by Dawn Klehr
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m happy to be here.”
She put her arm around my shoulder and I bit the inside of my lip so I wouldn’t groan. I turned up the corners of my mouth to form something that resembled a smile. It was an expression passed down from my father—one that showed up whenever I talked about college.
“You’re going to do splendidly wherever you land, Becca,” he’d say before flashing his grimace. My poor father. He knew I was going to go further with my education than he ever had, and it brought him pain just to think about it. And my parents wondered where the narcissism came from.
That first night at the hospital, I served as an errand girl. Anything the nurses needed, I was at their command. Julie gave me pink scrubs, no doubt an homage to the old candy striper days.
Though I hated pink, I didn’t mind the job.
Make copies of these forms: check.
Clean the waiting area and make coffee: check.
Bring flowers to room 208 and 213: sure thing.
As I did it all, with a smile, I took notice of everything: the number of rooms on the floor; where the patient information was kept; the amount of staff on a shift; the comings and goings in the medication room; and the time when nurses started divvying out evening drugs. That last piece of information was of particular interest to me.
After the accident and my discharge from the Nut Hut, I spent all my free time at the crash site, the hospital, and in my room studying pharmaceuticals. Oh, the things I learned. It’s true it took a lot longer than expected; anything worthwhile usually does.
Several months later, when I was finally ready, I set out to pocket the medication. It worked surprisingly well. Time consuming but effective. After watching the entire process of gathering, distributing, and disposing the drugs, I found a few chinks in the system and used them in various ways.
One afternoon, I wanted to test the theory. I walked into a room with a vase of bright tulips as a cover. As the medication was administered to Motorcycle Man, a twenty-something guy who was recovering from a nasty accident, I created a diversion. I bumped into the nurse’s medication cart on my way to set the vase on the windowsill. As I helped steady the cart, I swapped out the real medication with a used vial that I’d refilled with saline. At that point, I had already decided that an injectable would work the best.
Earlier, I’d found a way to get the used vials before they made it into the Sharps Container. Like I said, it was a slow-going mission, but I eventually had what I needed.
Motorcycle Man missed his evening dose of pain meds that day. I wasn’t too worried. If the patients complained enough, they could always get extra. He’d be fine.
If not? Well, what can I say? Sacrifice for the greater good.
Next came mastering the skill of injecting my chosen drug. That’s where the nerves of steel came into play. I got my hands on the syringes but had no idea how to use them. It only took a few online tutorials from a library computer to remedy that problem.
I took the first plunge on my pillow, before moving on to Brit’s old stuffed animals, bananas, and a raw chicken breast.
The final test? A real human being.
Now I’m sure I could have roped in a volunteer from my ASP group, all in the name of learning, but I couldn’t risk it. I was alone in this and I would have to use my own body as a pincushion.
As I got closer to the date of my plan to make Travis pay, I spent a few evenings locked in my bedroom playing nurse. The first targets were my arms and legs. It wasn’t that bad, as long as I didn’t look when the needle met my skin. The last of the jabs involved a bit more preparation—and by preparation, I mean swigs of Dad’s brandy—because the last target was my neck. I fainted the first time I did it.
Needles used to make me queasy. Even the proper name, “hypodermic needle,” was cringe-worthy. The stainless-steel tube was sterile and chilling, and the longer the needle, the worse it was. But I guess all medical equipment can be unnerving. Tools for the body that can be used to repair or destroy never seem quite right. The part of the needle that really made my stomach roll was the tip, beveled in a sharp point. And the way you flick the syringe before drawing out the medication, letting one lonely drop hang from that beveled point. It made my mouth fill.
Yet despite my aversion to the instrument, I learned to respect it.
There was something satisfying about the way it felt in my hand as the sharp tip of the needle punctured the skin, sinking into the epidermis. That popping sensation as it penetrated the body.
It didn’t take me long to become proficient at injecting.
My plan was in full motion. Even so, the sight of Travis would sway me from time to time. If only temporarily. I’d see him in school, walking down the hall at a pace always a few seconds faster than most students. A few seconds that set him apart. His muscular arms swaying with each step. Arms that used to swoop out from the dark corners of the school to grab me at random times during the day so he could put his mouth on me. It was those memories that left me uncertain. At times I thought I may have to stop.
Until I remembered Brit.
That’s all it took to get right again.
I continued to work at the hospital long after my lessons were over, moving to entertainment on the children’s floor. I liked being there and, even more, I enjoyed the look I’d get when I told people. It was one of admiration and respect. I recognized that look because Brit was once on the receiving end of it all the time.
It was just one more thing I’d stolen from her.
20
Johnny
I knew I was falling for Becca about a month after she started tutoring me. We spent a lot of time studying together—I was so behind—and sometimes I talked her into picking me up on the weekends so we could hang out at the coffee shop.
She knew about my messed-up brain. And she knew all kinds of tricks to help me make it work better. She said she understood what it was like to think differently—she believed it’s what made us extraordinary. We’re the lucky ones, she said.
