Elgin sighed, possibly about the cloud of smoke drifting through his sunset. Greta got up and stood behind him. “We dug out some old pictures today,” she told him. Was it wrong, burdening him with another dead person? “Want to see what my mom looked like?”
“Of course.”
Greta pulled the photos off the dresser, her touch gentle. She settled next to Elgin and showed him the photos in the same order she’d seen them. Elgin blinked, sat a little straighter and looked back and forth between Diana’s and Greta’s faces. “You’re certainly your mother’s daughter.”
Greta smiled and rubbed away a fingerprint on the corner of the picture. “This was about two years before she was diagnosed with cancer. She looks happy, doesn’t she?”
Elgin nodded. “She does.”
Outside on the porch, Ash smiled too—possibly even matching the we-get-bacon smile—at something Alice said.
“The thing is”—Greta hesitated—“I wish I could remember her like this.”
“You don’t? Too young?”
“I can’t seem to get past the time when she was sick. I don’t remember much from before, and every time I think of her, I remember how she suffered. I hardly recognized her.” She swallowed.
“There are only two times in my life I have felt the distance pain puts between people,” Elgin said. “One was when Eleanor was in labor with Alice. I was with her, trying to help, but she only had one foot in our world until it was over.” He paused before saying more. “The other was near the end of the cancer.” Elgin always called it “the cancer,” like there was only one. The cancer to end all cancers. He paused again, the words sucking his energy. “The human body, how it fails you in the end.”
That was the thing about being with Elgin. He said everything perfectly—you didn’t have to speak at all.
That night, trying to sleep on an air mattress with a possible leak, Greta thought of something. She unplugged her phone from its charger and stood, wobbling on the flattening mattress. Ash had propped the photos in a line on the dresser like before, with Roger covered. Turning on the flashlight app, Greta shone the light across each photo. Her mom wore a flowery green blouse on their birthday, a lime-green tank top with Ash and a forest-green T-shirt (maybe Roger’s?) at Hawrelak Park.
What was Mom’s favorite color? Greta texted. Pressed Send.
Less than thirty seconds later, the message symbol lit up Greta’s phone. Roger. Green, he answered.
FIFTEEN
The knock came from far away. It fit into Greta’s dream about a man hammering a boat. Then she bolted up on her elbows, rolled off the mattress and shuffled to the door. Something urgent about knocking. Make the noise stop.
Nate, standing in flurries. “Hey.” Snowflakes clung to his eyebrows—a ginger Yeti. “Are you coming?” He eyed her rumpled shorts and sweaty T-shirt. The cold air shriveled her lungs and dry throat. Every night at Elgin’s felt like some kind of sweat-detox program.
“No, I’m…”—she didn’t know what to say—“…not.”
Nate waited, holding his backpack in one hand and car key in the other. “Ever again?” His shoulders dropped, like the key suddenly weighed a lot.
The words sounded so definitive, but it was hard to imagine that one morning she would wake up and suddenly want to go back. The thought stirred a swirl of anxiety in her chest, an eddy in her gut. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Nate. And you know Ash can’t go back.”
He waited for her to say more, snow the size of cornflakes clinging to his wayward strands of hair. He thought for a minute, then said, “You two should sleep over at my house tonight.”
“Uh…” She was eight years old again, standing in the schoolyard.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. It’s not a school night.” Still eight years old.
“I’ll ask”—Greta actually started to say Elgin—“Ash.”
Nate gave a nod and backed off the porch, leaving prints in the gauzy layer on the steps. “I’ll call later.” Before shutting the front door, Greta watched him lope over to Rebus and climb inside.
She had stayed up late, cradling her phone, fingers poised over the keypad. A battle waged. Her first impulse was to text Roger back as quickly as possible. Rapid-fire questions: Where are you? Why did you leave? What are you doing? When are you coming back? Also, confessions to share, one autocorrect word at a time: We couldn’t find jobs. Had to move upstairs with the landlord. Ash got expelled. Currently both dropouts.
