They All Fall Down

by Roxanne St Claire

  “We didn’t make out. Exactly.”

  He leans forward, surprising me when he snags my hand. “You be careful, Mack.”

  “I …” I want to pull my hand away, I really do, but there’s something so incredibly comforting about the feel of his palm and fingers over my knuckles. It’s like the coffee: I can’t say no. “Why should I be careful? You think Josh Collier’s going to break my heart?”

  “Not worried about your heart.” His voice is rough and low.

  “Then what?”

  For a moment, he looks far too serious for this semi-flirtatious conversation. Then he shakes his head. “So, about that word problem.”

  I laugh again. “I never know where you’re going next.”

  “Good. It’s in Latin.”

  Frowning, I search his face, which, trust me, is no hardship. “You don’t take Latin.” Not that many kids take Latin at Vienna High—and Levi is definitely not one of them.

  “I need something translated.”

  “I thought you needed help in math.”

  He shakes his head. “Latin.”

  “Then,” I have to acknowledge, “I’m your girl.”

  He gives me a direct look and half smile, squeezing my hand a little. “If only.”

  Whoa, he’s good. Electrical, magnetic, combustible. Levi is a human physics class full of energy I can’t resist. But I have to. I slide my hand away. “What’s the Latin issue?”

  “Why won’t you hold my hand, Mack?”

  “Why do you insist on calling me that? No one does, you know. It’s Kenzie. Or Mackenzie. Not Mack.”

  “Really? Mack fits you. It’s unaffected and straightforward and not quite what you’d expect.”

  Am I all those things? “I don’t like that name.”

  “Why not?”

  Because my brother called me Mack from the day I was born, and sometimes, when I’m going to sleep and the guilt and pain creep up on me, I imagine he’s down in that storeroom, his T-shirt caught in the conveyor belt, his head being pulled in a different direction from his body, trapped and alone and dying. Did he call for me? Did he scream, Hey, Mack, I need help!

  Or did he just … die trying to retrieve the trinket I’d lost?

  “Earth to Mack.” Levi waves his hand in front of my face.

  “Sorry.”

  “Where were you?”

  A bad place. I can’t answer, and attempt a shrug.

  “My guess is someone special called you that name. Someone who puts a sad look in those baby-blue eyes.”

  I want to make a joke, be light, even flirt. But he’s so damn close to the truth I can barely breathe.

  “Your first love?” he asks.

  “Don’t.” My voice cracks with one word and instantly he has my hand again. “What Latin help do you need?”

  “You’re going to tell me,” he says with one of those sly smiles. “It’s my secret superpower. People tell me shit.”

  “Trust me, Levi, you have more than one superpower.”

  He holds my gaze for what feels like an eternity but is probably just the span of four or five of my crazy-fast heartbeats. And during that time, I feel all the things I didn’t feel with Josh last night. The toe-curling, breath-stealing, tummy-fluttering sensations of … attraction.

  Great. Just great. Couldn’t get all gooey over the good-looking jock, could I? No, I have to pick this one, with his record and his background and his scary, sexy eyes.

  “You have a pen, Mack?”

  I produce one from the cross-body bag I’m wearing. While he grabs a napkin and flips it to the side with no words, I take the shared coffee and sip. It’s almost cold now, but I don’t care.

  I watch how his lashes shadow his cheekbones as he looks down, and study the set of his jaw and the shape of his lips.

  I want to kiss him.

  All that guilt evaporates, only to be replaced with something worse. Fear. I’m scared of this kid, and so, so drawn to him.

  He looks up and catches me, but I don’t care. “This is private,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “I mean, do not repeat what I’m going to show you.”

  I almost laugh. “And I was just about to tweet it.”

  “I’m serious.” He narrows his eyes and lowers his voice. “Dead serious.”

  “Okay,” I say again, just as gravely.

  “I need to know exactly what this means.” He still doesn’t turn the paper over, reaching for my hand. “Exactly. Word for literal word.”

  “Okay, I’ll do my best.”

