Pull

by Anne Riley

  He crosses his arms and his expression hardens. “Seriously? I make a couple friends at this godforsaken reform camp and you won’t even give them a chance?”

  I know that tightness in his voice—he’s already starting to shut me out. “I saw those guys on our first night here, after we got home from the hospital. They attacked a girl on the heath.”

  He stares at me like I’ve sprouted horns. “What girl?”

  “Actually, it was the cashier from the Costcutter.” I grab a dishtowel from the hook over the sink and start blotting my hair with it. “The one who thought you were ‘fit.’”

  He blinks. “What are you talking about? Are you making this up?”

  “No!” I throw my hands out to my sides, nearly whipping him with the towel. “I saw it happen! I went for a walk, and the cashier was walking across the heath, except I didn’t know she was the cashier at that point. And those two guys—your new friends —” I put air quotes around the word, which makes Paul roll his eyes again, “—mugged her! They robbed her and beat her up!”

  “Okay.” He holds up his hands. “I’m going to stop you right there. First of all? You’re insane.”

  “I’m not—”

  “And second of all, there’s no way you would have seen all that go down and then not say anything about it. You didn’t mention it that night when you got home. You didn’t mention it the next day. You didn’t even bring it up at the Costcutter, while we were talking to the girl who supposedly got mugged. So basically, you’re lying to get rid of Max and Luther.”

  “No!” I’d forgotten Paul was already outside when I asked the cashier about her close call on the heath. “I’m not lying! And why would I want to get rid of them if I didn’t have a good reason?”

  He leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “Oh, I don’t know. The same reason you told me to stop hanging out with Chase Williams in ninth grade because you thought he gave off a ‘weird vibe?’”

  Paul’s eyes shift to something out the back door. Luther is watching us carefully. Max lights a cigarette, and the small flame illuminates his face with a momentary orange glow. He turns toward the garden and puffs into the wet air. I tug on Paul’s arm until he follows me to the kitchen table, where we can talk without being observed— although neither of us sits down.

  “Chase Williams did give off a weird vibe,” I hiss as he glowers at me. “And have you forgotten about the meth lab he had in his basement? I was right about him!”

  “Fine.” He grips the back of a chair. “But you’ve completely misjudged every guy I’ve made friends with after that. You accused Robert McNearney of cutting class to make out with his girlfriend, but he was actually tutoring his sister. She was failing math.”

  “That’s only one guy. I haven’t—”

  “And then there was David Conrad, who you thought was spiking his coffee with Bailey’s.”

  I shove my hands in my pockets. “Well, it smelled Irish.”

  “It was flavored creamer!” Paul shouts.

  “Not so loud,” I say, smacking him on the arm. “And okay, I might have jumped to conclusions with some of your friends—”

  “We haven’t even talked about how you thought Gary Noah was in a gang.”

  I freeze. “Wasn’t he?”

  “Working with his church to help former convicts reenter the workforce,” Paul says with a sigh.

  Okay, so maybe he has good reason for doubting me.

  “You’ve got to trust me on this one.” I step closer to him. “I saw what these guys did. They’re bad news.”

  “Sure, sure.” He pushes past me toward the door.

  My anxiety spikes into full-fledged panic. Whatever happens, I can’t let him leave with these guys. “No, Paul, please don’t go anywhere with them.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says, opening the door with a creak. Max and Luther both look up at the noise. “I’ll be home by midnight.”

  “Ready?” Max asks, stamping his cigarette out on the patio floor. The ash smolders for a few seconds, but then succumbs to the moisture in the air and fades to gray.

  Paul holds the door open for them. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  They clomp inside, and I mentally flail around for a legitimate reason to keep them here. “Wait! Where are Mom and Dad? Where’s Nana? You have to get permission before—”

  “Relax, dude,” Paul says. “I got permission. Everybody’s thrilled I’ve made friends so quickly. But to answer your question, they went to Irene’s house for dessert. Mom says they’re going to get Nana out of the house every chance they get.”

