Lost Cause

by Callie Sparks

  I nod, pretty sure that this is the same speech he’d given my mother when Mr. Templeton was left alone, next door. I shudder to think of how that turned out. “Right, dad.”

  As I’m climbing the steps to my room, the phone rings. I pick it up. “Hey, Jace!”

  “Hey yourself,” she says. “You back in town?”

  “I’ve been here a few weeks.”

  “Wow! We’ve got to get together.” Then she pauses for a moment, and I know what’s coming. “So, it’s true? About Gabe and Claire?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That whore.”

  I throw myself down on my bed. “It’s not like it wasn’t expected, right?”

  “Well. Gabe always was kind of an asshole. They probably deserve each other. Have you talked to them?”

  “Gabe keeps texting me, wanting to see me. Claire hasn’t done shit.”

  She clucks her tongue. “Whore.” Then she says, “We definitely got to go. McBrew’s. Tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “You can give Noah a ride.”

  I pause. “What?”

  She’s quiet for a second. “Well, funny thing. I mean, I saw him on the news. Everyone saw him on the news. I wouldn’t have recognized him, otherwise, when I ran into him at DeVine’s last night. He told me he’d seen you. He didn’t have a phone so he told me to tell you the plan. He wants to come, too.”

  “Oh.” He does? The old Noah had been a virtual hermit. And I’m pretty sure my dad just got done saying that he needs to focus on Christ-centered healing. Heading to a bar and downing a few shots probably isn’t what he was talking about. And he was talking with Jacy? I can’t explain the surge of jealousy that creeps up my spine. “All right.”

  “You sound like you don’t want him coming,” she says.

  “No,” I tell her. “I’m just not sure—“

  “I know, I know. It’s kind of wild, his past. But it’s also kind of . . . exciting?” She giggles. “Plus. You’ve seen him. My goodness, he’s gorgeous.”

  I start to gnaw on the inside of my cheek. When I was thirteen, I’d never have imagined goofy ol’ Noah as gorgeous. He was cute, in that gangly, three-legged puppy way. He had that concave, scrawny little chest and not a muscle to speak of. But I think of him now, and how he makes my heart skip, and okay. Yes. He’s fine.

  And he wants to meet Jacy at the club.

  “I can’t think of him that way,” I lie. “He’s just goofy old Noah.”

  She clucks her tongue and I can hear her smile. She doesn’t believe me as far as she can throw me. “Right, Ari. Meet you there at eight?”

  #

  Sarah Templeton died the day after her seventh birthday, in one of those unforeseeable household accidents.

  Noah and I were in my living room, watching a Marvel Comics movie. It was January, and the first snowfall of the season had been coming down since dawn, making the dingy winter world white and clean. We’d tromped all round outside, building forts and having a snowball fight, and so now we sat inside with our cheeks still red from the cold. We sipped on our tomato soup and hot cocoa my mom made.

  Noah looked over at me and said, “Have you ever wanted to die?”

  He caught me in the middle of a noisy slurp. I almost spit the soup out. “Uh. No. I mean, I haven’t really been alive yet.” We were close friends, at least on weekends and during non-school hours, but I was glad at that moment that we weren’t so close that he could read everything in my mind. If he had, he would have seen what I spent most of my time thinking about, and it certainly wasn’t dying. A few of the girls at school had boyfriends, and kissing was a prime topic of conversation. Frankly, it sort of terrified me, sort of disgusted me, but that didn’t stop me from wondering when my first one would happen. I’d tried imagining it with Gabe, but the thought was too scary—the kid was not even a teenager and already had stubble. Once adorable, now hot, he was well on his way to escaping the awkward pre-teen phase completely. So I’d thought about kissing Noah. That was far less mortifying. Sometimes I’d look at those big, baby lips at his, wondering what they felt like. Sometimes I’d wonder what his tongue would feel like in my mouth, and sometimes I’d wonder if he ever thought about it, too. But clearly, his mind was on other things. “Have you?”

