All These Things I've Done

  “Yes, Headmaster told us that. That’s why we specifically wanted to talk to you, Anya.”

  “Yes.”

  “He broke up with you?”

  If I hadn’t mentioned it before, Jones was taping the whole conversation, and I didn’t want it “on the record” that Gable Arsley had broken up with me. “No,” I said.

  “You broke up with him?”

  “You could say the decision was mutual,” I said.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  I shook my head. “It’s sort of personal.”

  “This is important, Anya.”

  “The thing is, I really don’t want to say it in front of her.” I looked at Headmaster. “It’s, well, vulgar,” I added. “And embarrassing.”

  “Go on, Anya,” Headmaster said. “I won’t judge you.”

  “Fine.” I could see where this was going. I figured that, not knowing enough facts about Gable’s poisoning and how they did or did not implicate me, it could be worse for me to start lying or concealing things now. “Gable Arsley wanted to sleep with me, and when I told him no, he tried to anyway. The only thing that stopped him was that my brother came into the room.”

  Cranford leaned over to Frappe and whispered something in her ear. I thought I could see his lips form the shape of the word motive. The round hole of m-o, and his tongue darting out on t-i only to hastily retreat on v-e. Motive. Duh, of course I had motive.

  “Would you say you were mad at Gable Arsley?” Cranford asked this one.

  “Yes, but not because he tried to sleep with me. I was mad because he lied to everyone about what happened. That’s why I poured the lasagna over his head. I assume you’ve already heard about that, but if not, I’m sure Headmaster will be more than willing to fill you in.” I paused. “Let me be clear about one thing, Detectives. I did not poison Gable Arsley. And if you want to ask me anything else, you’ll have to do so with my attorney present. You probably know who my father was, but my mother was a cop and I know my rights.” I stood up. “Headmaster, may I have a pass to go back to class now?”

  The hallway was empty but I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t being watched. I made like I was going to English but then I walked right past the classroom door. I went outside into the courtyard. It finally felt like fall. Normally, the change of season would have made me happy.

  I crossed the courtyard and went into the church. Then I went into the secretary’s office. It was empty as I knew it would be—the secretary had been fired last week. I picked up the phone, entered the code that gave you an outside line (don’t even think of asking me how I knew this), and dialed home. Leo answered.

  “Are you alone?” I asked him.

  “Yes, my head still hurts, Annie,” Leo said.

  “Is Imogen there?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is Nana awake?”

  “No. What’s wrong? Your voice is weird.”

  “Listen, Leo, some people might show up at the house very soon. I don’t want you to be scared.”

  Leo didn’t say anything.

  “Leo, I can’t hear you when you nod. We’re on the phone.”

  “I won’t be scared,” Leo said.

  “There’s something very important I need you to do,” I continued. “But you can’t tell anyone about it, especially the people who might show up at the house.”

  “Okay,” Leo said, not sounding at all certain.

  “Take the chocolate from Nana’s closet and throw it down the incinerator.”

  “But, Annie!”

  “This is important, Leo. We could get in trouble for having it.”

  “Trouble? I don’t want anyone to get in trouble,” he said.

  “No one will. Now, don’t forget to push the fire button. And don’t let Nana see you do it.”

  “I think I can do it.”

  “Listen to me, Leo. I might be home late tonight. If that happens, call Mr. Kipling. He’ll know what to do.”

  “You’re scaring me, Annie.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything later,” I said. “I love you.”

  I crossed my fingers that Leo would manage to get rid of the chocolate before the cops arrived.

  I hung up the phone, then I dialed Mr. Kipling. “The cops came to my school today. Someone poisoned my ex-boyfriend, and they think I did it,” I said as soon as he came on the line.

  “Are you still at Holy Trinity?” Mr. Kipling asked after a brief pause.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll come right down and meet you there. Hold tight, Anya. We’ll get this sorted out.”