  I rub the center of my forehead and puff out my cheeks. Of course they’re not here. Not when I’m desperate for backup. I could call Mom and tell her who Max and Luther really are, but she would have the same issues Paul had—like why I didn’t mention it sooner, and my questionable track record with judging his friends’ character. And if they’ve already given him permission to go out, they’re not likely to take it back now. Rocking Paul’s emotional boat isn’t something they like to do these days.

  “Paul, please stay home.” I swallow as Max and Luther look at me. “I need to talk to you about some stuff.”

  He huffs. “We’ve done enough talking for one day. Come on, guys.”

  They stride through the kitchen and down the hallway. Paul opens the front door for his friends, but only Luther moves toward it. Max, on the other hand, is staring at me. My stomach clenches as his beady eyes roam my face.

  “Have we met before?” he asks. There’s a hint of suspicion in his voice.

  “Nope,” I say firmly.

  I’m still not sure what happened the other night, so I don’t know whether they would remember me. In scenario one, they definitely saw me because I shouted about calling the cops and Luther chased me with a knife. But in scenario two, Albert interfered before it got to that point. Did they see me that time? Or are they remembering something from scenario one? Regardless, I’ve got to divert Max’s attention.

  “When will Mom and Dad be home with Nana?” I say to Paul.

  He throws his hands up. “I don’t know. Call them.”

  “Why didn’t they make you go to Irene’s with them?” It’s possible Mom and Dad really are happy about Paul’s new friends, but something about his story doesn’t add up. It’s not like them to give him full permission to go out on the town with people he just met.

  Paul lets out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Captain Twenty Questions. I didn’t go with them because I wanted to do something fun. Mom was thrilled when I told her we had a mixer tonight at SPARK.”

  I give him a dubious look. “You’re going to a mixer?”

  “Not a chance.” A one-sided grin creeps over his lips. “That’s just where she thinks I’m going.”

  “She actually believes that?”

  “She did when Luther called, pretending to be a counselor.” Paul grins at Luther, who puts an invisible phone up to his ear.

  “Hello, Mrs. Clayton, this is Devon Summerby with SPARK,” he says in an overly polite tone. “Yes, we’re just calling to inform you that we’ll be having a lovely mixer tonight at the center, and we’re hoping Paul can join us. It will be such a good opportunity for him to exercise his social skills.”

  They all laugh. Mom’s a sucker for phrases like “exercise social skills.”

  “So,” he says, sidling up to me with a victorious sneer. “Are we allowed to leave yet, Mom?”

  “Stop talking to me like that!” My voice is shrill and does, in fact, sound just like my mother when she’s worked up. My pulse is pounding in my head. It’s probably a lost cause, but I have to try one more time. “If you leave, I’ll tell Mom and Dad you lied to them. I’ll blow your mixer story wide open.”

  Paul barks out a laugh. “Nice. Everybody loves a tattle-tale.”

  “This isn’t kindergarten! You’re lying to them while they’re trying to cope with Papa’s death and planning his funeral! Don’t you get why they signed you up for
SPARK in the first place?” I blink back angry tears. Getting emotional with Paul definitely won’t earn his trust or respect, but I can’t help it anymore. “It’s because they love you, and they want you to get better. They want you to learn how to deal with what happened to Carter in a healthy way. They love you, Paul. And so do I.”

  His face is unreadable. He stares at me while Max and Luther shoot amused expressions at each other.

  “What’s so funny?” I snarl at them. “You think it’s funny that I love my brother? Huh? Is that hilarious to you?”

  “Shut up, Rosie,” Paul says. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

  The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I feel like he’s just slapped me. Paul can be rude, and he can say insensitive things, but he has never told me to shut up.

  “Like I told you at the Costcutter, Mom and Dad signed me up for SPARK to get me out of the way,” he says, pointing out the door as if that’s where we all want him to go— out. Away. Somewhere else. He rakes a hand through his hair and tosses his shaggy bangs to the side. “I might as well have as much fun as I can. And if you tell them I lied, you’ll regret it.”