  “Sometimes. I wonder if it’s like sleeping, but without dreams.”

  That sounded depressing, just about as depressing as thinking about death in general when he had so much life left, so many things we hadn’t yet experienced. “No, my dad says there’s a heaven, and it’s glorious.”

  “You believe that?”

  I shrugged. Truthfully, it sounded silly, like believing in Santa, and we both knew what a crock that turned out to be. For the past few years, ever since I found out my parents were behind most of the great and unexplained mysteries of life, I’d been getting more and more skeptical, more and more wary of them. Like, in what other areas of my life would they pull the rug out from under me? “It helps to believe in something. You could, if you ever went to church with us.”

  He shook his head. “My parents aren’t into that.”

  “But you could be,” I started half-heartedly. This was the same conversation we’d had at least a billion times. I never wanted to proselytize or thump bibles around him, but he often said things that made me think he was interested in God. Since the moment we’d met, I’d offered him a place in the Mercedes, should he ever want a ride to Sunday service, but he always turned me down.

  I droned on listlessly for a minute, until my eyes trailed out the side door. At that moment, and saw something that brought me, without thinking, to my feet. I needed to get a better vantage point, a better look, because I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  But it was real.

  Noah’s stepmother was stumbling through knee-high drifts, her blue dress catching on the bare branches that made up the line of trees between our house. The dress looked nice—a fancy, high-necked-sweater thing I’d admired before, so the first thing I noticed was that she hadn’t taken the time to put on a coat. Then I saw her fall, and Annie never did anything remotely so clumsy. She took a few more steps and stumbled again, I realized her face was peculiar—so white, with wide, horror-filled eyes. I nudged Noah at the very moment Annie opened her mouth and started to scream for help.

  My father was in his office. He wheeled himself out of the front door and down the ramp, but he got stuck in the snow. We watched through the sliding side doors. He put out his hands to calm her down. But Annie gestured wildly, then covered her face in her hands. My father listened for a moment, then started digging in his pocket for his phone.

  Before I knew it, Noah was at his stepmother’s side. I hadn’t noticed him leaving. She was in a heap with light snowflakes falling gently around her. He said something, but only one thing I could hear. “What?” he shouted in disbelief, then took off running toward his home. He, of course, stumbled all the way. I watched as he disappeared into the open garage door, not sure what I should do.

  According to reports, Annie had been washing out her lingerie in the basin downstairs, and when she’d brought them upstairs, she hadn’t wrung them out well. They left a trail of water droplets on the wood floors, which made the floors slick. Sarah had come out of her room before Annie had had a chance to clean them up, and she’d slipped on the long staircase. I heard that her neck snapped instantly, and that she did not suffer. I’m not sure if that’s the truth, or just something that was said to make everyone feel better.

  No one did, though. They fell apart like wet tissues. Mr. Templeton felt guilty for not being home. Noah felt guilty for not helping out more around the house. Annie felt guilty for dripping the water. They all blamed themselves, each other, bad luck, God, everything.

  The day of the funeral was unseasonably warm. The snow had all but melted away, leaving sad patches of melting snow on the graves. We came home and had Boston Market outside, on his deck. He sat there with a full plate of chicken, mac n cheese, all h
is favorites, and didn’t take a single bite. I tried to cheer him up, saying that everyone at school was sending their condolences, that they missed him, which was only half-true.

  But he said, “It isn’t her fault, you know.”

  I blinked, shocked. “What?”

  “Annie’s. Sarah never held the railing. And my dad made Annie wash her stuff downstairs because she’d clogged the drain upstairs once.” Under the paper plate, his hand was in a tight fist. “She was just doing it for him.”

  Noah’d never said one bad word about his dad. He’d always idolized him, I thought. But his dad had become more and more of a phantom in the past few years, and every once in a while Noah would grumble about him never being home. “Okay. But no one’s—“

  “That’s not true. Just because they don’t say it, doesn’t mean they’re not thinking it.“

  “My dad said it doesn’t matter whose fault it was,” I tell him.

