by Ryan Schow
Me and Him, we’re still not friends, but that’s okay.
The next day everyone is staring at my shirt. Smiling. Laughing and pointing. Talking about it in voices that aren’t exactly quiet. I love it. The non-triplets, they don’t exactly get it. Maybe they’ve quietly suffered the abuse for so long they’re used to it. Me, not so much. I’ve taken so much abuse from Margaret, the blood-thirsty paparazzi and the miserable twats at this crappy school I’m ready to push back. I’m primed for a fight and if the fight becomes a battle to preserve my dignity, then that’s what I want. If I have no friends at all in this school but I come to love myself, to accept myself and to grow into the woman I will soon become, then that’s just what the hell is going to happen.
On the front of my shirt (cute, black, hangs loose on the shoulder), in bold white lettering are the words Number Four. On the back is a picture of three sheep, a plus sign, a needle, an equals sign and then a picture of a smiling new sheep with gleaming sheep eyes.
I’m not surprised by the reaction I receive; it’s what I was hoping for. What surprises me most is Maggie Jaynes’s reaction. She comes up to me in the hallway, just before fifth period PE and says, “I’m sorry for what they’re doing to you. For the record, I tried to make them stop, but they won’t. And honestly I don’t know what to do.”
I smile at her, thank her, and then say, “How about quit hanging out with them. That’s a start.”
I leave her standing by herself in the hallway. After PE, I decide I’m tired of stinking during sixth period so for the first time I take off my clothes and proudly walk my new naked body into the showers with Georgia, Victoria and Bridget. Though my body looks similar to my friends’ bodies, there are differences. Subtle differences. Like my Alaska is starting to fade, and I’m still not as tall as them, and I have a little more of a bubble butt than they do, which is good because it used to look like a shovel butt—you know, flat, wide and embarrassing. The way the other girls are staring, I don’t mind the attention. Let them see our similarities, our differences. Let them be judgmental.
I no longer care.
I manage to resume my shots with Gerhard, and though we are congenial with each other, and I don’t ask any questions about Kaitlyn, my resolve to piece together the truth about her has not lessened an ounce. When I ask how many treatments I have left, he says five. One week. It’s more than I hoped for, less than I need. Brayden and I still have not found a way to get the key to his office off his key ring, and this has me panicked.
When I tell Brayden and Damien about the diminishing timeline, Damien says, “So we have less than a week, that’s what you’re saying?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. After that? Game over. Mystery not solved.”
“So then we need to grow some damn balls already and do this,” Brayden says. Damien actually smiles. It’s the first time they agree on anything. “Lady and gentleman,” he says, “It’s time you all cozy up to the idea of B&E.”
7
Damien, Brayden and I wait in the Rover in the parking lot for way too long before Gerhard finally decides to leave for the day. It’s nine-thirty and dark outside, and it’s not even Tuesday. We’ve already left campus and are waiting down the road in a Park ’n Ride near the gas station just before the I-80 on-ramp.
Brayden complains a lot about his back hurting from sitting too long. Damien and I join him for good measure. But then the fire ants begin their march and I decide taking my pills is prudent, even though the troops are meager, their torches dim. Eventually I drift off in the back seat to the sound of Damien and Brayden talking about boring guy stuff.
“There he is,” someone says, waking me up. I think it was Damien. Sitting up, I force my eyes open, rub the sleep away. Damien starts the SUV and pulls onto the freeway behind a pair of red tail lights I recognize as Gerhard’s. We follow him at a distance, knowing where he’s going, not tailing too close. Eventually he slows down and heads into a Burger King, but instead of using the drive-thru, he walks inside, orders a meal, then sits down and eats alone.
“Now that’s just fucking depressing,” Brayden says.
“At a Burger King no less,” I hear myself saying.
By now it’s ten-thirty and we can see he’s almost finished. When he gets up to take his food to the garbage can, I say, “Go to his house, I’m thinking we should be there before him, if we can.”
Damien doesn’t hesitate, he just goes. We drive through town about five to ten miles an hour over the speed limit, pull into his neighborhood and park up the street in the heavy shadows cast between two streetlights. For the longest time, we wait. Finally Brayden says, “You moan a lot in your sleep.”
