by Pat White
* * *
An hour later J.D. was sitting next to Detective Ryan’s desk at the police station. The cop ordered J.D. to cool down and wait. At least he’d let him change clothes before dragging him in.
J.D. made good use of the time by copying notes for Catherine even though he wasn’t sure how he’d get them to her.
Dude, you’ve got bigger problems like figuring out how to protect your baby brother while sitting in a cell.
“Pratt,” Detective Ryan said coming up behind him.
J.D. glanced over his shoulder.
“Come,” Ryan said, then eyed the notes. “What’s that?”
“Notes for Catherine Westfield.” He shoved them into his backpack and stood.
“Leave the backpack.”
J.D. let it drop to the floor. This was it. He was going to be fingerprinted and booked for assault.
“Let’s go,” Ryan said, irritated.
J.D. followed Detective Ryan who led him to the cell area and unlocked the door.
J.D. couldn’t win. Every time he tried to protect someone—
“Want a look at the cell?” Detective Ryan motioned to the city’s only holding cell.
“Not particularly.”
“Tough, I think you should see it.”
With a hand on J.D.’s shoulder the detective steered him into the small cell, no window, no nothing. J.D. turned to face him, fully expecting the door to slam shut.
Instead, Detective Ryan hovered in the doorway. “You like it in here?”
“That’s a stupid question.”
“Attacking Hoffman is pretty stupid.”
“I had my reasons.”
“Which are?”
J.D. leaned against the cold cement wall but didn’t answer.
“You don’t like being pushed around, do you, son?”
“I’m not your son.”
“Thank God for that.”
The detective was taunting him, but why? To get J.D. to take a swing at him so he could charge J.D. with assaulting a police officer? That would get J.D. out of the detective’s life for a long time.
“Bet your dad tells you every day how disappointed he is in you,” Ryan said.
“Like I care.”
“What do you care about?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t care about your brother?”
J.D. ground his teeth so hard he thought he might pop a filling.
“What about Catherine Westfield? Do you care about her?”
“No,” J.D. managed to spit out between clenched teeth.
“No? So, you really do hate her? Ran her down on purpose, twice?”
J.D. held his position in the corner, trying not to let the detective get to him.
“You have some sick revenge thing going, is that it?” Detective Ryan pushed. “Run down the most popular girl in school because you’re jealous, right? I mean you’ve got this crappy life, picked on by kids at school, and then there’s Catherine Westfield who’s loved by everyone. She’s got great friends and a football star boyfriend.”
A great friend who nearly ran her down with the car and a boyfriend who wanted to screw her to prove a point.
“Wait, I get it,” Detective Ryan continued, “You’ve got a thing for Catherine Westfield, but you can’t have her so you run her down—”
“It was an accident,” he blurted out, fisting his hands.
“Sure it was, like slugging Greg Hoffman was an accident. What happened? Was he bragging about how much Catherine loves him? And that drives you crazy, right?”
“What do you want from me?”
“The truth.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Damn it, kid!” The cop marched into the cell.
J.D. instinctively cowered but didn’t move to defend himself. Just like usual. Never defend yourself or you’ll enrage the monster even more.
Besides, somewhere, deep down, J.D. thought he deserved the beatings.
His body flooded with adrenaline in anticipation of the hit, the sting, and the residual ache that sometimes lasted for days.
When nothing happened he opened his eyes.
Detective Ryan took a step back, studying him with a curious expression. The sudden adrenaline rush passed, leaving J.D. completely spent. He slid down the wall to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest.
“Je-sus, kid.” Detective Ryan sat on the cot next to him. “What did he do to you?”
They both knew the “he” was J.D.’s dad.
“I can’t…talk about that.”
“Okay, then can you tell me why you jumped Hoffman in the locker room? I’ve figured out there’s a lot more to you than your stoner reputation. So, talk.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Knock it off. What did Hoffman do?”
“He’s an arrogant prick.”
“And?”
Leveling Detective Ryan with an angry glare J.D. said, “That bastard is going to sweet talk Catherine into losing her virginity. She wouldn’t do it before the accident but now…” He shook his head.
“Come on, kid. Guys talk. You know that.”
“He said she was a stuck-up prude before,” J.D. hesitated. “But now he’s gonna ‘nail the retard.’ He called her a retard!”
“Okay, so he’s an asshole, but the Westfield girl seems like a smart kid.”
“Something’s changed since the accident.” J.D. fisted and unfisted his good hand. “She’s different. I can’t explain it. She’s putting on a good act, but she’s really not okay.”
“And you care about her?”
J.D. shrugged. “I’m responsible for her condition. I don’t want to see her taken advantage of, or hurt.”
“Then you need to tell her about Hoffman.”
“Like she’ll listen to the guy who ran her down, over the word of the football star?”
“Well, I don’t see any other option here.” The Detective stood and offered his hand. “In the meantime, you and I need to brainstorm a way to keep you in school and out of jail.”
J.D. grabbed the Detective’s hand and stood. “You want to … help me?”