  At that moment, the door to the secretary’s office opened. “Found her!” Detective Jones yelled. “She’s on the phone!” Then he turned to me. “We’re going to need to take you down to the precinct for further questioning. Your boyfriend just slipped into a coma. They think he might die.”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” I said quietly.

  “Anya?” Mr. Kipling said. “Still there?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kipling,” I replied. “Could you meet me at the police station instead?”

  I wasn’t scared of police stations. Still, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be detained in one either. Though I’d grown up in the presence of criminals, I’d certainly never been accused of a crime.

  The cops led me into a room. The back wall was a mirror so I assumed people were watching me from the other side of it. There was one overhead fluorescent light, and the heat seemed to be turned on even though the weather didn’t call for it. The cops sat on one side of the table; me on the other. They had a pitcher of water. No beverage for me. Their chairs were cushioned; mine, a folding metal one. It was obvious that the intent of the room was to make the accused (me) uncomfortable. Pathetic.

  The detectives were the ones from school: Frappe and Jones, though Cranford was out. As usual, Frappe did most of the talking.

  “Ms. Balanchine,” she began, “when’s the last time you saw Gable Arsley?”

  “I won’t answer any questions until my attorney, Mr. Kipling, arrives. He should be here—”

  At that moment, Mr. Kipling came through the door of the interrogation room. He was completely bald and slightly pudgy, but he had the kindest (albeit rather bulging) blue eyes. He was sweating and scant of breath, and I had never been so happy to see anyone in my life. “Sorry, I’m late,” he whispered to me. “The car was stuck in traffic, so I got out and ran.” Mr. Kipling turned his attention to the two detectives. “Is it really necessary to drag a sixteen-year-old girl with no prior record into a police station? To me, this seems excessive. As does the extreme temperature of your thermostat!”

  “Sir, this is an attempted murder investigation, and Ms. Balanchine’s treatment has been entirely appropriate,” Frappe said.

  “Debatable,” said Mr. Kipling. “Questioning a minor at school without either a guardian or counsel present seems a bit borderline to me. Personally, I can’t help but wonder why the NYPD’s insisting on calling a kid with an upset stomach an attempted murder investigation.”

  “That kid’s in a coma. He may die, Mr. Kipling. I’d like to continue questioning Ms. Balanchine as time is of the essence here,” Frappe said.

  Mr. Kipling nodded.

  “Ms. Balanchine, when is the last time you saw Gable Arsley?” Frappe asked.

  “Sunday night,” I said. “He came over to my apartment.”

  “Why did he come over?” Frappe asked.

  “He said he felt bad about what had happened between us and that he wanted us to still be friends.”

  “Anything else?” she asked. “Was there any other reason he came over?”

  I could see where this was going.

  The chocolate.

  Of course, it was the chocolate. It was always the chocolate. I had only wanted Leo to destroy it because it was illegal to have it in your possession and I hadn’t wanted to cause any trouble for my family if the cops should decide to search our place. But what if the police thought I had poisoned Gable wit
h chocolate? Then it might look like I had instructed my brother to destroy evidence. I should have thought of this before. I should have thought things through better, but there really hadn’t been time. Everything had happened so quickly.

  And, in my defense, Gable Arsley wasn’t exactly a Boy Scout. He was a wealthy glutton and a habitual connoisseur of contraband substances. Who knew what he had gotten himself into? Plus, I had no reason to doubt the integrity of Balanchine chocolate. Though I had lived with chocolate being illegal my whole life, I had never once worried about it being poisoned. Daddy had always been so vigilant about quality control, but then, Daddy hadn’t been running Balanchine Chocolate for a very long time.

  “Ms. Balanchine,” Frappe repeated.

  The only thing to do was be honest. “Yes, there was another reason. Gable wanted to know if I had chocolate.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Frappe whispered something to Jones.

  Mr. Kipling said, “Before you two go getting all excited, I’d like to remind you that the Balanchine family has ties to the chocolate import-export business. They produce a line of chocolate bars under the name Balanchine Special, which are available in Russia and Europe where chocolate is still legal. It’s only natural that some of the product ends up here on occasion, so I don’t find it unusual that Ms. Balanchine should be in possession of chocolate.”