She stopped herself each time, sometimes getting a word or two down before deleting them. She couldn’t win this one. If she texted again and he didn’t answer, she’d be mad as hell. If he texted back and said he was hanging out with Patty in some dive, mad as hell. If he apologized for living like a frat boy instead of a middle-aged father, mad as hell. Though silence would be the worst. She couldn’t risk it, that wound. She knew—and knew Roger knew—the Green text didn’t really exist. A gift not to be acknowledged. A wink between corrupt politicians. She couldn’t even tell Ash. He’d blow it up twenty different ways.
Greta bent to drink from the bathroom tap before slipping back inside the bedroom. Ash starfish-sprawled on top of his blanket, undisturbed by the scene at the door. She climbed into bed, not ready to be awake in the quiet house by herself. She thought about sleepovers when they were kids. Ash used to love the idea of a sleepover until it was actually time to go. Then he would cling to Diana or Roger. Diana would cajole him, whisper in his ear, “Go enjoy yourself! Home will always be here!”
Greta shook her younger self, shouted a message back through time: Run, run home. Hold on tight. It will disappear. What remained? Ash. Two children clinging to a buoy in the middle of an ocean storm.
The phone pinged. Roger. She scrambled for it, accidentally bumping it to the floor with a clatter. Ash smacked his lips and rolled on his side.
A new number. Not Roger, Rachel or Nate. Its been a few days. Whats going on? Greta stared at the two sentences. A few days since what? School? Someone who’d noticed she’d been gone but didn’t know anything else.
Who is this? Greta texted back.
A pause. Priya.
Priya? Really? Greta didn’t know what to tell her. What was going on? And how much did she want to share with Priya? Not much, Greta answered.
R u coming back to school?
Idk. She sent it and waited a full minute for a reply.
Can we meet?
This time Greta waited before responding. What did Priya want? If she’d told Greta the truth before, that she wasn’t exactly the president of the Rachel and Dylan Fan Club, maybe she wanted a trash-talk session. Or was this about reconciliation with that group? Why? Greta texted back.
Just want to talk to u. No more than half an hour. Meet at Mulligans at lunchtime?
Just the two of us?
Yes.
Ash wouldn’t like it. A sniper drawing her out alone to get a good shot. She could invite him along—not on school property, after all—but what kind of conversation would they have with him glowering nearby? OK. I’ll come. Curiosity egged her on. Priya wouldn’t hurt her, would she? Unintentionally make her feel inadequate—yes. Actually inflict pain—no.
Greta watched the room lighten. Ash rolled onto his side, the pink crescent scar visible on his bare back. She tried playing a game on her phone with the sound off but then set it aside, annoyed by the tedious blinking lights. She couldn’t sit here all morning, waiting for an argument with Ash.
Can you meet sooner? Greta texted Priya and waited. This mystery meeting made her twitchy. Plus, to make Ash happy, a last-minute change might throw off Priya’s plans to drag someone along.
One minute passed. Two minutes. Then: You mean right now?
In about half an hour.
Greta knew Priya was probably in the middle of a class. The phone screen slipped into sleep mode, waiting. A minute later it brightened with a message. See you in half an hour.
This had better not be a repeat of her me
eting with Rachel, where she’d basically said, “You’re an attention-hungry prude who preys on innocent jocks.” Greta stood on shaky footing—a homemade rope bridge dangling over a ravine—but held fast to the one fact: I didn’t say yes. Then clarity got lost in the details. She always returned from that memory with a blank feeling of loss. She didn’t need someone kicking more dirt on it.
Greta threw on the previous day’s clothes and ran a brush through her hair. As Ash stirred in bed, she slipped out the front door and jogged two blocks to catch a bus. Sun glared off the snow, making water prick her eyes. Her parka hung open, cooling her flushed body.
