What You Hide

by Natalie D. Richards

  “It’s okay,” I say, shifting into action. Forcing my own smile. “I’ve got it.”

  I throw the suitcase on her bed, and she flinches. “Mallory, wait. Let’s—”

  “Get you packed,” I say, cutting her off. I jerk open her top drawer and grab a handful of socks and underwear. Then her second drawer. Shirts. Mostly long-sleeved. They go into the suitcase. “Do you want some T-shirts too?”

  “Mallory.”

  I ignore her because she can’t change her mind again. Not this time. Three nights ago, Charlie had some sort of system upgrade at school, and I took her to a Bob Evans. She’d picked at her eggs. I’d only ordered dessert because I wasn’t there to eat. I was there to make a case.

  “You’d eat better if he’d let you have the medicine.”

  “He’s worried about the baby.”

  “Right, no medicine. No soda either, though it’s the only liquid you can keep down.”

  “Mallory…”

  “Is he worried about the effects of TV on the baby too? Because he also won’t let you have the remote.”

  I think that was when it hit her. It is worse than she thinks. Bad enough to leave. And in that shitty red booth with the waitress calling us both “honey” and the apple pie congealing on my plate, she said she couldn’t stay with him. She decided to leave.

  As far as I’m concerned, nothing changes that much in three days.

  I open the bottom drawer next, taking two pairs of yoga pants It’ll have to do for now.

  “You’re going to need shoes,” I say.

  “Mallory.”

  “We should bring your winter coat too. It’s getting colder.” I yank open her closet, but the sliding door sticks. I swear and tug it harder. It bumps off track, wedging with about eight inches of open space for me to reach into the closet.

  Mom doesn’t move.

  My body goes still, and I utter a sigh.

  She’s behind me on the bed. I don’t need to look to see that she’s taking the clothes out of the suitcase. I don’t need to ask to know she’s changed her mind about leaving.

  “We talked about this.” I say it right against the closet door, but she hears me. You can hear everything in this apartment.

  “It’s…complicated.”

  “No, it’s not. He treats you like a child. Like less than that. We can’t stay here.”

  “I’m having a baby.” Her hand drifts to her belly.

  “Which is exactly why we can’t be here. He’s going to snap one day, and you know it. It’s a matter of time.”

  “No. He doesn’t hurt me.” She lifts her chin like she’s proud of it. “He never hits me.”

  “Yet!” My laugh is a terrible sound. “He’s getting crazier every day. He took your keys and wallet. He decides every meal, every haircut. He’s reads our text messages! Who does that?”

  “He’s worried about money because of the baby. All that data on the phone.”

  “Mom, this is beyond worried. This isn’t normal. He needs help, and he refuses to see that.” I march away from the closet, dragging the suitcase to the edge of the bed and grabbing the clothes she unpacked. “You know what? No. We talked about this, and you agreed. You said a break would be a good idea. That maybe he would call someone.”

  “I felt pressured.” She’s shrinking in on herself, looking smaller by the second. “You wouldn’t let it go. What was I supposed to say?”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just go for tonight. We can talk to one of the counselors at the shelter. If you feel better about things and have a plan, we’ll come home.”

  I can practically taste the lie, but I don’t care. I’ll say anything to get her out of here.

  “I need to think, okay?”

  I huff, and her gaze sharpens.

  “You’re not a mother, Mallory. You don’t understand. This baby needs a father.”

  And I didn’t?

  I swallow the words down, but something hot wells up in my chest. And snaps. My hand shoots out in frustration, shoving Charlie’s dresser against the wall. Change spills, and a cologne bottle tips over, rolling across the dresser top.

  “What kind of father is he going to be?” I ask, voice rising. “Do you see the way he looks at you? That weird singsong voice he uses when he gets mean? He’s not a good man.”

  “You don’t know what a bad man is. You’re too young to know.”

