“I think he’s trying to impress you, T,” Margo says with a mischievous grin.
Then kids just start tumbling down the hill, crashing into one another along the way. That’s when the safeties tell us it’s time to pack up and get ready for dinner. On our way up the hill, Margo throws her arm around me and belts out the most obnoxious pop song from a few years back and I sing along, if only to repair her off-key rendition.
When we finally break away to go to our separate floors, I think about how she’s being released soon. It seems our friendship is destined to be short-lived. I’m really going to miss her.
CHAPTER 9
All weekend long I call down to A.J. but get no response. On Monday morning I finally see him on walkover, but he won’t look at me, at anyone. His eyes are focused straight ahead, and I wonder if the first floor has done some permanent damage to him. After a couple of hours in there, I thought I was going insane.
Later that day I see him standing with Victor and some other guys in the pen, but not interacting. I wait for him to come to me, even look at me, but he won’t.
“Is he going to ask you to the dance or what?” Margo says, following my gaze. I can tell that she’s concerned about him too, that it’s not just about the dance. “Maybe you should go talk to him, T.”
“I don’t think he wants to talk to me.”
She nudges me a little. “Of course he does. Do you want me to come with you?”
I glance over at him, staring off at nothing. He needs a friend right now, and that’s the least I can do. “No, I got it.”
“Okay.” She squeezes my hand. “Remember, you’re prettier when you smile.”
I leave Margo’s side and make my way over. Halfway across the sea of asphalt he glances up to chart my progress. His face is so completely absent of emotion—I can’t read him at all. I stop just in front of him, and he waits for me to speak.
“I called down to you all weekend. Did you hear me?”
He nods but says nothing. He’s still not speaking. Maybe not even to me anymore.
“Did they find your keys?”
He shakes his head no.
“Was it hard?”
He shrugs. He’s not going to talk to me here in the daytime with everyone watching. But maybe he will tonight, alone in the basement.
“Will you come down to the darkroom tonight?”
He looks at me with uncertainty. Maybe he’s remembering how I walked out on him the last time. Suddenly I feel really bad about it, bad enough to want to explain myself.
“Listen, about what happened the other night . . .” I stare at my hands so I don’t have to look at him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just . . . I wasn’t ready for . . . all that.”
He grabs my fidgety fingers and does something totally unexpected—he pulls me into a big bear hug. I squeeze him back and to my surprise, it doesn’t feel wrong.
“No touching,” a safety barks at us, and we promptly part.
With the rush of good feelings I risk a glance up at him, which is a mistake, because he’s looking at me with a little smile playing on his lips. My face burns with embarrassment, and I can’t figure out why.
“W-well . . . ,” I stutter, “guess I’ll . . . see you later.”
I turn and walk back across the pen before I can get any stupider, trying to act normal and ignore the stares that people are giving me and most likely him, too.
Margo smiles at me like a maniac and starts singing, “Taylor and A.J., sitting in the tree, K-I-S-S—”
“Shh,” I hiss, but she won’t, so I jab her in the ribs until she quiets.
The bell rings, and I continue on to automotive, where we’re hard at work on the Bronco. I volunteer to turn the engine over. Mr. Thomas slaps the keys in my palm, and I feel my strength returning. There is nothing like the feeling of car keys in your hand.
I climb into the cab while Mr. Thomas and a few guys are still tinkering with the engine. I pull my plastic soap case out of my pocket. The soap is gone now, replaced by Margo’s bubble gum that I spent all of Sunday chewing and then smoothing out on the bottom half of the container, all in preparation for this moment.
“Taylor, give it a go,” Mr. Thomas calls while I’m slipping the key off its ring. My hands are sweating so bad I nearly drop it. I shove my container between my knees and jam the key into the ignition. When I turn it, the starter whines, but the engine doesn’t turn over. Mr. Thomas raises his hand to stop me.
“Give it a minute,” he says.
A minute might be all I have.
I remove the key from the ignition, lick it so it won’t stick, press it carefully into my gum, then lift it out again—painstakingly slowly—so that it doesn’t stretch the impression left behind. I repeat the process for the other side and take a second to examine my results. I hope it’s good enough.
“Taylor.”
I glance up to see Mr. Thomas waiting with his hand raised. I smile as though I’m embarrassed, slip the key back onto the ring, and fit it into the ignition. I twist it, and the Bronco roars to life. The thrill that races from my head to my toes in hearing the sound of that engine is incredible. I hop out of the cab to join the guys in their celebration, receiving lots of sweaty man hugs. Then the Bronco dies, which means we’re not there yet. I tap the container in my pocket like a lucky talisman.
After school I have therapy again, my second session. We meet three times a week, which is three more than I’d like. Dr. Deb starts in with more questions about my family, but I’m only answering the questions I want to answer. It’s hard to ignore her, because I know I’m being incredibly rude. But I can’t handle another episode like the last time.
After a long silence on my end, the questions finally get easier—what’s my favorite time of year? (summer), what’s my favorite color? (green), what do I like to do for fun? (listen to music). Then she asks me if I’ve ever had a boyfriend, which could lead to something more personal, so I keep quiet and stare at the clock until my time is up.
