His Obsession, Her Perfect Calculated Escape

Alma sat on the top step of the rotting wooden porch. The late afternoon sun beat down on the back of her neck. She kept her head down. Her pencil scratched against the lined paper of her history notebook.

The air in the rust-belt town always smelled like sulfur and exhaust. It was a smell she was used to.

The rusty chain-link fence at the edge of the yard rattled violently.

Alma looked up. Tommy, a boy from down the street, sprinted into the dirt yard. His face was red. Sweat dripped from his chin.

He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. He grabbed his knees, gasping for air.

"Alma," Tommy panted. His chest heaved. "It's Gus. They're at the site. They're hurting him."

The pencil slipped from Alma's fingers. It rolled off the porch and into the dirt. Her history notebook slid from her lap, the pages crumpling against the wooden boards.

Her mind went completely blank. A cold weight dropped into her stomach.

She stood up so fast her knee clipped the plastic pitcher of lemonade resting on the railing. The pitcher tipped over.

The plastic hit the floorboards with a loud crack. Yellow liquid spilled everywhere.

The screen door behind her creaked open. Her mother, Marge, stepped out, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

"Alma? What did you break?" Marge asked.

Alma didn't look at her. She didn't have time to speak.

She jumped off the side of the porch. Her boots hit the dirt hard. She grabbed the handlebars of her rusted bicycle leaning against the house.

She threw her leg over the seat. Her feet slammed onto the pedals.

She pushed down with all her weight. The bicycle lurched forward.

She rode out of the yard and onto the uneven dirt road leading to the edge of town.

The road was full of potholes. The bicycle tires bounced violently. The metal frame rattled under her.

Her breathing turned shallow and fast. Dust kicked up from the tires, stinging her eyes. She blinked hard, refusing to slow down.

The energy company's construction site appeared in the distance.

Alma squeezed the handbrakes. The rubber brake pads screeched against the metal rims. The bike skidded to a halt.

A thick crowd of townspeople blocked the road. Yellow caution tape was stretched across the entrance of the site.

Alma dropped the bicycle. It crashed into the weeds.

She walked into the crowd. She pushed her thin shoulders against the backs of the adults in front of her.

"Move," she muttered.

She shoved a man aside. Someone cursed at her. An elbow hit her ribs. She stumbled, her knees scraping against the rough gravel.

The sharp pain shot up her legs. She bit her lip, tasting copper. She pushed herself up and kept shoving through the bodies.

She finally broke through the front line of the crowd.

The roar of a massive bulldozer engine vibrated in her chest. It was deafening.

Harlan Sutkowski, the site foreman, stood on a mound of dirt. He held a red megaphone to his mouth. He was reading a forced eviction order, but the words were drowned out by the engine.

Alma's eyes darted to the ground below Harlan.

Her father, Gus Alexander, stood directly in front of the bulldozer's massive metal tracks.

Gus held a stack of union papers high in the air. His jaw was set. He was not moving.

Harlan lowered the megaphone. He looked down at a man standing near the machine.

The man was Clell Hart, the head of the company's security. Harlan gave Clell a single, sharp nod.

Clell stepped forward. Three large men in black shirts followed him.

They rushed Gus.

Clell grabbed the union papers from Gus's hands. He ripped them in half and threw the pieces into the mud.

Gus yelled something Alma couldn't hear. He swung his fist. His knuckles connected with Clell's shoulder.

It was a mistake.

One of the men in black stepped behind Gus. He swung a heavy black baton. The hard plastic cracked against the back of Gus's knee.

Gus let out a sharp grunt. His right leg buckled. He dropped to one knee in the mud.

Alma's throat tightened. She couldn't breathe.

"Dad!" she screamed.

She lunged forward, trying to duck under the yellow caution tape.

A heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. A police officer in a tan uniform yanked her backward.

"Stay back, kid," the officer barked.

Alma struggled. She watched as Clell lifted his heavy combat boot.

