Burning Blue

by Paul Griffin

  “Thank you, Sam. It was adorable. I meant to text you back.”

  “But you never do. How are we supposed to get in touch with you?”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better.”

  “The gate guard wouldn’t let us visit you the other day. Seriously nasty dude.”

  “It wasn’t him. I think my mom was trying to keep the house quiet.”

  “Nic, we love you. We want to be here for you. When are you coming back?”

  “This is Jay,” Nicole said.

  “Oh yeah,” Sam said. “I remember you.” She shook my hand a little too eagerly, and I knew that she was replaying it: my pep rally swim. “I mean, from the other day,” she said. “The caf? I was at the table two behind you and one to the right?”

  “Oh right,” I said, pretending I remembered the exact location of all five hundred students in the cafeteria.

  “He was eating alone,” she said to Nicole. “For the record? I totally respect that.”

  More of the team rolled up in their running gear, a fog of wet red rain suits. They were all over Nicole with hugs. Nicole put up a happy front for a second or so, until her hand went to her hip to grab her phone. “Mom, can you hang on a sec?” She apologized that she had to take the call. The other girls headed off to the locker room with promises they would keep calling her until she called them back. “Welcome back, Jay,” that girl Sam said. “Eat with us next time.”

  “Definitely,” I said, knowing I never would.

  This one girl, Marisol Wood, a sophomore who was by Facebook consensus the prettiest girl in her class, hung back. She was trying not to cry. “Nic, when you’re done with the phone, could I talk to you for a sec?”

  Seeing the girl was upset, Nicole became upset. She led the girl to the far side of the vending machines. Without bothering to tell her mother she would call her back, Nicole handed me her phone. She’d done it absentmindedly, her focus on Marisol.

  I already knew her phone was off. She hadn’t turned it back on after shutting it down a few minutes earlier. Nicole Castro had faked an incoming call to ditch the girls that were crowding around her. I never would have pegged her the type to be sneaky like that. She hugged Marisol, rubbing her back, smiling as she whispered into Marisol’s ear. Marisol went from sobbing to laughing.

  I went to the pro shop and marveled at how much money a person could blow on tennis crap. This was a long way from the hand-me-down Slazenger and a dented three-can of half-bald Penns. A limited edition faux snakeskin racquet cover for $600? Really? And why does sticking an alligator on a shirt raise the price eighty-five bucks? Tennis and reptiles: I see the connection. Nicole found me pricing out energy bars. “What exactly is partially hydrolyzed caseinate, and why would you put it in food?” I said.

  “I actually know what that is, for some ridiculous reason,” she said.

  “The reason is you have a ridiculously high IQ. What world-ending problem did our friend back there drop on you? Her date to the dance stood her up?”

  “Her parents are splitting up. They’d been trying to reconcile, but her dad left for good the other day, she’s pretty sure. She wanted some advice.”

  “On what?”

  “How not to hate her father.” Then Nicole told me about her parents’ nasty breakup. “I’m not taking sides. My father and I are staying close. Trying to. He lives downtown now, a block from his office. He wants to be around for me, but Mom gets weird when he’s in the house, just really sad for the old days, I think, so we try to minimize when he comes over and meet elsewhere instead. Mostly we Skype, two sometimes three hours a week.”

  “Way more face time than most parents give their kids,” I said. “At least that’s how it shakes out in my house.”

  “You can tell me, you know? Your story. I can keep a secret better than anybody,” she said.

  “Not sure I can trust you.”

  “Really now?”

  “Pretty sly there, pretending your mother called to avoid Sam and them.”

  “You should talk, with your iPod earbuds that lead to nowhere.” She looked back over her shoulder, to where Marisol was punching a text into her phone. “We’re all acting, right? Faking our way through.” Her mood darkened, and suddenly. “Part of me wanted to shake her, hard, and say, ‘Hey, I know things suck for you right now, but can you find somebody else’s shoulder to cry on? My plate is kind of full at the moment,’ as in, ‘Do you not see this bandage on my face?’” Her face flushed, and then she gulped, and the red faded from her skin. Now she seemed exhausted. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No, I get it,” I said.

  “Do you really, though?”

