Fragile Line - dl.yazdanpress.com

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When I’m asleep, I’m afraid someone else might take
my place.
It can happen in a flash. One minute she’s kissing her boyfriend,
the next she’s lost in the woods. Sixteen-year-old Ellie Cox is
losing time. It started out small…forgetting a drive home or
a conversation with a friend. But her blackouts are getting
worse, more difficult to disguise as forgetfulness. When Ellie
goes missing for three days, waking up in the apartment of a
mysterious guy—a guy who is definitely not her boyfriend—
her life starts to spiral out of control.
Perched on the edge of insanity, with horrific memories
of her childhood leaking in, Ellie struggles to put together the
pieces of what she’s lost—starting with the name haunting her,
Gwen. Heartbreakingly beautiful and intimately drawn, this
poignant story follows one girl’s harrowing journey to finding
out who she really is.
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Fragile Line
Brooklyn Skye
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,
living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Brooklyn Skye. All rights reserved, including
the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any
means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact
the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Edited by Alycia Tornetta and Stacy Cantor Abrams
Cover design by Jenny Adams Perinovic
Ebook ISBN
978-1-62266-529-7
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition April 2014
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To Alycia, Ellie’s cheerleader from the very beginning.
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Part One: Ellie
And the day came
when the risk to remain
tight in a bud
was more painful
than the risk it took
to blossom.
~ Anais Nin
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Chapter One
“You don’t remember?”
In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve heard these words
three times now. The first—yesterday—when I forgot to
wait for Dani after school. Supposedly, she’d asked me for
a ride home during English, but my memory of first period
is sort of a blur. Or not really there at all. I must’ve been
daydreaming. The second—this morning—when Mom
forgot to put pancakes on my plate and when I pointed it out
she said, “I didn’t forget. You told me you didn’t like them
anymore.”
And now.
I stand on the dirt-covered floor of Beacon’s, the
abandoned cement factory, watching Shane wrap a leather
necklace around my wrist. He picked it up at the boutique
next to his little sister’s Tae Kwon Do studio. His fingers
are warm, brushing lightly against my skin as he secures
the knot. The silver charm in the shape of a running shoe
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sparkles in the dull light.
“Fits perfectly,” I say, gesturing to my wrist to avoid his
question.
“Over your scar,” he finishes, smoothing his finger over
the inch-long layer of wound leather. It’s not what I meant,
but he’s right, the necklace does perfectly cover the vertical
white line on my wrist. If only he had leather for all the
others.
“You don’t like my scar?” I hide my discomfort in a
pouting face. He leans down, lips barely grazing mine.
“I like everything about you, Ells. Including your scar.
But I know you’re self-conscious about it.”
I grin. “Suddenly you’re a mind reader?”
“I’d like to call it a movement analyst.” He takes my left
hand and cups it over the bracelet on my right. “You cover
your scar when you’re nervous,” he says, straight-faced. Then
he lets out an impish chuckle, pulling my hand away. “Now
you can make better use of your hands.”
I make a face and pull out of his hold. “You’re, like, the
weirdest boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
“Yeah?” He snakes his arms around me. I lean back,
meet his gaze.
“You can’t possibly take that as a compliment!” I laugh
and the sound booms off the cinderblock walls.
“Of course I can.” He squares his shoulders. “I’m sure
in some part of the world ‘weird’ means cool. And don’t all
girls want to be with the cool guys?”
I gesture to the dilapidated room we’re standing in.
Broken windows, crumbling foundation, the stench of death
from the rat cemetery in the corner.
“You have a lot to learn, Prince Charming, if you think
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a date at the cement factory will get you anywhere with this
girl.” I try to squirm out from his grip, but his arms won’t
relent.
He hesitates. “So you really don’t remember talking
about it?”
The “it” being each other’s firsts, which apparently we
discussed the other day on the way home from practice. I
shake my head and look away. “I must’ve been really tired.”
Truth is, I don’t remember the entire drive. This is usually
how it happens, how I realize a memory is missing. Someone
will make a comment about something—the hideous scarf
Lexi was wearing at a party, the look on Shane’s face when
he realized I’d left the bonfire without him—and then I’ll
attempt to replay the scene, unable to.
A crease appears on his forehead.
“You say that a lot.”
Yes. I do. I search for another excuse.
“Practice has been kicking my butt lately.”
He brushes the bangs from my eyes, considering for a
moment my words. He’ll believe them. He always does. But
first he’ll have to disregard whatever doubts are plaguing his
mind. Little does he know, his instinct is right. Always right.
And I am a horrible person for letting him think otherwise.
Silence.
He takes my hand, meeting my eyes with a grin.
“Maybe we should skip practice tomorrow then. My
mom will be working and Drea won’t be home till four. We’ll
have the house to ourselves.”
…
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Shane catches my eye from across the hall and my lips crack
a smile. He’s walking with Jason to his last period. We’ve
hardly spoken a word to each other all day—no more than
a hi or a see you at lunch, but between every class he’s given
me this look. Like he’s reminding me of our little secret.
As if I could forget.
“Something’s up with you two,” Dani says, pulling the
chewed-up pen out of her mouth and pointing it at my chest.
“He’s been making that face at you all day.”
“What face?” I say, ducking my head so she can’t see my
cheeks flush red. Nevertheless, her hawk eyes catch it. She
grabs my shoulders.
“Oh my God. Already?”
I shake my head, grinning. Her grip tightens.
“You’re killing me here, Ell. When?” I scan the crowded
hall to make sure Shane’s not watching and, when I see he’s
already around the corner, I laugh out loud.
“Today.” I glance down at my watch. “In, like, one hour.”
“Holy bananas. Seriously?” She sticks the pen back in
her mouth and starts gnawing vigorously on the end. “Are
you…prepared?”
I roll my eyes and take her by the elbow.
“Yes, Mom, I’m prepared,” I say as I pull her through the
swarm of bodies toward the language wing.
She bumps me with her hip. “Someone has to ask.”
After school, Shane and I head up the stairs to his room,
his hand squeezing mine. Meant as a gesture of support, his
touch sends nerves prickling up the back of my neck.
Across the hall, a chalkboard hangs from his sister’s
door. Sara + Drea = BFF is scrawled in blue chalk along the
top. Sara wrote it. I can tell by the elaborate curl on the S. My
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little sister’s signature, which she’s practiced a zillion times
for the day fame finds her as the singer of an all-girl band.
Shane’s door shuts with a click and I sit on his tiny twin
bed, fidgeting with the frayed blanket. I run my fingers back
and forth across its blue threads, dragging them under my
fingernails.
In front of me on the nightstand is a picture of Shane
and me at our first race together. His arm is slung loosely
over my shoulder, both our faces reddened from the cold
but smiling at the first-place ribbon Shane earned. It’s not
visible in the picture, but I was holding my pink Participant
ribbon behind my back. The picture is tilted against a blackframed photo of Shane and Lexi from when they were kids.
They look about ten and are building a sandcastle at the
beach. I’ve never told Shane, but I can’t stand this picture of
him and his best friend.
The mattress sinks beside me. His hand falls onto my
thigh.
“You sure?”
I look him in the eyes. I still remember the first time I
saw Shane, this year at our first pep rally. He was with Coach
Mills promoting the cross country team, announcing the
dates for tryouts. His hair was shorter back then, not hanging
past his eyebrows like it is now. That day, as he stood below
me on the basketball court, he spoke confidently into the
microphone, made eye contact with even the seniors. He was
utterly unforgettable.
Needless to say, I tried out for the team the next day.
“If you wanna wait…” he adds, skimming his fingers up
my stomach. I love the gooeyness his touch brings, turning
my insides to Jell-O. But then his hand keeps going, and
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his fingers gently brush the underside of my bra. My nerve
endings zap to attention.
Would waiting make this sinking feeling in my stomach
go away?
I take a huge breath. No, this is Shane. He loves me, and
I love him, and I’m ready for this. I am. “No waiting,” I say
as smooth as I can and then tug on his T-shirt until he comes
closer. Warm breath skates across my cheek, my neck as
he lays me down, slipping his hand around my back. Fiery
tingles follow as he runs a line of gentle kisses along my jaw,
up to my ear, and back down. Is this what sex is going to feel
like? My body on fire and freezing cold at the same time?
His tongue glides into my mouth, and the fire wins out as I
knot my hands into his hair. He kisses me deeply and then,
breathing hard, pulls away.
“Thank you,” he says.
I laugh. “For this?”
Shaking his head, he lowers his lips to my ear. “For
giving me a reason to smile.”
I grin at his cheesy words—he’s always been so good
at sounding like a greeting card—and slide off his shirt,
noticing a dull pain in the back of my head. A tiny thread
yanking on my consciousness. He leans in, sweeping his lips
over my shoulder, my collarbone…lower, and, suddenly, I
feel like I’m slipping.
Fat hands.
Like I’m trying to stand on ice and can’t find my footing.
Reaching for me. Grabbing me. Pulling me.
Shane’s fingers slink down my belly and pop the button
on my jeans free…
Then everything goes black.
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Chapter Two
Water. Rushing to my left. At least I have an idea of where
I am.
I open my eyes to a blur of green and gray. Sharp pain
clings to the back of my neck and I attempt to blink it away—
once, twice, three times. It won’t work. The sting will stay for
hours, but I have to try. Seconds go by before I start to see
the defined edges of what’s around. Trees. Looming over me.
The feeling inside my chest is so split it’s impossible to
put into words. I’m near Shane’s house. I know this. And am
enormously comforted by the familiar roar of the river. But
the trees are gigantic, which makes me feel small and weak.
Incapable of getting to my feet and finding my way home.
Or back to Shane’s.
His bed, his arms, the taste of red licorice on his
tongue—that’s the last I remember. But is that all? Or did
we do more? I glance down. Below the hem of my shirt, my
jeans are unbuttoned. Mud covers my shoes and knees. It
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looks like I was running and tripped.
I want to scream.
My last blackout was only two days ago—Saturday—
when one minute I was standing before a bonfire down at
the river and the next I was waking up to Shane calling,
asking why I left the party without him.
This is too soon. I don’t want to do this again.
“Ellie!” Shane calls from the edge of the trees. Footsteps
squish into the damp forest floor.
I don’t answer. I don’t know how. I have no idea why I’m
this far from his house, or why I’m covered in mud.
“If you didn’t want to do it, you could’ve just said so.”
Shane’s sharp words bite through the trees. He must see me
by now. “Instead of making me feel like a complete jerk.”
I pull my knees close, wrap my hand around my wrist.
The scent of the river drifts on the wind. “I didn’t—”
“Do you treat all your boyfriends like this?”
I’ve never had a boyfriend like him. So, no.
He emerges from behind a tree, then stops a few feet
away, hands outstretched to the sides. His face is set into a
hard mask, one so unfamiliar to his face.
“What is it with you and leaving me?”
This is the first time I’ve heard Shane yell. I wince and
look up at him. I hate that I’ve caused this. And that I have
no idea what he’s talking about. Hot tears claw at the back
of my throat as I will the truth to come out.
“I don’t… I don’t remember what happened.”
He snorts. “Just like you don’t remember our
conversation the other day?” He spins on his heels and
starts back through the trees. “Go home, Ellie. Call me when
you want to tell the truth.”
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“Wait!” I scramble to my feet and run after him,
grabbing his arm. “I am telling you the truth. The last thing
I remember is kissing you.” And the hands. But I don’t want
to tell him about the hands.
He swipes my grip from his arm. “So you don’t remember
telling me to keep my hands off you? Or slamming the door
in my face? Or running away?” He pushes past, his shoulder
bumping mine. “Not sure how you could forget that. It’s a
little extreme.”
I would never do those things to him. My hand catches
his shirt.
“Please, Shane.” Six months and I’ve perfected the tone
it takes to really get his attention. Which I need right now
because I’m at a complete loss for any other words. How
do I explain that the memory has vanished into thin air?
That I was there on his bed, and then here in the forest, with
nothing—not even a breath or a heartbeat—in between?
He’s still recovering from the sprint, breathing deep,
neck stretched and corded. His black hair is sticking up
in the front, glistening from the moisture in the air. I hug
myself, waiting for him to say something. He clenches and
unclenches his jaw, scanning the forest in a way to avoid
looking at me. Then he sighs, rubbing his face.
“Did you really want to?”
“Yes,” I say with no hesitation. Even so, I’m not certain
he’ll believe me this time. It’s not like I can pass this off as
being tired or unable to find him in the dark down at the
river. A moment passes and then his face softens.
“Were you scared?”
I think back to his room, to how the feel of his hands
warmed me. I start to shake my head, but stop. Because
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there was something else, too. The buzzing in my veins. The
feeling of being pulled under.
Nerves. They were just nerves.
“Not at all,” I finally say, and he shoves his hands deep
into his pockets.
“Okay, so tell me what happened.”
I detach my gaze, looking down at my muddy shoes.
“I don’t know.” He starts to turn away and I quickly add,
“Shane, I’m not just saying that to blow you off. I really
don’t know. Maybe it’s stress,” I lie. I don’t know why. I guess
because I have no other explanation. “From school. Or
anxiety about the meet…” I exhale, my hands flipping into
the air. “I don’t know.”
It isn’t either of those. I’m not the type to fret over
school, or sports. He knows this. I shift on my feet, wanting
to step closer. To sink into him. My eyes brim over with tears
and a long minute passes with me just standing there blurryeyed, and I start to think that maybe this is it, that he’ll break
up with me because he’s tired of me forgetting things, but
then my tears whittle away his anger and he pulls me into
his arms with a much heavier sigh, holding so much more
frustration than mine.
“Maybe you’re right.” His breath sends a few strands of
my hair drifting upward, and as if trying to convince himself,
he says, “After this weekend, after the meet, everything’ll go
back to normal.”
Normal.
That night I dream that I come to in the halls at school.
Naked, with mud up to my knees. I try to make it to the
bathroom for cover, but a cluster of football players blocks
the door. They corner me, pinching my breasts and slapping
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my backside and Shane is nowhere to be found. I scream out
for help, but nobody comes.
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Chapter Three
Dreams don’t always disappear when you wake up. I wander
the halls at school with my hands over my chest and a
sickness in my stomach until Shane finds me, guides me to
class.
“Ells?”
Lie number two: “I’m sick.”
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Chapter Four
Turns out, I pull off “sick” better than I do well. I’ve got
everyone around me taking each shard of bait I present to
them—it’s hard to swallow, my head’s throbbing, I feel like
I’m going to puke…
Even Dad, who’s a doctor—or surgeon, whatever—is
convinced I should spend a day home from school. Perfect.
In the morning, Mom comes in with a tray of tea for my
throat, ginger slices for my queasy stomach, and aspirin for
my head. She presses her hand to my forehead, deciding I
don’t have a fever but should still rest, and then she’s off
to work, with Dad and Sara just behind her. Dad will drop
my little sister off at Jefferson Middle School, honking once
from his Lexus SUV, and head to the hospital for the day.
I stay in bed until I hear both cars rumble down the
street and the house is silent.
The silence is heaven.
No one to question what I’m doing as I settle in front
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of my computer, open up a browser, and search “medical
reasons for blackouts” in Google. I don’t know why I didn’t
do this before, after I woke up to Shane on the phone asking
why I left him at the party down at the river, when the last
thing I could remember was being there.
But it has to be something simple. Something easily
pinpoint-able and fixable. Like a low sugar level or not
enough potassium or something.
On the screen, surprisingly, more than ten pages come up
with a match. I start with the first, a medical website listing
thirty-eight causes for blackouts. Heart conditions like
aortic dissection, congestive heart failure, and arrhythmia
are listed. I can’t be certain, but I doubt there’s anything
wrong with my heart. I’m too young for that.
I keep scanning the list and there are the obvious
reasons a person might black out—wide of the mark of my
lifestyle: drugs, alcohol, medication. And the other causes
are just as unlikely: diabetes, psychotic episode, seizure,
stroke, epilepsy…
Even though I didn’t believe my excuse when I told it to
Shane yesterday, maybe that’s it. Maybe I am stressed. But
as the list goes on and on, stress isn’t anywhere to be found
as a cause of losing a chunk of time. I sit at the computer,
sifting through website after website until my legs and back
go all achy. By the time I turn off the computer and crawl
back into bed, I still have no answers.
Mom calls at noon to check on me and I debate telling
her the real reason I stayed home. Or to ask for her thoughts
on what could be wrong. But that would mean I’d have to
describe how I was at a party down at the river and that I
was trying to have sex with Shane and she’d ground me for
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life if she knew about either of those. So I keep my mouth
shut and let her explain at what time I can take more aspirin.
The bottle says every six hours, so not for another two.
I watch TV for a while, take a shower, eat some cereal,
and then around two o’clock I text Shane: Come over?
A minute passes, then: Can’t.
Why?
Plans with L. Call you later.
I stare at the phone.
L.
Lexi Perkins.
His best friend since, like, forever. And the one who
hasn’t left him stranded again and again. I let my phone fall
to the floor and close my eyes. Guess I’d choose that, too.
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Chapter Five
“Flu?”
“Yeah, I guess. No fever though.”
Dani shifts her backpack with a twitch of her shoulder,
eyeing the row of blue lockers we’re not allowed to use
anymore because some senior decided to run a pharmacy
out of his and now, apparently, every student at West Haven
is guilty of buying his pills and snorting them up their noses.
Or whatever they did with them.
“You missed an exciting day,” she says, grinning. “Jason
was helping me in math and—”
“Jason Regel knows algebra?”
She ignores my sarcastic tone, dislodging a strand of hair
that’s stuck in her clear lip gloss. “Whatever. He’s smart.” I
laugh. Jason Regel is the epitome of a jock: all mouth and
muscles, good-looking I’ll admit, but nothing else. “Anyway,
he—”
“Are you contagious?” The voice comes from behind
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me. Shane. I turn. He’s walking my way down the hall, Lexi
at his side. She gets this funny look when she sees me, like
she can’t believe he’s talking to me—like I’m not good
enough for him to be talking to me—then mutters a string
of words too low for me to hear. They’re about me. I know
this like I know my name. Like I know the walls are putrid
yellow. B comes after A. One plus one is two. Some things
you just know.
I think I kind of hate her.
She vanishes into the girls’ restroom. Shane’s eyes don’t
stray from mine—which pleases me like I’m a seven-yearold—and when he smiles, I smile.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Good.” He wraps his arms around my shoulders and
presses his mouth to mine. I melt into him and kiss him back
and I would stay like this—lip-locked with Shane—forever
and ever if Dani wasn’t groaning beside me. I pull away to
save my best friend the horror of being a third wheel, but
Shane catches me and whispers, “A day without you is too
long.”
I laugh and tap his temple. “You should start a cardmaking business. Make people happy and get rich off all the
cheesiness inside here.”
“Tempting. But I like saving them for you.”
Dani fidgets. “You guys are embarrassing.”
Shane untangles himself from me and faces Dani, and I
don’t want space between us so I circle my arms around his
waist.
“Talked to Jason,” he tells her.
Dani screeches. “About me? What’d he say?”
I bury my face into Shane’s shirt and smile. He always
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knows the right thing to say.
…
“Stop staring at me. It’s creepy.”
My eyes skirt away. Staring. Was I staring?
Lexi slides her shirt back over her head. The purple
bruise on her back is so dark that I can see it through the
white fabric. I point at it.
“Did you fall or something?” I almost ask if those
ridiculously high heels she wears every day were too
slippery in the rain, but I’m not really trying to start a fight,
just curious how someone who disparages the exertion of
energy could manage a hideous bruise of that sort. It looks
like she got tackled by a football player.
Well…technically, she did. But that was a while ago
and—
Her locker slams.
“None of your business, Ellie.”
There was a time when Lexi and I were friends. Dani,
too. A trio up until sixth grade. But then she bailed on us.
We’d had it all planned. The three of us would go out for
the soccer team. And make it because, really, how hard
could it be to run around and kick a ball? And then we’d
stay best friends forever. All three of us. But Lexi, at the
last minute, decided she was too good for soccer. And too
good for Dani and me. Hard to believe now we were once
friends, considering Lexi and I can’t say more than a handful
of words at a time to each other.
“And stop fucking staring at me,” she adds. The washedout lighting in the locker room changes her face, making her
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cheeks seem more sallow and hollow than they usually are.
She slips her feet into her heels and her blond hair into a
ponytail and pushes past me. I watch her perfect butt swing
back and forth, still wondering how she could’ve gotten that
bruise.
I debate asking Shane during practice as we jog the
perimeter of the school, but I don’t get the chance because
as soon as we pull ahead of the team—his turn to lead—he
says, “My dad called.”
“What? That’s great!” Shane hasn’t talked to his dad in
something like two years. This is huge. “When? What’d he
say?”
“Right after school. While I was changing.” We turn
the corner, guiding the team onto Nixon. He shrugs. “And I
don’t know what he said. I didn’t talk to him.”
“Why not?” The thought of having a second chance, I
can’t imagine it. He closes his eyes for one, two seconds and
when he opens them and glances down at me, he is so sad. I
hate seeing that on him.
“And tell him what?” he asks. “That I hate him for
leaving us? That I hope he never comes back? That I lie to
Drea every night and tell her he loves her even though I
know it’s not true?”
“Did he leave a message?”
“I deleted it.”
“What if he was calling to apologize?”
“Wouldn’t matter.” He wipes the sweat from his brow
onto his shoulder. “I can’t ever forgive him for walking out.
Leaving me to take care of Drea while my mom works.”
Ever since Shane’s dad left, all she does is work—she’s
the superintendent of schools in Portland. The job helps her
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cope with her loss, I guess.
I look up at him. His pain and frustration are foreign to
me. True, I haven’t talked to my biological parents in more
than a decade, but the difference is I don’t remember them.
The looks of their faces. The sounds of their voices. The
smell of them. Nothing.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says, giving the small of my back a tap. I
pick up my pace and we run in silence. He may be through
talking about it, but he’s not done thinking. It’s all over his
face. In the way his eyes squint out at the wet street, in the
crease between his brows, the clench of his jaw.
But how can he be so stubborn? Dad left, so I’ll never
talk to him again. I could never do that.
Once we round the corner to Sunset, I open my mouth.
“If it were me, I would’ve answered the phone.”
He hesitates. “Some people are worth letting go.”
“He’s your family, Shane. Your blood.”
“It’s not the same as being adopted. He fucking left me.
He knew me, and then he left me.”
“You’re right,” I snap. “It’s not the same.” I’m breathing
hard, and it’s suddenly not because of the run. “Being
adopted is so much worse. I was given away. And at least
you have some kind of memory of him. I have nothing. I
don’t even know their names.”
Shane pinches his lips shut tight, and for a moment I
think he’s done talking about it and our “discussion” isn’t
going to turn into a fight, but then he ruins it: “Just…never
mind. I knew you wouldn’t understand. I should’ve told Lexi
instead.”
I jerk to a stop, quick and hard. “What?” A millisecond
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passes and then I’m hit from behind. I fly forward, my knees
and palms connecting with the asphalt. And then I’m pressed
flat as whoever’s behind me lands on my back.
“Cox!” Doug McNally. Screaming in my ear. “What the
hell?”
Shane yanks on his shirt. “Get off her.” Once Doug is
rescued from my back, Shane wraps his hands around my
waist and lifts me up. Doug’s already twisting his ugly face
into an even uglier expression.
“Some peer coach you are,” he says to Shane. “Running
and stopping. Basic skills and you haven’t taught her, either.”
“Fuck off, McNally.”
“Cox! Buchanan!” Coach Mills says, approaching from
behind. “What’s the hold up?”
“Ellie just stopped,” Doug says, all dramatic, wiping his
hands on his shirt. No blood, just gravel. The team is starting
to catch up. One by one they form a circle around us.
“She tripped,” Shane says in the kiss-up tone Coach
always falls for.
Coach scans me up and down. “Damage?”
“Knees and hands,” Shane tells her.
“I’m fine,” I say. I glance to the blood dripping down my
shins. The scrapes aren’t terribly bad, but they sting. “Really.”
Coach Mills looks at Shane. “Walk her back.” Shane
nods and Coach shouts at Doug to take over as the lead,
so he does with an annoying smirk. The herd of runners
follows. And then it’s just Shane and me. He lifts my hands,
eyes the tiny gashes.
“I didn’t mean…”
“It’s fine.” I pull away and start walking toward school.
He did mean it. He’d rather talk to Lexi about this than me.
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Is it because she knew his dad, before he left? Because she
lives next door to him and has been to his house more times
than they can count? Because they used to play together as
kids?
Shane falls into step beside me but doesn’t say anything
more. It’s so quiet between us.
Back at school, I stop just before entering the locker
room. Maybe I wasn’t fair to him. Maybe I’m not the best
person to talk to about a parent leaving. I’m not exactly
unbiased.
“Do you want to get coffee or something?” I say, holding
the door.
He touches my cheek, so lightly I can barely feel it. “Not
today. I’m just going to head home.”
Translation: He’s going home to talk to Lexi.
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Chapter Six
“Shane’s my best friend.”
“Really?” I say. Behind me Lexi approaches, then leans
against the side of Shane’s truck and folds her arms over her
ruffled shirt. “Wow. I totally did not know this.”
Lexi rolls her eyes. “You’re just a phase.”
Across the parking lot, students are spilling off campus
with one-more-day-till-the-weekend smiles. Mrs. Hart’s
class—Shane’s last period—still shows no sign of dismissal.
Door shut, blinds drawn, ramp empty. Silently, I tell the
warm buzzing in my chest to go away because it’s just Lexi
and her skin-and-bones are really no threat to me.
“Six months is a long phase,” I say, and she smirks.
“Phases always end.”
“You seem pretty confident about this.”
She takes a minute to respond, letting out a breath, which
I don’t know how to read—a sigh of irritation or groan of
acknowledgement; it could be either—and then picks at her
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nails, straight-faced.
“He’ll get over you, same as he got over Addison.”
I laugh. “He was never into Addison. He only dated her
because she was new and he felt bad for her.”
She must know this, being his “best friend” and all, but I
think she was hoping I didn’t. Her cheeks redden, and then
she turns her back to me. Conversation over. It’s the longest
exchange we’ve had in years.
Leaning against Shane’s truck, I try to remember what
it was like to be friends with Lexi. But too many years of
silence, on top of the last few months of dirty looks and
snide remarks, replaces any decent memory I have of her.
It takes another long five minutes before the door to
Mrs. Hart’s classroom flies open. Shane emerges, a ring of
keys twirling around his finger, his hair blowing with the
breeze. He crosses the parking lot, tosses Lexi his keys, and
asks her to start the truck. Then snatches me into a hug.
“Missed you,” he says in my ear.
We didn’t talk about what happened yesterday. I didn’t
want bring it up and I guess he felt the same because when
we saw each other this morning, it was like nothing had
happened.
I smile, guide his face to mine, and kiss him like I would if
we were alone. His hand slips under the back of my sweater,
his warm fingers sending jolts of heat to my face. He lets out
a throaty growl, digging his fingers into my skin. I giggle and
pull away.
“I’m suddenly regretting that I made afternoon plans,”
he says, tipping his forehead to mine.
“Plans?”
He steals a glance to Lexi, who is struggling to get the
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key in the lock. She’s squeezing her lips tight, like she can
feel us watching her. I lick my lips, tasting Shane’s spearmint
gum.
“Promised Lex I’d help her hang some shelves in her
room.” He says this like it’s no big deal, being in another
girl’s room. Even if it is his best friend and he’s probably
been in her room a million times since they were little kids.
And it probably isn’t a big deal, but for some reason that
warm buzzing in my chest flares up again. Like a swarm of
agitated bees. “I’ll call you when I’m done.” He kisses my
cheek, then climbs in the truck at the same time as Lexi.
They drive away, and the last thing I see is Lexi wiggling her
fingers at me.
You’re just a phase. He’ll get over you. I stalk across the
parking lot to my car, my chest shrinking. I can’t breathe. He
chose her over me. Again.
Two rows to the left, my eye snags on a scrawny man
in an orange and yellow Tasty Chicken shirt pinning flyers
to windshields. As he turns and meets my stare, matted
dreads fall over his shoulder, and it’s like the weight of them
sends my stomach tumbling. I’ve never seen the guy before,
but there’s something so familiar about his eyes. Dark and
glaring.
I grip the cold handle on my door. The coupon on my
windshield flutters in the breeze. Buy one meal, get another
free. A sharp pain rockets down the back of my neck, and my
eyes start to flutter back, and I…
can’t…
stop…
them.
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Chapter Seven
Flailing and flailing.
My hand tries to kill the annoying buzz in my ears. Is that
my alarm? Is it morning already? I don’t even remember
going to bed.
I press snooze and rub my face, swallowing down the
ungodly taste in my mouth. Did I forget to brush my teeth
last night? Out my window, the ground is soaked. It must’ve
rained last night. The storm has since passed, but another is
already brewing in the distance.
Mom knocks on the door. “You up?”
“Yeah,” I say and head to the shower, but stop when a
wave of dizziness hits me. I touch my head, making sure it’s
still attached to my body because now that I’m upright it
feels like it’s trying to unscrew from my neck.
With a few deep breaths and careful steps, I finally make
it into the bathroom. The cloudy feeling in my head starts to
clear with the steam from the water, so I slowly step under
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the hot stream. Just as I do, a stinging sensation zips across
my stomach. A whispered “ouch” slips from my lips and
when I glance down, I freeze in disbelief.
On the right side of my stomach, a small square of clear
plastic wrap adheres to my skin with medical tape. Beneath
the layers of clingy plastic, my skin is all shiny, like it’s been
smeared with Vaseline or baby oil. And directly in the center
of the square, a dark oblong shape stands out.
Carefully I peel away the plastic, picturing a handful of
ways I could’ve scraped myself: another fall on the street?
The parking lot? Here at the house on the jagged porch
railing? But I wasn’t running yesterday, and a scrape this far
under my shirt just doesn’t seem feasible.
The plastic drifts to the floor of the shower. A nauseous
wave rolls through my body.
A tattoo.
But it can’t be.
Except I think it is.
But…how? And when? And, oh my God, did I lose part
of yesterday?
And get a tattoo?
I turn off the water and stare at it. A tree. Black and
leafless, with dead, angry branches spreading over my skin.
There’s no way. I’m not old enough. Besides, I’ve never been
to a tattoo shop before—for Christ’s sake, I don’t even know
where one is.
It has to be fake. Removable. Like the ones in vending
machines at Joe’s Pizza, where the cross country team goes
after meets.
I slide my shaking finger gently over the tips of the
branches. The skin is raised, tender. I grit my teeth and rub
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harder with my thumb, watching closely for any sign that the
color might smear or wipe away. And when nothing happens,
I use my entire palm to scour my skin until I’m crying from
the pain.
I’m dead. Dead, dead, dead.
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Chapter Eight
When I was younger, seven or eight, I used to find little
drawings all over my body. The pictures, drawn in pen or
marker, were always trees—a tree with dead branches, one
with toothed leaves, a massive hole in a trunk…
I never really thought much about them: how they got
there or the precision with which they were drawn. Looking
back on it, I guess I assumed I’d let one of my friends scribble
on my skin and had forgotten.
I lean my forehead into the tiled wall. Steam breathes
against me. How in the world am I going to explain this to
my parents? That their sixteen-year-old daughter managed
to get a freaking tree tattoo on her stomach? Without
knowing?
Being at school is the last I remember. Why can’t I
remember driving home? Or eating dinner? Or seeing any
of my family? Going to bed? Homework? What the hell?
I could tell Mom.
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Should tell Mom.
But…I don’t know. What would she say? And the tattoo?
I could never show her this. She’d freak. Take my car, ground
me for eternity, or worse—pull me out of West Haven and
homeschool me.
Maybe I was just really tired. Or still irritated about
Shane helping Lexi—I remember he was going to hang
shelves for her. There’s got to be a reason. Stuff like this
doesn’t happen with no explanation at all. I’m just too
exhausted right now to figure it out.
I finish my shower and get dressed, covering the tree
with a Band-Aid, then head downstairs. In the kitchen, I
reach past my sister for a banana, moving quickly so she
won’t see my trembling hand.
“Hey, Sara.”
Her mouth is full of cereal, eyes brimming with
curiosity—intense. Did I say something weird to her last
night? Jeez, I don’t remember seeing any of them.
“’Bye, Sara.” I ignore my thought and scurry out of the
room, brushing past Mom in the hall. “’Bye, Mom.”
She whirls around, nearly dropping the basket of laundry
under her arm.
“What are you in a hurry for?”
Oh, uh, good question. I can’t exactly tell her I need to
go somewhere to think, to try and remember what the hell
happened to me yesterday.
Swallow. And cue my most confident look.
“I forgot to do something for Spanish. Need to finish it
before school starts.”
Mom cocks her head. I lift an unstable grin.
“Listen, honey, about last night,” she says, a weird look
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crossing her face.
Uh oh.
“Well, never mind. You were in rare form last night, but
you seem to be in a better mood today. Maybe your flu was
coming back.” Her free hand gestures toward me. I have no
idea what she’s talking about. I’m not sure I want to.
“I feel fine.” I hurry to the door. “See ya.”
In my car, resting neatly on the passenger seat, is a
pencil drawing of a tree—the exact shape and size as the
one on my stomach. Beneath the scraggly, angry-looking
roots are the words Not Yours scrawled in blue pen. The
letters are smudged and slanted and nowhere near what my
handwriting looks like. Did I write this? Or did someone
give it to me? Leave it here without me knowing?
Stacked below the drawing, a flyer stares back at me.
Buy one meal, get another free. Dreadlocks and dark eyes…
Did he give it to me—the Tasty Chicken guy? My stomach
lurches. No, it couldn’t have been him—I’d definitely
remember that.
But who, then?
Watching my rearview mirror, I drive to the outskirts of
town and find myself back at Beacon’s. The air is stale, the
walls crumbling from years and years of weathering, and still
it’s comforting. Memory after memory of Shane is pasted
around these old factory rooms. His words.
I think I’m going to kiss you right now.
Heels, a dress…c’mon, Ellie, Homecoming will be fun.
Did you hear that? I think the walls whispered I love you.
Beacon’s Cement wasn’t always old and abandoned; it
used to be a busy factory on the outskirts of Portland, but
that was back when my parents were my age. Now it’s an
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attraction for high school kids who do God-knows-what.
Maybe it’s Shane’s love for this retired building I adore
so much. Seeing his face perk up every time we come here.
Especially in the mornings, when the flecked light floats over
the dead rooms.
I lean against the dusty cinderblock wall and peel back
the Band-Aid. The tree is tattooed directly over the circular
scar on my hip. Its edges are perfectly formed, even with the
swelling. I try to imagine it: getting a tattoo. How it felt, what
the place looked like or the person who gave it to me.
It’s useless. The memory has vanished.
I touch the tree again, wondering. Did I do it on purpose
to cover this scar?
So many marks litter my skin—gashes on my back and
legs, the circle on my hip and another behind my ear, the
long strip on my wrist under Shane’s bracelet.
Scars from a childhood I don’t fully remember.
I feel like I’m in a body that isn’t mine. Looking at skin
that has been through more than I have. Like a suit. I sink
back against the cold wall, wishing I could step out of this
skin and just be me.
Ellie Cox.
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Chapter Nine
“You feeling all right?” Shane’s finger sweeps gently on my
cheek. It’s warm on my cold skin. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”
To everyone else, the day is normal.
Jason Regel and Ian Fleet romp around like wild
monkeys, taking turns crashing into the outlawed lockers in
the hall. Sadie Mullen stands in the shadows of Lexi and
Janelle Holcolm, absorbing the skills to not only throw dirty
looks in my direction, but navigate the halls with swagger
and be the worst best friend ever. Score!
Shane leans against the trophy case. Am I feeling all
right? What am I supposed to say? I woke up this morning
with a tattoo on my stomach that aliens must’ve put on me
because I sure as hell didn’t?
“I’m fine.” I bury my face against his chest so I won’t
have to look at him. “Up late studying for a Spanish quiz.”
With all my lies about Spanish this morning, you’d think I
hold a decent grade in that class. Senora Gonzales would be
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so proud. Muy bien, Ellie.
Shane’s hands find my shoulders. Slowly, he pushes me
upright. “You didn’t answer your phone last night. I figured
you went to bed early.”
“I did.” I clear my throat, stalling. I didn’t prepare
an excuse for this. “I went to bed, and then I woke up
remembering Gonzales warned us there might be a quiz. So
I studied for a while.” I turn toward class, but he catches my
arm. Brushes off a smear of gray silt from my elbow.
“You sure you’re okay?” he says, but his real thoughts
radiate silently to me, wondering where there could’ve been
dust on such a wet morning. I lace my fingers through his,
bring his hand to my lips.
“Positive,” I mumble, his warm skin against my mouth,
then straighten up and tow him into the classroom. “So…did
you get Lexi’s shelves hung?” I stow my backpack under my
desk, lower into my seat.
“Nah.” He slides into the desk beside me. “By the time
we were done with dinner, I had to get home to work on my
history paper. I’ll probably do it this weeken—”
“We?” I blink in surprise. “As in you and Lexi? You two
had dinner together?” My hands clench tight, the echo of
Lexi’s words resonating like a ping-pong ball in my head.
You’re. Just. A. Phase. You’re. Just. A. Phase.
“With her mom,” he says, brows tugging together. “Drea,
too. My mom was working late.”
I want to scream.
Instead I grunt.
He reaches across the aisle, pries my hands apart, and
cups one in his. “Don’t be mad.”
“Mad?” A tight laugh bubbles out of my mouth. “Why
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would I be mad? You only bailed on me three days in a row.
For her.”
Her. I hate her. And her stupid shelves.
He squeezes my hand.
“Ells, you know she’s just like one of the guys to me.
Hanging out with her is no different than being around
Jason or Ian.”
“No different, really?” Right. “Did you tell Jason or
Ian we were going to—” I stop, stealing a glance around
the classroom. Eyes linger on me, eagerly awaiting gossipworthy information. I move my lips without sound. You
know?
He jerks back. “I didn’t tell them about that.”
“But you told Lexi.” It’s not a question. No need when I
feel like I already know the answer.
“Jesus, Ells, what’s gotten into you? I thought you were
cool with Lex and me.”
Cool? No. More like tolerant.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I whisper. “Does Lexi
know what we were going to do the other day?”
He hesitates. So long that his answer becomes
unnecessary. Then he ducks his head.
“Yeah. I talked to her about it.” He’s blushing now, and I
don’t know if it’s because he told her or because he’s telling
me he told her, and it doesn’t matter either way because
either way Lexi knows.
She knows.
He rubs his neck and at the same time I shove away from
my desk, utterly unable to comprehend this. How could he
talk to her about that?
Two steps from the door, his hands circle my waist. The
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tattoo stings under the pressure. Then his voice is in my ear.
“You are so adorable when you’re mad, but would you
please stop?” He chuckles. “Lexi is the last person you need
to worry about. You are the one I’m in love with. And you
are the only one I want to be with.” Soft lips press into my
neck, and then he whispers, “I know you feel the same. It’s
in your eyes when you look at me.”
He’s right. I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone.
And it’s stupid to act so petty and jealous.
Deflated, I turn and face him. “Just tell me why you told
her.”
He doesn’t even think about it.
“Because my sister is twelve and my mom’s never
around. Lexi’s the only other person who could give me”—
cheeks still red, his gaze hits the floor—“advice.”
Half the class is watching us. I tug him into the hall. “I
thought guys talked to other guys about that stuff.”
“Uhmmm, if you haven’t figured it out, Jason and
Ian are total jackasses when it comes to girls. And more
importantly…” He steps closer, touches my pouting lip with
his thumb. “You’re nothing like the girls they mess around
with.”
That means I’m nothing like Lexi. Not sure if that’s a
good thing or not.
His face, under the worn-out light from above, is so
painfully honest. So true. And I suppose compared to what’s
under my shirt, things could be worse. His relationship with
Lexi could be worse. It’s not anything new. She’s been around
forever. And besides, Shane’s never given me a reason to
doubt him.
“Sorry.” I kiss his neck and breathe him in. The scent of
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his cologne is faint but settling. “I’m overreacting. My lack
of sleep is making me a little grumpy. I didn’t mean to take
it out on you.”
Shane leans down, his lips just inches from mine, when
Dani barges through us.
“Move it!” she barks. “Bell’s about to ring. Can’t get
another detention for being late.” She grabs our arms and
hauls us into class as the first bell sounds.
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Chapter Ten
The locker room door swishes behind me and I rest against
it, waiting. Watching as Shane talks with Sadie Mullen. Or
more like she talks to him. By the way she’s smiling all big
and waving her arms, she must be telling a pretty interesting
story. She stops when she sees me, gives a quick smile, then
says ’bye to Shane.
He shakes his head as he walks away from her.
I raise an eyebrow. “Story of the century?”
“Apparently her cousin is on the track team in Michigan
or Missouri or I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening.” He
tugs at my sleeve with a make-me-melt smile. “Wanna come
over for a little bit? Drea’ll be home, but we can watch a
movie or something.”
He’s got this funny look on his face. Like he really wants
me to come over. Like he really wants me to want to come over.
I want to come over.
“I’m up for some Forrest Gump.”
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“No Gump today.” He throws his arm across my shoulder
and my hair—still wet from the awkward half shower I took
in the locker room, because of the stupid tattoo—leaves
little slug-sized marks on the sleeve of his gray shirt. “I got
the latest Paranormal Activity movie. And I bet it’ll make
you scream.”
I poke his side, stepping over a puddle. “I sense a
challenge.”
“It’s inevitable you will. You shrieked like you saw a
ghost in Harry Potter. And what is it rated? PG?”
I laugh. “I only screamed because you snuck up behind
me.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s my house and my movie and you
owe me if the slightest little peep comes out of your mouth.”
Gray clouds pale his face as we approach my car, highlighting
his wry grin.
“And the ante is…?” The last time I lost one of his bets
he made me bring him a packed lunch to school, and then
felt so bad he brought me one in return the following day.
He shrugs. “I’ll decide later.” He hands over my keys
from my backpack and pecks my cheek. “The roads are still
wet. Don’t drive too fast.”
…
Blue light from the TV bathes Shane’s hand as it finds my
thigh. His mouth skims up the side of my neck to my ear.
“Not a peep.” He lets out a husky chuckle. His fingers inch
upward. I giggle, pulling his face to mine again and tangle my
tongue with his like the wooden blocks in that Jenga game
Drea is upstairs playing with her neighborhood friend.
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I slip my hand under his shirt, running my fingers up
his back, over the pale skin he must get from his father
because it’s not slightly olive like his mother’s. My fingertips
find each rib. Feeling for who he is, the bones and flesh and
muscle that make him him.
Vaguely, I hear my phone chime from my pocket. After
two rings, Shane pulls his mouth from mine.
“You gonna get that?”
I shake my head, kiss him again.
“What if it’s your mom?”
“She knows I’m here. I called her on the way. Told her
we’re starting our autobiographies for English.” The phone
is still ringing. It’s probably Dani, dying to tell me about
some encounter she had with Jason Regel after school. I
bet he bumped into her or she drank out of the drinking
fountain after him. Who knows.
Shane reaches into my back pocket, slides out my phone,
and, just as he does, it quiets. He peeks at the caller ID and
shows me the number with a crinkled face.
I shrug. “Telemarketer?”
He sets the phone on the arm of the couch and tugs my
legs until I’m stretched out along the length of the couch.
And then the phone rings again. Shane answers it.
“Hello?” he says, a little exasperated. I hear someone on
the other line. A deep voice. Shane’s features set into place.
“Wrong number, bro.” He hangs up the phone and eases
himself on top of me.
I shift under the weight of him, waiting.
“Some guy asking for Gwen.” The phone drops to the
floor. “Is that your secret identity? Are you, like, this superhot secret agent or something?” He returns his lips to mine.
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It’s a little tricky keeping Shane’s hands away from the
Band-Aid under my shirt. It’s sort of his go-to place when
we’re messing around. But after a few minutes of steering
his hand down instead of up, he shifts his weight, placing
both arms up by my head.
Shane’s not against tattoos or anything. And it isn’t him
seeing the tree I’m worried about so much as explaining how
and when I got it. Since, like a moron, I can’t remember any of it.