  He turns over the paper so I can read:

  Nihil Relinquere et Nihil Vestigi

  I don’t have to think long; these are not unusual words. “It says ‘to leave nothing behind and no trace.’ ”

  He frowns. “Google said ‘leave nothing and trace nothing.’ ”

  “Google Translate is mentally challenged.” I study the words again, double-checking the tense and grammar. “Yes, nihil means ‘nothing’ but relinquere is the verb ‘to leave behind.’ ”

  “Not ‘to leave’?”

  “No, it’s referencing what’s left when you’re gone. Also, the second clause is a partitive genitive, so while it directly translates to ‘nothing of trace,’ it means ‘no trace.’ ”

  He frowns, shaking his head.

  “You’d have to understand the nuances of the language, but nihil is a defective noun.”

  “Something’s wrong with it?”

  “Nihil doesn’t decline like a normal noun; it only has a nominative and accusative. In the first clause, nihil is acting as the direct object of the infinitive relinquere.…” There’s more of an explanation—there always is with the accusative case—but he’s scratching his head, lost.

  “You’re sure? It means ‘leave nothing behind’—”

  “No, ‘to leave nothing behind.’ It’s an order, not just a thing someone does. It’s a thing someone wants to do or is ordered to do. Very subtle nuance, but there is a difference.”

  He nods.

  “So what is it? Song lyrics? A poem? Secret code?” On the last guess, I swear he pales.

  “I’m doing a favor for a friend,” he says after a beat.

  That’s a weird favor. “Anyone I know?”

  “Doubtful.” He rolls the paper into a ball. I’m mesmerized by his hands; they might be the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen. Blunt-tipped, long, lean, strong, tanned.

  After a moment, he slips the napkin ball into his jacket pocket and his gaze moves from me to the window behind me. Once again, I can swear something shifts in his expression and body language. Just like that, he seems … taut.

  Without thinking, I turn just in time to catch a dark pickup truck pulling out of the lot.

  I whip around and look at him. “Do you know who that is?”

  “Who who is?”

  “That truck.”

  He frowns. “I didn’t see a truck.” Suddenly, he stands, grabbing the coffee. “I gotta go, Mack. Thanks for the Latin assist.”

  The abruptness throws me, like everything he says and does, but I stand, too. “Okay.” I glance at the parking lot again. I don’t like the idea of walking in the dark with that pickup out there. A familiar sensation rolls through me.

  Familiar enough that I shake it off. I will not be ruled by fear. Yes, I could ask Levi for a ride home, but something stops me. Probably how fast he’s moving to get out of here. And if he wanted to give me a ride, wouldn’t he offer?

  His gaze slips to the window again before he starts to walk away. I slowly sit back down, trying to process this one-eighty change in him. Was it the translation? The truck? Me?

  Pausing at the trash receptacle near the door, he tosses in the coffee cup. After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the balled-up napkin, flipping it into the recycling bin.

  He turns and winks. “See ya, Kenzie.”

  The name—the one I said I wanted him to use—sounds hollow. I g
uess I liked Mack after all. It’s … unaffected and straightforward and not quite what you’d expect.

  Just like him.

  I watch him disappear into the darkness. But I don’t move, still baffled by everything, including an attraction I don’t want to feel. But mooning over some cute guy is not why I’m sitting here, I finally admit.

  I’m scared of the blasted truck.

  I hate that. I hate it so much I almost take off, but I can’t. Finally, my phone rings with a text. When I see Molly’s name with a “how’s it going” note, I could cry. I text her back and ask her to pick me up, and she promises to be here in ten minutes.

  While I wait, I scroll through my Facebook feed, thinking about all these “friends.” The number has nearly doubled, but I have to remember there’s only one real friend who’d jump off her bed on a Sunday night and give me a ride home.

  Everyone is still talking about Saturday’s amazing party. A few are posting memories and comments about poor Olivia. Chloe Batista is bragging about how she makes a cool fifty bucks for watering somebody’s houseplants while they’re on vacation, which is just a tacky thing to post to the world. Josh sent me a private message saying he’s thinking about me and that I made a great impression on his grandfather.

