It’s not until I reach the end of the report that I realize I’m an idiot.
Not everyone who gets kidnapped becomes victims of the Stockholm syndrome. But for some people it is a way of survival. The worst thing is when the hostages join up with their kidnappers and continue to do bad things. Or when they can’t forget the horrible things that happened to them. Or when they feel so guilty, they . . .
Goose bumps prickle my arms. A wave of nausea hits me like a mudslide. I scream out loud when Schmule’s phone rings at my elbow.
Dad asks, “Aren’t you going to school today?”
“I overslept.”
“Is Klara there? I have a conference next week. I want to make sure I have a clean suit.”
“She took Schmule to school.”
“Sam,” he corrects me absently. “Well, tell her I need the Pierre Cardin. The gray one, not the black. And I’m running low on shirts, so she needs to drop those off, too, and—”
“Dad! Stop. I have to tell you something.” I eye the red folder. “About”—I force the name out—”Sam.”
How do I explain how all the clues add up? All that weirdness with his pills. The day he smacked his face into that desk. How he freaked out in the car when I tried to take him to Fran’s. His moodiness, the bedwetting, and now this awful report? Granted, I’m not a five-hundred-dollar-an-hour shrink. But I’m positive Schmule’s report is really about himself.
Something is wrong!
Dad sighs into my ear. “Look, honey, I know you still think he’s depressed.” Yeah, Julie probably related every single word of our conversation. “If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll take him out to dinner tonight, just the two of us. Maybe he’ll open up to me a bit and we can have a private chat. I’ll feel him out. What do you think?”
On one hand I hate the idea of Dad interrogating Schmule over a basket of french fries. On the other hand, if Dad approaches it the right way, he might see for himself what I’ve been saying all along.
My own sigh of relief almost blows the receiver from my hand.
103
Charles and I hike through the park as the afternoon sun dips lower and lower. Dad’s Navigator pulls out of the driveway as we mosey back up the walk. Dad waves at me and Schmule sticks out his tongue. I bet he’d much rather hang out and play video games tonight. Or poke bamboo skewers through his eardrums.
I wonder what Arye would think about this Stockholm syndrome thing. How could he not understand the chilling significance? But no point in freaking him out, too. Besides, face it—I’m just looking for an excuse to see him again.
A pulsating heat tingles between my thighs. I shudder deliciously, remembering how he touched me. Well, at least now, without a doubt, I know that I’m attracted to guys. That the strange revulsion I felt for Devon was, well, because it was Devon, ha-ha.
Too lazy to heat up the dinner Klara left for me, I wolf down a bowl of Rice Chex and head to my room. Tonight, hopefully, I can finish up my art project once and for all.
I drag the sheet off my worktable—and freeze.
Insidious scratch marks, carved by something very sharp, replace Schmule’s face in each picture I’d already pasted onto the board. Sketches I spent weeks on, copying from photographs, adding tiny, colorful details.
I fall into my chair, sick with incomprehension. Months and months of work, all down the toilet.
Schmule. Who else?
Why would he do this?
When I can breathe again, I peek at the extra photos scattered on my table. My stomach hits my knees. Picture after picture, hopelessly mutilated, Schmule’s head scissored out of every scene. Our family portrait hits me hardest of all: Dad, smiling proudly, his hand on Schmule’s shoulder; then me, uptight and nervous, although my hair does look fabulous; then a ragged black hole, sandwiched between Schmule’s newly sprouted brown curls and sassy red necktie.
My disbelief boils over into rage.
Every. Single. Picture!
My whole project, destroyed.
104
“It’s a sign,” LeeLee says when I phone her in a panic. “He’s cutting himself out of the family. It’s symbolic.”
“Of what?”
“Did you, like, sleep through junior psych? He’s erasing himself. Is he giving stuff away, too?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, good. Because that’s really a major sign of—” She stops.
“He’s only ten years old!”
“What planet are you on?” She listens patiently to my long, miserable silence. “Shawna, please tell your dad about those pictures. And tell that shrink while you’re at it.”