He brushes my bangs back, kissing me deeper and
deeper until we both can’t breathe and I start to feel a little
dizzy. Like I’m standing on a narrow ledge only wide enough
for one foot. Like I don’t have anything concrete to grab on
to. Everything begins to fade to black.
This is what happened last time. That day in his room.
With more force than I know I’m capable of, I shove
Shane off me. He lands with a thump on the shaggy brown
carpet then peers up at me, brows drawn together.
Right now, in this very instant, I can go two ways. Like an
actual fork appears before me. A path split in two. A decision.
In my chest, anger and fury whirl, hurricane-strong,
so much that my eyes have trouble staying focused on
anything in the room. A girl screeches from the TV. Dull
light squeezes through wooden slats over the huge windows.
The arm of the couch crushes under my tight grip, but the
moment Shane touches my arm and says, “Why don’t we
stop,” I feel myself choose the path that leads to him. I step
off that narrow ledge and into his arms. His soothing strokes
on my skin wipe away the angry feeling instantly.
“You okay?” he asks after a minute of complete silence.
“Yeah.” I rub my face, even though I’m not, and tuck
myself under his arm.
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Chapter Eleven
Cold. Wet. What in the world?
I lift the pair of jeans off my floor. The denim is stiff with
water, and the sweater beneath is the same. They both reek.
A swampy odor—like river water gone bad.
But where did they come from?
They look and feel like they’ve been crammed in the
corner behind my laundry basket for days, but, even so, I
haven’t been swimming or near a lake or pool for months.
It’s freaking February for God’s sake!
In the back left pocket, I find a wrinkled, still-damp slip
of paper. A receipt. And the name heading the top?
Tasty. Fucking. Chicken.
I don’t even think about it; I storm out of my room and
tell Mom Dani’s having a boy crisis, then race my car over
to the chicken restaurant. I don’t know why this stupid name
keeps finding me, but enough is enough.
The scent of grease and all things fried hits me when I
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fling open the glass door. “Welcome to Tasty Chicken,” the
workers all mutter as the door swooshes shut behind me.
I scan their faces: twenty-something woman wiping tables;
round, tubby man sweeping the floor; and then I see him,
the dreadlocked guy from the parking lot, standing behind
the cash register.
With slow, measured steps, I approach the counter.
“What can I get for you?” he says, and I focus on his voice.
The grating sound of it, the deep tone, searching, searching,
searching for some sort of familiarity.
He’s definitely the guy from the parking lot, the one
whose eyes met mine just before everything went black. My
heart picks up with the thought. Did I go somewhere with
him? I rest my hands on the counter, digging the sharp edge
of orange Formica into the tender skin on my wrists. The
pressure stings, and my stomach wobbles with the pain—a
reminder that pain and me are not friends and, like Lexi, we
shouldn’t even be in the same room together—so I stop and
say, “A chicken taco.”
His fingers press a button. Then he looks at me again,
waiting. “Anything else?”
Nothing. No lit-up eyes, no smile, no recognition on his
part at all. And while I’m a bit relieved, because his dark
eyes, skimming me up and down, are giving me the creeps, I
can’t help but be disappointed. Pieces of me are still missing.
…
Evening is fading into night by the time I’m done folding all
my laundry. The mildew stench is gone from the jeans and
sweater, and I tell the memory to go along with it. I thought
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maybe the wet clothes could have been from the last bonfire
down at the river. I don’t remember leaving or driving home
and it’s possible I fell in the water and that’s the reason I left
in the first place, but the timeline doesn’t make sense. The
party was more than a week and a half ago. So why am I just
now finding them? And why would they still be wet?
I settle at my desk and stare at my assignment:
Autobiography: a positive way for you to share important
events and celebrate your lives.
Obviously, Mrs. Vogt wasn’t adopted.
I’m supposed to include a family tree and a map showing
where I’ve lived—not an easy task for someone who has no
idea where she was born, where she lived before the age of
six, or who her parents are. Memories of a woman are all
I have, and they’re patchy… Like watching a video when
someone is blocking half the TV. Not really full memories
at all. It might have something to do with how young I was,
or possibly she wasn’t really anyone important, but her long
reddish-blond hair and white-tipped nails flash in my mind
sometimes. The song she used to sing me, too, about autumn
winds blowing free. I don’t know if she was my mom—my
real one—or not, but sometimes I pretend like she was.
I begin my essay with my adoption from Millerton
Adoption Agency in Boise, Idaho.
My first memories of Jeff and Maureen are fuzzy. I
don’t remember meeting them at Millerton at all, though
I’ve heard their account of that day more than a few times.
They visited the agency several consecutive weekends,
brought albums of photos showing me the new house they’d
purchased in Portland, the bedroom they called mine with
a lacey canopy bed covered with fancy dolls and animals,
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the swing set in the backyard they said waited for me. They
showed me a picture of a small, fair-skinned, round-faced
toddler who was soon to be my sister.
According to Mom, during my initial month in our West
Hills home, smiles from me were scarce, words hushed and
uncertain. I was timid, and quiet, and shied away from their
gentle pats and caresses. Even once I started warming up
to them, my parents say episodes of profuse insolence and
hostility occurred regularly during the first year.
At Smiley Elementary, it took more than half the school
year to make new friends, and my second grade teacher, Mrs.
Hodges, even told my parents that I was extremely hot and
cold; cheerful at times and completely unreceptive at others.
During their parent-teacher conference, the three of them
decided my behavior was due to the adjustment of a new
school, new town, new home, new parents, new sister…
They also decided my moods would stabilize over time.
And for the most part they have, until a few weeks ago,
that is, when my blackouts started coming more and more
frequently.
Because I leave out the first third of my life, my essay
ends up much shorter than the assigned length of three
double-spaced pages. I focused on some more recent
accomplishments—my second place win at last month’s All
County meet, my time volunteering at the homeless shelter
serving holiday meals with the team, and even the new
Honda my parents purchased for me as a Christmas gift after
I painstakingly saved enough to cover the down payment—
but am still short about a page to meet the requirement.
Needing a break, I cross the hall in search of my sister.
The door scrapes against the carpet. Sara is sprawled out
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on her bed, iPod drowning her in a heavy bass. She spots
me and gives me a what-do-you-want look. Sara and I have
always been close, even though she’s four years younger
than me. I’d like to think it’s some unsaid bond we have,
both coming from out-of-state adoption centers and all, but
really she’s just an easy-going kid who makes me laugh on a
regular basis.
I navigate the room, stepping over the glut of clothing
and hairbrushes and worn Rolling Stone magazines, and sit
beside her. She’s grown in the last few months, legs and arms
stretching out like branches from her scrawny frame, but
even so, I don’t think she could fit into my clothes. But who
else could’ve borrowed my outfit, gotten it wet, and returned
it to my room…?
“Have a minute?” I say. She pauses her music and looks
at me. I pull out one of her earbuds. “I want to ask you
something kind of serious.”
“Serious? Like your West Haven drama?”
I smile. “No drama here.” It’s only a half lie, because
she’s thinking of the typical kind with boys and parties and
back-stabbing friends. “Do you have any memory of your
birth parents?”
Her eyebrow draws up. “I was only two when I was taken
away.” Unlike me, Sara knows exactly why she was put in
foster care. She was born to parents who weren’t much older
than I am, who chose drugs over her. She was handed off to
her grandmother—the girl’s mom, I think—who, with her
hands full with six other grandkids, couldn’t take care of her.
“I know,” I say. “But do you have any memory of
them at all? Or maybe of the house you lived in? Or the
neighborhood? Like specific details?”
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I once asked Shane how much he remembered from
when he was younger and he told me his memories were like
little snippets of time. Breaking his arm when he was three,
moving to Portland from Georgia, stuff like that.
Sara nods. “I looked them up on the internet a few
months ago. They’re both in jail in California for selling
cocaine.” She tries to play it off like she isn’t bothered by this,
scratching her knee, twirling her iPod around and around,
but I can see it in her eyes. The disgust, the sadness that she
was worth less than a few ounces of a stupid white powder.
I pat her foot. “That’s recent, though. I want to know if
you remember from back then, when you were with them.”
“Not really.” She sits up, props her elbow on her knee.
“Why?”
“I’m supposed to write an essay about my life, but since
I can’t remember much from before I came here, I’m having
a hard time. I was sort of hoping the same was true with
you.” I pull my hair back into a ponytail, stealing the band
off her dresser to secure it. “That maybe it happens with all
adopted kids, the forgetting.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange you can’t remember your
first six years? I mean, besides the lady.” Soft skepticism
lingers in her tone. “That’s normal for a baby, or even a
toddler, but I think most people have more memories than
that from childhood.”
I nod, glancing back to her. “I’ve always thought it was
strange.”
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Chapter Twelve
“Thought you said you didn’t want to go,” Shane says Friday
afternoon as we finish our three-mile run with the team. He
slows, coasting alongside the language building, squinting
into the sun. We’re at the rear of the pack. “Actually, your
exact words were ‘I’d have to wear too many layers of
clothing if we went to her party. Hint, hint.’”
My cheeks warm. My words—which I only said to sway
him into spending the evening with me instead of at Lexi’s
house with Lexi’s friends—sound more like something Dani
would say.
Doug McNally, at the front of the throng, veers right,
toward the gym. We follow.
Shane wipes a bead of sweat from my temple with his
thumb, frowning. “Did you change your mind? About…you
know?” His tone, even after an hour of training, is controlled.
Careful.
I shake my head, forcing myself to look him in the eye.
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“I still want to. I just know you were looking forward to her
party.”
Truth is, the more I think about it, I’m scared to death
to be alone with Shane. After what happened the last few
times, losing myself completely, I’m afraid I won’t be able to
control the way my nerves go haywire when we mess around.
We enter the gym and stop in front of the locker rooms.
He knocks the toe of his shoe to mine, pulling up a crooked
smile.
“Maybe we should compromise. The party starts at
eight, but come over at seven. We’ll hang out before we go
over there.”
…
Cold air hits my face. I feel like I’m going to throw up.
A few cars are already parked in front of the house next
door. I don’t recognize any of them. I hum under my breath.
It’s the tune of a song Sara was singing on the way over. And
it’s keeping the echo of my footsteps leading to Shane’s door
from stopping my heart completely. Why didn’t I make an
excuse to come over later?
“You’re tone deaf. You know that, right?” Sara skips
beside me, giggling.
“Shut up,” I say, shoving her bony shoulder. She sticks
her tongue out at me, then bounces up the steps to the door.
The bell rings. I’ll have to keep us out of his room.
And off the couch.
The kitchen is safe.
So is the porch.
The door swings open wide. Drea smiles at my sister and
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then looks at me, her lip caught on her braces.
“Shane’s already over there.” She points to Lexi’s house,
her fingernails painted blue. “He said to just walk in.”
“Oh,” I say with a crack in my voice. “Thanks.”
“I hope you have ice cream,” Sara says, running into the
kitchen. Drea shuts the door and I’m left standing on the
porch, staring at a red painted door a few yards away. The
color is just like blood—
A tiny hand. Gripping a wrist. Blood smeared and
pooling between the child-size fingers.
I blink. Day is fading into night. Moths flitter in the
yellow glow of the street lamp to a rhythm that matches the
music drifting from Lexi’s backyard.
I rub my face, hoping the movement will take away the
thought. The image. I’ve seen it before. In a dream, I think.
Or maybe when it was that time of morning just as the sun
was coming up and the walls were bathed in all sorts of gold.
I don’t know what it is—a dream, a memory, something I
saw on TV. True, I have a scar on my wrist, but I don’t think
that’s how it happened.
I take a step forward, Drea’s words ricocheting in my
head. Walk into Lexi’s house? Alone?
I’d rather run ten miles barefoot on a bed of needles.
I shuffle down the sidewalk and up Lexi’s driveway
wondering if Shane would even notice if I didn’t show up. I
was obviously wrong about his intention for tonight. A hot
cloud of irritation burns in my chest, though I’m not certain
why. I should be relieved.
Frozen with my fingers around the brass handle, I still
feel like I could throw up, but for a completely different
reason now. I wish Dani were here with me. She’d walk in
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with a heyyy, snatching a drink straight from Lexi’s hands.
I shouldn’t let Lexi bother me so much. I tighten my grip.
“Don’t make yourself comfortable,” someone says from
behind me. I cringe, recognizing the voice and turn.
Lexi.
Wearing a low-cut black blouse and jeans that could pass
for leggings, she looks me up and down with an expression I
can only describe as amusement. Most days my T-shirt and
jeans suit me just fine, but suddenly I’m wishing I would’ve
borrowed something from Dani’s closet.
“Huh?” I say, sounding like an absolute moron. She
scowls, adjusting the grocery bag in her arms. Glass bottles
clink against more glass bottles.
“Shane’s the only reason you’re welcome in my house.
So don’t get too comfortable.” She shoves past me and
stomps through the door, leaving it swinging half open.
I sigh and tuck my hair behind my ears.
The air in the house is tight and hot, flavored with the
sharp odor of alcohol and nicotine. In the distance, a glass
bottle shatters and Lexi raises her voice. “Are you kidding
me, Janelle! Do you think it was easy to get all of these?”
“Sorry,” Janelle responds, laughing. “But it’s not like it’s
the only one.”
“You’re lucky it isn’t.”
“Ells,” a voice calls from the room to my right. I inhale
a deep breath. I will survive this night. In the room, sitting
on the long couch with Jason and a few other football-heads,
Shane shoves something into his pocket and smiles at me.
“You have to hear this. Ian did a backflip off Gladstone’s
today.”
“Naked,” Ian says, tipping a bag of potato chips to his
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lips. He empties the remains into his mouth and a crumb
sticks to his lip.
Inside, I shudder. Gladstone’s is high, with not much
clearance for a smooth landing. I’ve jumped off rocks before,
but I would never jump off that one.
Shane leans forward, flattening his palms on the sides of
my thighs. I roll my eyes at Ian. “Not really a visual I want to
carry around with me tonight.”
The guys laugh. Shane, too.
“Drink?” he says.
I nod, running my fingers through his inky black hair.
“I can get it.” I leave the guys on the couch and pick my
way through the clumps of West Haveners to the kitchen,
and just before I round the vaguely familiar corner I get the
thought that maybe I would’ve been more comfortable in
the front room with Shane and a bunch of jocks instead of
in the kitchen with—
Lexi. It’s too late. I’m standing under the arch that faces
the gigantic granite-topped island and she’s pouring vodka
into a line of shot glasses with one hand, a glass of red wine
cupped in her other. She takes a sip of wine, not wincing at
all at the taste. Her eyes graze my waistline and a dimple
appears with her smirk. “My mom has those same jeans, by
the way. I think she got ’em at Walmart.”
I stare across the counter at her. From what I remember,
Mrs. Perkins was too pretentious to shop at Walmart. Lexi’s
just trying to get under my skin.
I don’t say anything.
It’s kind of working.
She glances up through her long lashes. “You should ask
her how she wears them, ’cause, I don’t know, something she
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does makes them fit better than that.”
I step up to the counter in front of her and force a smile.
“Maybe I will. Thanks.” An awkward moment passes and
then I add, “And thanks for inviting me over. It’s really
comfortable in here.”
Music and laughter shriek from the backyard. Lexi
takes me in slowly, one eyebrow arched. She wants me to
feel like I’m not good enough to respond to, and that’s
kind of working, too. Suddenly, I’m aware of the nauseous
lump sitting in the pit of my stomach. It’s heavy, and sinking
deeper and deeper the more I take in: the ceramic cat on the
counter. The empty aquarium beside the door—years ago
it housed a swarm of silvery fish and brightly colored coral.
This kitchen used to be filled with giggles and gossip and the
sweet scent of Mrs. Perkins’s perfume.
I swallow and say something I know I shouldn’t. “It
brings back so many memories.”
Lexi glares at me, a strange look on her face. “I don’t
remember.” She goes back to pouring.
Ugh! I hate her.
Shane comes up behind me, tapping my waist. “Thought
you got lost,” he teases and retrieves three water bottles
from the fridge. He sets one on the counter in front of Lexi.
“Here.” His eyes flick between Lexi’s and the bottle of
alcohol she’s holding. “Drink this before you take that shot.”
She bites her lip with a smile and lifts a shot up to him,
a greenish bruise blotting the skin beneath her sleeve. “Take
one. It’ll loosen you up a little.”
He pushes her arm away, his nose crinkled. “Get that
away from me.”
“Maybe Ellie wants—”
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“Ellie doesn’t want it, either,” Shane says, but in those
few seconds it takes the words to cross his lips, I’ve already
picked up a shot glass and gulped a mouthful of vodka. The
alcohol burns as it slides down my throat and warms me
from head to toe.
I don’t even remember deciding to reach for the glass.
But that was much easier than I would’ve thought.
To my left, Janelle stumbles in from the backyard with
an unlit cigarette pinched between her lips. Her curly hair
hangs into her face and over her bare arms. She lifts a shot
glass and holds it in the air. “Cheers to me!” She slams back
the vodka, recoiling from the glass, and quickly chases it
with a sip of Lexi’s wine. Lexi does the same.
Shane takes me by the arm. “C’mon, Ells. We don’t need
to watch these two get piss drunk.”
Lexi snorts, laughing. “We don’t need to watch you be a
party pooper.”
Janelle laughs.
Shane doesn’t bother to turn around. “Knock it off,
Lex.” Once out of the room, he sets a water bottle in my
hand. “Want something to wash it down?”
I crack the bottle open and take a swig, swishing it
around my mouth before swallowing. I don’t really know
what to say. I’ve never taken a shot before and Shane knows
I don’t drink, but I don’t exactly want to tell him that I was
trying to get under Lexi’s skin.
We return to the room in the front of the house, but the
casual talk has now evolved to an intense game of Quarters—
guys bouncing coins into cups of beer and chugging them.
Shane takes my hand and guides me onto the stairs.
“Let’s go somewhere quiet.”
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“Where’re Lexi’s parents?” I ask, tracing my hand along
the banister. It curves, just the same as in Shane’s house.
“Her mom’s staying with her sister in Beaverton tonight.
She just had surgery and needed help with her kids.” We
pass a huge photograph of Lexi. It matches the one in last
year’s yearbook.
“And she let Lexi stay home alone?”
His hand rests on the small of my back. “Lex convinced
her that she couldn’t go because she has a group project to
work on for school.”
I cradle my arms around his waist, resting my head
against his chest. He smells good. Like laundry soap. “What
about her dad?”
I don’t remember much about Mr. Perkins. He was
always traveling for work—a salesman of some sort—
whenever I came over here.
“He’s…” Shane pauses, muscles in his chest tightening.
“Out, I guess.” A breath of a moment passes, then his muscles
unclench and he kisses the top of my head. “Have I told you
how much I love you today?”
On the second floor, at the end of the hall, he pulls me
into a room. The door latches shut and he locks it with a
click. The lights are off. I can’t see. His lips find my neck.
Then my chin. He presses me up against the door with his
body and crushes his mouth against mine.
The movement of hands and lips and his hot breath
warring for a place in all of the commotion erases the
thought of Lexi, about her comment to not get comfortable
and the fact that I’m in her house.
Shane’s mouth skims along my jaw, behind my ear,
across my collarbone. His hands slide down my sides,
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brushing inches from my breasts. Chills follow. Then he slips
something into my hand. The thin square is warm from his
pocket and crinkles like foil.
A condom.
I lean away, looking at him. A muted glow seeps under
the door. His teeth glint in the dim light.
“Here?”
His lips are to my ear. “My mom came home early.”
I glance around the room blindly, picking up the faint
outline of a bed. “In Lexi’s room?” The thought sickens me.
How could he—
“Guest room. No one ever uses it.” He kisses me again.
His lips are warm and delicious and gentle. His fingers start
to gather the hem of my shirt. Up and up he pushes the
material.
A bubble fills my chest, swelling by the second,
threatening to shatter me from the inside out. I gasp for air
and slide out from under the weight of him. My shirt falls
over my stomach.
He grabs my hand. “What’s—”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, breathless. “I just…” I swallow.
“Can I just have a moment in the bathroom? I think the
vodka is getting to me.”
The bathroom upstairs is locked so I head downstairs
to one near the kitchen. I do want to be with Shane—I do,
I convince myself as my feet drop step by step on the stairs.
Just…after what happened the last two times, I’m not sure
how to control the way my body reacts. And I don’t want to
black out again.
As I walk past the room with Ian and Jason, Lexi’s voice
calls out.
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“Ha! Knew she wouldn’t do it.”
I stop. She can’t be talking about me. I peer into the
room. The guys are still drinking and talking and playing
Quarters, and Lexi is leaning against the piano in the corner.
I meet her glazed eyes. She swigs her wine and stumbles
forward, gripping the back of the couch for support.
“I told ya’guys a square like her would never give it
up.” She laughs, mussing Ian’s hair as she passes behind him.
Everyone else laughs, too.
Everything falls into place: Jason handing something to
Shane, Lexi telling Shane to loosen up with a shot…
My body goes rigid, my face burning, hands shaking.
How could Shane tell everyone? I suck in my cheeks to keep
from blurting out something embarrassing and turn for the
door. I see Shane at the top of the stairs just as I slam it shut.
The sprinklers are on, but it’s a direct shot to my car
parked next door, so I run through them, shielding my face
with my arms.
“Ellie?” Shane hollers from behind me. It doesn’t
surprise me. He didn’t hear what Lexi said, so he has no idea
why I’m leaving without warning. I hit the sidewalk and start
running faster. He catches my arm and spins me around.
“What happened?”
I slap his hand away.
“Don’t touch me.” I can’t look at him. I can’t. I feel like
I’m going to explode.
“What? Why?”
“You told them. All of them.” My breath catches, and I
realize the water on my face isn’t only from the sprinklers.
He reaches for me again, but I swat at him. He dodges my
hand. His eyes narrow, looking black in the pale light of the
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moon.
“What did I tell them?”
“I don’t know—you tell me. What did you tell them?”
He flips his arms out impatiently. “About what?”
I lunge forward, socking him in the chest. “About us, you
fool!” He catches my wrist, gripping it tight. I turn my head
away from his face, my chest heaving. “What we were about
to do.”
“I didn’t tell them anything.” His words are firm, breath
crashing against my neck. I stare at a crack in the sidewalk.
Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barks.
“How’d Lexi know, then?”
He loosens his hold on my arm. “You’re telling me if
two people disappear into a room at a party you wouldn’t
assume that? Ian and Sadie? Janelle and Doug? Even Dani
last month and that kid from Watermead?”
I sag into myself. I hate that he’s right. And I hate that
I assumed they were together, even in Dani’s case, when
she didn’t go all the way with Matt or Mark or whatever his
name was.
“What about Jason giving you a condom? Getting one
from him is just the same as broadcasting it to him.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t…not from him.”
I peer up at him, my face pinched. “But I saw you putting
something in your pocket when you were sitting by him.”
In a careful movement, he wipes the water from my face.
His hands are cold. Then he leans his face down to my level.
“I’ve been carrying that ever since we first talked about
doing it.” His mouth twitches with a smile. “Just in case.”
If it wasn’t a condom, then what’s in his jeans? Slowly, I
slither my fingers into his pocket, retrieving something small
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and hard.
“A ring?” Silver gleams around a tiny turquoise stone.
“This isn’t really the way I imagined giving it to you.”
He takes it from my fingers and slips it onto my pinkie with
a half smile. The ring is tiny, but the weight of it grounds me,
like it was meant to be there all along.
Water drips down the side of my face. I am a complete
mess, yet this boy isn’t walking away. And it’s in this moment,
with his hands resting gently on my wrists and eyes looking
into mine, that I know my heart belongs fully and irrevocably
to him.
Standing on my tiptoes, I wrap my arms around his neck
and press my lips to his. “Thank you.”
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Chapter Thirteen
I’m driving.
Whoa, I’m driving! I slam on the brakes and my tires let
out a screech. A horn blares, just as a mass of red whizzes
past me.
Why am I in my car? And where am I going?
My hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and I quickly
reverse back into the driveway my car’s half hanging out
of. I look around: busy street ahead, shopping center to my
right, an apartment complex tucked into a throng of trees
behind me. Whisper Ridge, the sign says.
Why am I pulling out of here? Was I just in there?
No.
Impossible.
I don’t know anyone who lives on this side of town. I
don’t even know anyone who lives in an apartment.
Another horn blasts. I jump, and then shut off my car.
The sky above is blue, spoiled with swollen gray clouds. The
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kind that look angry, like they’re just waiting for the right
moment to explode. Now would be a good time, considering
the throbbing in my head and the ashtray stench on my
clothes.
I rub my face. Okay, think.
The last I remember was eating Sunday morning
breakfast with Mom, Dad, and Sara—eggs and toast,
thinking about Lexi’s party last night and what a fool I
made of myself. Mom and Sara talked about Drea’s latest
basketball game and how a boy named Ryder sat next to
her on the bleachers. He has black-rimmed glasses and
she thinks he’s cute. Dad told her she was too young for a
boyfriend and then excruciatingly explained step-by-step to
me how to remove an appendix: cut a small incision in the
abdominal wall, split the belly muscle, use forceps. Gross.
After breakfast, Mom and Dad left to run errands and I
sat down to watch TV…
And that’s the last I remember. I search my brain for
anything more—what I was watching, how long I watched it.
Nothing. A complete void.
The clock on my dash reads 12:43.
So how did I get here? Dressed in dark jeans and a black
sweater, my hair weaved into a side braid? I snap down the
visor and look in the mirror. Pale skin, smoky eyes. Jeez, I
look like some depressed version of Lexi. My lips are red
and maybe a little swollen, but I don’t have any lipstick on.
No gloss, either. In fact, my lips feel uncomfortably dry.
What have I been doing for the last three hours?
I find my phone in my back pocket and scan through it. I
don’t have any missed calls or messages, which is a good sign.
Shane’s at Empire Skate with his sister and her team until
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two. I smile, picturing Shane roller-skating with a bunch of
twelve-year-old tomboys. He’d be good at it. He’s good at
everything.
An unfamiliar number is the last dialed out. A few hours
ago. Maybe it’s a store or a restaurant, and I’ll be able to
figure out where I’ve been. I call it. Only one ring and then—
“So soon?” The voice is deep and amused and maybe
a bit teasing. I don’t recognize it at all. The phone starts
to shake against my ear. “Hello?” the guy says. “Are you
there?”
I hang up and throw my phone across the seat. It lands
with a thump on a fat black book lying on its side on the
floor. Twentieth Century Art, it announces along the spine in
fancy gold writing. I’ve never seen this book before. I don’t
even like art.
It had to be a wrong number. A guy who thought I was
someone else. His girlfriend, maybe.
I close my eyes. God, I am so sick of this.
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Chapter Fourteen
“Mmmmm. Look at him.” Dani bumps me with her elbow.
The salad line moves forward with slow, I-hate-Monday
steps. “Do you see the way his shirt clings to his chest? So
freaking hot.”
I pry my eyes from Shane and Lexi sitting at the lunch
table to look at Jason. Leaning over Sadie Mullen, his biceps
bulge like water balloons shoved into his shirt.
“He’s a player, Dan. Shane said so himself. Just the other
day.”
She tucks her blond hair behind her ear with a smirk. “I
don’t care. He can play with me all he wants.”
Across the room, Shane laughs at something Jason says.
He looks so comfortable sitting there at the table, Lexi
beside him.
“Please.” I snort halfheartedly. “Why don’t you go for
someone nice? Jackson Topeleski? He seems normal.” We
both glance to where we know Jackson is: at the corner table
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with his other weedy friends, where they’ve all dumped their
lunches into a pile in the center of the table.
She makes a face. “Normal as in boring?”
“Normal as in someone who won’t take advantage of
your innocence.”
“Maybe I want Jason to take advantage of me.”
Lexi moves closer to Shane and although it’s only a
fraction of an inch, a heavy, raging cloud of annoyance
blazes up inside me. I stiffen and look away.
“I hate to burst your bubble, but I’m not sure you’re
Jason’s type.”
She frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Look at his rap sheet. Janelle Holcolm—D, Tiffany
Reese—double D, Kelsie Manchester—”
“Okay, I get it,” Dani finishes with a huff, crossing her
arms over her average-sized chest. “Don’t forget Lexi.”
“And those were just last month.”
“Fine. You’re right.” We step up to the salad cart. Dani
grabs a Cobb and hands me a tuna salad. She snatches two
Sprites out of the lower section and sets them on the metal
counter. At the same time, I steal one more peek over my
shoulder to our table and nearly gasp.
Lexi’s leg is pressed up against Shane’s. Her lacey black
tights touching his jeans. Their thighs. Their knees. His Vans
against her boots.
Without thinking, I lurch out of line and stomp over to
her. I don’t know what I’m doing and even if I did, it feels
like I wouldn’t be able to stop anyway. My fist crashes into
her face with a crack. Pain explodes in a wave up my wrist.
Over the echo of the growl inside my head, I hear several
things at once. Lexi screams, a few bystanders let out calls of
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“Oh my God!” and Shane shouts. Naturally, I focus on the
latter.
“Shit, Ellie!” Jumping up, he places his body between
Lexi and me. “What’re you doing?”
Lexi staggers off the bench and I prepare for her to
charge after me, attack me with her manicured claws, but,
disoriented, she stumbles and braces herself against the wall
below the window.
“Bitch, you broke my nose!” A trail of blood drips onto
her lip. The crowd of students is growing, closing in around
us. Someone in the distance shouts, “Girl fight!” Another
yells, “Get her!”
Idon’tknowIdon’tknowIdon’tknow. I don’t know what I
just did. I don’t know what to do now.
Shane lets go of my shoulders, reaching out to the both
of us like he’s torn. Like he doesn’t know whose side to take.
Is he leaning more her way? Or is that my imagination?
Mr. Barich, the auto shop teacher, emerges from the
kitchen to investigate the commotion. Without a word, I
turn, shaking, and slam through the door into the hall.
…
“I’ve never hit anyone before…ever,” is what I mutter as
Principal Finn adjusts her gray pencil skirt and takes a seat
across the cherry wood table.
Finn’s office is nice, nicer than any other room at the
school. And nothing like Principal Pendely’s office at Smiley
Elementary where I spent a few recesses for bringing water
balloons to school—Dani’s idea, but I took the blame for it,
not wanting detention to cause another fight between her
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parents.
Decorated in a nautical theme, the room has white
linen curtains framing the two large windows, allowing the
gloomy, sunless light of our typical Portland sky to filter in.
An oversize model of a sailboat suspends from the ceiling in
the west corner and the bookshelves spanning the opposite
wall are littered with jars of sand and tumbled glass.
Finn doesn’t launch into some speech about respecting
my peers, or physical boundaries, or statistics on teenage
violence. Instead, she crosses her legs and pushes the glasses
up her nose as if to say, I’m waiting.
The room falls uncomfortably silent, like the walls and
books are waiting, too. I finger my swollen knuckles, wishing
I could sail away in that boat. Somewhere far away, where
memories and feelings and stupid girls named Lexi don’t
exist.
“I just…” I pause. I just what? Am pissed at Lexi for
wedging further and further between Shane and me? Or
frustrated because Shane doesn’t even realize what she’s
doing? Scared because this…feeling, this pressure inside me
is worsening? Or because I couldn’t control myself?
All of those, I guess, but those aren’t acceptable to tell
Finn. No excuses, Dad always says. Own up to your actions.
“I just let my emotions overpower my good judgment.”
There. That sounds like something Dad would want me to
say. Finn shifts in her seat, typing something on the laptop
before her.
“And these emotions, I presume, have something to do
with Shane?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I bite the inside of my cheek,
using the pain to will away any emotion that freely decides
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to surface with the image of Shane and Lexi. I can’t erase it
from my memory.
Her face wrinkles further.
“Lexi’s his best friend. And she doesn’t really like me
getting between the two of them.” I could easily go on.
Explain how Lexi and I stopped being friends years ago, how
I wasn’t good enough for her then and I’m not good enough
for her best friend now, how Shane is utterly oblivious to her
actions, but just thinking about it makes my stomach curl.
So I shut up.
“Ah. I see.” She pushes aside her computer, removes her
glasses. Her thin, rouge-colored lips remain closed, but she
isn’t signaling me with her eyes that it’s my turn. So I wait.
And wait.
“You know…” She straightens the stiff collar on her
blazer. “Sometimes life throws you curves, but, eventually,
as you grow and mature, you’ll learn to swerve.”
Please. How many times has she said that to a student
sitting in this exact chair?
“You mean get used to it?” It takes some effort to infuse
my voice with anything other than cynicism. She nods.
“When you can’t change what happens, Ellie, accepting
it is the only alternative that will keep you out of trouble.”
Get used to the way Lexi is treating me? Right. I swallow.
“I’m sorry for what happened.”
“I know.” She lowers her voice and leans across the
table. “But I believe that apology should be directed at Miss
Perkins.”
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Chapter Fifteen
“Suspended?”
The voice startles me. I open my eyes. Shane’s lingering
near the door, the nurse’s medicine cabinet blocking half his
face so I can’t see his entire expression. I want to see his
entire expression.
“No.” I sit up and dangle my legs off the cot. Its blue vinyl
blends in with my jeans. If I look past them, they disappear.
Ghost legs. “Going home for the day, though.”
“I saw your mom’s car outside.”
I nod, adjusting the icepack on my hand. “She’s talking
with Finn.”
He crosses the room, sits beside me. I take a deep
breath and it gets quiet—as quiet as it can in the bustle of
the office—and it’s unnerving. I know Shane well enough
to understand his silence means he’s thinking deeply. Which
could backfire on me in a moment like this. I wait, wait,
wait. Another minute passes. My stomach turns in on itself.
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Then—
“Why the hell did you do that, Ellie? I know Lexi can be,
well…Lexi, but what’d she ever do to you?”
I stare at the linoleum floor and my eyes well up. “You’re
going to take her side?”
“Her side? You took a cheap shot at her face for no
reason.” He turns, knees knocking mine. “You want me to
support that?”
Kind of. But wanting that is wrong.
“You don’t see it.”
“See that you’re jealous of Lexi? Yeah, it’s pretty damn
clear.”
“I’m not jealous of her.” It comes out too fast, this lie. I
am jealous of Lexi. The amount of time Shane spends with
her. The way she rides to school most days with him even
though she has a car of her own. The words you are just a
phase. Maybe it’s leftover resentment from sixth grade.
Shane moved next door to Lexi the following year. They’ve
been inseparable ever since.
I don’t know how much more of her I can take.
“You’re a bad liar.”
Apparently. I rub my face.
“She makes me feel—” I stop, letting out a sigh. I don’t
know how to put this. “She makes me feel like I’m not good
enough for you. She always has.”
He shakes his head. Shane doesn’t know about
everything between Lexi and me. When we started going
out, I told him she and I had been friends in elementary
school. But he doesn’t know the extent, and I doubt Lexi
ever said anything.
He also doesn’t see the way she treats me when he’s not
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around.
“Lexi’s got a lot going on at home right now,” he says,
and…I’m tired of this, of pretending like her too-good act
doesn’t bother me, of Shane not knowing, either.
“So that gives her the right to call me names? You know,
verbal abuse is no better than phys—”
He blinks. “Names?”
I start listing them off, ticking my fingers up one by one.
“She called me a square because I wouldn’t have sex with
you, and a phase, and—”
“Don’t take her seriously right now. She’s stressed
because—”
“God, would you stop sticking up for her? I’m your
girlfriend. You should be on my side.” I lean back against the
hard wall, bury my face beneath my hands. He feels sorry
for her. For whatever she’s going through at home, which is
probably something stupid like her parents won’t buy her
a new outfit or something, and he’d probably feel sorry for
me, too, if he knew what I was going through: blackouts and
tattoos and—
He slides my hands away from my face, grabs my chin,
and looks me straight in the eye. “Stop.” His jaw clenches
and unclenches. “Just…stop. There are no sides here.”
Stop. Yes. Yes. I want this to stop. All of it.
“You’re my girlfriend,” he goes on, “and she’s my friend.
Nothing is going to change that. But what you did was
fucked up. Names or not—which I’ll talk to her about—she
didn’t deserve to be punched in the face.”
A tear slides down my cheek. I close my eyes. I hate
this feeling, like part of me wants to tell Lexi sorry and the
other part wants to hit something else because I have no
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idea what’s happening to me. I feel like I’m losing my mind.
“Shane,” I say, lowering my voice, “have you ever done
something and not remembered?” I don’t know what I’m
doing, telling him. But he needs to know. And worse, I need
to tell someone. So I don’t combust from the inside out.
He rests his hand on the wall next to my head, muscles
tight and bulging beneath his cotton shirt. “Like sock
somebody?”
I deserve that.
With a swallow, I shake my head, fighting the urge to let
the sob at the base of my throat take over. “Blackouts,” I
mumble. The fluorescent light flickers unsteadily above, and
I’m regretting the word as soon as it slips from my lips. What
will he think? That I’m crazy? A complete wacko and not
worth his time or effort he has to put into our relationship?
Which lately, I admit, has been a lot.
“Blackouts?” He sounds skeptical. “What are you
talking about, Ells? I’ve never seen you collapse before.”
My hand begins to throb again. I flip the barely cool
icepack over and press it to my knuckles. “Not collapse.”
I sigh. “I don’t know. It’s like I do something, and find out
later, and can’t remember ever doing it. I don’t know…it’s
stupid.” I look away. “Forget I said anything.”
His hand slides from the wall to my cheek. His fingers
brush against my skin. They’re so, so warm. And I want to
cry. So I do. Tears run a river beside my nose, roll off my chin,
and soak into my shirt.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Gently, he pushes my hair
from my face. I stare into his green eyes. The ghostly lighting
above is stealing all their color away. It’s not fair, because
they’re so amazing. His eyes. “Don’t you think you should
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see a doctor, then? Blacking out isn’t really normal.” I hate
that word: “normal.” And I hate that Shane makes a point
that I don’t want to hear. But he’s right. Blacking out isn’t
normal. “Have you told your parents?”
I wipe my face with my sleeve. “No.”
“But you’re going to?”
“I know I should,” I say. “But…I’m scared.” He makes
a face, and I explain. “What if they don’t believe me, or they
put me in a freaking mental hospital, or—”
“You have to. Something could be medically wrong.”
There’s a heartbreaking urgency to the way he’s leaning
forward, his face so close to mine, but not to kiss me. He feels
sorry for me. And I thought this would make me happier—
him feeling bad for me just like he does Lexi, but it doesn’t.
“You have to tell them,” he says again.
I nod. And I kind of think I will, but I have no idea how
or when or where or…I’m just not really sure.
“Let me see.” He lifts the icepack, inspecting the puffy
row of knuckles on my hand. “You should have your dad
check this out to make sure nothing’s broken.” He takes
the warm icepack to the freezer in the corner of the room
and switches it for a new, frost-covered one. “Here.” He sits
back down, hands me the freezing square. I can’t read his
expression, but he has this weird kink in his face. “You’re not
left-handed, are you?”
“No. Why?”
“People usually punch with their dominant hand.”
I shrug. Like I told Finn, I’ve never punched anyone
before. “Maybe my left hand is my dominant hitting hand.” I
tug at the corner of the icepack and glance out the window,
to the darkening sky. Another storm is expected, which may
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or may not cancel our cross country meet for Saturday.
Unexpectedly, his brow falls and that same indecisiveness
he had earlier in the lunchroom consumes his expression.
He draws in a heavy breath.
“Ellie, you have to apologize to Lexi.”
Talk to Lexi? Right. Maybe I could take her to the mall,
too? Get coffee with her? Become best friends—again?
“I don’t have her number,” I mutter, my eyes focused on
the rotting pine tree in the distance. It’s brown and chewed
up and looking much better than me at the moment. Shane
takes out his phone, punches a few buttons. A second later,
my phone chirps from my pocket.
“Now you do.”
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Chapter Sixteen
“Count to ten.”
“Fine. What else?”
“Turn my back.”
“Good. Another?”
I sigh. “Mom, we have, like, fifteen already. Do I really
need to keep going?”
It’s amazing my mom can manage a smile right now.
After sitting at the kitchen table for what feels like an hour,
brainstorming a list of alternative actions that would’ve
resulted with me not getting sent home from school, she’s
still going strong. Her expectant eyes wait.
“Walk away.” My head hits the wooden table with a
thud. “Confide in Dani. Bury my head in the mud. Stick my
tongue out at her…” I fling my arms toward the ceiling. “Is
that enough?”
She scratches the pen across the paper. “Would you
rather tell me more about what’s going on between you and
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Lexi?” My head sways against the table. I’ve already spent
the afternoon echoing Lexi’s rude comments, but she still
thinks there’s more.
Just then, the front door opens and closes. Thank God.
“Honey, I’m home,” Dad hollers in a sort of oldfashioned, tacky-sitcom way. He drops his bag by the door,
then starts whistling. My eyes widen. I jerk my head up.
“You didn’t tell him?”
Mom’s warm brown eyes glint. She knows exactly what
she’s doing. This is my punishment. “Explanation can be a
lesson in itself.”
My hands flip up. “You sure you wouldn’t rather ground
me? A week? A month? I don’t care.” She doesn’t answer.
Dad strolls into the room, loosening the smiley-face tie
I gave him three years ago for Father’s Day. Back then, I
also made him promise to wear it every Monday to start the
week off right. He has. If I’d been able to predict the future,
I would’ve given him a tie for today’s occasion. It’d have
Godzilla on it. ’Cause that’s who I felt like earlier.
I tuck my towel-wrapped hand under the table.
“Who’s up for a game of Yahtzee before dinner?” His
smile is as high as the face on his chest.
“Really, Dad?” I rake my fingers through my hair,
frowning at the task at hand. He squeezes my shoulder.
“Why are you such a sour puss? Bad day at school?”
“You could say that.” I see no other way than to blurt it
out—no sense in drawing out my persecution even longer.
I chew my lip. “I was sent home from school today. For
punching Lexi Perkins.”
Dad hesitates, removing his tie, then his watch. “With
your hand?” he says.
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What else? But I answer with a raise of my fist, the beige
dishtowel wrapped snugly around it. He pinches his lips with
a glimpse at Mom. My eyes stay on him, watching, waiting.
Slowly, he slides into the chair beside me.
“Let me take a look.” He picks up my hand, carefully
unfurls the dishtowel. I throw a glance at Mom, then back
to him.
“That’s it?” I say. “You’re not even gonna ask why?”
“Going to,” Mom corrects, slipping away from the table
and into the living room. She joins Sara on the couch, who I
can tell immediately starts prying for details. Dad removes
the baggie of melted ice from the towel, then reaches into
his breast pocket for his spectacles, places them on his nose.
He clears his throat. “There are no secrets in this house.
I suspect you’ll tell me why eventually.” He peers into my
eyes the same gentle way I remember him doing from the
moment I joined this family. “When you feel ready.”
There used to be no secrets.
He doesn’t sound at all angry. In fact, I’d even go so far
as to say he sounds laidback. As if we were discussing what
to have for dinner. Or his weekly schedule of surgeries.
Great. So he’s going to pull the guilt card on me?
Where’s the “Go to your room” or the “You’re grounded for
a month”? Where’s the hard gaze of disappointment or even
the words “You’ve disappointed me, Bellybutton”? Those
words create walls, make it effortless to bottle everything
inside, give nothing away.
Instead he leaves it up to me, puts the ball in my court.
I hate this. Why does he have to make it so I suddenly want
to tell him?
I bite my tongue while he straightens my fingers,
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massages them with his skilled hands, slides his fingertips
gingerly over my still-swollen knuckles. I listen as the rain
picks up, pattering against the roof. My eyes trace the
intricate texture of the copper tiles on the ceiling, snake
down the pendant lighting, across the marble countertops.
After a minute, I can no longer stand the silence.
“Lexi’s been sort of harassing me about Shane,” I catch
myself saying out loud, sounding all choked up. His fingers
don’t stop examining mine.
“Harassing?” He peers over his low-set glasses, eyes
delicate, searching. Willing my head to nod, I steal a breath.
“She and Shane are neighbors, and best friends. Lately
she’s been giving me a hard time about being his girlfriend.”
He returns his attention to my hand, a slight part in his
lips, a slow breath. I know what’s coming next. He’ll want to
know my feelings.