  He yanks open the door and strides into the rainy night with Max and Luther on his heels. The door slams against the wall and stays open long enough for me to watch my brother, small but full of rage, march down the street with two criminals.

  TEN

  IT IS THE MORNING AFTER MY BROTHER LEFT NANA’S house with Max and Luther. He got home late, but he got home. That’s all that matters. He’s all right and it’s a new day.

  Although I’d still like to punch him for the way he walked out on me.

  The fortress in front of me is bathed in pink light from the just-risen sun. Mom barely let us finish breakfast at Café Rouge before herding us onto a train and depositing us in front of the Tower of London. Paul, who hates family activities of any kind, has been weirdly compliant during this entire escapade; he’s probably hoping it’ll make him late for SPARK.

  “Seriously, Mom. We’ve all seen Traitor’s Gate before.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and lean against the rail. This is probably my fourth or fifth visit to the tower, and I could go a long time without hearing, yet again, the names of every person imprisoned here.

  “But not recently,” Mom points out, which is true. The last time we stood in this line, I was about to start my freshman year. “And if I’m going to finish writing this essay on the conditions of the Tower of London during Anne Boleyn’s imprisonment, I’ve got to see it again.”

  “It won’t hurt you to be here, Rosie,” Dad adds wearily. He looks out over the Thames with a distant expression.

  Paul leans against the rail next to me with his arms crossed. His expression seems easy and unburdened, but when he glances at me, the tightness returns to his eyes.

  “When is the essay supposed to be published?” I ask, swatting away a group of overly enthusiastic gnats.

  “Six months.” The wind flutters her hair and she slaps the rogue strands before they get too out of control. “And if it’s not good—well, it has to be good. Better than good. It has to be perfect.”

  Mom’s perfectionism has been the bane of my existence since I was in kindergarten. I remember bringing home a picture of a unicorn I’d colored, feeling so proud that each section of its mane was a different shade of pink. Mom had smiled and said, “It’s lovely, dear, but why don’t we work on keeping your crayon inside the line?” I took it back and folded it four times so that it fit in my pocket. When I got to my room, I threw it in my Strawberry Shortcake trashcan.

  I never showed her my pictures again.

  “Why does it have to be perfect?” I ask, fully expecting her to shrug and tell me it just does—her usual response.

  Instead, she exchanges a hesitant look with Dad. Something in my chest has been wound tight since the day we arrived, and as my parents hold an uncertain conversation with their eyes, it stretches just a little thinner.

  “Why?” I say again, looking from Dad to Mom.

  “Because,” she replies with a sigh, “they’re cutting people, Rosie.”

  Paul looks up.

  “Who’s cutting people?” I ask.

  Dad puts an arm around Mom’s shoulders. “We haven’t told you because we didn’t want this to worry you on top of everything else.”

  I think I know what they’re about to tell me, but maybe, just maybe, I’m wrong. “Haven’t told me what?”

  “Vanderbilt is laying off professors,” Mom says, looking at the river. The corners of her mouth sag so that her frown lines deepen. “Budget cuts.”

  “But they won’t cut you,” I say. “You’re the best history professor they’ve got.”

  “I’m not saying they’ll let me go for sure.” Her voice is sharp. “I’m just saying there’s no room for error here. And I’m sorry you don’t want to be here, but—” She chokes the sentence off and stares at the air in front of her. Her lips tremble once before she regains control. “I’m sorry you don’t want to be here,” she says again, “but I have to. And I’d like to actually spend some time with the two of you this summer.”

  My heart sinks. Paul looks at the ground and scuffs his sneaker on the pavement. All this time, I’ve felt like Mom just tolerated Paul and me on her research trips, and here I find out she actually wants to be with us. I want to tell her I’m sorry for complaining, that I should have realized why she brings us along on all her quests—but she’s checking her watch and shaking her head, and before I can produce the right words, she opens her mouth.