“What if they think he’s crazy?”
“Well, I know you don’t want to hear this. But maybe he is.”
105
I can’t function till Dad and Schmule return from the restaurant. They stumble in, laughing and joking, a gold paper crown crammed on Schmule’s head.
“Dad told ’em it was my birthday. Man, all these people came over and sang happy birthday. I got a free dessert!”
Dad plucks the crown off and ruffles Schmule’s hair. “Okay, sport, party’s over. Get ready for bed now. School tomorrow.”
“Can I play my new game for a while?”
“Half an hour. Then lights out, champ.”
“Yes!” Schmule arcs a fist through the air and zooms upstairs.
Sport? Champ? Not only am I hearing voices, I’m hearing the wrong words coming out of the wrong people.
Dad hands me a Styrofoam box. “You didn’t eat yet, did you? I brought you a salad.”
Who is this man who looks so much like my dad? My real dad never brought home a doggy bag in his life.
I drop it onto the table. “Dad, listen. And don’t blow me off. I was talking to LeeLee tonight, about depression, okay? And she said—”
Dad’s demeanor plummets below sea level. “I don’t care what she said. And speaking of her, I ran into Deb Connolly a while back. She had some very interesting things to say about her.” Dad shrugs out of his suit coat. “Frankly, I’m surprised. I always wondered about that girl.”
Well, thank you, Devon or Susan, for blabbing about LeeLee’s sex life, to your mommy, no less. “You wondered what?”
“Let’s just say I had a few doubts about her character. Obviously, I was right.”
“What does character have to do with being gay?” Maybe I misunderstood him.
“Shawna, please,” Dad says tiredly. “In case you didn’t notice, I was in a pretty good mood up until three minutes ago,”
“Being gay makes you a bad person?”
“I never said that.”
Oh, yes, you did. I’ve heard it my whole life. You made me believe it, too.
I’m smarter than that now.
“But look at your mother.” Dad stops. Silent, I wait, until he realizes I’m not walking away from this. “What kind of mother leaves her seven-year-old daughter behind? Was she worried about you? Concerned? Did she take me to court when I went for full custody? No! Out of sight, out of mind—and that’s what I mean by character. Any other mother would fight tooth and nail for her child. All she cared about was making a name for herself.” Agitated, he runs his fingers around his collar. “What the hell kind of character would you call that?”
I sting from the brutality of the words “any other mother.” “Straight people dump their kids all the time.”
“It’s their lifestyle I’m talking about. The promiscuity. Why do you think so many people die from AIDS?”
“Mom and Fran stayed together for ten years. They weren’t promiscuous.”
“As far as you know. You didn’t live with them, now, did you?”
As usual, I can’t win. He always has a comeback, no matter how illogical.
I try to remember what started this. “Forget Mom. This is about Schmule.” Before he can squash me, the words explode from my lips: “I-think-he-might-be-planning-to-kill-himself-or-something.”<
br />
Dad steadies himself, white-knuckled, on the edge of the bar. “What did you say?”
I repeat it. Not only that, I give him the specifics. Schmule’s report for Mr. Gorski. The way he goofs around with his pills. And although I suspect Schmule will never forgive me, I tell Dad about that bedwetting thing, too.
Wisely, I leave out that last episode on the way to Fran’s. The less Dad knows about that, the better for all of us.
When I begin to explain about my ruined project, Dad stops me. “Enough,” he murmurs. “Christ, I had no idea—”
I melt with relief.
“—you’d pull something like this.”
Stunned, I shout, “I’m not pulling anything! Every word I said is true!”
“If he’s suicidal, Shawna, then guess what? I’ll have to put him in the hospital. Is that what you want?”
I say nothing.
“Is it?” he shouts.
I hold my ground as he takes a step closer. I see, or maybe imagine, his flicker of surprise.
Neither of us blinks.
“I don’t ever want to discuss this with you again.”
