by Kylie Scott
John's gaze returned to me and he took a deep breath, his frown turning into a determined scowl. "I wanted to thank you for telling the cops I wasn't involved, and that I tried to get us all out of there alive." He shifted his weight on the window ledge, balanced half-in and half-out of my room. "That's what I wanted to say when I called."
I cocked my head. His short words had launched a host of questions. I asked the last one first: "You called?"
"Yeah. A couple of days after. I talked to your mom."
Huh. "She never told me you called."
"Oh." He grabbed the back of his neck, rubbing at the muscles there. "Okay."
His face went neutral. Sometimes it was next to impossible to tell what was going on behind it. Why the hell hadn't Mom told me about him calling? Guess she'd been brainwashed by the cops and the drug-dealing accusations. Which still didn't make it okay.
Meanwhile, Mom would have a meltdown if she knew I had a boy in my room. Though technically, he wasn't in my room, just sitting on the windowsill. Highly doubt the technicality would get me out of being grounded, however.
"Sorry about that. That's kind of you to check up on me. It would have been good to talk." I tried to meet his eyes, but settled for staring vaguely at his shoulder. "I would have called you back--"
"Not a big deal, Edie." He shrugged off my concerns. "I just wanted to say thanks. It really made a difference." He nodded to himself, satisfied, as if in conveying his thanks he had done what he set out to do.
"How did it make a difference?"
Silence answered me. His eyes fixed onto mine, and for a moment his aura of badass cool deserted him, and he looked lost and alone. And young. Despite the sharp angles of his face and the scruff on his chin. "Isaac wasn't my friend," he said, taking a deep breath. "I was his dealer. I was selling that night at the Drop Stop. He was there because of me." He swallowed and looked away, scowling out into the night. I waited him out, and eventually he returned to my question. "The cops found two ounces in the back of the Charger. But they gave me a pass on it. They said there was a witness talking about me being a hero and saving her life. You must have been pretty persuasive. I've never had a cop cut me any slack before."
"Well, I'm glad it helped," I said, "but I was only telling the truth--you did save my life."
The trace of a sad smile flitted around the corners of his mouth.
I pulled myself forward on the bed and gathered the sheets up around my legs. "Why did you tell yourself not to come here?"
"Because I'm poison." His eyes fixed on mine. "I don't want to drag you down. That's why I didn't speak to you at school. If the teachers even see us talking they'll slot you in the 'don't bother' category without a second thought. There's no coming back from that. And the morons at school are no better. They'll just think they can use you to score some cheap weed."
"Yeah. That's happened already, actually."
John frowned. "Sorry."
"It's fine," I said. "Nothing I can't handle."
"Let me know if that changes." He frowned some more.
"It's fine," I repeated. "I couldn't care less about any of it."
"You should," he chided. "Especially the teachers. I tried showing up to a math study group during lunch a week ago, and the teacher wouldn't even let me into the room. Just thought I was there to deal or cause trouble."
"That's so unfair."
"No, it's not. I earned it." His voice dripped with bitterness, and his lip curled into a sneer. Whoa. Some serious self-loathing going on there. "But it would be unfair if any of it rubbed off on you. You don't deserve it."
His legs coiled up beneath him, and his body tilted away from me, as if he was about to slip off the edge and into the garden below.
"Do you have trouble sleeping?" I blurted. "Since it happened?"
He stopped mid-movement, as if surprised by my question. Then he settled himself firmly back on the windowsill, shifting around a little, getting comfortable. Facing half-away from me, his head tilted in a slow nod.
"Nightmares, too?" I asked.
"Every night," he said. A sudden smile flashed across his face, as if something in him had lightened at my words. He looked down and away, hiding his expression.
"I heard you hit someone at your old school," he said.
Guess news traveled fast. "Yeah. That happened."
Again the nod, this time followed by silence. He seemed happy enough, settled on the windowsill, one hand hanging down. His fingers rubbed absently at my scrunched-up bedsheet.
"How's your brother?" I asked, mentally high-fiving myself for coming up with something to say.
"Ah, yeah," he said, shoving a hand through his hair. "Haven't really seen him lately. Dillon's not much better than Chris. Moved on from selling weed to doing the hard stuff himself a year back. He'll probably be just like Chris in a couple of years."
"Sorry."
"Me too." He paused. "One thing I was wondering . . ."
"What?"
"When you took the gun . . ."
My throat tightened. "Yes?"
"You really think you could have pulled the trigger?"
"I did. It was out of bullets."
His brows arched. "You did?"
"Yes," I said, offering a tight smile.
"Huh." He didn't need to look quite that surprised.
"Don't be so impressed. If there had been ammo, I probably would have hit you by mistake."
He huffed out a laugh, and it was hard not to grin back at him.
John blinked once, twice.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing. Just never seen you smile before." For a moment he looked thoughtful, as if his words were going somewhere. But they didn't.
"I'd better go." He dropped my sheet and moved to leave. "This is a nice area," he said, making his way out over the windowsill, "but you probably shouldn't leave your window wide open at night."
I shrugged. "I don't like having the AC on all the time, makes me stuffy."