“That’s because I’m in an intense amount of pain.”
“You fart in your sleep, too,” Damien says and maybe it’s because he never cracks jokes that I take him serious. I feel sick at the thought of having done that with them both awake in the same car.
“Yeah,” Brayden says. “It got a little ripe in here earlier. We had to crack the windows. They were fogging.”
“The risk of potentially lethal exposure seemed great,” Damien says with a snicker.
I sock Brayden in the arm and say, “Even if I do fart in my sleep, which I don’t, you shouldn’t talk about it.”
“We’re just kidding,” Damien says. “You didn’t do that.”
“You guys are jerks,” I say, pouting. Then: “Sorry for falling asleep on you.”
“It’s okay, we both agreed we like to watch you sleep,” Brayden says. “Is that weird?”
“A little,” I say, blushing.
“Kaitlyn and I used to watch movies together, when we were younger, and we carried that tradition into school. She used to fall asleep in my dorm room, and I’d watch her sleep sometimes. You remind me of her so much it’s comforting, but it also makes me really sad.”
Every time I think I might have a chance in being with him, he goes and tells me about his step-sister and this crushes any hope of us being together.
“What?” he says, seeing my expression in the rear-view mirror.
“Am I always going to remind you of her?” I ask.
“Probably.”
“I wish that weren’t the case.”
“What do you mean?”
Holy shit, was he even listening when I told him about crushing on the way he looks? What a freaking ding-bat!
“All looks and no brains makes Jack a dull boy,” Brayden says.
“Would you two please shut up,” I whisper. “I think that’s him.”
Gerhard’s SUV comes into view. At the last minute, I hand my gun to Damien and say, “If something happens, just come inside and shoot Gerhard in the face for me.”
Damien looks at the gun like he’s never seen one before. Brayden rolls his eyes, takes it and says, “He hasn’t got the stomach for it.” Then to Damien, “Jeez. Haven’t you ever played Call of Duty? Just point, exhale and squeeze.”
Ignoring them, I slip out of the car and sprint through the darkness of the neighbor’s front yard, heading for Gerhard’s house. He pulls into his driveway and waits for the garage door to open. I creep up to the side of his house as he’s pulling in, my breath coming fast, my adrenaline at full surge. Damien appears beside me seconds later, nearly breathless himself.
“What are you doing?” I ask. My tone is sharp and incredulous. “You’re going to get us caught!”
“I’m going with you.”
“Save your heroic nuts for later,” I say. “I’ve got this one.”
8
The window of opportunity presents itself. I take it. As Gerhard pulls into the garage, I follow his Cayenne inside, low and out of view. Gerhard kills the engine just as I slide underneath the SUV. The garage door starts to close and I see Damien peeking low around the corner at me. Our eyes meet, then the garage door shuts and it’s just me.
Gerhard gets out of the vehicle, gathers his things, walks inside. I pray he won’t lock the door
leading into the house, and he doesn’t. The breath I’ve been holding expels in a rush. I try not to think about what I’m doing because invariably, it will lead to panic.
Now I wait…
I send Brayden a text right away, let him know my plans, then wait forty-five minutes before crawling out from underneath Gerhard’s SUV and putting my ear to the door leading inside. My heart is furious in my chest, beating so hard I feel a rush of noise in my ears. I send Brayden another text, tell him I’m going in. Slowly I turn the knob and the door creeps open to darkness beyond.
I exhale slowly, draw a shallow breath, hold it and go.
The room is a laundry room. Through a doorway, the dark walls pick up the glow of a television, the sound of the news. Gerhard’s snoring.
I look into the next room, the kitchen. Beyond that is the living room where Gerhard is passed out on a Lazy Boy recliner. His keys have to be nearby. I slip off my shoes down to just my socks. It’s quieter that way. I sneak into the kitchen. I’ve got one eye on Gerhard, the other searching the counter tops for his keys. They aren’t anywhere.
Okay, now I’m freaking out. Now the voice in my head is telling me I’m an absolute moron for thinking I could pull this off.