On cue, he blinks and says, “How does that make you
feel?”
Tell him. Tell him. Tell him about the blackouts.
I search and search, but I can’t find the words. Because
if I tell him now, there’s no denying these missing chunks
of time. Science doesn’t work that way, and that’s how he’ll
see it, being a doctor and all. Everything in science has
an answer—including why the brain can turn off and on
whenever it pleases. But knowing the answer would mean
knowing there’s XYZ wrong with me, and whatever XYZ is
isn’t worth becoming the freak who loses time. Or worse, the
freak who loses her boyfriend to his best friend.
“I think my hand can answer that one,” I say instead.
“No one from school looked at it. Is it broken?”
He removes his spectacles, folds them, and returns them
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to his pocket. For being in his fifties, Dad’s still a pretty goodlooking guy. He smiles his perfectly straight smile. “Nothing
is broken, pumpkin. You might have some bruising and
tenderness for a couple of days.” I nod. He leans forward,
kisses my forehead. “Go on upstairs. I’m sure you have
homework to do.”
…
The cordless phone twirls through my fingers, Lexi’s number
dancing back and forth on the screen, uneasiness cha-chaing inside my belly. The only reason I’m doing this is for
Shane. I press call and wait.
One ring. Two rings. Three—
“Bitch, what do you want?”
Well, at least I know Shane’s not over there. I’d like to
think he’d never let her talk to me that way. I hold the phone
away from my ear for a moment, roll my eyes at it. “Do you
always answer the phone like that?”
I can remember a time when she didn’t: pink bands on
her braces; unprocessed, dirty-blond hair.
“Only when the number of one shows up on my caller
ID.”
Hm. It’s clear the tone this conversation is taking. I bite
my tongue. Keeping my boyfriend is far more important
than my dignity at this point.
“Whatever.” I grab the pink stuffed pig I’ve had since…
forever from the corner of my bed and jab its nose in.
“Anyway, I was calling to say I’m sorry for what happened
today.”
She laughs. “And why would I accept your apology?
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Are you really sorry for what you did? Or…” She pauses,
inhaling loudly into the receiver. A breath from her mouth.
“Let me guess…Shane talked you into calling me. He gave
you my number, didn’t he?”
I don’t say anything.
“Well,” she says, “if Shane’s talking to you tomorrow, tell
him I didn’t accept your apology.”
Then the line clicks. A drop of water dances across my
window with the breeze and any regret I had for hitting Lexi
is blown away with it.
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Chapter Seventeen
I’m not grounded.
But I’m not allowed to go anywhere for the next week,
and I have to stay in my room and do homework. Obviously,
my parents are following a different parental manual—or
whatever it is adults use to figure out what to do with us—
than the rest of the world. Either that, or they’re trying to
trick me into thinking they’re nicer than they really are.
And I didn’t even tell them about the blackouts yet.
With that they’d probably send me away and tell me it was a
vacation or something.
No thanks.
My autobiography is nearly complete. With a lot of fluff,
the essay finally reached its length requirement, and the
map of where I’ve lived is pathetically scarce but drawn. All
I have left is to finish charting out my family tree.
As of now, the Cox and Russo families are linked by a
single horizontal line between my parents’ names, but the
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tree still feels unfinished, something missing.
Downstairs, I find Dad perched in the white wingback
chair, legs crossed, his face hidden behind a newspaper.
Mom’s curled on the couch with a book cradled in her lap.
Her chocolate brown hair, lighter than mine, caresses her
shoulders.
The stiff leather creaks as I sit beside her.
“I called Lexi and apologized,” I say softly so my voice
doesn’t shatter the invisible connection floating between the
two of them.
Mom looks up. A stream of cloud-infused light from the
window sweeps her golden cheek.
“That was nice of you.” She pats my knee. I purse my
lips, unwilling to admit I only did it for Shane, then count
one, two, three and blurt out what’s on my mind.
“I want to include my biological parents on the family
tree I’m drawing for English.”
Dad lowers the paper, his expression watery and
unreadable and impossible to look at. I’ve never before
asked about my biological parents. Coming from an adoption
center, I guess I always figured they didn’t know anything
about where I came from. But seeing Dad’s reaction, his
careful and guarded movements as he meets Mom’s eyes, I
realize the two of them must know something I don’t.
Mom clears her throat. “We have something for you.”
She walks back to her office, then returns a moment later
with a large manila envelope. “We thought about waiting
until you turned eighteen, but your father suggested we give
this to you when you were ready.” She places it in my lap. My
eyes skip between the two of them, then lower.
I finger the crisp edge of the envelope, feeling the unbent
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corners press sharply into my skin, noticing how the silver
clasp spreads out wide like shiny eagle wings. My hand lays
flat against the surface, wishing by osmosis I could figure out
what’s inside. I haven’t the slightest clue, but by the tightness
in my parents’ expressions, something very heavy is enclosed
in this feather-light package. And a tiny part of me is afraid
to see what it is.
The clasp is stiff, as if it’s been locked into place for a
decade. I inhale a slow breath, slip out a single sheet of paper.
Millerton Adoption Agency heads the page in the
center, along with its Boise address and phone number. I
scan the page. It’s some sort of document.
“What is this?” I ask under my breath, skimming the
lone paragraph, which reads:
In the matter of ELIZABETH LYNN
McCLELLAN, adoptee, I, TIFFANY REKEM, on
behalf of MILLERTON ADOPTION AGENCY,
voluntarily consent to the adoption of the child
named above by JEFFERY AND MAUREEN COX
as requested in a petition on file or to be filed in court.
The signatures of all parties fill the bottom portion of
the page, along with the date—nearly ten years ago.
“McClellan?” My eyes return to the unfamiliar name.
“My last name was McClellan?” The name doesn’t stir any
feeling inside. I may as well be saying the name of a stranger.
“This is the only information we have of your past.”
Dad gestures to the paper in my hand. “We don’t know the
names of your biological parents.” It’s hard to tell—because
his voice always holds a low, casual tone—but I sense a hint
of relief in his words.
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Mom places a gentle arm around me. “We also know
Child Protective Services brought you to Millerton one
month before you came home with us.”
Dad joins us on the couch, sitting beside me. He exhales
with a grunt as the cushions swallow him. “Even though
they’d passed, it was at the agency’s discretion to keep your
adoption closed.”
“Wait.” My eyes bolt to his. “Passed? As in dead?”
My father’s head falls, lips pinched into a tight line. His
eyes close for a moment, the same way they do when he
realizes he’s said something he shouldn’t have. When he
glances back to me, ridges line his forehead.
“I’m sorry we never told you…” His hand strokes the
back of my head. “You were taken from your parents the
night they died in a fire.”
“Fire?”
A tiny hand. Gripping a wrist. Blood smeared and
pooling between the child-size fingers.
This time it’s not a vision, just a feeling, like an air bubble
swelling in my chest.
Mom leans closer, her sweet perfume overpowering
and all wrong for this heavy moment. “We don’t know much
about it. We were told the trailer you were living in caught
fire…and you were the only survivor. The firefighters found
you under a bed.”
I close my eyes, trying to picture it. The bed, the trailer,
the smell of smoke, the heat from the fire, what I was wearing,
anything…
I have nothing. They’re just words, as if listening to
someone else’s story. They draw up no memory, no feeling.
“If they were dead…” I begin, digesting the thought.
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“Why would the adoption need to be closed? Isn’t that for
parents who don’t want to be found?”
Dad’s focus drifts to the oversize family portrait, framed
in silver, hanging on the opposite wall near the ticking
grandfather clock. I’m ten in the photo and have a crooked
grin on my face. I’ve always wondered what I was thinking
when we took that picture; I don’t really remember it.
Dad rubs his eyes. “In most cases, yes.”
“But…?”
“But…due to other circumstances, the director opted
otherwise.”
“Because of the fire?”
Dad shakes his head with an expression I can’t identify.
“No, Bellybutton. Because of these.” His finger traces a line
down my back, across the trail of scars that run from my
shoulder blades to the small of my back. His jawline tenses.
I turn to Mom. Her brown eyes taper with a flicker of
sadness.
“My parents did this to me?” I don’t recognize my voice;
it sounds strangled and miles away. Seconds tick by. Then
she nods and it all of a sudden feels like a marble is stuck in
my throat. “How?” I choke out.
“How do I know this?” she asks hesitantly. “Or how did
they happen?”
Frustration bursts inside me. “Both!”
Dad puts his palm up in the air to interject. “When the
firefighters found you…this”—he flips over my arm and eyes
the leather bracelet wrapped around my wrist—“was new.”
“I remember a woman,” I tell them, my voice low and
scratchy. “She used to sing to me.” I don’t say it, but they
know where I’m going… I don’t think she would’ve done
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this to me.
Dad draws in a breath, focusing on the shimmering silver
frame. “Your mom is assuming. Whether it was your parents
who did the damage, no one but you can be sure. However,
the agency, in an effort to shelter you from others who may
have known you through your parents’ connection, decided
a closed adoption was best. It protects you.”
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Chapter Eighteen
I can’t sleep. Too many thoughts racing around my head:
Lexi, Shane, the manila envelope, fire, bed, trailer, parents,
McClellan.
McClellan.
I hate this.
I sit at my desk and bathe the room in blue with life
from my computer. Elizabeth Lynn McClellan. My name.
For six years that had been my name.
Who was that girl?
I run the information over in my head, like what I’ve
learned so far makes it totally possible to fill in the missing
pieces. How the fire started. Why I survived. Why no one
else did.
It protects you.
I pull up the internet, type the full name, and press
search before I can think about what Dad meant by that. A
list of links appears, sites that contain either all or parts of
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my name.
Fire in Madison County Leaves Six-Year-Old
Homeless is the first, and the brief synopsis wraps around
the name Elizabeth McClellan in bold. I click on the link.
It loads.
MADISON COUNTY, Idaho — Three found
dead six miles south of Rexburg after fire swept
through a home in the Friendly Hills Mobile Estates
community.
Fire crews were called to the blaze just before
midnight Friday and found the singlewide trailer
engulfed in flames. Due to the intensity of the blaze,
firefighters were only able to enter the backside of
the mobile home, where they found six-year-old
Elizabeth McClellan cowering beneath a bed.
Madison County Fire Marshal Jesse Kirkland
says investigators entered the charred remains
Saturday, determining the fire was ignited from an
unattended cigarette. They also found the remains of
two others, who are believed to be the girl’s parents.
Deputy Sheriff Doby Hawkins, who was also on
the scene, says no other family has been located and
the six-year-old girl has been safely placed with Child
Protective Services.
My parents must’ve read this same article; it pretty much
sums up what they told me earlier. I save it to my desktop,
then click the back button and skim the short descriptions
of the other partially matching links. I select a few, but none
turn up relating at all to me. I suppose six-year-olds don’t
make the news too often.
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Chapter Nineteen
“You’re sending me to a shrink?” I set my toast down on the
plate and crumbs scatter onto the table. “What the hell for?”
In the dining room, Sara is the only one who’s her usual
self, spooning her cereal to the beat of the bass flowing from
her iPod to her ears. I don’t even think she heard what Mom
just said.
Dad and Mom exchange a look.
“Ellie, we know you’re going through some stuff at
school. And with this information about your adoption…”
Mom pauses with another look at Dad. They hold a silent
conversation. I hear every word.
MOM: Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?
DAD: Look what happened yesterday. We are doing the
right thing.
MOM (nodding slowly): This will be good for her.
“We think you should talk with someone about what
you’re feeling,” Mom continues. “And we don’t want what
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we told you yesterday to cause another…incident.” She
hands me a Post-it with a name and address. “Her name is
Dr. Parody. Your appointment is at three o’clock. Dad and I
are both tied up at work until five tonight, so you’ll have to
go alone. Is that all right?”
This is so stupid. As if being told my biological parents
died in a fire would be a reason to punch someone else. I roll
my eyes at my breakfast. No pancakes again.
“Can I have a pancake?”
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Chapter Twenty
“What a complete waste of time.”
I slam through the glass door and out into the cold. My
entire day has been a disaster.
A brief rundown: six high-fives—all random guys who
apparently consider getting in a “girl fight” cool; five dirty
looks—from Lexi’s friends, who else?; four wary teachers;
three why’d you do its; two extra homework assignments
from Senora Gonzales, who thinks I need to apologize to
Lexi in Spanish; and one boyfriend who barely said three
words to me.
Oh, yeah, and a shrink who bribed me with a Snickers to
get answers to questions like, And why do you think you’re
here, Ellie? and Have you always had jealous thoughts?
Like there aren’t more serious issues to discuss?
I leave the office, take the long away around the block to
my car, needing to process the meeting. I was in Dr. Parody’s
office a total of thirty minutes—just enough time to be
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lectured on the statistics of teen bullying (almost 30 percent
of teens are involved in bullying incidents), given water to
wash down my enticement (one of those mini bottles, not
even a regular-size one), a laundry list of physical tests I’m
to complete with my regular doctor before coming back
next week, and a salute good-bye.
A salute. Barf.
The breeze blows icy cold. I bury my hands in my pockets
and cross the street.
I’ll humor Dr. Parody—in her tie-dyed shirt and wooden
clogs—by completing the tests. Maybe while I’m there my
doctor will figure out what’s really wrong with me, and then
Dr. Parody can ask me how it makes me feel. I’ll humor my
parents, too, and return next week to discuss my enmity
toward Lexi Perkins. I’ll even bring the list Mom made
yesterday, just for kicks.
From my pocket, my phone chirps. I pull it out fast,
thinking it might be Shane, calling to ask me over or to say
sorry for not talking to me today, but it’s a text message from
an unknown number.
Gwen, it’s Griffin. Call me.
Another wrong number. Or maybe the same guy from
the other day when Shane answered my phone. I bet she met
him in a bar or something, gave him my number instead of
hers. Dani did that once with some boy who asked for her
number at the movies, flipped the digits of her own phone
number so she’d never have to talk to him.
I delete the message and slide the phone back into my
pocket. After the stiff hug Shane gave me at school, I’m
starting to feel bad about what I did to Lexi. Like maybe
hitting her wasn’t one of my better ideas.
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The feed and fabric stores sit with their glass doors
propped open, a summons for customers who, most days,
prefer the large shopping center in the middle of town over
these no-name shops. It’s only a matter of time before they
die out like the other businesses on this side of town. I round
the corner and—
Ow.
Hands steady me.
“Shit, did I burn you?” a deep voice says.
“Not exactly,” I say, and my cheeks flush because I’ve
never smacked into someone’s chest like that before and
it’s just as embarrassing as I would’ve imagined. I regain my
balance and look up. A year or two older than me, he’s tall,
easily more than six feet, with dusty brown hair that falls
into his eyes. A metal stud protrudes from his left eyebrow;
a small ring clings to his lower lip.
I pull out of his light grasp—very aware of the sudden
buzzing in my chest and tingle at the nape of my neck—and
brush the smear of black ash off my sleeve. I look him in the
eye; he looks at me. Then his face lights up.
“Gwen.”
The word “no” is on my lips, but I can’t get it out. Because
my eyes are already rolling back…back…back.
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Part Two: Ellie
But
where there’s a monster,
there’s a miracle.
~Ogden Nash
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Chapter Twenty-one
My head’s pounding harder than I’ve ever felt before: a
sharp sting in front, dull pain in back. My stomach is queasy,
mouth dry and rancid. I’m not sure where I am, but I can’t
open my eyes. Not yet. Hard cushions press against my back
and from the way I’m squinting, I can tell I’m in a bright
room.
Another blackout.
Not that I remember having one, but I certainly don’t
remember falling asleep. Actually, now that I think of it, the
last I recall is being with that therapist. What was her name?
Dr. Parsons? Proctor? Paxton?
Doesn’t matter.
The salty scent of bacon fills the room, mixing with the
ashtray stench that has got to be as thick as a cloud by the
way it’s assaulting my nose. Disoriented, I slit my eyes.
The smoky source comes into view: a cigarette, teetering
on the edge of a glass ashtray on top of a table next to me.
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I don’t know anyone who smokes. Something isn’t right, but
still it takes a minute to fully comprehend this. I sit up on a
couch I don’t recognize—white leather and cracked in the
creases, red fluffy pillows, a red and black Mexican blanket
over me. Through my hammering head and the trail of
smoke, I take in the room.
Beige walls, posters of bands and gothic dudes framed in
black, a few random pieces of furniture—a red Ikea-looking
chair under the window, a desk with an opened laptop, a
black stand housing a medium-size TV adorned with a few
other DVD-like machines and a plethora of cords all tangled
and lying on the floor.
Bottle caps litter the popcorn ceiling, pushed into the
foamy clumps, lined in the shapes of stars that travel all the
way down the narrow hall where two doors rest ajar. To my
left, a wooden table with some kind of metal machine on
top. Oranges are strewn across the table, pictures drawn on
them. Artwork on oranges?
I have no idea where I am.
Holding my breath for a moment, I listen for clues, but
the quickening thump of my heartbeat blankets any other
sound. I crawl off the couch and shuffle to the window,
noticing I’m wearing a shirt I’ve never seen before. It’s black
with a bleeding skull on the front.
The view out the window doesn’t tell me much. I’m
in an apartment complex of some sort. The second floor,
obviously, by the flight of stairs in between the building I’m
in and the next. The sky is bright blue, not a cloud in sight.
A playground stands off in the distance between two bright
green lawns surrounded by more buildings identical to the
one across the walkway.
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“Morning, sunshine,” I hear behind me. Not recognizing
the deep voice, I whirl around with my hands out in front of
me.
“Who the hell are you?” I say to the—
Wait. I know him. Or not know him, but I know him.
From downtown when I was leaving the therapist’s office.
The guy with the cigarette. Holding two plates of food, he’s
barefoot. With faded jeans and no shirt.
Oh God.
“Funny.” He smirks and sets both plates on the table,
rolling the scribbled-on oranges into a pile. “I made
breakfast. Eggs and bacon.”
“You’re…?” A steel blade is suddenly in my windpipe. I
can’t say the words my mind is screaming. You’re a stranger.
Why am I in your apartment?
“Dog tired. How ’bout you?” He lowers into the chair
closest to me. I watch him, his casual movements, his loose
grin, and when I don’t answer, he gestures to the plate across
from him.
I back up farther against the window.
“I’m not hungry.” I take a quick glance around the room
to see if there’s any evidence I’ve been abducted. But I’m
not tied up, the door looks like it might be unlocked, the guy
isn’t on edge at all like I imagine a kidnapper might be.
I could run. Book it for the door and through the
complex screaming, but I don’t know. I can’t figure out why,
but it feels safe here. He feels safe.
“Please? You must be at least a little hungry.” He’s right.
I’m starving. Slowly, I drag my feet to the table and cautiously
sit across from him. My feet remain securely planted on the
floor, to the side. In case I need to get away.
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The bacon goes limp the second I pick it up. I take a
careful bite, focusing on how the salt makes my mouth water.
“Did you drug me?” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but
suddenly there it sits, on the table between us. And it might
be a stupid question, but I can’t figure out how else I’d end
up in a stranger’s apartment. Wearing his shirt. Sleeping on
his couch.
He laughs. His eyes are blue, maybe even the exact shade
as mine. Casually, he shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
He has really full lips, I notice, as he licks a yellow crumb
from them. “You only had two beers. You hung over?”
Beers? Hung over? I feel like I’m stuck in a horrible,
horrible dream. One I can’t get out of.
“I have a headache,” I admit truthfully. He nods, setting
down his fork, then gets up and snatches a white bottle off
the bar counter to his right. My eyes dart nervously away
from his bare chest.
He opens the bottle. “Two or three?”
“Um…” Ibuprofen, the label on the bottle reads. “Two.”
I stick out my hand. “Thanks.”
He sets the medicine on the table and disappears into
the kitchen. “Juice or milk?” he calls from the other room.
And with him gone, my common sense suddenly kicks in.
Adrenaline shoots through me like a missile.
I look to the door.
“Uh…” I stand, scooting the chair as quietly as possible.
“What kind of juice is it?” I watch the opening he disappeared
through as I cross the room. My shoes are propped at the
base of the couch. They knock together as I lift them.
“Out of orange. But I have apple or cranberry.”
“Can you mix the apple and cranberry?”
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He chuckles. “Sure.”
I reach the door and cringe. It’s dead-bolted shut. The
cold metal burns my fingers. I twist the lock. Slowly. Silently.
The bolt is almost released. The pressure of the door not
willing to give the last little bit. Then I feel him step into the
room.
“Where’re you going?”
I spin on my heels, my skin scraping against the carpet.
The knob still in my grasp.
“I’m sorry. I can’t stay for breakfast.” I tighten my grip
so hard my knuckles ache. “I have to go. I’ll call you later?”
The last I add for good measure. I still have no idea if I’m
here under my own free will or not.
He sets down the juice, then crosses the room, grabbing
a set of keys off the desk on the way. A solid-black tribal
tattoo snakes up the side of his torso.
Please don’t say you’ll drive me home. Please don’t.
“I’ll see you around, Gwen.”
I’m so shocked by his last word—by the name he calls
me—that I don’t react like I should when he steps closer,
leans down, and presses his lips softly to mine.
Gwen?
I don’t run, even though there’s a part of me that thinks
I should. On shaky legs, I follow the thin concrete path
through a few block buildings, past the colorful jungle gym,
to where, I hope, around the corner is a parking lot with my
car.
My keys jangle with the uncontrollable trembling of my
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hand. The cement isn’t damp, but it’s cold on my bare feet. I
smell like smoke and my shoes keep slipping from my grip.
Basically, I’m a mess.
And then I think of my parents. And Shane. And I
double over, letting out a painful cry. What was I thinking?
Going to a stranger’s house? Staying the night?
I already know before I think it: I wasn’t thinking. I
wasn’t anything. I was absolutely not present or conscious or
decisive about what happened back there.
My parents are going to kill me.
Maybe I called them? Maybe they think I’m staying at
Dani’s?
I round the corner to find a community pool, a white gate
surrounding it instead of the parking lot. Shit. Backtracking
a few yards, I find another walkway. It takes me past the
apartment office and a sign engraved with the name Whisper
Ridge. I cringe at the words, at the familiarity of them. Only
today they look dingier, with no sun glinting off their white
letters.
That day, driving, the sign…my knees start to give out
and I steady myself against a tree. I was leaving here. I don’t
want it to be true, but I don’t know what else it could be.
Five minutes later, I find the parking lot and my car
sitting alongside an old, rusted Jeep.
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Chapter Twenty-two
I stop at the front door, the freezing metal handle in my grip.
Mom’s talking to someone inside, her words fast and high
pitched. She only speaks like that when she’s in a hurry or
worried about something.
I hope she’s in a hurry.
Hesitantly, I set my features in the most confident backfrom-Dani’s-house way, and count one, two, three.
Then shove.
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Chapter Twenty-three
“Oh my Lord! Oh my Lord! You’re alive. Baby, you’re alive!”
Mom throws the phone down and rushes over to me before
I even have the front door closed. Maybe I didn’t call.
“Of course I’m alive, Mom.” Gently, I block her pawing
hands. “Why would I not be?”
“Jeff! She’s home!” Mom shouts into the kitchen. “Get
in here!”
Dad appears in a blink, his expression a mixture of
anger and confusion and relief. “Did anyone hurt you? Tell
me right now if anyone did anything to you.” He’s got his
cell phone in his hands, thumb hovering over the buttons.
This is harder than I thought. Keeping a casual face
when all I want to do is give in to their parental worries. Sink
into their protective hugs. But I have to make like today is as
normal a day as any.
I fold my arms over the skull on my T-shirt. “It was just
one day, you guys. Relax.”
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“One. Day?” Mom snaps. My eyes meet hers and they
have never looked so deep. So cold. Piercing. I glance to
Dad. And then I hear it: two words Sara says from the top
of the stairs. Two words that steal all strength from my legs.
Two words that make me want to disappear.
“Try three.”
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Chapter Twenty-four
Three days. I was gone for three days. That makes today
Thursday.
Apparently Mom and Dad thought I ran away out
of rebellion for sending me to a shrink. As if that’d be
reason to run away? Still, I’d give anything for it to be that
straightforward. At least then I’d have made the decision.
Consciously.
By ten o’clock Tuesday night, after confirming with Dr.
Parody that I had, in fact, shown up for my appointment,
and after calling a handful of my friends—and Shane—the
police were contacted. And here’s the kicker: because I was
a suspected teen runaway, Portland PD didn’t list me as
critically missing. They didn’t set up a search for me. They
asked around at school. My name and description were
entered in the missing persons database so I’d be pinned as
a runaway if picked up. A BOLO was put out on my car, too,
because it was gone. But that only meant police would know
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who it belonged to if it was found abandoned.
So everyone’s just been sitting around, waiting for me
to come home. Quite a system the fine officers of Portland
have. What if I really had been kidnapped? Or worse, had
asthma or diabetes or something? What if I’d fallen off a
cliff and was seriously hurt? Okay, there aren’t any cliffs in
Portland, but you get the idea. It’s disturbing how runaways
are dismissed so easily.
Dad’s voice echoes from Mom’s office down the hall.
He’s really mad. I can tell not just by his words, but by the
short bite of them.
“I knew not grounding her was a mistake. She needs
guidance, structure, discipline.”
Mom’s still mad, but at least she doesn’t sound it
responding to Dad.
“Honey, you know what we agreed when she first came
here.”
“She’s sixteen! No matter her past, we have to be her
parents. Not her friends. See what taking it easy on her did?”
“I know. I know.” I picture Mom’s dainty hands up in
surrender. “But like the agency said, we need to be careful
with her.”
I lean back on the couch. Closing my eyes, I tune them
out and try to remember anything from the last three days.
Three. Days. It’s the longest blackout I’ve ever had. The
longest memory missing. I’ve run it through my mind over
and over and over. Bump into the blue-eyed guy after leaving
the therapist’s office—wake up three days later. Bump into
him—wake up. Bump—awake. Bump—awake.
There’s nothing in between. Like I didn’t even exist.
How is that possible?
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Maybe Shane was right, maybe something is medically
wrong with me. What did that website say were the causes?
Aortic heart something-or-other?
Gently, I press my fingers over my heart, hold my breath,
and feel the soft thump beneath the material of the shirt.
A few minutes, a few hours, now a few days… Are these
chunks of missing time just going to keep getting longer and
longer? Turn into weeks, then months, then years until, one
day, I don’t wake up at all?
The beat against my fingertips quickens. I can’t let that
happen. I need to figure this out.
Beside me, the couch cushion bounces.
“I always thought it would be exciting to run away.”
Sarcasm dangles in Sara’s tone. “Spend the night in the mall,
or a mattress store or something.” Is that where she thinks I
was, sleeping peacefully on a Tempur-Pedic? She’s chomping
on a handful of popcorn. I elbow her to make some spill out
of the bag.
“I didn’t run away, Sara.”
Her nose scrunches up like a mouse. “So you’re old
enough to take vacations by yourself now?”
Vacation. Right.
“You have braces,” I say, snatching the bag from her
hand. “You can’t eat this.”
She takes back the bag with a quick swoop of her arm. If
I wasn’t so exhausted, I would’ve had quicker reflexes.
“That’s the best part about you being in trouble,” she
says. “I can do whatever I want. Last night I stayed up until
two in the morning eating Dad’s Oreos and no one said
a thing. They didn’t even notice I’m not in school today.”
Using her finger, she picks a kernel from the metal in her
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mouth. “So. Where were you?”
I pull my legs tight to my chest. “I don’t feel like talking
about it.”
She crams another handful of popcorn into her mouth.
“Drea said Shane missed school so he could look for you.”
I can’t think about him just yet. I can’t think about how
much I miss him or how confused and worried he must be
right now. “Hmm.” I sigh hollowly and shut my eyes. At least
my headache’s gone.
…
Sara is sent to Gramma’s house for a few days.
And after restricting my car privileges to strictly school
and back, grounding me for the rest of the school year,
and contacting all of my teachers for a list of assignments I
skipped out on, Mom and Dad are insisting for the hundredth
time tonight I tell them where I was.
I comb my fingers through my towel-dried hair. “I don’t
know what else to tell you. I don’t remember. I was at the
therapist’s office, then I was walking to my car, and then—”
Dad sets his glass of water on the counter hard. Water
sloshes out, dribbles down the side and onto his fingers. “We
could be done with this if you’d simply come clean.”
“I am.”
“No,” he snaps. “Because you have yet to tell us why you
left and where you stayed.” Never in my life have I heard
Dad talk so sternly. The closest was when, just a few months
ago, I forgot to pick up Sara from school. Shane and I had
been running when I lost track of time.
I lay my head against the cool marble and the word
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“shit” echoes in my mind over and over, because shit. I’m
trying to be honest with them, but I don’t know how to tell
them about the blackouts without explaining the mystery
guy’s apartment. And I especially don’t know how to tell
them about that. Losing time is one thing, but losing time
to spend three days with a stranger makes me one of those
kids who parents regret adopting. And I’m nothing like that.
Only I guess I am. Now.
My breath forms a round cloud on the countertop.
Obviously it doesn’t matter what I say; they’re not going to
believe me. “Fine. I slept at the mall.”
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Chapter Twenty-five
I’ve never been so popular: fifty-six missed calls and a full
voice mailbox.
Twenty messages is a lot to sift through and it’s tempting
to delete them all without listening, but I feel like something
in there will jog my memory or offer a trace as to what
happened.
The first ten messages—all left on Tuesday—are my
parents, Dani, and Shane questioning where I am. By their
casual tones, they obviously weren’t worried about me. Yet.
Just thinking there must be a mix-up to my whereabouts.
Another two are from Shane on Wednesday. His voice is
tight, and in both he apologizes for spending so much time
with Lexi. Like that would’ve been my motivation to leave?
The remaining eight are from Mom and Dad. Pleading
that I come home. Saying sorry for sending me to Dr. Parody
alone. Thinking this is all their fault.
I sit on my bed and punch in Shane’s number. I have no
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idea what I plan to tell him, how to explain being gone for
three days, and do it without sounding guilty. Because, as of
now, in the quiet of my room, I am shrouded in guilt. How
could I cheat on Shane? Does it even count as cheating,
since I had no part in making the decision to do it?
I’m only assuming, but that last kiss with the blue-eyed
guy and the oversize black shirt I woke up in are pretty
incriminating if you ask me.
Three rings. And then his voicemail.
“I’m home. Call me… I love you.”
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Chapter Twenty-six
Nightfall should be called nightrise.
I lie awake in my bed and watch squiggly white lines
snake across the ceiling. They start at the window and each
time I blink they grow closer, closer, closer, breaking off into
more lines. They come for me, and I let them because when
I shut my eyes, the show is no salvation to trespassing moonshadows.
Lines. I am swallowed.
And then: Gwen.
The name finds me again.
Haunts me.
Three times I’ve heard it now. The first two simply a
wrong number, but combined with Blue Eyes calling me the
same…it can’t be just a fluke.
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Chapter Twenty-seven
Morning doesn’t erase the heaviness in my chest; if anything,
the giant hands squeezing around me, suffocating me,
quadruples. A plate of pancakes, eggs, and sliced bananas
drops onto the table in front of me, the scent of Mom’s
flowery perfume following. She glances down at me, and
then the pancakes.
“Wasn’t sure if you were going to like them today,” she
says with no smile at all. Beside me, Sara lowers to her chair,
and I don’t really know how to respond to that—I’ve always
liked pancakes.
“Thanks,” I mutter and bring my glass of orange juice
to my lips. The sweet-sour scent fills my nose, and all of a
sudden I’m jolted with a flash of something. A memory? I
can’t tell, but it feels so far-off that I can barely grasp it. My
chest swells and at the same time it feels like something’s in
my throat, tripping my gag reflex.
Nothing big. Just a flower. Or star. Even a dot would piss
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Ellie off.
Pushing her leather bracelet up, I inch the needle closer
to my wrist.
I wish I could draw a skull. Two of them. With flames
and blood dripping from their eyes. That’s how they probably
looked. The two of them, lying on that sad excuse for a couch.
Seriously? Who uses a mattress for a couch?
Losers like them, evidently.
My foot shifts down onto the pedal, and the tattoo gun
starts to buzz. The scar still looks like a centipede—a line,
with two rows of white dots along the sides from where the
paramedics stitched me up.
Sometimes I wish they hadn’t found me. Those men. That
they would’ve left me to die. Sometimes I wish that.
A lightning bolt. That’s what I’ll do. Just long enough
to cover the scar. A laugh spurts off my lips. God, I wish I
could’ve seen Ellie’s face when she found the tree. She
probably cried. She always does.
Such a pansy. She’ll probably cry over this one, too.
The needle moves closer. I clench my teeth, ready to drag
it across my skin just like Griffin taught me, when he steps
into the room.
“What’s so funny?” He’s got a smirk on his face and two
Cokes in his hands. His fingers wrap the glasses with a firm
hold. I like the look of his fingers. They’re long. Fingers of
an artist. His knuckles aren’t white, but they would be if he
squeezed. And then they would look like—
I need to stop looking at his hands. They’re not his.
Not his.
I nod at the glass with my chin. “I don’t want that unless
there’s Jack in it.” The table steadies my elbows. I focus on my
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wrist. Closer. Closer.
He sits beside me. “I put a little,” he says, resting his palm
on my arm where the needle is pointed. Gentle. Not digging
into my skin. Or pulling me. No pain. Still, I flinch. “If you
want another one, let me do it. It’s not exactly easy to do on
yourself.”
I lift my foot from the pedal and the buzzing stops. My
wrist is tingling under his touch, every one of his fingers
spreading a strand of chills across my skin. Tattooing myself,
I thought, would impress him. But he doesn’t seem impressed.
Not like when we were at the river. That big smile. Wide eyes.
Metal clanks against the table as I set the machine down.
“I didn’t really want another one,” I say, glancing from his
hand to his face. “I was just messing around.”
His eyes meet mine and I square my shoulders. Confidence
is key. If I sit tall, hold his gaze without wavering, he’ll believe
me. It’s worked with Ellie’s parents; they don’t ever question
me.
Griffin smiles, then reaches past me for an orange—the
last one I tattooed.
“This is cool.” He traces the branches of the tree. The
black ink doesn’t smear under his finger. It’s injected deep
enough into the peel that it will be there forever. Or until the
orange rots. I admit, though, I am pretty good at drawing trees.
“It’s all I drew when I was a kid.”
Griffin lifts his brow. “Why trees?”
I shrug. I don’t know why I said that. I can’t tell him about
that time. About him. “There weren’t many trees where I grew
up.” My voice falters. I hate that I can’t make it strong, but
something always catches in my throat when I think about
back then. “Our town was sort of flat and deserted. I always
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wished there were trees around. Something to climb.”
And escape. Somewhere high where he couldn’t reach me.
Griffin nods, his eyes still on the orange. Then he points
to a line on the trunk. “See this here, how the ink blotted? It
does that when you pull your hand too slowly.” He reaches
over the book he’s been reading all afternoon—Twentieth
Century Art—and lifts another orange. “Let me show you
again.” He kneels beside me, his T-shirt brushing against my
arm. He starts to lift the tattoo gun from the table, but I stop
him.
“Help me do it this time.”
He hesitates, then a slow grin spreads across his face. The
way his eyes skim over me—my eyes, my nose, my lips—sends
a shock of something powerful through me. Like the rush of
freezing river water. I feel alive. He takes the machine and my
left hand in his.
“Forty-five-degree angle.” He tilts the needle, then points
under the table to the foot pedal. “Ready?”
I nod and hold my shoe above the pedal.
“Slow and steady.”
I press my foot down and the needle starts to vibrate,
moving up and down.
“Sweep across the peel, don’t dig deep. That’s what gives
you too much ink.” His face is close to mine, his breath
sending wisps of hair fluttering. Together we draw a zigzag
and then a spiral and then a heart. “See?” He juts out his chin
smugly.
“No pools,” I say after I wipe the excess ink away with a
paper towel. His tongue flicks the ring on his lower lip, and
after a few seconds I can’t take the space between us anymore.
I take his face in my hands and press my mouth to—
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“Ellie. Earth to Ellie.”
I blink. Sara’s in my face, staring at me with slitted eyes.
“Did you hear Mom? She asked if you got all your
homework done last night.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, thinking the name Griffin over and
over in my head. It’s the name of the random guy who texted
me. Texted Gwen. And that art book. It’s the one I found in
my car the other day. I’m sure of it. I meet my mom’s eyes,
brown and concerned.
“Sara, sweetie,” she says in a forced motherly tone. “Go
brush your hair. It’s a bird’s nest.”
My sister nods, leaving the table without another word.
Mom takes her place and folds her arms on the table.
“Ellie, I’m going to ask you one time and I expect you to
be completely honest with me.”
Please don’t ask me where I was again.
“Are you on drugs?”
What? Really? That’s her question? “No. And I can
honestly say I’ve never once, ever tried them, either. Cross
my heart.”
The lines on her forehead slowly disappear, and
surprisingly, she smiles. “All right then.” She taps her nail on
the back of my hand. “Head on to school.”
I do as she says because I need time to think, to figure out
what I just saw. Was it a memory? A dream? Hallucination?
Is that normal to talk about yourself in those kinds of things?
Like you’re someone else?
Deep down it feels like something more. But if it is, that
means there’s something wrong with me.
And I don’t want anything to be wrong with me.
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Chapter Twenty-eight
Shane’s street is asleep, all four houses lightless and covered
in white frost that shimmers in the morning sun. The culde-sac is long and sloped, leading to Shane’s and Lexi’s
houses, sitting side-by-side at the end. The big blocks are
nearly identical, with gigantic front doors and too many
windows and fences that reach out like they’re holding
hands. A U-shaped driveway frowns in front of Shane’s and
I smile because I’d be frowning too if I had to spend eternity
touching her house.
I glance to the inside of my wrist, wondering again if
that image in my mind could’ve really happened. Tattooed
oranges were on the table of the apartment I woke up in, and
I know for a fact that the guy drinks; he’d said we had beer
the night before.
Or…perhaps my mind is trying to make sense of the guy
whose apartment I woke up in the other day—giving him a
name and a story and maybe me a little bit of closure.
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But I’m far from closure, and as I sit here, cradled in the
warmth of my seat with hot air blasting my face, I realize I
need to find out if Griffin the tattoo artist is real. And if his
blue eyes match the ones that watched me so intensely just
before calling me “Gwen” and pressing his lips to mine.
Shane’s truck is in the driveway and Lexi is leaning
against it, a pink scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and
makeup barely concealing the greenish pools slung beneath
her eyes. Judging by the scowl she gives me when I get out of
my car, it’s safe to say she already knows I’m back.
“You have some nerve coming here,” she says, and her
voice is every bit of bitch that I remember. Today, I don’t feel
bad for changing the color of her face.
“Whatever.” I fold my arms against the cold. “Where’s
Shane?” And just as I ask, the front door to his house slams
shut. Shane freezes when he sees me, looking to his truck,
then my car, then to Lexi, then me.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” he says, walking to
his truck. He’s got a hood over his head, and with his breath
clouding like smoke in front of his face and the throaty growl
to his words, I feel like I hardly recognize him.
“Listen, Shane.” I step toward him. “I know you’re mad,
but I can explain.”
“Mad?” He lets out a sharp laugh, opening the door.
“That’s an understatement.” He gets in, unlocks Lexi’s
door. She flashes a smile as she climbs in, and then the truck
disappears down the street, growing blurrier and blurrier
until I can’t see it through the damn water in my eyes.
…
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Two and a half years here at West Haven and, for the
first time, I see the halls for what they really are. Airless,
overcrowded, and smelly. A jumbled, disordered mess of
kids who are trying to fit in, who already do fit in, who don’t
care if they fit in.
And then there’s me: the girl who no longer fits in,
because she’s that girl who ran away. Based on the words
lingering around me, that’s what everyone is thinking. I
guess it’s better than the truth: I’m turning into a mental
patient.
I pull out my phone and text Dani. I’m at school. Where
are you?
A moment passes, and I lean against the lockers, waiting.
Then my phone vibrates.
Running late. Save me a seat in English.
Like it’s any normal day. This is why I love her. My
phone vibrates again.
Btw you have some serious explaining to do!
It’s been eons since I’ve walked this wing without Shane
or Dani: Shane’s arm over my shoulder, Dani’s giggle each
day when Jason Regel passes us on his way to the gym. I
wrap my arms around myself, keeping close to the wall, and
push against the whispers and stares. They surround me.
Amused. Curious. But not at all surprised. Not caught off
guard by the fact that Shane is walking with Ian a few yards
in front of me.
Half the students relish it, the perverse entertainment of
watching awkwardness breed between a couple who’s been
together forever. The other half actually looks like they feel
bad for me, with their heads swaying and faces strained. I
punched Lexi Perkins. Maybe that’s why they’re staring.
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Or because police were snooping around, asking into my
whereabouts.
Shane’s wearing my favorite jeans. Gray, and riding
low on his hips. His hands are jammed into the pockets. Ian
disappears into Mr. Cohen’s room, leaving Shane. He waves
to a group of sophomores, then, a few doors farther, slips
into Mrs. Vogt’s class.
When I enter a few seconds later, he’s already sitting in
the back corner of the room, as far away as possible from the
seats we normally sit in under the window. I didn’t call him
for three days, so I get why he’s mad, but by the hard look on
his face and the way his eyes skip to every spot in the room
except for where I’m standing, it seems like something more.
I start in his direction, but just as I do, Mrs. Vogt spouts,
“Good morning, class,” and I’m forced to find my seat.
Class is a blur of poetry readings and discussion about our
autobiographies and I spend the first half with my head
buried in my hands.
Halfway through class, someone taps me on the
shoulder. I expect it to be Dani, but the voice that whispers,
“Did you find them?” isn’t hers. It’s Sadie Mullen. I twist
in my seat just enough to look at her without catching Mrs.
Vogt’s attention. She’s running her fingers up and down the
purple feather extension in her hair.
“Hm?”
Sadie scrunches her nose, squishing her freckles together.
“Your parents…I mean, your birth parents. I heard you ran
away to find them.” A rumor. Great.
“They’re dead,” I say with no feeling at all. My focus
resumes on the brown stain on Vogt’s shirt. Coffee probably.
She taps me again. “I’m sorry.”
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“Don’t be,” I whisper back, copying the reading
assignment Vogt has written on the board.
“Must be hard.”
I nod politely, not bothering to tell her I have no memory
of my birth parents whatsoever so it really isn’t. Also not
bothering to ask her why she’s being so chatty. We’re not
exactly friends, seeing as she spends much of her time in
Lexi’s shadow.
“I mean, you two were together for, like, six months or
something. I remember how miserable I was when Nick and
I broke up, and we were only together for—”
I whip my head around, put my hand on her forearm.
“Stop.” I swallow, replaying her words. “What’d you just
say?”
Her head tilts to the side. “You and Shane?” she
whispers, flicking her eyes in his direction. “Breaking up?
I was just saying it must be hard. You guys were, like, the
perfect couple.”
Her words are like a fistful of rocks being thrown against
the window, rattling too loud and fast to make any sense. Me
and Shane?
“Broken up?” The words are like sludge in my mouth,
gooey and stuck. She purses her lips in a sympathetic grin,
and I turn back around. Sadie doesn’t know what she’s
talking about. Sure he’s upset, but only because I didn’t call
him for days. It’s probably just another rumor.
I watch the clock for the rest of the period, counting
the seconds along as the hand ticks in a circle. One minute
stretches into two, three, four, and just as my nerves have
about had it, the bell rings. Like a gushing river, bodies pour
out of the room with an urgency that snarls my stomach into
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a huge, tangled mess.
Before I’m ready, before I have a chance to steal a breath
and think about what I should say, Shane stands, slinging his
backpack over his shoulder. I stand, too, tugging the hem of
my shirt over my jeans and pull a smile onto my face. One
he doesn’t see because he passes by, ignoring me completely.
“Shane.” I fall into step behind him. He stiffens but
doesn’t turn.
“I don’t want to talk to you.” The words snap like rubber
bands, each one stinging a little more than the last. His pace
quickens and Jason joins him at the door, glancing back at
me with a shake of his head.