  “Yeah. I do. Really.” I was actually relieved to see her angry. Before that, her seeming acceptance of her fate wasn’t natural.

  We were rounding a corner toward the parking lot when Chrissie Vratos bounced up to Nicole with a bump that was almost hard enough to be a shove. “You think it’s funny, Nic?”

  “What is your problem?”

  “Like you didn’t sic them on me?”

  “Who?”

  “Give me a break. The detectives? Yeah, they called me in for questioning. They told me they asked you who you thought might have done it, and that you gave them a list, and I was right there, on top.”

  “I didn’t even mention you. I never even gave them a list.”

  “Right. They had that video, you and me scrimmaging, when you made that ridiculously shallow lob and I caught you at the net.”

  “You mean the one where you drove the ball at my head?” Nicole said.

  “You told them about that thing with the squirt bottle. How could you do this to me? I was just joking around.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What squirt bottle?”

  Sam pushed between Chrissie and Nicole. Sam said, “The time Diana Poisson beat her and she squirted her water bottle into Diana’s face.” She grabbed Chrissie’s sweatshirt hood and tugged her toward the locker room. “Nic wasn’t even there that day, idiot,” Sam said to Chrissie. Marisol and some of the other girls pushed Chrissie toward the door.

  “I told the detectives I had a hunch about who might have burned you,” Chrissie said. “I told them I thought you might have done it to yourself.”

  I said what I’m sure everybody was thinking: “Why would she ruin herself?”

  Chrissie smiled. “Because, Spaceman, as you’ll soon find out, chica is a psycho.”

  Sam jerked on Chrissie’s hood and practically dragged her down the hall.

  Nicole called out, “What did the detectives say when you said that I, you know.”

  “Burned yourself?” Chrissie said. “Nothing. They didn’t look surprised at all. As if they’d been thinking it all along.”

  By the time we got out of the club it was almost 6:30, an hour past sunset, not that you could have seen it that day with the rain. The sky was gunmetal gray and swirling.

  “I think Sam was crushing on you,” Nicole said.

  “Sure she was.”

  “You could have your pick of those girls.”

  “Do you think Chrissie could have done it? Attacked you, I mean. Maybe she was just sick and tired of being number two to you all the time?”

  “No,” Nicole said. “It wasn’t Chrissie. I’m sure.”

  “How?” I said.

  Her phone buzzed. She checked it. “David.”

  Something flashed from the corner of the parking lot, then another flash, stinging white light. I recognized the car: Shane Puglisi’s battered old Honda. I headed for it, but he peeled out before I even got close.

  No way I wasn’t in that shot. Dave Bendix was about to see me hanging with Nicole. Puglisi would make me seem to be doing more than walking Nicole to her car.

  Nicole was sullen. “I wasn’t followed. I’m positive. How do they find me?”

  “Seriously, you’re good with secrets?”

  “Promise.”

  I grabbed her phone
and popped the back off of it with my Swiss Army knife.

  “Okay, what are you doing?” she said.

  “Tweaking your bandwidth, governor.”

  “You’re clipping him.”

  “Now I’m disabling your GPS.”

  “I have it turned off.”

  “You think you have it turned off. It’s only off when the phone is off, and even then the CIA is rumored to have a satellite that scans quiet drives for machine numbers. I don’t think this will keep the tabloids off you entirely, but it’ll be harder for them. Now you’re like me: invisible.”

  “I wish. The boy reconfigures my phone in a parking lot. Scary.”

  “That was messed up, what Chrissie said.”

  “I’m letting it in one ear and out the other.”

  A black Mercedes pulled up. Nicole relaxed when she saw who was inside, a dour-looking woman in her fifties. “Thought you were Mom for a sec,” Nicole said.

  “She called the club,” the woman said. “They said you were here. Let’s go, Nicoletta. You follow me. Or better yet, I’ll follow you.”

  “I have to drive Jay home. Jay, sorry, this is Sylvia. Sylvia, Jay.”

  The woman gave me mean eyes and half a grunt. Then, to Nicole: “Now, Nicole. Dinner is on the table, and then you have to talk to the doctor.”

  “I’ll grab the bus,” I said. “Have to go to the Apple Store anyway.” I walked her to her car.

