“It's settled, then,” Ashleigh replied.
Will heard the ghost of her mother in the phrase and could picture Mrs. Wheeler at the kitchen table speaking those same words. She had been a gruff but kindhearted woman, always ready with brownies or candy, but also more than willing to correct a child, whether the kid was her own offspring or not. Mrs. Wheeler had died when they were sophomores in college.
“So, who else have you run into so far?” he asked.
“Oh, my God!” Ashleigh said, the spark of her high school self flashing in her eyes. “Did you see Nyla Leonitis?”
Will grinned at her excitement. “No.”
“You heard she was gay, though, right?”
He pictured high school Nyla in his mind. Stereotypes were bullshit, there was no question about that. But with her mannish features, absolute ignorance of anything feminine, and the cut of her hair, people willing to jump to conclusions would certainly have presumed she was a lesbian.
“She's not?” Will asked.
“No, she is,” Ashleigh said, waving her hand at him as though he had said the stupidest thing in the world. “First of all, she looks great. But oh, my God, Will, I met her girlfriend and she is such a hottie. I swear to you, I would sleep with her.”
“Would you film it?”
Ashleigh punched him in the arm, and then continued her weekend-to-date review of the former classmates she had caught up with. She teased him about Stacy—reminding him of her comment about saving all the dances for her tonight—and Will told her about the people he had seen at the parade.
“Martina's still amazing. Things with Brian actually seemed . . . pretty cool. Not as awkward as I expected. I talked to Tim Friel last night, he's doing well. Cheered when he and Tess went by in the parade—”
“Wait,” Ashleigh said, brow furrowing in confusion. “Tim and Tess? Why was Tess in the parade?”
A ripple of nausea went through Will's stomach and he blinked as a sharp spike of pain lanced into his head. His hand went to his temple, and in the moments that followed his mind was filled with conflicting images. Tim and Tess, maybe forty-five minutes ago, riding in the parade as Homecoming King and Queen for his class. Tim and Caitlyn—his Caitlyn—riding in that same parade ten years ago, Tim in his football uniform and Caitlyn so beautiful in the dress Will had helped her pick out, a tiara on her head.
“Will?” Ashleigh asked. He felt her hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
He nodded. “Just . . . just a headache.”
“So what was that about Tess? Why was she in the parade again?”
A chill crept through him. He felt the memories sifting, new ones sliding in to cover the old, as though he was shuffling some mental deck of cards. Caitlyn. Before he'd come into the stadium he had seen her in the crowd watching the parade. But even now he could remember looking up and seeing her riding with Tim, waving to him as she went by. Homecoming Queen.
His own laugh sounded hollow to him as he glanced at Ashleigh. “Sorry. I meant Caitlyn. Tim and Caitlyn. Freudian slip, I guess. Maybe secretly I always thought Tess should've won Homecoming Queen.”
Ashleigh dropped her gaze. Will's heart fluttered. Had he said it wrong? His thoughts were so confused but he couldn't explain to Ashleigh, not now. Not until he understood what was happening to his mind. He didn't think he could stand her thinking he was losing it.
“She would've been,” Ashleigh said softly. Then, without raising her head, she glanced up at him. “It was the worst, Will. Sometimes I even forget it happened to her.”
Ice formed in his gut. “What?”
Ashleigh looked around to be sure no one was paying attention to their conversation. “Tess got the most votes, Will. She would've been Homecoming Queen. But she dropped out that morning and Caitlyn was the first runner-up, so Chadbourne had her take the crown. Tess didn't go to the game, or the dance. She didn't want anyone to know. She was so ashamed.”
Will did not want to ask, but he could not stop himself. “Ashamed of what?”
“That Friday night—the night before Homecoming—she was raped.”
“Jesus,” Will whispered, so low he doubted Ashleigh could hear him. “Jesus Christ.”
He glanced around at the faces in the crowd, at his friends. Eric and Danny had gone off to use the bathroom, or maybe to the concession stand. Nick caught Will's eye, concern etched in his features, but Will ignored him. The other women were all caught up in conversation with one another. The air itself seemed to shudder, the sunlight to sparkle with the terrible suggestion that at any moment it might all be torn apart, as though the fabric of the world itself were infinitely malleable.