  “Why aren’t they open yet? They should have started letting people in ten minutes ago.” She glances down the line of tourists that has formed behind us. Judging from the scowls on their faces, they’re wondering the same thing. I start to say that maybe they finally realized how morbid it is to turn an execution chamber into a tourist attraction, but a massive yawn comes out instead.

  “Why are you so tired, Rosebud?” Dad asks. “Not sleeping well?”

  Based on the shadows beneath his eyes, I’m thinking someone needs to ask him the same question.

  “Had a busy night,” I reply with a glare in Paul’s direction. “ Somebody went out with his new friends, and I couldn’t sleep until he came home.”

  Mom’s eyebrows pinch together. “You mean the mixer? It was a SPARK thing, and you know he needs—”

  She abandons the sentence with a worried glance at Paul. I know what she was going to say—that he needs friends, he shouldn’t have to go through all this stuff with Papa on top of everything else, and we need to encourage him to be social.

  But she’s not going to say any of that in front of him.

  “Seriously, Rosie,” Paul says with a scrunched-up nose. “What could possibly happen to me at a SPARK mixer?”

  I bark out an incredulous laugh. “You have no shame, do you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Dad shoots a sideways look at Paul. “Did you go somewhere else last night? Even though we gave you explicit instructions to come home immediately after the mixer?”

  “There was no mixer!” I cry out. “He’s hanging out with a couple of punks who attack people on the heath! He made up the whole stupid mixer thing so he could get out of the house!”

  “She’s lying!” Paul yells. His cheeks flush red.

  “But one of the counselors called,” Mom says. Then her eyes close with understanding. “It wasn’t a counselor, was it?”

  “Nope,” I say, even though Paul’s lips are pressed together so tightly they’re turning white at the edges. “I tried to get him to stay home, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Dad grabs my elbow. His fingers tighten so hard it hurts, and his face goes all splotchy. “If you knew what he was doing, why didn’t you call us?”

  My whole body goes still. “I—I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  I should tell him Paul threatened me. That he told me I’d regret it if I told them. But the deadly
look on my brother’s face stops the words in their tracks.

  “I thought maybe he would come to his senses,” I say. If I play my cards right, I can get Dad to calm down before he loses it. “I didn’t want to stress you guys out more than you already are.”

  Mom and Dad stare at me with matching scowls. Dad’s grip loosens on my arm, but he doesn’t let go completely.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it won’t,” Mom says in a chilly voice. “And Paul, you’ll have an escort to and from SPARK from now on. Whoever these guys are you’re spending time with, you’re not allowed to be alone with them.”

  “They’re not gangsters!” Paul snarls. “Rosie’s decided they’re trouble, so she’s made up some crock story about them trying to mug somebody.”

  “Why would she make up something like that?” Mom says.

  Paul gives her a grim look. “Remember what happened with David Conrad and the Irish coffee? Gary Noah and the gang she thought he had joined? Or what about Robert McNearney tutoring his sister while Rosie spread rumors that he was sneaking off with his girlfriend during school? All those guys were my friends until Rosie got in the way. I made a few mistakes, I had one friend who actually got in trouble for something, and she’s tried to sabotage all my friendships ever since. All in the name of protection.”

  He glares at me while my face heats up like a furnace. Mom and Dad let out a collective “Hmm,” and that’s it— they’ve sided with Paul. To be fair, it’s usually wise to at least pretend you’re siding with Paul. Otherwise, you’re looking at an explosion in the form of his incendiary emotions. But this time, I need them to see my side of the story, and I need them to back me up, regardless of how poor my timing might be.

  I hold up my hands in defense. “Look, I know I’ve come to some incorrect conclusions in the past. But I saw these guys attack a girl on the heath. I saw them hit her and shove her in the back seat of a car. It actually happened.”

  Dad purses his lips. “There was a girl on the news who was approached by two guys on the heath. It was a local crime segment, I think.”