Find Me

by Romily Bernard

  Nurse Smith presses one hand to my forehead. “You look pale, Wicket. Are you about to be sick?”

  No . . . well . . . maybe. I haven’t decided yet. The migraine is starting to bloom behind my left eye.

  “Sick to my stomach,” I say.

  One of the counselors comes forward. She’s wearing a man’s dress shirt and looks like she purchases cat food in bulk. “The principal said we could start working with the students. Does she need one of us?”

  “No,” I announce, a little loudly for someone who’s supposed to be nauseous, but whatever.

  Nurse Smith waves off the other woman and steers me into a chair by her desk. “Sit here. I’ll get you a wet washcloth.”

  Yeah, sure, fine. I rub my temples while the five counselors watch with interest. They look primed and ready to save the world, one hysterical student at a time.

  “Wicket,” Nurse Smith says. “Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t think about the nausea. Find your center.”

  Great. Give the woman some glasses and a notebook and she could be Dr. Norcut, the psychiatrist Bren sends me to. I suck air in through my nose, count to five (get bored by three), and blow everything out my mouth.

  “Now.” The nurse sits down in the chair next to me, hands me the washcloth. “Tell me what happened.”

  I spend a minute wiping and re-wiping my face, because if she makes me answer, I don’t actually know what I’ll say. I mean, where do I begin? Eleven years ago when my dad started cooking meth in our garage? Four years ago when they found my mom at the bottom of a building? Or does it just go back to this morning, when I found out someone knows about my hacking and left me Tessa’s diary?

  I shake my head like I have no idea, but behind my eyes, Find me glows.

  Nurse Smith shifts closer. She pats my hand, but her fingers just end up bouncing off my knotted fists. “Did you know Tessa?”

  I nod, but it feels like a lie. This shouldn’t hurt like it does. Even though we were in the same grade, Tessa and I haven’t spoken in years. She is . . . was popular. I’m not. She was from a prominent family, and I’m not. It sounds like a stupid divide some after-school special could fix, but it isn’t. Even if her father hadn’t decided my dad was dangerous and I was trash, we wouldn’t still be friends. She would have left me.

  Another reason it’s pathetic I still miss her.

  “Wick,” Nurse Smith continues. “The police ruled it a suicide, and we were going to break it to the students with the help of counselors, but . . .” She pans both hands apart in a helpless gesture. “It sort of got away from us. I’m so sorry you’re upset. Did you know Tessa well? Did you notice changes in her?”

  “Nothing was any different,” I manage. In fact, Tessa and I were exactly like we’d been for the past five years.

  “Did she tell you anything about how she was feeling?”

  “No . . . nothing like that.” But she used to. We used to tell each other everything, but even before Tessa’s death, I was the only one who remembered that.

  Nurse Smith goes quiet, and for a long moment, we just watch the counselors prepare their grief management booklets and business cards.

  “You’re hurting pretty badly, aren’t you, dear?”

  I have no idea what to say, but I sneak a look at her anyway. Nurse Smith takes it as an agreement. Her eyes go all crinkly.

  “Honey, you got a lot going on.”

  You have no idea. I stuff a growl down my throat. Nurse Smith doesn’t have a clue, and that’s the point. It means I’m doing well at keeping my hacking secret. No one knows.

  Right?

  “Maybe you should take some time off.”

  Not a bad thought. I keep staring at the floor. This is all I can really concentrate on anyway, but from the sound of it, Nurse Smith is heading somewhere good with this time-off stuff.

  Even if I’m not looking at her, I can feel her worry. It’s in the way she touches my shoulder, in the way her voice rounds and softens. She feels sorry for me and I don’t want any part of it, but then, suddenly, I see the pity as a way to escape.

  “Of course this would upset you. It’s totally understandable after . . . well, you know . . . your mama and all.”

  There’s another pause. She wants me to spill, but I won’t. I focus on where her white sneakers meet the floor and think maybe I won’t have to. For once, there’s no reason for me to lie.