  I almost laugh at how different my Facebook page looks just days after I landed on the list. How can one thing change people’s opinions so fast?

  When I see Molly’s VW pull in, I get up and walk to the door, but as I get closer to the trash, I simply can’t resist. With a glance around at the almost empty Starbucks, I grab the napkin from the top of the recycling bin and stuff it into my pocket.

  Nihil Relinquere et Nihil Vestigi

  I’m just following the instructions on the napkin.

  CHAPTER XIV

  It’s warm in Molly’s car, and I feel relaxed and balanced for the first time since I left my house over an hour ago. “Where can we go on a Sunday night? I’m not in any rush to go home.”

  She turns up the radio. “Fine with me. Now let’s get back to Levi. He asks you to tutor him in math but he really just wanted you to translate something he could have found on Google? Interesting.”

  “The Google translation was wrong.”

  She shoots me a look like I’m an idiot. “Don’t you see it was just an excuse to go out with you?”

  I had to consider that. “I know, right? Otherwise why didn’t he just ask me to translate something in school or when I saw him the other day in the parking lot? Why drag me to Starbucks on a Sunday night?”

  She rolls her eyes. “What am I going to do with you, Kenzie Summerall? Don’t you get it? You are a hot commodity now. Josh Collier wants to be your boyfriend and—”

  “He didn’t ask me out.”

  “You kissed him.”

  “Yeah, but we’re just talking. Nothing official.”

  “Kissing should be official,” she says as she turns onto Route 1. “I’d suggest coffee, but you just had some. You hungry?”

  “Not really.” I look out the window, but I’m not really paying attention until I see a dark truck. Is that the same one? I wonder. I don’t have a knack for knowing every vehicle make, model, and year with one glance. Trucks all look exactly alike to me, except for the color. Some have that second back door, some have silver wheels, some are big, some are monstrous. This one looks … like the one I’ve been seeing. I have to know more about it.

  “Hey, take the next right past the light, Moll. I want to see something.”

  “What?”

  “I keep seeing that truck everywhere around Cedar Hills,” I say, referring to our borough within the city of Vienna. I think about elaborating now, at least about the truck and the weird text or the gas leak. But I still feel as if telling anyone about these bizarre, unrelated, possibly not even real events gives them credence they don’t deserve, so I stay quiet.

  She’ll just think I’m turning into my mother, unhealthy and obsessive.

  By the time we get to the road where I saw the truck turn, it’s gone. The street is a simple residential neighborhood a lot like mine, only the houses are a little bigger and nicer.

  And suddenly, I’m very, very tired of this. “You know, I think I just want to go home.”

  Without argument, she takes us through some side streets heading back to the part of Cedar Hills where we live, winding around the curves and inclines, talking excitedly about a boy named Brock she met at the party.

  “He goes to a prep school in Pittsburgh,” she tells me. “So he didn’t even know about the Hottie List.”

  “And you told him?” I ask.

  “I might have mentioned it.”

  “Molly!”

  “What? I didn’t say I was on it. And I know you think this new run-in with popularity is bogus, but I’m loving it, Kenz. I’m getting a total spillover effect on Facebook. I’ve accepted about twenty new friends and I’d never have gotten to that party without you being on the list. Thank you, Miss Hottie Pants.”

  “I …” I see the truck. I think. “I get it.”

  “Do you?” Molly asks. “I want you to understand how much this new social status means to me. It doesn’t mean I’m using you or anything.”

  “I know,” I say, squinting at the truck parked in front of a house on the corner.

  “Why are you so interested in that truck?”

  “I almost hit a truck the night of my accident and I swear that same truck nearly mowed me down on Baldrick Road yesterday. I’d love to know who the heck it was. They never even stopped to see if I was alive.”