He grunted disapprovingly, and jumped down from my window ledge. Fortunately, Mom hadn't gotten around to planting any flowers there yet. "'Night, Edie."
"See you at school," I said, moving to the window to see him off, and gathering the bedsheets around me, toga-style.
"Mm." Standing in the shadows of the garden, I could just see his jaw firm in the dim light. "I meant what I said. Best if I stay away from you."
"No. No, not really. When you think about it . . ."
We just looked at each other for a minute. Nothing was said.
"I just meant it felt good to talk," I fumbled. "I'm glad you came over. This whole thing has been kind of isolating, I guess."
He stared back up at me, his face inscrutable. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I lost a lot of friends when I stopped dealing."
"I don't know if they're really your friends if they're just using you for dope."
"Huh. Maybe not."
"Sorry," I said, hating the defeated slump of his shoulders. Me and my big mouth. "That was a little harsh."
"Probably true though."
I said nothing.
"'Night." Then he disappeared into the shadows. Soon enough, the growl of his car carried through the quiet. I hung out the window, listening until it faded into the distance. Stars twinkled up high, clouds drifting around.
What a strange night.
I closed the window and tried to get some sleep, but of course my mind wouldn't shut up. On and on, it kept going over his visit. Replaying the conversation, chopping and changing things. The version where he suddenly threw himself at my feet, declaring his eternal love and promising me all sorts of sexual gratification, was my favorite. I wondered if I'd ever get the chance to talk to him again.
"'Scuse me." Two girls stood near our table at lunch the next day, one watching me, her mouth in a fierce line. "You're Edie, right?"
"Yes."
"I, ah . . ." When she hesitated, the second girl started rubbing her back. They were both in chee
rleader uniforms, pretty, and slim. A couple of days of turning down every request for marijuana assistance had cooled off the interest in me, happily. But here we go again.
"You were there when Isaac died," said the second girl. A statement, not a question.
I nodded, a little startled.
Tears slid down the first girl's face, her voice tightening. "Did he suffer? Or was it fast? Did h-he . . ."
"It's okay, Liv," her friend said softly, before turning to me with sad eyes. "They'd been together for nearly a year."
"I'm so sorry," I said.
Familiar feelings of hopelessness and loss stirred inside. Death and pain were all shadows and isolation. But seeing the desperation of the people left behind, of being part of the debris of someone's life, it tore me apart. Behind her tears hid the recriminations, the blame, and I had no words of healing, nothing real to offer.
Why was I still here when Isaac was gone?
Small chance something special would come of my life. Fate and luck were bullshit. Things just did happen sometimes, and searching for meaning in them didn't get you a damn thing.
"It was fast," I said, fingernails pressing into the flesh of my palms. "I don't think he even felt it. He was just gone."
Lips trembling, she nodded, though it looked more like a shiver.
"He saved my life, him and John. You should know that."
"He did?"
I nodded.
"We were going to take a gap year, go down to South America," she said through her tears. "There's this program for helping to build houses."
Useless, I just sat there.
"He'd be glad you got out all right," she said.
"Would he?"
"Yes."
Silence stretched. Finally, the friend led Isaac's girlfriend away.
I'd thought I was done with crying; however, the old scratchy, swollen-eyed feeling came easily. "I have to go."
Hang sighed. "Edie . . ."
All but running, I headed straight for the nearest bathroom. Not stopping until I'd locked myself into one of the stalls. With the toilet lid down, I sat and just tried to breathe. In and out, lungs moving, there was nothing to it really. So why the hell was it so hard?
I stayed there for the rest of lunch. Sometimes, hiding was best. I should probably do it more often.
The problem started with The Catcher in the Rye.
Sure, it might be just a book. Pages, ink, and glue, nothing more. But it sat on my school desk, staring at me, taunting me, while the English teacher babbled on up in front of the class.
". . . your essay will involve giving me an interpretation of the themes contained in Holden's journey through New York in the fifties, blah, blah, blah. It's due next Friday and will account for twenty percent of your grade, blah, blah, blah. Any questions?"
My hand shot up.
"Edith? Paying attention for once, are we? Good work."
So my focus was a little shot to shit these days. Everyone had their issues. "It's Edie. And can we please choose a different book?"
"No, Edie." Mrs. Ryder gave me a tired look over the top of her glasses. "The Catcher in the Rye is the book." She turned to the rest of the class. "Does anybody else have any questions?"
I put my hand up again.
The teacher gave me a sour look.
"It's just that I already studied this book at my last school."
"Then you should have no trouble this time around," she said.
"But it's pointless," I continued. "He's a depressed kid wandering around New York, having random encounters with friends and strangers, none of whom particularly make him feel any better, then he gets sick and goes back to school, the end."
Absolute silence. Every eye in the class was on me. The ones behind me belonging to a certain boy held particular weight.
"It's a work of great American fiction." Mrs. Ryder's lips were pursed.
"But it's a book that comes with a body count." I couldn't shut up; I wouldn't. I had to make her understand. "People have died because of it. I'm surprised the NRA hasn't slapped a certification sticker on the front cover, for Christ's sake."
Behind me, John swore.
"Edith." Her gaze gentled and she rose to her feet. "Calm down. That's enough."
