by Cyn Balog
I couldn’t stop myself. I threw down my pen. “He’s not doing anything with his aunt, OK? And he’s not my boyfriend. He’s been sick.”
Parker rested her chin in her hands. “Too sick for school. Not too sick to bowl?” She gave Rachel a questioning look.
“What,” I said.
“We saw him at the bowling alley last night,” she said, checking her manicure. “He looked fine.”
I stared at her. Z was at the bowling alley last night? It was one thing if she’d seen him at the mall. He could have been picking up cough syrup at the pharmacy. But I could think of no reason why he’d blow me off to go to the bowling alley. There had to be an explanation. Had to.
I waited, but it didn’t come to me.
I reached for my purse and swung it over my shoulder, then hurried to the front of the room. Mr. Lincoln watched me as I grabbed the bathroom pass. “Everything OK?”
I mumbled a response and raced to the lavatory. Bowling. I’d been worried he was lying dead somewhere, and all the while, he’d been bowling. He hadn’t told me, hadn’t asked me if I wanted to go. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to tell me, his Precious, that he was OK. Sure, maybe his phone was lost or broken, but I wouldn’t be able to ask him because now I wouldn’t see him again until Monday. If then. The weekend seemed to stretch before me, dull and endless.
I’d never been so unhappy that it was Friday.
Chapter 20
Someone mentioned Victoria changed during her junior year. What was your daughter’s motivation for her self-improvement?
She was feeling better about herself. Gaining friends and self-esteem. We were happy for her. She was feeling good about herself, becoming less anxious.
Was she on anxiety medication?
Yes. She was jittery in certain situations and took pills occasionally to help combat it, but as the fall semester went on, she was taking fewer and fewer of them. We hadn’t had to fill her prescription in more than a month.
Do you know why she was feeling better?
No, but she talked about her friends. We thought it was probably her new boyfriend.
Z?
Yes.
And how did you feel about her dating?
We were so happy she was finally being accepted. We wanted her to bring him home for dinner.
And did she?
No.
Why?
She always said he was too busy.
Did she talk about him a lot?
Victoria never was one to discuss things openly with us, even before Z came into the picture. She tried to avoid our questions, typical teenager behavior.
Has Victoria ever been a typical teenager though?
No, no she hasn’t. But even atypical teenagers don’t often have heart-to-hearts with their parents.
—Police interview with Eric Zell, father of Victoria Zell
Saturday morning, I went for a run all the way down Route 11. I’d thought about jogging past Z’s house, but that was nearly three miles away. I’d be a sweaty mess by the time I got there, so I ran to near the Kissing Woods and back, which is more like two miles each way.
I hate the Kissing Woods, or the Killing Woods, as they’re better known now. When I was a kid, I thought it was a romantic place, and it probably used to be. That’s how it got its name after all. People used to go there to hook up. At night it’s eerie and dark, even on the most moonlit nights, and noises echo like the moans of the dead. Or so the stories go. Like the one about a girl who’d been murdered there when we were nine or ten? Remember that ghost story we used to tell each other whenever we’d camp in the backyard, Andrew? She’d been stabbed to death and dismembered, her identity still a mystery. It’s no wonder I didn’t like going by those woods, even during the day.
You’d never been afraid of that place, but everyone else sure was.
I’d started running every morning after I went to the movies with Z and had already lost ten pounds, not that anyone had noticed. Usually, running made me feel good. I hoped those exercise endorphins would kick in and help me forget that I hadn’t heard from Z since Thursday, but they never did. After my run, I huddled under my covers for the rest of the day. Of course, my phone stayed within arm’s reach because I still had a tiny glimmer of hope that he’d get a new phone and text me.
It wouldn’t have taken much to deliver me out of my deep funk. An I’m fine would have done it.
But he didn’t text.
I cursed him for not thinking enough of me to take the time to let me know he was OK. Then I cursed myself for putting so much importance on a text. Then I popped two more Ativan, hoping they would numb the part of my brain that missed him, but they just numbed everything else.
On Sunday morning, I told my parents I was sick. My mother pressed her hand against my forehead like she usually did and pursed her lips. “You don’t feel warm. Is it…” She looked around the room, as if I’d left the explanation on the night table.
“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” I explained.
They left for church without me. After they’d gone, I heard your dad yelling and throwing things. Because our duplexes share a wall, I hear almost too much of what happens in your house. Your mother was crying again too, desperate sobs that floated into my open window on the crisp autumn air. Minutes later, you rapped on my door, two short knocks and a long one. I ran into the hallway, stood at the top of the staircase, and peered out the semicircle window at the top of the door. All I could see from that angle were the top of your head and your ears, which were red. The blood always rushes to your ears whenever you’re upset or embarrassed.
You’d sometimes escape to my house when your dad got into one of his moods. We’d never talk about it—we’d just play Sorry! or Clue and wait for him to calm down. Sometimes you’d talk about running away, but whenever we talked about where or how, you cringed as if you were swallowing nails. Even so, several times it’d gotten so bad that we’d started down Route 11 together. But we never got far. You’d start thinking in practical terms of the wide, cruel world and how it would most likely chew up and spit out a kid like you. An hour later, you’d go home and the storm would’ve blown over.