Sometimes, I’d ask Becca about her sister and tell her about Mom. That’s how our friendship began—wallowing in our pain. But it soon grew to something much more. And one day, she opened up to me—more than she’d ever done before.
She’d looked nervous all day at school, but of course wouldn’t tell me what was bothering her. Then, after last bell, she called out to me while I was gathering my things at my locker.
“Johnny,” she yelled out. It was the first time I’d ever heard her raise her voice. That did something to me; I’m not sure why. It could’ve been because she never liked to call attention to herself. That was Brit’s role—attention seeker. And Becca seemed to be content with hers—wallflower.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked as she sped over to me, out of breath and all flush-faced. It was then that I noticed, really noticed, just how beautiful she was. Of course, I always thought she was hot in an understated sort of way. But like this—excited, lively, and happy to see me—she took my breath away.
Her hand slid into her coat pocket, like she was trying to steady it. She wore this tweed blazer—a man’s blazer, I’m pretty sure. She wore that thing over everything. Her smart oxford shirts. Her less-smart but more impressive tank tops. And, if she was feeling funky, she’d wear it over her Wonder Woman tee.
That didn’t quite fit … though I’m sure she loved Wonder Woman. Who wouldn’t? But wearing anything commercial like that was not her deal. I later found out it’d been Brit’s.
She seemed stronger when she wore it.
“Would you want to come with me today after school?” she asked, the nerves back.
“Where to?” I said, upbeat, light, hoping it’d make her less nervous.
“The hospital. I do some work with kids there,” she said.
Thinking back, I realized she did a
lways have something to do on Tuesdays, but she’d always been mysterious about it. I absolutely had to know more.
“Sure,” I agreed, and off we went.
While Becca was getting settled in, I ran into Ava’s mom, Rita, at the nurses’ station.
“What are you doing here, Johnny Vega?” she asked, wrapping me in a hug. “Are the girls with you?”
“No, it’s just me.”
Rita usually worked with the psych patients on the fourth floor. My mom and Rita had become fast friends once it was out that Cass and Ava were together. Mom thought it’d be a great idea to have me talk to Rita about psych work. It was really one of my only interests in school, and if I was going to play college ball, I’d need a major.
It was actually a great idea.
“I’m here with my girlfriend,” I told her. “She volunteers with the kids.”
“Rebecca Waters?” Rita asked in a strange voice. She was either shocked or bothered, I couldn’t tell which. Poor Bec; she rubs a lot of people the wrong way.
“That’s the one,” I said, and she nodded.
“How’s your dad doing these days?” Rita changed the subject.
“He’s hanging in there,” I said, and then Becca came out of one of the rooms and waved me over. “Ah, looks like I have to go.”
“Oh, okay.” Rita looked disappointed. “Take care of yourself, kiddo,” she said before I made my way to Bec.
We spent about an hour with the kids, and they were pretty great. I’m not going to lie—they didn’t come up and hug Becca or squeal when she arrived—but many of them, especially the smart, shy ones, looked up when she walked in. And though they were slow to warm, they started making their way to her table—where she sat with her puzzles and Legos and crosswords. It was a blast to watch.
I remember the way Becca looked up at me and smiled that day. I lost it. She’d smiled at me before, but never like this. It had never really reached her eyes before. She was always so reserved, and her displays of emotion were so few and far between, that an honest-to-goodness smile from Bec was like a rare gift.
I wanted more.
We finished up with the kids and walked out to the hall, when I stopped her. I couldn’t help it. I pulled her into a private nook by the elevator and moved in slowly, afraid she’d back away. That’s how she always felt to me, just out of my reach. We’d already gotten our first kiss out of the way and were growing slightly more comfortable around each other; it was time to make my next move.
I watched her chest rise and fall as she took quick shallow breaths. It made her boobs bounce in the most fantastic way and drove me insane, so I just went for it. I brushed my lips against hers, prepared for her to shut me down.
She didn’t.
Instead, she followed my lead. Searing her lips to mine. Teasing me with her tongue. It was a surprise. A fucking awesome one. She smelled like girl shampoo, all clean and sweet, and she tasted like orange baby aspirin, because she was always popping those vitamin C tablets anytime we were around people.
I deepened the kiss and pushed into her … until I got hard. I shifted my hips so I wouldn’t freak her out.
There was no need to worry. She reached out and linked her fingers in my belt loops, pushing all her right parts onto my raging hard-on. We had completely forgotten that we were in public.
This went on for some time and I realized I’d better shut it the hell down before we got hauled out of there like a bunch of perverts.
“I liked that,” she said when I pulled away to look at her.
“I liked that, too,” I agreed.
“You know, this is the first time I’ve been with a boy who Brit didn’t pick out for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brit always set me up on dates. I don’t think I would’ve ever been on one without her. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a people person.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the way she’d just blurt these things out. It also helped defuse the situation I had going on below the belt.
“I’m serious.”
“Sorry, Bec. I know you are.”
