Sparrow

by Mary Cecilia Jackson

  I look out the window at the sun, just beginning to climb over the highest ridge. Warm light floods the kitchen.

  “Lucas? Are you hearing me?”

  “Yeah, Mom, I hear you. Delaney said the same thing.”

  “Delaney is right, honey. You can’t accuse someone of a crime just because he’s a rotten little creep. Which Tristan King most certainly is.”

  She hands me a tall glass of milk and a cinnamon roll to tide me over until the pancakes are ready. Cinnamon. The smell reminds me of Sparrow, and I want to run out of here, all the way to Saint Germaine’s. I want to kneel in the front yard and tear at my hair and howl like a wolf.

  I should have told Sophie. I should have told Mr. Rose. I was a fool for listening to Sparrow, for keeping my mouth shut, for playing by her rules.

  This is all my fault.

  18

  Aubrey’s Cove, Ten Days Later

  I hear a car door slam, the rustling sound of footsteps on fallen leaves, the sharp snap of twigs breaking as Delaney makes her way to our rock. I’m trying to skip stones over the water, but I’ve completely lost my touch, and they just sink quietly into the pond. When Delaney gets to the yellow crime scene tape, she stands there with her head bowed, like a pilgrim at a woodland shrine.

  After a moment she drops her backpack onto the ground and starts tearing the tape away, bunching it angrily into a ball as she pulls it from the tree trunks, picking at the knot where it’s tied around a tulip poplar.

  “I hate this ugly crap!” she yells. “I don’t care if they arrest me and send me to prison and feed me moldy pig slop for the rest of my life! This mess has got to go!”

  I wish I’d thought to do it.

  She shoves the whole wad into her pack and slings it over her shoulder, hopping over the rocks. I stand up to meet her. Droplets of water splash onto her turquoise boots, sparkling like little diamonds. It’s early September, still hot and humid, but the nights are turning a little cooler. In a few weeks, the leaves will begin to turn. Sparrow’s favorite season.

  “Hey, you,” Delaney says, wrapping her arms tight around my waist. “I stopped by your house to hug your mom. She sent sustenance; it’s in my pack. She seems so much better! She smiled and hugged me back, just like always.”

  In the middle of the creek, smooth gray boulders rise out of the water, like the backs of prehistoric tortoises, close enough together that it’s possible to cross from one side of the creek to the other without getting soaked. In the summer and early fall, everyone comes here to swim and sunbathe and hang out, but today it’s deserted. People are spooked.

  “Yeah,” I say, sitting down cross-legged on the biggest rock, still warm from the sun. “She’s better, all right.”

  Delaney sits down beside me, pulling off her boots and hitching up her long skirt to dangle her legs in the icy water. She gasps at the cold, letting out a little squeal, then looks at me over her round sunglasses.

  “Why are you saying it all sarcastic?”

  She reaches into her backpack and takes out my dented green thermos from Cub Scouts and two Styrofoam cups. She pours out my mother’s tomato bisque and unwraps two grilled cheese sandwiches with bacon.

  “She yelled at me big-time last night.”

  The sandwiches are still warm. Since I was a kid, these have been my mom’s secret weapon, the meal she makes whenever we argue. She’s smart. Like a fox.

  “Your mom? No way. I’ve never heard her yell. She’s, like, the sweetest mom on the planet. You must have done something heinous.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess I had it coming.”

  “Tell me, and don’t leave anything out.”

  Delaney takes a bite of grilled cheese. “Oh, yum. Bacon rules. I don’t care if your mom yelled at you. She’s still a boss, and I love her.”

  I stick my feet in the water next to hers. They go instantly numb.

  “Whatever. So, you know I can get angry sometimes.”

  “You? Angry? Say it isn’t so!”

  “Shut up. Anyway. It feels like I have ants crawling under my skin. Ever since they found her. You know that feeling?”

  She takes her sunglasses off and sets them beside her.

  “I do know that feeling. For me it’s like I’ve swallowed something really nasty, and I can’t get the taste out.”