“What’d I do?” I blurt desperately. I get that he’s mad I
disappeared for a few days. I’d be upset too. But, really, does
he have to pretend I don’t exist? Wasn’t he worried about
me or concerned I really was kidnapped?
Out of the blue, he whirls around.
“Don’t bother denying it, Ellie. I have proof.”
This isn’t the Shane I know. I sink into my shoes. “Proof
of what?” My voice cracks, which I hate.
Nostrils flaring, he punches a few buttons on his phone.
Mine chirps from my pocket. Then he walks down the hall,
gigantic Jason at his side.
Disoriented, I slip out my phone. A picture message
stares back at me. And then the phone shatters from the
impact with the hard, tiled floor, plastic pieces littering the
ground around my feet.
…
“Ellie. Shit, what happened?”
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Dani rushes up, eyes jumping between the scattered
pieces of phone on the floor and my face. I’m still standing
in the hall by our English class.
“Are you okay?” She swipes her foot across the tile in
an attempt to gather the pieces into a pile. “Why are you
crying? Oh my God, you’re shaking, too.” The image. It’s all I can see: shaggy brown hair. The
rusted orange hood. My crooked smile and arm outstretched
to take the picture. His eyes were closed, mine open as he
held my face in his hands. And our lips…touching…in a way
that I’ve only kissed Shane.
The picture, now imprinted behind my eyes, sends
fissures through every part of my body, threatening to crack
me into a million tiny pieces. How could I have done that?
Kissed another guy—that guy from Whisper Ridge—and
not have known?
“The picture.” My words ricochet in my brain, followed
by kiss, but I don’t want to say that word out loud. I don’t
want it to become real.
Still, Dani’s foot stalls, which means she knows exactly
which picture I’m talking about. Did Shane show it to her?
Did he show it to everyone? Considering the whispers and
stares this morning, someone did.
“C’mon.” She leaves my shattered phone on the floor
and tugs me into the bathroom. The cold air slaps me in the
face and seeps down my neckline, and I lean against the edge
of the sink, waiting for her to start explaining. Instead, she
points at me. “Okay, I’m dying to know about this new guy—
where the heck you met him and what he has that Shane
doesn’t, ’cause, you have to admit, you and Shane were
pretty damn perfect together, and also why you decided to
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sneak away with him for three freaking days and not call
me one single time, but you’re looking a little pale at the
moment, kind of like you might puke up your breakfast, so I
guess that explanation can wait.” Her shoulder dips, sending
her backpack sliding to the crook of her elbow. She drops it
to the dingy floor, scrunching her nose at the same time. “Is
the guilt starting to set in?”
“Guilt?”
“Yeah, for, you know, breaking up with your boyfriend
via text message?”
I shake my head. The picture? I sent it to him? “I didn’t.”
One eyebrow shoots to her hairline. “Um…yes. You
did. With a message that said ‘not yours anymore.’ God, I
just wish you had talked to me. I had no idea you guys were
having issues. I mean, one day you’re talking about losing
your virginity to him and the next you’re making out with
some new guy—” She cuts herself off, tilting her head like
she’s suddenly thought of something. “Wait. Why’re you
acting like you don’t know what happened? Are you stoned
or something?” She leans in to inspect my eyes. “Holy
bananas, your parents are going to kill you if you are. And
then they’re gonna assume I was doing it, too. They’ll call
my par—”
I nudge her shoulder until she steps back, widening the
space between us again. “Stop. I’m not stoned. When did I
send it?”
Like Doug McNally when Coach chose someone else
to run the team, her mouth opens and closes. “Wednesday,”
she says after a moment, the word drawn out hesitantly.
“Wouldn’t you know that?”
The day after I bumped into Blue Eyes. And the day
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before I woke up in his apartment. Which means I was with
him the entire time.
Not yours. Not yours. Not yours.
Those words…
Unexpectedly, the prickle of spider legs crawls up the
back of my neck as it all hits me. The tree. The drawing.
Words, same as with the message, tangled in the roots.
Dani starts up again, waving her hand in front of my
face. “Hey, what gives? You’re acting…strange.”
If anyone, he might be able to give me answers.
Ignoring her last question, I sweep past her and rear into
the door with a forced smile.
“We’re going to be late. Can we talk later? At lunch?”
I don’t wait for her response and burst into the hall. She’s
right, I’m not acting like myself. At all. But I refuse to accept
this missing time any longer.
I start for second period, but once Dani’s out of sight, I
make a beeline for the front doors.
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Chapter Twenty-nine
Artistic Elements, it says on the door. The same as the
black shirt in my hand. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it
before, that the guy from the apartment worked here. And
that maybe seeing him again is what I need to bring back the
memories of when I was with him. And why.
The shop, squished between a cake supply store and
vacuum repair business in a rundown, cinderblock building,
is tiny. With a metal ashtray stand shaped like a hand
overflowing with butts at the entrance. Fitting; a handshake
of betrayal.
A bell chimes as I swing open the glass door.
Coming here—to the tattoo shop—is a stupid idea, I
know, but, truthfully, I have nothing left to lose. Even if my
parents find out I skipped second period, there’s not much
more they can do. I need my car for school, so they can’t take
that away. They could ground me through the summer and
into my senior year, but at this point I’d prefer that, since
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disappearing for three days again would be impossible to do
with their constant eyes on me.
“Gwen.” The name echoes off the checkered tile floor.
This is the part I’m not prepared for. The part that has
my insides jittering, my neck tingling. I clear my throat and
purse my lips into a convincing smile.
“Hey…Griffin.” I test out the name, to see if possibly my
mind was right.
He’s leaning over a bare-chested man, a tattoo gun in
his latex-gloved grip. He peers at me from behind his shaggy
brown hair.
“Come here. Check this out.” He motions to the picture
on the guy’s ribcage. No reaction to the name. Hm, Griffin
it is.
I duck under the high counter, leaving the small waiting
room decorated with framed posters of tattoo templates to
the other side where tattoos are given. I squeeze past a metal
cart topped with sanitary supplies and miniature plastic
containers of colored ink. Griffin wipes the man’s side with a
piece of gauze, revealing the image of a coiled snake.
“Awesome, right? See the shading on the scales? How
intricate they are? And look how I used white here to
highlight the tip of the fangs.”
“Wow.” My eyes widen. “You’re really good.” And he is.
The picture is amazingly detailed.
“You should know.” He smirks and nudges the guy’s
shoulder. “I gave Gwen her first tat a few weeks ago.”
I force another smile and nod. Griffin gave me my
tattoo? Is that how we met?
“Okay, dude,” Griffin says, peeling off his gloves. He taps
his client’s arm. “Smoke break. I’ll be back in ten.” He drops
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his gloves into the trash, then leads me to a black door in the
back. His hand presses lightly against the small of my back.
I try not to flinch.
In an alley too narrow to be a delivery lane, Griffin pulls
a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He sticks one between
his lips, right next to the metal ring. Flame hits the end, he
draws in a deep breath, then immediately passes it to me.
“I… No thanks,” I say. He sits down against the building,
stretches his long legs out in front of him, obviously uncaring
about the stench of mildew and trash wafting from the
garbage cans nearby. He raises one eyebrow at me.
“You come here to explain why you took off the other
day? It was kinda sudden.”
I sit across from him, my legs folded, and hold his shirt
out to him. “Actually, I wanted to return this.” It still smells
like smoke and is crinkled from where I had it stashed under
the seat of my car. He takes it.
“If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve brought
yours.”
It takes too much out of me to remember which shirt I
had on Tuesday. I’ve been trying to forget that I had someone
else’s shirt on in the first place.
“It’s okay. I don’t need it.” I adjust my weight on the
hard, rutted asphalt, searching his face for anything familiar,
anything that’ll bring back more memories, tell me why I
was in his apartment and why he calls me Gwen.
He licks his lips and takes another drag of his cigarette.
“I’m just about done doing touchups in there,” he says.
“If you want, you can wait with me. Come over and get it.”
I tug at the sleeve of my sweater and feign a frown.
“Can’t. I’ve got…somewhere I need to be.” My mouth is dry,
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words creeping off my lips, slow as molasses. There’s a buzz
of pressure between us, a consciousness in every part of my
body that knows his is close, within touching distance. It’s
heavy, and uncomfortable, and I wish I could push it away
because it’s making it hard to think.
He pulls up his knee and rests his elbow on top of it.
“That’s too bad.” He glances at me sideways, blowing
smoke into the air. The sleeves of his black collared shirt
are rolled up, the face of his watch staring at me. It’s almost
ten o’clock. I’m running out of time. “I was hoping I could
make you dinner again,” he says, flicking his cigarette. Ashes
flutter to the ground.
Dinner.
Again?
What would he have made me? What would someone
like him know how to make? Quesadillas? Mac-’n’-cheese?
Cereal?
“Maybe you could take a rain check?” I say, looking into
his eyes. If I stare at him hard enough, would it be possible
to will the information out? All of the things we did during
those three days, why I went there in the first place, what the
hell I was thinking.
His eyes narrow, searching my face. A breath of a
moment passes. He takes another drag, lets out the smoke in
a thin stream, and then says, “Is everything all right?” at the
same time he smashes the cigarette against the wall. “You
seem…I don’t know, different.”
This might be what I’m looking for. “Different how?”
“Quiet, or maybe a little nervous.” He leans forward,
taking my hand in his with a wry grin. “Do I suddenly make
you nervous?”
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At first it feels wrong—his fingers lightly stroking
mine—but as I block out the flood of guilt and thoughts of
Shane and the simple fact that this stranger calls me by a
different name, I feel something deep, deep down inside. A
glimmer of attraction. The flutter from a single butterfly in
my belly.
The memory with Griffin and the tattoo gun, the
oranges, the feeling of his breath on my face… Did that
really happen?
I have no idea how to ask. Casually, I slide my hand out
from under his and look into his blue eyes and—
“Hand me your phone.”
Griffin leans in, tracing a line of black on my stomach.
He’s biting his lip, hands steadily dragging the tattoo gun to
complete the outline of the tree. It stings. Not like the slice of a
knife or burn of a cigarette, though. A different kind of sting.
He doesn’t look up. “Hm?”
Lying on a blue cushioned bench, one leg bent, I reach
toward him. My fingers graze his pocket. The buzzing stops.
He takes a step back, squinting. “What’re you doing?”
“I said hand me your phone.”
He sets the machine on the metal tray beside him and
brushes his hair back with the side of his arm. “You can’t
move when I’m doing this. I could’ve slipped, drawn a line
clear across your stomach. Then I’d have to cover it up with
something larger.”
I lift my chin. “Are you going to or not?”
Griffin looks across the room to where a burly guy, covered
from head to toe in tattoos, is cleaning his workstation. He’s
intently taking apart his gun, wiping down each piece, placing
them on the counter. Griffin lowers his gaze back to me.
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“Why?”
A small, delighted smile forms on my lips. “Because I
want to give you my number.”
I lean away from Griffin and his expression falls, like
he’s worried he said something wrong. I’ve seen the look
before with Shane, when he first started asking about my
adoption. Quickly I glance at his watch again. 9:49. If I don’t
leave now, I’ll be late to third period and stuck in study hall.
Plus, two classes missed can’t be explained to Mom and
Dad with an excuse like I was stuck in the bathroom with
ridiculous cramps.
“Will you call me,” I say, trying to sound as normal as
possible, “for that dinner? I’m sort of late for something
right now.”
He grins, then nods, then pulls me to my feet as he stands.
Bending to my level, he brushes his lips across my cheek and
whispers against my skin, “I would love to.”
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Chapter Thirty
Dripping with sweat, I trail Shane into the gym. A few feet
separate us in the hall and he hasn’t once looked back. Even
still—I know he knows I’m here. Behind me, the door swishes
open and laughter echoes; two freshman from the JV team
are reciting lines from an eighties movie. The same one I
watched with Shane not too long ago. Before I disappeared
with some boy named Griffin, and before Shane decided I
no longer existed.
Anxiously, I skip a few steps and place my body in front
of his just before he enters the boys’ locker room.
“One minute. That’s all I ask.”
“No.” He shoves past me, knocking my shoulder into the
door. Quickly, I snatch his arm in my hand.
“God. Why won’t you just let me explain?”
He whirls around, fast and hard, brushing my hand away.
“Explain?” His fist collides with wood right beside my head,
the sound resonating in my chest. “You fucking cheated on
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me, Ellie.” His muscles clench tight against his shirt, face still
flushed from the four-mile jog we just completed. “What is it
that you need to explain?”
“That it wasn’t me!” I told myself I wasn’t going to cry,
that I would just explain to him about the blackout and how
I don’t remember any of it, but my eyes, filling with tears,
didn’t seem to get the message. I cover my face with my
hands.
“Right,” he says, fury and disbelief fighting for a place
in his tone. Slipping past the door, he calls over his shoulder,
“That wasn’t you. Just someone who looks like you?”
The door shuts with a click. Final, just like the sound of
his voice, and I want to scream. To run in there and tell him
that yes it was my body in that picture, but somehow I wasn’t
in control of it. Like sleepwalking, or being hypnotized, or…
or…I don’t even know.
All I know is it wasn’t me.
…
After school, Sara, back from Gramma’s, meets me at the
door, freshly cut bangs hanging jaggedly into her eyes.
I drop my backpack at the foot of the stairs. “If you’re
going to cut your own hair, you should at least use a mirror.”
“Drea did it. Are they crooked?” Reaching up, she
straightens the stringy blond strands.
“They’re fine,” I lie, heading up the stairs. She races past
me and stops at the top.
“Mom’s on the phone.” She grips both railings to keep
me from passing, an air of warning on her mousy face.
“Talking to someone about you.”
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“My school?” A missed class would trigger the
automated phone system, not be grounds for a phone call
home.
Sara tugs her iPod from her pocket. “Dunno. Someone
important, though. Mom’s using her Mary Poppins voice.
Did you really sleep at the mall?”
I roll my eyes. “Do you really think I slept at the mall?”
Without waiting for an answer, I lift her arm and skip
past, whispering over my shoulder, “Thanks for the Mom
warning.”
As expected, a few minutes after I make it to my room,
Mom taps lightly on the door before peeking her head in.
“Have a minute?”
“Actually, I have probably close to a million, seeing as
I’m grounded till June.” I close the notebook. She gives me a
cautionary look and sits on my bed, the light blue material of
her scrubs blending in perfectly with my seascape bedspread.
“I know you don’t want to talk to your dad and me about
what’s going on. And that’s okay.”
“It is?” Shocker. I was fully expecting another onslaught
of Where were you really? questions. I haven’t told them
more than the mall story, and while there’s a 99 percent
chance they don’t believe it, they still haven’t asked.
“We understand it’s not easy for girls your age to talk to
their parents. To be honest, I wasn’t comfortable talking to
my mom when I was in high school, either.”
I snort. “That’s a surprise.” Gramma is the most uptight
person I know. An old-fashioned, Betty Crocker type. Once
she made Sara and me apologize to a waiter for dropping
crumbs on the floor of her favorite Italian restaurant. I was
eight. Sara, four.
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Mom rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I rescheduled your
appointment with Dr. Parody for Thursday.” Her voice
constricts, inflecting her last word. Which means she’s not
telling me everything. I move to the window, open my blinds,
and peer out. Mr. Dobbs, the town’s infamous lawyer, pulls
up in his black Benz, checks his mail, and goes inside his
house.
I turn. “I have practice Thursday.”
“You’ll have to let Coach Mills know you can’t make it.
Dr. Parody didn’t have any other openings next week.” Mom
gets up, crosses the room, and pulls me into a hug. Mom gives
awkward hugs. The barely-touch, pat-on-the-back kind.
“She still wants you to go in for a physical,” she continues,
standing in front of me, her brown eyes searching mine. “So
I arranged for you to see Dr. Dixon Monday. After school.”
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Chapter Thirty-one
An EEG, complete physical, and stress test…
After spending two hours in Dr. Dixon’s office with
electrodes attached to my head, running on a treadmill,
and an unexpected tetanus shot that I apparently missed
when I was twelve, I race downtown. I only have twenty-five
minutes, and then I have to rush home before my parents
get off work. I pull into the parking lot, spot the rundown
orange Jeep.
Bitter espresso and sugary pastries give off a cloudlike
aroma in Stella’s Coffeehouse. It’s not crowded, which is
good. And I’m far enough away from the hills and West
Haven that I won’t run the risk of anyone spotting me.
Which is better.
Griffin waves me over to a table in the corner. Two fat
mugs of steaming coffee rest on the table in front of him,
along with a cinnamon roll drizzled with icing. He stands,
and this awkward moment passes, like he’s unsure if we
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should hug or not. I’d rather not, so I step toward the other
chair, but then he unexpectedly wraps his arms around me.
My whole body tenses and I start to return the gesture
with a hug like Mom’s, but a wave of warmth hits me and
I slip my arms around his back, pull his body close, close,
closer to mine.
I don’t know why.
And then, all of a sudden, a hungry swell washes over
me. My eyes start to sink back into my head and my insides
feel like they’re falling. Like I’m about to spill into the
depths of an endless pit.
No.
I pinch my eyes shut. Clench my jaw. Do everything
possible to keep me here. In this coffee shop. Standing in the
arms of a stranger. I take a deep breath, but the cigarette scent
on Griffin’s shirt only makes it worse and, like quicksand,
I’m nearly gone up to my nose when, with one last attempt, I
use every cell in my body to push the crushing feeling away.
I blink.
I’m sitting across from Griffin, a smile plastered on his
face.
“I got your favorite,” he says, pointing to the gooey
pastry. “It’s the one with apple chunks in it.” He tugs off a
hunk and in the middle of handing it to me, recognizes my
blank stare. “Did I get the wrong one? Was it raisins you
liked?”
Crumpling into my hard wooden chair, I shake my head.
I have no idea what he’s talking about—I’ve never eaten a
cinnamon roll with apples. Or raisins. He sits up straighter,
leans his elbows on the table. Griffin’s good-looking, I realize
just then. With a firm jaw and tiny freckles spattered across
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his nose.
He’s about to ask me something else, and I don’t want to
answer any more of his questions. So I take the sticky piece
of cinnamon roll from him, his fingers lightly brushing mine,
and ask the first thing that comes to mind.
“What’s your last name?”
He hesitates a short moment, and the thought occurs
that maybe I’ve asked him this before. Maybe I shouldn’t be
asking him any questions. He pops a wedge of cinnamon roll
in his mouth, then tugs his wallet out from his back pocket.
“You’re gonna laugh.” With a reluctant grin and burning
spot on each cheek, he sets it on the table, closer to me.
Thinking, How bad could it really be?, I unfold the thin wornleather flap, warm from him, and spot his driver’s license.
Peed. “Peed?” I giggle. “Your last name is Peed.” I laugh
again, louder. “Griffin Peed?”
Swooping in his arm, he lunges for the wallet. I hold it
out of his reach.
“Don’t even start with the playground jokes.” His face
grows bright red.
“Okay, I won’t.” I smile, trying really hard not to laugh
again. “But you have to admit it is an odd last name.”
“Farnsworth is odd. Lipschitz is odd.” He swings his
head. “You can imagine the bathrooms I hid in to escape the
torture in school. Which actually made the teasing worse.
Because Griffin Peed hanging out in a bathroom is just too
much for some to resist pointing out.”
I relax in my chair, take a sip of coffee. Griffin seems
like a nice guy. I could tell him—about the blackouts, not
remembering the day I got my tattoo or giving him my
phone number. The three days I was at his apartment. That
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my name isn’t really Gwen. I could ask him for all the details,
everything we said, everything we did…
But…what would he think? A girl who can’t remember
anything? He’d think I was lying. Using it as an excuse to get
out of what I started—a relationship with him.
“Will you tell me about your family?” I say instead.
Don’t ask me why, but that question always finds its way
into my conversations. Shane’s dad left, his mom’s never
around. Dani’s parents divorced and her dad married an
outright gold-digger. I find comfort in this. In everyone
else’s personal hitches. In the deep hole it pulls me from—
swimming around whatever fucked-up situation I was taken
away from.
He purses his lips, thinking. “Short or long version?”
Long means there’s drama. Or issues. Or something that
will distract me from myself. Sadly, I don’t have time for the
long version. “Short,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning my
forearms onto the table.
He shrugs loosely, pinches a smile. “Business fraud. Dad
locked up. Mom, the last I heard, was living somewhere in
Texas with a dude named Bud.”
“Business fraud?” Not really what I expected. Divorce,
yes. Maybe even a mom addicted to pills or a dead dog or
something.
“My parents owned a photography business,” he
explains, eyes following the steam twirling out of his mug.
“Didn’t give customers the pictures they ordered, were sued
and—” He stops, looks at me funny. “I’m surprised you didn’t
see the trial. It was all over the news a few months ago.”
“Not really a news kind of girl,” I say, but really I’m
thinking a few months ago I would’ve been newly in a
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relationship with Shane, spending every spare moment with
him. Running. Watching movies. Hanging out at Beacon’s.
“Is that why your mom moved to Texas?”
He nods. “She didn’t know my dad had a gambling
problem. That he was pocketing the money and wasting it
on online poker games. She took off right after she found
out. Apparently, she thought I was part of the scam because
she left without saying good-bye… I haven’t heard from her
since.” His voice cracks on the last word. It should make me
feel better. His hurt. His effed-up family.
We stare at each other. He’s got that same pinched
smile. I can’t comprehend him as someone I would’ve been
interested in. The piercings. Tattoos. Black shirt, black jeans,
black boots…
And me? What does he see in me? Aside from the tree
under my shirt, I’m not really the rebel type. I rarely wear
anything dark. Can’t stomach the thought of jamming a
needle through any part of my body. Have never failed a
class or done drugs.
I run my finger over the rim of my mug. “Why are you
here, Griffin?”
He doesn’t even think about it. “Because you asked me
to be. And because I like you.”
I feel myself blush, though I have no right to, and take
another sip of my coffee to avoid responding.
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Chapter Thirty-two
McClay Park. The sign greets us as we drive down the
road. Gravel crunches under the tires. The sky is yellowing,
blushing pink at its edges.
“We’re right on time,” Griffin looks over at me and says.
He’s wearing a black sweatshirt, zipped halfway and pushed
up at the sleeves. He shifts down to second gear.
“Do you always take girls on pansy-ass dates like this?”
“You act like you’ve never watched a sunset before.”
Griffin parks and we get out. “Just wait. This one’s pretty
amazing.” A white plastic bag labeled Ding’s Chinese hangs
in his grip. He sets it on the hood of his Jeep and holds his
hand out to me.
“When I suggested we go on a date, I was sort of thinking
Go-Karts or bowling or something, you know, exciting?” I
roll my eyes at his hand and use the tire to boost myself up.
The metal hood is warm against my jeans. “Maybe swimming
in the river?”
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He climbs up and sits next to me with a grin. “The last
time we did that I was cold for an hour.” The last time we did
that was the first time we kissed. In the river. Both our mouths
trembling from the freezing water. I can still taste the maple
glaze from the doughnut he’d brought for us to share.
I shrug and bump his elbow with mine. “I vote Gladstone’s.
I’ll jump backward this time.” Griffin laughs and—the vision
changes. Suddenly we’re in Griffin’s apartment, tangled
together on the white couch—I can’t resist his mouth. His full
lips, the metal ring in the perfect spot to bite. His hands skim up
my back, and I wish I wasn’t wearing this thick sweater. These
hands I want to feel. Gently sliding up and down, around
where they rest on my hips. A fire explodes inside me. I let
out a growl and climb onto his lap, straddle him, and fumble
with the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. And then he pulls back,
hunger in his eyes but a crease along his brow.
“Can we slow down?” His chest rises and falls with a
breath. The echo of the TV fills the room. Griffin tugs at the
collar of his shirt and a deep chuckle rumbles in my chest.
“You’re joking, right?” My fingers creep down to the third
button. It’s halfway undone when he cradles my hands in his.
Two red circles blot his cheeks.
“I don’t want to rush this.” He lifts me up and sets me
on the couch next to him. Hauling his body out from the
confines of the cushions, he touches the braid hanging over
my shoulder. Then something catches his eye. His finger
presses behind my ear, frowning. “You have a lot of scars.”
I snap awake, gasping so hard it feels like I’m going to
suck myself in. I sit up. My bedroom is pitch-black, so dark I
can’t even see my dresser, or my bathroom door, or my hand
coming up to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
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What the fuck is happening to me?
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Chapter Thirty-three
A text message on my phone draws my attention away from
pretending to listen to Mrs. Vogt explain the rubric for our
next writing assignment while secretly watching Shane.
From where I sit, if I turn my head like I’m eyeing the clock,
I see Shane peripherally. His black hair is shorter, trimmed
so it no longer falls into his eyes and he’s wearing a new,
creased polo shirt.
I miss him so much.
Appointment canceled. Go to practice, the message
says. From Mom. The words make me smile. Not only am I
spared an hour with Dr. Parody, now I’ll get to spend time
with Shane.
…
“I don’t want your personal issues to get in the way of your
performance,” Coach Mills says after school when Shane
tries to protest being split off into pairs with me. “You’re
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Ellie’s peer coach and will be for the remainder of the
season.”
Coach Mills is like a bull: tough, rarely showing any
indication of emotion other than brute determination to
lead West Haven’s cross country team to the Centennial
Invitational in Gresham. “Personal issues” to her are
exasperating and an outright waste of time. I bet that’s why
she’s not married.
“Find your partners,” she barks to the team. “We’re
working hill tactics today.”
Sensing Shane’s unreserved abhorrence at the fact he
has to be within fifty yards of me, Doug McNally snickers
beside me. I cross my arms and level him with a stare until
he quiets, kicking the grass with his shoe.
Coach gives us a few pointers for uphill running: shorten
stride, run tall, drive through the hill, then she instructs us to
spread out and work with our partners.
“Let’s get this over with,” Shane mumbles and stomps to
the base of the grassy hill. Tension knots his shoulders and
back. Why was I excited about this? Did I actually think he’d
be forgiving and we could start over?
I follow him.
The hill isn’t very big, height-wise, but its steepness is
a bit intimidating. Or maybe it’s my ex-boyfriend’s glower.
Shady shafts of light trickle through the surrounding trees
here in the park across the street from West Haven, the taste
of earthy air and rotting wood on my tongue.
Shane stops just past Doug and his peer runner,
sophomore Brad Egert, who’s as clumsy as someone with
two left feet, and, eluding any sight of me, repeats the tips
Coach Mills gave.
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“I’ll time your first run.” He unbuckles the watch from
his wrist. I run up the hill and, after he spouts out my time,
I run it a few more. Shane doesn’t say a word until, finally,
he becomes frustrated with my increasing times and snaps.
“You’re stopping short of the top. Run through it.”
Catching my breath, I push the bangs off my sweaty
brow, my pulse thumping in my ears. “I’m sorry,” I say.
He huffs, resetting his watch. “Try it again.”
“No.” I put my hand on his, on the back where bluish
veins snake among his knuckles. I catch his gaze as it flickers
down. “I’m sorry. For what I did. But I blacked out and—”
“Cut it with the blackouts, Ellie. You can’t blame your
stupid decisions on blackouts.”
“But it’s true.” A sting prickles my eyes, and I press hard
on them so the traitor tears don’t push through. God, what
is it about talking to him lately that turns me into a freaking
crybaby? “I don’t remember anything from when I was gone.
Not a single minute.”
“You know what I think?” His voice is low and
poisonous. He grits his teeth and shoves my hand away. “I
think you need to stop making shit up just so you can go
fuck some other guy.”
My mouth drops open. How could he think I would do
that? And why doesn’t he believe me about the blackouts?
“I didn’t—”
He stops me, his extended finger near my face. “Save it
for someone who cares.”
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Chapter Thirty-four
I go to Beacon’s after practice, even though I’m running
the chance of getting home late. The gloomy sky pales the
factory’s disintegrated walls, seeping into the cracks along
the sides.
I stand in the door-less entry, listening to my tears hit the
dusty floor. One by one. Drip. Drop. Drip.
Today, this place has nothing to say to me.
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Chapter Thirty-five
“Who’s that?” Dani grabs my arm as we head through the
parking lot Friday after school. Pointing to my car with her
prominent chin, and eyebrows in the middle of her forehead,
she gasps, “Is that him?”
For once, I’m relieved Griffin’s mouth was pressed to
mine in that picture and only his profile was recognizable. I
would be royally screwed right now if not.
“Who, Griffin?” I face Dani, stare confidently into her
eyes. Covering up a lie, I’ve come to realize, is all about
the delivery. Eye contact, facing the accuser, appearing
comfortable on the outside even if you’re vexed on the
inside. Mom knew I was lying yesterday after practice
because, one, I didn’t look her in the eye when I answered
“Fine” to her “Are you okay?” And, two, I made the stupid
mistake of sniffling the last of my tears right in front of her.
“My biology tutor?” I add with a quick glance to Shane’s
truck. He’s still held up in Mrs. Hart’s class, and Lexi has
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taken to waiting for Shane outside his class, which I was
pissed about earlier, but at least she can’t see the guy sitting
on top of my car’s hood.
Griffin spots me and waves. I cringe. Please don’t shout
out the name Gwen.
Dani starts digging through her backpack for keys.
“Tutor?”
“My parents hired him for me,” I say automatically. “He
goes to the community college on the other side of town.” I
have no idea if Griffin goes to college or not. He looks like
he graduated high school not that long ago, so I suppose it’s
possible.
Or at least believable.
Griffin’s boots rest on the front bumper of my car, his
elbows propped at an angle on his knees. He’s got a cigarette
in his hand and, if I squint, he looks like something out of
Sara’s Rolling Stone magazines rather than the drizzly
parking lot of a well-heeled high school.
“Your parents have good taste in tutors.” Dani licks her
lips, practically undressing him with her eyes. “Were they
trying to help you get over Shane?”
I snort. “Not quite.” My parents don’t even know we
broke up.
Her eyes brighten. “Can you introduce me?”
No. No. Because to her I’m Ellie, to him I’m Gwen, and
I don’t know how to explain why that is.
“I’m not going to lie,” I lie, my face serious. “But he…
plays for the other team.”
She bounces next to me, knocking into my arm. “Gay?
Seriously?”
“I know. Crazy, right?”
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“Now I know how my grandma feels when we eat ice
cream in front of her, you know…with that whole lactose
intolerance thing. Such a disappointment.” Not realizing
I’ve weaved us through the lot, straight to her car, she jingles
her keys and smiles. “See ya tomorrow.”
Griffin grins as I approach my car, tossing the butt of
his smoke to the asphalt. “So you’re a Westie. Didn’t expect
that.”
Square. Westie. Gwen. I don’t even know who I am
anymore. Or how he knew where I went to school. At this
rate, I’m guessing I probably told him and don’t remember.
“Follow me,” I say, glancing over my shoulder one last
time to make sure Shane’s class hasn’t let out yet. I can’t risk
the chance that he’ll see me. With another guy.
Griffin follows as I lead him behind his orange Jeep and
into the forest at the edge of the parking lot. The trees aren’t
dense, not like the forest near Shane’s house, so I strategically
stand behind one of the larger trunks to conceal myself.
I fold my arms, a twinge of irritation growing in my
chest. “What are you doing here?”
Instead of answering, he closes the space between us
and presses his mouth to mine. My immediate reaction is to
push him away, the thought I have a boyfriend! screaming
inside my head. But I don’t, and here’s why:
Griffin runs his fingertip in a soft line across my forehead.
It isn’t much, just a simple touch, yet the tingles that follow
drip down my neck and burrow beneath my skin. Like tiny
ants tunneling into my flesh. Millions of them. My body
starts to buzz, and I’ve been so starved for attention, that
even these hands—soft and tender and not Shane’s—feel so,
so good.
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His lips stay on mine for a moment and then he moves
them to my ear, starts to say something under his breath.
“Gwen, I—”
But I don’t hear the rest. Because a wall of black buries
me.
It’s different than before.
This feeling.
This loss of…myself.
I’m not gone. But I’m not here. I am alone. Suspended
in a sea of black. Dark. Cold. No sounds but the earsplitting
cry of my screams. I try to move. Push with my legs, pull
with my arms, but it’s useless. Besides, there’s nowhere to
go; shadowy nothingness surrounds me. Miles and miles
of empty, desolate space. Dead like Beacon’s. Except no
shattered windows, no stale air. No whispered words—not
even the faded echo of Shane’s voice.
My chest doesn’t feel like it’s going to explode, it is
exploding. Splintering into thousands of shards, ripping at
the seams. Griffin’s lips are still on mine. He’s not anywhere
near, but hot breath exhales against my cheeks, down my
neck—
I don’t want this. I start to run, shoving through layers
and layers of gloomy fog. The tingling sensation is gone,
replaced with a sickening roll of my gut and the taste of bile
in my mouth. I want out.
Hands find me, grope me. Pale, lifeless hands with
maggots squirming in their flesh. They reek of rot and decay.
My mouth moves. “Let me out!” But no sound comes. The
grisly fingers have silenced me, jagged nails biting into my
lips. My heart is smashing up my insides, hammering hard
and fast against my bones. My lungs. Beating all the air from
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them.
Finally, I see it. Light. A single yellow shaft in the
distance. I run toward it. Away from the hands and cloud of
pitch-black. The closer I get, the easier I can breathe. But it’s
still so far away. My legs push harder.
Light comes, then goes. I’m whizzing in and out of
shadows. I run farther. More light. It grows brighter and
brighter until I’m squinting and it hurts. Despite the heat
from the yellow shaft, cold air sweeps down my stomach,
twirls like a vine around my legs. Then suddenly it’s warm
again. Hot, even. With something heavy and soft pressing
down on me, holding me into place. I fight it, pushing and
pushing and then—
I open my eyes.
The sun is in my face. Which is in Griffin’s hands. Which
are connected to his body that lies next to mine. Shirtless.
On a bed I don’t recognize, with black pillows and the faint
scent of cologne.
His lips are skimming down my neck, hand cautiously
inching up my stomach. Closer and closer to my bra. “Wait,”
I gasp and it takes everything in me to get that word out.
It comes, only breathless and unheard. “Griffin, wait,” I say
again, louder.
He pulls back, biting the ring on his lip, searching my
face with those blue eyes.
“I can’t do this.” Before he can say anything, I scramble
off the bed, find my shirt lying on the floor beside my pants,
which apparently were taken off in haste because they’re
twisted and inside-out.
We must be in his room. It only makes sense with the
hand-drawn sketches tacked to the wall above a desk.
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Tattoo-like sketches. Snakes, dragons, fire…trees.
“You’re joking, right?” He doesn’t sound serious. More
like it’s an inside joke, only with someone else in the room,
not me. I button my jeans and clear the sob building at the
base of my throat.
“I forgot…about something I have to do.” My shoes are
near the door. I slip into them. The door’s within reach when
he springs off the bed, catches my arm.
For a moment he just stares at me, taking deep breaths,
and I think he’s going to let me go like he did the last time
I woke up here, but then he says in the softest whisper of a
voice, “What did I do?”
“Nothing,” I say without thinking. He frowns.
“Obviously something. You’re running out on me.
Again.”
Yes. Again. But what he doesn’t understand is that I’m
waking up with him. Again. And how many times will I have
to do this? How long until I do something I can’t take back?
Is my mind subconsciously feeling guilty? Could that be why
I black out? I yank my arm from his light hold and force a
smile.
“Don’t take it personally, Griffin. It’s just something for
school.” I kiss his cheek—I don’t know why—turn for the
door, and he catches hold of me again.
“Forgetting something?”
It’s not funny but I laugh. A sharp “Ha!” bursting out of
me. If only he knew. He plucks his shirt from the floor, sifts
through the remaining stray clothing for his shoes, and not
until he holds up his keys and jingles them do I understand
that he must’ve driven me here.
Oh.
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On the ride back to school, I try to remember the drive
to his apartment. The way his Jeep bounces on Brockton, the
extra-long light near the grocery store. Did we head straight
down the thoroughfare—the one with all the stop signs—or
did we skirt around the edges?
Griffin parks beside my car and looks at me. It’s only
three o’clock. I’ve been gone forty-five minutes, short
enough I can claim the library as my excuse if either of my
parents happens to be home early.
“Thanks,” I say and climb out. It’s the first I’ve said to
him since we left his apartment. He lets me go without a
word and once I’m in my car, the familiarity of the cold, flat
air settling over my shoulders draws tear after tear from my
eyes.
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Chapter Thirty-six
“Shane said you were having blackouts.”
The voice comes from behind me as I’m walking to last
period. A voice that, it seems, no matter what I do or say or
kiss will always have my back. Except for now, because she
doesn’t like finding things out from other people.
I turn. Dani’s standing a few steps below me, her
My Dad’s Smarter Than Yours T-shirt hanging off one
shoulder. I do my utter best not to stare at her in order to
absorb that face I love, with its flat cheekbones and set of
dimples that appear when she’s looking for the innocent, fun
kind of trouble. Instead, I sneak glimpses. She’s got her short
hair parted on the side, swooping over her forehead.
“Yeah,” I say, grasping the railing at the top of the stairs.
Jason Regel brushes past, nodding to Dani with a tip of his
chin. She smiles and bites her lip, fighting her Did you see
that? reaction to focus on the grilling she’s about to give me.
I wait until he’s far enough down the hall to hear and then
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say, “And before you go accusing me for not telling you, just
know that I was going to. But the thing is, I don’t know if
that’s technically what they are—it’s not like I pass out or
anything—but I can’t remember a lot of things I’ve been
doing…and it’s not exactly easy to explain.”
“Shane also told me it was a lie and not to believe you,”
she says, and while it sounds like she’s gutting me, a huge
grin spreads across her face. “Like that would ever happen.”
She tilts her head to the side. “What do you mean you don’t
remember things you’ve been doing?”
“I don’t remember getting this.” I lift the edge of my
shirt. The tree, bluish-black in the poorly lit hall, stands out
on my pale skin like a pool of spilled ink.
“Getting it…? Oh my God, is that real?” Squinting, she
leans in. “It looks fake.”
“Trust me, it’s not fake. I woke up with it a few weeks
ago.”
“You woke up with it? How do you wake up with a
tattoo? Were you drunk?” In her eyes: skepticism. She wants
to believe me, but I admit it does sound a bit like a show
from the CW and not like our mundane lives at West Haven.
“No,” I answer. Some sophomores pass by and I lower
my shirt with a shrug. “Well, maybe. I wouldn’t know. I don’t
remember anything from that day. The last I remember was
leaving school, and then the next morning I found it on me.”
She stares at me. “Do your parents know?”
The bell rings and I shake my head. “Don’t say anything,
okay?” Dani won’t tell a soul; that’s one understanding
between us I won’t ever have to question.
Without another word, Dani turns, heads back down
the stairs. I start toward my next class when I clip a bit of
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conversation floating down the hall. Two sophomore girls in
front of me.
“What does Shane even see in her?”
“She’s a bitch.”
Apparently I’m a bitch. I laugh the comment off because
I have bigger problems than worrying about what people
think about me, but then I scoot closer to the girls because,
perversely, I want to know what else they’ll say about me. It
doesn’t take long.
The one with the ponytail and fur around her hood
glances at the other and says, “They’re best friends, you
know.” And then the words best friend and bitch and Shane
all slam together and it takes all of two seconds to understand
it’s not me they’re talking about.
Lexi.
What does he see in her?
No…no.
How could he?
How could they?
I push through the crowded hall. I’m going to throw up
and I need to leave before that happens. I hear my name
from somewhere behind. Dani. But I don’t turn. Or answer
because I’m already past the familiar wall of blue and a
hideous pink scarf, a flash of short black hair. I pass the
guidance counselor’s office door. It’s open, and the thought
to go in lingers briefly because I’m most likely going to do
something I shouldn’t, but then I’m out the front door, the
February air biting at my cheeks.
I don’t look back.
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Chapter Thirty-seven
No one is home when I get there.
I fling my backpack up the stairs and head straight
for Dad’s liquor cabinet. Since I can’t conveniently trigger
a blackout when I want—to forget the revolting idea that
Shane can see anything in Lexi other than her horrible
friendship and inability to get along with his girlfriend—I’ll
make myself black out.
I choke on the scotch—it’s ten times worse than the
vodka—but force down gulp after gulp after gulp until my
stomach can’t take any more, and then I walk to Shane’s
because I am alone and I don’t know where else to go.
It’s after two and he’s not here, but I’m too drunk to
walk back home so I curl up on the wicker chair beside the
front door and stare out at the front yard and the driveway
is smiling at me and it is so, so stupid.
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Chapter Thirty-eight
“—she reeks like alcohol. Shane, what should we do?”
Hands grip my shoulders and shake, shake, shake me.
My stomach protests with a gurgle. My head throbs.
“Stop shaking me,” I try to say, but my tongue is glued
to the roof of my mouth with the hostile taste of scotch and
I don’t do more than make a few useless grunts.
“Get her some water.” Shane. His words are short, tight.
He sounds pissed. I blink and the front of his house slowly
comes into focus. My reflection in the window. My body in
a ball tucked into the wicker chair on his porch, dark hair
plastered to my forehead. I can’t see the color of my skin
through the reflection, but I’m pretty sure it’s an attractive
shade of green. My legs are numb. Shane’s hands are on my
shoulders. “Ellie, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I didn’t want to be alone,” I say pathetically. This time
the words come out right and my face flushes because he
actually laughs at them. I know what he’s thinking, that he
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doesn’t feel sorry for me. Because I’m the one who ruined
everything. Besides, he has Lexi now. “I mean…I don’t know
why I came here. I shouldn’t have.” I sit up, push his arms
away. “Sorry.”
Lexi comes out and hands me a water bottle. I push that
away, too, and get up, take a few measly steps toward the
railing, and then fall. Shane’s there, his hands holding my
arms. “It’s fine,” I say, gritting my teeth against the urge to
throw up all over his shoes. “I’m fine. Just let me go. I can
walk home.”
“You can’t walk anywhere,” he says. “You’re piss drunk.”
I look over at Lexi. A pink hood covers her long blond
hair, an unraveled scarf hangs down to her knees. She’s
frozen. A bitch Popsicle. I can’t resist. “Drunk… Just like you
like them,” I say to Shane. Lexi’s face puckers; she doesn’t get
it. Shane rolls his eyes. I don’t think he does, either. Drunk?
Like Lexi always is? Makes sense to me, but whatever. “I
need to go home.” I start to pull out of his hands, but his grip
tightens.
“You can’t go home like this. Your parents will kill you.”
I stare up at him. “Like you care what happens to me.” I
raise one eyebrow at him, daring him to say so. That he still
cares. Cold wind blows against my face. A full minute passes,
and then Lexi steps forward.
“I’ll take her,” she says. “Since you have to pick up
Drea.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. Lexi drive me? “I’d rather
crawl,” I say and tug against Shane again. There’s no way I’m
getting in a car with a girl I punched in the face less than two
weeks ago.
He hooks my arm around his shoulder and guides my
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unworkable feet down the driveway and I didn’t agree to
this and we’re in the street where Lexi’s Beamer is parked
along the curb. I’m pressing against him more than I want
to—more than he wants me to—and then I’m sitting inside
Lexi’s car, leaning sideways on the seat. He tucks my legs in.
“Maybe this is why you can’t remember anything,” he
says, unimpressed, and then closes the door without another
word.
Their voices mumble on the other side of the glass. I
really want to roll down the window and listen, but by the
time my fingers crawl across the overabundance of switches
on the door, Lexi’s sitting beside me.
The engine purrs to life. The doors lock and she doesn’t
say a word.
Kill me now.
I close my eyes and pretend like I’m flying in a spaceship.
I don’t have my seat belt on. The alien pilot, whose perfume
is nauseously strong, must know this because she’s taking the
corners rather harshly. My head thuds against the window. I
open my eyes and scowl at her.
“Are you enjoying this?” I say, gripping the door handle
for support.
She shifts gears, and the car lurches forward. “Actually,
I have better things to do than worry if you’re going to barf
in my car.”
“I’m not going to barf,” I reassure her. I don’t know
why. It’s only a half truth anyway. If she keeps jerking the
car around, she just might have something to clean up once
I’m gone. “I meant with Shane.” I stare out the windshield,
houses zooming past at lightning speed. “I’m out of the
picture now. You must be happy about that.”
