“We’ll cross that bridge if—”
“A Freyism?” I shout. “That’s all you’ve got?” He doesn’t have another answer. “So when I lose my grip...I’ll be able to look back on great memories, right? Newsflash. There aren’t a ton of them. I’ll battle to regain...what part of my life? Does any part, other than my friendship with Sawyer, warrant much of a fight?”
“Sawyer and I will both be there for you.”
He doesn’t get it. All the anger leaks out a hole in my heart. “By the time I lose my mind, Sawyer will be a professional athlete, an astronaut or a movie star. He can’t be my lifeguard or I’ll drag him down with me.”
“Lily, why can’t you understand that I’m doing everything I can to save you?”
I know that I should feel sorry for him because he loved her but couldn’t save her, and all he’s left with is me.
I grab my backpack and walk out the front door.
14
The Pennington Times boardroom is wood-paneled with swivel chairs around a fourteen-person, highly polished table. The leather seat I slide onto is cold. “Really great photographs,” I tell Jack, as he sits down beside me. “They’re probably the best you’ve ever taken.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the fake compliments. Across the table are Shannon and Mr. Matthews. My boss unwraps a breakfast burrito from El Rinconcito, the Mexican food cart around the corner. “First, Lily, good article,” he says with a full mouth. “Second, what the hell were you thinking?”
I was thinking that I’d write a bogus story so Addie’s program wouldn’t be destroyed.
“I don’t condone what you did, but damn, it made great copy.” Mr. Matthews takes another bite. Salsa dots his chin. “Since this is your baby, I want you up to speed.”
My baby? Jack shifts in his chair like he can’t get comfortable. My bet is that he’s dying to come clean, take the glory. But if he tells the truth, that he hijacked my article, he’ll probably get fired.
“We have a conference call with Dr. Tinibu in two minutes,” Mr. Matthews says. He points to the open laptop on the table. “Skype. She called me this morning at 5:19 a.m. That woman knows many curse words. She’s demanding a retraction. Threatened a lawsuit. So I gotta know,” he says, “anything I need to be worried about?”
Jack leans forward. “Everything in that article is true.”
“I’d like to hear that from the gal who wrote it,” Mr. Matthews says.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s all true.” I now understand the cliché about throwing someone under the bus. The wheels have just run over Addie’s body with a sickening crunch.
“Well, get ready, Lily. Dr. Tinibu insisted that you be here for this call. Your ears will be bleeding by the time we’re done,” Mr. Matthews says.
The next ten minutes go by in a blur. And then things go from really bad to horrible.
“You have no idea the damage you’ve done,” Addie tells me, nostrils flaring. “The bull used to inseminate Raki was on loan from Wild Walker’s Circus in Haven, Florida.”
Shannon leans forward. “Do you have a contract with them regarding offspring?”
“For now, this is off the record?” Addie says.
Mr. Matthews nods. “Agreed.”
“Yes. We have a contract.” Addie holds up a thick document. She flips a page then reads: “Should any calf born from Walker’s sire, Lorenzo, be shown to be in imminent danger then ownership of said calf immediately reverts to Wild Walker’s Circus.”
There’s a buzzing in my ears. “You’re going to lose Swift Jones?”
“Thanks to you, yes. Unless we can talk the circus into giving us another chance.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Jack asks.
Addie leans forward, her brow furrowed. “Because baby elephants sell tickets.”
“Maybe it will be a better home,” Shannon says.
Addie crosses her arms. “Wild Walker’s Circus travels most of the year, transporting their animals in semi-trucks. Does that sound like a better home for Swift Jones? Their elephants are either chained or freed to spin in circles on pedestals or do other tricks counter to their nature, which they’ve been taught through the use of an ankus.”
“What’s an ankus?” I ask, trying to ignore the sensation that I’m trapped in a room with the water level rising and no way out.
“A pole with a hook and spike on the end,” Addie says. “It’s used to pull, push and punish elephants by poking and scraping the sharp ends against the most tender places on the elephant’s body.”
