Blood on My Hands
Page 2
“What are you waiting for?” Katherine asked.
Mia’s eyes darted toward a group of boys standing nearby, talking and shooting occasional glances in our direction as if they knew, or hoped, that we were aware of them. David Sloan was the tallest, and probably most handsome, of the group. The previous Friday he had been Katherine’s date to a Sadie Hawkins dance, and there’d been rumors that they’d vanished together into a bedroom during a party on the following night.
Mia got up stiffly and started in David’s direction. Halfway there she shot an uncertain glance back at Katherine, who flicked her wrist as if shooing her forward.
The boys quieted as Mia approached, taking timid steps, as if she were making her way across a pond covered by thinning ice. Finally she stopped in front of David, who, with dipping eyebrows and one side of his mouth turned up, looked both skeptical and amused. The boys around them were silent. Mia reached up and “slapped” David’s face. It was barely more than a tap. Then, her face much redder than his, she scurried back toward us.
David looked in our direction, his eyes not on Mia but on Katherine. He shoved his fists in his pockets, nodded slightly, and smirked, as if he understood precisely why she had sent a minion to deliver the faux blow. Katherine nodded back, then turned to the table just as Mia sat down, still red-faced and breathing hard.
“You call that a slap?” Katherine said, then ignored Mia for the rest of lunch.
* * *
“How does she do it? I mean, manage to instill so much fear?”
“By being judgmental and having a wicked tongue. It’s a lethal combination.”
“Only if people care.”
“Some do; some don’t.”
“I’d so like to put her in her place.”
“Ha! See?”
“See what?”
“You wouldn’t say that if you didn’t care.”
Chapter 4
Sunday 12:15 A.M.
THE POLICE OFFICER will leave. My mother will shut the door and press her back against it to keep her from collapsing to the floor. She will be devastated—in the first moments of being ravaged by emotional turmoil. But of all the possible emotions, the one she will not feel is shock. At this point, there’s nothing left that can surprise her.
In the playhouse the air is musty and smells like dry wood. I can’t help thinking of the children who have played in here. Little girls serving pretend meals to dolls seated around the table. Boys kneeling at the windows, firing toy guns at imaginary attackers. But here in the dark now, there is nothing pretend or imaginary. It’s all horribly real.
My cell phone vibrates. With trembling fingers I pull it out of my pocket. It’s Mom.
“Are the police there?” I ask.
“They just left.” Her voice is high and anxious. “A murder? My God, Cal, what’s going on?”
My heart heaves and my eyes become watery. As frightened as I am, I feel even worse for her. After everything she’s been through. Sebastian and Dad. And now this? It’s as if her family is slowly being destroyed before her eyes.
Tears spill out and roll down my cheeks. “I didn’t do it,” I manage to croak. “I only found her after she’d been stabbed.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m …” I hesitate, knowing how she’ll react. “Hiding.”
“What? Why?” Predictably, her voice rises even higher. “Go to the police. Tell them you didn’t kill her.”
I can’t bring myself to explain about my picking up the knife and the photos they took. Or about the troubles between Katherine and me that I never told Mom about. “They won’t believe me.” I sniff miserably, feeling another wave of emotion rising inside me. “I can’t explain now. Just … check under the umbrella.”
“What?”
“You’ll figure it out. I have to go. Don’t call back.”
I snap the phone shut.
Almost instantly it rings again.
It’s my mother, of course.
But instead of answering, I burst into sobs.
My brother, Sebastian, is four years older than me. As far back as I can remember, Dad wanted him to be a professional athlete. While some sons obediently tried to live up to their fathers’ wishes, Sebastian stubbornly refused. It got so bad they even went to a psychologist, who said that the best thing Dad could do was back off and let Sebastian be.
But Dad could no more back off than Sebastian could be obedient. They were polar forces, feeding off each other’s determination. From the start there was violence. As Sebastian grew older, spankings by hand gave way to spankings by paddle, which gave way to slaps, punches, then all-out fistfights. Mom and I were stunned into silence by the poisonous brutality between them. People at school noticed Sebastian’s bruises. Social services got involved. A few times the police were called. Neighbors gossiped. Rumors spread. People around town began to avoid us. Mom sank inward and became depressed and withdrawn.
I ran.
Chapter 5
Sunday 12:25 A.M.
I TAKE DEEP breaths, dry my eyes, and try to think about what I have to do next. The phone vibrates. It’s my mother again. But she can’t help. Most of the time she’s so overwhelmed she can barely take care of Dad.
There’s only one other person I’m certain will believe me. But the last time we spoke, I broke his heart. I could blame Katherine for that. But she didn’t make that phone call; I did.
“I think we should make some that look like boobs,” Katherine said one afternoon last February when we were at Dakota’s house making cookies for the Spirit Day bake sale. Dakota, then the student council vice president, was planning to run for president in senior year.
The rest of us giggled. Katherine, who came off as so proper, could always make us laugh when she said something outrageous.