He kicked Gus squarely in the stomach.

The impact made a sickening thud. Gus collapsed completely. He curled into a tight ball in the wet dirt.

Blood poured from a cut on his forehead. It mixed with the muddy gravel beneath him.

Jedediah Pruitt, an old man from the town, stepped across the tape to help Gus. One of Harlan's men shoved Jedediah hard in the chest. The old man fell backward into a puddle.

Tommy's father, Waylon, ran forward. The men in black raised their batons. They started swinging at Waylon, hitting his arms and back.

Alma thrashed against the police officer holding her.

"Let me go!" she screamed.

She stopped thrashing. She didn't reach back to scratch him, and she didn't scream. Instead, she went completely, terrifyingly still. She slowly turned her head and locked her eyes on the officer's face. Her gaze was so cold, so entirely devoid of childish fear, that it didn't look human. The officer hesitated, unnerved by the absolute void in her stare.

"I said stay back," he muttered, his voice losing its bark. He didn't twist her arms or slam her onto the hood, but he kept a firm grip on her shoulders, forcing her to stay put near the perimeter.

Alma didn't blink. She stood perfectly upright, her breathing evening out into a slow, rhythmic draw. She was forced to watch from a distance.

She watched as three men pinned her father to the ground. They pulled his arms behind his back. The metallic click of handcuffs echoed over the engine noise.

Harlan walked down the dirt mound. He looked at the silent, terrified crowd. He didn't use the megaphone. He just smiled.

The men dragged Gus to his feet. His legs dragged in the mud.

Gus lifted his head. Blood dripped into his left eye. His gaze found Alma standing frozen behind the yellow tape.

His chest heaved. He looked at her.

Slowly, Gus shook his head. It was a tiny movement. A silent command.

Don't fight them.

The men shoved Gus into the back of a second police cruiser. The doors slammed shut.

The siren wailed. The cruiser's tires spun in the mud, kicking up dirty water, before it sped down the road.

The officer holding Alma finally let go. He gave her a slight push backward to ensure she stayed behind the line.

Alma stumbled on the uneven gravel. She dropped to her knees, falling hard onto the ground. Her bare hands sank into the cold, wet mud where her father's blood had spilled.

She stayed on her hands and knees. She stared at the tire tracks left by the police car.

Her lungs burned. Her fingers were freezing.

The panic in her chest slowly stopped beating. It hardened. The fear drained out of her veins, replaced by something entirely different.

It was a cold, absolute hatred.

Alma slowly pushed herself up from the wet ground.

She wiped her muddy hands on her jeans. She looked down at her knees. The fabric was torn and stained brown.

Her face felt numb. The cold wind bit at her wet cheeks. Her eyes were completely dry.

She turned away from the construction site. She walked back to where she had thrown her bicycle in the weeds.

She grabbed the handlebars and pulled the bike upright. The chain was loose, hanging off the gears.

She didn't try to fix it. She just gripped the rubber handles and started walking, pushing the broken bicycle beside her.

She walked the two miles back into town. She headed straight for the local precinct.

The police station smelled like old coffee and floor wax. Alma walked up to the front desk.

The desk sergeant didn't look up from his computer.

"I'm here for Gus Alexander," Alma said. Her voice was flat.

The sergeant finally looked at her. He took in her muddy clothes and messy hair. He let out a short sigh.

"Gus Alexander is being processed," the sergeant said. "Assaulting an officer. Destruction of private property. Bail is denied."

Alma's fingers tightened around the edge of the wooden counter.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway behind the desk. Mayor Lester Finch walked out. He wore a tailored suit that looked entirely out of place in the dingy station.

He saw Alma and stopped. He put on a sad, sympathetic smile.

"Alma, sweetheart," Mayor Finch said. He walked over and rested a hand on the counter. "I am so sorry about your father. He got too worked up. You need to go home. Don't make this harder on your family by causing a scene."

Alma stared at his polished leather shoes.