“Even here, the kids always gravitate toward the cheerleaders, the happy people, all bubbly and fun—like you. They really just tolerate me.”
“What are you talking about? The kids love you.”
“The ones who are like me, maybe. But I really like them all.”
“I can tell,” I said.
“It’s their minds. Common sense hasn’t kicked in yet, and they still think everything is possible. They don’t have to pretend or hide who they really are because they’re not worried about being judged or not fitting in yet.” There was so much pain in her voice—I had no idea she even cared what other people thought. She just always seemed like her own island to me. Happy and content to be on her own.
“Do you worry about that?” I asked her. “Fitting in? Being judged?”
“Of course. I’m not a robot,” she deadpanned, in a voice that sounded very much like a robot.
It made me grin. The odd couple, we were.
“You fit in, Bec,” I told her, kissing her one more time. “You fit with me.”
Becca had spent a lot of time at the hospital even before she started volunteering. She was there for Brit. Unlike Mom, Brit didn’t die at the scene. It took a month before the Waters family decided to pull the plug. Becca stayed there the entire time.
She’d roam the floors. All the time, watching. Watching the docs, the nurses, the patients. Of course, Becca already knew Brit was gone. I’m sure she understood every word when the surgeon showed the family the brain scan. Becca’s a person of logic, science, numbers—not hope. I think she started devising the plan then, even before Brit was gone.
If it wasn’t for the kids and her volunteer work with them—calculated or not—I don’t think she would’ve made it. Those kids helped bring her back to life. And she really cared for them, I know she did. She could’ve found something else as a front; she could’ve spent a lot less time there. But she didn’t.
That’s why it doesn’t make sense that she’d take Travis’s brother. He’s young, and more importantly, he’s innocent in this whole thing. Looking at her now, it’s hard to believe she’s the same girl I watched at the hospital that day.
She’s become cold, hard, and freaking frightening. It’s making me second-guess everything. Is it possible that she was pretending with those kids for my benefit? Part of her plan to reel me in? Am I the other pawn in her game?
I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been played all along.
21
Becca
In the beginning, I went to the accident site to get a sense of what really happened. To figure out how Travis had pulled it off. I continued going there to plant evidence against him. Of course, I soon realized I needed more; the only way I’d get my justice was if he confessed.
Back when I was re-creating the accident scene to make my theory sound believable, I took measurements and worked out equations for the speed and location of the cars on impact, and did some trajectory-based analysis. It wasn’t accurate, only an educated guess. There were a few skid marks left of the road at that time, but nothing that screamed foul play. The police had chalked it up to an accident. But Travis didn’t have to know that.
The crash site was in a fairly isolated area, so I had the privacy I needed for my work.
When I finally confronted Travis, he never really did confirm or deny his part in all of it. But I knew. I ran that last conversation with my sister through my mind, over and over again: “That little psycho is following me,” she’d said. In that moment, Brit had told me all I needed to know.
Even when I wasn’t investigating, I went to the site because I could think better out there. It was almost as if I could feel my sister. I knew it was metaphysical garbage, but at th
e time, I needed something.
Because of the deep, deep hole.
I lived in there. In darkness. Going through the motions of my life in a haze. The only thing that made sense was seeing that justice was done. But as I worked through how I’d make Travis pay, I was missing something. Someone. I needed another person to pull it off. There was no other way around it.
Then something amazing happened. Johnny Vega started showing up.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him one afternoon, recognizing his face (it was a good face) from the baseball posters in school. I’d reviewed the stats on occasion. Baseball was a mathematician’s sport—statistics and equations galore.
He was on foot. Alone.
“What are you doing here?” He answered my question with a question. One of my biggest pet peeves, but I let it go because he didn’t look so good.
When he offered his condolences, I wasn’t surprised. Surely a guy like Johnny knew my sister.
“Thanks,” I said, saying his name softly in my mind. Johnny Vega.
It clicked.
The police report immediately came to mind: Anna Vega pronounced dead at the scene. Until that very moment, I had never once thought about the other driver. I knew about her, surely. And that was it. I didn’t put her family’s loss with ours; I didn’t think of her that way. She was just a casualty of the accident.
Johnny shifted, from his left foot to his right. I realized why he was here. He was mourning his mother, and from the look of it, he had been for quite some time.
He was a gift—the answer to everything. He could help.
I looked over my prize. His dark hair was unkempt, flattened in areas, puffed out in others. It reminded me of the bumpy road we were standing on. He wore a navy track jacket and black jeans that hung off him, puddling at his ankles, though it looked more like weight loss than a fashion statement. He was fairly clean-cut. Most of the athletes in school were. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, distracting from his otherwise flawless face.
I don’t think I’d ever spent so much time looking at someone—trying to figure them out. But I quickly knew that if this was going to work, I’d need to know everything about him. So I took out my tape measure and notebook—I still had them in my bag—and I started measuring things and writing things. I took notes from all angles and wrote my equations down on paper. He wouldn’t be able to resist asking questions.