Shut up, I tell the voice. I’ve got to think! I look into the living room and sitting on the end table next to him and his functional blue recliner are his keys.
Oh my motherfreaking God.
I can’t do this. But I have to! His snoring continues as fresh panic gushes through me. I tip-toe into the living room with nothing for cover in between. His house, as nice as it seems, is surprisingly sparse. There is the recliner, the end table and the TV on a stand. That’s it. There are no pictures, no accessories, no couch and no kitchen table. It’s like he expects to never have company. Ever.
Halfway through the living room, my eyes trained like lasers on Gerhard, something with fur brushes up against my leg and my heart practically explodes from my chest. A cat is rubbing up against my leg, purring, wanting to be pet.
Damn. Stupid cat. Stupid, stupid cat! I give it a little kick. It leans into it. The way the cat is diving its head at my leg, and the fact that I’m now three feet from the decorative end table, from Gerhard and his keys, I’m just about dying over here.
Dying!
Ignore the cat, I tell myself. It’s hard, nearly impossible. Focus, I tell myself. I do. But not before my armpits get damp AF.
Four more steps and I’m at the keys. Standing a mere foot away from Gerhard. The cat is purring loudly now, still at my leg. I’m trying not to breathe because the sound of my breath feels like it’s coming from a megaphone.
I cover the keys with my hand, slowly gathering them together, terrified the scraping of metal on wood will wake the doctor. I squeeze during his louder snores, hoping his trumpeting nostrils will provide me the cover I need.
Holy crap, I can smell his sour breath I’m that close!
The cat is now pawing at my pant leg. His razor sharp claws prickle through the fabric, pull and tick loose, then penetrate it again. His nails finally pierce my skin. I fight the urge to cry out, or to hit it. I remind myself I’ve dealt with worse things than cat claws.
Finally, with the keys compacted, I scoop them up into my hand. I squeeze them so tight they dig into the soft skin, but I choke the pain down. I can’t afford a single noise. The news on TV changes to Jay Leno and that’s when I hear him saying, “So Margaret Van Duyn is deep into rehab now.” The anticipatory crowd rouses, Jay continues. “It’s difficult to try putting your life together after so much bad press, right? It’s even harder to rebuild the inner lining of your nose, too.”
Everyone laughs.
“And impossible to tell your dealer ‘no.’”
Everyone laughs more.
“And even more impossible to explain to your adopted daughter that both her mothers are junkies now.” And now everyone is roaring and I’m thinking, you’ve got to be kidding me right now! I’m thinking, if I could, I’d sue the fat jawed son of a—
Jay Leno says, “Moving on to more interesting subject matter…”
Yeah, like me not getting caught.
That’s when the cat leaves my leg alone. Finally. Oh…oh, no. Omigod, crap! The cat is sauntering over to Gerhard. He jumps on the recliner’s arm and walks onto Gerhard’s lap and the snoring stops. Gerhard’s eyes remain closed, but his hand twitches, finds the cat. He runs an open palm over the cat’s head, adjusts himself in his seat. He’s now facing me. His eyes remain closed, but even the faintest noise and I’m dead.
I’m five feet away from the safety of the kitchen island when Gerhard shifts again. I hold my breath, my pulse kicking wildly throughout me. I’m done. I just know it. I’m dead and I’m going to jail, probably in that order.
I make a decision. Tip-toeing as fast as I can, I duck behind the island where I turn to see if I’ve been discovered. That’s when his eyes open. He says to the cat, “Hey, Dexter. You need some milk? Huh? You need a little nightcap?” He rubs the cat some more, turns the TV up. I scramble through the keys, searching for the one that looks most like the office key. I take it off and slide it into my pocket.
That’s when he mutes the TV and I hear him getting up. I sneak a glance. He’s bending over with his back to me picking up Dexter when I slip the keys on the counter. Instantly I know it’s the wrong thing to do. Then again, all of this is wrong. I shouldn’t be here.
He’s walking into the kitchen, talking to the cat and my heart is an uproarious mess. It’s so quiet in here, I hear the organ crashing against my ribs like gunfire. I’m going to pass out. I swear it!