She didn't scream. She didn't argue. She knew the rules of power in this town.

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor," Alma whispered. She kept her head bowed.

She turned and walked out of the station. As soon as the glass doors closed behind her, she curled her hands into fists. She drove her fingernails so deep into her palms that the skin nearly broke.

She pushed her bike the rest of the way home.

When she walked through the front door, the house was silent except for the sound of crying.

Marge sat on the faded floral sofa. Her face was buried in her hands. Her shoulders shook with heavy sobs.

On the coffee table in front of her lay a piece of paper.

Alma walked over. It was a check from the energy company. It was a severance and compensation check. The amount printed on it was an insult. It barely covered a month of groceries.

Alma picked up the check. The paper felt crisp and heavy with mockery.

She walked to the kitchen counter, opened the top drawer, and shoved the check inside. She slammed the drawer shut.

She filled a glass with tap water. She walked back to the living room and held the glass out to her mother.

Marge took it with trembling hands.

Alma stood there. She watched her mother cry. She didn't shed a single tear.

Years passed. The agonizing crawl of time faded into the crisp chill of an East Coast autumn.

Alma stood on the pristine brick pathway outside a prestigious Ivy League university. She wore a pair of faded, washed-out jeans and an oversized gray sweater. Her old backpack hung off one shoulder.

In the distance, beyond the gothic architecture of the campus, the sleek glass skyscraper of the energy company's parent corporation loomed over the city skyline.

It looked like a giant, glittering monument to the men who had destroyed her family.

Alma looked away. She walked through the heavy double doors into the crowded hallway.

The noise was overwhelming. Undergraduates were rushing to lectures, holding expensive coffees, and laughing loudly.

Alma kept her head down. She let her shoulders slump. She made herself small, blending perfectly into the background.

She found her assigned locker in the student center. The metal was slightly scratched. She spun the combination dial. She pulled the handle, but it was stuck.

She hit the metal door with the heel of her hand twice. It finally popped open.

Three girls from her dorm walked past. They were talking loudly about an exclusive weekend mixer.

Alma didn't look at them. She shoved her worn-out advanced economics textbook onto the top shelf. She closed the locker quietly.

The warning chimes rang through the building.

Alma turned and started walking toward her morning lecture.

As she rounded the corner near the main lecture hall, she walked straight into a solid chest.

The impact knocked her backward. Her binder slipped from her hands. Loose papers and a heavy history textbook crashed to the polished floor.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

She flinched slightly, pulling her shoulders inward. She quickly bent down, avoiding his eyes entirely as she began to gather her scattered papers with careful, hesitant movements. She kept her chin tucked to her chest, the perfect picture of a timid, invisible nobody.

A pair of expensive sneakers stepped into her line of sight.

The boy crouched down. He picked up her history textbook.

It was Caden Kirkland. He was a pre-law honors student and the star of the university rowing team. He had perfect blonde hair and wore a tailored navy blazer.

He held the book out to her. His eyes scanned her face. She wore no makeup, but her features were sharp and striking beneath the messy hair.

Caden's breath hitched slightly. He hadn't noticed her before.

"I've got it," Caden said. His voice was smooth, confident. "I'm Caden. What's your name?"

Alma reached out and took the book. Her fingers brushed against his. She pulled her hand back quickly, as if she had been burned.

She lowered her eyelashes, hiding her eyes completely.

"Alma," she whispered.

She hugged the heavy book to her chest. She stood up quickly, keeping her head down, and practically ran down the hallway.

Caden stood up slowly. He watched her thin back disappear into a classroom.

A slow smile spread across his face. He was used to girls throwing themselves at him. Her fear and retreat triggered something deep in his chest. He wanted to catch her.

At lunch, the dining hall was loud and chaotic.

Alma walked past the crowded tables. She found an empty, small table in the far back corner, near the trash cans.

She sat down. She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a cold turkey sandwich wrapped in foil. She took a small bite, chewing slowly.