  He snorted, and something like anger swirling with disgust on his face. It was something I’d never seen on meek, slow-to-anger Noah. “And you always believe what your dad says.” Then he looked at the steel-grey sky and said, “It does matter. It really does.”

  Chapter Nine

  What happened after your sister died?

  All hell broke loose. After that, everything in the house was tense. My father was sour on Annie after Luisa, but somehow she made it up to him, and he forgave her. After Sarah died, he wouldn’t talk to her. He would . . . she’d come in my room and show me the bruises, crawl in bed with me and cry and beg me to hold her. She told me he thought she was responsible, and that she would have to pay, so he was beating her.

  Did you ever witness those beatings?

  No.

  Did it ever occur to you that she might have inflicted those bruises on herself?

  No.

  And how did you feel toward your father?

  He’d gone from my idol to a virtual stranger. He was never there when we needed him. He cried or yelled all the time when he was home, so sometimes I was glad he was gone. He was a different man. So in my mind, it was entirely possible the things she was saying were true. I’d started to hate him.

  So she’d come to your room and lie in your bed. Did she touch you inappropriately?

  Yes.

  She performed sex acts on you?

  If you’re talking about oral, yes. Like I said, it was terrifying. She’d completely lost it by then. She was so fragile, I was afraid she’d break apart if I didn’t let her do what she wanted. I felt sorry for her. She told me she hated herself and she wanted to die. She was so beside herself with guilt, I felt bad for her. I wanted to help her. I told her that I’d do anything to make her feel better.

  And what did she ask you to do, then?

  She . . . showed me how to touch her, which over the next few weeks led to her showing me how to perform oral on her. I knew it was wrong, but I convinced myself I was helping her. And my dad had completely extricated himself from the family. She told me that no one else had ever made her feel so good. So I got into it—finally having some power over her, you know? After a while, I’d do it whenever she wanted, which was all the time. Not just at night—whenever my dad was away. I’d come in from riding my bike and she’d be waiting in the foyer for me, not wearing underwear.

  She was insatiable when it came to sex?

  No. She was insatiable when it came to doing shocking things. The more it’d raise eyebrows, the more my stepmother wanted to try it. She obsessed about things like that. Sometimes I think she spent most of her time, planning these things—I mean, she sure didn’t clean the house or make us proper meals or anything. Instead, she was orchestrating this movie, in which she was the star. Seeing how far she could push people, how much she could get them to believe and do.

  And so after a while . . .your opinion on whether she was responsible for Sarah’s death changed?

  Yeah. But not until years later, when we lived in the desert. Things were never the same after Sarah told my father about Luisa, and though Sarah was just a kid who didn’t know any better, I think Annie was really hard on her. She said some things to me that made me suspect that she was glad to have been rid of “the burden.” She called Sarah a burden.

  You started to believe she was responsible?

  Not believe. I knew. I knew she’d killed Sarah.

  #

  When I pull my Fiat out of the garage, I do a double-take.

  Whatever reporters there’d been have really thinned out.

  Well, all except one.

  Noah was supposed to meet me at the house, but when I look out the window, through the dark tree branches, I see him standing under the garage light, talking with the woman who’d accosted me before. She’s lost the cameraman. So . . . he’s conceded to give an interview off-camera?

  Then he touches her bare shoulder. Not for long. Just a small, innocent gesture.

  And they both laugh. She has a high-pitched, annoying giggle. Also: she’s pretty and thin and well-put together, like those news-reporter women often are. Well-accessorized, with bright gold bangles, a chiffon scarf, hot pink pumps in the exact shade of her sheath dress. She reminds me of . . . Annie.

  I swallow the bile in my throat. Oh, hell no. Noah doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t have game with girls. He’s not one of those . . . Gabes.

  I watch this go on for a while. Them talking, completely oblivious to me. I try not to pay attention, wiping a little scum from the corner of my mouth, checking my make-up in the rear-view mirror, but every so often, my gaze drifts over there.