He enters the kitchen, flips on the light and heads for the fridge. Squatting low, I scoot opposite of him, keeping the island between us. My damp palms might as well be slick as dew on a soda glass. I dry them on the thighs of my jeans, pray my instincts won’t fail me.
I hear his feet walking toward me. I hurry to the end of the island opposite him as he goes for a saucer. He has the cat in his hand. He’s talking to it like it’s a gosh damn baby. These are the only sounds in the house though, and I’m thankful for the cover of noise.
Gerhard puts the saucer on the granite island countertop, pauses and says, “That’s odd.” And he waits. Shit!—the keys. I know he’s looking at them, putting two and two together. My mind’s doing cartwheels. I’m thinking of all the things he’s going to do to me and it’s got me almost standing to surrender.
I should surrender.
Then I hear the lid to the milk being unscrewed and the creamy liquid splashing into the bowl. “Here you go, Dexter. Drink up.”
Swear to God on a Bible, I’m about to wet myself.
I hear him put the milk back as I scurry alongside the island, staying out of sight. Barely. Then the kitchen light flicks off and I hear nothing. No movement, no breathing. Nothing. This is a trick, my brain screams. A trap!
Then comes the sound of Gerhard’s footsteps padding across the kitchen, down the hall into the back bedroom. I slip into the laundry room, grab my shoes and listen. Seconds later I see the light in the living room come on followed by the sound of a shotgun racking its load.
Oh, God!
I panic, frantic for a place to hide. I can’t go through the garage door; too loud. Can’t go back in the kitchen; that’s suicide. I do the only thing I can, which is probably the worst thing to do: I squeeze into the dryer and close the door as far as I can from the inside. Unfortunately the dryer light isn’t shutting off, so I grab at the clothes beneath me and clamp a white garment over the light, dousing it completely.
“I know you’re in here,” Gerhard announces in the kitchen. “Come out now and I won’t shoot. If I have to find you—if you make me find you—I’m going to unload all eight shells into your sorry ass then bury you in the backyard, I swear!”
The rough-cut anger in his voice paralyzes me. All I know is fear. It’s pumping through me so fast, so relentlessly, I don’t know how I haven’t had a stro
ke yet. Of course, the answer to the question of my emotional stability is obvious: Gerhard fixed me.
Three months ago I would have been throwing up, passing out, dying for a handful of pills to end it all. Now, thanks to Dr. Gerhard, his treatments have become instrumental in me eluding him. I almost laugh at the irony. Then I hear him enter the laundry room. I hold my breath. I hear him open the door to the garage, flick on the light, go outside. Seconds later he returns.
Holding the cloth over the dryer’s interior light, my shoulder is hurting. It’s killing me! I’m sweating, dying, trying not to move. He turns on the light to the laundry room and I know for certain he’s going to check the dryer. Please don’t check the dryer! The light stays on for like five minutes. I can’t last much longer. The arm holding what I eventually realize is a pair of Gerhard’s clean underwear is losing feeling. Even worse, my back is aching, my neck pinched sideways, and three of my ten toes are cramping. Along with my calves. I want to cry. Maybe I start to cry, but I’m not sure because I’m dripping with sweat. Gallons of it! Then the light in the laundry room is snapped off and everything falls still.
I wait another ten grueling minutes before slowly climbing out of the dryer, but at this point, if I get caught leaving this gosh damn appliance, I’m almost okay with that. That’s how bad my body is hurting. Without thinking, I unlock the garage door, slip into the pitch black garage, then sneak out the side door leading into the yard. The cool air on my body is heaven. I hop the fence, catch three splinters in my palm, then scurry through the shadows to meet Damien and Brayden.
They’re practically freaking out by now.
I hand Brayden the key and he laughs nervously with relief. “We thought you were a gonner,” he says. “We were about to come for you.”
I hand him the key, my trophy. He takes a small plastic container with grey looking putty in it, places the key on top, and presses it down, making a flawless impression. “Perfect, I can do the rest back at my room.”