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She doesn’t say anything. Which I take as a yes. A few
more blocks pass and it is quiet and awkward and I try to
picture us riding together in her car as friends, but all I
keep seeing is her long, skinny finger drawing the shape of
a square.
She glances over at me. “I’ve never seen you drink
before. Like, drink drink.”
“It’s never too late to start, right?” I mutter as she rolls
through a stop sign at Blanch Street. The houses start to
coast by again. “So I’m trying to figure out what the opposite
of a square is. Is it a circle?” I don’t look at her, but from
the corner of my eye I can tell she’s glancing back and forth
between the road and me, squinting. My insides smile, and
the alcohol-brave words flow out. “’Cause if you’re gonna
call me a square, I might as well have a nickname for you,
too, to make our encounters more interesting. A circle would
work because it’s the shape of your mou—”
My body slams into the dash. My forehead knocks
against the windshield. Not hard, but enough that my hand
cradles it immediately. I look to Lexi; her foot is on the
brake pedal.
“Jesus. Are you trying to kill me?”
She grips the steering wheel, her watery pink nails
digging into the leather. “You don’t get it, do you?”
I press my fist to the pulse above my eyes. “Get what?
That you enjoy torturing me because you’re so much better
than I am?”
“Me, better than you?” Surprise lifts her voice. We start
to coast and she hits the brakes again, clenching her jaw
tight. “Leave it to you to rub it in.”
“Rub what in?” I feel like we’re having two separate
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conversations. I have no idea what she’s talking about.
She looks hard at me, blond hair falling onto her
shoulders from beneath her hood. “You had everything.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. This is so stupid. I’m having a
conversation with Perfect Lexi about how I had everything.
“Whatever.” I reach for the door handle, but she presses on
the gas and I’m forced back into the seat.
“You have parents,” she says, picking up speed. “Two of
them who love you—”
“You have two parents, too,” I say. I remember both Mr.
and Mrs. Perkins. They were normal, working parents.
She shakes her head. “It’s not the same.” The car turns
onto my street. Lexi’s right. It’s not the same. Because
I’m adopted, and she’s not. I keep my mouth shut. I’m not
going to defend how un-perfect my life is to someone who
hates me and could use it against me. “You’ve always had
everything,” she continues, “and acted all nonchalant about
it. A best friend, a boyfriend, even when we were kids and
you and Dani made that stupid soccer team and I didn’t.”
My head is throbbing. I close my eyes and pinch the
bridge of my nose. I’m so over being in this car. “Didn’t?” I
say halfheartedly. “You were too good to try out.”
She lets out a heavy sigh. “God, you’re stupid. That’s
what I told you because I was embarrassed… I wasn’t good
enough for the team and you were.”
I glance up and her face looks so, I don’t know, sad. She
tried out for the team and didn’t make it? Then lied to us
about it? Because she was embarrassed?
“Then you steal Shane away—”
“I didn’t steal him away, Lexi. You refused to accept me
as his girlfriend.”
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“Because I didn’t want him to have a girlfriend!
Because—”
“You liked him. That’s why you didn’t want me around,
isn’t it? The reason you tried to get him to break up with
me.”
“No,” she says quickly, holding up her hands. “I don’t like
him like that. Maybe I did a long time ago, but he doesn’t…”
She pauses, finishing the thought in her head, and I lean,
lean, lean into her because I want to know what she’s going
to say. He doesn’t what?
She shakes the thought away. “And I never tried to get
him to break up with you. He liked you too much to waste
my breath.” She watches the road, straight-faced.
My mouth won’t open. And even if it did, I wouldn’t
know what to say.
She parks in front of my house, slides the gearshift into
neutral. “I need him,” she says in a whisper. I don’t know
why she’s telling me this. I need him, too, but I’d never admit
it to her.
We stare at each other. I wish I could pass out again so I
wouldn’t have to see her, because seeing her makes me feel
kind of bad and I shouldn’t feel that way for someone who
makes me so miserable.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say and fumble with the door
until it opens. I strategically place my unsteady feet on the
driveway and, one by one, force them into my empty house.
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Chapter Thirty-nine
Scotch is much lighter in color when it comes up. More like
butterscotch. I flush the toilet, crawl into bed, and, I don’t
know why, but I think of a garden. Because a garden would
be much nicer than where I am now.
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Chapter Forty
“You look like shit.” Dani lowers beside me at the table,
snatching a carrot from my salad. “Rough night?” She smiles,
because she already knows what happened yesterday. The
whole school does.
Courtesy of Shane or Lexi. Not sure which one, though.
I pull my hair back into a ponytail and sneak a glance
across the cafeteria to Shane’s table. He’s wearing a black
thermal under his West Haven Runners shirt. He’s the only
one on the team who can make our orangey-red, too-wideof-a-collar school shirt look somewhat appealing. His hands
are wrapped around a water bottle. Ian’s shoveling rice into
his mouth like a bulldozer beside him. If I concentrate hard
enough, I can hear Shane’s voice through the haze of chatter
and wrappers. He’s laughing, and the sound is musical.
“Do you miss him?” Dani’s voice startles me, and my
hand knocks over my soda. The empty can clanks against
the table. She sets it upright.
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“He hates me,” I say with a shrug. Miss him or not,
yesterday proved our relationship is truly over. He won’t
ever forgive me.
She snorts, scrunching her nose. “You can’t blame him.
You sort of cheated on him, then rubbed it in his face with a
text message, remember?”
“She remembers,” a voice says from behind me, defensive.
And protective? Or is that me just wishing we’d be back
to normal? An arm reaches over my shoulder, dropping a
cherry tomato into my bowl. Shane hates cherry tomatoes,
can’t stand the way they squirt in his mouth when he bites
into them, but I can’t turn to face him because unexpectedly
a swell of immense panic overwhelms me. Grips my chest.
Like claws sharply digging into my neck. My throat.
Blood. It’s everywhere. Should there be this much? I press
my hand to my wrist, but it keeps coming, pooling between
my fingers.
Heat sears around me. Smoke suffocating me, burying me.
Then a deep voice calls out, “Anyone in here?”
Dani’s eyeing my death grip on her water bottle. Crinkled
plastic beneath my fingertips. Her gaze flicks behind me, a
signal that I’m supposed to be turning around to face Shane
right now.
I swallow, tugging at my neckline. Laughter and the
bustle of conversation buzz about the lunchroom. Dani
stabs a cucumber with her plastic fork, bites into it, avoiding
the seeds.
“Um…this was left in Lexi’s car yesterday. I think it fell
out of your jacket pocket.” He hands a Post-it to me, the one
with a reminder from Mom about meeting with Dr. Parody
again. He clears his throat. “You’re seeing a therapist?”
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He would’ve had to look her name up to know what
kind of doctor she was.
“Yeah,” I say, pushing that thought aside. He looked her
name up because he was curious. Not for any other reason.
“You know my parents—so worried I’m going to turn out
like my cousin Jenna: pregnant at seventeen, didn’t even
graduate high school…”
Hesitantly, he agrees with a bob of his chin. He met
Jenna and my aunt Lori a few months ago at Thanksgiving
dinner. His mom wasn’t working, but she wasn’t cooking,
either. Jenna and her mom had flown in from Florida. Only
in her first trimester, my cousin already had a bump, like
she’d stuck a crumpled hand towel under her shirt.
Shane shuffles his feet and catches my gaze, and for a
fraction of a fraction of a second the aversion, the disgust,
the frustration all slip away and it’s just him and me and
our eyes touching through the chaos of the lunchroom. His
stare wraps me. Hugs me. Makes me feel all warm inside,
like when I put on his jacket or sit beside him in his truck
with the heater blowing on my face.
For a second it feels like we could go back to normal,
that I could wrap my arms around him and tell him how
much I love him, but then his eyes flicker to my left—to Lexi
entering the room—and he tells me he has to go, then heads
in her direction.
One tiny gesture and my hope shatters. Like he tossed
my breakable little wish to the linoleum floor and watched it
splinter to pieces. It’s one of those moments in time when you
hurt from the loss of something you never had to begin with.
Hope is like that most times, only leads to further
disappointment.
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Chapter Forty-one
“We have a lot to talk about today. Don’t we?” Draped in a
Mexican poncho—gray and blue and red—Dr. Parody takes
a seat across from me, her expression unreadable. Does she
like it when there’s stuff to talk about? Does it make the
thirty minutes fly by faster when others’ life catastrophes
and misfortunes provide entertainment and distraction from
her cold, dark office?
“Right.” I nod, playing along. One thing I’ve learned: if
I play along, there’s a chance I won’t have to suffer through
another half hour of answering random questions about
times in my life I don’t remember.
I am getting pretty good at playing along; it seems it may
be one of my many talents.
“Have you ever pretended to be someone else?” I ask,
flicking the silver charm on my wrist. “Met someone new
and told him a different name for no reason at all?”
She tips her head, wiry brown hair stiffly moving against
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her double chin. She’s probably wondering why a Snickers
bar isn’t needed to get words out of me this time.
“I think most kids,” she says cautiously, “at some point,
like to trick strangers into thinking they’re someone else.
The power of pretend can be hard to let go of as you grow
older. Take one look at a child and you’re instantly reminded
that he or she lives in a far more wondrous, whimsical world
than the rest of us. A pile of wooden blocks is a vast city and
some sticks its inhabitants.”
I roll my eyes at her by-the-book answer. She doesn’t
see.
“But have you done it?” I ask straightforwardly, not
wanting regurgitation from some psychology book, but one
from a real person.
“Sure I have.”
“And you remember it?”
“Parts of it. It was a long time ago.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
She pinches her lips. “Ellie, I think we need to talk about
you.”
“Please.” My fingers clamp together. Then release.
“We will talk about me, but I need to hear how much you
remember.” I pull my legs up to my chest and wait, pleading
with my eyes that she tell me. She lets out a slow breath, sets
down her pen.
“I was fourteen. Camping at Yellowstone with my
parents. My best friend, Susie, was with us. We met some boys
staying a few campsites down the way. They were brothers, I
think. Like I said, it was a long time ago. I don’t recall their
names, but we told them ours were Ashley and Amanda and
that we were from San Diego.”
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“Why?”
“For fun, I suppose.” The look she gives me just then
reminds me of my sister, like with X-ray vision she’s
searching for answers behind my face, behind my eyes,
behind my purple fingernails I don’t remember painting. I
woke up yesterday morning with them.
I nod, eyes moving dimly across her inquisitive
expression. There’s a difference between this woman and me,
a big one. She remembers. And on top of that, pretending to
be someone else was a childish game. Just for fun.
I prop my cheek on my knee. “Have you ever done
something and not remembered doing it?” She shifts
uncomfortably in her chair, leather creaking and moaning.
For someone who pries for a living, she sure makes it obvious
she doesn’t like it when the tables are turned.
“What is this about, Ellie? Does it have anything to do
with why you ran away? Is there something you want to tell
me?”
Silence. Do I want to tell her?
No.
But am I tired of living this tornado of a life?
Yes. More than ever.
“I got a tattoo.” I swallow hard. “One day after school,
but I don’t remember getting it—just woke up with it on me.
And then when I left here last time, I ran into the guy who
gave it to me. I guess I told him my name was Gwen, but I
don’t remember that, either. A few of the memories have
come back, I think, like little pieces of my day, but the thing
is, no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember all of it. And I
can’t figure out why I did it in the first place, why I lied about
my name and stayed with him for that long.”
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She hesitates a moment.
“Well.” Her gaze flits between me and the paper she’s
scribbling on. “What were you thinking before you told him
your name? Were you considering a reason you didn’t want
him to know? Perhaps you, subconsciously, didn’t want to
divulge your true identity? Would there be a reason for
that?”
I ignore her last question. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember what you were thinking?”
“I don’t remember any of it. It’s like I blacked out. The
entire three days has been erased from my brain. Except for
waking up in his apartment, I remember that.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. A moment passes. She’s
at a complete loss for words. That can’t be good.
“Let me get this straight,” she eventually clears her throat
and says. “Everything from the full three days is missing?”
“Mostly. I had a dream I went to the park with him, and
that we were doing different things in his apartment”—God,
I hope she doesn’t ask what—“but I don’t know if it really
happened.”
She nods and is quiet for an agonizingly long minute. My
chair is cold, my insides, too. A feeling deep down tells me
she’s going to say something I don’t like, something that’ll
make this whole situation even worse, make me regret telling
her in the first place. The clock ticks. Her pen scratches over
the paper. My exhaling breath defaces the static in the room.
“I’m going to be honest with you. Your absence of
memory concerns me.” She sets her pad and pen on the
table between us. I was right. Here it comes. I nervously grip
my wrist, bracing for the horrible news. Dr. Parody sits up
straight, tugs at her poncho. “I’d like to send you to a friend
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of mine. A neurologist. His name is Dr. Horn and I think he
can help.”
“How?” I have no idea what she’s going to say. What
does a neurologist do anyway?
“Many times a CT scan can detect functional
abnormalities in your brain. If you’re having memory
difficulty, he may be able to pinpoint why.” She stands, yanks
her khaki pants over her clogs. “Let’s go talk to your mom.
See if that’s something she’ll approve of.”
“Wait.” My hand bolts out to stop her from moving
farther toward the door. “My parents don’t know about the
blackouts. They only know about me not remembering my
birth parents and all that stuff from when I was little.”
“I see.”
“And they don’t know where I was when I was gone,
when they thought I ran away.” My voice is low to keep the
panic from slipping through. What if she tells them? Is there
some clause to her little privacy rule that says when kids are
in danger the parents must be notified?
She nods, like she’s been in this situation before.
“You’d like to keep that confidential? Where you were?”
I feign a smile, one I’m sure she sees straight through.
“Because it sounds a lot worse than it really was. He and I…
weren’t, you know…” I look away, my cheeks burning redhot because Griffin and I were…you know.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
In the waiting area, scrubs bunched around her legs, Mom
sits with a book in her lap. Dr. Parody explains that she’d like
to have a word with her and then Mom turns to me. With
her hand gently on my shoulder, perhaps misinterpreting my
fear that Dr. Parody will go back on her word for innocent
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worry, Mom says, “Go on home, sweetheart. I’ve got to swing
by the market to pick up something for dinner anyway.”
I nod and am driving in my car before I know it,
downtown sailing by slowly out my window. I’m not sure how
I feel about this, about going to a brain specialist. It means
I’ll be explaining my recent memory holes over dinner to
my parents, missing school to sit in another doctor’s office
hooked up to more machines, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll
finally have an answer to what’s wrong with me, but do I
really—
My phone buzzes with a message. It’s Griffin: Pull over
Huh? What a weird thing to say. I slow down, brace the
steering wheel with my knee, and type back: No. Y?
Only a second passes, then he responds: Look behind u
I peek in my rearview mirror. An orange Jeep bumps
along the road in my car’s wake, close enough to see the thin
set of the driver’s mouth. Griffin and I haven’t talked since I
woke up in his room. At least that I remember.
I stop along the curb, watching in the mirror as Griffin
hops out of his Jeep. Aviators, gold-rimmed and shiny, rest
on the bridge of his nose. He’s not smiling, but he should be.
He has such a nice smile.
“Listen,” he says as he approaches. His voice is low,
serious. Clouds reflect in perfect images off his glasses as he
leans in the window. “About the other day—”
I don’t want to do this—explain why I was in his bed.
Or why I got out of it. Why I haven’t called him. So I do the
only other thing I can think of—tap the frame of his glasses,
smile, and say in the calmest tone I can manage, “Are you
following me, Officer Peed?”
His mouth freezes, half open. A car whizzes by behind
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him, and then he slides off his glasses, hangs them on the
collar of his shirt. Pale blue eyes watch me curiously. He
must understand what I’m doing, avoiding the awkward
conversation we should be having. But this is the difference
between Shane and Griffin. Griffin can pretend it didn’t
happen, too.
“A Westie on this side of town?” he says with a tease,
running his hand through his hair. “You’re kind of hard to
miss.”
“Please.” I roll my eyes. “What’re you doing here?”
He points to Fleur de Lis, the flower shop on the next
block. “Tomorrow’s my mom’s birthday. I tracked down
her address so I’m going to send her something.” He shifts
uncomfortably, then his expression brightens with a smirk.
“Wanna help pick it out? I bet you have an eye for choosing
I know you hate me but happy birthday anyway types of
bouquets.”
I scowl at him. “What’s that’s supposed to mean?”
He chuckles and pinches my cheek. “That I have yet to
see something you’re mediocre at.”
Keeping a relationship. Telling the truth. Pulling a
decent grade in Spanish. I could go on, but all it would do is
make me feel like crap. “Can’t,” I say instead. “I’ve got to get
home.” I tug anxiously at the seat belt across my chest when
a black and blue current on his wrist catches my eye. I reach
for his arm and push up his sleeve. “Another one?”
“I did it over the weekend. You like it?” Covered in a
clear gel, an eddy of frothy clusters churn across his skin,
wrapping around his wrist like a permanent bracelet. It’s not
really a picture of any sort, more like an artistic impression
of fast-moving ocean torrents tattooed on him.
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I nod because I do like it. He’s the most talented artist I
know. Another vehicle drives past. The whoosh of air blows
cold against my face. I close my eyes for a millisecond and
when I open them, they’re staring back at me.
Round. Red. Glowing.
The taillights of Shane’s truck.
He’s braking, which means he must see me. Sitting in
my car with another guy leaning in the window. Close. Like
about-to-kiss close. In the rearview mirror, Shane’s eyes
connect with mine. Holds them for a full breath. And then
his tires give out a squeal.
“Do you know him?” Griffin asks, watching the square
of red speed down the street.
“Kind of.” I throw my car into drive. “I need to go.”
…
My car is screaming at me. I don’t know how engines work,
but by the high-pitched wail coming from under the hood,
I wouldn’t be surprised if it detonated like a bomb or died
with a sputter or whatever else cars do when you push them
too hard.
My hands ache from gripping the steering wheel so tight,
from taking turns at a speed any sane person would judge
too fast. I lost sight of Shane’s truck after he turned onto
Marks Road. I thought he was headed to the edge of town,
to the one place he goes when he’s upset, but as I drive back
toward town with Beacon’s growing smaller and smaller in
my mirror, I start to cry.
Because if Beacon’s is empty, there’s only one other
place he would be. Lexi’s.
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Chapter Forty-two
The pillow is yanked off my head and all I want to do is
get it back, bury myself under the feathery squishiness until
all these messes around me go away and I become normal
again. Is that possible? To simply flick a switch and become
Ellie Cox the mediocre runner, the decent student, the
worth-looking-up-to big sister, the girlfriend who doesn’t
cheat, the best friend who doesn’t keep secrets? Can I do
that? Just blink and be that person once more?
I’m not sure that’s who I ever really was. And not
because I was once Ellie McClellan, even though that might
have something to do with it, but because there were times
when I wasn’t that great of a student, times I did lie or blow
off my sister. I’d like to say the blackouts made me do those
things. But I’d also like to stop blaming everything on these
missing chunks of time and own up to them. Admit all those
things, make them mine, and then—maybe—they’d be a part
of me again. Maybe.
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“We need to talk,” Mom says.
“I’ve been expecting you. Have a seat.” My eyes are still
closed. The door clicks shut.
“I hope you don’t think this is a joke, Ellie.” Dad. Crap.
Mom brought Dad.
I open my eyes. The two of them stand over me, one
on each side of my bed, a mixture of worry and anger and
betrayal deforming their expressions. A raised eyebrow
here, a wrinkle or crease or fold there, a frown on one, a
straight-set mouth on the other, a knowing—on my part—
that this is about to be a very uncomfortable moment in my
life. One I wish I could black out for, skip ahead in time with
no memory of the conversation I’m about to have.
“S-sorry.” I sit up, pull my legs close to my chest to make
room for them both. “It’s not a joke. I just…haven’t had the
easiest week.”
“So I heard.” Mom’s tone is the same she uses after
returning from a parent-teacher conference with not-sogreat news. History doesn’t seem to be your strong suit, but
your effort is commendable (Mr. Kraus, beginning of the
year). You’ve been distracted during class (Mrs. Vogt, after
Shane and I broke up). I can only imagine what she knows
from Dr. Parody. Or maybe Shane and Lexi decided to tell
her about the scotch incident.
She lowers to the bed, hands me my purple pillow. A few
eternity-like seconds pass as she searches for her words—
obviously thinking they’re somewhere on the wall above my
head. Next to the picture of Dani and me at the skating rink
from eighth grade. Or behind the second-place medal I won
at last month’s All County Meet, the one Shane trained me
for.
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There are plenty of things to say: explanations, secrets,
realities I’ve kept quiet, but I don’t. I sit, waiting. Because,
really, I have no idea what Dr. Parody told her. How much
she could say without needing my permission.
My mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow. Like I’ve
had no water for days and then stuck a paper towel on my
tongue. I take a deep breath, still waiting. Mom clears her
throat and takes my hand.
“First of all,” she begins, internally sorting out everything
she plans to say. She’ll leave the worst for last. I already know
this. She does with everything—peas last on her dinner plate,
the car wash when running errands.
“I want you to know your dad and I are proud of you for
acknowledging your concerns with Dr. Parody. We know it’s
not easy to talk about—” She stops, steals a glance at Dad.
“Things with someone you don’t know.”
Dad nods, pulls up my desk chair, and finally sits. He
pats my arm softly. “Mom’s right. Most kids your age might
shut down, waste everyone’s time including their own, but
you’ve shown us that you’re taking this seriously. I think
you’ve figured out that talking openly with Dr. Parody can
do nothing but get you back on track.”
I’m not sure that’s exactly how it happened. But
whatever. I’ll go with it.
“On the other hand, sweetie.” Mom takes over smoothly
as if the two of them had choreographed this conversation
before coming in here. “We understand there are things you
haven’t been telling us.”
“Like?”
“Pumpkin.” Dad leans in, his voice low and serious. I
imagine just then what it’d be like in a hospital room with
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him, paper mask covering half his face, those crinkly booties
over his shoes, turquoise scrubs stealing all the attention
from his concerned hazel eyes. “How long have the blackouts
been occurring?” This question I’m expecting. Because how
else would Dr. Parody explain that she’s referring me to a
brain doctor?
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I guess I’ve always had them.
There’ve been lots of times when I sort of lost bits and pieces
of my day. Like I don’t remember taking a shower or glazing
a pot in ceramics or part of a conversation or going to bed.”
I could go on and on, giving away what wasn’t mine in
the first place. Maybe I should’ve kept track of all those
missing pieces in a notebook, and like a riddle I’d then be
able to decipher it: At dusk, Ellie sits on the hood of a Jeep
with a boy. Two days later, a picture surfaces of her with
that boy. She ate Chinese food even though she doesn’t like
Chinese food. Who sent the picture? But I stop after a few,
so for an hour my parents ask questions and I give them
answers—as truthful as possible—that skate around Griffin
and my time spent with him. I tell them about blacking out
after my first therapy session, not remembering the three
days I was gone, waking up in the forest the week before
that. Everything but the tattoo on my stomach, the name
“Gwen,” and the boy who, after today, might not ever talk to
me again—Griffin, not Shane. Though I guess they both now
fall into that category.
My parents decide sending me to Dr. Horn, who Dad
spoke to over the phone, is a good idea and my appointment
is set for a few days. After a dinner Sara cooked by herself—
boxed macaroni and boiled hot dogs—and spending an hour
holed up in my room thinking how I’ve basically become
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a professional relationship destroyer, I quietly slip down to
the kitchen for a snack. On the stairs, I hear Mom’s voice
lingering in unrecognizable whispers.
“Lori, she can’t remember the three days she was
gone.” Aunt Lori. She’s talking to her sister in Florida. “The
therapist said she wasn’t sure, but it might be connected to
her loss of memory from when she was young.”
I stop, the banister tight in my grip. My ears wide open.
I don’t usually eavesdrop on Mom. Listening to her gab to
the ladies in her book club isn’t much for entertainment, but
Mom never whispers on the phone. Especially not about me.
“I don’t know, Lor,” Mom says, “all those scars…” She
pauses for a moment, probably listening to my aunt spout on
about childhood scars and kids will be kids and Jenna used
to be covered in bruises from her knees to her ankles and she
never knew how they got there and neither did Jenna. Aunt
Lori says stuff like that every time Mom brings up my scars
and Mom always nods, but something about that nod—stiff
and detached—says enough: Mom doesn’t believe that my
scars are from being a clumsy child.
Mom sighs heavily.
“I don’t want to think this and I hope to God it’s not
true, but what if her parents… I mean, I just can’t imagine
what could’ve happened to her when she was little. Maybe it
was something horrible, you know?”
I take a few more steps until I see Mom. Leaning against
the glass slider, her back to the forest of alders that tower
over our grassy backyard, eyes closed. Lori’s a talker, the
silences long. Impatience fizzes in my chest. I jump the last
few stairs and then—
“Don’t you cry.”
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The hand grabs hold of me, squeezes my throat until
black spots smear across his face. Another tear slips down my
cheek and his mouth is to my ear, voice snarling. “I said don’t
you fucking cry.”
I blink. The lights above the stairs are shining like stars.
I swallow the echo of the grainy voice inside my head. Then
I’m hit with another.
He tied them too tight this time. Blue puddles throb at my
fingertips. My feet have turned to ice, warmed by the blood
oozing down my leg. I squirm against the cords, careful to not
scoot the chair. If he hears me, he’ll start all over.
“Sweetie?” Mom’s voice. It pulls me back to the stairs. To
the carpet between my toes. The smooth wooden banister in
my grip. But she doesn’t speak soon enough. And I’m sucked
in again.
It’s hot.
The fire sounds angry, hissing like a snake on the other
side of the door. The smoke is coming in, too, forming a cloud
at the top of my room. It’s sinking lower and lower. Soon it’ll
touch the top of my head. I have to find somewhere to hide.
The darkness under my bed calls to me. My safe spot.
A place where his fat arms can’t reach—maybe the fire and
smoke won’t reach me, either. I wiggle—one-handed—under
the metal bar and pull the blanket down to hide my legs.
I just want to lay here. But I don’t think I have that much
time.
The knife in my hand is heavy, wobbly in my fingers and
smells like the toilet. This was the cleanest one I could find. He
was smashing white pills into powder with it before I took it. I
wiped the sharp part on my shirt, but it still smells.
I grip the handle tighter, watching color drain from my
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knuckles. His hands change color the same way, when he has
them on me. He won’t ever put them on me again. I’ll make
sure of it.
My body won’t stop shaking. Like that one time when he
made me stand in the snow barefoot because I made a noise.
Only in here, it’s hot. Really, really hot.
I wonder if this is what heaven’ll feel like.
I curl into a ball and lift the knife. The tip of it presses into
me, on the inside of my wrist where blue lines shine through
my skin. It makes a dent at first and then my blood turns to
fire, pooling up from inside me. Red. Like ketchup. A drop
falls onto the carpet. And another. I press my shaky hand over
the cut.
Suddenly out the window, a red and blue glow flashes
against the night sky. A stick-like shadow appears and then
the window explodes. Pieces of glass rain down onto the
carpet. A low voice calls out.
“Anyone in here?”
“—you all right?” Still Mom. Closer now. With her small
hands holding onto my shoulders. She shakes me. “Ellie,
look at me.”
I can’t. I want to tell her this, but my voice isn’t working,
either. The man’s words, the cords, the handsfireknifeblood.
I rub my face and manage one word.
“Tired.”
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Chapter Forty-three
Hands, fire, knife, blood. Hands, fire, knife, blood.
I lie in my bed, under the glow of moonlight, eyes wide,
watching for the hands, fire, knife, blood. They’re coming for
me. In shadows, in pools of light slithering across the floor,
the screaming silence of our sleeping house.
Mom fell for it when I told her I was tired. Therapy does
that, she said. So I’ve been in my room, hiding from the evils,
pretending to be asleep when she poked her head in to say
good night, watching mist mount up in the corners of the
window.
By two o’clock I can’t stand it anymore. I climb off the
bed, ruffle the comforter, and am moving down the stairs,
skimming my hand blindly along the banister, opening and
closing the front door, stepping out into the damp night air,
climbing into my car, and starting it with a cringe.
I move as if it’s not me.
As if my mind knows my body’s not strong enough to do
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what I’m doing. As if someone else pulls the seat belt over
my chest. Switches on the lights as I turn onto the boulevard.
Someone. Or something. Like a Martian. Or a Smurf. Or, I
don’t know.
Maybe it is me.
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Chapter Forty-four
It’s always darkest before the dawn. Was it a poet who said
that? Or some ancient adage people have repeated and
relied on for years and years and years? In our lives that
may be true—my troubled life, anyway—but let me tell you,
in nature it’s not. Truth is there’s a lot of light before the
sunrise. Even if I count “dawn” as the first little bit of light,
it still wasn’t necessarily darker than the rest of the night
sitting on the rotted-out steps at Beacon’s.
It’s just a saying to help people who’re depressed,
assuring them that it’s okay for things to get worse before
they get better. In fact, maybe lives have to fall to the depths
of hell before they can turn around. If that’s the case, perhaps
I’m doing the right thing, sneaking out again. Or, based on
how you look at it, the first time. Whatever.
Once someone hits bottom, then the only place to go is
up, right? With my luck, everything’ll probably keep getting
worse and worse until I implode from too much “worse” or
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explode from how crazy the “worse” makes me. Maybe I’ll
do both: implode in my stomach and explode in my head,
making me look like a hot air balloon, or a bobblehead, or
a—
God, I must be delirious. I’m so tired.
I’ve never stayed up the entire night before. I was close,
once, when Dani bet me I couldn’t. At thirteen, hyped up on
Mountain Dew, chocolate-covered raisins, and homemade
cookies, I lasted until four in the morning but by then we’d
watched all our movies, couldn’t stand how glossy magazines
burned our eyes, and nothing but infomercials patronized
the TV. When we woke in the morning, to pay my loss I had
to convince the first Mrs. Callaway, Dani’s mom, to let her
daughter stay over at my house on a school night. Of course
it hadn’t worked. Dani occupied her own bed the following
night, and two days later one side of her parents’ bed turned
up empty and remained empty until last year when Janine
claimed it with her pearls and too-long nails.
I focus on the road ahead, on the glimmer of water in
the morning sun. I’ve never seen Shane’s street this early
before, when the sky is lit from the bottom with a fiery glow.
That’s where I am now. Shane’s house. The cold persuaded
me back into my car at the cement factory, but I wasn’t ready
to go home. Back to the hands, fire, knife, blood.
With every minute that passes, holding my stinging eyes
wide, the pink and orange sky intensifies, disguising a tree in
the distance as a die-cut outline. I made a picture just like
that in second grade, watercolor painted a vibrant sky and
glued a cactus cut from black paper in the middle. I don’t
remember painting it, but Mom still has it in her office,
hanging above her bookshelf.
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Dark on the inside, the windows of Shane’s house reflect
the sky’s performance. The Welcome sign above the front
door smiles at me. Huh. I don’t feel very welcome. The walls
of the car seem to be closing in on me. Inch by inch. Hot
air from the heater vents smothering me. I feel exposed
without the blanket of night, the stillness of stars. With a jerk
of my hand, I flick off the heater, press my palm against the
window. The cold sobers me.
I just want my life back. Is that too much to ask? To
watch movies with Shane. To laugh until my side hurts with
Dani. To run until my legs feel like they’re falling off. To go
to a party and remember the entire night. To live without
tattoos and the boy who gives them. Without therapists and
brain tests and nightmares that steal my mind when I’m
awake.
Is it wrong to crave these things? Can anyone blame me
that I do?
Griffin’s not at fault. Yet if I’d never met him, given him
my number, kissed him on the hood of his Jeep, I might still
have someone’s hand to hold at school.
Suddenly, a loud tap rattles the window. My first thought:
it’s a cop. Which would be terrible on so many levels—
underage, out past city curfew, possibly a phone call to my
parents.
Or that it’s Shane, which would be worse.
Or—
“It’s fucking freezing out here. You going to let me in or
what?” Or Lexi. Ugh.
Standing on the sidewalk, she crosses her arms over
her chest. Murky white clouds puff out from her unsmiling
mouth. A gray hood covers her bleached hair and she’s
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clenched so tight that for a moment I consider letting her
stand there in her stylish sweat suit, shivering. How long
would it take for her to lose patience—and internal body
temperature—and go back inside? She probably just wants
to bitch me out for being seen with Griffin earlier anyway.
But, I don’t know, something about her looking small and
uncomfortable tugs at my gut. Slowly I count to five, reach
for the door, linger my fingers near the lock for another five,
then open it. She climbs in right away. Her hands go directly
to her mouth and she blows into them.
“You really are pathetic, you know that?” she says after
a moment. Hm. I should’ve let her freeze. Frost over with
sparkly icicles. “Sitting in front of his house? What’d you
think was going to happen? That he’d see you and come
out?”
I shrug. “You did.”
She stares straight ahead, the corner of her mouth
climbing up. “Couldn’t miss the opportunity to see”—her
eyes flit to my face, around the holes in my thin sweatshirt,
down to my stained cotton pants—“this.”
I should care that she’s taunting me. That tomorrow
everyone at school will likely snicker behind my back, know
what I look like at my worst. But I don’t. I’m too worn and
empty and incapable of feeling anything other than utter
disgust for myself.
“Take a picture if you like,” I say flatly.
Lexi used to do this thing with her eyes, flutter her lids as
she was rolling them. All the boys made fun of her for it, said
it made her look possessed. I thought it made her look selfassured. Like she was so confident it made her tremble. Back
in fifth grade she was. Buoyant. Poised. And, embarrassingly,
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one I looked up to.
Her eyes do this now, then she crinkles her nose and
says, “I should hate you, too, for turning Shane into a cranky
old man. God, he’s torture to be around, but watching the
two of you is far more entertaining than most of the movies
he makes me watch.”
A dig. She knows it, too.
I hate her.
“Did Shane send you out here? To tell me what a
horrible person I am?” My voice is strong at first, but then it
catches and it’s sort of like a trigger, activating the invisible
hands gripping my chest and the sweat on my palms and
prickling in my eyes. “’Cause I already know, okay? I don’t
need you—”
“He didn’t send me.” She huffs, throwing the hood off
her head and pointing to her bedroom window. “I saw you
sitting out here, acting all sorry for yourself.”
I don’t deny it.
“It’s touching, really,” she continues, straight-faced, “to
see how far you’ll go to make his life a living hell. You must
care a lot about him. Flaunting your new boyfriend during
the day. Sitting in front of his house like a stalker at night…”
“I never flaunted—”
I stop. There’s this dumbfounded silence. I never
flaunted my boyfriend. Her eyes dare me to say it. The
picture. The parking lot. Griffin leaning in my car today, lips
in kissing range. That’s what it must look like; I’m doing this
on purpose to make Shane miserable.
“We were just talking,” I tell her, because these are the
words I want Shane to hear—that Griffin’s no more than a
friend to me. And then I close my mouth. It’s all I can say
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without sounding like a sociopath: You see, everything else I
did with him wasn’t really me deciding to do it. So it must not
count, right? Right?
She snorts. “I’m not the one who cares, Ellie. And to
tell you the truth, I doubt Shane does anymore, either.” She
gives me time to soak this in. He doesn’t care. Yeah, doesn’t
take a brain surgeon.
The moment should end here. She should get out and
stalk back up her driveway. But she’s fixed in her spot and
it doesn’t look like she’s getting out any time soon. I stare at
the tiny drops of mist drifting in the air. Sticking to the hood
of my car. I feel like I should say something else, explain
more to her, but the opportunity for that has slipped by.
The sky is yellowing, growing white along its edges. Like
the color of Dani’s hair after Janine took her to the salon for
highlights. Beside me, Lexi’s fingering a blotch of green on
her wrist. From my angle, it looks like the coloring is a full
ring, staining her skin all the way around.
“It’s early,” I eventually say, switching the heater back
on. “Don’t tell me it takes you this long to get ready for
school.”
She’s staring out the window, at the sun making its
entrance into the day over the line of trees in the distance. I
expect her to snap. Tell me to fuck off or something. Instead
she says quietly, “My dad got home late. Wasn’t exactly being
quiet.” She leans forward, fanning her fingers in front of the
heater.
“Does he always work late?”
“If you call going to the bar working, then yes. He
works every night.” The way she says this, words laced with
disgust, face pinched like she might cry, body sagging back
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into the seat, she looks so…so…desperate. And the strange
thing is, it’s a look I’ve seen on her before. Underneath the
bitchiness. I even remember it from when we were little,
when she would ask if we could play at my house instead
of hers.
My mouth opens but no words come out. Her dad’s an
alcoholic. There’s nothing cutting to say to that. Nothing I’d
stoop low enough to say.
She swallows. Hard and obvious. “That’s why I spend so
much time with him. Shane, I mean. To get away from my
father. He’s not abusive or anything. Just…loses his temper
sometimes.” She holds up her wrist for show.
I need him. Somewhere in my mind I remember her
saying this. That she didn’t want Shane to have a girlfriend.
It wasn’t because she liked him, but because she needed
him to protect her. Or distract her. And Shane’s aversion to
alcohol? Perhaps her father had something to do with that,
too. Still, it doesn’t explain—
“And that’s why you’re out here now.” I don’t try to
sound spiteful, though I do. And it doesn’t stop me from
adding, “To get away from him?” either.
She forces a smile. “Don’t flatter yourself. I would’ve
come out for anyone.”
“You know,” I say after a pulse of quiet, “Dani and I
would’ve never cared about the soccer thing. We could’ve
been there for you…”
She doesn’t respond, and we both sit, breathing in heat
from the engine, until pink fades completely from the sky.
Then slowly she turns to me, pulling her phone from her
pocket with a strange look on her face.
“Do you want me to call him? Tell him you’re out here?”
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It’s not a trick. Somehow I know this. And every part
of me wants to say yes. I’m dying to see Shane. To explain
everything that’s happened. I want to feel his hand on my
face and his breath in my hair. All of this I want so, so badly.
Thus, I’m not sure why I face her and say, “No.”
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Chapter Forty-five
Grounding has reached a new level.
Dad catches me sneaking in the front door. I’m grounded
on top of being grounded. Which means Mom will take me
to and from school. I’ll go see Dr. Horn tomorrow and Dr.
Parody the next. I won’t go alone. And then I’ll come straight
home.
They might even put a tracking device in my arm.
Wouldn’t that be great.
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Chapter Forty-six
I’m sitting on the curb facing the parking lot when I see it pull
in. The orange Jeep. Griffin’s taken off the top and is wearing
those ridiculous aviators again. He slows and looks around.
A part of me wants to hide, let him search unsuccessfully for
my car and then leave, but I stand and my body is moving
toward him before I have a chance to decide.
The parking lot isn’t crowded. And more importantly,
Shane’s already gone. So is Dani. They were the first two
cars I looked for when I came to wait for my mom. Lexi’s
car is still here, parked near the back of the lot. She must
be talking to a teacher or in detention for standing around
in PE or something because there’s not a splash of pink as
far as I can see. After our talk last night—or this morning,
whatever—I expected things to be different between the
two of us. A wave in passing. A faint smile. Eye contact of
some sort. Not a cold shoulder. Or the invisible treatment.
Up all night, I don’t know, maybe I imagined the
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conversation with her in my car. Her offer to call Shane.
The wall between us that buckled bit by bit as she lingered
silently in front of the heater, waiting for her drunken father
to pass out.
Maybe it’s better that Lexi and I aren’t making up. One
less person I can hurt.
Griffin spots me immediately, parks in an open slot,
and hops out. He holds up one finger, so as to stop me from
saying anything. He wants to break up—that’s the look on
his face. Determined and confused. Silver glinting off his
eyebrow each time his forehead jumps or falls. I suppose
he’s the type who needs to do it in person. For closure. Or to
see my reaction.
The thin set of his mouth is difficult to look at, so instead
I watch the bleeding skull on his shirt grow bigger and bigger
as he approaches. His arms and chest fill out the shirt where
it not-so-long-ago sagged on me and I can’t help but think
of those arms and chest and how they pressed softly against
me in his bed.
“Tell me…” He tilts his chin, stops in front of me, shoves
his hands into his pockets. His voice is low, steady. Not angry.
“Why do you think I keep coming back? After you keep
abandoning me?” The lenses on his glasses reflect my image.
Ruffled hair. Hollow drudges beneath my eyes. I’ve looked
better.
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m pretty sure it has something to
do with him liking me, though there’s no reason why. I’m not
exactly the ideal girlfriend.
An exasperated sigh fizzes off his lips and he shakes his
head. “Sometimes I feel like I’m dealing with two different
people. One day you’re totally into me, and the next you can’t
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get away fast enough. Some days you smile at me like you
want me, others you get this…look. Like there’s someone
else you’d rather be with.” His shoulders stiffen. “I don’t get
you, Gwen.”
Some days people call me Ellie. Others Gwen.
Sometimes I wake up in my own bed, and then his or the
forest and there’s no pattern whatsoever to this madness.
“I need to know what you want,” he continues, glancing
over my shoulder, then back to me. “Do you want to be with
me or not?” His tone cuts through me, infusing me with an
icy chill. Leaving me cold. Lost. Strangely uncertain.
I’m not prepared for this. And my mouth suddenly has
amnesia. “Ye— No…Griffin, it’s not—”
That’s when the voice comes. Out of nowhere. Echoing
over my shoulder.
“I give it a week. Two, tops, before she cheats on you,
too.” What he says stuns me just as much as who says it. I
whirl around and meet Shane’s dagger-glare. Lexi’s beside
him, a ring of keys gripped tight in her hand, skipping her
eyes back and forth between Griffin and the side of Shane’s
face. She doesn’t once look at me.
Inside, everything starts to crack.
Griffin steps out from behind me and nods with his chin.
“What, dude?” His eyebrow dances again, lifting clear to
his hairline. He doesn’t sound mad, only curious. Or like he
didn’t hear what Shane said.
Shane takes a step toward us, working his jaw, and Lexi
stops him with her hand on his arm. My head is spinning.
Knees feel like they’ll give out any second. Shane points at
me and spits out the words. “Ellie.” His voice is so harsh.
“Watch out, she’s coldblooded. And she’ll fuck you over in
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a heartbeat.”
Griffin scratches his head. “Ellie?” And as soon as he
says it, the parking lot starts to wobble. Ellie. Gwen. Ellie.
Gwen. Griffin glances down at me, then back to Shane. “Her
name’s Gwen,” he says. “Not…Ellie.”
“Gwen?” Shane laughs. “You told him your name was
Gwen?” He’s closer now, his face just inches from me. I can’t
look at him, at this stranger’s face. Words growl out of his
throat. “Once a liar, always a liar. Right, Ellie?”
A sudden hot flash hits my head. Moisture forms along
my brow and I’m now sweating beneath my shirt. “I didn’t…
I haven’t…” I can’t get the words out. Can’t lie in front of
Griffin.
He laughs stiffly at this, at me stumbling over my words.
I close my eyes. I want to disappear. And as soon as that
thought drifts through my mind, chills zip down my back
and around my head and I look at Shane once more and
the veins in his forehead are pulsing and the parking lot is
fading to black. Tingles shower over my head and, this time,
I don’t fight the downward pull.
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Chapter Forty-seven
“Ellie?”
The edges of the parking lot are blurred. Smeared like
someone tried to wash it away, but didn’t have enough water
and left it a bigger mess than when he started.
I close my eyes and open them again.
The bleeding skull begins to sharpen, and then the
collage of cars, Lexi standing a few feet away, her hand
covering her mouth. Eyes wide, like she’s seen a ghost.
Hard metal digs into my back. A flash of orange behind
me. Both arms restrained by Shane, Griffin pushed up
against my body, his knee pressed into my thigh. The two
of them have their stares locked on each other, and I don’t
understand because the look isn’t murderous. More like
they’re searching for something.
Maybe I was trying to run away. To escape the wave
of awkwardness beating at me from every side. Shane and
Griffin. Ellie and Gwen. I close my eyes. Take a deep breath
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against the agony clawing up my neck. It hurts so bad. And
so does my left hand. Shoulder blades, too.
“Ellie?” The voice belongs to Shane. Again. The gravelly
softness, it’s unmistakable. His hand squeezes my wrist.
