“That’s what you get for tripping me!” he shouted, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his long arms, black armpit hair peeking through his T-shirt.
I wiped the sticky burgundy sauce from my forehead with the back of my hand, too shocked to do anything else. He looked so smug, as if my tripping him months ago was still a hardship he considered worthy of revenge. I was almost jealous of the simplicity of his life as I stared at the goo coating my fingers.
“Dude, didn’t her mom just die or something?” someone whispered.
“No, her sister died. I think her parents are already dead.”
“All of them?”
“Pretty sure. Yeah.”
“Omigod.”
“Seriously?”
“Dude, that’s messed up. You should apologize.”
“Whatever.” Wyatt shrugged, pulling his hairy arms down and adjusting his intentionally dirty Red Sox cap. “I didn’t do anything to them. Maybe they all just wanted to get away from her.”
I closed my eyes, unable to move, to speak. Logically, in my brain, I knew that words coming from someone like Wyatt shouldn’t bother me. He was almost too dumb to be allowed in society without supervision. But still, it hurt. After everything that had happened to my sister, my parents, I couldn’t take much more. Not from him.
I could feel the tears building behind my eyelids, my heart thumping too fast. Only I couldn’t make my feet move. I opened my eyes, and a pathetic tear fell, making me hate myself even more.
“Puta madre! Que te folle un pez!” cursed a voice in Spanish, rising up from behind me. “What is wrong with you people? Do you not hear what you’re saying? You are disgusting.” He grabbed my hand, hot breath brushing my skin.
I turned, slightly dazed, but immediately recognizing the familiar accent. Marcus.
“Vamonos.” He tugged my arm, dislodging my feet, and I followed him, not knowing where we were going, but letting him lead me away.
Chapter Ten
I was seated on the back of an extremely loud, puttering Harley Davidson, my thick hair squished inside a black helmet, my arms wrapped around Marcus’s waist, the smell of his leather jacket engulfing me as I crushed myself against his back. We were speeding through Boston’s Italian North End. Over cobblestones.
A white SUV cut us off as it turned right, and we swerved, flying down the narrow bumpy road lined with Italian restaurants and old-fashioned storefronts sitting below weathered brick buildings with old metal fire escapes.
I’d been down this street a million times before, usually traveling at a much slower pace in Charlotte’s lime green VW Beetle as we stopped to pick up penne a la vodka and cannoli for dinner. This felt a little different as wind whipped my cheeks, lights zoomed by, and every cell in my body clenched to keep me from toppling over. Images flashed in my brain—twisting metal, burning steel, my parents’ crash, Keira’s memorial poster.
A death wish—that had to be it. I had a death wish. Otherwise, why would I get onto the back of a bike with this guy? Given all of Keira’s shifts in the ER, she once said she’d rather see me base jump from a skyscraper than get on the back of a bike.
And here I was.
I could picture the news coverage: Two teens died today in a motorcycle accident in Boston. Reports say the female passenger boarded the bike with a Spanish teen she hardly knew after having been struck in the head with a chicken wing. No word yet as to what she was thinking…
Only I wasn’t thinking.
I simply followed as Marcus clutched my hand and guided me from Wyatt and his lapdogs. Then I took the napkin he handed me, wiped away the barbeque sauce, and blindly trailed him to a massive heap of metal, leather, and tires. He tossed me a helmet, saying, “I’ll drive you home,” and hopped onto the bike. It almost felt rude not to throw my leg over the side and accept his offer. So I got on.
Besides, I could handle myself. I’d fought guys twice my size in karate tournaments. I found my way back to my hotel in Lower Manhattan when I was eight years old and my parents lost me in a crowd in Times Square. I even bought my own metro card and read a subway map. And when we lived in Morocco, I once chased down a pickpocket and got my sister’s wallet back. I was thirteen at the time.
Only…I couldn’t drive, nor did I enjoy spending much time in motorized vehicles.