It’s the longest fifty minutes of my life.
For cleaning the common area all week, I earn media privileges and decide to utilize them that night after dinner. I ask Tracy for permission to go online while Jeopardy! is on, because it’s her favorite show and I know she’ll be distracted. I fiddle around on the computer until she’s really on a roll, then pull up Google Maps to study the area surrounding Valdosta. I trace the roads from memory as best I can until I find the spot where I think Sunny Meadows must be, then zoom in until I see a photograph of the dorms staring back at me, chain-link fence and all. It’s a surreal moment—to be staring at the outside of my prison while knowing I’m trapped inside.
Tracy shifts on the couch.
“You’re really on your game tonight,” I say to her, and she nods without breaking her concentration.
I zoom out and memorize the labyrinth of country roads that lead back to the interstate, then delete my online history so no one will suspect anything. I tell Tracy I’ve got homework to do and head back to my room. There I sketch out a rough map, filling in the names and landmarks as I remember them from my ride here.
I pretend to get ready for bed, stuffing the key mold into the pocket of my pajama pants. Might as well discuss business while we’re down there. I lie in bed and wait for the lights to wink out and for Sandra to come by and see that we’re all tucked away for the night. The time I spend waiting for everyone else on the floor to fall asleep is torturous, especially tonight when I have a feeling like soda bubbles in my stomach. I tell myself it’s because of the key mold in my pocket and not because I’m going to see A.J.
Finally the small noises of the floor fade away, and I rise from my bed to play out my slow and silent dance. I unlock the stairwell door from my side and slip through, easing it shut behind me. When I turn around, I jump back and nearly fall over.
“A.J.”
He’s wearing an undershirt and flannel pants. His hair is still damp from the shower, an
d he smells good—soapy and clean.
“Is that what you wear to bed?” he says, and it takes me a moment to connect his words with his face, because I’ve never actually seen him talk before. I glance down and see that I’m wearing pretty much the same thing. I realize the intimacy of what we’re doing. Seeing each other after hours, breaking the rules to be together, even if it’s only as friends.
“How’d you get out?” I ask him.
“Two keys.” He pats his keys where they rest against his undershirt. It’s the same place where my chest always gets so tight.
“I thought this key meant something to you,” I say, holding up mine. “No wonder you gave it up so easy.”
“Not that easy,” he says, and smiles playfully. It’s a side of him I’ve never seen before—a teasing, fun side. I stare at his lips, at the scar that only makes him more handsome, makes him real. He stares at me intently, and suddenly the stairwell isn’t big enough for the awkward silence that follows.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go down.”
In the darkroom I’m all too aware of his hand on my back as he guides me across the room, even though I know the way. When we reach the couch I freeze, not knowing how close we should be. How far could this thing go in one night, down here alone, with hours ahead of us? I sit sideways with my knees up, a slight barrier, facing him in the dark.
“Your keys,” I say. “How did you keep the safeties from getting them?”
“I hid them.”
“Where?”
“It’s kind of a trade secret.”
“You don’t trust me?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I dropped them down the sink drain. I figured they might search me when they got the whole story.”
“Nobody noticed?”
“My back was to the camera, and the safeties are only half watching most of the time.”
“It’s that easy?”
“No, but I’ve had practice.”
“Does that happen a lot?” I ask. “The fighting?” I remember how expertly he delivered that punch, with such calm and control, almost machinelike. And his face afterward was so vacant—it’s an image I’d like to forget.
“It used to happen more. That’s why Victor came to me. He knew guys wouldn’t mess with him if they had to go through me. I used to like it, too, made me feel like a badass. Now I just feel like a thug.”
“It doesn’t seem fair to you.”
“I could quit.”
“Why don’t you?”
“There’s a lot of perks to the job. And we’re providing a service. It just breaks down when we don’t give people what they want.”
They have to say no sometimes. Would A.J. say no to me?
“How does Victor get all that stuff?”
“He’s got this friend from back home. He sends us care packages. Most of the stuff is legal—candy and whatever else—but for the rest, he’s good at hiding the things that need to be hidden.”
“Like keys?”
He clears his throat, and I feel a new tension in the air. “Some things don’t go through Victor.”
However they work it out is up to them, but I figure I better get to where I’m going, which is the mold in my pocket. No sense in saving it for later.
“A.J., I wanted to see you—I mean I wanted to make sure you’re okay. But there’s another reason.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need you to make me a key.”
There’s a long pause, and I wonder what he’s thinking. I don’t want him to feel like he’s being used, but he’s the only one I trust to do this for me.
“A key to what?” he finally asks.
“A Ford Bronco.”
“The shop car.”
“One of them.”
He sighs deeply and I hold my breath, waiting.
“How are you going to get past the gate?”
The gate, the guard, and the fence. Three obstacles I have yet to figure out. But I will.
“I don’t know, but in the meantime, I need to be ready. I need that key.”
“Can’t you stay a little longer? See if this place grows on you. See if I grow on you.”