  The truck’s lights are off and it looks empty. I try to find some kind of identifying feature to memorize. It’s got four doors, so it’s one of the bigger pickups. A silver bumper. A tow hook on the back. Other than that, it looks like every dark truck in America parked in front of a gray one-story with fancy fieldstone up the sides.

  “You don’t know who lives there, by any chance?” I ask.

  “No, but we’re in East Ridge, not Cedar Hills, so the people are Richie McRich. Look at the landscaping.”

  I’m not interested in the trees. “Have you ever seen that truck before? I mean, at school, maybe?”

  “I don’t know.” She slows down when we’re next to it and I peer inside the empty cab, although the windows are tinted and I can’t see a thing. It could be the same pickup I saw the night of my accident or the one that almost ran me over on my bike or the one I thought I saw outside Starbucks when Levi suddenly bolted.

  Or it could be that I am a victim of a wildly overactive imagination and a crazy-protective mother who’s made me paranoid.

  The house has one light on in the front room, but overall, it’s quiet and unremarkable. When we drive past, I turn to get the license plate of the truck—which would be the smartest way to identify it. I memorize the number on the standard-issue blue and yellow Pennsylvania tag.

  At the top of the hill, Molly stops at the intersection and points to a house on the corner. “I don’t know about that other house, but your pal hottie number two lives there.”

  “Chloe Batista?”

  “That’s her Fiesta in the driveway, with the Salt Life bumper sticker.” She gives me a wry smile. “Who does that?”

  “You know, all that surfing in Vienna.” I recognize the bright-blue car Chloe paraded when she got it for her sixteenth birthday. “Anyway, she’s not my pal.”

  “Well, she wants you in her Sisters of the List club.” There might be a hair of jealousy in Molly’s voice, but I totally get that.

  “Don’t worry, Molly. I’m not going to the dark side.”

  She laughs, but her heart’s not in it. “I’m all about the dark side, if they let me in. It beats hanging out with the band losers on Saturday nights.”

  “I still think it’s bogus that these kids didn’t even know my name, or yours, until that list came out.”

  “The boys knew your name, Kenzie, or you wouldn’t have gotten enough votes to make the list.”r />
  I just roll my eyes. “I’m starting to hate that freaking list.”

  “You just need to relax and use it to your advantage, Kenz.”

  When we reach my house, we make plans to go to school together in the morning, and then I head in to find my mom in the den watching Dr. Oz reruns. After some small talk about the weekend—not a word about the party, the kissing, or, oh my God, my first sip of vodka—she starts talking about Olivia. Of course, it’s been all over the news.

  I tell her I barely knew Olivia and only dumb, drunk kids dive into quarries, and before she can get too deep into a topic I’m already tired of, I escape to my room, close the door, and curl up on my bed.

  The next thing I do is pull that napkin out to study Levi’s handwriting.

  Nihil Relinquere et Nihil Vestigi

  Why was my translation so important? Was it just a ploy to have a pseudo-date with me? I’d kind of think that from the way he acted, but then … bam. He was gone with the wind.

  Or was he gone with the truck? I never really saw him get on his motorcycle, which is the only thing I’ve ever known him to drive. Did he get in that truck?

  I open up my laptop to Google the phrase. All that comes up are links to books and articles, and Latin class notes from all different colleges. I get lost for a long time reading, testing my brain, finding a few new words.

  This is what I should be doing, I think, aching a little. This is what I do. I should be preparing for State and winning the top prize. Instead I’m flirting with bad boys and kissing rich ones.

  I consider going downstairs to relaunch the State discussion, which has been dropped completely after the accident last week. Outside I hear a siren, then another, loud and fairly close. But I’ve found Cicero’s Letters to Atticus, and I’d rather read that than pay attention to anything. This is my comfort place.

  The Latin is beautiful, musical, perfection in every word. I want to hear Cicero himself speak these words. I want to—

  My door flies open and Mom is standing there, open-jawed and paper white.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Another … one.”

  “Another what?”

  “Another … girl.”

  I just blink at her, a slow, cold agony already clawing at my heart.