Mr. Matthews holds up one hand. “I agree that a circus isn’t optimal, but zoos aren’t exactly great for animals either.”
“Zoos aren’t perfect,” Addie says. “But we are the best and only option right now to protect animals like elephants that are being decimated in the wild. And we don’t torture them.”
“You’re saying Walker’s does?” Shannon asks.
Addie runs a hand across bloodshot eyes. “I don’t know for certain. But Wild Walker’s has never cared for an elephant calf this young. In addition, they have ten male elephants. No females.”
“You’re acting like that circus won’t do everything they can to keep the calf alive,” Shannon says.
“The calf refused most of her bottles of formula last night. She’s traumatized, which can lead to depression. Our best hope for her survival is a slow reintroduction to Raki. Our second-best hope is to care for her around the clock in the way only people who have experience can do.” Addie points at me. “Lily’s reckless article may have taken away those chances.”
I want to crawl under a rock. But. Everyone is watching me, so I fold my hands on the table. “What are you going to do?” I ask.
“Pray that Walker’s doesn’t invoke their right to our calf,” Addie says.
I try to swallow but can’t pull it off, because I’m out of saliva. “If they do?”
Addie’s eyes lose their hard veneer for a split second. “Swift Jones may very well die.”
“We’d like to do a follow-up article,” Mr. Matthews says.
“For fuck’s sake! Haven’t you done enough?” Addie explodes.
“It might help,” Shannon points out, “if public opinion is swayed toward your cause.”
“Would you do that?” Addie asks.
“We’d report the truth,” Shannon counters.
Addie’s eyes turn to stone. “Fine. But Lily has to write it.”
I lurch back in my chair. “Why me?” The last thing I want is to spend time with Addie.
“Because I want you to see, in person, what you’ve done.”
Mr. Matthews rubs the stubble on his chin. “What do you have in mind?”
“We’re understaffed. Swift Jones requires round-the-clock care. Lily can take this Tuesday’s night shift.”
I hold up my hand like I’m waiting to be called on by the teacher. “I have school.”
“You’ll go tired,” Addie snaps. “I want her article on the front page of the paper, just like the last one.”
Mr. Matthews nods. “Done.”
15
I’m afraid to go home. It’s too early to head to school so I call Sawyer and he picks me up outside the newspaper’s office. I fill him in as we drive to his house.
“What’re you going to do?” Sawyer asks.
“You’re the smart one in our dynamic duo. Get me out of this.” My voice is an octave too high.
“People would kill to spend a night with Swift Jones.”
“Not funny. This is not in any way part of my plan. In fact, it can probably be found on the first page of the Anti Twelve-Year Plan.” I bounce my head against the seat. “If I were to make a list of things that would be stress inducing, a night with a depressed elephant calf whose mother has rejected her—who might die because of an article I didn’
t write but might as well have because the blame will fall on me—would be in the top five.”
“Breathe.”
Every muscle in my body is tensed for flight. I can’t suck in more than a ragged gasp.
Sawyer takes the exit ramp, downshifts then turns right. “Lily, I know you’re freaked out. But another article is a great thing. Think about your college application, okay?”
“Don’t you remember Zara?” I practically scream.
Sawyer jerks the wheel, pulls to the side of the road and puts the car in Park. He looks directly into my eyes. “You are not Zara.”
“I could be.” Zara was another schizophrenia YouTube star. She went to Harvard Medical School, and six months in the stress flipped a switch in her brain. She had hallucinations that she was having sex, all the time, day and night, fully clothed. Three years after her first episode, she’d attempted suicide twice, was addicted to cutting and lived in her stepmother’s basement.
“You are not Zara,” Sawyer repeats.