I was your sanctuary. But that Sunday, you found no sanctuary. I wasn’t there for you.
I flattened myself against the wall so you wouldn’t peer in the window and see me. You probably thought I was out with my parents. Instead, I was wallowing in my own misery, feeling sorry for myself, like a bratty kid.
I wanted a sanctuary too. It used to be you, Andrew. And now…now things were different. You no longer had that magic ability to make everything all right. I realized, as I sat there praying you’d go away, that all the things that used to make me happy didn’t work anymore. I needed something more, with a desire I couldn’t explain or control.
And I was fucking scared.
I’m sorry to use that language. But I was.
By evening, I’d spent ninety percent of the day lying in bed with my head under a pillow, coming down only for bowls of cereal. During that time, my mother followed me around, peppering me with questions to diagnose my mysterious illness. I was hot, restless, uncomfortable. I went to bed early, knowing the sooner I did, the sooner I’d see Z at school the next day.
And then I heard a noise outside.
You know how I always keep my window open at least a crack. In the summers it’s because we don’t have air-conditioning, and in the winters, our heating system turns my room into a furnace. I thought it was a branch scraping against the cedar shingles. There it was again. By the third time I heard it, I knew it was my name.
Someone was whispering my name.
I checked my clock. Ten thirty-seven.
I thought it was you, Andrew. After all, who else would it be? I got the shock of a lifetime when I peeked between the blinds and saw Z standing in my
backyard, on the patio below my window.
I opened the window carefully, so it wouldn’t squeak and wake my parents, and asked him what he was doing at my house in the middle of the night.
He said, “Is ten o’clock the middle of the night to you?”
Embarrassed, I started to explain that it was ten thirty-seven, but he was already climbing on top of the grill underneath my window. “Wait. What are you doing?”
“I need to talk to you.”
I didn’t think it was possible that anyone could climb up to my window. First of all, I’m not exactly Juliet, so guys don’t do that on a regular basis. Second, I don’t have a trellis, which would make scaling the walls of my house easier. But from the top of the grill, he latched on to the gutter drain and kicked his way up the pipe.
When it was clear he was coming in, I surveyed my room in the darkness. It was a total embarrassment. It was reasonably clean, but pink with posters of kittens and unicorns that I’d had since I was a kid and never gotten around to taking down. My dirty clothes were scattered on the floor. I was wearing my old sweats, the same ones I’d been wearing since Friday night. I probably smelled bad. Perfect.
He pulled himself in through my window, as if he’d been climbing into girls’ rooms all his life. He slid in feetfirst and then just sat on the windowsill, not looking at me. I knew something was wrong. He wasn’t smiling, and his breathing was uneven.
“What’s going on with you?” I asked, my words coming out in a tumble. “Where have you been?”
He said very softly, “I’m sorry I missed you on Thursday. I had something else.”
“Bowling?”
His eyes snapped to mine. “What?”
“Parker told me she saw you there.”
He shook his head. “Yeah. It was a thing I had to do.”
“Meaning what?”
He shut his lips tight.
“Why can’t you tell me?”
He exhaled again. “Here’s the thing. You work your whole life to be a certain person…and then circumstances force you to be someone else. Someone ugly. Someone you hate. I’m only dragging you down.”
“But you don’t just stand up a girl like that,” I persisted. “I told you, I never believed—”
“I know. I just… Hear me out.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Everywhere I go, it’s the same. Nobody gets me.”
It was a chilly night, and he was only wearing a T-shirt. He was trembling a little—from the cold? From anger?
“I get it,” I said. “You’re unpredictable so people won’t figure you out. That’s your big fear, isn’t it? You don’t want anyone too close to you. Because the people closest to you have all let you down. And you’re afraid of being let down again.”
Z looked into my eyes. “See? You…you get me.”
I nodded. I was glad it was dark because I was sure I had tears in my eyes. “Yeah. People have a knack for disappointing.”
He smiled, a faint, barely there smile. “You’re the only one I trust.”
The only one he trusts. My heart swelled. I opened my mouth to say something meaningful. Instead it just slipped out:
“It’s better not to trust anyone.”
He looked at me, surprised. “You have issues with that too, huh? You don’t even trust that talented boyfriend of yours?”
I hated it when he brought you up in such a teasing way. I opened my mouth to tell him that it was none of his business, but he reached out and touched my arm, sending a shock straight to my heart. I took a step back.
He said, “See you, Precious,” swung his legs out my window, and disappeared into the darkness without as much as a thud when he hit the ground, leaving me to wonder if it was all a dream.
The truth was, I was far from figuring Z out. Maybe I’d peeled back one of his layers, but I knew there were many more. He was as frustrating as a necklace with a knot, the kind that the more you try to figure it out, the more hopelessly tangled it becomes.
Chapter 21
The body of a teenaged male was found in a wooded area near Route 11 in Duchess. A needle was found in the woods near the victim. Victim died from acute heart failure brought on by injection of lethal substance(s), possibly self-inflicted. Full toxicology analysis to come.