Footsteps approached her table.

Caden Kirkland walked up holding a plastic tray piled high with hot food.

He didn't ask for permission. He pulled out the plastic chair across from her and sat down.

Alma stopped chewing. She looked up, her eyes wide with manufactured shock.

"Hey," Caden said, leaning back in his chair. "You eat fast. I wanted to catch you before you ran off again."

Alma swallowed the dry bread. She looked nervously around the dining hall.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw exactly what she expected. Several girls from the popular crowd were staring at their table. Their eyes were narrowed. Their faces were tight with jealousy.

"You shouldn't sit here," Alma said quietly. She looked back down at her foil wrapper.

"I sit where I want," Caden said. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "So, Alma. Tell me about yourself."

Alma gave him short, quiet answers. She acted uncomfortable. She let him guide the conversation, feeding his ego with her silence.

When the final bell rang, Alma packed her bag and walked to her locker.

She opened the metal door and reached for her jacket.

A hand slammed flat against the locker door right next to her head.

Alma jumped, her shoulders pulling up to her ears.

Caden stood right beside her. His arm blocked her in. He leaned his weight against the lockers, trapping her in the small space between his body and the metal.

"You're hard to track down," Caden said. He looked down at her lips. "I want to take you out this weekend."

Alma's heart didn't beat any faster. She felt absolutely nothing for the boy standing in front of her. His arrogance was predictable and boring.

But her face showed pure panic.

"I... I can't," Alma stuttered. She pressed her back flat against the lockers. "I have to study. I just want to focus on school. I'm not... I don't fit in with your friends."

She used the self-deprecating words like a weapon.

Caden's jaw tightened. His pride took a hit, but he immediately rationalized it. She wasn't rejecting him; she was just insecure. She thought she wasn't good enough for him.

That only made him want her more.

"I don't care about my friends," Caden said softly. "I care about you."

Alma waited for him to shift his weight. The moment his arm moved a fraction of an inch, she ducked.

She slipped under his arm and stepped out into the open hallway.

"I have to go," she said quickly.

She turned and walked fast toward the exit doors.

Caden watched her leave. He crossed his arms over his chest. He was smiling. He had made up his mind. She was going to be his.

Alma pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped out into the cool afternoon air.

The second the doors closed behind her, the panicked expression vanished from her face. Her features settled into a mask of pure, cold calculation.

She looked at the distant skyscraper.

Caden's public attention was a liability. It was going to bring the wolves right to her door. She needed to prepare.

Alma adjusted the straps of her heavy backpack. She walked down the concrete path toward the bus stop.

The next morning, the air inside the university felt different.

As soon as Alma walked through the front entrance, she felt the stares. A group of sorority girls standing by the trophy case stopped talking and pointed at her.

Alma kept her eyes fixed on the floor tiles. She walked faster, heading toward the lecture hall for her first seminar.

She turned into a quiet, narrow hallway that connected the main building to the gym.

A frat guy named K. Brown was leaning against the wall. As Alma walked past, he suddenly kicked his heavy boot out, aiming right for her ankles.

Alma saw the movement in her peripheral vision. She shifted her weight instantly. She stumbled forward, catching herself before her knees hit the floor.

She didn't fall.

She stopped and turned her head. She looked at K. Brown. Her eyes were flat and dead.

K. Brown smirked. He put two fingers in his mouth and blew a loud, sharp whistle down the hall.

"Target is here!" he yelled.

Footsteps echoed from both ends of the hallway.

Brenda Chandler, a senior and the president of the most exclusive sorority on campus, walked out from the stairwell. She was flanked by Tanya Mercer, Shawna Gable, and Tammy Drudge.

They moved in a line, blocking the entire width of the hall.

Alma took a half-step backward. Her spine hit the cold cinderblock wall. She gripped the straps of her backpack tightly.

Brenda stopped two feet in front of Alma. She looked Alma up and down. Her eyes lingered on Alma's frayed sweater.