  My dad taught me this trick. People hate silence. They will, almost always, fill it up. If you remember that, their need can become your leverage. It’s another angle you can work.

  So right now, I will say nothing, and the nurse will fill up the gap with something. I just have to hope it’s something I want.

  Nurse Smith’s hand slows . . . pauses between my shoulder blades. “Would you like to go home?”

  Bingo.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  It’s a trick I’ve learned over the years.

  I stay perfect on the outside so no one knows

  I’m rotten underneath.

  —Page 22 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  Of course, the downside to everyone thinking you’re a basket case is they don’t like to leave you alone. I can’t just walk myself home, even though that’s how I got to school. Nurse Smith says she’s going to go get Todd.

  “Go get him?”

  “Yes, he arrived with the other counselors.” She hands me a Dixie cup of tap water. “I’ll let him know you need to leave. He’s been with the principal, trying to help us decide how to handle everything, but I’m sure he’ll take you home right away.”

  Nurse Smith disappears, leaving me to sip my water like a good little girl. I still can’t believe Tessa’s gone. Even though we hadn’t spoken in years, even though her parents made it clear we could no longer be friends, the knowledge that she was miserable enough to commit suicide stings.

  Tessa had everything: friends, family, security. Her life was charmed . . . well . . . it looked charmed. I know her dad was pretty awful, but was it bad enough to make her want to die?

  I don’t end up with much time to obsess. Todd shows up in less than five minutes, and Nurse Smith is right behind him, melty as microwaved Play-Doh.

  “We really appreciate all that you’ve done, Mr. Callaway,” she gushes. “Getting all these counselors here, helping us prepare the outreach efforts—”

  Todd waves away her compliments. “Please, just call me Todd. I was glad to do it. I know a bunch of these kids from church. It was important for me to be able to support them through this tragedy.”

  “That’s so wonderful. My Krista was in your youth group class last fall, and she had nothing but nice things to say about you.”

  Todd nods absently, his eyes trained on me. “I’m really sorry this happened, Wick. When the principal called me about Tessa this morning, I came to find you, but Lily said you’d already left. What can I do to help?”

  I have no idea what to say to that, so I shrug.

  “Fair enough; let’s go.”

  Nurse Smith pushes paperwork across her desk and shows him where to sign. “It’s so wonderful to deal with a father who understands his child’s needs.”

  “The advantage of owning your own company.” Todd smiles shyly. “When you’re married to the boss, no one will give you crap about going to get your kid.”

  His kid? It makes me cross even as something inside me pricks to life. I ignore the wiggly, happy feeling. It’s only a matter of time before Bren and Todd decide I don’t match their perfect-life decor. It’s kind of hard to tell your neighbors how well your foster kid is doing when she has meltdowns at school.

  Signing me out takes the longest ten minutes of my life, and once we’re ready to go, I get up so quickly, the room tilts. My worst migraines always begin like this. My edges feel frayed.

  In this case, I
’m glad. It makes me look that much sicker when Todd opens the passenger door of his black Range Rover. I’m not in the mood for explanations, and I’m really not in the mood to visit the shrink they got me. Todd and Bren are big believers in the power of counselors and self-help books. I guess they figure the family that goes to therapy together stays together.

  Norcut was Bren’s idea. The woman’s supposed to be some sort of industry leader in dealing with at-risk children, and her schedule is supposed to have a three-month waiting period, but every time Lily or I twitch, Bren speed-dials the woman, and we get a same-day appointment. Maybe since I’m supposed to be sick I’ll get out of it.

  “Wicket?”

  Or maybe not. I stifle a sigh. Todd always uses my full name. I hate that. It’s Wick, people. It’s what you light to set stuff on fire. “Yeah?”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Find me. I put one hand to my mouth, and I’m not sure what I’m holding back, but thankfully, Todd doesn’t say anything else.