Firm. He glances down at me. “You done?”
Done? Yes, I’m done. I was done a long time ago. I want
to go home. I tug my arms slowly against his grip, but he
won’t release. My eyes move blindly over his face.
“Please let me go.” Words scrabble out of my throat,
sounding as beat up as they feel. Shane glances over his
shoulder at Lexi and I can’t see the look on his face. I imagine
him mouthing an apology, you know, for this inconvenience.
This should bother me. But the stabs of pain in my neck are
growing so great, I’m numbing from the inside out.
Lexi hasn’t moved. Her hand is still clapped over her
mouth, eyes sending messages to Shane—unreadable, bestfriend thoughts—and maybe it’s jealousy making a home
in the crevices of my heart, but I really want to know what
kinds of things they say to each other.
Griffin backs off immediately. Doesn’t go far, stays
close enough for me ro smell the trace of smoke lingering
on his T-shirt. Shane tows me toward him. Something’s
changed on his face. Aside from the red splotches on one
cheek, his expression isn’t like it was a minute ago—or…
before I blacked out. However long that was. The fury
is gone. Replaced with something softer. Uneasiness?
Misunderstanding? Worry?
It kills me that I can’t tell.
“C’mon,” he says. He’s lowered his voice, which I
appreciate. The pain in my head is excruciating. As if all
three of them were sitting on it. Squishing it against the
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asphalt. “You need to get home.” I’m pulled away from
Griffin’s Jeep, but the tattooed arm stops me, hand to my hip.
Griffin grits his teeth. “I’ll take her. My car’s right here.”
Shane’s face twists and he pulls on me again. Hands. Not
zombie hands this time. Familiar hands. Stiff. Reaching for
me. Grabbing me. Pulling me.
My body starts to shake. Breaths don’t come. I sink back
against the Jeep’s door. Small. I want to be small. So small I
can’t be seen. I’m trying to find my breath now and the two
of them must see this—my gasps, but all they do is stand,
watching with creased brows.
“Shut your mouth.”
That voice again.
“If you make another sound I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill
you.”
Tears slip down my face.
“You worthless piece of shit.”
I scream to make it stop, clamp my hands over my
ears. Shane knocks Griffin’s arm away. “Get your hands off
her,” he says and pulls me stiffly against his side. My face is
squished into Shane’s shirt and I don’t know why.
I don’t know why.
Griffin. His eyes skip over me, then Shane, then the
pale arm on my shoulder. He gets a look. He understands;
Shane is the other one. It’s not what he thinks. Shane’s not
my boyfriend. Anymore. I should tell him this, but I can’t find
the words. All I want is to feel Shane’s arms around me. It’s
wrong, so wrong, to close my eyes away from Griffin. But I do.
Griffin lets out a sigh. A door opens then shuts. The
engine rumbles. Tires screech. Silence.
“Pull your car around?” Shane says to Lexi. Heels click-
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clack-click across the lot.
“My mom’s coming,” I choke out and wipe my face. The
panic breaks apart. Slowly. “I don’t need a ride. She’ll be
here soon.”
Shane scans the lot, then walks us over to a curb. We
sit. He takes back his arm. Cold air blows against my back,
leaving me cold and vacant inside. I pull my legs up to my
chest and hug them.
“You don’t have to wait with me.” My voice cracks with
the threat of more tears and I swallow it down, laying my
head on my knees. “I’m sort of getting used to being alone.”
Shane shoots me a look that says yeah right and rubs his
cheek where the red blotches have transformed into a welt
the size of Mom’s dollar pancakes. “Someone’s gotta make
sure you don’t hit anyone else,” he says. He’s not smiling.
It takes a moment before what he says makes sense. I
hit Lexi a few weeks ago. My knuckles throb now. The welt
on his face…
I can’t ask if it’s true, if I punched him. Because then
he’d question why I don’t know. So instead I swallow hard
and look up at him. “I’m sorry.” I don’t even know what I’m
apologizing for, there’s too much. It’s just an umbrella sorry.
He doesn’t respond, anyway.
We stay quiet until my mom’s car pulls into the lot.
Shane stands and waves her over. Mom’s got the windows
down, her brown hair wild and windblown. When she stops,
Shane leans in the window. I don’t know what he’s saying,
but I’m too tired to attempt lip-reading. She looks to be
concentrating on his every word, her face serious. Then
Shane helps me into the car. Shuts the door without another
word. Not even good-bye.
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Chapter Forty-eight
A few months ago, I went to the video store to rent Shane a
movie and ended up buying one for myself instead. I don’t
remember much of the movie, or even the name of it, just
that the cover had a girl on it. She was standing in the middle
of a subway station and it looked like she was gazing off
into the distance, only I could tell she wasn’t. She had this
expression on her face, one I didn’t have a name for but
somehow knew.
The movie was a typical girl runs away from home only
to find out that the city is far worse than the country kind
of story, definitely not worth the hour and a half I spent
watching it or the fifteen dollars I paid for it, but for some
reason I never forgot that girl on the cover.
Funny that it wasn’t a real person, just a picture. An
actress posing amidst a crowd beside a dirty stairwell with
a blur of people behind her. And funny her expression has
bothered me since.
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Standing here, in front of Dr. Parody’s office, I know
why. In the reflection of the glass door, that girl stares back
at me. The girl on the cover of that video was scared. She’d
experienced something awful, something frightening, and all
she could do was anticipate the next.
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Chapter Forty-nine
“You look tired.”
“…”
“Having trouble sleeping?”
“…”
“What about the blackouts? Any more?”
I fold my arms and stay silent.
What Dr. Parody doesn’t realize is that words lead to
emotions, and emotions lead to blackouts, and when I
figured this out last night, lying motionless as the black night
washed over me, I made one vow. I will never speak again.
I can do it—live the rest of my life mute and lifeless.
Frozen in a state of numbness. At least I’ll be Ellie. Not
someone who hits other people. Or tries to sleep with them.
Gets ridiculous tattoos or crashes on strangers’ couches.
Dr. Parody glances at her watch and sighs impatiently.
“I spoke with a boy named Shane Buchanan. Do you
know him?” She bites the corner of her mouth. I’ve never
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mentioned Shane to her, but surely Mom did after what
happened yesterday.
Mom didn’t say a word on the drive home from school.
She held onto the steering wheel like it was trying to fly
away and stole side glances of me tucked into the passenger
seat. I hadn’t vowed silence by that point, but I had nothing
to say to her.
Shock may have been a part of it. Letting Griffin go. The
lost time. Shane’s reaction to it. I didn’t know what to make
of any of it.
Once we got home, Mom closed herself behind the
office door and I crawled into bed. It took more than an
hour for the headache to subside and then I spent the rest of
the night pretending like I couldn’t feel the exact spot on my
shoulder where Shane’s hands had been. Mom came in only
once, probably to ask if I wanted dinner, and left without
a word when she thought I was sleeping. This morning at
breakfast, she and Dad informed me that I wouldn’t be
going to school because my appointment with Dr. Parody
had been rescheduled for today.
So here I sit, in the cold leather chair staring at a woman
who’s just tried to get me to talk by bringing up the only boy
I’ve ever loved. Damn, she’s good.
I nod. Yes, I know Shane Buchanan. My mind sings his
name, and I have to make a second vow. Right here. No
thinking about Shane.
Dr. Parody adjusts her long skirt and cocks her chin.
“Your mother said he was really worried about what
happened yesterday.” I try not to listen, but it’s impossible.
I want to know what Shane said. What he thought. Why he
was worried. Double damn.
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My ears perk up. She continues.
“He said you weren’t yourself.”
Ha. Tell me something I don’t know.
“Your eyes went cold. And then you…started saying
things that didn’t sound like you at all.”
“Like what?” I grit my teeth and look away. She broke
me. And now she has me right where she wants me. Mush in
her hands. Ready to talk. At least she doesn’t gloat about it,
just tells me with curious eyes that I screamed at Shane, told
him Ellie could go to hell and he could go, too. I said to get
the fuck away (she actually says the word, which makes me
smile) and caught him off guard with that hit.
“Was it another blackout, Ellie?” She leans forward.
“Did you lose time?”
I could lie, tell her that I remember everything, pretend
like I am in control of my life, my actions, but I don’t want
to do that anymore. I’ve had enough. I need help. My gaze
involuntarily riffles to the closed office door. To where
my parents are sitting in the waiting room. Waiting. Most
likely pretending my life isn’t crumbling into one big
disappointment.
“I don’t think it was for very long,” I say. She asks me to
explain from start to end what happened in the parking lot.
So I do, including the voice, which starts another round of
twenty questions.
“Does this voice seem at all familiar?”
“No, but it might be from when I was little. Sometimes
it comes with the visions. One of them was of a fire and I
know my biological parents were killed in a fire.” I slip off
my boots and cross my legs to distract myself from her eyes.
They’re on me. Skimming over me. Clawing at me.
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She tugs a clean sheet of paper from her clipboard.
“Were you in that memory?” Her voice has changed.
Softened. Like she’s speaking to a child instead of a messedup sixteen-year-old.
“A little girl was. I don’t know if it was me.” I hadn’t
planned to tell her all of this. My fingers find my wrist, wrap
tightly around it. The pressure settles me. The tap of my
pulse against my fingers a silent push to keep going. “Hiding
under a bed,” I say slowly. “There was a knife. And blood.”
“That sounds terrifying.” Dr. Parody crosses her legs.
She hesitates and I don’t understand why she’s biting her
lip or rubbing the mole under her chin until after she says,
“Were there any other people?”
I look out the window, away from her crinkled eyes, and
stare at the buildings across from us, at the dingy storefront
windows, the crumbling bricks, the trees shivering with the
wind. She’s searching for the person who cut me. Who gave
me all these scars. But how do I tell her it was me? That I did
this to myself? The others scars I must’ve done somehow,
too.
I shake my head. “Only a voice—not the voice, but a
different one. I’m guessing it was a firefighter or something.”
She presses her lips together, a look of understanding.
“You know, Ellie,” she says, “flashbacks are often a sign that
a person is ready to remember, that the body is willing to
share what it’s been protecting.” Dr. Parody lifts her chin
and looks at me.
For so long I’ve wondered what’s wrong with me, why my
memories are missing, why there’s a seamless nothingness
between then and now, but—
“You think my body is hiding something from me?”
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“It’s possible.”
“But…why?” What could I be hiding?
“Only you can know that.”
I tuck my legs under me. Only I can know. “What if I
don’t?”
“You will.” She lifts a tentative smile. “It takes time.”
A decade has passed. That’s a lot of time. I can’t imagine
it taking more than that.
“Do you think I knew someone named Gwen when I
was little? Could that be why I call myself that sometimes?”
Or why my memories feel like they’re hers? Not mine?
As soon as I say the name, a pressure starts to build
inside of me. Like a balloon attached to a helium tank,
growing bigger and bigger. It presses on my ribs, and then my
lungs, my throat, and it’s happening so fast that I can’t shake
my head when Dr. Parody says something about talking to
Gwen and I want to say “no” or “what do you mean?” but I
can’t because my lips aren’t working and neither is my voice
and—
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Chapter Fifty
u ok?
Well, I suppose that’d depend on Shane’s definition of
the word. Does “okay” mean alive? Because if that’s the case
then yes, I’m okay. I’m surviving. Barely. But if he means
“okay” like I think he does, wondering why I’ve been out of
school for the last month or why I told Coach Mills I’ll be
taking the rest of the year off from the team or why I mailed
his bracelet and ring back to him, then I suppose he already
knows the answer. I pick up my phone and stare at it.
Shane and I haven’t talked for three weeks. Not since
after he called last time, a week after I’d been diagnosed. He
asked why I hadn’t been in school and I told him I was sick,
that I’d be out for a while.
I didn’t tell him my therapy schedule didn’t allow time
for school. Or that I wasn’t allowed to leave the house
without a chaperone anyway.
Doing homework, I type back. It’s not exactly a lie. I’ve
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been staring at a piece of paper with writing on it for the last
hour.
Can u talk?
No.
I mean, I don’t know.
I mean…yes, I can. But I don’t know if I want to. Of
course I want to hear his voice, but talking with him means I
run the risk of blacking out in front of him—or on the phone
with him—and I don’t want that to happen. Again.
I type bad time and just as I press send, Mom knocks on
the door.
“Ellie, someone’s here to see you.” I don’t know if Mom
realizes she does this, but she says my name. Every time she
talks to me, she says my name. It’s like she’s checking to see
if it’s really me. Sometimes it’s not. I guess that’s why she
does it. Still, it’s annoying.
I set my phone down, fighting the urge to roll my eyes at
her. “Who is it?” I ask, but she’s already gone, her footsteps
thumping down the stairs. I get up and cover the piece of
paper with a stack of books, running over the list of people
who’d be here to see me.
There’s not many. Dr. Parody. Or the hypnotherapist I’m
working with, Dr. Mann. She’s blond, with long fingernails
and rings on every finger. Kind of like a life-size Barbie doll.
“If it’s a bad time…” someone says from behind me.
A voice no amount of time can wipe away how I react to.
Stomach twisting, a knot in my throat, hands clammy like a
wet spring day. “I can come back later.”
Shane. In my house, my room, oh God.
I turn, face him, and for a millisecond, wish his arm
would slip over my shoulder or he’d let me bury my face into
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his chest, sniff the shirt that matches the color of his eyes. It
would smell like coconut, from the air freshener in his truck.
I shake the useless thought away.
“What’re you doing here?”
It’s been more than two months since Shane’s been in
my room. Back when we spent every afternoon together.
Back before Griffin. Before Dr. Parody figured out what was
wrong with me, and Shane’s time with me was replaced by
his time with Lexi.
He used to fit in here. Like a piece of furniture or
curtains on the window that matched perfectly with the pale
walls and seascape bedspread. Now, though, with his hand
gripping the doorframe and the hesitant look on his face, he
looks out of place. Awkward. And more than uncomfortable.
Maybe because he doesn’t really want to be here. Maybe
he’s worried I’ll punch him again. Maybe he’s just relaying
a message from someone at school. But no one at school
would want to talk to me, no one but Dani.
He holds up his phone. “I didn’t actually think you
would text me back. You know, since you’ve been ignoring
my calls.”
Oh yeah, him, too. I cross the room and sit on my bed.
“Sorry about the calls,” I say, biting my lip. “I’ve been busy.”
“Ian said he overheard a teacher saying you were on
independent study.”
Well, it’s not the worst I’ve heard. Based on hearsay
from Sara and her BF, people think I was abducted, had a
nervous breakdown, was in a car crash—
“I’m not on drugs,” I say, defensive, because, well, I don’t
know what else to say. And, technically, I am on drugs, but
not the kind he’s thinking.
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He chuckles and takes one tiny step into the room. “I
didn’t think you were.” He shoves his phone into his pocket.
“So you’re really out of school for a while?”
I can’t look at him—he’s too beautiful. More beautiful
than I remember. More beautiful than the picture of him in
my drawer that I pull out and stare at every once in a while.
Or every day, depending on how you look at it.
I pick at my fingers and nod.
“For the rest of the year,” I say. “But, I don’t know, I may
not come back at all. Senior year, I mean. My mom’s talking
about homeschooling me.”
Or…I’m talking to her about it. Whatever.
Another step closes between us and I am excruciatingly
aware of every inch of space that separates us. Every molecule.
Every particle, and iota, and grain of earth. It’s painful. A raw
ache in my chest that travels through each cell of my body.
Through my blood, into my bones and muscles and soul.
“Obviously you’re not sick,” he says under his breath.
He clears his throat. A foot closer. God, he really needs to
stop. “Is it because of me? Because of how I acted?” He
narrows his eyes. They’re not mad, but searching. My face.
Cheeks, nose, eyes.
I’ve been staring at him too long.
I look away.
“It’s more than that.” I glance down at my bare feet,
at the chipped black polish on my toes. “I have to tell you
something,” I say and gesture to the desk chair. “Will you
stay for a minute?” I don’t know what I’m doing. But I want
him to understand just one thing: I’m not the person he
thinks I am—a girlfriend who cheats.
The wooden chair is facing him, ready to be occupied.
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He looks at it, then me, and this awkward moment passes
where he starts for the chair but stops. His feet shuffle. Hands
make fists at his sides. He lets out this sigh-grunt noise, and
suddenly he’s sitting at the edge of my bed.
I slip my watch up and down my wrist. “The guy in the
parking lot was Griffin,” I say. “The same guy you saw me in
the picture with.”
He stiffens. “I—”
“I know you don’t want to hear about him.” My hands fly
up. “But, please. You need to know this.” I need him to know
this. I can’t let him think for the rest of his life that I meant
to do what I did to him. “I was treated really badly when I
was little.” My words are quiet. And loud. So loud. I’ve never
said this to anyone before—they’ve said it to me, Dr. Parody
and Dr. Mann, telling me the things revealed during our
sessions. Like I used to hide under the bed when my father
would come over; and my mother, Sherry—the woman I
remember—tried to take care of me, but she had no money
and most days had to scrounge for food in Dumpsters; the
majority of my scars—with exception of the one on my
wrist—are from my father, a way to silence me; and the fire
that killed them started from an unattended cigarette left on
the couch just like the newspaper article said.
Shane leans in, his brow creased.
“My therapist says that, in order to survive, I would
pretend to be someone else when it was happening, when
my dad…”
I pause. Swallow. This is harder than I thought. I know
the word. It drifts through my head often. And it fights with
my other thoughts. It feels wrong, feels right, like a stranger,
like me.
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“When…” I have to say it. “My dad would molest me.”
“Jesus, Ellie.” Shane puts his hand on my shoulder and
pulls me to him. Warm. Soft. A hint of coconut. It feels like
home. But I can’t let it. He won’t want to touch me after he
knows everything.
“That’s not all.” I push away from him, tucking my legs
beneath me. “The girl I made up grew to be a real person
inside me. She makes her own decisions. Takes over my life
for hours at a time. Sometimes days, like when I went missing.
Her name is Gwen. And that was her with Griffin, not me.
She met him when she got a tattoo. He gave it to her.”
Confusion crinkles his face, and I realize he never knew
about the tattoo.
I unzip my sweatshirt and tug up the edge of my shirt.
The tree stares back at us. It feels like ages ago that I found
this. That I learned of Griffin. Even before Dr. Parody
diagnosed me.
Ages ago that Shane and I were the two who were
inseparable.
Lightly, he traces the black branches. “Multiple
personalities?” he says, and he has the same confounded
tone I did the first time I said it out loud.
I nod. My hair falls in a wall over my face. I don’t push it
back. “It’s called dissociative identity disorder.”
Silence. The dead kind that makes the room echo. It’s
only a matter of time before he gets up. I start to count the
seconds. One. Two. Three—
“The blackouts…those were real?” A minute passes and
he’s thinking again. Probably about all of the times I told him
I didn’t remember. Then he pulls his hand away and frowns.
“I thought it was an act…or an excuse,” he says in a whisper,
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“because you felt guilty for cheating on me.” His head sways,
eyes skimming back and forth over my desk, my computer.
Over the assortment of books and pamphlets spread out.
Living with Dissociative Identity Disorder. Coping with
Multiple Personalities. The Truth about DID. Stranger in the
Mirror. Becoming One. Effective Integration.
Shane tips his head and glances down at me with the
saddest look on his face.
“That day in the parking lot,” he continues, and his voice
is soft again, “I wanted to believe so badly something was
wrong, that there was a reason you were with him. That’s
why I told your mom, talked to that therapist.” He’s hugging
me again. His grip strong, protective. A wretched reminder
of how things used to be between the two of us. “God, I’m
so sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” I say into his shirt,
unclear as to what he’s sorry about: what happened to me or
what happened to us. “I wouldn’t have believed me, either.”
He buries his face into my hair, holding me tight, so
tight. I breathe him in. His skin smells safe. The satisfying
kind of safe that lulls all the other ugly feelings inside me
away, into a deep, deep, unreachable crevice.
If only I could make this last longer. Shane talking to
me. Holding me. However, that’s the problem: Gwen could
emerge at any moment. Dr. Parody says I’ll learn how to
resist her, to tell her no when she’s trying to take over, be
the stronger personality, push her back into the depths of my
consciousness. But I haven’t figured that out yet.
My arms surround Shane’s body. I still know every dip
and ridge, every muscle and bone. I don’t find them now,
but I think about them, how it would feel to run my fingers
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along them.
“It’s me who should be sorry,” I eventually mumble into
his shirt.
“Don’t.” He takes my face into his hands, cradling his
fingers around the back of my head, pressing hard enough
to keep me here. In my room. With him. “Don’t you dare
apologize to me about this.” Tears glisten in his eyes. His lip
trembles. I’ve never seen him cry before. It rips a jagged hole
into my heart. “And don’t you ever blame yourself.”
I am a survivor. My mind did what it had to in order to
survive. I may not have otherwise. Dr. Parody told me this.
She says it to me every day. Sometimes I believe it.
I take a breath, soaking in the softness of his hands. “I
mean I’m sorry for not telling you—”
His finger slides over my lips. No more, his eyes say. I
nod, and then he leans in, slow and careful, and replaces his
finger with his mouth. The kiss is heartbreakingly gentle, his
fingertips—skimming down my cheeks, jaw, neck—light as
the whisper of a butterfly’s touch. In his mind I am fragile,
broken, and I’m so, so sick of being that girl.
If this kiss reminds me of anything it’s this: I just want
my life back.
I let his lips linger for a moment more, then pull back,
look up into his gorgeous green eyes. “What about Lexi?”
He tips his forehead against mine, no expression at all.
“What about her?”
It takes every ounce of my civility to keep the utter
disgust from my tone as I say, “Last I heard, you two were—”
“Friends.” He lets that sit. One breath, two, and then
adds, “It’s all we’ve ever been. All we’ll ever be.”
I nod, giving it a few seconds of silence for these words
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to soak in. They warm me, plant a seed of hope deep, deep
in my chest. My hands reach to his face, skate along the
scratchy stubble on his cheek, and it reminds me of stolen
kisses during practice, time alone in his basement, the words
I love you and how they sounded on his lips.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I say, not caring how pathetic
I sound. “I think about you every moment of every day. I
wonder what you’re doing. I wonder who you’re talking to. I
wonder…if you’re thinking about me.”
He captures my wrist with a smile, and it is every bit as
beautiful as I remember. “I am. All the time. Why do you
think I came here today?”
I’m quiet. I have no idea why.
“Ells…” he whispers after a moment. His breath crawls
over me, a blanket of calm. He pushes the hair out of my
face and looks at me, really looks at me. “You’re my other
half. You have been since the day you strutted into track
tryouts and flaunted your mile-long legs in front of me.”
I roll my eyes. That’s not at all what happened, but I
appreciate him trying to make me laugh. His fingers entwine
with mine and he tugs me closer.
“I’m tired of all the drama. I just want you back. I want
us back. And I’m willing to fight for it.”
Fight. It’s the word that’s been on repeat in my brain for
the last few weeks. Only it feels so much stronger now with
him saying it, too. Something that is possible and doable,
and…it gives me the feeling that I’m suddenly invincible.
I close the space and kiss him. Not gentle like he did
before, but hard and deep and like he is my sole reason for
existing. I climb onto him to erase every inch between us,
straddling my legs over his. Arms hold me tight, fingers grip
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my shirt. Mom would flip if she came in and saw this, but I
don’t care. It’s been so long since I felt Shane’s hands on me
and I’m not ready to stop just yet.
He falls back to the mattress, taking me with him, and
rolls me onto my back. Beside me, propped on his elbow with
his other hand tracing over my face, he kisses me once more.
So soft. Twice more. Like I’m precious cargo. And then his
mouth lingers near mine as he says, “So what does this mean?
Is it curable? Is there a way to get her out of your head?”
I glance over to my desk: the paper’s corner peeking
out from beneath the book. Like she’s watching me. Always
watching me. Reminding me over and over again: If we
integrate, YOU go. I will make sure of it.
Gwen’s hinted at this before, in a session with Dr. Mann.
Because even though integrating two personalities means
combining the memories, thoughts, beliefs, and feelings of the
both of us, Gwen is convinced one of us will no longer exist.
Obviously, she doesn’t want it to be her.
But what I’ve come to realize over the past few weeks,
and more specifically since I found that piece of paper, is
that I’m tired of her taking control of my life. Of the lost
time, lost memories. And I’ll be damned if she’ll find a way
to make the reverse happen.
“Yes, it’s called integration,” I tell Shane, dipping farther
into the mattress so he can see how serious my face is. “But
she doesn’t want to do it.”
“So that’s it? You’re just gonna let this…other person
make all the decisions?”
“No.” I sit up, tugging his shirt for him to join me. “I’m
just preparing, because she’s going to put up a pretty nasty
fight.”
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Part Three: Gwen
Life isn’t about finding yourself.
Life is about creating yourself.
~George Bernard Shaw
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Day One
10:27 p.m.
Some say if you’re very quiet you can hear the fundamental
chord of the universe ringing in your ears. The sound of
vastness to which we all connect. Our bodies—cells and
blood and bones—tuning in to the most simplest, yet
complex, of sounds.
I call bullshit.
Lying still on the bed, eyes closed away from the
impossibly black room, I wait. No sound. No chord. Not
even a low purr. Only the undoing of that sound. The world
being eaten alive. Silence.
The vacuum of nothingness just before he finds me.
Clouded gaze taking me in and, behind it, his pea-brain
working out a plan. Fingers dig into my throat and grapple
with my lungs, and I don’t want to do this again.
You, his voice growls in my ear.
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No.
You.
Soft fleece crushes beneath my hand. “Go the fuck
away.”
Y—
I spring off the bed, the creak and squeak of the mattress
shattering the room’s silence. Tonight, I will not be his. My
sweat-slicked legs slither into a pair of tight jeans; a blue
sweater falls over my head; and then, tiptoe-quiet past Jeff
and Maureen’s opened door, I slink down the stairs. Slip the
car keys out from the envelope labeled Accord and grab the
bag of Ellie’s orange bottles clattering with an assortment of
antidepressants and anti-psychotics.
There’s one place his voice can’t reach me.
From the outside, The Bird is an unlabeled door next
to the dilapidated furniture store. Inside’s nothing special
either, but it’s across town from the swanky West Hills
neighborhood and scummy enough that anyone with a
Mercedes wouldn’t dare risk the cracked curbs or dim,
potholed streets. Plus, no one here—especially Jimmy—
doesn’t question my lack of ID.
Hot alcohol-stenched air burns my nose as I step through
the wooden door—bowed and warped from decades of
unrelenting rain. It’s been too long since my footsteps have
echoed across this grime-encrusted floor. A month, at least.
Before the Before. Heads turn with the sound, faces take
me in. Curious eyes, beer-soaked lips, the appraising breathof-a-second pause that drives my shoulders back and chin
upward as I make my way to the rear of the bar.
Benito’s back is to me. Jeans riding low on his nonexistent
hips, white shirt stretched against pointed shoulder blades.
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He’s like a walking advertisement: My shit’ll hold you off
for days.
I give Jimmy a wave. From behind the bar he grins, dark
eyes giving me a once over. “Where you been, Miss Gwen?
Thought ya went off an’ got yourself arrested.”
Benito turns at the sound of my name. I pretend I don’t
notice.
“Ha,” I say to Jimmy. He lifts a glass to the polished
wood bar and drops in a few ice cubes. “I told you: your ass
before mine.” Brown liquid follows the ice, then a splash of
Coke. Benito glares at the side of my head as Jimmy hands
me the glass. “Put it on my tab?”
“For a kiss.”
I blow him one and turn. Benito’s eyes are waiting for
me. “Don’t even think about asking me for a hit, mija,” he
says under his breath as I draw near. The guy beside him
shifts on his feet, pushes his flannel sleeves up to his elbows,
a standout to the typical members of Benito’s crew with
his blond hair and green eyes. Benito knocks me with his
shoulder. “You did me dirty last month.”
I roll my eyes. “Benito, you know I wouldn’t intentionally
rip you off. I was in a hurry, that’s all.” I slip him the handful
of pills from my pocket. “For last time, plus interest and a
little extra for tonight. Courtesy of Ellie.” Or Dr. Parody.
“Don’t know who Ellie is,” Benito says as he passes the
pills to his friend for a look, “but tell her she’s got some
pretty potent stuff. What’s she got? AIDS?”
“She hasn’t slept with you, so nope.”
Benito’s smile drops away, fist clenching open and closed
for a moment. Thinking. Knowing if he throws a fit in here,
Jimmy’ll have him out in seconds. I’ve seen it before; those
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scrawny black arms can do a lot of damage.
After a moment, Benito nods and pulls out a small bag,
jittery fingers rattling the plastic and specks of white inside.
He says to me, “You up for a game of baseball?” and then
he’s walking down the hall toward the bathrooms before I
can answer. I follow because this is Benito’s routine—make
a sale and take a hit for himself.
Past finger-stained doors bearing badges of stick figures
and under the glowing orange lightbulb, Benito makes use
of the payphone, hiding behind it as he opens the bag and
slowly sprinkles his beloved product into the palm of his
tiny hand. His friend comes up from behind me and gently
takes my drink.
Ten minutes later, back at the bar, Jimmy gives me a look.
Surely he knows what goes on in here, in the payphone’s
shadow, though he’s never said so to me. Instead, he offers
me another drink. Benito’s friend settles beside me on the
stool. He asks Jimmy for a beer, his knobby elbow brushing
up against mine.
It’s quiet for a minute, the sound of blood whispering in
my ears, pulsing in time with the chatter in the room. I pinch
a lime from the plastic container in front of me and bite into
it. Bitter juice dribbles down my throat. Finally, I say to the
guy, “Don’t waste your time. I’m not interested.”
He raises his eyebrow, lips pursed. “I ain’t sellin’.”
“Glad we got that straightened out.” I smile and swirl
the brown liquid in my glass. The game of baseball is still
fresh in the back of my throat, its controlling fingers finding
purchase beneath my skin. Tingles crawl like the slow trickle
of blood.
I close my eyes, wishing I could see his face now. Round
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and bristled. Scarred from acne. Staring at me like I’m
a fucking sprinkled donut. I wait and wait, but he never
shows—never when I’m ready for him.
Suddenly words, hot and whispered, caress my ear. “Be
careful with Benito’s shit. It can turn a heart to stone.”
As if I didn’t know; it’s why I come here. I open my eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Matthew.” He holds out his hand to shake. I stare down
at it. Girlishly long fingers. Not a speck of dirt. Still, I can’t
bring myself to touch it.
“Haven’t seen you with Benito before. What’s your
deal?”
He runs a hand over his shaved head and shrugs.
“Needed to score. Met him through a friend. What about
you?” He draws a line with his finger down the neck of his
fresh beer. “What’s your deal?”
Shadows clinging to the wood-paneled walls start to
move. The ground starts to breathe and the air grows hands.
Everything around me bends and folds, like I’m the only
thing solid and the rest of the world is dizzy. Benito must’ve
dealt with someone different; this batch is much stronger
than the last.
Jimmy’s got one ear pointed my way. Even though he’s
pouring, smiling, wiping, and pouring again, I know he’s
listening. Always does. And he isn’t stepping in, which means
Matthew must be all right. I look Matthew in the eye.
“Deals are for those with purpose,” I say and drain my
drink in three gulps. Matthew orders me another one without
asking, along with two shots of whiskey. He taps his glass to
mine and the glimmering brown liquid disappears. Jimmy
refills our glasses, and plaid-shirt Matthew and I repeat this
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sequence until the edges of the room blur and I’m leaning
into his sweet alcohol breath. His light green eyes burn into
mine and, even though this boy’s not my type with his Q-Tip
head and crooked teeth, I go, “Don’t think, just do,” to which
he replies, “Do what?”
“Kiss me,” I say. So he does. Wet lips on mine, tongue in
my mouth. There’s no hesitance, and a river of spit overflows
into my mouth. Or maybe it’s beer. It tastes like beer.
Matthew lifts his hand to my cheek. Hot fingers sizzle into
my skin and I jerk away. “No touching.”
His brow furrows. “Why?”
The room rushes and recedes. Alcohol-laced words,
honest and raw, slip off my tongue. “Because I don’t like
touching.” Slowly his hand falls to his lap. With a casual tip
of his chin, as if this were a normal request from a girl on
a barstool, he leans in again. Mouth covers mine. I haven’t
kissed anyone since Griffin. Before Ellie went and fucked
everything up.
Griffin.
In the bar, tottering on the stool, I suddenly feel my
mouth shut down. Matthew’s still attempting to taste my
throat. I use his shoulder to steady the spinning floor, throw
a ten on the bar for Jimmy with a string of lies that stumble
about bedtime and work tomorrow, and stagger out to my
car. I shouldn’t be driving but am, and then I’m parked in
front of a sign lit up with the words Whisper Ridge. Cold
air hits my face, pressing heavily on my shoulders as I falter
down the path. Two-story stucco buildings watch with their
yellow lamp-lit eyes.
Time is blurry when I think back to the beginning of
After. Hours spent with Griffin so hastily traded for Dr.
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Parody’s bobbing head and the incessant tick of her office’s
clock. The memories, too, all those fucking memories.
By the lightless front window and absence of his Jeep in
the parking lot, it’s possible Griffin doesn’t live at Whisper
Ridge anymore, that maybe he went to Texas to work things
out with his mom. I try the door.
Locked.
My focus sinks to the ground, to my shoes moving in
spasmodic circles like the twirl of a make-me-puke carnival
ride. And next to them: the filter of a Marlboro, jerking side
to side, too. I squint to steady it. There’s no way to tell if it’s
fresh, but it’s better than nothing so I park my ass next to it
and wait.
My eyes close. I don’t mean to, but I fall asleep. And then
somebody’s shaking my shoulder, sounding pretty irritated.
“What’re you doing here?”
I rub my face, open my eyes. Griffin’s standing above me,
a backpack slung over one shoulder and a grocery bag in his
grip. Bread and beer and something else in a glass jar press
into the filmy plastic. I pry my tongue from the roof of my
mouth. The words “I wanna talk” dribble off my lips.
“No way.” He points to his door, keys now dangling in
his fingers, no expression at all. His eyes skim over my face
and for a second I think he might change his mind, at least
hear me out, but then they move to my body sprawled out
along his entryway and I realize he’s more likely taking in
my level of inebriation. Or the repulsiveness of this blue
sweater, which, perhaps, will induce of bit of sympathy or
even the thought that I’m a mess without him, but then he
blurts, “You’re blocking my way.”
Oh.
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I scoot to the side. The door swallows him whole, and
here I sit again. Alone with the fucking moon. I lie flat, press
the back of my head as hard as I can into the cement, and
try to smell the lingering scent of his cologne. Cold air settles
over me, depositing tiny beads of moisture all over my face
and neck, and then the door reopens.
“This isn’t really fair, you know.”
“Fair?”
Griffin’s taken off his jacket. A black shirt clings tightly to
his chest. Something’s off about the way he’s leaning against
the door, like his hips have popped out of their joints, like
his body’s overstretched and struggling to stay vertical. He
could be anyone right now. He could be ordinary, nameless.
I start laughing because suddenly he doesn’t seem so
unapproachable. I laugh because this last month and all the
fights we’ve had must’ve been a fucked-up dream. I laugh
because it’s all you can do when you’re lying on the ground
and the world and all its gravity won’t let you up and there’s
nothing you can do about it.
He frowns down at me. “You showing up here.”
I am on the ground looking up at Griffin’s giant lightbulb
head and he’s not laughing. I sit up with a whiskey-wobble.
The world slingshots. I brace my hand on the wall and say,
“It’s not really fair that you won’t talk to me—”
“You left me for another guy!”
The reason there’s an After in the first place: I never told
him the whole story. Or any of the story. I stare at him, at
the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. Maybe I should’ve told
him.
“It wasn’t me.”
“Not you?” His arms fly into the air. “Who the fuck was
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it, then?”
“Ellie,” I say and scrape my fingernails along the cement.
A shard of rock lodges itself under my nail and it stings, but
I don’t flick it out.
His brow disappears under his hair. Not a well-suited
look on someone with a squat forehead. “Ellie?” he repeats,
pinching off the end of the word. Like his body knows, too,
he shouldn’t be saying her name aloud. Even so, there’s a
hint of recognition on his face.
“She’s my alter. Another person living inside me. She
loves Shane, not me. And she chose Shane. Not me.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, quiet, his gaze
focusing in and out like the lens of a camera—on me,
thinking, on me again—then his words bite through the starpricked night.
“What’re you on?”
“Pfft. Spare me a bit of credit, Griffin. You know I can
handle my shit. Besides, what does that have to do with Ellie
and Shane?”
“Obviously you can’t.” He gestures to me with a nod of
his chin. “Talking crazy like this?”
“It’s not crazy.”
“Really?” he snaps. “Maybe you need a recap? Calling
yourself one name with me, another with someone else. Who
are you to your parents? Kristen? Jessica? Lisa?”
I could tell him I don’t have parents, that they’re dead
and good riddance. Instead I give him a look. “Why would
I call myself Lisa? Such an odd name. It sounds like pizza.
Lisa. Leesa. Leees—”
He turns back into the apartment.
“It’s the truth,” I blurt out. Halfway to the kitchen,
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disdain dripping from his tone, he spouts over his shoulder.
“Right. And I don’t have tattoos.”
He’s gone again, but this time he’s left the door open.
As quickly as I can, I force my wilted arms and legs to crawl
into his apartment. Just inside the door, I bury my face into
the carpet and ignore Griffin’s protests: “Gwen, you can’t be
in here.” “You can’t stay here.” “I don’t want to do this with
you.” Pretend I’m asleep as he nudges my arm and my foot,
goes away and then comes back and finally sighs, spreading
a blanket over my back.
2:19 a.m.
Wet rot in my mouth wakes me. The acid taste wriggles like
maggots down my throat and I’m going to throw up unless
I wash it away. I use the blue glow of the microwave’s clock
to guide me toward the fridge, to a half-empty can of orange
soda sitting on the top shelf.
I gulp it down in two seconds, snag a slice of bread
from the counter, and run my fingers along the mushroomcolored walls that lead to Griffin’s room, over the closed
door keeping me from it. Little by little my fingers turn the
knob. Silent, and push.
Through the night’s blackness, his shirtless back spans
his bed like a white sheet of snow. Steady breath. I squish
the square of bread into a tight dough ball and take a bite.
Above the stretch of tribal on his side: another tattoo—this
one more intricate and rounded. Darkness blurs the picture.
From here it sort of looks like a clown, though Griffin’d never
get a clown. I finish off the bread, watching as his shoulder
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blades rise and fall, and then take another step and another
until my knees are pressed into the side of his mattress.
My fingers move closer. I just want to touch him once,
remember what he feels like. An inch of space between us
and he moves. I stop.
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Day Two
6:42 a.m.
Griffin emerges from his room, strands of wet hair hanging
into his eyes, a crisp blue T-shirt and jeans on. He looks at
me, sitting at his dining room table, water bottle loosely in
my grip, then walks into the kitchen without a single word.
The fridge opens. Closes.
“You have a new tattoo,” I say to the wall. “I couldn’t tell
what it was, though.”
He rounds the corner, a glass of milk in his hand, leans
his shoulder to the wall, and scowls. “You were in my room?”
I say nothing. He takes a sip and swallows. “Okay, stalker.”
A grin finds my mouth. “Grif, you know I’m harmless.”
“Harmless? Are you still high? Just last month, you
punched some guy in the face. Or wait.” He shifts his weight
from one bare foot to the other. “Was that someone else?
Ellie? Are you going to tell me some girl named Ellie took
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over your body and did that?”
“It was me.” I drag my fingernail in the grooves of the
hard wood. Last time I stayed here, in Griffin’s apartment, it
wasn’t like this: the air thick, words careful. My gaze falls to
the backpack in the corner. Its contents still strewn over the
carpet from where I dumped them last night. An art book,
sketchpad, a few pens and pencils. Not stuff he’d take to
work—he’s got tracing paper for those sketches. More like
stuff for school. Only Griffin doesn’t go to school. Or, didn’t.
“So.” I clear my throat and say, “Are you going to school
now?”
His hand tightens around the glass. “Don’t, okay? Don’t
ask me questions. Don’t try to figure out what I’ve been
doing for the last month.” He takes a breath, lets it out.
“Don’t sit here pretending like you care—”
“I do care.”
“Really.” It’s not a question. He lets out a tight chuckle.
“Wow, Gwen, that’s really amusing. Because in my world,
people don’t up and leave with another guy when they care
about someone.”
“I didn’t. You mean Ellie.”
“God, would you—”
So fast I barely see it, the glass soars through the room
and shatters against the door. “I’ve spent the last four
weeks driving myself insane. Wondering what the hell I did
wrong. What that other guy has that I don’t. And just when
I convince myself that maybe it has nothing to do with me,
that the three months we spent together weren’t the same for
you as me…that I’m okay with that now, you come waltzing
back in here not even asking but assuming I’ll forgive you.”
“Will you?”
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“Life doesn’t work that way. I can’t just blink and voifucking-la forgive you, okay? I was falling for you, and
you—”
“Can’t love.” Not that I’ve ever tried before; Griffin is the
closest I’ve ever let someone get to my heart, and the only
one who’s managed to crawl so far under my skin it’s like
he’s a permanent part of me now. I can’t shake the thought
of him. But my walls are high and strong and lowering them
like he wanted me to—loving him—would have meant
opening the floodgate to all the other feelings, too. The ones
that need to stay buried forever.
He gives me a look like I’ve grown another head, then
presses his fist to his wrinkled forehead, eyes closed away
from me. Minutes pass before he pries them open and,
without a word, makes his way across the room. Kneeling,
he gathers chunks of glass in his palm. Then he finally looks
at me and says, “You should probably leave.”
Should and probably. He’s suggesting. Not demanding.
Besides: “I don’t have anywhere to go.”
There’s this silence, the two of us measuring each other
to the sound of birds chirping outside. Me, wishing this didn’t
have to be so difficult, that we could easily fit back into that
space we were before.
“Meaning…?”
I sigh. “Meaning I left Ellie’s house and Ellie’s parents
and Ellie’s goddamn therapy schedule to come see you and
I don’t want to go back and spend every day of the next year
talking to the shrink who suggests I relive memory after
memory of the man who abused me for six years.”
He doesn’t say anything. Milk drips from his hand onto
the carpet.
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“I’m not here so you can feel sorry for me,” I continue,
running my finger along the edge of the table, pressing
harder and harder until my skin screams at me to stop.
“But…I can’t do it anymore—deal with all those people
trying to get into my head and figure me out. I just want to
be me, live my own life.”
Griffin says nothing as he finishes collecting the pieces
of glass, dumps them in the trash, and returns with a wet
towel. He spends more time than necessary soaking up and
scrubbing the wet spot on the carpet and just as I’m about
to get up to leave because, clearly, nothing I say is going to
change his mind, he lowers into the chair across from me
with a pack of Marlboros. Watching me carefully, he places
the box in the center of the table.
At least he has the decency to offer me a cigarette
before I leave. I slip one out, the lighter crammed alongside
it, too, and as soon as nicotine crackles at the tip, Griffin says,
“You’re smoking.”
I lift my brow and exhale. “Don’t I always?”
“No.” His eyes meet mine, round and curious. He takes
the pack, taps out a cigarette, lifts fire to the end. “Not always.
There were times—not many, just enough to count on one
hand—that you’d watch me with a look on your face. Like
you couldn’t stand the smell.”
I bury my toes into the carpet. “Then it wasn’t me.”
Did he kiss her? Touch her? Look at her the same as he
used to look at me?
He considers this, studying the trail of smoke rising from
his cigarette. “It makes sense…” he says under his breath.
“I mean, the feeling that sometimes we were strangers. The
way you’d stare at me…like we’d just met.”
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“She,” I correct. His gaze flicks to me. “Ellie. She
would’ve been looking at you like that.”
“She never once told me to call her Ellie. If it was her,
why wouldn’t she say something instead of pretending to be
you?”
I roll the speckled filter between my fingertips, shrugging
at the same time. “It’s not something I go announcing when
I come to in an unfamiliar place, that I’m not the person
everyone thinks I am. I doubt she does, either.”
Silence. He’s trying to believe me; I can see it in his eyes
searching mine. “You talk to her?” he asks after a moment.