  “My turn to come clean,” she said. “Back inside, when you said to Chrissie, ‘Why would she ruin herself?’ The word ruin? It hurt.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant like ruin your life. I’m making this worse.”

  “I know what you meant.” She gave me a quick hug and got into her car and drove away. Sylvia gave me a glare before following after Nicole. I wondered if Nicole was even allowed to drive now that one of her eyes was ruined-compromised, rather.

  I felt somewhere between uneasy and frightened. That Nicole had ruled out Chrissie so easily was, frankly, odd. In fact, she seemed not to be interested at all in talking about who the attacker might have been. Was this her way of coping, total denial? Was she afraid to find out who had burned her? A chilling thought flashed my mind and took root before I could suppress it: Did she know who the attacker was, and she was protecting him?

  By the time I got home, Shane Puglisi’s shot was on the ’net with more of that Burned Beauty’s Beau garbage for a headline. Somebody’s headlights had saved me, casting me in silhouette. Not that this mattered. The minute Sam and the rest of the team rolled into the East Side Tennis Club, Dave Bendix was sure to have gotten word I was hanging courtside with his girlfriend. If he confronted me, I’d simply tell him the truth: Nothing was going on. Nicole and I were friends, like she said, end of story. She had my back, I had hers. I revved up my laptops and started digging, not even close to knowing just how deep into darkness I would have to go to find out who burned Nicole Castro.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  From Nicole’s journal:

  Tuesday, 26 October-

  Nye: “How do you feel about what Chrissie said?”

  Me: “How would you feel if somebody accused you of burning yourself?”

  Nye: “Have you ever wanted to hurt yourself?”

  Me: “Have I ever wanted to hurt myself? No. Never. What possible motivation would I have? Do you really think I did this to myself?”

  Nye sits there, reptilian in his stillness and as barren of warmth as the surface of the Moon, staring at me.

  Nye: “You’re under a remarkable amount of pressure. You’re the go-to person for your peers. You’re deeply empathic. You assume a great deal of others’ pain and, by your own admission, internalize it. It would be understandable if you were feeling a need to let that pain bubble to the surface. Add to that your parents’ separation-”

  Me: “Dr. Nye. I. Did not. Burn myself.”

  Nye: “I believe you. My question was merely in regard to any inclination you might or might not have to injure yourself. If you ever do feel such an impulse-”

  Me: “I don’t.”

  He blinks. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen him blink. I excuse myself to the bathroom to catch my breath.

  Skype session w Dad weird. He keeps asking me about David. I can’t bring myself to tell him about David’s asking me to lie for him. Three times now, he has asked. Begged. I wanted to scream, “Nobody thinks you did it, Dave. You’re being paranoid. You have no motive. Relax.”

  Lying on my bed, picking at a scab. I’m a drone, painkiller makes the blankets feel too heavy, except I’m not under the blankets. How many days of rain have we had? Everything is slowing down. Out the bay window the wind bends the trees down, down, the branches creaking without relief, a deepening growl in the air. The rain isn’t falling. It’s floating, but not in a benign way. I see individual drops. They’re bigger than I’d imagined, rounder, fine-milled buckshot.

  All I used to think about was the future. It was bright, shiny. But after the burn, thinking about the future feels wrong in some way, an abstract sin. Is it bad to dream of myself as I was before? To dream I’m hanging with Jay and Emma and maybe Marisol and Sam, before I was The Girl Who Had Acid Thrown in Her Face; we’re all at the beach, playing volleyball, glittering waves, the faint taste of salt and smiling and no sunburn, no bandages, no being stuck for the rest of my life in my room, my bathroom, staring at It?

  Staring at the donor site this past Saturday as the surgeon removes the stitches. Me: “Why are they purple?”

  Doc shrugs as he tugs the stitches from my hip: “Why not?”

  Mom glares at him.

  Doc: “How’s the case going? Police any closer to finding out who did it to her?”

  Mom slaps the examination table. “Could you not be so cavalier? You’re not rehashing the latest CSI episode at the watercooler. She’s right here in front of you. She’s right here. You will acknowledge my daughter’s presence, Doctor. Or else we’ll just have to get another surgeon. There are plenty of you out there, but there’s only one Nicole. And you will respect her. Are you clear on that?”

