Margin Notes

I don’t belong here. I can’t finish my notes; I have no access to my book. I’m running out of time and nobody seems to care except me. Heartless bunch of cowards.

The first time I noticed it was in a biography of an Ecuadoran politician. I could sense I was missing something; the author was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t see it. I read it thoroughly, not missing a word. If I couldn’t focus, I’d reread sentences, paragraphs, pages. The feeling was unsettling.

I needed to cleanse my mind, so I turned to one of my library’s staples, “Floating City.” It was one of my favorites. The nagging feeling came again about chapter 3. Belle, my roommate, it’s her fault they think something is wrong.

She had walked in as I sat at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and reading.

“Haven’t you read that before?” she asked, knowing I had. Unless she didn’t pay a bit of attention. She knew this was one of my favorite books.

“Yeah, just felt like rereading a classic.” I jotted a note in the margin.

“And taking notes? Are you writing a paper?” she joked.

“I’m trying not to miss anything.”

“Shit, Kelly, I could probably quote the whole thing just from you talking about it. What would you be missing?”

I glanced up at Belle. She’d been my best friend and roommate for about five years. I’d trusted her with almost every dark secret I could imagine. But I wasn’t sure I was ready to share this. The connection wasn’t complete, too many missing pieces. So I simply smiled.

“I just want to remember certain things I’d forgotten last time.” I wrote a 5 in the margin. 5—is it technically 6? I scratched out the 5 and wrote DIAPB instead—syllables in the phrase stuck in my head. “Dial in and pull back.” The phrase swirled around my head, and it morphed into the next book I needed to read: “Pride and Prejudice.”

**

The message was becoming clearer. The unsettled feeling I’d had while reading the first book made more sense as I confident that I was reading between the lines. 792 pages in that book—including the prologue. 7+9+2=18. The mayor here has been involved in local business affairs for 18 years. I dug into it. His first initial was the same as the initial of the politician in the book.

The second book alluded to something underground, something most of the middle-class didn’t see happening. Or if they did, maybe it benefitted them and they kept silent. But I’m not going to keep silent. And it lead me to real answers.

I don’t know how Austen was able to foresee that I needed this message. The margins were too small so I had to switch to a notebook. I can’t access that, either. Not with the spirals.

The key was in the chapter titles of Volume II. Volume 2 meant the second month. That was when I needed to expose him. The proof was right in front of me. How had no one seen this? Perhaps it’s destiny that these books came to me. Perhaps I’m the only one who won’t be bought or forced into silence.

TTJEEEMAMEMAETETELE.

TT.J-EEE-M. AME. MA;ETE. TELE.

T/T=0. Irrelevant. Just something to throw others off. JE3.M. 3 Males in charge. What is JE? AME business abbreviation. That’s the location. Meets At Eastern Time Eight. Telephone code to get in.

Justin Essex. The mayor may be officially running things, but JE was essential to their operation.

Now I had to wait for a message to act. I knew when and where, but how? And I couldn’t tell Belle. Justin was her cousin. Maybe she was involved. I don’t think she could be—she’s too kindly, but it could all be a ploy. Maybe Justin encouraged our friendship as a deterrent because he knew only I could stop things. I don’t blame Belle. She was a victim of his manipulation just like the rest of this town.

I have to hide the notebook from her. I can’t let her find out like this. Once I’ve stopped it all, I can tell her, but I can’t risk her knowing and tipping them off. Just in case. I keep it hidden well when I’m not using it. I never let her peak over my shoulder.

At least that’s what I thought until I walked in on Wednesday to my sister and Belle with a police officer in my living room. My notebook was open on the counter.

I’m not a violent person. I swear I’m not. But I had to stop the mayor. I had to make a plan. The plan was becoming clearer in the next book. I was going to be a hero and save us from him. I wasn’t expecting major gratitude, not a parade or anything. I knew I’d make some enemies, but if I’d had time, I could’ve figured out how to take care of them.

I didn’t want to fight the officer. He was a tall man, but his eyes were too green. He had to be the third male. Of course they’d get a cop. Who better to cover the crimes they were committing? I screamed. But Belle and my sister chose the wrong side. They wouldn’t help me as he took me away from home, my haven, my notes.

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” I pleaded them to rescue me. I tried to explain. They said I bit the officer. I don’t remember that but I was desperate. I had to get away. And I failed.

**

The emergency room had a TV at least. I watched the screen intently for another message, anything. I found a glimmer of hope. It was a game show, one of those team-building ones where eventually you all turn on each other, but to survive the first, you have to cooperate. Cooperate and they’ll let you go. Cooperate and they’ll help you resist the mayor. I told the doctor. They wouldn’t involve her, she was an outsider. I quietly told her what I’d found. I wasn’t hysterical like the cop said I was. I was serious and tearful. She was my last hope. I could cut her off if she turned on me later but she had to help me now. That’s what the message said.

But I think they hacked the messages because she let them take me. She let them bring me here and anytime I ask for my belongings, they say it won’t be helpful. But it sure helps them. The mayor probably has them pocketed. I thought maybe the others here were victims too, silenced by the men. But they won’t acknowledge that I’m right. They must be scared or too drugged up to remember. They keep drugging me. But I won’t forget. I won’t forget. I can’t.