“Can you tell me why you had the matches in the first place?” Her voice was calm. She sat in the chair across the room, but leaned forward in it, with her chin propped up on her hand, in anticipation of my response.
“I bought them,” I stated blankly, with my eyes pointed down to the floor. “At the gas station across the street from the bus stop. I liked that box because it had a picture of a fire on the cover. The rest of the boxes were boring.”
“And why did you feel the need to buy the matches, Danny?”
“The fire ants bit me last week and my ankle was itchy for two days. So today, I burned them back. Plus, I like the sound it makes when the stick lights on fire.”
I was 7. I didn’t know a whole lot at the time, but I did know that I didn’t like the way that lady was talking to me. Her tone was low and belittling, and she jotted down notes on a scratch paper every time I spoke, as if I was some science project. It made me feel as though I had taken on the role of the ants that I had burned earlier that day on the school playground: helpless, naïve, and unprepared for what fate was about to throw in my direction. In my case, I too was faced with inferno, except it burned hotter and wider than the flame my match had created at recess.
At the end of our session, the woman asked me to step out of the room so she could speak to my parents privately. I obeyed, but pressed my ear against the paper thin door after she closed it behind me and heard every word.
“Your son shows early signs of what’s known as antisocial personality disorder. Subcategories include psychopathic and sociopathic qualities. I suggest bringing him here regularly to speak with me. It could really benefit him in the years to come, given that we’ve noticed these signs early on. He can learn how to deal with it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I heard my father murmur. “He’s just a kid. How many kids do you know that aren’t intrigued by the i idea of burning bugs? We used to do it with magnifying glasses when I was his age. But because he used a box of matches, suddenly he’s being diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder? Let me tell you something, lady. My son is perfectly fine. He is not a psychopath. He is a 7-year-old boy. Learn the difference.”
After that day, my parents decided to disassociate from this woman, who I later learned was the school’s social worker. The only time I was reminded of her existence was when I heard the occasional clicking of her high heels down the empty hallway, to pull students out of classes, I assume, to diagnose them with disorders they did not have as she had done to me. But everything changed when Ellie died. I was 17, and again, I was being pulled into an office and questioned by the same snobby woman. Only this time, a police officer stood in the corner of the room. The occasional sound of his walkie talkie would make me jump, but not enough to be noticed by anyone but me.
“I understand that you and Ms. Mills had a close relationship, correct?”
“You mean I’m the one that didn’t bully her to death?” I said, muffled, as I gnawed on my ring fingernail. “Yeah, that would be me,” I spit the fingernail off the tip of my tongue, avoiding eye contact with the officer that stood to my right. The social worker ignored my sarcastic tone and continued her interrogation.
“Can you describe your relationship with Ellie?” She leaned forward in her chair again, with her chin propped up on the same hand. It caused a sense of deja vu to wash over me, and the image of those burning ants started swirling in my head.
“There’s seriously not much to describe. She talks. A lot. And I obviously don’t. So she would talk, and I would listen. That was our relationship.” I saw the officer shift his weight from one leg to the other through my peripheral vision that was blurred by the long, dark hair that drooped down into my eyes. Normally those hairs would bother me, but at that moment, they came in handy. I could do a lot of things; smuggle a box of matches out of a gas station at the age of 7 being one of them, but I knew my limits. And I knew that I could not lie and make eye contact at the same time.
“What would she talk to you about? Did she ever show any signs of suicidal tendencies during these conversations?” I thought back to one of the last conversations I had with her. She was laying on her bed that was still dressed in the purple polka dotted sheets she had when we were 10, and I sat in her desk chair with my feet propped up in the center of a polka dot.
“I have a favor to ask you.” She sat up, and pieces her long blonde hair fell down past her eyes. She tucked them away behind her ear, so that her vision of my reaction would not be blocked.
“Yippee,” I stated in a joking, monotone voice to display my displeasure in her request without even knowing what she was going to ask.
She chuckled, but it was a fake one. She faked her laughs so often at that point, that I had trained myself to learn the difference. And then her smile faded. “It’s kind of a big one,” She said, paused for only a second, and then continued. ”I want to end it, Danny. But I don’t have the balls to do it myself.” This caused a slight pang in my chest, but I couldn’t rebuttal this comment with sympathy because it would be fake, and she could tell my fake sympathy the same way I could tell her fake laugh, so instead I used humor.
“You know the friendship is close when the favor is ‘commit my murder’ as opposed to ‘grab me a soda from the fridge,’ No, Ellie,” It was my turn to fake chuckle. “I’m not doing that.”
“Ha. Ha.” she said sarcastically. “But seriously, please. I mean think about it. It makes a lot of sense. We could pick a night, drive really far out of town while our parents are asleep and-” I stopped her.
“Ellie, I already said no. It’s not happening.” I saw the anger boiling behind the disguise of her hazel eyes. Then her pleading began.
”Danny, you’re a freaking psychopath. You have been since we were little, whether you want to believe that social worker or not. You’re manipulative, you have absolutely no sympathy for anyone, and you’ve had this burning desire to hurt and to kill, and it hasn’t been released since you burned those stupid bugs on the playground! These are all of the traits you would need to get away with this,” Her eyes got glossy and then watered over with tears. “Please,” she said softly.
I pushed this thought out of my head, and quickly came up with a snarky comment to answer the social worker’s question. “Lady, she was bullied. Don’t you think you’d show signs of suicidal tendencies if you were bullied since elementary school? I think so.” This must have been the officer’s breaking point, because he stood up straight from his slouched position in the corner and stepped twice in my direction.
“It’s a hard time for all of us. I understand that you are hurt, but the flow of disrespect running from your mouth is unnecessary and uncalled for. Cut it out.” I fiddled with fingers, now trying my hardest to avoid contact with his eyes. Anytime my eyes would stray from the floor, they would only reach his gut, which must have been overflown with donuts, before I yanked them back down.
“Thank you sir, but it’s really not a big deal.” The social worker stated before turning her focus back to me. “Danny, if you know any details of how her death happened-- if it was unintentional, if it was a suicide, how it was done if it was, in fact, a suicide-- now would be the time to tell us.”
I chucked. A real one. “You guys still haven’t figured that out yet? Damn, we must’ve hid the body good-” My eyes widened underneath my stray hairs. Did I just say “we”? Was that in my head? My heart started pounding. My ears started ringing. My palms started sweating. The police officer took another 2 steps closer to me and knelt down so that he was level with me in the chair I was sitting in, but my eyes remained planted on the ground.
“Excuse me, son?” He said in a condescending tone. “Did you just say ‘we hid the body good’? We? As in, you had something to do with the death of Ellie Mills?”
“No, I said ‘she’, not ‘we’,” was all I seemed to be able to come up with to cover up the lie that became increasingly difficult to keep. It felt as though I was putting a bandaid over a battle wound.
“Look at me.” The officer said slowly. I felt my heart jump into my throat, but I kept my eyes focused on the tile floor. “I said ‘look at me’,” the officer repeated once more, this time in a more demanding manner. I refused. “Son, I’m not going to ask you again. Look. Up.” He pushed my chin up with his callused hand, and my blue eyes met the dark hue of his. “Did you have something to do with the death of Ellie Mills?” he repeated. Before I could even respond, a cynical smile spread across my face, and his question was answered.