  “So what do you do when you feel like that? Does it go away after a while?”

  She takes another bite of her sandwich and stares out at the waterfall. There’s so much mist in the air, when she turns back to me, her hair has started to curl around her face. “No, not by itself. I have to do something. I’ve tried a whole bunch of things over the years. First I started working out extra-hard. Didn’t even make a dent. Then one weekend after I flunked a trig test, I baked nonstop. Muffins. It was always muffins, so many that my mom made me stop. She said she knew I was upset, but she and my dad were going to go bankrupt keeping me in flour and nuts and sugar and also they’d pork out and die from clogged arteries.”

  I lie back on the rock, the warmth sinking into my back. I still can’t feel my feet.

  “I’ve known you all my life and have never seen you bake anything. Not even a frozen pizza.”

  “Truth. I liked it, but it didn’t help. I tried it again, for a couple days after they found Sparrow. But the whole time I was baking muffins, I couldn’t stop thinking about her, all beat-up, lying in that hospital bed. In a freaking coma. My mouth tasted like that smell from biology class, you know, the juice they keep the frogs in before they get dissected?”

  “Formaldehyde.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I brushed my teeth twenty times a day and drank grapefruit juice and it still wouldn’t go away.”

  She takes the last sip of her soup, rinses her cup in the creek, and tucks it into her pack. She lies down beside me and takes my hand, kicking her feet so drops of water arc and fall in the sunlight.

  “So now what do you do?”

  “I’m writing poems again. I sort of quit when we started Swan Lake, because I was so wiped out all the time. But when I’m writing, trying to find the right words, I can’t think about anything else. It’s peaceful. It makes me feel calm, helps me believe that she’ll be okay, that she’ll wake up and dance again. And my mouth doesn’t taste like it’s full of poison.”

  “I like your poems. Except that one about your dog. That was kind of lame.”

  “I know, but it’s one of my favorites. I wrote it one night when my parents were arguing in the kitchen. My mom was slamming pots and pans and cabinet doors, and my dad was talking real loud. So I went up to my room and took out that old leather notebook, remember? The one I carried around all the time in middle school? And it was like as soon as I started writing, this super-soft quiet wrapped itself all around me. I just thought about Molly and her sweet ears and her big brown eyes, and I couldn’t hear my parents anymore. That’s why I write poems. To get to that quiet place. To get that bad taste out of my mouth. It doesn’t really matter if they’re any good.

  “Anyway, sorry. I got off track. Why’s your mom all mad?”

  “Last night I slammed my fist through my bedroom wall. I pretended it was Tristan’s face.” I hold up my hand so she’ll notice the bandage.

  Delaney sits up, takes her feet out of the water, and pulls me with her. Her eyes go all wide and she covers her mouth. I sit facing her, rubbing my frozen feet.

  “Oh, Lucas, no. Did you break anything?”

  “Just the wall. I busted my knuckles pretty good. They bled like crazy. Doesn’t hurt anymore, though.”

  “Levkova’s going to be pissed.”

  “She’s got nothing on my mom.”

  “So she really yelled at you?”

  “It wasn’t really yelling, more like super-intense fussing. She said we needed to have a conversation, then she did all the talking. Told me that money was tight and she didn’t have a whole lot of extra funds right now to support my systematic destruction of our house. She’s making me pay
for it.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “I felt like if I didn’t, my head was going to explode. I mean, all the stuff in the news about how he’s denying everything, how he says he left her up there because they had a fight and she wouldn’t let him take her home, how he played video games the rest of the night with his bros. How can anybody possibly believe him?”

  “I know; it’s ridiculous. So, did it help? Punching a hole in the wall?”

  “No.”

  “I feel you, Lucas. I really do.”

  A red-tailed hawk circles over the pool, lower and lower, until he’s skimming the water with his wings. Delaney, who sees omens and portents in the weather, the cream clouds in her coffee, the way shadows fall across the mountains, doesn’t even notice.