My face burns. I’m so ashamed of what I might become. Will I be one of those disheveled women sitting on the sidewalk, smelling of urine and babbling nonsense? The kind of homeless lady that people walk around like she’s a leper or, even worse, make fun of? Or will I be institutionalized, unable to find the right combination of meds, seeing monsters morph out of walls, believing I’ve been abducted by aliens, the FBI is after me...or hearing voices that tell me I’m so worthless that I should kill myself before someone does it for me? Will I know what’s happening? Will anyone be kind to me?
“Lily, lots of teens who have a schizophrenic episode never have a second one.”
It’s true. And there are cases of people taking antipsychotic meds after their first episode that result in normal brain activity if they’re willing to stay on the medications for life. But Sawyer doesn’t know about the letter. I look away. “Don’t be disappointed in me, okay? I’m not going to take care of Swift Jones. And I think I should go to Muni, live at home.”
Sawyer gets back on the road. He takes a left onto his street, stops by the keypad outside massive, iron gates and types in the code. We pass perfectly trimmed hedges, several fountains and a line of maple trees blazing autumn’s oranges before pulling into the circular drive in front of Sawyer’s house. He turns off the car but neither of us gets out. I stare out the window at a gardener expertly cutting back the prodigious rose bushes.
Taking a deep breath, Sawyer puts a hand on my shoulder. “Lily, no matter what you choose to do about Swift Jones, or where you go to college or decide to live, whether you keep your Paddington Bear clock, even if you dress in baggy clothes, wear your hair in a messy knot, you’ll still be eighteen, and nineteen next year, twenty the year after that. You’ll still grow up.”
Sawyer has never said this to me before. His last sentence brings to mind a judge imposing punishment on a criminal. Bam! goes the gavel. I have been found guilty of having fucked-up genes. The sentence is for life. No possibility of parole. We sit in silence. My best friend is probably wondering if I even heard what he said. I did. I know. I have to try. Within reason, like Ms. Frey said, because the train is leaving the station. Even if I’m not on it, I’ll end up wherever it’s going. I cling to my imaginary superpowers. Logical. Emotionless. Responsible. Balanced.
“I’ll take care of Swifty for one night. Period. And if I get in to USC, I’ll go. Even if I don’t get a scholarship; even if I have to take out loans that will put me in debt for the rest of my life.”
“If I still have a trust fund, I’ll help.”
I shake my head. “I need to do it on my own so that it matters to me more than anything in the world.”
Sawyer pulls me into a hug. I don’t fight it, because he seems to need it. “What happened with Cushing? Did you tell him you want to stay?”
“Nah, I decided you were right. I need the freedom to blast Swift Jones until my eardrums bleed.”
I pull back to see my friend’s eyes. They’re shiny. “Cushing doesn’t deserve you.” Sawyer nods but doesn’t say anything else.
We get out of the car and climb the flagstone steps. Inside the massive front door, white and black squares of marble form a checkerboard pattern. They lead to a double stairway that swoops upward around a crystal chandelier the size of my loft’s kitchen. Its prisms catch the light from a towering window on the far wall that looks out over the mansion’s landscaped grounds. I believe this is what people mean by a “territorial view.”
The mansion feels like a museum, filled with antique furniture and priceless carpets in deep crimson and sapphire hues and decorated with giant oil paintings hanging in gold frames. Sawyer gets the entire fourth floor. Besides his huge bedroom with a gargantuan closet, he has a home theater. His bathroom is my favorite. It has a rectangular glass shower with sprays and nozzles reminiscent of a car wash, and another TV. An intercom system connects the entire mansion. I’ve never heard anyone but Betty and Nadine, the housekeeper, use it.
We head into a kitchen that’s any chef’s stainless-steel wet dream to see what high-calorie treat Betty has made. Strawberry-rhubarb tarts are set on a plate in the center of the soapstone island. They’re still warm. When I bite into mine, the combination of sweet and sour makes my mouth water. “I love Betty.” I truly mean it.
Mirabela floats into the kitchen. Sawyer’s mom is dressed in black Lululemon yoga pants with a matching black top that shows off cut abs. Sawyer says they’re spray-tanned on, but they look real to me. In fact, if you didn’t look at his mom’s face, she has the body of a thirteen-year-old gymnast who hasn’t hit puberty.