My brain kicks in, telling my legs to move. I’m almost to the door when Dad speaks up. His tone has changed; he sounds torn, ragged. “Shawna. Don’t you want to know how it went tonight?”
Sure, Dad. Tell me how happy “Sam” was when they stuck that crown on his head. Tell me how stupid I am for being so afraid for him.
“We had a great time. He ate like a horse for a change. He joked around, told me stories. I had no idea how much fun he could be. He’s sharp, too. Oh, the things he comes up with.” Dad grows distant, not even facing me anymore. “Do you have any idea how this made me feel? To be sitting at a table, in public, having a good time with my own son?”
He was faking, Dad. He wants you to think everything’s fine.
“And yes, he opened up to me. I asked him about feeling depressed, and he said yes, he’d been sad for a while, but now he’s happy to be here. He’s nuts about your grandfather.” A smile plays at his mouth. “And he sure loves you, honey.”
I know. I love him back.
I gasp when Dad draws me into an unexpected hug. “You’re a good girl, Shawna. But you worry too much. Sam’ll be fine, I promise. We did the right thing.”
106
Escaping at last, I watch Schmule battle a barrage of virtual zombies. Seemingly hypnotized, he destroys every last one and whoops in triumph.
“Cool game?”
“Awesome! It’s new. Dad bought it for me on the way home. You should play with me sometime,” he insists for the thousandth time. “I’ll show you. It’s easy.”
“Okay.” I study the package: Revenge of the Bloodlusters. “What happened to Yoshi’s Island?”
“Baby stuff. Fran would never let me have anything this cool!”
Fran. Not “Mom.”
“I can show you now,” he adds, with a longing glance at his collection of pricey game consoles, hoping to cajole some extra play time out of me. “Maybe if we’re reeeally quiet. ..”
I sit gingerly on the bed. “Not now, because there’s something we have to talk about.” No recognition. “Those pictures?”
Schmule’s eyes flash to the door as we hear Dad’s footsteps in the hall. “Don’t tell him, okay?”
“It’s too late. I already did.”
He jumps hard onto the bed, nearly bouncing me off. His icy blue stare slices me with resentment.
I try to explain. “I didn’t tell him because I’m mad at you, Schmoo. I told him because I’m, well, worried about you.”
“Worried about what?”
“Worried that . . . you might do something bad? To yourself?”
“You mean, like, kill myself?” His stare widens. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re sad?”
“I’m not sad. Why should I be sad? I mean, look at all those people who, like, live in the slums. All those druggies and boozers, all those homeless people. All the people who get, like, beat up and robbed. I bet they get sad, but they don’t all kill themselves, duh. That’s, like . ..” His shoulders convulse. Oh, my God—he’s laughing! “Jeez, Shawna. You’re too freakin’ funny sometimes.”
“Stop laughing! You had me worried sick!” He stops giggling, and I hear myself rage, “So why did you total my project? I worked on that for months! If I can’t figure out how to fix it I’ll get a big fat zero.”
“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, sorry, sorry!” He throws the sheet over his head and rolls to one side. “Leave me alone. I’m tired.”
“I’m not leaving you alone till you tell me why you did it.”
A long, quaking silence. Then he blurts out, “Sam.”
“Sam what?”
“Sam did it.”
“Schmule. You are Sam.”
“I know!” He whips the covers off again. “I’m Sam. I—am—Sam! Sam—I—am!” He starts laughing again, but not his usual laugh. A harsh and monotonous “HA. HA. HA.” Each venomous syllable drawn out and distinct.
I scramble closer, tackle him, and hug him hard. He stays stiff in my arms, his chin a slice of steel digging into my shoulder. Then his violent hug knocks the air out of my lungs.
“I’m sorry I ruined your stuff,” he says mournfully against my neck.
“I know.” Fighting tears, I rock him the way Poppy rocks in his chair. Back and forth, back and forth. “Are you going to be okay with us?” His head bumps my jaw as he nods. “I mean really, really okay? Because if you weren’t, you’d tell me. Wouldn’t you, Schmoo?”