  “It is if the person she gave it to ended up poisoned,” Jones remarked.

  “Oh, you talk too now?” Mr. Kipling asked. “Even if Mr. Arsley was poisoned, what proof do you have that the poison came from the chocolate? The poison could have been on or in anything.”

  Frappe smiled before she said, “Actually, we know with 100 percent certainty that the chocolate was the source of the poison. When Ms. Balanchine set out to poison Mr. Arsley, she gave him two bars of chocolate.”

  “Your girl was nothing if not thorough,” Jones said.

  “She gave him two bars of chocolate, but Mr. Arsley only ate one,” Frappe continued. “His mother found the other bar in his room, and it was immediately sent to the lab where it was found to contain a massive amount of Fretoxin.”

  “You know what Fretoxin does to a person, Anya?” Jones asked. “Starts with a stomachache. You don’t even feel that sick.”

  “Poor kid probably thought he had the flu,” Frappe interjected.

  “But wait, it gets better,” Jones continued. “Delay getting treatment too long and ulcers start to form in the stomach and intestines. Your liver and spleen shut down, then other organs fail, too. Meanwhile, cysts have started sprouting up all over the skin. Ultimately, your body can’t take it anymore. You’ll either have a fatal heart attack or maybe sepsis from the many infections that are raging inside of you. It’s a total system-wide shutdown, and the sad part is, you won’t care. You’ll be praying to God to end it.”

  “You’d have to really hate a person to do that, wouldn’t you?” Frappe asked.

  “Just the way you hated Gable Arsley,” Jones finished.

  “I don’t know how that got in there! I would never poison Gable!” I yelled. But even as I was yelling, part of me knew it was pointless. This wasn’t getting fixed today.

  After they took my fingerprints and picture, I was locked in an isolated cell in the police station. This accommodation was only for the night. The next afternoon, a juvenile court judge would decide what to do with me while I awaited trial for the attempted murder of Gable Arsley and the lesser charge of possession of an illegal substance. Mr. Kipling thought they’d probably just send me back to my house with a tracker embedded in my shoulder as I didn’t have any prior offenses. “Maybe you’ll have to stay with me and Keisha for a bit if the judge doesn’t think your grandma’s up to watching you.” Keisha was Mr. Kipling’s wife.

  “She wouldn’t mind that?”

  “No. She’d love it. She misses our daughter something terrible. So, hold tight, Anya,” Mr. Kipling said to me from outside my cell. “This will get straightened out, I promise.”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t convinced. “You should know,” I whispered, “Jacks Pirozhki was the one who gave me the tainted chocolate.”

  Mr. Kipling promised that he would look into it. “Let’s wait to tell the police about Pirozhki until we have more information. They’re obviously convinced it’s you so we have to be careful. We don’t want to accidentally give them more ammo.”

  “I also had Leo destroy the rest of the chocolate,” I whispered. “It was stupid. I wasn’t thinking. I was worried about them searching the house and finding the contraband.”

  Mr. Kipling nodded. “I know. Leo called me. The police were banging on the door just as Leo had gotten into Galina’s closet. There wasn’t time for him to do it.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “I’m glad I didn’t inadvertently make my brother an accessory to whatever this is.” My voice broke a tiny bit on the word this. I could feel a tightness in my throat that felt like the beginning of tears. I didn’t let myself cry, though.

  “Don’t worry, Anya,” Mr. Kipling said. “This absolutely will get straightened out. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for everything.”

  I looked at Mr. Kipling. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was pale, even a bit green. “Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

  “Just tired. It’s been a long day. Now, don’t you go worrying about me. I want you to try to get a good night’s sleep, or as good a night’s sleep as it’s possible to have in a police station.” He gestured toward the metal bed with the paper-thin mattress and the scratchy wool blanket.