Mulligans was three blocks from the school, the kind of place that made grilled-cheese sandwiches and called them “panini” or served Sprite from a can as “limonata.” Priya sat in a booth near the window. For some reason, Greta had wanted to get there first, to anchor herself in a spot before Priya showed up.
“Hey.” Greta slipped into the vinyl seat across from Priya, suddenly breathless.
“Hi, Greta.” Priya paused between words, like she had to think about Greta’s name. Then she smiled, as if waiting for Greta to speak first. Her arms thin in a black sweater, cat eyeliner.
“How are you?” Greta started with that. The only thing she really knew to say.
“Good. Not bad.” Priya nodded, looking around them. Only a few others—a group in their midtwenties—sat on stools at the bar, drinking coffee. “You?”
Greta gave the same kind of nod, tapping her fingers on the tabletop. The server came over. Greta ordered a limonata, and Priya asked for a cappuccino.
After the server left, Priya looked at Greta and steepled her fingers. She said, “So I noticed you haven’t been around since the…incident…in the gym.”
Greta sighed and looked away. Too much to say about that. “Nope. I’m sure you can understand why.”
“Wow, that was…something.” Priya started to chuckle and then pulled it in, like it had slipped out unintentionally. “I wouldn’t want to be on your brother’s bad side.” Greta didn’t want to tell her she already was—lumped in with the rest of them.
“I didn’t ask him to beat up Dylan.” She felt defensive for Ash, her ferocious ally. “I was just as surprised as everyone else.”
“Oh”—Priya snorted—“I’m sure Dylan had it coming. It’s just that no one else in that school has the balls.” She laughed again, this time unapologetically.
The server plunked the drinks on the table and walked away, probably sensing an abysmal tip. Greta knew she wouldn’t be back.
“So why did you want to see me?” Greta needed to know the trajectory of this, what to steel herself for.
Priya stopped and cleared her throat. “Okay. I know you didn’t have the best experiences with my friends, and then your brother beat up Dylan. But”—she drew out the word—“I don’t think it’s fair for you to be chased away from school.”
When Greta didn’t answer, Priya continued. “Look, I know we haven’t exactly been close, but I can’t help but feel something’s not right here.” She looked at Greta, almost shy. “That maybe you’re paying for something you didn’t do.”
She knew. At least part of it. The way she leaned forward and peered into Greta’s eyes, trying to prop open a stubborn gate and hold it there.
Greta looked to the people at the bar, smiling, chatting so easily. “You talked to Rachel?”
Priya nodded without looking away. “She finally told me their side of things. They’re all pissed about it. I don’t think anyone else knows.”
“What I said was true.” Anger coated each of her words.
Priya nodded. “Can you tell me your side?”
Greta studied Priya’s face. To trust her or not? Part of Greta clamored to tell her side, could hardly hold the words back. I’m here! I’ve been cut off and made to disappear. I’m here! The other part restrained her, held everything tight, protected. Goddess Priya—did she bring blessing or wrath? That was always the question. But Greta wasn’t at West Edmonton High anymore. Why did she still protect them? Protect them to protect herself?
“This is my side,” Greta said, sitting up straight. “I was too drunk to walk or talk that night at the cabin, and then Dylan told me the next morning that we’d had sex. For a while I just thought I’d made a mistake—used bad judgment—but then I realized I hadn’t had the chance to say yes or no. I finally told Ash, and you saw what happened next.”
A flicker of something in Priya’s eyes, and her face tightened. Greta wanted to snatch back her words, regretting her trust. She folded her arms to protect her center, the smashed pieces of her insides waking to pinch her again.
“I felt a little worried leaving you there,” Priya said, looking down. “I should have stayed or brought you with me.”
Guilt. The goddess Priya felt guilty. “I don’t blame you, Priya. You tried.” She left out the part about not wanting to leave with Priya, that stupid jealousy that seemed now like a spat over a Ken doll. “That’s the last thing I remember, actually.”
Priya’s face twitched. She pulled her body up to match Greta’s, somehow seeming taller than her. “I believe you, Greta.”