It wasn’t that I was scared (exactly), it was more that I’d been of legal driving age for a year, and that year was spent in a major metropolitan city with an excellent public transportation system. I didn’t need to drive. I had the T. Plus, my parents died in a fiery auto explosion that landed on the front page of the Boston Globe. That sort of thing sticks with a girl, and it made me a bit cautious when it comes to vehicular transportation. (Charlotte calls me “chicken.”)
The lights of Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market came into view as I felt the bike begin to slow. My pulse gratefully calmed with it until, finally, we pulled alongside the curb. I exhaled, not letting go of Marcus, my cheek still pressed to his leather-covered shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked when I didn’t release him.
“Oh, fine.” I unlocked my grip from his waist, peeling my face from his leather jacket. “I thought you were taking me home.” I yanked off my helmet and swung my leg off the bike. I stumbled slightly, the ground feeling oddly off-kilter, like when you take off your ski boots after a day on the slopes. I ran my fingers through my matted hair, not because I cared how I looked, but more because I was hoping to appear casual and not completely nauseated as I regained my balance. My fingers jolted on a knot, and I silently wished I had Regina’s stick-straight locks.
Wait, Regina. Damn. I left her and Tyson at the movie. They were probably wondering where I was. I pulled out my phone and pounded a quick text with my thumbs. With Marcus. Fine. TTYL. Let them try to figure that out over shared spoonfuls of fudge ripple.
“I can still take you home. I just thought maybe we could get some coffee?”
Coffee… That was what Marcus was doing that day at the supermarket—ordering coffee from a perky barista. The air reeked of espresso. I stayed too long, talking to him, trying to flirt, making a fool of myself while my sister was alone in our home with a deadly psycho. The sight of the bloody bathroom flickered in my brain as if it had been resting behind my eyelids ready to be drawn upon at any moment. It all bubbled up. Blood, blood, blood…cops, tears, Marcus, blood…
“You okay? Was it the ride? I was going too fast, yes?”
He grabbed my arm like he thought I might faint. I guess the color had drained from my cheeks. Dizzy spots swirled before my eyes as familiar rolls of nausea ripped through my belly.
“Do you need to sit?”
I shook off his arm. “I’m fine. Sorry.” I stared at the pavement until my vision cleared, wiping the sweat from my lip as my eyes focused on one black, flattened dollop of littered chewing gum.
Slowly, I felt steadier.
It wasn’t his fault that I’d left that morning to buy bagels, that I didn’t open the bedroom door, that I didn’t get home in time. If anything, he’d done enough already. Apparently, I’d needed an alibi for my sister’s disappearance, and Marcus was it. He was questioned by police. “Yes, officer, Anastasia Phoenix was flirting with me when her sister was brutally attacked…”
“Do you want to stay? Eat something?” Marcus asked, gesturing to the pillared façade of Quincy Market. The building was old, like part of the Freedom Trail old, constructed of brick with a massive domed ceiling, and full of food vendors and souvenir shops.
“Sure, I guess. Unless, do you have someone waiting for you back at the movie?” I asked.
Marcus glanced away, a flush on his face. “Oh, well, you know what it’s like. New kid. I don’t have too many friends here yet, and I saw online that everyone was going to the movie, so I thought I’d show up and see…” His voice trailed off, then he shrugged like his solo status was no big deal, though clearly it was. Being the new kid sucked. “Anyway, I can’t
believe those guys. Idiotas. I don’t understand—”
“It’s fine,” I cut him off.
“Lo siento.”
“I know.”
“I can take you wherever you want,” he mumbled, shifting awkwardly. “If you want to get coffee, that’s okay. If you want to go home, that’s okay, too.”
I looked up as he fiddled with the shiny metal chain that connected to the wallet in the back pocket of his black jeans, which matched his black leather jacket, black T-shirt, black hair. He ran his hand through his messy locks, flattened from the motorcycle helmet, fidgeting nervously in an all-too-familiar way. I remembered what it was like to try to win over the Dresden Kids who’d lived in town longer. For most of my life, they were my only friends in the world. Every time we relocated, our parents would introduce us to the other Dresden families with an expectation of insta-friendships. We had a shared uncommon childhood, like military brats only without the military.