  She unbraids her hair, then braids it again, her brand-new nervous habit. When she finishes, she digs in her pack and holds out her phone.

  “Okay, promise you won’t, you know, punch a rock or anything, but have you seen the latest?”

  “What, that crap on Instagram? I’ve seen it. I don’t need to see it again.”

  “Look anyway. This is new.”

  I take her phone like it’s a live scorpion. There’s a picture of a swan on a moonlit lake. The caption says, If she dies, she’ll be a Swan Queen forever. #swansong #sparrow

  I shake my head in disgust. “Why can’t they just leave her alone?”

  Delaney starts to cry. “You know what I can’t stand? I mean, the thing that keeps me awake at night, besides the total terror that she’s going to die and I won’t ever see her again?”

  I put my arm around her and pull her close. “What?”

  “I can’t stand that he went home. He just beat her and left her, and he went home. Like he knew everyone would believe him and someone would clean up the mess he left, just like they’ve done all his life. And his parents and Brandon and all those pigs are lying for him. If—when—she wakes up, she’ll have to talk. She’ll have to tell them. She’ll have to say his name.”

  “I know, Laney. Please stop crying; I can’t stand it. It’s all going to be okay.”

  “How can you even say that? Nothing is ever going to be okay again.”

  “My mom says it all the time. She says it makes her feel hopeful. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll start believing it.”

  She wipes her eyes and says, “I want him to pay, Lucas. I want him to die. I’ve never wished anybody dead before, but I’m making an exception in his case.”

  “I’ll go you one better. I want to be the one to take him out.”

  “I’ll hold your coat.”

  Just then her phone, which I’m still holding, buzzes with a text. Without looking, I hand it to her.

  She looks at the screen, then up at me, like she doesn’t want to tell me.

  “It’s Charlotte. She says she was driving by Tristan’s house and saw two police cruisers. They brought him out and took him away.”

  I stand up so quickly that I trip on my backpack and step on what’s left of Delaney’s grilled cheese. My skin itches. I can’t stand still.

  “Lucas, what are you doing? What’s wrong?”

  I pace back and forth on the rock, running my hands through my hair. If I leave now, I can get there in time. If I leave now, I’ll be doing something instead of just sitting around waiting for the next terrible thing.

  “Lucas? Are you okay?”

  “No,” I say, wrapping up her sandwich and stuffing it in her pack. I pull my socks over my wet feet and cram my shoes back on. I need do something. Anything.

  “Lucas, you’re freaking me out a little. Talk to me!”

  “I need to go, Laney. Right now.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. The police station.”

  “Why? What do you think you’re going to do there?”

  “I’m not sure. Something.”

  “Oh my God, Lucas, everybody knows what you’re doing. That you’re looking for Tristan. You haven’t exactly made it a secret that you want to beat the crap out of him.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Delaney. I’ll be cool, promise. But I’m going.”

  Delaney starts pulling on her boots. I start making my way back over the rocks. “Wait!” she calls. “I’m coming with you!”

  “No, you’re not!” I shout over my shoulder. “Go on home; I’ll text you later.”

  “Lucas! Don’t do this! You aren’t helping! You have to stop!”

  But I can’t wait. I can’t stop.

  I start running.

  * * *

  I park across the street from the police station. Everything is quiet, no hordes of reporters, no flashing lights, no drama, nothing. But I know Tristan is inside. I can feel the evil leaking out of the bricks.

  My knee jitters up and down. I’m chewing the inside of my cheek, drumming my hands on the steering wheel, imagining what it would feel like to pound the condescending smirk off his face. I want him to be the one who’s afraid. I want him to know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of vicious.

  My phone buzzes. A text from Israel.

  Did you hear? Cops took TK away.

  I heard. At the police station now.

  Seriously?

  In my car. Across the street.

  You have a plan?

  How about I wreck him?

  Don’t think that will end well. You know, what with it being the freaking POLICE STATION, you MASSIVE moron!

  Haha. His dad just pulled up. Later.

  Don’t get arrested.