Detective Ryan motioned J.D out of the cell. “Crazy, huh?”
“Why would you do that?”
“Can’t talk about that.” Detective Ryan smiled. “Sit by my desk and write down your version of what happened in the locker room.”
“Like anyone will believe me,” J.D. muttered.
“I’m not just anyone.”
Chapter Thirteen
I can’t believe it’s Saturday night, the night of Andrew’s party and I’m going with Greg. I’m frantically racing around my bedroom laying out clothes, picking out jewelry, and checking my make-up. Rockin’ Rose lip gloss or Awesome Amber?
I survived the rest of the week without any more drama. I went from class to class, my note-taker shadowing me, not speaking, acting like he was invisible.
But he isn’t. I always know J.D.’s there.
I made it through a whole week of Cheer, too, helping with routines and giving advice. The girls look up to me. It feels good.
Everything’s getting back to normal.
Then I glance through J.D.’s notes and admit how “not normal” I really am. I can’t do it on my own. I need his help.
My daily routine includes boring classes thanks to my non-existent attention span, then study time with J.D.’s notes. I’d sigh with relief at the clean and simple writing, accompanied by pictures in the margins. Yesterday he’d even written, “How are your eyes?”
For a second I panicked, thinking he knew the truth, that I wore the sunglasses as a shield to prevent HULU’s. Then I realized he referred to the eyes I drew in my sketchbook the other day, the ones Taylor said looked like amoebas.
Taylor’s been hounding me all week about what we should wear tonight. I can’t help but wonder if she is completely incapable of making a decision, or if she wants to make sure she looks better than everyone else.
I’m safe.
After my first week in my “new normal” school world I’m pretty proud of myself. Maybe I’ll get my medical release in a week or two, and I’m keeping up in school, thanks to J.D.
The way I connect with his notes is weird, but not as weird as the fact that I get the creeps when touched by every human being except the guy who nearly killed me.
“Which means he’s not human,” I say into the mirror, as I layer my lashes with mascara.
“Forget about him and focus on Greg,” I whisper.
Tonight is crucial—the night Greg will officially ask me to be his girlfriend. I’m not as excited as I thought I’d be. I’m actually a little anxious.
I’m emotionally spent, that’s all. Faking my way through the week has been draining as hell. For a brief second I considered staying home…
My friends would freak out, Mom would grill me with forty questions, and Dad would demand we see the doctor, if Dad is even paying attention. Since my near hit-and-run earlier this week he’s been even more distant than usual. It’s like he’s mad at me, like all of this was my fault.
Maybe he’s pissed that I demanded to keep J.D. as my note taker. Dad probably thinks I’ve lost it. After all, why would I defend the guy who put me through so much pain?
They don’t know how much I need J.D. to keep my grades up. No one can ever know. Greg, the sweetie, keeps giving me notes, but I can’t make sense of them. He means well.
After art class on Wednesday I found out Greg was moved to another elective at the request of Mr. Cooper, and Taylor was texting Greg play-by-play intel about my every move in class.
I asked J.D. for help with my drawing – call the social police! Admit her to the psych ward!
Talk about overreacting. I simply want to draw my version of the doe. I like drawing in my “new normal” state. I connect with a part of myself I didn’t know existed.
I glance at my clock radio. It’s nearly eight. Any second now Greg will pull up, walk to the door and ring the bell.
I check my reflection in the mirror: low cut, skinny jeans, tight pink T-shirt, and UGG boots. Thank God they’re in style since my feet are always cold. I start to head out but anxiety clenches my stomach. I’m forgetting something. I grab my small notebook and refer to my checklist.
“Choker and sunglasses,” I whisper.
Yep, even at night. I can’t risk an unexpected HULU at my first social event of the year.
After tonight I’ll be completely back.
I grab the choker from my jewelry box and put it on, struggling with the clasp. Tonight I’ll wear a silver heart charm over my scar. It’s solid and feels warm against my skin.
I snatch my purse off the chair by the window and glance across the street. J.D.’s house looks dark and ominous. I turn off my desk lamp, plunging my room into darkness. Squinting, I see the soles of his skateboard shoes resting on the windowsill of one of the upstairs rooms.
My phone buzzes with a text. It’s Taylor, alerting me that she’ll be at Andrew’s in half an hour.
I glance up.
J.D.’s shoes are gone, leaving a black void of nothingness.
Another text snaps me out of my curiosity.
“What now?” I glance at my phone. It’s Andrea texting that J.D. Pratt wasn’t charged for assaulting Greg.
I still can’t figure that one out. J.D. attacked Greg? He’s too smart to risk jail time over a fight at school. When I asked Greg what happened he shrugged and said, “The guy’s a loser.”
For half a second I was tempted to use my secret skills and gaze into Greg’s eyes to see what really happened.
I didn’t mean that, nope. I’m not looking for that kind of trouble, but I wonder if J.D. is self-destructing. He’d better not be. I need his notes.