I shake my head.
“Can’t hear her, either.” Smoke rises between us, a thin
line in the dead-silent room, and it’s too straight, too perfect.
I wave my hand through it. Whispering words follow.
“Why would you become her when you were with me?”
Leave it to Griffin to take it personally.
“I don’t become her,” I snap. “She’s her, and I’m me.”
“Only you share a body?” It sounds crazy when he says
it like that, but…
“Yeah. Most of the time when I take over, it’s because
something’s triggered her to remember a part of her
childhood. Her mind is weak, and she usually can’t handle it.
So that’s where I come in. To protect her.”
“You don’t sound happy about that.”
I shrug. “It’s not like I have any choice. If I didn’t step
in when we were younger, she would’ve crumbled so far it
would’ve killed her.”
He lets this sit for a minute, his eyes focusing on the
table. “Step in… So you took over when—”
“He hurt her,” I say for him. It’s easier than hearing
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someone else say it with pity lacing the words.
Quietly, he buries his cigarette in the glass ashtray
between us, then makes his way back to the kitchen. A
minute passes and I debate following him. Instead I say to
the wall, “What Ellie did…choose Shane over you…I never
would have done that.”
He appears in the doorway, face pinched. “You can stay
for a few days,” he says hesitantly and looks away. “But you
should know…I have a girlfriend now.”
9:07 a.m.
The plastic TV remote crackles in my hand. A girlfriend? Is
he kidding me? Sitting on the white leather couch, I bury
my face into the pillow, fighting the scream scraping up my
throat. Even Inklings, Griffin’s favorite reality show about
tattoo artists, can’t erase the image I have: his hands on—
I stomp down the hallway, under the ceiling of shiny
aluminum stars, and barge into Griffin’s room where he
retreated more than an hour ago. Sitting at the desk in the
corner of his room, thick book splayed out in front of him,
his head snaps up. “What’re you—”
“What’s her name?”
His arms stiffen. He shifts in the chair. “Who?”
“Who do you think?” My pulse thumps in the back of
my head, feet burning to enter his room. It requires all I
have not to take another step.
Griffin rubs his face and says flatly, “Meg.” My hands
tighten into fists. I swallow hard.
“Are you two serious?”
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“Been out a few times.”
“Where does she work?”
“Gwen…” He turns back to his book. “I’m not telling
you.”
I whirl around, my face hot and feeling like it’s going to
explode. I can’t even look at him.
11:39 a.m.
In the living room, stretched out on the floor, I’m counting
bottle caps. It’s the only thing I can do to keep from
punching a hole into Griffin’s closed door. He’s added more
stars, smaller and clustered around the larger ones. Some are
uneven with one or two longer tips and I wonder if he did
that on purpose; it’s not like his critical eye wouldn’t have
noticed.
“C’mon. Let’s go,” he says suddenly from the hallway. A
sweatshirt lands beside me. Black with a hood. I sit up.
“Go where?”
“You’ll see.”
12:01 p.m.
The Jeep lurches to the side. Rocks and twigs grind beneath
the tires. I let out a screech and then: “Not sure trying to get
me to barf up my morning coffee is my idea of fun, Grif.”
He presses on the brakes as we round a tight corner.
Towering trees and boulders as high as Griffin line the
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trail—still damp from yesterday’s rain. “No,” he deadpans.
“Though that’d be entertaining.”
“For you, maybe.”
A few more turns, a fallen tree Griffin climbs the Jeep
up and over, and then he parks just above the riverbank. It’s
not Gladstone’s, no rocks to jump from or glassy swimming
holes reflecting today’s clear sky. Just the urgency of the river
in its massive, churning force. No swimming here, either. Not
unless a jaunt down to the power plant with the unbroken
threat of leg-catching boulders beneath the stirring surface
is preferred.
Griffin leads me to a flat piece of shale overhanging the
river’s edge where we sit, legs outstretched, shoulder-toshoulder, the sound of our breath lost on the wind. “What’re
we doing here?” I ask, lowering the sweatshirt over my head.
It smells like him, and I take a deep breath.
“I just needed to get out. Clear my head and think.”
We’ve been here once—in the beginning of Before,
drinking beer and smoking until night washed over us. Back
when Griffin smiled easily. Even before I showed him I
could jump off Gladstone’s and he told me I was the wildest
girl he knew.
I glance sideways at him. “I suppose it’s a good sign you
brought me.”
“Yeah?” He reclines back on his hands. The metal stud
in his eyebrow dances. “Why’s that?”
“Means you want to spend time with me.” I spin and
settle my head on his thighs like they’re a pillow, uncaring to
the way he flinches. I stare at the sky. It’s clear, the kind of
cloudlessness summer typically brings.
“Or,” he says, fidgeting his legs and leaning as far back
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as possible, “I didn’t trust you to be alone in my apartment.”
I sneak a glance at the stubbly underside of his chin.
“Lucky for you I’m used to not being trusted.”
The sun is warm and I close my eyes, replacing the
arresting glare with a blanket of fiery magenta. It darkens
to black when I pinch my eyelids tighter, but I don’t like the
dark; it’s when the merciless hands claw their way into my
open-eyed dreams.
“Will you tell me about it?” Griffin asks after a while.
Low and hesitant. Echoed by the thrashing of water on the
bank below. I slit one eye open. His gaze is fixated on a point
above me, across the river where sunlight blots the forest
floor, unblinking.
“About what?”
“What you said this morning.” Sad, curious eyes fall
over me. “Your, um, childhood.” It’s like he’s dropped me
from the boulder into the freezing, agitated water—stomach
to knees, just like that.
“No.”
“Because you don’t want me to know?”
Swiftly I sit up and face him, my ankles pushing into the
pack of cigarettes bulging from his pocket. He’s got his lip
ring sucked into his mouth, his tongue flicking it back and
forth, waiting for me to say something.
“Because I can’t talk about it without coming unglued,”
I say bitterly. “Like, I’m a little kid again and he’s…you
know…real.” It’s why Dr. Parody sent me to the hypnotist,
to find out what happened without me consciously telling
her. Or remembering our meeting.
Griffin tilts his head. “He wasn’t real?”
Sometimes I wonder that—if, possibly, I imagined it all.
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These scars from tree branches and sidewalks instead of a
sick man’s obsession with the glint of a bloodied blade and
the scent of burning flesh. His rasping voice and unforgiving
hands somehow simply dreams, or nightmares, as an
alternative to reality. I grit my teeth as hard as I can and
shake my head.
“Until he died in a fire he was,” I say. “Very.”
Griffin combs his hand into my hair, just behind my ear,
and lightly presses his thumb to the round scar. “And these?
They’re from him?”
“Stop,” I snap and lean away. He looks at me
questioningly, shadows hanging under his eyes and nose and
I wonder what my face looks like at the moment, if I look
deadened and ghostly under the blinding streams of sunlight
or alive and buzzing with the surge of heat growing in my
cheeks. “I don’t need pity affection from you, all right? It is
what it is. The past can’t be changed.”
I get up and make my way to the ledge of the rock.
Toes at the edge, knees locked straight. I rock back and
forth, leaning farther and father each time. The water below,
thrashing and crashing. I wonder what it’d be like to hit the
water from this height, if the impact would knock me out
instantly or if the ruthless current would pull me under and
take me for good. If the boulders beneath the surface would
claim me or…
Air. I need air. My head’s going to burst.
Fingertips claw into my neck. Yank upward. Air fills my
lungs. “You gonna drop your cup now, you li’l brat?”
Water comes at me again. Faster. Harder. Porcelain slicing
into my stomach. Eyes closed. Don’t pull me up. Don’t pull
me up. Don’t pull me up.
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“—trying to kill yourself?” A hand touches my arm,
grips and guides me back a step. Away from the crumbling
shale shelf. If only he would’ve killed me then.
Trembling, I spin and jerk away from Griffin’s crumpled
face, reach into my pocket, and retrieve Benito’s knotted
baggie. When I was younger, smoking would erase the panic.
And once that stopped working, drinking—an occasional
beer or sip of brandy from Mr. Cox’s supply. I’ve tried pot,
pills, even acid, and what I’ve come to realize is this: he can’t
be quieted. Dead or not, he will always find me, haunt me,
weaken me. Fighting it is my only option.
Griffin snatches the bag from my hand. “Since when did
you start shoveling snow?”
I reclaim the bag.
“Since when do you care?” Releasing the knot, I ignore
his look of disapproval and turn my back to him. Specks of
white balance on the tip of my finger. Lift. Inhale.
The burn comes alive, grows teeth, and gnaws at the
inside of my face. Tears spring to my eyes and I smile wider
as each bitter drip slides down the back of my throat. Some
people say it hurts. Some people say it tastes like shit. Funny
how the mind can reject certain thoughts when it knows
what it needs.
Griffin’s voice echoes over the roar of water. “That’s
attractive.”
If he finds me again, this time I’ll be ready.
Griffin steps in front of me, shirt strained over his
shoulders, face unreadable. I dangle the bag in front of his
nose. “I’m not stingy.”
“And I don’t put shit up my nose.”
So he says. But I also know it doesn’t take long for him
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to give in to me. He always has.
The Jeep’s hood groans as I swing my legs over him. “Just
one more?”
Griffin’s hands caress up my thighs, lips running a smooth
line over my collarbone. “Gwen, if I tell you any more, your
head’s going to swell.”
I unzip my sweatshirt, granting him further access to keep
exploring with his lips. They feel so good. Warm and soft.
“Probably,” I say. “But I’m dying to know what else.”
His mouth hovers over my skin for a moment, hot
breath warring with the chilly air. He blinks, and then sits up
straighter, our faces level now. “Okay, here’s one. When you
do this”—he leans closer, teasing my neck with his lip ring—
“force yourself on me… It gets me all amped up.”
I smile. “Why?”
“Because…it means you want me.”
“What if it means I just want some action? A girl needs to
let loose sometimes, too.”
He shakes his head, strands of brown hair lifting with the
breeze. Then his fingers find my face, drawing a single line
from my forehead to my chin. “You wouldn’t look at me like
this if that’s all you wanted.”
Standing here, with the river rushing behind me, I dab
a bit of white onto the pad of my fingertip, smiling at the
memory. That day, watching the sunset with Griffin and
listening to him spout off the things he liked about me, was
the day I decided I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for
Ellie’s cries for help. This was my body, too, and it was my
turn to be in charge for a while. “Open your mouth then,” I
say to him, and then the river quiets. Trees still their leaves.
It’s like everything in the world freezes. Watches.
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Waits.
Just like that day on the hood of his Jeep, he leans
forward, eyes burning into mine, and parts his lips just
enough to slip my finger in. Slide back and forth over his
teeth and gums. I knew he’d give in.
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Day Three
2:46 p.m.
“I’ll be around.”
I stop in the hallway, behind the wall, careful not to
extend past the corner. Slowly, I take a peek. Griffin’s sitting
at the edge of the couch, shoulders slumped, elbows on his
knees, and a phone mashed to one ear.
“Where do you want to meet?” he says in a low whisper,
picking at a loose thread on his jeans. A moment passes. He
swallows, and with the words “See you then,” the air in the
room starts to pulse around my head like a heavy, bloodsoaked heartbeat.
He hangs up the phone and glances to where I’m
standing.
“I can see you.”
I step out from behind the wall, arms folded, nails
dredging into my skin. “You’re going to meet her? Your
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girlfriend? After yesterday when you said you didn’t trust
me and now you’re leaving me here, alone, to go see her?”
He starts to shake his head but freezes when my fist hits the
wall with a crack. “God, you’re so fucking insensitive!”
He flies off the couch. Squeezes himself between the
wall and me. “Gwen, no.”
“I don’t believe you.” I step closer, three inches of space
between us. I want to hit him. Hard in the gut, enough to
make him swallow his stupid words.
“My dad’s s lawyer,” he looks down at me and says.“That’s
who was on the phone. I have to go over some paperwork
with him because the Business Bureau reported thirty-six
more complaints involving him.” Straight face, no emotion
at all. “Tens of thousands of dollars stolen from innocent
people who only wanted their weddings photographed. If
charges are filed, he could be up for at least ten more years.”
Hm. Well, at least it wasn’t Meg.
4:56 p.m.
“You don’t seem angry.”
Griffin jerks his head from the road and looks at me, his
lips pursed, silver ring jutting out. We spent more than an
hour at Mr. Diaz’s office, Griffin nodding and fidgeting his
fingers as his dad’s attorney explained the legal process of
adding more charges.
“About your dad,” I clarify, running my hands back and
forth down my water-speckled jeans. He rubs his face, letting
out an hour’s worth of breath.
“Eight years, eighteen years. Either way, we won’t know
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each other when he gets out.” The rain, falling harder and
harder as we cross through town, taps along the roof of his
Jeep.
Griffin’s eighteen, so… “If he’s charged again, you’ll be
thirty-six when he gets out.”
“Yeah,” he snaps. “I don’t really need you rubbing that
in.” Blinker on, he turns into Whisper Ridge then winds us
around the narrow pitted road to the east.
“I wasn’t saying it to rub it in,” I say, following our
reflection in the building windows as we pass. “I was pointing
it out. To support what you just said.”
He ignores me, pulling the Jeep to a stop in his assigned
slot. With a jerk of his hand, he opens the door. Wet air
whooshes in. Metal slams like a clap of thunder, and then
it’s just me alongside Griffin’s bitter words clinging to the
corner of the clammy windshield.
Between the seats, I locate his pack of cigarettes, smoke
one after another as his neighbors return from work, their
red aprons or striped collared shirts darkening with splatters
of rain. I sip from the bottle of Jack I stashed under the seat.
Seconds to minutes to hours. Leaves flip over in the wind,
exposing their soggy veined undersides.
Inside the apartment, Griffin’s leaning into the kitchen
counter, phone pinched between his shoulder and ear. I
stall near the front door and slip out of my wet shoes until
he catches my movement and turns. His gaze falls over me
and my shoes and maybe the way I’m wobbling, though I’m
hardly drunk. At the same time he mutters into the receiver,
“Large vegetarian and one order of wings, extra hot.”
I lock myself in the bathroom and shower with the lights
off. Water courses over me, unhurried and blistering. Hot
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steam flurries around my limbs. It feels like suffocating, and
that almost feels like a distraction.
I shut off the water and wrap myself in a red towel,
breathe in deep to catch the musky scent of Griffin’s skin.
A low hum builds deep down in my ears, vibrating with my
breaths like I suddenly have water stuck in there. I shake my
head to disintegrate the feeling and open the door. Step out
into Griffin’s room.
Orange light from the dipping sun spews in the window,
drenching Griffin’s arms and legs. At his desk, he’s sitting
in front of a pencil sketch of a tree. Dying branches extend
off the page, its trunk cracked and splintered. Inside I smile
because it’s a larger version of the one he branded on my
stomach and that must mean something. His eyes meet mine.
I don’t say anything to him.
He doesn’t say anything to me.
The carpet gives under my feet as I move closer. Then I
stop; our knees are just inches from touching. I expect him
to flinch or move. He doesn’t, so, slowly, carefully, I drop my
arms to my sides. The towel slithers over my hips and legs
until it’s crumpled on the carpet like a pool of blood, and I’m
standing with only the glisten of dripping water on my body.
Clumps of wet hair stick to my back. Water drizzles down
my spine. The air in the room, our breaths, our heartbeats—
everything around us—suspends, builds, and then I open my
mouth to shatter it.
“I need to pay you for letting me stay here.”
The pencil falls from his grip. Rolls across the sketchpad.
Comes to rest with its pointed tip piercing into the tree’s
side like an arrow shot from a crossbow. In the tiniest of
movements, he shifts his leg, brushing his skin along mine.
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So soft I wonder if I imagined it.
“I don’t want your money,” he says, looking off to the
door. Denim tickles my bare thighs with a step forward, his
legs now on either side of me. The room totters. I lean over
him with a grin.
“Not money.” Wet hair falls onto my shoulder, sticks
to his unshaven cheek as I press my lips to his. Soft. Warm.
Tasting of cigarettes.
With a gentle palm, he pushes me back. Eyes wide, lips
poised to say something he thinks he should. We can’t. I have
a girlfriend. We’re not together anymore.
Such a waste of breath coming from a mouth like his.
“Shut up, Grif,” I tell him and straddle his hips. He
stiffens. I move closer, my breath a blanket to the skin of
his neck. I take his unwilling hands and settle them on my
thighs. Guide them up and over my belly, unhurried, to let
the feel of me saturate every bump and groove of his skin.
A vertical line with one. Up my torso. Into the hollow of my
collarbone. To my mouth where I lick one of his fingers.
His eyes watch. His mouth slowly relaxes. And then
strong arms close around my waist as the words “Damn
you, Gwen,” trickle off his lips. He pulls me closer. Tingles
prickle up the back of my neck, trail his fingers as they slide
down my arms. He lifts me. Carries me to his bed. Lays me
crossways over a mound of black fabric. He doesn’t kiss me
like the first time, or the second. Doesn’t say a word at all.
And when it’s over, before our sweat-slicked bodies have
dried, he untangles from the black sheets, stretches a shirt
over his chest, and slides into his jeans. From the other side
of the room, with an expression that says he’s disgusted at us
both, he says, “This doesn’t change anything.”
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Day Four
8:21 a.m.
Let me out.
There it is again. That voice. Those words. It’s the third
time I’ve heard them. So faint, like the whisper of wind or
the soft hum of the fridge. I recognize her, desperate and
complaining. Same as she sounds on her outgoing voicemail.
But why am I hearing her?
Griffin taps my shoulder with his spoon. In the reflection
of the microwave, his narrow eyes stare back at me, looking
like he’s been trying to get my attention.
I turn and rub my face. “Hmm?”
“I asked if anyone knows where you are. Parents?
Friends—”
“Because you care? Is that why you’re asking?” I shove
his shoulder; not hard, but enough to get his attention.
“’Cause if you think you can sleep with me, tell me nothing’s
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changed, and then suddenly act like you care who knows
where I am, you may as well be the one in therapy. Not me.”
He starts to open his mouth. And at the same time Ellie
whines again. Let me out. I close my eyes, grit my teeth. I
don’t know how she’s doing it, but I want to tell her to shut
up. I want to slap my hand on that stupid mouth of hers. I
push past Griffin, toward the living room, and say, “No one’s
looking for me if that’s what you’re asking.”
The front door slams.
He doesn’t follow.
The aftermath of rain, frozen from night and gleaming
as the sun creeps over the trees, hangs in the air. It pushes
down my throat and into my lungs and I gasp harder and
harder because the voice is in my ears and I need to get it
out.
Halfway down the steps I sit, bury my face in my knees.
It’s not like I didn’t know it would happen; it’s what all those
ridiculous pamphlets say. What Dr. Parody says, too: as alters
become more aware of each other, first voices, then thoughts
will be shared.
I bite into the skin on my knee, rock against the pain.
I just thought I’d be the first to break through. Or, at the
very least, strong enough to hold Ellie back.
Behind me, the door creaks.
“Go away,” I mumble. A second passes and then his
hand settles onto the back of my neck, heavy enough to still
me.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says. “It’s just… Her
family. Ellie’s. Won’t they wonder where she is?”
I say nothing. Skim my finger over the top of my knee,
across the lines indented by my teeth. The two on the bottom
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are crooked, something I’ve never noticed before.
“Shouldn’t you at least call them?” he presses. “Let them
know you’re all right?”
I look past him to where a cat sits perched in the
apartment window of the adjacent building. It’s staring at
me. Like it’s waiting for my answer, too. I sigh. “Don’t you
get it? Nobody gives a shit about me. Nobody cares where I
am or who I’m with or when I’ll be back.”
Silence. And then: “I meant her.”
Ellie. Of-fucking-course.
“Right,” I roll my eyes and say. He gives me a look. “You
know, Griffin, you’re just like everyone else. Poor Ellie. We
need to help Ellie. Fix Ellie. What about me, huh? Is there
one person on this planet who gives a shit about me? About
my life? My feelings?”
“Gwe—”
“No, you know what? Forget it.” I stand. “I’ll find
somewhere else to stay.”
“Wait.” Suddenly, his hand wraps around my wrist. Eyes
fall over my face. Cold, wet air nestles into my hair. He
blinks once and whispers the words, “I don’t want you to go.”
I yank my arm from his grip, and he sighs.
“Put yourself in their shoes for a minute,” he says,
running a hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t you be worried if
someone you loved went missing and you had no idea where
she was?”
“In someone else’s shoes? Are you kidding? That’s all
I’ve ever been in.” Inside my chest, electricity bursts alive
like my nerve endings are suddenly misfiring. I press myself
up to the stucco wall, grating my bare elbows against it, and
try to find words coherent enough to explain this to him. “All
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I wanted was some time for me, to live my life. To see what
it felt like to go a day without someone breathing down my
neck or playing twenty questions or requesting that I tell
them all about the man who used to shove my head in a
fucking toilet.” Stucco bites into my skin, and the feeling of
warm, sticky blood follows. “So if you’re going to be another
one of them, then I’m gonna go.” I push off the wall and
make it two stairs down before he catches my shirt.
His thumb swipes just below my elbow, red coming
away on his skin. “Do you always hurt yourself when you
talk about your past?” There’s a gentleness in his voice that
pricks at my skin. It nauseates me and soothes me at the
same time. I swallow.
“Do you always try to call people out and fail miserably?”
With a jerk, I tug against his grip, but this time he doesn’t
release me. His eyes burn into mine.
“Please come inside.”
“I’m not going to stay because you feel sorry for me.”
He gnaws his lip for a moment, brow lowered like he’s
thinking. “Then stay because I want you to,” he says after a
minute.
I lift my chin, challenging. “Do you?”
No hesitation. No flick of the eyes to the bright green
lawn below. Just a short, simple, “Yes.”
I let him take my hand and pull me inside, tug me to the
kitchen sink. He lifts me by the waist and sets me on the
counter, then turns the water to warm, wets a paper towel,
and slowly starts to dab away the blood on my arms.
“I could find you a puppy, if you’re wanting to baby
something.”
He smiles. “Nah, a puppy would be too easy compared
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to you.” One elbow wiped clean, he starts on the other. I
stare at his forearms, the way the lines of ink twist and swirl
under his skin, until he finishes and tosses the rag into the
trash. It’s exactly the way I imagine my back, covered with a
full scene so I’ll never have to look at the scars again. Maybe
a forest of trees, a matador and a bull… I’ve always liked
those—
“What made you leave in the first place?”
I glare hard at him. Not this again.
“I just want to understand,” he says, his hands shooting
up in front of him. “Because from what I know, she goes to
West Haven, which means she lives on the west side and
therefore must not be struggling for money. Why would
you want to give that up for”—he glances around his tiny
kitchen with its paint-chipped cabinets and rust-stained
sink—“this?”
I tug at the threadbare T-shirt I stole from his closet.
“Money means shit to me. Not when freedom is worth so
much more.” I slide off the counter, landing directly in front
of him. Barefoot, I’m at least a foot shorter than he is. My
hands stay at my sides, mimicking his stance. “And between
Ellie, and her therapists, and her parents all hounding about
integration… I knew the only way I’d truly have a chance at
my own life was to leave.”
It’s miniscule, but something changes in his expression:
a sliver of understanding.
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Day Five
1:33 p.m.
It’s an eerie kind of quiet under a freeway overpass on a
drizzly day. Cars rumbling above, muffled by sheets of
concrete. Rain beating on asphalt, on metal of abandoned
cars, on busted-out windows of vacant buildings.
The tap of a razor blade. Quick inhale. Grunt against
the burn.
A withered hand passes me the compact, turned
backward with a jagged line of white slicing the mirror in
two. For a second I stare at myself, at my reflection halved.
Soupy black eyes. Hair stringy and windblown. I’ve never
looked this different from Ellie before.
Griffin went to work today. Tucked his sketchpad under
his arm as murky light trickled in through the windows and
said he’d be back around five. He doesn’t know how to act
around me—that’s what he told me last night as we watched
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episode after episode of Inklings. He wants to believe me,
forgive me, let me in again, but doesn’t know how.
I told him to get over it.
Beside me the girl lets out a raspy laugh. I still don’t
know her name. She came with Benito and he calls her mija,
just like everyone else. “She’s scared, B,” she says, reeling
her head back and forth along the cement wall. “She don’t
trust your shit.” Broken ends of over-bleached hair surround
her face, cold sores dot her mouth; she might be cute if she
weren’t so strung.
“Whatever,” I say and snatch the rolled-up dollar
from her fingers. “If I didn’t trust it why would I be taking
seconds?”
Benito, cutting another line in the fold of his wallet,
looks up from his lap. Hollows in his cheeks hang like
stretched-out purple bruises, like someone karate-chopped
both sides of his face. “Jesus,” he mutters, darting his eyes
at me. “Stop your bitching and finish that. I’ve got another
customer coming and I don’t want him freeloadin’.” It might
be too late to tell him I don’t have any money today. A few
pills, but nothing to cover what he’s fronted—quite possibly
the only shortcoming of not sticking around Ellie’s house:
no steady cash flow from her parents.
The concrete overhead shudders. The blonde cocks her
chin and watches with a wide, expectant stare as I raise the
dollar to my nose and sniff. Fiery tendrils follow, but only for
a few seconds and then nothing. I wait.
My hands and feet are still numb from the last line and,
when the cold breeze picks up, the grip of nothingness claws
its way up my legs, down my arms, around my neck, and
between my shoulders. I relax against the wall, the rush of
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another car above, and draw a row of circles across my wrist.
“You gots a girlfriend?” the girl beside me says. I assume
she’s asking Benito, who’s busy scraping the corner of a
razor blade along the cracks in his leather wallet. He ignores
her and she hands me a lit cigarette, watches my mouth as I
take a drag. I don’t feel the smoke enter my lungs. Don’t feel
the freezing, hard ground beneath me or the gaunt shoulder
pressed to mine.
She’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer.
“No,” I say and take another drag. She leans in close, her
easy-smiling lips hanging in front of mine.
“Blow,” she whispers. A stream of smoke trails from my
mouth to hers and, once her lungs are full, she lets out a
hoarse chuckle.
Then she kisses me.
Her lips are cold, moving like she’s half asleep, which
makes me laugh, too. The cement all around us pulses.
Rumbles. Then her tongue slips between my lips. Rivulets of
water trickle down from the overpass, and at the same time
Benito whistles. The girl slides her hand over my stomach
and, as she tries to climb on top of me, I think: I don’t want to
be here anymore. Don’t want to kiss this girl. Gently, I push
her back and stand.
“I’m leaving now.”
“Not without payment,” Benito scowls up at me and
barks. I ignore the frown on the blonde’s face and hold out
my hands.
“Benito, you didn’t sell me anything.”
The razor blade twitches in his fingers. “Bullshit I didn’t.
You blew it all.” Technically, this is true. Benito never gives
anything away for free. He knows I know this. I nod and
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reach into my pocket, pull out three pills. It’s all I have left
from Ellie’s stash. I drop them into his hand.
“Next time,” I tell him and start down the incline. “You
know I’m good for it.”
“I don’t think so,” he says. A few steps farther and then
I’m jerked from behind. The world whooshes past. I’m
slammed against the wall. My ears start to ring with the
words, “No one does me dirty twice.”
“Benito…” I stare into his narrowed, bloodshot eyes.
He’s not breathing; I don’t think I am, either. “I’m not ripping
you off,” I choke out and look away. “I haven’t been home
in a while. I’ll get the money when I can. Or more pills. You
know I’ll be back.” I try to step out of his grip, but he grabs
my chin, jerks it upward, forcing me to look at him. He’s got
the sharp corner of a razor blade pressed to my cheek. Low,
even words breathe onto my face.
“You’re not leaving without giving me something.” He
moves closer. A sticky layer of cottonmouth-white coats his
tongue. I grit against the sting of the blade.
“I have nothing to give.” My voice falters and he catches
it. Smiles.
“Sure you do.” The razor blade clinks against the asphalt,
the sound swallowed by blood rushing in my ears. One
hand finds purchase between my legs, the other releases the
button on my jeans.
“Stop,” I say and look over his shoulder. There’s no one
around but the blonde. She stares at me with wide, blank
eyes. Then lets out a hushed giggle.
“Sometimes he’s not so gentle,” she says and her words,
the way they fall flat, it’s like she knows from experience.
Benito shoves me harder against the wall. His tiny hand slips
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inside my pants.
“Bitch, you’re gonna pay one way or another.”
Cement gropes at my back, snags my hair. “Don’t touch
me,” I plead, pushing my elbows against his bony chest.
Flecks of spit collect at the corners of his mouth.
“Quite the demand coming from a whore like you.”
I close my eyes away from his sour breath, those familiar
words.
“—nothing but a whore…”
They sprout talons, pierce into my lungs.
“…letting those boys touch you…”
Fat hands, groping, squeezing. There were no boys. It
was only him. Always him. I ball my fist and swing at the
face in front of me.
“Get your hands off me!” I scream, making contact with
the side of Benito’s head. He grunts and backs away just
enough to slip my foot past his and slide out from under him.
I turn.
I run.
“Get back here you skank!” Laughter bellows from
behind me—echoing, taunting, disintegrating as I reach the
bottom of the incline and the door of my car. “You best
watch your back, little girl.”
2:17 p.m.
The door chimes.
I head straight for the couch. All around me the air is
vibrating, fast and trilling. I didn’t look but there must be
at least four guys working today—penetrating needles into
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skin, drawing blood, making art. My knees buckle, and I fold
into the cushions. Close my eyes. Somewhere in the distance
a voice calls his name, then mine, and a few seconds later a
hand squeezes my shoulder.
“Gwen, what’s wrong?” Griffin kneels beside me and
I think: Is this why people cry? Because they don’t know
what they’re doing? Or why they showed up somewhere they
shouldn’t have? Because they don’t want their ex-boyfriends
to see them falling apart, or they have no words to explain the
fucking hole they just threw themselves in?
“Dammit, Gwen,” Griffin says faster. “Tell me what
happened.” He sits next to me and tugs on my arm. His
finger slides gently over my cheek, smelling of antiseptic and
ink. “How’d you get this scrape? Did you get in a fight?”
Shaking my head, I turn and collapse on top of him, hide
my face in his chest. I’m dead as shit if Benito ever finds
me. Skipping out on payment, smacking him in the face…I
humiliated him twice. He won’t let that go.
“Hey…” Griffin’s arms close over my back, pull me close.
Pity affection. Today, in exchange for incessant scrabbling
hands, I will take it. “You’re shivering. Why…would you
please tell me what’s going on?”
“Grif…” A moment passes. The shrill of tattoo guns
quiet. “Shut up.”
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Day Six
7:49 p.m.
“Ten more counts.”
I slide my gaze away from the filthy cement deck and
muddy-bottomed pool to Griffin, sitting across from me with
his jeans rolled up to his knees and legs hanging limp in the
jets.
“Hmm?”
“My dad,” he says. “Fraud. Judge gave him ten more
counts. His lawyer called today.” He scoops a handful of
water, dribbles it into a puddle beside him, and pats it with
his palm. “Most likely, he’ll be in all the papers tomorrow.”
“So don’t read the papers.”
He looks up at me, eyes reflecting the white flood of
security lamps. “Tried that last time.”
“And?” I kick my feet up into the cold air, hold them for
a moment, then plunge them back into the water. Pinpricks
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devour my toes.
He shrugs. “Morbid curiosity.”
“Of what?” I smirk. “Which color the bridal party was
wearing?”
He shakes his head, dragging streaks of water out from
the puddle. Flames. Jagged, angry flames. “If he mentioned
me. Or my mom. If he acknowledged our existence at all.”
Oddly enough I’ve wondered this, too…under the weight
of lingering summer heat. Perched in the window, looking out
to where my father’s wide ass had settled into a sagging lawn
chair, a brown bottle, sweating and filled with watery beer,
dangling off his thumb. Nights like those my dirt-covered
fingertips would grip the windowsill. Sweat would tickle my
back. Bands of warm blood would dribble along my pale
thighs while I wondered if he’d point his chubby finger at the
window and say to his raucous, chuckling friends, See that
there girl? That’s my girl.
The trees around me hush. Griffin’s eyes trace the
makeshift outfit I pilfered from his closet: a black flannel
and red boxers, then meet mine.
“I take it he didn’t,” I say. “Last time?”
“Maybe my mom would’ve stayed…if he’d just
apologized, you know?” I nod, but I don’t know. Nobody’s
ever apologized to me.
A long moment passes. The light above flickers with
a crack. “Tell me something,” he eventually says, glancing
across the roiling water at me. “Who gave you the name
Gwen?”
“I did.”
His finger, adding wet specks to the flames, stalls.
“Where’d the name come from?”
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I pull up the hem of the shorts and stand on the step, toes
curling over the edge. Water caresses my knees. Steam rises,
climbs, clings to my skin. “I don’t know. It’s just a name.”
“Hm,” he says, dipping his hand into the water again.
“That’s interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“That your upper lip twitched.”
“So?”
He flattens his palm on the cement for a second, then
lifts, forming a perfect handprint. “So…that happens when
you’re lying.”
Ugh, whatever. “Fine. If you must know, the name Gwen
comes from Gwendolyn. It was my mom’s middle name.
Sherry Gwendolyn McClellan.”
He grins, obviously happy with himself, but then the
serious look returns. I stare at the churning water and wait
for his next question.
“Did you always know you were part of somebody else?
Of Ellie?”
I shake my head, grating my feet along the rough-assandpaper step. A half circle around and back again. “I used
to think I was going insane. Patchy memories. People who
acted like my friends, only I had no idea who they were.
Being in places, not knowing how I got there…or why I was
always fighting, so to speak, when I came to.”
His head bobs absently, eyes focus on a spot over my
shoulder. “Like at school?”
I nod. A few times at West Haven. Twice with him.
“Yeah.”
“And now?”
“Now, thanks to her therapist, I know what really
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happens. That Ellie relies on me when things get too hard
for her.”
“Like…remembering the bad shit?”
Material crumples in my grip. I look him in the eyes.
“No, those memories are all mine. Lucky me, right?” He
doesn’t smile. Just watches, waits for me to explain. “Certain
things trigger Ellie’s memories of our past. Mostly people
touching her, but other things, too. A specific movement or
smell. She’s weak, though, so when the memory starts to
surface she checks out. And then it’s up to me to clean up
the mess, which I’m sick of. It’s much easier to just deal with
the memories myself.”
“Back in the shop, is that what happened? It was a
memory?” A drop of water splashes onto his knee, hangs
for a moment, then slides down his shin. Griffin would never
let me stay if he found out how deep I’m in with Benito. It’s
probably easier letting him think this. I nod. “Where does
she go when you’re here?”
I shrug, my shorts lifting then falling with the movement.
“Shit if I know. We’re not really connected that way.”
“Well then, where do you go when Ellie comes out?”
“Nowhere. It’s like a black hole. Dr. Parody says some
alters fabricate a home in their heads, like a castle or garden.”
“You don’t?”
I make a face. “That’s lame. Should I fabricate some
friends to live there with me, too?”
He rolls his eyes and says, “I read about it online. The
disorder. It said there’s a cure. Integration?”
Jesus, not him too. If I had a tattoo for every time
someone mentioned integration, I’d be covered head to toe.
“Integration’s not a cure, Grif. Killing one of us off so the
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other can live alone?”
His brow tilts inward. “I don’t think that’s the way it
works—”
“It is.” I shoot him a look that says I don’t want to talk
about it anymore, then jump off the step. Drawing in a quick
breath, I bend my knees as hot water swallows me. A rush
of fast-moving bubbles surrounds me, roaring loud like I’m
caught in the wake of a jet plane. Underwater, I feel for
Griffin’s ankles and when I find them I tug as hard as I can.
My hands.
It feels like fire.
He doesn’t budge. His fingers grasp a handful of flannel
and pull me up. Warm, nauseous air scours the back of my
throat.
“—are a wild child, you know that?” Griffin’s laughing,
holding my shoulders tightly and away from him. Wet cotton
clings to me.
No more water. Please, please, please.
Hair’s glued to my cheeks and across my forehead.
Hands grip my wrists. Fingers tangle in my hair. Acid breath
in my face. I scream.
“Gwen!” Griffin’s. They’re Griffin’s hands. Caressing my
cheeks, forehead. Steadying me tight under his chin. “Fuck,
I’m sorry,” he says. Rushed, but soft. He pulls me out of the
water. “I shouldn’t have asked. It has to do with—”
Another scream. Through my teeth.
“I didn’t know.” His words, hot on my neck. “I didn’t
know.” He holds me, arms still and unrelenting. I close my
eyes, the ghost of scalding water stroking my skin. My hands.
Blisters littered them back then. I would poke the tiny white
bubbles with sticks and watch liquid seep out in puddles,
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wondering how the water got under my skin. My father
never tried to hide them. Never covered them with gloves or
bandages. He didn’t need to; my mother, as kind as she was,
never questioned him. Or stood up to him.
After a minute, Griffin takes my face in his hands. His
eyes are solid. Burning into me. No one has ever looked at
me the way Griffin does, and it makes me full and empty at
the same time. “Where were you just now?” he says, and the
jagged sound of his voice cradles me. Grounds me.
I’ve never told anyone about my past. But tonight,
under the star-pricked sky, I find these words: “My dad used
to burn me. Force my hands in the sink and turn the water
as hot as it would go. He thought it would make me listen
better.” My words hang in the night air, and then Griffin
scrunches his nose.
“Do you…remember anything good about your
childhood?”
The one question that requires not a single thought.
“No.”
4:59 a.m.
Dawn is breaking onto his face. Washing veins of blue down
his neck and chest. The tattoo on his side, the one above
the tribal mark, I can see now is an angel facing backward,
her back and feathered wings and long dark hair shaded
with gray. Griffin once said he didn’t like tattooing faces—
something about finding spirit in the eyes—so my guess is
he did this himself.
His chest rises. I breathe in and hold it until the angel’s
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back starts to sink toward the mattress. Five minutes of
this—breathing with Griffin—and the fingernails piercing
my lungs have almost disappeared.
Even so, I don’t want to be alone in the living room. On
the couch, fighting off his voice.
Sitting across the room, in the metal desk chair with my
legs pulled up to my chest, I quietly sift through papers on
his desk. Utility bills, paystubs from Artistic Elements—
nothing about Meg. No pictures of her face or notes in her
handwriting or evidence that she exists at all.
Suddenly, Griffin opens his eyes. “Jesus, Gwen. You
scared the shit outta me.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He rubs his face, for a moment looking like the words
you need to get out might be the next off his lips, but instead
sweeps back the blanket, exposing the black sheet. I climb
in. Covers fall over my legs. Then I take his arm and drape it
over me as I scoot in as close as I can to him.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” I whisper into his chest.
He breathes deep, pressing his mouth to the top of my
head and whispers back, “I won’t.”
In the silence of the room, my thoughts start to circle. I
came here to clear things up with Griffin. But I stayed not
because I can’t go back to the Cox house—I could walk in
that door any time I please—but because here, in the arms
of this boy, I’m not drowning. Or fighting.
I’m just…being. And it’s the most refreshing thought
I’ve had all week.
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Day Seven
12:01 p.m.
I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows with
choking brightness. It bathes the walls, highlights Griffin’s
sketches, shatters against the plastic-framed mirror hanging
beside the door. A note rests on the pillow beside me: Gone
to work. Be back late. Folded beneath is a ten dollar bill.
I find my jeans on the bathroom floor and a white T-shirt
draped in Griffin’s closet and just as I’m heading out the
front door, mouth watering with the thought of a greasy
cheeseburger, I see it. Slipped under the couch. Yellow and
filmy. A receipt.
Comickaze Comics, it states at the top, and under it the
address across town. The Walking Dead #80 Griffin bought
a few weeks ago. And Meg’s name, scrawled in blue swirling
letters along the side. Her phone number, too. What a skank.
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1:12 p.m.
It’s a shabby little store, an island in the middle of a strip
mall, sandwiched between a deli and barber shop. The glass
door’s open and, from where I sit behind the wheel, parked
alongside the curb with the heater blowing hot against my
face, it’s a mystery why Griffin was interested in her. Short
auburn hair, a have a nice day smile as she hands over
a dangling plastic bag to the kid on the other side of the
counter.
The store is a minefield of racks: metal, sagging with the
weight of superheroes and cheesy dialogue bubbles. I pick
my way through, inhaling breath after quick breath of inkcoated air until I can get a better view.
Satin skin, the color of milk, smoothed and swathed over
her elfin bones. She’s got a ski-slope nose, pinned between
two ridiculously huge eyes. As she flits about the store, the
ruffles on her shirt flutter and flap like wings, and she just
looks like a…
“Fairy,” I mumble to myself. “Holy shit, she’s fucking
Tinker Bell.”
Beside me someone snorts with a giggle. Then says, “Hey,
broke ass!” The familiar voice stops me cold. “I mean…your
name was Gwen, right?”
To my left, slouched sideways against the rack labeled
Manga with a magazine splayed over her knees is the
blonde. Benito’s blonde. Staring up at me with red-rimmed
eyes and a grin on her scabbed lips.
“What’re you doing…” Quickly, I scan the crowded
aisles. Over the tops of shelves, along the floor for another
set of shoes. “Is Benito with you?”
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“Hell no. He went all Hulk Hogan after you left—
punched out the window to his car. That fool’s got some
serious anger issues.” She flicks past a few pages in the
magazine without looking. “I bailed right after you.”
This is so not what I need right now. I glare at her. “Did
he say anything? About me?”
“Just that he was going to kill your broke ass.” Shrugging,
she flips another page. Benito threatens to kill people on a
daily basis—requirement of the job, I think. On top of that,
he’s got an inflamed case of small-man syndrome, so I’m not
going to let him scare me. Not like the other day, anyway.
“I’m Blue by the way,” she adds without extending her hand.
I look at it—limp on her lap. She might be all right.
“Blue?” I lift an eyebrow. “Like the sky?”
She shakes her head and giggles. “Like the color you
turn when you stop breathing. Real name’s Jaye, but no
one’s called me that since the accident.” I open my mouth
to ask what accident, but she blurts, “Mixed Big H and
pills. Almost didn’t make it. Friends started calling me Blue
’cause that’s what color my lips were when medics came. The
name stuck.”
Just then, Tinker Bell approaches, a stack of magazines
cradled in her thin arms. “I’m sorry, Miss,” she says glancing
down at Blue, and in that chirpy voice of hers I hear Griffin’s
name. My heartbeat starts to skulk up my neck. It thumps
harder in my ears, drowning out the words, “We don’t exactly
allow people to read before you buy.”
Blue sneers. “Don’t you think if I had money I would
buy it? For shit’s sake”—she squints up at me—“some
people are so stu—”
I lift a finger to silence her, then turn to the five-foot-
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tall pixie. The gray nametag hanging just above her flat
chest says Megan. “First of all,” I say, folding my arms, “my
friend isn’t causing any trouble. She’s sitting, looking at the
pictures of your stupid magazine—which, need I say, isn’t
the same as reading? And second…” I take a step closer,
jagged nails ripping the inside of my chest. I didn’t expect
this—confronting her, mentioning Griffin at all—but now,
standing inches from her face, all I want to do is claw her
ridiculously big eyes out.
I take a shallow breath.
“You look like a smart girl,” I continue. “Aside from
your hideous sense of fashion.” Meg glances at her ruffles.
Behind me Blue snickers. My heart beats faster. “So if I
were you, I’d take those oversize brain cells of yours and
stay away from Griffin.”
“Griffin?” she says with a wrinkled forehead and it’s just
how I pictured—all sappy and full of hope. “Really? I haven’t
heard from him in— Wait.” She looks me up and down, eyes
lingering on the knot I tied in Griffin’s white shirt and the
branch of black ink tattooed on my stomach beneath. “How
do you know Griffin? Are you his sister? You look kind of…
Did he send you?”
Dear Lord. She’s one of those tell-me-everything types.
I pull the yellow receipt from my pocket and watch it flutter
down to her patent leather slip-ons. “I believe that’s your
writing. And I believe he has a girlfriend.”
“He does?” She clutches the magazines tighter. “But
he—”
“It doesn’t matter what he said. Or did.” I close the
space between us. Her eyes widen. My ears are ringing, and
every muscle in my body tingles like I’ve just blown a line.