The taste of beer lingered and Will felt bile rise up in his throat. It was all he could do to keep from throwing up.
The deck of cards continued to be shuffled in his mind. Caitlyn. Tess. Mike Lebo.
Will hung his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Jesus,” he said again. “That's . . . that's awful. I don't even have the words. And Tess never told anyone? The police, I mean? What was to stop the guy from raping someone else?”
Ashleigh stiffened beside him and said nothing. Will raised his head to look at her, wondering what it was he had said that had upset her. She was staring at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion, lips pressed together so tightly that they were almost white.
“How did you know that? None of the guys knew. Tess swore all the girls to secrecy.”
But Will was barely listening to her words. He held his breath as he stared at Ashleigh and he could feel his eyes well up with unshed tears of frustration and helplessness. For even as he gazed at her, she was changing. It was subtle, but it was real. There were lines in her face that he knew had not been there moments before. Her hair was slightly unkempt now and there were a few gray hairs he had not noticed. Ashleigh was wearing more makeup than she had been only a moment before. Brighter lipstick. Eyeshadow. And her eyes. There was something in them he hadn't seen there before.
Pain.
It took a moment for her words to sink in. The fear he had been nurturing in his heart since the previous night blossomed into terror. The impossible was happening all around him, everything he knew to be true and solid seemed to be slipping from his grasp. Will tilted his head and regarded her carefully.
“Ash. Ashleigh, you told me. Just a minute ago. You told me.”
She shook her head, lowered her gaze. “Don't do that to me, Will.” She uttered a sound that might have been a laugh if not for the sadness in it. “Mess with my head enough, I might even believe you.”
“Ashleigh—”
Abruptly she looked up at him again, met his gaze with a determined air. “So if you know about Tess, then you know it happened to me, also. How long have you known, Will?”
He could only stare at her. His mouth was dry, his throat closing as if to choke him. Tears began to form at the corners of his eyes but he blinked them away. Will could not reply, could not speak to her.
Her voice dropped to nothing but a papery rasp. “I had to have an abortion. Did they tell you that, too, whoever decided they could share secrets? But I had scar tissue, after. Everyone's always wondering when Eric and I are going to have kids—well, there's your answer. We can't.”
She shook her head. “I know I should have told you this. You, if anyone. But I made a promise. And this was a shitty time, and a shitty way, for you to bring it up.”
Olivia. Rose. Those were the names of Ashleigh and Eric's three-year-old twin daughters. Olivia and Rose. Will knew this. He had held the baby girls in his arms. Had photographs of them at home. But he knew, now, that those photographs were no longer there, just as Mike Lebo's address was no longer in his book. Because Mike Lebo was dead.
And Ashleigh's daughters had never been born.
The cards were shuffling in his head again, but now some of them had been played. A pattern was forming. Through the haze of his heartbreak and his fear, he could see it happening. Something snapped
in Will's mind. The sound, inside his ears the way he could sometimes hear his heartbeat, was like the flick of a playing card when it is plucked from the top of the deck with a flourish.
None of it had ever happened.
But now it had.
Will understood now. This was not in his head. He was not some delusional schizophrenic lunatic. Don't forget, the note had said, and though he had not wanted to think about it, he had presumed it to be some coy reference to how ephemeral his memories had suddenly become. Now, though, a wall had been shattered in his mind . . . a wall that he himself had erected out of fear and guilt, using the very skills he had so profoundly desired to forget. For the first time in many years, memories he had hidden away from himself returned, and with them a truth about himself and about the fabric of the world that he had wished never to remember.
It was not his mind falling apart, here. It was magic. Dark, cruel magic.
Will had used it to make himself forget. Now someone else was using magic, twisting his reality, and the shock of it had torn away the veil of forgetfulness he had placed upon his mind.
Ashleigh wasn't the only one with a secret.
October, Sophomore Year . . .