“Sawyer,” Mirabela says. “And?”
Sawyer’s mom has met me about five thousand times, but my name just won’t stick. I don’t take it personally. Between all the Xanax she eats like candy plus the plastic surgery that’s starting to make her look like a hammerhead shark with eyes tugged toward her temples, I figure she either can’t see me or is too relaxed to care.
“Mom, it’s Lily,” Sawyer says. “My best friend. Since second grade.”
“Of course,” Mirabela says. She rolls a bright green shark eye toward me. “How’re your mother and father, dear?”
I try to meet one of her eyes. “They’re great! Mom sends her best and a new cookie recipe I’ve already given to Betty.”
“Wonderful.” Mirabela opens the glass door of the refrigerator. Everything inside it is lined up in perfect rows. She takes a fat-free yogurt off the shelf and has two spoonfuls, before tossing the container into the garbage. “Darling, your father told me some very disturbing news.”
All color drains from Sawyer’s face. “Ah—”
“You cannot take his BMW without permission. You have a perfectly good...”
“Jeep,” I fill in.
“Thank you, Lisa,” Mirabela says.
“Did you hear Sawyer is moving out?” I ask.
Mirabela turns toward her son. “Really?”
Sawyer nods. For once his mom appears focused. “I thought he’d drop it,” she muses.
My mouth falls open a little bit. Mirabela and Cushing actually talked? I look at Sawyer. For a second he’s nine years old again—big feet, bowl haircut, deer-in-the-crosshairs look.
“Mom?” Sawyer asks.
“Well, what’d you expect? You pissed him off, dear. You’re his son, his legacy, blah, blah, blah. The video didn’t help.”
Sawyer’s cheeks redden. “I was just—”
Mirabela pats his shoulder then wanders toward the doorway. “I left home at nine for boarding school. Growth experience. Maine is lovely this time of year.” She drifts out of the room.
“Video?” I ask my friend.
“I might’ve left a DVD of some guy-on-guy porn on Cushing’s office chair.”
I shake my head like I heard wrong.
Sawyer turns away. “
Drop it, Lily.”
“But—”
“Seriously. Drop it.”
So I do the only thing I can think of. “Race you?” I run through the hallway, leaping up the right staircase, gaining a few seconds due to my surprise attack.
“Cheater,” Sawyer shouts.
He passes me on the left set of stairs. By the third floor he’s a half flight ahead. I’m gasping. We run into his room and throw ourselves onto the king-size bed. The housekeeper has been here. The bed with its snow-white cover is perfectly made. The area rug, a rich blue edged in chocolate brown, has been vacuumed. All the books on the built-in mahogany shelves are arranged tall to small. Pens and pencils have been collected in a crystal glass and set in the right-hand corner of an antique desk. The posters of Swift Jones’s album covers—Cat Eyes, Split, Elbows & Knees, Secret Places and Forget to Remember—that hang on the walls are all professionally framed.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Sawyer says. “It’s for the best.”
“What can I do?”
“Help me find an insane apartment.”
My phone rings. It’s my dad so I toss my cell to the floor.
“How are you going to get him to let you go on Tuesday night?”
“I’ll tell him I’m studying at your house then call at eleven, say you fell asleep so I’m just going to stay in the guest room.”
“Wow, Lily. Lying comes really naturally for you.”
I grin. “Is that a compliment?”
“If the shoe fits, put on the other one,” Sawyer says.
I snort. He cracks up. For just a second, all is right with the world.
Then the reality of my impending night at the zoo hits like an icy wave.
“Come on,” Sawyer says. “We’ve already missed homeroom and I have a physics test second period.”
I follow him downstairs even though I want to stay safe in his bedroom, hide beneath the covers. But it wouldn’t work. I can’t stop time.
When Elephants Fly Page 8