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The room expands and contracts around me. “It matters,” I
say, louder this time because I want her to fucking hear me,
“that he and I are back together. It matters that I’m living
with him now, sleeping in his bed at night and you’re not, so
be a good little girl and take it upon yourself to never see
him again.”
My shoulder rams into hers as I head for the door.
Magazines slap in frenzy as they slide from her grip. Outside
I stand on the curb, squinting into the sun as my heart echoes
double-time in my chest. I could’ve taken Meg and she
knew it. Blue knew it. Anyone in the fucking store would’ve
known it.
Blue plows through the door, laughing. “That was
hilarious!” She jumps on my back, kisses my cheek. “You
should’ve seen her face. Totally about to cry. Was she really
seeing your boyfriend?”
I unclamp her arms from around my neck, slide her off
my back, and grin. “Technically, he’s my ex.”
“Possessive. I like it.” She pokes my stomach. “You
know…you should’ve stood up to Benito like that. Give
him a piece so he doesn’t think he can fuck us whenever he
pleases.”
I curl my lips at her. “If you fucked Benito, I’m gonna
have to disown you before I befriend you.”
“Shut up.” She bumps my elbow with hers. “You would
too for a free hit.”
I’d never be that desperate. I reach for a cigarette and
roll my eyes. “I’d quit cold-turkey before that asshole’s foul
skin ever touched me.”
She looks away, down the desolate parking lot. Maybe
I hit a nerve. Maybe she’s too dependent on Benito’s blow
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to control herself. The wind picks up and Blue stretches her
arms above her head, glancing back through the glass-paned
door.
“Shit,” she says with a chuckle. “Crybaby’s headed
toward the phone. We should probably split.” She points to
my car parked at the curb. “The Accord’s yours, right?”
Inside, Tinker Bell’s behind the counter, eyes on us,
lifting the phone to her ear. If we get in the car now, she’ll
know what I drive. I told her I’m staying at Griffin’s, but…
I start for the glass door. Blue drops her arms. “Wait,
Gwen, what’re you doing? Are you nuts? She’s calling the
cops.”
The door swings open. Meg looks up. I ignore the few
customers roaming the store and tilt my head with a curious
grin. “You ever been to his house?” The phone sags and
her mouth hangs open and for an instant she looks like a
confused fish.
“Griffin’s?” she says and I nod. Yes, genius, Griffin’s.
“Um, no. He—”
I shut the door, my smile the last thing Meg sees, and
pass Blue to my car. “I have ten bucks. We can either get
high or get fed.”
Blue hops in. “Shit, girl, I haven’t eaten for two days. I
could eat a fucking moose.”
3:04 p.m.
“That was no moose.”
“Mmmm. A hundred times better.” Blue flings the last
French fry in her mouth and licks her fingers. “I think food
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tastes better when you go days without it. That was the best
hamburger I’ve ever eaten.”
I lean back on the couch. A poof of air seeps out from
the leather. Blue looks to be about my age—or what I’d look
like if I spent days getting high on the street. “What’s your
story?” I ask. “You run away from home or something?”
She crumples the greasy paper, tosses it into the bag,
and wipes her hands on her jeans. “Calling it home would be
like calling this place a mansion.” Her eyes skip around the
apartment. Along wires stretched over the carpet near her
feet. The stars on the ceiling. Griffin’s semi-organized pile of
sketches scattered over the wooden table. “Technically, I live
with my uncle. He’s a perv though, and he lives in a tent.”
“A tent?”
She nods without a smile. “In his friend’s backyard. Over
on the south side.”
“It rains like every other day here.”
“One of the many reasons I don’t stick around. Nothing
like waking in the middle of the night to a stream of water
dripping on your pillow.”
I reach for my beer. “Where do you stay?”
“Wherever. Last night I crashed with some bums down
on Lancer. Night before that I was in some kid’s treehouse.
At first it was kinda fun, you know? Not answering to
anyone. But it’d be nice to know where I was gonna sleep
every night. To have some consistency. To not freeze my ass
off.”
I nod and drain the last of my beer. Living on my own,
without answering to Ellie’s parents or Ellie’s community of
“helpers” is what it’s about. Forget consistency. And I don’t
have to worry about sleeping outside as long as Griffin’s
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around.
“Hey. I have an idea.” I spring off the couch and drag
Blue over to the wooden table where Griffin’s tattoo gun
sits alongside some sketches. He was practicing on pig skin
earlier: a few profiled outlines, random body parts like
eyeballs and fingers and noses scatter the rotting flesh. Blue
plugs her nose, giving me a that stuff reeks look as I lift the
machine. Metal glints in the light. “Tattoo me,” I say to her.
She brushes wisps of blond from her face.
“Whatever.” She laughs, leaning in to inspect the
machine. “I don’t know how to tattoo.”
“It’s not that hard. Like coloring with a sewing machine.”
“Yeah?” She lifts an eyebrow skeptically. “You ever
done it?”
“A few times,” I say and ease the gun into her hand.
“We’ll practice first.”
Fifteen minutes later, after Blue’s done drawing lines
and circles and her name on the pig skin and I’ve sketched
out the perfect-sized lightning bolt to cover the scar on my
wrist, we settle at the wooden table with a roll of paper
towels and a plastic container of black ink.
“Ready?”
Blue flicks her gaze between the gun in her hand and my
outstretched wrist. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.” I adjust the gun in her grip like
Griffin showed me and guide it toward the pot of ink. She
lowers her foot. The machine starts to buzz. “If you move
too slowly,” I tell her, “the ink will pool.”
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6:49 p.m.
The door slams, startling me awake. Beside me, Blue sits up
and rubs her eyes. God, how long have we been sleeping?
The lights are still on, though much brighter now that the
sun has gone down, and the movie is scrolling through the
credits.
“Ah, man,” she says, “I missed Keanu’s best line. Vaya con
dios, Brah.” I laugh at her surfer impression—hand gesture
and all—just as Griffin stops at the edge of the couch. His
eyes fall on my bare feet, which are resting in Blue’s lap.
“Hey, Grif. Blue and I were just watching a movie.”
He’s got a gray beanie pulled down to his eyebrows
and a black thermal clinging tight to his chest. Blue gives
me a holy shit he’s hot eyebrow waggle. Griffin’s forehead
scrunches. “Blue?”
I laugh. “Does everyone react that way to your name?”
“Pretty much.” She smiles at Griffin and says, “Real
name’s Jaye.”
He ignores her and stares down at me. “We need to
talk.” By the way he says it, I can tell something’s up. Maybe
he’s pissed I brought someone into his apartment without
asking. Maybe he had a bad day at work. Maybe he—
“Now,” he snaps, and then stomps down the hallway.
Blue giggles. “Wow, does he always walk around with a
stick up his ass?”
Griffin stops mid-hall and whirls around, pointing at
Blue. “Listen. I don’t know who you are or what you’re
doing here, but you need to get out.”
Blue squints at me.
I squint at Griffin. Blotches of red have spiraled up and
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around his neck like someone’s gone and strangled him.
May as well have by how ridiculous he’s acting.
“Grif—”
“Fucking leave already!” he shouts over me. His words
scrabble for purchase along the mushroom-colored walls,
cling to the ceiling and bury in the carpet. Blue’s stunned
silent and it’s the quietest she’s been all afternoon.
I take a step toward him. “What’s your problem?”
“Everything!” He’s poised to fight. Shoulders back,
elbows bent, white-knuckled fists positioned at his sides. I
hold out my hands, newly tattooed wrist covered by a thin
layer of crinkly plastic wrap and the baggy sweatshirt I
found in his closet.
“Maybe you want to clarify?”
A cutting laugh bites through the narrow hall. “For
starters,” he says, “you brought a fucking crackhead into my
apartment.”
“Hey, asshole.” Blue stands, finding her voice. “You don’t
even know me.”
Griffin points his death glare at her. “Exactly why I don’t
want you sleeping on my couch. Get out.”
I sigh. This is ridiculous. “Griffin.”
Blue doesn’t move. A challenge. Good for her—Griffin’s
being an ass. All of a sudden, Griffin storms past me. He
snatches Blue’s emaciated arm and drags her to the door.
Her eyes cling to mine, like she wants me to stop him. Like
for some reason she thought she’d be sleeping here tonight.
But I can’t; it’s his place. And I don’t want to be next.
“Go to hell,” Blue blurts just as the door slams in her
face. Griffin turns. There’s a beat of unexpected silence. A
moment where the walls and furniture and air around us
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still. Blue’s not pounding on the door or shouting from the
other side. The TV has silenced. Finally, Griffin lets out a
breath.
“I can’t believe you.”
“Me?” Should I mention he just kicked out the one
person connected to Benito? The only one who now knows
where I’m staying and will likely tell the jackass I ripped
off and punched in the face because he just kicked her out?
“She’s really not that bad—”
“You show up to her work and threaten her? Christ, are
you a fucking psycho?”
Her work. Meg. Shit, he found out about Meg.
“She called you?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“No.” I smile. “I told her to stay away from you.”
He stares at me like I’ve sprouted another eyeball. Then
rubs his face, muttering, “You’re unbelievable,” and stomps
into the kitchen.
I follow.
“I’m unbelievable? You were the one talking to her.”
He slams his fist into the side of the fridge. “Dammit,
Gwen, I haven’t talked to Meg since you showed up. Except
for today when she called to tell me you assaulted her.” The
fridge lets out a groan. He shoves his hand in his pocket.
“Why?”
“Because…” I didn’t like the thought of him talking to
her. Or touching her. Or kissing her. Because I want to be
the girl he takes out to dinner or kisses goodnight on the
porch. Because she’s normal. And I’m not.
Fuck, I sound like such a pansy. The light above flickers.
“At least I didn’t hit her,” I say, pinching my lips against
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another smile. I leave the kitchen, grab a cigarette off the
table, and smoke it outside.
The balcony off the living room is tiny. About the size of
a closet with a wooden railing and a bucket half filled with
old Marlboros. There’re no chairs—not even room for one—
so I stand with my elbows on the railing, splinters prodding
the skin through my shirt.
Light from the glass door behind me spills onto the wet
grass below. It shimmers like…
“Who broke this?” He moves closer, a shard of glass
pinched between his fingers. The sunlight shining makes it
sparkle like diamonds. “Was it you?”
With each heavy step he takes,
closer,
closer,
closer,
my heart pounds
faster,
faster,
faster.
The sound of denim scuffing and scraping fills the room
as his fat thighs scour each other.
“Did you break the window?”
“No,” I say, trembling. “It was—”
“Goddammit, girl!” He yanks me off the chair, tears
up the back of my shirt. “Don’t you ever listen? I said don’t
horseplay!”
Lines of fire score into my back. I don’t scream. I don’t
cry. And I don’t say it was him who broke the window last
night.
I sniff away the memory. Wipe the single tear clinging
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to my eyelashes. I can’t believe I’m crying because of that
assfuck. Slowly I twist the cigarette in my fingers, wave the
burning tip from wrist to knuckles. Back and forth. Heat
teases my flesh and, like a lawnmower, singes away each tiny
hair. One by one they hiss and complain, and it burns but I
don’t pull away.
“I’ve never seen you cry before.” The voice is behind
me. Low and soft and not angry at all. I flick the cigarette
to the grass below and turn, my back against the railing.
If I concentrate hard enough, I can feel the exact spot
where those gashes healed into gnarled welts. They became
infected—I remember that. I also remember not being
treated until I was sent to Millerton.
“Because I don’t,” I say without looking at Griffin. When
I cried, he turned into a monster. When I cried, a rainy day
became the perfect storm. It was a long time ago; Griffin
doesn’t need to know this. “It’s pointless,” I add, pulling the
sweatshirt’s hood over my head so he can’t see my face.
Moths flit about in the yellowy glow near the door. A
mini swarm, bashing one by one against the glass. In the
distance, cars whisper down Huntington. I bury one set of
freezing toes under the other. Griffin clears his throat.
“I didn’t tell you on purpose. About Meg and me being
through,” he says, folding his arms over his stomach. The
hood mutes his voice, making him sound like he’s standing
on the neighbor’s balcony rather than six inches away. “I
wanted you to be jealous. And hurt…like I was.”
Meg said it, too: I haven’t talked to him in…
I glance sidelong at him. “That’s really mature, Grif.”
“Tell me about it. Like high school all over again.”
Against the balcony floor, his black boots scrape the grit.
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He’s not inching away. Not telling me it’s time to go now.
Words are on his lips, waiting.
“Well,” I prompt, “you got what you wanted.”
“No.” He steps in front of me, blocking the light from
inside so all of a sudden he looks like a big black shadow.
His face moves closer. Hot words caress my face. “I didn’t.”
With his hands he gently sets me up on the railing, my eyes
level with his. In the absence of moonlight, they look like
puddles of ink.
Ten feet below, my cigarette fizzles out. My hands rest
on my thighs and he grips handfuls of sweatshirt to steady
me.
I tilt my head. “You want me.”
“That’s the thing…” He slides the hood off my head,
traces a thumb over my lips. “I don’t know what I want
anymore. You make my thoughts so f—”
I take his face in my hands and press my lips to his. I
make his thoughts fucked up. That’s what he was going to
say. And I should to tell him his fucked-up thoughts are
nothing. If he wants fucked up, he should jump into my head.
He pulls away slightly, keeping his mouth next to mine.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you.” One hand slips beneath my
sweatshirt. His fingers walk up my spine, notch by notch,
until they reach my bra. Then retreat south.
Cold air tickles my waist, and I shrug. “I’m sorry I
brought a crackhead into your house.” My hand slips from
his face and slides down his neck. I feel bad about Blue,
that she has to spend night after night in the relentless cold,
but when it comes down to it, I’d choose Griffin over Blue
any day. Griffin catches my wrist and the sound of crinkling
plastic stops him. His forehead wrinkles. I lift a smile.
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“I showed Blue how to tattoo.”
He jams my sleeve halfway up my arm, revealing a tangle
of clear plastic and, beneath, a thick jagged line on the inside
of my wrist. “On you? You let someone else—who has no
idea what she’s doing—tattoo a lightning bolt on you?”
“Over my scar,” I tell him and peel away the plastic. A
few of the edges are shaky, the tip pooled with ink instead
of needle-sharp but… “Looks pretty good for her first time,
huh?”
“Why would you?” He holds my arm into the light,
inspecting every corner, every indent, every dot of ink now
lingering under my marred skin. “Gwen, I need to fix this. It
looks like shit. Why wouldn’t you just ask me to do it?”
“I was tired of looking at it.” I run my finger along the
scar, then reclaim my arm with a shrug. “Eventually I’ll have
them all covered.”
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Day Eight
10:01 a.m.
“Most embarrassing eulogy,” I say to Griffin, setting the
mug of coffee on the counter beside me. He glances back
from the opened cupboard he’s been staring up into. Plates,
glasses, a heap of appliances at the very top. I have no idea
what he’s searching for.
“What?”
I gesture toward him—his shirtless back, arms
outstretched and flexed like he’s in some muscleman
competition—and then the enormous black Crockpot
balanced precariously overhead. I hold my hands in front of
me as if I were pinching a single sheet of paper.
“Griffin Peed,” I say in a serious tone and the most
convincing look of sadness I can find. “A lover, a fighter, a
tattooer of all creatures clawed and fanged. He was a good
guy and an even better kisser…until he fell victim to a
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fucking Crockpot.”
He smiles, the first full smile I’ve seen all morning.
Though it falls almost immediately.
“Gwen, can I ask you something?” He faces me, braces
his palms against the counter, jeans riding low on his hips.
“What is it you have against integration?”
God, not again. Why does everyone always find a way to
bring this up? I sip from my cup, ignoring his question.
“Is it because you’re scared?”
I roll the scorching mug from my palm to the freshly
inked skin on my wrist. The plastic doesn’t crinkle with the
heat and I hold it there until my flesh squeals at me to pull
away. I’m not scared of integration. It’s just a stupid idea.
That’s all. I look him dead in the eye. “If you’re talking about
that night in the spa, it won’t help. Integration is combining
thoughts. Not erasing.” I point to my head. “I’m stuck with
this shit until I die.”
“So you do understand how it works. That you won’t
be erased.” He gives me a knowing look. “Besides, I was
thinking Ellie…if her memories aren’t as bad, what if they
canceled each other out?”
“Really, Grif? Do you honestly think good and bad
memories can cancel each other out? Is that like terrorists
and soldiers canceling each other out? With both, everyone’s
just fucking dandy?” I roll my eyes and hop off the counter,
landing on my bare feet. “Don’t talk to me about integration.
You obviously don’t understand anything about it.”
“Y—”
“It means one of us will disappear!” My voice echoes
in the tiny kitchen. “Don’t you get that? Disappear. Vanish.
Gone. And I’m not willing to take the chance that it’s me.”
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“Gwen, it’s not going to kill you. Or her. You said so
yourself—it’s combining thoughts. Think of it like chunks of
ice in a frozen lake. Integration is the pieces melting back
into one mind.”
Please. That analogy is so overused. Even Dr. Parody’s
said it.
“One mind, Grif. One. And who’s to say it doesn’t end up
being hers. Plus, did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t
want to blend my thoughts with someone else? Imagine it.
Everything you know yourself to be—your memories, your
feelings—merged with some random person?”
“She’s not a random person. She’s part of you. You’re
part of her. You always have been.”
I swear, I’ve never heard something so ridiculous in my life.
“And what happens to us?”
His eyes widen for an instant with the soft words: “What
do you mean?” I don’t answer because what I mean is as
plain as day and he’s smart so it shouldn’t be that hard to
grasp, and his shoulders roll back with confidence and I
think he’s got it, but then the stupidest thing comes out of
his mouth. “I’ll love you no matter what, Gwen.”
Love. No one’s ever said they loved me before. But
that’s not really the point right now. I bite the rim of my
mug until my teeth start to ache and then say, “You can’t
love me if I’m gone.”
Silence. The kind that grows roots and buries into the
floor. I shift against the counter, my ankles still tingling
from when they were hanging off the counter. Like I told
him the other night, Ellie’s fragile. Sure she’s not inundated
by the memories I have, but merging with her would mean
becoming breakable, too.
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And that’s just not me.
“Okay, say my thoughts combine with hers,” I add after
a long minute. “That we’re both alive and well in one mind,
living happily ever after like Snow fucking White…” I tilt my
head to the side, watching his eyes closely as I drop the rest
on him like a bomb. “Which boyfriend would we choose?”
The shrill of his phone echoes in the room and, without
a word to me, he glances at the screen with a pinched
expression.
“It’s my dad’s lawyer. I have to take this.”
Good, let him answer it, and this stupid conversation be
over.
12:32 p.m.
“You want two garbage burritos?” The round-faced woman
skims her eyes up and down, like she’s trying to decide if
my buck-ten body could handle all that ground-up meat
and cheese and grease. Her hairnet clings so tightly to her
forehead, jet black hair crumpled inside, that amidst the
dingy counters and sticky floors of this rundown burrito
shack she could easily pass for a mop.
I nod, not bothering to mention the second will be used
to cheer up Griffin. He left after the phone call with Mr.
Diaz—not saying anything more about integration—to
meet with him before going to the shop at noon. I don’t
know what they talked about. Only that Griffin didn’t look
happy when he threw on his shirt, stepped into his boots, and
slipped out the door without even lacing them.
“C’min right up.” The woman hands me change, then
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turns to the cooking space behind her, shooing a fly with a
wave of her hand. She slaps two tortillas on paper squares,
and that’s when I feel it. A hard, pointed tip pressing into the
small of my back. Lips hanging near my ear.
“Fancy meeting you here, Miss Gwen.” A recognizable
accent coats his whispered words, sounding much too similar
to the woman in the hairnet. A hand reaches around my arm
and seizes the three dollar bills, and my stomach hits the
floor. Then his breath is on my ear, and I can’t stop my heart
from choking me as his hot words blast against my skin. “I
see you’re working hard spending my money.”
The woman slops beans onto the tortillas.
Slowly, I square my shoulders and shift on my feet. “A
girl’s gotta eat,” I say. The rickety door is only a few steps
from me. I could spin and run, but Benito would surely chase
me. And his scrawny, pencil legs are no doubt quick.
He chuckles in my ear. “And I’ve got a business to run.”
Rice follows the beans, then a handful of cheese. Benito
presses the knife harder into my back. I flinch.
“What do you want?”
“I think it’s pretty obvious.” All of a sudden he snatches
my arm and shouts with panic in his voice, “There you are!
Ruby, we need to hurry! Your mom’s been in an accident!”
He drags me to the door, knife slid up his sleeve and out
of view. The hairnetted woman swivels, a handful of lettuce
cradled in her palm. “I’m sorry,” Benito says to her. “We
have to go. Cancel the order, por favor.”
We’re out the door in seconds and I have to give him
credit. That was pretty convincing. Benito pushes me toward
my car.
“God that was too easy,” he says with a grin. The blade
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returns to my back. He shoves me into the backseat. There’s
not a single person on the street. No one to see Benito tie
my wrists and ankles with rope. No one to witness the strip
of duct tape that barricades my mouth. No one to see him
hold the knife to the underside of my chin and whisper the
words, “Shoulda been watchin’ your back.”
He secures the seat belt across my waist and chest, digs
out my keys from my pocket, then eases the car out onto the
street, all the while whistling the fucking tune from Mickey
Mouse Club.
I have no phone. Griffin isn’t expecting me. No one else
knows where I am. I close my eyes.
This is going to suck.
12:56 p.m.
The engine quiets. I roll my eyes from the felted car rooftop
to the front seat where Benito is reaching across to the
passenger seat. He’s got a bag of some sort, a black canvas
pouch with a drawstring. From it he pulls another piece of
rope—this one only the length of his arm—and a half-empty
bottle of water.
“Ready to have some fun?” he says, looking over his
shoulder at me. He winks, and I don’t even want to imagine
what “fun” he could have with those two items. My eyes drift
past his grinning face to the windshield where, from low on
the backseat, only scraggly tops of trees and a sky splashed
with blue are visible. We could be anywhere in Portland. The
drive from the burrito shack was less than twenty minutes,
the last half spent with the car creeping slowly, pitching and
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rocking as gravel groaned beneath us. Which means we’re
likely somewhere in the woods.
Benito disappears, and then the back door flies open.
Cold air rushes in, up my stomach where my shirt has snarled
with the seat belt. He looks down at me, smiling wide as he
climbs in. Rope claws my wrists, nipping and pulling at the
scabs on my newest tattoo. Benito drags his jagged fingernail
along the stretch of bare skin and if my hands weren’t tied
behind my back I’d fucking sock him. Instead, I jab my knee
into his bony thigh.
“You’re a feisty one.” He laughs and pins my bound
feet to the seat with his legs, practically sitting on top of me,
then pulls a small syringe and baggie from his jacket pocket.
“Lucky for you, Big H does wonders with bad attitudes.”
Big H.
It’s what Blue called heroin.
Oh. Fucking. Shit.
Benito wraps the string of rope around my bicep and
tightens it until my fingers start to throb. Veins bulge down
my arm. Pulse against my skin like they’re trying to escape.
I’ve never done heroin before. Never slammed any drug. I
didn’t think Benito did, either; he’s more the dopehead.
Slowly, he runs his finger over the bulging vein in the
crook of my arm. “Fresh veins. A paper boy’s dream,” he
says, and I jerk against the seat belt. He uncaps the water
bottle, tips it, then uses the syringe to draw some liquid.
“I’ve seen plenty of girls like you…transition from partier to
addict after just one hit. That’s the beauty of giving someone
wings. They’ll come back to me for life.”
He’s trying to make me dependent on him? After he
thinks I ripped him off? Jesus, he must be brain-dead. The
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syringe of water is squirted into the bottle’s cap, then he
shakes in the entire bag of heroin. It looks like a lot. Too
much for one person. Maybe quantities are different than
coke? Or maybe he’s planning to get high with me?
The white powder dissolves. With the needle tip of the
syringe, he stirs the soupy mixture, metal scraping against
plastic echoing loud under the whoosh of my breath, then
draws back the plunger, liquid disappearing.
“An average hit…” he starts, adjusting his position on
the seat. He steadies his elbow above me, staring at the
glistening tip of the needle. “Is only a tenth of a gram. For
a newbie like you, anyway. But we both know you’re not
average.” He cocks his head, lips sliding into a half smile.
“Your broke ass is five times the average. So I adjusted.”
It takes my brain a second to work out what he’s saying.
Five tenths of a gram. He’s not trying to get me high, or
even shot to the curb for his benefit; he’s going to poison
me with an overdose. The needle moves closer to my arm,
to where my veins are now bulging like the Rockies beneath
my skin. The inside of the car closes in on me. Suddenly,
the air coming in through my nose doesn’t seem enough. I
kick against his legs, but from underneath his weight, the
movement only breaks the needle’s steadiness.
He throws his arm across my shoulder. Waves of hot,
putrid breath beat down on my face. “The nausea will come
first,” he says, spit hurling onto my cheek, “but it’s brief, and
definitely worth it considering the rush that follows. You’ll
be so fucking high, it’ll be like you’re on top of the world.
Though…” A conniving look crawls over his features. “That
only lasts for ten minutes. Then your mouth will dry, your
skin will start to itch, your arm right here”—he taps the tip
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of the needle to my vein—“will burn like hell. Slowly, it’ll
be more difficult to breathe. Your heartbeat will become
irregular. And then,” he says, his voice lowering to a whisper,
“you’ll slip into a coma. And never wake up.” The needle
slants and before I can shift again, he jams it at a shallow
angle into my vein.
I shut my eyes. Goddammit, why’d I have to piss him
off? If I’d just found a way to pay him—used the lunch
money Griffin left me—
Liquid fire tears up my arm, under my skin. Raw and
fleshy like my skin’s unpeeling. The only shot I’ve ever
had was from a doctor when I first arrived at Millerton—
some antibiotic for my crusty, mangled back. It burned, but
nothing like what’s coursing through my veins now. I bite my
tongue against the pain.
Benito lets out a chuckle. I open my eyes. “Most people
heat their H to body temperature,” he tells me, pushing the
plunger farther and farther. “But it’s not necessary. Only for
comfort.” The plunger reaches the end and he pulls away,
tossing the needle to the floor.
My stomach twists. My head spins. The car is way too
small for me and I need to get out. Fresh air, I need fresh air.
In the distance I hear a click. Cold washes over me. I try to
move my head because if I’m going to barf I want to do it all
over Benito’s oversize pants.
I tug against the seat belt and just as I realize I’m not
going anywhere, the dizziness seeps away. Gone just as fast
as it came. I smile because suddenly I feel so, so good. Like
jelly. I feel like jelly. I let out a laugh and sink into the seat.
My skin starts to heat up, like I’m lying under the sun on a
summer day. The thought makes my stomach flutter. I close
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my eyes as the words, “Enjoy the rush,” bounce in my head.
Yes, this rush is good.
1:07 p.m.
I need water. I lick my lips. My tongue feels fat and grainy
like it’s coated with gravel. I try to lift my head, and then my
legs, but nothing moves. So heavy. Maybe Benito stuffed me
with rocks before he disappeared. A laugh pushes through
my unmovable lips.
1:29 p.m.
The ceiling is spinning, but when I close my eyes it’s even
worse. What the fuck? Is this what junkies feel? On purpose?
I have to get out of here. I struggle against the seat belt.
With my hands tied behind me there’s no way to reach it.
“For shit’s sake, Benito,” I scream, “let me the fuck out of
here! I know you’re out there! Probably jacking off, you
perv! Fucking open this door!”
1:36 p.m.
My eyes. They keep closing. I don’t want to do this anymore.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
My eyelids fall closed. Blackness. And I peel them back.
Closed. Open. Closed…open. Cl—
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Epilogue: Ellie
My eyes are blue. My hair is brown. A tiny freckle sits beside
my nose. I have thin fingers and a high bellybutton. My name
is Ellie Cox.
This is what I know.
What they tell me: I was missing for eight days. Found
in the back of my car by park rangers, on a dirt road behind
McClay and almost dead in a heroin coma. Paramedics
revived me, injecting some drug into my blood that blocked
the heroin from stopping my heart completely. Police say
it was an overdose—my fingerprints were on the syringe,
so they think no foul play was involved. They also gave my
parents the contact information for a rehab center, though
my parents know it wasn’t me who did this.
My name is Ellie Cox. I have blue eyes, brown hair—
The door lets out a groan. “Ready?” Shane steps into
the room, not quite as measured as the first time, but still
cautious. Still careful. Probably wondering if I’m the same
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girl he talked to less than an hour ago. If I know who he is,
or if I’m going to punch him in the face.
I pull my gaze away from the mirror and turn. The
purple balloon beside the bed wavers with the movement,
its silver message—Get Well!—glinting from the fluorescent
lights. The words mean nothing to me. The balloon may as
well say It’s a Boy! or Happy Halloween. Dani was trying to
be nice, Shane told me earlier. She wanted to visit me here
in the hospital, but my parents told her to wait another day.
I should probably thank them for that.
I clear my throat and lift a small smile. “Um…where’s
my mom?”
A look of relief comes over his face, and I realize I
should probably get used to this. To people always looking
for some sign that it’s really me. And not her—Gwen. “She
said you could ride with me,” Shane says, crossing the room.
He takes me in his arms and hugs me tight to his chest and
for just a tiny second I let myself be comforted by this, by
the hint of coconut lingering on his shirt. “I pretty much sold
my soul trying to convince her I wouldn’t let you out of my
sight.” His lips find my ear. “I’m sure she’ll be right behind
us.”
Gently, I pull back and gaze up at him. Although he’s
been home and showered and maybe even taken a nap since
doctors announced I’d be released today, evidence of his last
week still transforms his face. Purple currents beneath his
eyes. Cheeks hollowed and pale. He searched for me every
day, is what he told me. Couldn’t sleep or eat not knowing if
he’d ever see me again.
His lips press to my forehead, and then he tugs a leather
braided necklace from his pocket. My necklace. He smiles.
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“I think maybe the two of you have something in common.”
The necklace dangles between us, the little running shoe
shining like he just spent twenty minutes polishing it with
his shirt. I scrunch my face at his words.
“I don’t have anything in common with her.”
He takes my wrist and flips it over then traces his finger
along the tattoo Gwen put there—a long, skinny lightning
bolt that blooms into a dead, scraggly tree. It’s solid black
and the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen.
Shane wraps the necklace around my wrist, covering the
dark knotted branches and says, “Looks like you both want,
in some way, to cover up the past.” He ties the frayed ends,
and even though we haven’t once talked about what we are
since the nurses let him in to see me last night, he runs his
thumb over my dry, cracked lips. Slow and careful.
This is what I know: My name is Ellie Cox. And I am
nothing like Gwen.
His lips press into the corner of my mouth, gentle and
warm, as his arms surround me again. A long, slow breath
releases against my cheek, followed by the words, “I love
you, Ells. So goddamn much.” He cups my face in his hands,
green eyes burning into mine. “I know you don’t want to talk
about her, and I’m not going to push it until you’re ready, but
you heard what Dr. Parody said—you have to accept her as
a person, and more importantly, a part of you, if integration
is going to work.”
He’s seen flashes of Gwen. Her anger, her hatred.
According to my therapist, she’s extremely damaged, and
I’m not sure why he wants that to become a part of me.
I nod, anyway, his fingers slipping along my cheeks with
the movement. “I’m just scared. What if letting in all those
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horrible memories breaks me? What if I shatter into pieces
and can’t be put back together?”
He cracks a barely there smile. “Babe, you’re not
Humpty Dumpty.”
“I’m serious,” I say, softly elbowing him in the stomach.
His fingers lace into my hair, tipping my head back to better
see him.
“So am I. It’s not going to be easy, I know that. But I’m
not going anywhere. I’ll be here every single day—at every
minute of therapy if that’s what you want.” He inches closer,
his gaze growing intense and unrelenting, then growls the
words, “I won’t let them break you.”
A seed of hope buries under my skin. Excruciatingly
deep, but there and burning like it wants to sprout into
something more. I thought Gwen taking over my body again
would ruin me, but as I stand here in Shane’s arms, knowing
he’s in my corner and is willing to fight alongside me—fight
for me—I feel more than hope. I feel strength. And I guess
that’s the first step to this whole process.
Once in the parking lot, Shane’s truck a few rows away,
he squeezes my hand and says, “Um, there’s someone who
wanted to talk to you.” By the weight of his voice, the
measured expression that accompanies his words, I already
know who this “someone” is.
Griffin appears on my left, a beanie pulled snug over his
head and a hesitant smile drawing his lips up toward it. His
hands are tucked into his back pockets, black boots scraping
the asphalt as he nears. He nods at Shane, then looks down
at me.
“Hey,” he says.
Shane squeezes my hand again. “I’ll wait for you in the
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truck. Take your time.” In his expression: no evidence of
pissed-off-ness or jealousy or anything else that shows he
disapproves of this.
The two of them talked, he’s told me this much, when
Griffin saw my story on the news and rushed down to
the hospital. Nurses wouldn’t let him see me because my
condition still wasn’t stable, but before he left he sat with
Shane in the waiting area. They talked about me, and they
talked about Gwen, and I guess along the way they sort of
came to a truce, too.
“Thanks,” I tell Shane and my heart suddenly feels like
it’s going to rip in half. I don’t want to be away from him,
even for a few short minutes, but I also really want to talk to
Griffin. To make sure he’s okay.
We stand, silent, for a long minute—him looking at
me, me looking at him—until a bird flies overhead and its
shadow sweeps over us, taking the awkwardness with it.
“You’re okay?” he finally says, and I’d have to be blind
to not catch the breath of relief he releases with the words.
I smile. “I was just wondering the same about you.”
His eyebrow, the one with the silver barbell, cuts into his
forehead. “I’m not the one who was given a lethal amount
of heroin.”
“Given…? You don’t think she did it herself?”
Sallow light from the sky above washes his face with
gray, making him look more like the ghost of someone I once
knew as he sticks a cigarette between his lips. “I’ve thought
about that for the last few days,” he says with a shake of his
head, bringing flame to the tip of the cigarette. A cloud of
smoke follows, and I try really hard to not let it show on my
face that the smell is disgusting. “The day she went missing,”
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he goes on, “we were fighting about integration. I was trying
to convince her that it wasn’t going to erase her and that
it might be a good way to cancel out all the bad memories
she got stuck with. She was pissed at me—and probably the
world too because, well, that’s just Gwen—but then I had to
leave for work.”
His lips pucker as he takes a drag, holds it in for a long
moment, then releases it through his nose. “While I’d love
to think her leaving was about her trying to get back at me
for telling her integration is a good idea, I know that’s not
her style.” Unexpectedly, he steps forward, cradling my right
wrist in his hand. His thumb, in a gentle sweep, skims across
the new tattoo on the inside of my wrist, and I don’t need to
ask to know that he was the one to put it there.
And that thought alone makes it a little easier to look at.
“Sure, she didn’t have a decent childhood, but she’s a
fighter, not a runner. So, no, I don’t think she did this to
herself.” He looks away, watching for a moment the stream
of smoke rise from his cigarette. “I’m just sorry I don’t have
any way of finding out who did.” Under the harsh tone, I
can tell those words sadden him. And that tiny crack in his
voice, the hint that he’s struggling with this, too, is enough to
propel me forward and wrap my arms around him.
“You don’t have to do that. You’ve already done so
much.”
Stiffly, his arms fold around my back. “I’m leaving, so it’s
not like I’ll have the chance anyway.”
Leaving. “Leaving? Where are you going?”
A rough chuckle bursts out of him at the same time a
draft of chilly air ripples the trash in the can behind him.
He grips my shoulders, pushing and stepping back. “One of
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the last things Gwen asked me was that if you two integrate,
which of us would you choose?”
Us.
She has feelings for him.
And Shane is my whole world.
Oh.
“I…” I swallow. Twice. “I guess I never thought about
that.”
“Yeah.” He eases another inch back. “And I’m not going
to lie, Ellie. Standing here with you…” He scrubs a hand
over his face, looking off in the distance where his orange
Jeep is parked. His lips seem to war with his mouth for a
stretched-out moment, then he finally cracks an uncertain
smile. “I thought I’d be able to handle it,” he says, shoving
his hands back into his pockets, “knowing you aren’t her.
But…this is really hard. Because I can’t look at you and not
think about her. You’re not her, I know.” He nods his chin
toward Shane’s truck. “And you’re obviously in love with
that guy, anyone can see that. So, yeah, that’s not the reason
I’m leaving, but I guess it kind of is…now.”
His boots scrape another two steps back and I quickly
catch his wrist. “Wait,” I say, because I don’t want him to
leave just yet. I don’t know why. I just don’t. I wish I could
tell him that I’ve grown to really like him, that I will always
remember him by the tattoo on my stomach and now the one
on my wrist. But in a way I’m glad to see him go. Because he
represents a part of me I don’t want to hold on to. A piece of
me that feels far away and not really like me at all. I brush
my hair out of my face. “Where are you going?”
“Texas. To stay with my mom for a while.”
“She’s talking to you now?”
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He tilts his head to the side, brow crinkled, likely
processing that the day on the side of the road was me and
not Gwen, and then he nods. “She called the day after her
birthday, after I sent her those flowers. She’s living in Fort
Worth, going to school to become a nurse—something she’s
always wanted to do. I’m going to visit for two weeks and,
I don’t know, I’m thinking I might transfer to a school out
there. It’d be nice to have family around again.”
This I know. And right on cue, as if he planned it, my
parents and sister emerge from the sliding glass doors and
spill into the parking lot. Dad’s eyes sweep over me and then
Griffin, and just as I’m about to explain to Dad that he’s a
friend and not some random stranger, Griffin waves to them
and then pulls me into a brief, nothing-but-friendly hug.
It feels empty. And hollow. And a lot like good-bye for
good.
“Take care, Ellie,” he whispers into my ear, and that
same ripped-in-half feeling I had when Shane left us alone
comes crashing back like a wave over my head.
Don’t go.
The words boom—in the base of my throat, beneath my
ribs, even behind my eyes. In every cell of my body, they
scream and shout don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
They’re not my words. I’m as certain of this as I am this
is Portland. Today is Sunday. My name is Ellie. And the mere
fact that I’m hearing them now doesn’t scare me as much as
I thought they would.
Because Dr. Parody said her thoughts would come first.
I leave Griffin and join Shane in his truck, the music
thumping lowly and the scent of coconut calming me
completely. I smile at him. He smiles at me, and then turns
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over the engine.
As opposed to integration as she was, Gwen just took
her first step. I don’t know if she meant to, or if it’s just that
the ball is now rolling in this direction and will be impossible
to stop until we are united as one whole, but no matter the
why, I close my eyes, tip my head back, and whisper a mental
thank-you.
...
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Acknowledgments
This story would not have come to life without the support of
my friends and family. My husband and kids have sacrificed
many, many hours of family time to allow me to play with
my imaginary friends. I can’t say it’s going to slow down
any time soon, but…well, there are other things I could be
addicted to, right?
This book is dedicated to Alycia Tornetta for good
reason. Not only is she my fabulous editor, but she’s been
rooting for this story since the first time she read it back
when she was an editorial intern.
To the rest of the Entangled team who’s spent time with
these characters in one way or another: editors Stacy Cantor
Abrams and Karen Grove, my publicity team Debbie Suzuki
and Heather Riccio (I love you dearly, CP!), and my cover
artist Jenny Perinovic. Thank you all.
Last, but certainly not least, to my agent Bree Ogden.
It’s been a long time coming, but we finally did it!
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To my dear readers, first: thank you. I am genuinely
grateful for each and every one of you. And second: if you
enjoyed reading this book, I would love if you would help
others enjoy it as well by lending it, recommending it to
friends and family, or reviewing it on the site where you
purchased it. If you do happen to write a review, please
inform me via an email to brooklynskye1@gmail.com and
I’ll thank you with a personal email.
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About the Author
Brooklyn Skye grew up in a small town where she quickly
realized writing was an escape from small town life. Really,
she’s just your average awkward girl who’s obsessed with
words. You can follow her on Twitter as @brooklyn__skye or
visit her web site for updates, teasers, giveaways, and more.
www.brooklyn-skye.com
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Check out Ember’s newest releases…
My Not So Super Sweet Life
by Rachel Harris
Cat Crawford just wants to be normal—or at least as normal
as a daughter of Hollywood royalty can be. And it looks like
fate is granting her wish: she’s got an amazing boyfriend,
Lucas; her fabulous cousin, Alessandra, living with her;
and her dad planning his second marriage to a great future
stepmom. That is, until her prodigal mother reveals on
national television that she has something important to tell
her daughter…causing a media frenzy.
Lucas Capelli knows his fate is to be with Cat, and he’s
worked hard to win her over once and for all. Unfortunately,
Lucas has his own issues to deal with, including a scandal
that could take him away from the first place he’s truly
belonged.
As secrets are revealed, rumors explode, and the world
watches, Cat and Lucas discover it’s not fate they have to
fight if they want to stay together…this time, it’s their own
insecurities.
Well, and the stalkerazzi.
Searching for Beautiful
by Nyrae Dawn
Before it happened…
Brynn had a group of best friends, a boyfriend who loved
her, a growing talent for pottery. She had a life. And then…
she had none.
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After it happened…
Everything was lost. The boy she now knew never loved her.
The friends who felt she betrayed their trust. The new life
just beginning to grow inside her.
Brynn believes her future is as empty as her body until
Christian, the boy next door, starts coming around. Playing
his guitar and pushing her to create art once more. She
meets some new friends at the local community center, plus
even gets her dad to look her in the eye again…sort of. But
letting someone in isn’t as easy as it seems.
Now…
Can Brynn open up her heart to truly find her life’s own
beauty, when living for the after means letting go of the
before?
Where You’ll Find Me
by Erin Fletcher
When Hanley Helton discovers a boy living in her garage,
she knows she should kick him out. But Nate is too charming
to be dangerous. He just needs a place to get away, which
Hanley understands. Her own escape methods—vodka,
black hair dye, and pretending the past didn’t happen—are
more traditional, but who is she to judge?
Nate doesn’t tell her why he’s in her garage, and she
doesn’t tell him what she’s running from. Soon, Hanley¹s
trading her late night escapades for all-night conversations
and stolen kisses. But when Nate¹s recognized as the missing
teen from the news, Hanley isn’t sure which is worse: that
she’s harboring a fugitive, or that she’s in love with one.
In the Blood
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by Sara Hantz
For seventeen years, Jed Franklin’s life was normal. Then his
father was charged with the abuse and murder of four young
boys and normal became a nightmare.
His mom’s practically a walking zombie, he’s lost most
of his friends, and the press camps out on his lawn. The only
things that keep him sane are his little sis; his best friend
and dream girl, Summer; and the alcohol he stashes in
his room. But after Jed wakes up from a total blackout to
discover a local kid has gone missing—a kid he was last seen
talking to—he’s forced to face his greatest fear: that he could
somehow be responsible.
In a life that’s spiraled out of control, Jed must decide if
he chooses his own destiny with Summer by his side or if the
violent urges that plagued his father are truly in the blood…
Olivia Twisted
by Vivi Barnes
Olivia
He tilts my chin up so my eyes meet his, his thumb brushing
lightly across my lips. I close my eyes. I know Z is trouble. I
know that being with him is going to get me into trouble. I
don’t care.
At least at this moment, I don’t care.
Tossed from foster home to foster home, Olivia’s seen
a lot in her sixteen years. She’s hardened, sure, though
mostly just wants to fly under the radar until graduation.
But her natural ability with computers catches the eye of
Z, a mysterious guy at her new school. Soon, Z has brought
Liv into his team of hacker elite—break into a few bank
accounts, and voila, he drives a motorcycle. Follow his lead,
and Liv might even be able to escape from her oppressive
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foster parents. As Liv and Z grow closer, though, so does
the watchful eye of Bill Sykes, Z’s boss. And he’s got bigger
plans for Liv…
Z
I can picture Liv’s face: wide-eyed, trusting. Her smooth lips
that taste like strawberry Fanta.
It was just a kiss. That’s all. She’s just like any other girl.
Except that she’s not.
Thanks to Z, Olivia’s about to get twisted.
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