  “Maybe I’m young, but I’m not blind. He’s becoming a lunatic.”

  The front door closes, and I hear footsteps. His footsteps. My spine freezes into a string of icy knots. Mom shakes her head, her finger at her lips to shush me, but she’s too late. I dropped my backpack at the door.

  “You’re home from school,” he announces. I hear him hang his keys on the hook by the door, just so. “Peter called me. Told me he saw you running and thought I should check on you.”

  His tone is mild and unconcerned, but fear blooms in my mother’s eyes. Charlie crosses the living room, joining us in the bedroom. My heart scrabbles into my throat as he studies the toppled cologne bottle. The suitcase on the bed. His eyes linger on that, and then they turn on my mother.

  “Now do you see what I mean, Sasha?”

  My mother stays very still. Something passes between them that I don’t understand. It catches up with me though. They’ve talked about this. Or at least about me. I don’t need all the details to understand he’s going to use information they’ve already discussed against me.

  He picks up the change on the dresser slowly, piece by piece. Each coin scrapes across the wood as he collects it.

  “The disrespect,” he says softly, eyes flicking back to my mother. “The utter disrespect of this girl. Do you see who you’re raising, Sasha? Vindictive. Remorseless.”

  I laugh and catch his attention. Charlie has kind eyes and a soft chin, but both are lies.

  “Run out of words to describe me?” I snap at him. “How about rebellious?”

  “You snarling little brat.” He says it with a voice some men might use to comment on the weather. “You think you can talk to me like that, don’t you?”

  My anger barely edges out my fear, but barely is enough. “Maybe I do.”

  He chuckles. “One day, this attitude of yours will catch up with you, and you won’t like that game. Do you know what things happen to girls like you? Do you want me to tell you?”

  I point at him but look at my mom. “Do you hear him? This is exactly why you need to go. We can’t live like this.”

  “Can’t live like what, Mallory?” he asks. “With authority in your life? With someone who won’t put up with your little stunts? Can’t live with a man who won’t let you dominate him the way you dominate your mother? You will learn your place in this house.”

  “Charlie, I don’t think—”

  He raises a dismissive hand. “I’ll handle this. I think it’s clear that you’ve done enough damage.”

  Mom tries to stand, paling. “Please. We all need to settle down.”

  He moves to her, big hands on her shoulders, leaning so close that it can’t be easy for her to focus. “Why are you like this, Sasha? Why do you let her do this to you?”

  My mom’s eyes well with tears. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “My poor girl. I love you. I know what she does to you.”

  She nods, sniffing. “She’s my daughter, Charlie. I love her.”

  “Of course you do.” Then his hand goes to her belly. He makes a soft, sad noise, and bile stings the back of my throat. “Why do you hurt your mother, Mallory? You sulk and you stomp.” He gestures at the suitcase. “Now you want to leave and tear our family apart?”

  “You’re full of it,” I say, heart pounding. “And I’m not staying here one more second. Mom, you can’t make me stay.”

  “Ba
by, I—”

  “Then go.” Charlie’s words cut her off. His arm tightens around her, his face turning white. I can tell he’s on the edge of something terrible even if his words come softly. “Take your filthy mouth and every evil, sneaking thought in your head out of my house. Leave us be.”

  “Charlie, please.” Mom’s plea is breathless. She’s gone pale like she’ll be sick again. I reach for her, and he jerks her out of my grip, gasping.

  “You aren’t going to hurt your mother. Not on my watch.”

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt her! What is wrong with you?”

  “You are what’s wrong with me,” he says. “You are what’s wrong with your mother too! She did her best, but you turned out bad.”

  Mom whimpers.

  “Quiet. I’ll take care of this.” He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and my face feels cold. Numb. The room tilts to one side, the edges going dark.

  “Mom, look at me,” I say. I’m shaking all over. “Look at me!”

  “I can’t do this right now,” she says, crying.