  He takes a moment to let Mom’s words bleed into him. He studies me, then he really looks at me. “Nicole, I’m honored to be working on you. Your bravery inspires me. It truly does. I’m sorry, I meant I’m grateful to be working with you.”

  Mom nods and wipes a tear from her cheek and tries to say thank you but the words are deep in her throat and come in a weak whisper.

  The doctor doesn’t need to be grateful. How could one be grateful for having to deal with the Thing that lives on the left side of my face? All of the pretending. It’s dissolving me. Relying on her feels too easy but so good. Dead without her. Deadened without her smile. I’m so grateful. She winks at me. I try to wink back. She nods and mouths “I love you.”

  Emma on the mend. Nothing else matters.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  From the notes of Dr. Julian Nye, Tues 10–26:

  Nancy, please transcribe and email the following to Jane Schmidt, Brandywine Hollows High School. Dear Dr. Schmidt, in my session with Nicole Castro tonight, I learned that you are concerned she is overly reliant on her mother. You and I spoke about this prior to your coming on in Nicole’s treatment. As lead therapist in Ms. Castro’s rehabilitation, I ask that you refrain from sabotaging my therapy plan. Your job is a simple one: apprise Nicole’s teachers of her special needs. Sincerely, Julian Nye, MD, PsyD

  Dr. Nye, Nicole needs to be getting out and about, not hiding out in her house. In my one conversation with her father, he seemed to be of the same mind. You’re doing the Castros a disservice, particularly Mrs. Castro, who is worrying after her daughter 24-7, in prescribing this under siege, batten down the hatches mentality.

  Dr. Schmidt, I am convinced that the patient exhibits a latent interest in self-harm, even if she herself is unaware of her inclination at this time. Until we figure out what this is and how it might manifest, if it hasn’t already, I do think
it’s appropriate that the Castros “batten down the hatches,” as you so delicately put it. God help you if, while she’s following your “get out and about” admonition, that girl is attacked again.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Tuesday night I set out to eliminate the weak maybes from my suspect list, beginning with Mr. Sabbatini, except I couldn’t eliminate him. He went from weak maybe to what’s going on here after I cracked his Gmail Sent folder.

  JS contacted me. I have located what you need. Pick it up Wednesday during my office hours, between 3 and 4pm. Be discreet. If anyone finds out about this, considerable trouble will follow for BOTH of us, I am sure I do not have to tell you. Please do not be late, as I must leave promptly at 4. By the way, I am not pleased about this. I think it puts you at an unfair advantage.

  JS was Jane Schmidt. The intended message recipient was Nicole.

  I triple-checked my online anonymity and took a shot at worming my way into Detective Jessica Barrone’s laptop. I had to see where she was on Sabbatini, if anywhere. At this point I was back to feeling fairly certain Barrone wasn’t onto my hacking. Again, she would have shown up at the apartment door by now with a search warrant if she knew about it. I was less convinced that she didn’t have a car of plainclothes officers tailing Nicole. Maybe they caught me following her into CVS? Why else would she have called my father? While I was poking at Barrone’s drive, her firewall was re-upping with new patches, and I had to get out of there.

  I had to overcome my want to trust Nicole blindly. I texted her, Want to hang tomorrow?

  Nicole got back to me with, Sounds cool. When where?

  4pm BHHS?

  4 @ BHHS out front. Jay?

  Yes?

  ‘night.

  Wednesday afternoon I was in the media center, reading my favorite book, The Invisible Man, or pretending to. Really I was looking out the window. I’d positioned myself in the front west corner, where I had a view of the parking lot. The buses and most of the cars were gone by 3:15. Nicole pulled into the lot at 3:38, when everybody was at practice or in chess club or whatever and she would have the lowest chance of running into anybody. She pulled right up to the front entrance and did her usual 360-degree scan for that idiot photographer Puglisi, or maybe she was looking out for the Recluse. Except that if Sabbatini or Schmidt was the Recluse, and Nicole knew this, then she was faking fear. Was she just acting scared, putting on a show in case Detective Barrone had eyes on her? Was I any better, spying on her from the library window?