But I’d been out of pajamas for barely a week. I had to be the worst friend Marcus could find, and there was a part of my brain that couldn’t unknot him from my sister’s tragedy, from that bathtub. Still, if I went home now, I’d have to tell Charlotte about Wyatt and the chicken wing, which would only make her worry more. I didn’t think bullying counted as a sign of “emotional support” from my peers.
“How about some soup?” I asked.
Marcus smiled. “Soup it is.”
...
My family had a tradition. In every new city where we relocated, we spent our first meal at a restaurant eating the local cuisine. I don’t just mean eating Italian at the best-rated place on Yelp! I mean, we ate whatever made the city famous. When we lived in New Orleans, we ate crawfish and beignets. When we moved to Morocco, we had some ground beef and powdered sugar served alongside a belly dancer. When we were in Madrid, it was tortilla Española with a side of ham.
And when we visited Paris after Keira’s high school graduation, we ate bouillabaisse and snails. They call it escargot there, which sounds slightly more appetizing, but it’s still snails. Those slimy little things that cross your driveway coiled up in hard round shells. They even serve the shells with them in case there’s any doubt as to what you’re eating.
I remember Keira and I staring at our plate, eight tiny snails displayed in a circular dish with cups like an egg carton. They douse them with a gallon of butter and herbs—again trying to drown the “you’re eating snails!” aspect of the meal—and I remember debating whether it was time to draw the line. After all, we weren’t moving to Paris, we were just visiting, so acquiring an appreciation for the local cuisine really wasn’t a necessity. That was when Keira spoke up. She said that if we ate this, then at least we knew from here on out, it would be the most disgusting thing we ever tasted. All food would go up from here. And I had to agree.
So we ate them.
They tasted like buttery pencil erasers.
Then we moved to Boston, and the tradition carried on. Our first night in town, we went to Quincy Market. We each ate a cup of Boston clam chowder with a two-pound steamed lobster served in a cheap plastic tub.
Now I was sitting with Marcus, two wooden tables away from where I’d sat that evening, eating Boston clam chowder in a bread bowl, and none of my family was with me. Like, none of them were with me in this world. There was a toddler sitting at our old table, babbling in her high chair as her mom fed her peas.
I felt my throat closing around a chunk of warm, creamy potato. I was having trouble swallowing.
“I’ve never had clam chowder before,” said Marcus as he gulped another plastic spoonful, white goopy soup dripping on his chin. He didn’t seem to notice the reaction I was having.
“It’s called ‘chowda’ here,” I corrected, forcing down the bite. I could not go through life tearfully skipping down memory lane every time I saw a place my family had visited. We traveled a lot. To find a location completely void of memories, I’d have to move to a farm in Idaho or something. I wasn’t farm material.
“I stand corrected.” Marcus smiled, dimples flashing on both sides. For someone who tried very hard to produce a bad-boy vibe (neck tattoo, black leather, and motorcycle), his dimples crushed it. It was hard not to look adorable with a grin like that. I bit my lip, immediately feeling guilty for thinking that, for even noticing his smile, for sitting across from him at this table. My sister was missing.
I peered down at my soup, my emotions conflicted.
“So how are you doing? With everything?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, wishing I had a button I could press that would repeat this phrase at will.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Did I? I honestly wasn’t sure. My brief outing with Tyson and Regina proved I wasn’t ready to discuss normal topics like schoolwork. Marcus’s glowing smile showed I wasn’t ready to feel even a flicker of happier thoughts. My sister was my singular focus lately, and I’d shared my dark reflections with only Charlotte, because her mind was as traumatized as my own. Still, the shrinks and social workers insisted that if I wanted to stay off the meds, I needed to expand my “circle of support.” The question was—did Marcus really understand what he was asking, and did he want to hear the truth?