—Coroner’s report
I spent the next twenty-four hours in a haze. My thoughts centered around Z and me, acting out every scene from every buddy movie ever made. Us together in a dizzying montage—holding colorful umbrellas and jumping through puddles, eating ice cream cones, him pushing me in a shopping cart through the parking lot at Shaw’s, my arms spread in a victorious V above me… The whole time we’d be laughing like we’d been sniffing glue.
I would be lying if I said that my mind didn’t wander toward what it would be like to kiss him. Would his lips feel like yours? But I figured that was simply an unfortunate, unavoidable side effect of being friends with a good-looking guy. And that’s what this was: a platonic, noble friendship of the highest mutual respect. I felt so happy and grateful to have him in my life, my one true friend at St. Ann’s.
When school ended on Monday, he pulled on my sleeve as I hitched my backpack onto my shoulder. “Let’s go.”
I liked that he was so familiar with me, that he didn’t have to invite me somewhere, but just assumed we’d be together. “Where?” I asked, my insides whirring at the thought of another adventure.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn copy of Macbeth. “Did you forget?”
My stomach lurched. Very few obstacles would’ve stopped me from following him. This was one of them. “No. No, no, no,” I said, my lower lip quivering.
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes,” he mimicked, clamping his hand over my shoulder and steering me toward the auditorium.
“You don’t understand. I didn’t rehearse. At all.” OK, that was a lie. I knew much of that soliloquy from the hour I’d spent waiting for him to show the week before. The truth was, I could pop Ativan until the end of time, and I still wouldn’t be OK with taking the stage. “I really can’t.”
I expected him to argue, but he shrugged and said, “OK. Come and cheer me on.”
That I was OK with. Relieved, I walked with him to the gymnasium, which had been set up with those uncomfortable metal chairs. The place was packed. I’d never been to an audition before, but I knew that they usually weren’t a big draw. Reese’s offer to raise the grades of any performers had really done the trick.
We sat together, and I thought Z would rehearse his lines. He didn’t. He just sat there, leaning back in his chair, as comfortable and relaxed as ever. Reese started with the main parts, so Macbeth was first.
She called Quincy. He got up in front of everyone, and wow. He read the part like he’d been practicing it all his life. He didn’t falter, and his voice was fraught with emotion. As he spoke, I kept sneaking glances at Z to see if sweat had begun to appear on his forehead. But Z just watched, his composure never melting. When the audition ended, the cavernous room erupted into applause. Who knew there were so many Quincy groupies? Quincy bowed, smiling widely, and jumped from the stage, giving the people nearest the center aisle high fives. He sat in the back row with a bunch of his thespian friends, basking in his win.
I don’t think Quincy knew someone else was vying for his role. Nobody had ever challenged the great Quincy Laughlin before. The kid was an acting machine. Like, you knew he probably had posters of great performances on his bedroom walls, and when he dreamed, he did it in scenes. He was the one person at St. Ann’s who’d probably be suicidal over not having the lead in the school play. So when Mrs. Reese called Z’s name, Quincy’s smile faded. He watched Z climb onto the stage. Quincy’s face turned pink, and his lips moved slightly. He was probably chanting to himself, I’m still the best. I’m still the best. No one can beat me.
And maybe he believ
ed it…until Z opened his mouth. I knew the soliloquy—who didn’t? It was the famous “Is this a dagger I see before me?” speech from the second act. His voice took on such uncharacteristic weakness and indecision that my eyes welled unexpectedly. As he went on, every movement, every breath Z took, convinced me that he was Macbeth, even though he was still wearing his St. Ann’s polo and gray slacks. Z finished the scene on his knees, his fists clenched in agony. This was the guy the entire school had been spreading horrible rumors about—and what a way to sock it to them! To laugh in their faces!
My chest swelled as he looked up at the audience and loosened his posture. An unprecedented silence filled the room. Even the noisy clock seemed to stop ticking. I looked around, and just about everyone was sitting there stunned, their jaws hanging slightly open.
Then the applause came. It was a thunderous sound that room might never have heard in all its sixty years.
Z jumped from the stage and sauntered back to me. “Was that OK?” he asked.
“Um. Yeah,” I mumbled, barely coherent. He had to have noticed the tears in my eyes. “I mean, whoa. You’re good. Have you acted before?”
He shook his head. “Why?”
The entire room was abuzz over his magnificent performance. People turned to look at him, maybe wondering if it was too premature to ask him for his autograph. Quincy’s face was now completely red—he looked as if he’d just seen the curtain go down on his life’s purpose.
Nobody else dared audition for the role of Macbeth after that. I was still in a daze when Reese said, “Now let’s move on to the auditions for Lady Macbeth. Victoria?” And then she turned to me.
Everyone did.
Oh hell…
I looked at Z. “You didn’t.”
He batted his eyelashes innocently.
“I can’t,” I growled.
This time, instead of being easygoing, he grabbed me by the shoulders, stood me up, and nudged me into the center aisle.