"But what if it happens again?" I asked, also standing, heart and lungs working hard. "What if Holden Caulfield's teenage masturbatory angst yet again sends someone into a rage and they go shoot a few people? What then? It's happened before, but this time it'll be on your head."
"Edie--"
"Holden Caulfield is a killer!"
The couch in the shrink's office was comfortable. Seriously comfortable. I could have curled up and gone to sleep if not for all the dumb questions.
"And how do you feel today, Edie?"
"Fine." I slumped back into the peach-colored sofa, a smile stuck on my face. Not sure if I could keep it up for the full fifty minutes; my cheeks were already starting to ache. "Thanks."
Everything in the office had been decorated in a soothing, nonthreatening off-white. A neat line of framed college degrees hung on one wall. Out the window, a lovely view of a park. Nice.
"Why don't we talk about the night of the robbery?" said Mr. Solomon, his eyes kind, curious.
I could do without either emotion coming from a stranger. "Because it was horrible, shitty, and messed up and now it's over?"
The counselor frowned.
"Look, let me explain my open aggression to you. You see, my mother made me come here," I said, wiping damp palms on the sides of my jeans. Like I needed more stress in my life. Honestly, I could have screamed. "I'm here to make her feel better. I don't want to talk about the robbery. Not to you, not really to anyone, not ever. You see, this can't help, us talking, because it'll just make me think about it more and I'm really doing my best to avoid that."
"All right. What do you want, Edie?"
"I want to leave."
Mr. Solomon looked at his watch. "With your mom waiting out in the reception area, I'm guessing you're probably not going to want to do that for another forty-five minutes."
Awesome.
"So why don't we talk about something else?"
I sighed, stared at the ceiling. "Do you read?"
"Mostly medical journals." He scrunched up his lips, obviously thinking deep thoughts. "I don't suppose you're into bowling?"
"Not in this lifetime. You watch movies?"
"Only every chance I get."
I leaned back, crossed my legs, and got comfortable. "Okay then. Let's talk."
At the end of the hour he referred me to a doctor for a prescription for some happy pills. Guess my predilection for zombie films gave him concern.
For the rest of the week, I had after-school detention due to tardiness (a.k.a. hiding out in the bathroom during a couple of minor freak-outs) and not paying attention in class once or twice. Or a few more times than that. I'd never had detention before; I was always the bookish and quiet type. A good girl. Punching people, arguing with teachers, and running late to class . . . good girls generally didn't do that sort of shit. Unfortunately, I found it hard to care. I mean, what did it matter? Life went on; no one had died as a result. The principal said it would go on my permanent record. Permanent? Please. Bullets were permanent. Everything else was temporary.
Mom would even get over it eventually.
The usual array of naughty types surrounded me. One girl with cool blue mermaid hair was scratching her name into her desk. Some were reading, doing their homework. Others stared at the ceiling or out the window. Up front, the teacher stayed busy on her cell phone, probably playing Candy Crush or sexting someone.
"Psst," came from behind me, followed by a sharp tug on the end of my braid.
"Hey," I growled, frowning back at the buffoon. "Don't touch."
"Sorry. I'm Anders." His grin was wide, his hair cut short. The package contained an excess of both cuteness and cooldom.
I said nothing.
"You're Edie," he said. "John told me about you."
"He did?" I frowned, realization slowly dawning. The basketball kid who'd caught a lift home with him the other day. Right. "Hi."
"Hi." Chin in hand, he looked me over. God, here we go. Shoulders tensed, I waited for the usual array of insults--fat, ugly, whatever. Maybe I had a chip on my shoulder. More than likely, I'd gotten used to expecting the worst from people. At any rate, instead, he said, "We should be friends. Spend time together. Stuff like that."
Huh. "Why?"
"Yeah, you, me, and John. I like it. Let's do that." His mouth just went on and on, rattling out the words. "Is it true you lost it in class the other day and started raving about a book killing people?"
I turned away. "Yes."
"Excellent." He chuckled. "What do you think about basketball?"
"I don't."
"That's a shame." He picked up the end of my braid again, swinging it back and forth between us until I smacked at his hand. What a weirdo.
"John talked about me?" I asked, trying not to sound excited because that would be dumb.
Anders shrugged. "Yeah, he said something like 'That girl was at the Drop Stop.'"
"That's not a lot."
"It's more than he's ever said about pretty much any other girl." He clasped his hands together and put them on the desk. "Generally, I do the talking for both of us. It's become a bit of a problem, actually."
"I see."
"No, you don't. Problem is, John's gotten a bit . . . how should I say this? Fucky. Yes, John's been in a bit of a fucky mood since the whole robbery death thing."
"Oh." I froze.
"But still, you're not seeing my real inner pain over this whole talking thing at all. You're not seeing how it affects me. I mean, I'm on the basketball team. This shouldn't even be an issue for me. But the thing is, Edie my friend, some of us have to actually talk girls into taking off their clothes," he said, one brow raised. "Fucky mood or not, he doesn't. JC just kind of looks at them and their panties and bras go up in flames. They spontaneously combust or something; I'm not sure what the exact scientific term for it is."