  At the school’s entrance, we turn left, but my body still expects for us to make a right, still expects to turn toward the poorer part of town. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over how weird it is to live where my old neighbors come to work. The woman who was two doors down from us cleans Bren’s best friend’s house. The guys who lived behind us detail Todd’s SUV every Saturday. None of them talk to me anymore.

  I really can’t blame them.

  You’d think I’d fit in better. With Bren and Todd’s money, I look just like my classmates now, but I spent too much time on the outside to feel like I belong. Peachtree City is a planned community. Nothing grew up organically, because everything has its proper place . . . except for us.

  People like Lily and me aren’t part of that plan, and now all I want to do is punch holes in everything so the hypocrisy shines through—like our neighbor who rushed over right after social services dropped us off. I recognized her name from the newspaper’s blog. She wanted us shipped to some at-risk youth camp . . . until Bren and Todd stepped in. Now the woman wants to be friends. I don’t know how Todd and Bren put up with it. Maybe, deep down, it’s because they’re just like the rest of them.

  We drive the whole way home in silence. At first, I think it’s a good thing, but then I begin obsessing about why the hell Tessa’s diary ended up with me and who could know about my hacking. I start wishing Todd would just say something—anything—that might drown out the Find me.

  But I don’t think it could silence all the whys.

  At home, Todd unlocks the side door for us and ushers me inside. The house is blissfully quiet and smells like lemons. Bren must have been cleaning before she went downtown. Either all the singing put her in the mood or Tessa’s suicide gave her anxiety.

  “Thanks for taking me home.”

  “Of course.” Todd shoots me a funny look, like he doesn’t understand why I’d think he wouldn’t. It must be nice to still believe in people, to think they really do care about each other. That version of the world is so weird to me that it might as well be Strawberry Shortcake Land. Then I realize some people are actually living that life. They just aren’t me.

  I start to shuffle past him. “Are you going back to my school? Won’t they need your help?”

  “No, I’ll stay put. You shouldn’t be alone right now. I can work from here. Principal Matthews wanted some input on how to improve the counseling program. I’ll use today to pull together some notes.”

  Mr. Matthews wants help? Briefly, I’m surprised and then . . . I get it. I’ve investigated every set of foster parents we’ve had. Mrs. Peterson had crazy credit card debt. The Beards cheated on their taxes. Basically, everyone had some “problem.”

  Except for Bren and Todd.

  They were married three years ago after meeting through an online dating service. Bren describes it as a whirlwind romance, but Todd said he just knew she was the right one. Their record is spotless . . . except for when Todd’s little brother died when they were just kids.

  It was awful. Tore his family apart. For his parents, it became a reason to die. For Todd, it became a reason to live. He says it’s what brought him to his true calling: counseling. He lived through hell, and now he teaches other people how to do it.

  My foster parents own a successful consulting firm, but Todd’s happiest on Tuesday and Thursday nights, when he does counseling, and on Sundays, when he works with his church’s youth groups.

  In other words, it makes perfect sense Mr. Matthews would want his help. He’s living proof that good things really can crawl out of bad.

  I reach for the banister. “I still don’t feel very well. I’m going to go lie down.”

  “I didn’t know you and Tessa were friends.”

  I pause. There are a lot of responses I could give here. The trick is deciding which one. I turn slowly toward Todd. “We were pretty close.”

  Once. Before her dad decided I was the wrong kind of friend. Before Tessa went on to become prom queen and I went on to become . . . me. We hadn’t spoken in five years, but I actually feel closer to her now. Tessa carried something very dark inside her, probably the same something my mom carried. I wish I could have fixed it. I wish I could have fixed it for them both.

  Except now isn’t the time for that stuff. I look at Todd and think, maybe, I shouldn’t have said anything. My admission should cue another round of softening, a set of stupid clichés, or, God forbid, a hug, but Todd doesn’t move.

  “If, you know, you ever start to feel like that, Wicket, you know . . . you could always talk to me.”