  Dr. Magnus King pulls up in his gleaming black Jaguar. He parks right in front, in the space marked Officer of the Month.

  He gets out of the car. He’s wearing a long-sleeved white shirt that looks like it just came from the dry cleaner’s. Sharp creases in the sleeves, French cuffs. Red-and-blue striped tie, shiny black shoes. He reaches into the back seat, pulls out a suit jacket and shrugs it on, tugging down the sleeves and brushing off the lapels. His gold cufflinks flare in the sunlight. He jogs up the steps to the station and disappears behind the glass doors.

  A cruiser pulls in across the street, and Tommy Bayliss gets out. I slide down in my seat, but it’s too late. He sees me and waves, then walks over. I roll down the window. “Hey, Tommy. How’s it going?”

  Tommy’s wearing aviator sunglasses and his Smokey Bear hat. The handcuffs at his waist jingle when he moves. “What are you doing here, Lucas?”

  “Oh, not much. Just hanging out.”

  I can feel the muscles in my legs and arms thrumming with adrenaline. I grab the steering wheel to still my hands. “Is Tristan inside?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Come on, man. I just saw his father. I know he’s in there.”

  “Then why are you asking me? Look, we’re all sick about what happened to Sparrow. And we are investigating the case with rigor and determination, at least as much as we can without actually hearing anything from the victim herself.”

  I stare out the windshield, trying to make something happen through sheer force of will. Anything. My knee pumps up and down like a piston. The ants crawl under my skin.

  “Please don’t call her a victim. It makes it sound like she’s not a real person.”

  Tommy’s voice softens.

  “Look, Lucas, I know you’re upset. Everybody’s upset. Believe me, I know how hard this is, how powerless you feel, how you want someone to pay for what happened to her. I know you want to help.”

  I nod, unable to speak.

  “So I’m telling you this for your own good, and you can pass it along to all your friends. The best thing you can do is to stay out of the way. Let us do our jobs. Don’t do anything to make things harder. If we have questions, we’ll ask. So go on home now. You aren’t accomplishing anything by being here, and your mom and Anna need you. You hear me?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Lucas? You got me?”

  I hold out my fist. He bumps
it and smiles.

  “Good man. I’m going inside now, and when I look out the window in five minutes, I don’t want to see this piece-of-crap car still here.”

  “Yeah, Tommy. Okay.”

  He walks slowly back across the street and runs up the redbrick steps. At the door, he turns and points his index finger at me and mouths, Go home!

  I give him a thumbs-up.

  I do not go home.

  Fifteen minutes later Tristan and his father emerge. They’re both laughing.

  Laughing, while Sparrow lies in a coma for the tenth day in a row. Laughing, while Sophie and Mr. Rose slowly lose their minds. Laughing, while the doctors say every day that they don’t know why she hasn’t woken up yet.

  I’m not stupid enough to try something here. But I’m watching. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday, somewhere, Tristan will find himself all alone. And when that day comes, I’ll be there.

  I’m going to fucking kill him.

  19

  Back to School

  I walk past Sparrow’s locker on the way to first period, trying not to see all the bright notes decorated with glitter. It’s only the third day of school, but somebody’s already taped twinkle lights all over her locker. There are plastic flowers stuffed into the vents, pictures and other crap all over the floor. A blue bear in a pink tutu, a stuffed swan wearing a crown, a rotting red rose next to a coffee-ringed program from last year’s Nutcracker. It’s open to the cast list—Clara: Savannah Darcy Rose—with her name circled in black. I stop, even though I know it’s going to make me nuts. Luis comes up behind me.

  “Man, this is unbelievable. Who has this much freaking glitter? It looks like a fairy puked.”

  “Word.”

  “If I were you, man, I’d keep walking. This is beyond sick, and it’s not helping you to hang out and look at it. You want me to walk to class with you?”

  “No, thanks. I’m cool.”

  “Doubtful, but okay. Catch you later.” He pounds my shoulder and heads down the hall. I can’t go to class. I’m stuck, like my feet are glued to the floor. I can’t look away.