Like a beehive, the Eastborough High cafeteria was alive with a constant hum of activity. The clatter of trays and plates and the hiss of steam from the kitchen only fed into the white noise of a hundred simultaneous conversations. Lunch monitors patrolled the caf, strolling amidst aisles of rectangular tables and keeping a special eye on the round tables at the outer edges of the enormous hall—the more desirable seats where the upperclassmen always sat.
Will James was in the third row of rectangles, right in the middle of a dining setup that always reminded him of prison movies. PixieGirl and Caitlyn were whispering some gossip or other to his right. Nick Acosta and Brian Schnell were just sitting down across from him, sliding their trays onto the table. Baked manicotti was the choice of the day, and as bland as the pasta and the cheese were, it was at least edible.
Nick leaned across the table, frowning at Will. “We've gotta sit with these pricks?”
Will didn't need to ask for an elaboration. The pricks in question were Greg Bellini, Chuck Wisialowski, and a handful of their asshole buddies from the hockey team. They weren't all bad, but when they hung around Bellini, they might as well be.
“Didn't even notice,” Will told him. “It's not easy getting a bunch of seats together.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “Pricks.” He forked a bite of manicotti into his mouth, then turned toward Pix and Caitlyn and opened his mouth, giving them all a view of chewed cheese and pasta sauce. The girls sighed and went on with their conversation, but Nick and Brian laughed. Will just shook his head. Nick was always happy to go for the easy laugh.
That was when Bellini made his mistake. He had caught sight of Nick's mouthful.
“Yeah,” Bellini called along the table, “I heard about you, Acosta. Heard you'll put anything in your mouth.”
Will stiffened. His gaze ticked toward Brian. The girls had fallen silent. They all looked at Nick, who only grinned and showed Bellini that same mouthful of food. The short, pug-nosed hockey player sat diagonally across the table from Nick, and had a perfect view.
“Fuckin' loser,” Bellini sneered, grinning as he looked at his friends, who chuckled derisively. “Football fags.”
Will started to stand up but he caught a look from Nick. In the midst of his grinning, Nick let him know just with that glance that this was his show and he didn't want Will to interfere. Sometimes it seemed that Nick was always prepared to share wisdom with others but never seemed to have enough left for himself.
Still smiling as Bellini went back to his conversation with his friends, Nick broke off a small chunk of the slice of Italian bread on his plate. He cocked back one finger, and flicked it across the table at Bellini. It struck the little bulldog on the cheek, and Bellini slapped at the side of his head as though a mosquito had bitten him.
With wild eyes he glared at Nick. “You're just lucky that didn't have any sauce on it.”
Their gazes were locked. Nick's grin remained steady, even manic. He broke off another piece of bread, dipped it into the sauce on his manicotti, and flicked it across the table. It struck Bellini's shirt, leaving a red smear. There was a collective intake of breath around the table, and it seemed to Will that at that moment a hush fell over the cafeteria. That was ridiculous, of course, as only a handful of people were actually paying attention. It was just in his own ears. In his own head.
Bellini stood and backed away from the table, gaping stupidly at the smear on his shirt. When he lifted his gaze to glare at Nick, his nostrils flared and he was almost shaking.
“Come on, then, shithead. I'm gonna kick your ass.”
A prickling sensation went up the back of Will's neck. He stood at the very same moment that Nick did. Bellini and Nick were on opposite sides of the table and they started moving toward the end of the row. Will got in the bulldog's way.
“Why don't you sit down,” Will told him.
Bellini sneered up at him, half a foot shorter than any of the other guys at the table, and Nick was taller than any of them. “Wait your turn, Willy.”
The air crackled with the tension and the impending violence, the malign intent that rolled in waves off both Nick and Bellini. Will could feel it, as heavy and electric as the moisture and static in the air just before a storm, and wanted to slam Bellini's head into the table.
But then he felt Nick's hand on his shoulder and he turned to find that his friend was still calm, bright-eyed, and smiling.
“Relax, Will. This is my dance.”