“You can trust me,” he offered as if sensing my worries. “If it helps to talk about it, I’m here. But if it makes things worse, I understand.”
Okay, here goes nothing…
“I can’t stop thinking about it—Keira and the tub,” I admitted.
“I can’t imagine.”
“You really can’t. It’s like a horror movie that never ends.” The tub flickered in my mind once more. Always there. “I wish I could think of something else, anything else, be normal, but it’s like there’s no room in my head for other thoughts.”
“I hear the Red Sox won last night.”
“What?” I asked, perplexed.
“Against the Yankees. Two home runs in the bottom of the ninth. Almost went to extra innings.”
“I didn’t know Spaniards followed baseball.”
“When in Boston…”
“I think a visit to Fenway is a requirement for residency these days.”
Marcus smiled once more. “See, you thought of something else. Even if for just a second.”
“I guess a second counts.” I ripped a thick piece of sourdough from my makeshift bowl and dipped it into my soup. A shopper pushed against the back of my plastic chair, hoisting her tray over my head, her paper shopping bag tapping my shoulder. “The problem is, when I do let my mind drift, which is rare, I feel so guilty. Like I’m betraying her or something.”
Marcus nodded, his eyes turning sad. “We didn’t get to talk at the memorial, but I was with you that morning, when everything happened…” His voice trailed off.
“I know.”
“After I heard—my parents told me—I wanted to reach out, come by, talk to you, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”
“That’s because we hardly know each other,” I pointed out.
Marcus sat back as if I’d thrown an insult, but I was simply stating the truth. I didn’t know him.
I spent the last three years judging my sister for every brain-dead loser she flung herself at in an attempt to cope with her grief, all the while ignoring the sacrifices she made for me in the process. I never really thought about what it would be like to be a junior in college and suddenly put in charge of a pissed-off teenage sibling.
Keira had to pay the bills and be a grown-up when everyone else she knew was doing keg stands and studying in Paris. And how did I treat her? Like she had no right to tell me what to do, like she was overstepping every time she asked me to so much as take out the trash, like she was pathetic because she cared so much whether some random loser called. And what was I doing when she needed me most? Flirting with a boy I hardly knew.
I was an ungrateful hypocrite who devastatingly failed her.
My throat started to close, a famil
iar side effect of my funk—the feeling of my muscles constricting, my grief rejecting my food, a mushy potato lodging en route. I squirmed in my seat, coughing slightly, trying to push the dark thoughts far enough away that I could swallow.
“I don’t know many people in Boston, anyone really,” Marcus said. “But I have a brother, Antonio. And I know what it’s like to have parents move you around the world. My brother, my parents, they’re all I’ve got. Now Antonio works for Dresden and travels all the time. This is the first time I’ve moved someplace without him, and if anything happened to him…”
My eyes snapped toward Marcus with a sudden feeling of kinship as I thought of my last conversation with my parents, about moving to Canada, how I would have been moving without Keira and how much worse that made the relocation. I swallowed my uncomfortable bite of food, feeling relief as my muscles relaxed. “That must suck.”
“It does. And starting school in May—” He stopped mid-sentence, abruptly adjusting his posture, his expression severe. “I can’t believe I’m talking about myself after what’s happened to you.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “It’s refreshing, actually.”
“No, it’s not. Lo siento.” He held up a hand with an apology I didn’t need. “So how did your friends get you to come out tonight?”
“It’s part of my depression-release program. I need to prove to my new guardians that I’m not a danger to myself and/or others.”
“Should I be worried?” His tone was teasing, very unlike the Pleasantville normalcy Charlotte had been creating recently. I missed my sister making fun of me.
“We’ll see. I’ve been out of the house for, like, only two hours.” I raised a menacing eyebrow. “But I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.”
“Understood.” He smirked flirtatiously. “Are you coming back to school in the fall?”
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 7