“You mean if, like you said, I was gonna do something bad to myself?”
“Are you?” I whisper.
A tiny scoff from the back of his throat. “Duh. Don’t be stupid, Shawna.”
I sit bolt upright and hold him away from me. He stares back, and yes, I’ve seen those eyes. I’ve heard that voice. I know that expression all too well.
“I love you,” I say numbly.
He replies, “Yeah. I love ya, too,” in his Schmule voice now, not the other one. He watches me slink off the bed and stumble to the door. “Hey, Shawna? If you do want to play Bloodlusters, you can have the Wii. I mean, yeesh, who needs, like, three fricking game things?”
Somebody flips a kill switch. Every neuron in my brain fizzles out.
“Didja hear me?”
“I heard you,” I say lightly. “So, will you teach me how to use it?”
“Oh, it’s a cinch. A baby could figure it out.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Yeah, you could,” he insists. “You won’t need me. I promise.”
107
When I wake up at three and can’t fall back asleep, I spend the next two hours trying to repair my project. Thank God it’s not due for a couple of weeks. This might give me time to come up with another idea.
Or not.
I leave the pictures as they are, take out my pencils, and carefully copy the few photos I have left. After adding dashes of color, I stand back, exhausted, to survey the finished product. Perfectly sketched scenes, some as small as Post-its, pieced together like a mosaic fresco. Faces of me, of my friends, my family, my dog. My “Life as a Collage” with Schmule’s bare foot placed prominently in the center.
Scattered among the hundreds of drawings on the board, multiple gouged-out faces follow me sightlessly. The effect is chilling. I deserve an A for that alone.
I touch the drawing of Schmule’s foot. I can almost feel the warm pulse, beating softly under my finger.
Now I know what I have to do.
And I have to do it today.
108
When the birds start chirping outside my window, I shower, wash my hair, and throw on a pot of coffee. Dad strolls into the kitchen at quarter past five. “You’re up early,” I say.
“I have four C-sections today. The first one’s at seven. Quads, in fact. No fertility drugs at all. Do you have any idea what the chances are of that?�
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No, but I bet Schmule would.
“What are you doing up?” he asks.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He nods, possibly remembering our conversation last night. Then, “Well, Klara starts her vacation today. Which means,” he add as he snaps the lid to his travel mug, scoops up his bag, and heads for the door, “you’ll have to drive Schmule to school. And pick him up later if you don’t mind.”
I wait for the caveat—”And I mean straight to school and straight back home!”—but he says nothing of the sort. Does he trust me again? Or is this a test?
I doze in front of the news but luckily wake up in time to rouse Schmule for school.
“I’m sick.” He rubs his stomach. “I’m staying home. I think that steak last night gave me E. coli.” He slaps my hand away as I reach for his forehead. “I said I’m staying home.”
“You can’t stay home. Klara’s not here.”
“I know that, duh.”
Cogs of renewed suspicion clank through my brain. “Well, you can’t stay here alone.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so. Now move.”
I brush tangles out of my hair, put on some makeup, and slip into my uniform. Soon I’ll be shopping for a new wardrobe for Kenyon and I will never have to wear this lame uniform again. I hold my bangs off my forehead and stare at my eyes in the mirror. Pale blue orbs, each in a sea of pink, the shadows below them so dark even cover-up can’t save me. Not only do I look like I’ve been up since three, now my insides squirm like a basket of vipers.
Too strung out for breakfast, I wait for Schmule to make his belated appearance. He meanders down, dragging his bookbag—thump, thump, thump as it lands on each step.
“Did you brush your teeth?” I ask. “You have all your stuff?”
“Yes, Mommy. And by the way, I’m still sick!”
“What about your report?”
This catches him off guard. “Huh?”
“Your report. The Stockholm syndrome?” I point to the stairs when he doesn’t budge. “Go get it.”
Say the Word Page 23