  “Do you see what you’ve done?” He strokes her back while he stares at me. His voice is mournful, but there’s no sadness in his eyes. There’s glee. “Look at what you’ve done.”

  Mom bolts out of the room, and I hear her kick the bathroom door closed half a second before she gags.

  We are alone. One wall away, my mother is vomiting, but here I’m breathing in his cologne and watching the awful glint behind his smile. He’s enjoying this. Her pain. My fear. All of it.

  “I’m going to turn you in,” I tell him softly. “I’m going to tell someone.”

  “Tell them what? Tell them what a monster I am? I pay for your food, your home, your clothes. I’m a nice guy, Mallory, but you keep pushing. Let’s see what happens when you push me too far.”

  Tears sting my eyes, trailing like fire down my cheeks. I keep my voice to a whisper. “I hate you.”

  “Oh, I don’t hate you,” he speaks as softly as I did. “You aren’t worth hating.”

  I back away until I’m at my bag, and he watches. His smile is nothing but teeth and terror, and it’s working on me. I’m afraid of him.

  “Go on,” he says, like he’s shooing a stray dog. “You won’t stay gone.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Nooo.” Another flash of teeth that isn’t close to a smile. “You’ll come crawling back. And when you do, maybe I won’t be so nice. Maybe I’ll show you what a monster is.”

  Then his gaze flicks to the bathroom door, and a cold and calculating expression flashes over his face. This is how I know Charlie is more than awful words and obsessive control. He is a yellow sky and leaves flipped backward in July. He is a coming storm.

  “You all right in there, darling?” he calls to my mother, so sweet that my jaw aches.

  “I’m going to stay with a friend, Mom.” My voice wobbles. “For a little while.”

  “A little while.” He nods like this, too, was his idea. Then he drops his voice to a whisper. “And then I’ll show you.”

  “I love you, Mallory.” Her voice is muffled. She’s still at the toilet, and she’s crying.

  My stomach twists for her. Charlie’s mouth twists, too, a sinister smile just for me as I back toward the front door.

  “You’ll crawl back,” he says again.

  It is the last thing I hear before I run.

  Spencer

  Sunday, November 5, 9:52 a.m.

  This freak is going to mow me down mid-ice. I angle my skates to the right as hard as I can. Snow sprays, and his shoulder connects with mine. I skitter back, digging my blades in as I poke for the puck between his legs. Miss. Miss again. I reach, shoved up against his jersey, smelling ice and sweat.

  He grunts, his elbow jamming back into my ribs.

  “Be nice,” I growl. “You didn’t even buy me dinner.”

  His answering shove is a warning, but I’m good with warnings. I grin around my mouth guard and jab my stick between his skates again. The puck pops loose.

  I look up.

  “Jarvey!” I scream, passing it hard up the center ice.

  Another elbow lands in that tender spot right beneath my shoulder pads. A bruise tomorrow, probably. Doesn’t matter to me. Jarvey caught the pass. He’s sliding up the ice like a dream, puck glued to the end of his stick.

  I shove left and watch the glory boys. Jarvey swinging around the face-off circle, Shawn already at the net, the toes of his skates inches from the crease, and then, Isaac, like a shadow, lingering in that back corner in case Jarvey’s shot flies too high.

  It doesn’t.

  They’ve got gloves up in celebration before the ref even acknowledges the goal. I bump gloves with the trio on my way to the bench, lungs on fire and sweat dripping into my eyes.

  Winters, our defense coach, taps my helmet. “Nike poke. Watch your flank.”

  And then he’s back to the wall, leaning over and screaming at Joe. Out of position. Watch your point. Alex shifts closer to me on the bench.

  “So, is that it? Community service at the library?” he asks.

  “How are you still catching up on all this?”

  “My parents dragged me to southern France for ten days, remember? I’m still catching up on homework.”

  “Right. Poor you.” I smirk. “But yeah, six months of service, and Dad wrote a fat check.”