The words reached Greta, stilling her insides. Blood, bones, flesh grew and bloomed. The Greta who stood alone against the whole school threw back her shoulders and drew her first real breath. Of course Ash believed her too. But he would stand by her side and fight like a badger no matter what she told him, take on anyone he felt had wronged her.
Greta cleared her throat, fighting the urge to leap from her seat and bear-hug Priya. “Thank you.” Not enough. Not nearly enough. She exhaled a slow breath to steady herself. “That means a lot to me.”
“Well,” Priya said, “I know Dylan. He isn’t one to ask permission. I remember when we were dating, he used to take my hands and put them…on him.” Priya looked away, like she’d said too much. “That was a red flag for me. I knew it wasn’t going to work out.”
“Did they tell you about the weekend after that?” Greta asked.
“No.” Priya shook her head, frowning. “There’s more?”
Greta told her about refusing Dylan, his meltdown and being left behind. Ash having to steal Patty’s car to rescue her. She left out the panic. That awful panic, wandering in the dark, fear hovering like a pack of ghouls. Shame. Embarrassment. Fear. Even now, they lingered close.
Priya flopped back in her seat, her mouth falling open. “What?”
Greta nodded, nothing more to say.
After a moment of gasping, Priya said, “I can’t believe it. I mean, I can, but I can’t.” She shook her head, trying to make sense of the words. “I can believe that Dylan thinks every human on the planet wants to sleep with him. It must’ve hurt his tender little feelings when you said no. So he left you to die in the woods?” She swore. “And Rachel and Matt went along with it.” Her cheeks flushed red and her arms twitched, as if the anger was attacking her body.
“Here’s the thing I can’t shake,” Greta said. It was a leap, a mighty leap off the side of a building. But she had to say it, while Priya still whirled off-kilter. “I can’t help but feel I was responsible for some of this. Not all of it, but like I played a part.”
Priya recoiled. “Say what?” When Greta didn’t answer immediately, she asked, “What part might that be?”
“Well, for one, I drank way too much. I was trying to keep up with everyone, and I hardly drink at all. That was stupid.”
“Greta—”
“It wouldn’t have happened if I’d been sober, or at least not passed out.” There it was. Greta realized the weight of those words as soon as she hoisted them onto Priya. So many layers to work through. So many stories she had whispered to herself.
“Greta.” Priya reached across the table and touched Greta’s hand. “I’ve drunk too much at parties before too. Guess what happened to me?”
“You got sick?”
“Yeah, I did. I’ve thrown up. Once, I passed out.
I’ve had hangovers.”
Greta waited for her to continue.
“This kid at my old school got alcohol poisoning. That was kind of scary. But those are some of the things that happen to your body when you drink too much. Guess what’s not on that list?”
Greta shrugged.
“Getting raped.”
Greta flinched. It was too much, that word. She wanted to protest. Priya had it wrong—full-on rape was something different. This was something different. But the words swelled and jammed in her throat. They pushed water into her eyes. She rubbed it away, shielded by the heels of her hands, her protest still blocked inside of her.
“Anything else?” Priya asked, her voice gentle.
Greta nodded and took a drink of lukewarm fake limonata, trying to clear a way for more words. “I always felt stupid for saying no to Dylan the second time, when I’d already slept with him before.” She heard the words outside her mouth, how absurd they sounded. But she’d gone this far. “Like, in a way I triggered what happened after.”
“Well, Greta,” Priya said, “you didn’t consent to sleeping with him the first time. Also, what are you, a blow-up doll? You could’ve said yes a hundred times and still had a right to say no the hundred and first.”
Greta nodded, her voice gone again. On one level she had already known it, everything Priya said. But hearing it out loud, from another person, freed her. This load she had carried with her, tried to sort through, rejected, then always picked up again—she could finally stand on the precipice and hurl it off the edge. She watched the rocks and boulders shrink to pebbles as they fell, then disappeared. Maybe gone for good.
Trail of Crumbs Page 14