As I head downstairs I hesitate at the landing. Don’t I sound like a bitch? I’m not thinking about J.D.’s life, his pathetic existence at a school where everyone hates him, where he’s forced to be my school slave.
Or at home where his father beats him.
I think. If my HULU’s are real.
No, can’t go there.
The doorbell rings just as I step into the front hallway. Awesome. All this thinking is giving me a headache.
“Is it Greg?” Mom says, getting up from the couch. She’s reading another mystery novel, the kind where everything is wrapped up neatly by the end.
“Probably,” I answer.
Mom clasps her hands together. Is it possible that she’s more excited about me getting my life back than I am?
She’s coming in for another hug but I put up my hand. “Mom, I’m seventeen.”
“Okay, well it goes without saying that you can call me anytime if you need a ride home, you know, if Greg wants to stay and you get tired.”
We both know that’s code for “if he’s drinking and you don’t trust him to drive.”
“I won’t, but thanks.” I open the front door.
Greg looks hot in tight jeans, a gray T-shirt and leather jacket. I can tell he just got out of the shower. He smells…clean.
“Hey, you look great.” His eyes linger on my chest a little longer than necessary.
“Thanks, you too.”
“Greg, it’s nice to see you,” Mom says.
“You too, Mrs. Westfield.” They shake hands.
“Bye, Mom.”
She kisses my forehead and I’m sure I turn five shades of red.
I breeze down the walkway and shove the sunglasses in place. If Mom sees me wearing them at night she’ll interrogate me about headaches, mini seizures and who knows what.
Greg catches up to me and opens the door to the front seat of his six-year-old BMW.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Sunglasses at night, huh?” he asks.
“Headlights can trigger a migraine. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
He leans forward and kisses my cheek. I close my eyes, breathe in his clean scent and enjoy the tender moment. A true gentleman. Yep, that’s Greg.
I get into the front seat and touch my cheek where he kissed me. My skin itches. Great. I’m allergic to the guy of my dreams?
Focus, Catherine. Don’t lose it. You’re almost back!
Greg gets behind the wheel and smiles. “Ready?”
“Absolutely.”
As we pull away from the house, I glance up at J.D.’s window. It’s closed.
I settle against the leather seat and smile to myself. I’m getting my life back tonight. Thank you, God.
* * *
Two hours into the party I start to wonder if this was such a great idea. Everyone’s drinking like crazy and of course I can’t drink or risk further brain injury. I’m okay with that. At least I thought I was.
Taylor and Andrea are giggling and tripping over themselves, and Greg went off to smoke cigars in the back yard with his football buddies.
So much for my “She’s back!” celebration.
I’m invisible, blending in with the rest of the kids, only I’m not wasted. It sucks being sober around a bunch of drunk people.
“Hey, you.” I feel a hand on my shoulder. Greg. I can tell because it has its own sensation, its own vibration.
“I’m sorry I abandoned you,” he apologizes.
“No problem.”
He leans forward and kisses me on the lips. He tastes of cigars and beer. When we break the kiss I realize he’s a little stoned or drunk, or both.
“I was so worried about you when you were in the hospital. I still can’t believe you’re here with me.”
With his arm around my shoulder he leads me through the crowd. A few of his friends high-five him and bark like dogs as we pass. They’ve obviously had one twelve-pack too many.
Greg guides me upstair
s to a den and closes the door. Loud music vibrates against the floorboards.
“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he says.
Holding my hand, he guides me to the sofa. As we sit down my heart pounds with excitement.
“I wanted to ask you…” he hesitates.
I wait.
Lick my lips. Will he kiss me again? Should I find him a breath mint? Don’t be a jerk, Catherine.
“Hang on a second.” Greg gets up, flips on a desk lamp and turns off the overhead light. The room is bathed in a soft orange glow.
He sits down and takes my hand again. “Before the accident I was going to ask you something and then that bastard Pratt,” he trails off, his voice filled with hatred.
“Don’t think about him,” I say.
I wish I could follow my own advice. My shadow has invaded my thoughts more than once tonight.
“Anyway,” he smiles.
I’m close, massively close.
“Will you…?” He reaches over and removes my sunglasses. “Just for a second, okay?”
I automatically nod. In his blue-gray eyes I see my life being resurrected as Catherine the perfect student, cheerleader, college-bound business major.
With the most perfect boyfriend in the world.
“Will you go out with me?” he says.
In a flash the perfection crashes into a major HULU. This time I’m falling fast and hard, hitting the pavement with a thud.
I open my eyes.
I’m sitting on a cold floor. I look up and see Greg fumbling with something in his gym locker. A pungent smell pinches my nose. It reminds me of when Dad stripped the wood trim in our house.
I stand up, step closer and see Greg stuff a rag into a glass bottle.
“What the hell?” I say, stumbling backward.
He can’t hear me or see me. This isn’t real.
“No one messes with the destroyer,” Greg whispers.
Pete Striden wanders into the locker room. “What are you blowing up this time?”
“My enemies.”
“You mean, Cooper?”