  He shakes his head. “I left with you voted most likely to have a comedy show. Two weeks later, you’re most likely to end up in the big house.”

  “What can I say? Life lost all meaning without you.”

  “Dick.” He nods at Winters. “You doing the college hockey roundup next week?”

  I wince. “I’m not going division one. I just like the game, man.”

  “Still need to figure out which colleges will take you. You don’t want to end up not playing, right?”

  “True. Info sounds good,” I say, but it doesn’t. It sounds like everything else: a high-pitched static hum about college and the future and the things we know we should be doing.

  Someone smacks my helmet. “You’re up, Keller. Look smart!”

  I slide on my joker face as I leap over the wall. “But, coach, we both know I’m an idiot!”

  I hear the team laughing behind me. My blades bite ice, and the blue lines stretch out before me. From this angle, even I can see where to go.

  Spencer

  Monday, November 6, 7:58 a.m.

  I pull my badge out of the glove box before I lock the car and lope up the library stairs. It’s still dark inside. A benefit to doing my mandatory community service early, I guess. I usually have to do it after school, but it’s a teacher workday, whatever the hell that means. It used to mean Froot Loops and video games until Mom got home, but then I decided to break a four-thousand-dollar window, so now I’m here.

  It’s different inside when it’s closed. I didn’t notice the first time, but I figure the library would seem different when the police escort you in with your father.

  We’d met with the library director, Mr. Brooks. He and my dad had talked about Fairview and boys and the history of public institutions. I sat on my chair trying to figure out how some guy twenty years younger than my dad winds up in charge of a library and listening to Frank Sinatra at 4:00 a.m.

  It was ten or fifteen minutes before Mr. Brooks had turned to me.

  “Climbing the library is a new one. What’s the appeal?”

  “I like to climb.” I shrugged.

  “Buildings in general, or do you usually stick with libraries?”

  “No, that’s a first.”

  “So, what inspired you?”

  “Higher knowledge for our best future?”

  My father sucked in a breath, ready to reprimand me. But Mr. Brooks laughed. That’s when he recommen
ded community service at the library. Six months for me to get exactly what I’d asked for. Higher knowledge.

  Who knows? Maybe there’s a book in here that will tell me what to do when all the smart choices feel wrong.

  “Good morning, Spencer!” Gretchen greets me like I’ve won a prize. She says everything like that, so she’s either hitting some very powerful drugs in the back room or she dreams of hosting a game show.

  “Hey, Gretchen.”

  “How was your game Sunday?”

  “Game?” I feign panic. “I knew there was something I missed.”

  “Funny! How would you feel about lending a hand on a desk this morning? We’ve got a couple of call-offs, so we need the help.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thank you.” Another big smile comes with the thanks. “We’ve got some time if you want to shelve a cart or two first.”

  She thanks me a lot, and I don’t know how to respond to it. This isn’t some do-gooder effort because I’m such a swell guy. This is penance being paid by a pseudo criminal, and she shouldn’t really be thanking me.

  The carts are waiting for me in the circulation office, each one separated by section. I drag two nonfiction carts out and into the stacks. The space is dark and still, so I search for the lights, running my hands along the wall.

  Someone gasps behind me, high and shrill.

  “Gretchen?”

  Footsteps rush down the aisle. Not like heels or sneakers, but the patter-slap of bare feet. I turn, expecting to see Gretchen, or—someone. Barefoot from the sound of it.

  The aisle stretches out, dark and empty.

  “Hello?” I ask, my voice wooden and strange in the quiet.

  Goose bumps rise on the back of my neck. I stare at the shelves, endless colored spines staring at me. Did I imagine it? I push one cart back far enough to enter another aisle. There’s no sound. Nothing out of place to make me think it’s anything but my mind playing tricks on me. But I feel tense, like someone’s near. Watching me.

  The lights flick on with a clunk. I jump, blinking in the sudden brightness.