"Look at this," Brenda sneered. Her voice echoed in the empty space. "Did you buy that at a garage sale, or pull it out of the trash?"

Tanya stepped forward. She reached out and grabbed a handful of Alma's hair. She yanked it hard.

"What makes you think you can talk to Caden?" Tanya demanded. "You think he actually likes you? You're a charity case."

Alma's scalp burned from the pull. She didn't wince. She didn't speak. She just stared at Brenda's perfectly glossed lips.

Her silence was a direct challenge.

Brenda's face flushed with anger. She hated being ignored.

Brenda pulled her right arm back. She swung her hand with all her strength.

Her palm connected with the left side of Alma's face.

The slap sounded like a gunshot in the narrow hallway.

The force of the blow snapped Alma's head to the right. Her cheek exploded in hot, stinging pain. The skin instantly turned bright red.

Shawna and Tammy stepped up. They grabbed Alma's shoulders, pinning her flat against the wall so she couldn't run.

Alma tasted copper. The inside of her cheek had caught against her teeth. Blood pooled on her tongue.

She slowly turned her head back to look at Brenda. Her eyes remained completely empty. No tears. No fear.

Brenda pointed a manicured finger an inch from Alma's nose.

"Stay away from Caden," Brenda hissed. "If I see you near him again, a slap is going to be the least of your problems."

The loud, shrill sound of the warning bell rang through the speakers.

Shawna and Tammy let go of Alma's shoulders. Brenda gave her one last disgusted look. The four girls turned and walked away, their heels clicking loudly on the linoleum.

Alma stood against the wall. She took a slow, deep breath.

She lifted the back of her hand and wiped the corner of her mouth. A small smear of red blood stained her pale skin.

She didn't walk toward the dean's office. The university administration wouldn't do anything to the sorority president over a scholarship student from the wrong side of the tracks.

Alma turned and pushed open the heavy wooden door of the girls' restroom.

The bathroom was empty. The fluorescent lights buzzed above the sinks.

Alma walked up to the mirror. She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink.

She stared at her reflection. The handprint on her left cheek was raised and angry. It was a perfect, physical manifestation of violence.

She turned on the cold water. She rinsed the blood off her hand.

Her brain worked like a machine. She calculated the variables. Brenda had power. Alma had none. But Caden had more power than Brenda.

She needed a weapon. Caden was going to be that weapon.

Alma reached up and pulled her hair out of its neat ponytail. She messed up the strands, letting them fall wildly around her face. She made sure a few pieces stuck to her sweaty forehead.

She stared at her eyes in the mirror. She forced herself to think about the mud. She thought about her father's face pressed into the dirt.

Her chest tightened. Her eyes began to burn.

She rubbed her knuckles hard into her eyes until the whites turned bloodshot. A few real, physiological tears formed and spilled over her lower lashes.

She looked broken. She looked pathetic. It was perfect.

Alma pushed away from the sink. She walked out of the restroom.

She avoided the main hallways. She took the back stairs down to the athletic wing.

She knew Caden's schedule. Morning crew practice ended ten minutes before his first seminar. He would be in the athletic center's locker room right now.

Alma walked down the quiet corridor leading to the locker room doors. The air here smelled of bleach and sweat.

She stopped a few feet away from the heavy metal door. She could hear the sound of showers running and boys shouting inside.

Alma leaned her back against the wall. She wrapped her arms tightly around her stomach. She began to take short, shaky breaths. She forced her shoulders to tremble.

She waited.

Five minutes later, the metal door swung open.

A cloud of warm, damp steam rolled out into the hallway.

Caden stepped out. He had a gym bag slung over his shoulder. His blonde hair was still damp from the shower.

He turned to walk down the hall.

His eyes landed instantly on the corner.

He saw Alma. He saw her trembling shoulders. He saw the messy hair.

And then, he saw the bright red, swollen handprint covering half of her face.