“Well, I mean, the idea is to sell a lot of cookies, right?” Katherine said.
“The boys would love it,” I said.
“Some of the girls, too,” said Jodie, who was mixing dough with Dakota in the big white KitchenAid mixer.
“I’m sure Mr. Carter would be thrilled,” said Dakota.
“Mean old man,” Katherine muttered.
“No way,” Dakota said. “He gave Seth Phillips and I a—”
“Seth Phillips and me,” Katherine quickly corrected her.
Dakota rolled her eyes. “He gave Seth Phillips and me permission to skip gym when we needed to work on PACE.”
PACE was the performing arts program at our school.
“And he made a special arrangement so that Slade could get out of school early and help his dad,” I added.
“Ah, Slade.” Katherine looked at her watch. “Gee, Callie, it’s been almost fifteen minutes since you brought him up. By the way, has he heard from Harvard or Yale?”
It was hard to know sometimes whether she was being serious or just kidding around. She knew he wasn’t going to college. At the counter, Dakota and Jodie were silent. I could feel the mood shift from one of gaiety and laughter to something else. This, too, happened often.
“He’s going into the National Guard,” I said. “And when he gets back from training, he’ll work in his dad’s business.”
“Construction?” Katherine said with a disapproving wrinkle of her nose. This wasn’t the first time she’d been critical of Slade, and I really didn’t like it. It felt like she was putting me in the position of having to decide between them. At first, when she’d invited me into her crowd, it had all been fun and laughs. I’d come to relish times like this, when I was included here in Dakota’s kitchen with Katherine’s closest friends, knowing that Mia and the other far-end-of-the-table girls would have died to be in my place. But along with that growing familiarity came a feeling of vulnerability: I had become an unprotected target should Katherine decide to hurl her pointed opinions in my direction.
I looked down at the cookie sheet and busied myself pressing green sugar letters into the dough, spelling out “Go Tigers,” “Win,” and
“Tiger Pride!” Not only did Slade work with his father in construction but they’d also helped renovate that very kitchen.
I remembered Slade telling me that it was the biggest kitchen he’d ever seen. It seemed like it had acres of dark green marble countertops, punctuated by dual sinks, brushed-steel appliances, and a large iron ring suspended from the ceiling with a dozen pots and pans hanging from it. Slade had said it had been one of those jobs for which money wasn’t an issue. The Jenkinses had wanted everything to be perfect.
Just when I thought the topic of Slade had been dropped, Jodie said, “How long have you two been together?”
“Three years,” I answered.
“So … you’ve never been with anyone else?” Jodie was a funny girl, with short hair and a bouncy personality and a wicked sense of humor when she felt like displaying it.
I shook my head.
“How can you know if he’s the one for you?” she asked. “I mean, when you’ve had no one else to compare him to.”
“I just do,” I said, and thought, I don’t need to compare him to anyone else.
“I think you could do so much better,” Katherine declared.
My ears burned. This was something else I’d learned about Katherine. Sometimes she’d get into moods and had to stir things up, cause excitement, and push buttons. She was like a schoolyard bully who couldn’t resist picking fights. But unlike some bullies, who picked fights only with kids they knew they could beat, Katherine seemed to have this need to create confrontations even when the outcome was uncertain.
I could have reacted to what she’d said about Slade, could have gotten angry or more defensive, even argued. I think Katherine actually liked it better when you fought back than when you meekly obeyed her, the way Mia always did. But instead, I decided to try a strategy based on something my father used to say: A good offense is the best defense.
“Tell me, Katherine, have you ever been in love?” I asked.
Dakota and Jodie froze like meerkats on TV. Katherine conjured up a haughty “Ha!” but after that, the kitchen fell uncomfortably quiet again. I was tempted to push Katherine on the question—after all, “ha” didn’t exactly qualify as an answer—but I sensed I’d gone far enough. I’d stood up to the queen and silenced her.
Katherine glanced around and her gaze stopped at a block of wood containing a set of kitchen knives. Her hand closed around the largest handle and she drew out a long, heavy-looking blade and held it in my direction for a moment in a way that could have been either innocent or threatening. The mood in the kitchen was ominous. Even though what Katherine was doing was a teasing gesture, there was something menacing about it.
Staring at the knife, I noticed the design on the side of the blade—two tiny white stick figures against a square red background.
Katherine turned toward me. Dakota and Jodie could see what she was doing, but they couldn’t see her expression change from a chatty smile to an intensely unamused glare. Suddenly she jabbed the knife forward, not nearly enough to reach me, but enough to make me jump back.
“Aaah!” Jodie gasped, as if she really thought Katherine was going to stab me.
Katherine turned and smiled at her. “You didn’t think I’d do it, did you?”
A nervous grin appeared on Jodie’s face, while Dakota’s remained a mask. Katherine slid the knife back into the block and gazed at me again, nodding slightly. I couldn’t help interpreting the act as a serious warning not to overstep my boundaries.
Chapter 6
Sunday 12:34 A.M.