  Then she wraps her arms around him, and he moves in . . .

  My blood pressure hits the roof of the car. I lay hard on the horn, making them both jump. Then I throw open the door, stand up, and wave to him. “Hello?”

  He turns to me.

  I tap an imaginary watch on my wrist. I call, “We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

  He waves, says a few more words to the woman. Then he starts to jog over to me, leaving the woman pouting behind him. “Hey,” he says innocently, opening the passenger-side door and sliding in. “Wow. Look at you. Your dad lets you go out in that?”

  I don’t say anything as I throw the car in reverse.

  “You mad?”

  I shake my head, annoyed.

  “Yes, you are. I’m sorry. If I—“

  “Yes, my dad lets me go out looking like this. I look nice,” I mutter.

  “I didn’t say you didn’t look nice,” he says. “You look more than that.”

  “Damn right,” I say. I look hot as hell.

  Then he says, “You look like someone guys will get the wrong idea about,” that gets my blood boiling all the more.

  “Well, then that’s their problem for being the kind of cavemen who think a woman’s manner of dress defines who she is,” I grumble sourly. God, I’m in the worst mood ever, and it’s all because he was flirting with a journalist. What the hell is wrong with me? I start to manufacture an excuse. “It’s just that . . . are you sure this is best for you? Going out and drinking?”

  He shrugs. “What? I’m not allowed to have fun?”

  I sigh. “My dad said—“

  “Yes, I know what your dad said. That I need to swear off wine, women, and anything that might bring me a moment’s worth of happiness.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I thought you’d have learned by now that your dad doesn’t know everything.”

  I shove the car into park and we start to inch down the hill, until I realize he hasn’t put on his seatbelt. I motion to it, and slowly, he reaches over his shoulder and pulls it down, laughing almost to himself.

  “Geez, Ari. Do you always do everything your father says?”

  “I have no reason not to,” I tell him. “He does know everything. He’s brilliant.”

  “Right. Well . . . I appreciate his offer to get me back on my feet, but he’s wrong about me. I know very well what I need.”

  I roll my eyes. “And what
is that? To screw a reporter so she can give an exclusive on how good you are in bed?”

  He grins. “Are you . . . jealous?”

  My face heats. “I’m worried,” I snap. “Friends do that.”

  He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then he says, “Sorry. I forgot. Haven’t had anyone looking after me in a while.”

  His voice is so vulnerable that in the long moment of silence that follows, guilt seeps in. We rarely ever fought, but when we did, we always made up with both of us apologizing. “No. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired.”

  As I turn onto dark and twisty Route 29, he reaches into the chest pocket of his flannel shirt and pulls out a cigarette and a light. I gasp and nearly drive straight into the canal as I reach for it, but he anticipates that and yanks it away.

  “Do not light that thing!” I shout at him. He shrugs and tucks it back into his pocket. “Oh, my God, Noah, you smoke? Do you not remember what we used to say about smokers? That they were about as cool as butt boils?”

  He laughs. “No, we said that?”

  I nod vehemently. “Of course. Of course we said that. It’s such a dirty, disgusting habit. So that’s what you need? A fucking cancer stick? Sure, that’ll heal all wounds. That’s way more effective than any advice my father can give you.”

  I drive into the town of Lambertville, and manage a glance at him as we pass a streetlight. He’s amused by my freak-out. “Fire’s out. You can chill now.”

  My face heats for the hundredth time since I met him. I don’t know what the big deal is—plenty of my friends smoke when they’re partying. It’s just—isn’t there anything about sweet little best-friend Noah that’s left? Not one freaking thing?

  We’re mostly silent as we make it over the bridge to New Hope and pull into the club parking lot. It’s packed, so we have to drive around and finally get a spot on the street. This is the one place in the area that’s famous among us under-agers for not carding. Not-quite-twenty-ones have been going here for years, and we’re all rather shocked the place has managed to stay in business.