I smile in the dark. I like him, I really do, but I like my freedom more, and just thinking about my next therapy session makes me feel jittery and scattered.
“I can’t stay, A.J. I wish I could, for you and Margo, but I’m done here.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You got it on you? The mold?”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the plastic container, find his open hand in the dark, and place it there. The springs in the couch groan as he rises, followed by a squeaking noise. One dim light flickers on above us, a naked bulb he must have loosened that first night. The light shines down on his buzzed hair and casts a shadow over his eyes. He opens the case and tilts it toward the light, studying my work.
“It looks good,” he says after a minute. He sounds disappointed.
“So, you’ll do it?”
He snaps the case shut and jams it deep into the pocket of his drawstring pants.
“No.”
I stand up slowly, thinking maybe I misheard him, but then why is he shaking his head?
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not going to help you run away.”
“Then why is my mold in your pocket?”
“I wouldn’t be a friend if I let you do this.”
“Then give it back.” I hold out my hand. I’ll take it to Victor. He’s a businessman, and I’ve got money to spend.
“No,” he says. My anger bubbles up from deep within. Like lava, it pours through me and rushes up to my skin, making my nerves sing with heat. I take a moment to choose my next words carefully.
“A.J., you’re not being a friend by stealing my mold—the mold you taught me how to make. Just give it back and I won’t bother you with it again.”
“No,” he repeats, like some parrot who can only say one word— no, no, no. I reach for his pocket, and his hand clamps down on my wrist.
“I’m sorry, Taylor.”
His apology only angers me more. I jerk my hand away. “Looks like you’re still a thug after all.”
His eyes harden. His anger is directed at me for the first time, but I don’t care. I want my mold back. “I guess that’s all I’m good for,” he says.
With the force of all my weight, I shove him in the chest, trying to knock him off balance. But he barely moves, just rocks on his heels and jams both his hands deep into his pockets, then stands there like a stubborn mule.
“Give it back!” I yell, not caring who hears us.
“Give it a little longer, Taylor. Just a few more weeks.”
I slow my breathing and don the mask, cold and unfeeling. I stare at him in the dim lighting, ignoring his silent pleas for me to understand. He’s trying to control me. Just like my father. They’re both trying to trap me and make me over into something—someone—else, because I’m not good enough the way I am.
I catch the glint of his silver chain. His keys are important to him. The chain is thin, weak. I sigh deeply and look at him, letting him think that maybe I’m giving up. Then, when his shoulders relax, I grab for his keys with both hands and yank as hard as I can. My adrenaline fuels my strength, and the chain breaks as he stumbles back. Then I’m sprinting to the darkroom door, barreling down the basement, up the stairs, and onto the third floor. I fall through the doorway and see Charlotte farther down, standing in the middle of the hallway like she’s seen a ghost. The ghost is me.
I run into my room and search A.J.’s keys frantically to see if any of them looks like a car key. None. I throw them against the air vent—metal scratching metal—and pound the bed with my fists.
I don’t care if Sandra catches me. I don’t care if A.J. is furious at me for stealing his keys. All I care about is getting out. And now, thanks to him, I’ve lost my best chance of escape.
CHAPTER 10
The next morning I pull my desk over t
he air vent so A.J. can’t hear into my room. On walkover I don’t even glance in the boys’ direction. In the hall I keep my tunnel vision, heading straight to my classes without lingering. I make it all the way through lunch without seeing him.
But in the pen, Margo reminds me.
“Only five days till the dance, Taylor. Is A.J. going to ask you, or do I need to break his legs?”
I think back to last night. I doubt he’d ask me to go with him, and there’s even less of a chance I’d say yes. I glance across the pen to where he’s standing. He sees me and raises one hand as if signaling a truce, but I’m not giving in. I want my mold. I want that key.
“Maybe he can’t ask you,” Margo says, clearly misinterpreting our exchange. “I mean, he doesn’t talk, right? Maybe you should ask him.”
“That’s not my style,” I tell her, because I don’t want to have to explain it. “Besides, I’d rather go alone.”
“You won’t be alone, T, you’ll be with me and Vic.” She frowns. “I really thought he was going to ask you. A.J.’s such a mystery to me. I can never decide if I like him or not.”
I laugh darkly. “Me neither.”
That afternoon during automotive, Dominic uncovers the problem with the Bronco. One of the spark plugs was bad. Such a simple mistake, so easily fixed. But I never get another opportunity to be alone with the keys, and besides, I don’t have gum for another mold. I silently curse A.J. all throughout class. At the end of it, Dominic asks if I want to go with him to the dance. I tell him I’d love to.
In therapy later that day, I sit across from Dr. Deb and act like I can’t speak. I feel her frustration with me rising, but I won’t be here much longer, so why waste her time or mine?
That evening Tracy makes me move my desk away from the air vent, and when I do, I hear him playing his guitar, which is even worse than talking to him, because I love music and especially his—all the dark, haunting melodies and awkward silences. I wonder if he knows I’m listening.
Counting Backwards Page 9
