seeing it when I first entered the room. A Bose stereo system, the one Brent had let slip he wanted as recently as last week, was now sitting on his desk alongside a stack of textbooks.

  “Dude, how much did that cost?”

  “Oh, you and your trivial pursuits,” Brent replied, shrugging off my question. “Money is no object to those of us on the Andrews Hall Student Council.”

  “You forget that the hall director has to initial all of our receipts. I believe he’ll notice we purchased an iPod and a massive sound system,” I countered, perturbed by his arrogance.

  “Come on, you know he never looks at that shit,” Scott said, glancing over at me before returning his eyes to the screen.

  “Don’t be so naïve. He’s not retarded.”

  Brent let out a mockingly evil “Muah-ha-ha-ha” as he grinned smugly. “Hand over your receipts. I’ll get him to sign them. I doubt he’ll ask about it but if he does I’ll just bullshit.”

  Bullshitting was a specialty of Brent’s, meaning whether or not the hall director detected Brent’s offense, I knew he’d get away with it. Brent could always string together a logical notion of some kind, fooling any sensible person. It was a sick gift he had perfected down to a science. If I wasn’t so disgusted by the act, I likely would have been impressed, maybe even a little envious.

  “You wanna stick around? You haven’t really missed too much,” Scott said, nodding toward the Mac.

  “Thanks, but Gavin’s expecting me. By the way, did you get anything for him?”

  Brent and Scott simultaneously howled with laughter. “I would rather let that bitch bleed out than buy him anything,” Brent answered.

  Similar to Spider-Man’s ability to detect wrongdoings, Gavin had an innate talent for detecting criticism, probably because it occurred so frequently. As the words, “bitch bleed out” exited Brent’s mouth, Gavin appeared magically from around the corner.

  “Brent, I thought you were going to give the winner an iPod? What’s up with all of these freaking DVDs?”

  Gavin was intent on routing the boys from their movie to get an answer and stepped in front of Brent’s computer when he noticed the stereo system.

  “Is that a new stereo?” Gavin said, nearly choking on his words. He was clearly more aware of his surroundings than I had been.

  “Yup.”

  “Where’d you get it?” Gavin asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Why do you care?” Brent retorted, as he continued to avoid Gavin’s laser stare.

  “If you used the pageant funds to purchase this sound system, or whatever the hell it is, I do care. That money wasn’t yours!” Gavin said, shaking with rage.

  “My mom got it for me,” Scott lied, annoyed by the continued line of questioning. “Gavin, just do us all a favor and go prick yourself with a needle, okay?”

  “Brent, if you did buy this shit. I swear you’re going to get it.”

  “You know, Gavin, I always thought you could be a butt pirate, but I figured you were more of a catcher than a pitcher,” Brent said with a wicked smile.

  “Let’s study, Wayne,” said my roommate, his voice still trembling with anger.

  As we left the room, Gavin muttered a quiet “fuckers” as we made our way down the hall to start our studying. I hated to condone Brent’s behavior but with a new iPod now snugly in my jacket pocket it was hard to be upset. At the end of the day, Brent was still my friend and I wasn’t about to be a dick and rat him out after such a thoughtful gesture. Steve Jobs and company had gone to all this trouble to please music lovers such as myself, I deserved to be happy, right?

  In hindsight, looking back on the events soon to transpire I gladly would have given up my iPod to save Gavin from his awful fate.

  Chapter Three

  I had no way of knowing for sure that Brent committed the deed. My junior detective kit was squared away at home so I had no way to dust for prints or thoroughly examine the crime scene. My intuition was the only thing I could rely on.

  I remember walking up to my room, keys in hand, ready to unlock the door. To my surprise the door was unlocked which was an unusual occurrence. Gavin had been stressing about a paper due that morning for his Intro to Biblical Readings class, so I chalked up the fact the door was left open to his preoccupation with Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

  Several hours later Gavin returned in good spirits, a rare occasion given his bipolar tendencies, but his mood turned permanently sour when our hall director, the director of campus ministry, and a nun who I didn’t recognized, showed up outside our door with unpleasant news for my roomie.

  As a Catholic, I know that besides the topic of priest molestation, members of the Church, hate, hate, hate, anyone bringing up Dan Brown’s fictitious theory that Jesus and Mary Magdalene were lovers or had in fact gotten married.

  From previous experiences, I know this is a topic priests, nuns and any strict Catholic detest talking about. Not only did Gavin hit that ill-advised nerve, he went one step further. Apparently, in his essay, he theorized that the two were fuck buddies. To take a quote directly from his paper, “There is no doubt in my mind given Mary Magdalene’s past ways as a prostitute and with Christ’s wide spreading reputation that she took advantage of the situation and hopped a ride on JC’s disco stick.” If that wasn’t enough to ruffle the feathers of Sister Fillon, the stern nun who taught the class, the close lining, “Fillion can suck me off,” cemented his fate.

  Gavin denied he had written any of the material, but it was useless. He had fallen out of good graces with most of the staff members at Andrews Hall due to his constant mood swings, and despite the practice of forgiveness, the Catholic faculty members at St. Elizabeth could not forgive someone who slandered their savior in such a fashion. Within a week, Gavin’s bags were packed and my favorite hemophiliac walked out the doors of our dormitory, never to return.

  I recall listening to Gavin softly weep into his pillow the night before his parents came to collect him. As his roommate, I should have comforted him with some reassuring words, but what was there to say? “Hey Gavin, I know you don’t really think Jesus banged Mary Magdalene.” I’m sure he would have felt much better.

  I decided to let him cry it out as I prayed his luck would eventually t
urn around. Even though he was a pushy, self-righteous pain in the ass, Gavin didn’t deserve to be expelled. In spite of his ever-changing temperament, deep down he was a decent guy.

  With one final hug, Gavin bid me adieu as he drove back to California with his parents the next morning. That was the last time I saw him. On occasion, I Facebook-stalk Gavin just to see what he’s up to. Unfortunately, the last time I looked at his page, he was still living at home working part-time at Quiznos, and going to a community college.

  When we moved out of Andrews Hall at the end of our sophomore year, I questioned Brent about the whole Gavin ordeal. I wouldn’t see Brent for an entire year since he would be going to study abroad in Paris, so I figured now was as good a time as any to ask. Had Brent fucked up Gavin’s life and his chance of really becoming something in order to protect himself from the damage the hemophiliac could have caused had he told someone about the pageant purchases or was this all some fantasy running through my head? I needed to know.

  As we packed up our last belongings before leaving for the summer, I inquired about Brent’s role in Gavin’s expulsion.