Will took a quick breath and nodded, then stepped aside, leaving Nick and Bellini to face off against one another. Already they had begun to draw attention. Hockey players had scrambled from their seats and were backing Bellini up, watching to see what was going to happen. Football players were rooting for Nick, who was one of their own. Others students were taking notice, gathering around. Bellini had set the stage now, and there was no way he was going to let the audience down.
“Come on, pussy, let's go,” the bulldog snarled.
Nick chuckled, hands at his sides. “After school.”
Bellini frowned. “Fuck that. Right here. Let's go.”
Pix and Caitlyn were up now as well, but where Caitlyn had a fearful expression on her face, PixieGirl just looked annoyed. “Cut the shit, you guys,” she snapped. “Come on, Nick. This is stupid.”
Brian Schnell had been watching in rapt fascination but now he seemed to wake suddenly, as though from a trance. He glanced around nervously. “She's right, Nick. You don't need this shit.”
Nick sighed, his smile thinning into a bemused smirk. “Look, I'll be happy to kick your ass, but I want to do it somewhere I'll get to finish the job. After school.”
“You're a pussy.” Bellini took a step closer.
“After school,” Nick repeated firmly, his smile disappearing. He shook his head and glanced over at Brian, Caitlyn, and Pix.
Will saw it coming. Nick didn't. In that moment where Nick had turned away, Bellini swung. His fist struck Nick in the side of the face, and by instinct Nick backed up. With the exhortations of the other hockey pricks driving him on, Bellini went after him. Will tensed to jump in, but Nick didn't need him to. The second Bellini got close enough he reached out and grabbed the guy by the head. Nick took a punch to the chest but it barely grazed him. Then he had one arm around Bellini's neck, holding him tightly as with the other he began to pummel his opponent's chest and stomach. Bellini flailed, throwing wild punches that careened harmlessly off the back of Nick's skull. It looked, not surprisingly, much like the sort of fight Will had seen many times at hockey games.
Students had gathered around, but now Will's English teacher, Mr. Murphy, shoved his way through the spectators. Even as he did so, the sound of a chair scraping the floor echoed through the room from a round table of seniors and Joe Hayes stood
up. The pale, redhaired Hayes was gigantic; when he shoved his way into the midst of things, students made way for him. Nick was over six feet tall and weighed at least one hundred and eighty pounds, but Hayes grabbed him under the arms and hauled him away from Bellini as though he were an infant. The English teacher grabbed Bellini, and the visual juxtaposition of the four of them was almost comical.
Bellini's lip was bleeding, which seemed odd since Will hadn't even seen Nick hit him in the face. Not once. He wondered if the moron had bit his own lip in all the excitement.
Then it was over. Mr. Murphy thanked Joe Hayes and began shepherding Bellini and Nick out of the cafeteria, obviously headed for trouble. To Will's great surprise the other hockey players didn't bother with any trash talk as they sat back down at the table. In a few brief minutes, all was as it had been, save the absence of the brawlers.
“Well,” Brian said, “that was bracing.”
“A bunch of Neanderthals if you ask me,” Pix said, the consternation in her tone belying the gentle elegance of her features. She was beautiful when she smiled, but without that smile she often looked cold and cruel. Will thought it was a good thing she smiled most of the time.
“Come on, Carrie,” Caitlyn said, the one person who still insisted on using Pix's actual name, “you know that's what you love about Nick. His caveman tendencies.”
Pix shot her a withering look and Will grinned. Everyone seemed to know she was interested in Nick except Nick himself. Pix wasn't normally shy, but she didn't seem to be in a hurry to mention it to Nick, so nobody else was going to say anything, either. Caitlyn was full of it, anyway. Nick had never been the kind of guy to get into fights, but he also was not going to back down from anyone.
“Can't believe what a loser Bellini is,” Will said. He stared down at his tray, picking at the manicotti. It was cold now and the cheese had congealed. A grunt came from his own lips, and he looked over at Brian. “You know why he didn't want to wait till after school.”
Brian offered a cynical scowl. “He knew it'd be broken up. If he waited till later, Nick would've wrecked him. Did you see that sucker punch? Bellini knew that was his only shot.”
The Boys Are Back in Town Page 9