  Oh my God, cue the cheesy background music, we’re having A Moment. Todd’s eyes are Disney-animal huge. It’s like looking at Bambi, and I have no idea what to say. You know, I’ve always gotten the feeling it was more Bren who was into the whole fostering thing. She’s the one who’s said over and over how much she wanted kids and could never have them, but now Todd’s trying so hard it makes me rethink it.

  “No, I’m good.” It’s the truth . . . as much as I know it. This is more honest than I meant to be, but the words bubble up anyway. Maybe that’s why Todd likes counseling. He compels the truth to rise. It’s like his superpower.

  Too bad I don’t believe in heroes, super or otherwise.

  Todd braces one hand against the banister, sunlight winking off his wedding band. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I’m always okay. I freeze a smile. “I’m fine, Todd.”

  And I really mean it. Because I’m always okay, even when I’m not.

  Upstairs, someone put the baseball bat back on my bed. For a second I think it must’ve been Bren, but Bren would’ve tossed the bat in the closet or put it up on a shelf. Lily’s the only one who would leave it within easy reach, and the realization is a brief, painful pulse.

  I drop my messenger bag on the floor and sit down heavily next to it. My head is really starting to thump. If I were smart, I’d power through the pain and use the day off from school to finish up my current job. I’m almost done with the target’s financials, a little more digging and I’ll be through.

  But I’d rather look through Tessa’s diary, and I’ll be honest, that’s kind of weird for me. On the one hand, invading privacy is my thing. On the other hand, I do that for jobs, and this is not a job. I haven’t accepted it. I don’t want it.

  I open the diary anyway.

  The first entry is from six months ago, and Tessa has doodled her name up and down the margin. I skim the top few paragraphs and it feels . . . odd. Not that there’s anything really odd about what Tessa wrote—it’s mostly about how miserable she felt at home—it’s just uncomfortable looking at her personal thoughts.

  She never meant for anyone to know about how she cheated on her history quiz and was embarrassed at having grown too tall to be a flyer in cheerleading. All this was supposed to stay private.

  Plus, looking through it seems pointless. There’s a whole chunk of pages ripped out from the middle and a few close
to the end. From what’s left, you can tell Tessa was upset, but she doesn’t seem like someone who was ready to take her life. I flip closer to the end, and at the top of page fifty-four, I see two short sentences that make my insides free-fall:

  I think I’ve found a solution. It’s three stories up

  and has no one watching the fire escape.

  I slap the diary shut. Tessa was a jumper and I knew that . . . so why am I about to cry?

  Because my mom jumped too, and the second I think about her I can’t put the memory away. Suddenly, I’m choking and I’m crying and I’m done. It’s been four years and I still can’t get past it. Maybe I’m not supposed to.

  I shove the diary into my bag. This isn’t about saving or finding Tessa. It’s about saving me. I can’t do this. I’ll take some time off instead, lie low for a while.

  It’s not great timing, since my, um, business doesn’t really advertise. I work by word of mouth. One woman gives my info to another woman who gives it to another woman. It doesn’t sound like it would work, but it does. I have a waiting list, and now it’s going to have to wait a little longer.

  This diary crap has hit way too close to home. Even if Tessa hadn’t committed suicide, I would have to regroup, take time. We need the money, but we also need me to stay out of jail.

  Find me.

  Dammit. I need to think about something other than that . . . except there are only two questions left:

  How did someone know about my hacking?

  And who left Tessa’s diary?

  Neither one is good. I wipe tears from my cheeks, trying to ignore the pain behind my eyes. Inside my messenger bag, my cell buzzes. I immediately think of Lily and plunge my hand into the inside pocket. The diary grabs my fingers instead. I shove it aside and find my phone.

  I have a new text.

  r u ok?

  My heart does a little flip. Not Lily. It’s Griff. For a second, I’m confused. How did he get my number? Then I remember he asked for it last semester when we were working on a project together.