  “Pillow doesn’t look so bad,” I said. It didn’t. It was surprisingly plump.

  “That’s my girl,” Mr. Kipling said. He stuck his hand through the bars and brushed my cheek with his index finger. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Annie. At the courthouse. I’m stopping by your apartment now just to make sure Leo, Natty, and Galina have everything they need.”

  The cops had neglected to take my platinum-gold cross necklace. I unclasped it and handed the necklace to Mr. Kipling. It had been my mother’s and I didn’t want to somehow end up losing it or for someone to steal it from me. “For safekeeping,” I said.

  “I’ll bring it back to you tomorrow,” he promised.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kipling. For everything.” And by everything, I meant not even asking if I was innocent. He assumed I was. He always thought the best of me. (Maybe that was his job, though?)

  “You’re very welcome, Anya,” he said as he left.

  And then I was alone.

  It was odd to be alone. At home, there was always someone demanding my time or attention.

  I might even have enjoyed the sensation had it not occurred in a jail cell.

  The next morning, a police officer drove me to court. Even though I didn’t know what awaited me there, I definitely remember feeling glad to be out of that cell. It was sunny, and on the ride over I was optimistic about everything. Maybe Mr. Kipling was right. Maybe there was a logical explanation for everything. Maybe this would end up being little more than a vacation from school. The worst that would happen is I’d have a ton of makeup work.

  When I got to the courthouse, Mr. Kipling wasn’t there. I’d usually known him to be early for such matters, but I wasn’t that worried.

  Frappe was in the courtroom, and another woman who I assumed was the prosecutor. At 9:01, the judge came in. “Ms. Balanchine?” She looked at me, and I nodded. “Do you know where your attorney is?”

  “Mr. Kipling said he’d meet me here. Maybe he was caught in traffic?” I suggested.

  “Is your guardian here?” the judge asked. “I’m aware that your parents are dead. Perhaps your guardian could call your attorney?”

  I told her that my guardian was my grandmother and that she was confined to bed.

  “Most unfortunate,” the judge said. “I suppose we could proceed without an attorney, though, as you are a minor, I’d rather not. Perhaps we
should postpone?”

  At that moment, a boy who didn’t seem much older than me came into the courtroom. He was wearing a business suit. “I’m sorry I’m late, your honor. I’m Mr. Kipling’s colleague. Mr. Kipling has had a heart attack and won’t be able to come to court today. In his absence, I’ll be representing Ms. Balanchine. I’m Simon Green.”

  As soon as he arrived at the table, he offered me his hand. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “Everything will be fine. I’m not as young as I look and I actually know more about criminal matters than Mr. Kipling does anyway.”

  “Will Mr. Kipling be all right?” I asked.

  “They don’t know anything yet,” Simon Green said.

  “Ms. Balanchine,” the judge asked, “are you comfortable with this arrangement? Or shall I postpone?”

  I considered the question. The truth was, I was not one bit comfortable with this arrangement and yet postponing seemed like an equally bad idea—I didn’t relish another night in jail or somewhere worse. If the matter was postponed, they wouldn’t send me to Rikers Island, but there was a good chance I’d be sent to a juvenile facility while everything was sorted out. And it would be difficult to mind Natty, Leo, and Nana from a juvenile facility. “I’m fine with Mr. Green,” I said.

  “Good,” said the judge.

  The prosecutor recited the evidence they had against me, and the judge nodded a great deal, as did Simon Green. The attorney concluded by giving her recommendations for what she thought should be done with me. “Ms. Balanchine should be sent to Liberty Children’s Facility while she awaits trial.”

  I waited for Mr. Green to object but he said nothing.

  “Detainment seems a bit excessive in a juvenile case,” said the judge. “The girl hasn’t been convicted of anything yet.”

  “Ordinarily I’d agree,” said the prosecutor. “But you must consider the severity of the crime and the fact that the victim may die. Also, there’s a family history of criminal behavior”—I was starting to hate this woman—“which suggests that the suspect may pose a flight risk.”