CAN I BRING myself to call Slade now, after what I did to him? And I did it in the worst possible way and at the worst possible time. He was at National Guard training camp, far from home, his friends, and family. Farther away than he’d ever gone alone.
For the first two months he’d been allowed only one three-minute phone call—to tell his dad he’d made it to the training camp safely. After that, he was allowed to speak to me once a week. He’d confide about how lonely and miserable he was, about how scared he was of being called up for active duty and sent overseas, and about how much he regretted signing up for the guard in the first place. These were things he never could have admitted to anyone else. But he could say them to me, because he trusted me. At least, until I betrayed him.
Pangs of regret surge through me, but they’re nothing new. I’ve been feeling them ever since we broke up. Slade’s been home from Guard training for nearly a week. I’ve seen his pickup at the new town center. He’s working there with his father to get everything ready for the opening celebration. I’ve been so tempted to call and tell him how sorry I am. But how would I answer when he asked the inevitable question: why did I do it?
How could I tell him? How can I face him?
He’d be completely entitled to tell me to go to hell. After all, that was basically what I did when he was alone and needy.
And yet I don’t think he will. He’s a better person than that.
I call. As it rings, I feel myself growing tense and my heart revving up. Then that strange mixture of disappointment and relief when I get his answering message. I swallow and begin: “Slade, please call me. It’s urgent, a matter of life and death. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise, but something terrible’s happened. I know you probably hate me and never want to hear from me again, but you’re the only person I can trust. Please call me as soon as you can!”
I close the phone and wait for my heart to slow. But my emotions are a hurricane of yearning, regret, need, and fear. Just hearing his voice on the message brings fresh tears to my eyes.
Slade doesn’t call back. It seems like at least half an hour has passed, but when I check the time, it’s only been ten minutes. He could be at the movies, at a party, anywhere. And with anyone. Even now, in the middle of all this, that’s the thought I hate most.
I call again, leave another message. I imagine him listening to the first message and thinking I can drop dead. He owes me nothing. But maybe the second message will make him reconsider.
I wait in the dark. Seconds feel like minutes, and minutes feel like forever. It’s agony to imagine him listening to my messages and being unmoved. But what did I think would happen? Did I think he’d come back from Guard training brokenhearted and sit by the phone every night waiting for me to call and say I’d made a mistake and I was sorry?
In your dreams, Callie Carson.
I know it makes no sense to keep calling and leaving messages, but I can’t help myself. I call again, knowing there’s probably nothing I can do or say to change his mind, but feeling like I have to try anyway.
“Slade, please, I …” There’s a catch in my throat as tears well up in my eyes. I’ve cried so much tonight that they’re raw and sore. “I’m so sorry to put this on you, really I am. I know I was awful to you. But you don’t know how much I regret what I did. I mean, even before this … this horrible thing that happened tonight. I was sorry, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to tell you I’d made a terrible mistake. I felt like I’d already hurt you so bad that it wouldn’t be fair. But I … I …”
What I want to say is that I still love him, but it’s too much all at once. Some protective instinct deep inside won’t allow me to reveal that much or leave myself that vulnerable, even if it’s been all I’ve felt for weeks and has nothing to do with what happened tonight.
I’ve always loved him.
I close the phone. Three messages is enough. Salty tears sting my raw cheeks.
“Here’s to rapid metabolisms,” Jodie toasted one afternoon in late March when she, Zelda, Katherine, and I were in the city. She raised her s’more cupcake and we joined in.
“Rue the day these go straight to our thighs,” Zelda declared.
“Hear! Hear!” Katherine chimed in. It was one of those periods when she and Dakota weren’t speaking. We never knew why the two of them ran so hot and cold. But they were like the weather: all you had to do was wait and everything would change.
“What say ye, sweet Callie?” Katherine asked.
“This is definitely the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” I said, licking the creamy icing off a cupcake called a Hummingbird.
“Easy to say for someone who’s probably only had Hostess Twinkies,” Katherine quipped. The smiles fell off the other girls’ faces as they waited to see if I’d rise to the dig or let it pass. I decided to take the middle road.
“We can’t all be gourmands, like you,” I said with a somewhat forced smile.
“You mean ‘gourmet,’ ” she replied with a dismissive roll of her eyes. “A gourmand is an indiscriminant eater.”
“Ooh, look who remembers all that vocabulary we learned for our SATs,” Jodie teased in a way that I suspected was meant to defuse the situation.
“I am so happy that’s over with,” Zelda groaned, and turned to me. “So what are your plans for after high school, Callie?”
I assumed she’d meant the question in a genuine way, to change the subject. But unfortunately it was one I’d been trying to avoid. I hoped I’d go to Fairchester Community College, which I hoped we’d be able to afford with the help of financial aid. I was a pretty good student and had been a pretty good cross-country runner, but didn’t excel at either enough to deserve any kind of scholarship. But the prevailing attitude in Katherine’s crowd was that community college was for losers. So I answered her question with “I don’t know.”