HEAR

by Robin Epstein

  I’m still trying to figure out how to process the vision of my former camp director at the wheel of the getaway car for an assassination. I wasn’t about to trouble Uncle Brian with it. To start, I have no idea if it even happened or whether this powerful “brain wave” was just the result of my imagination running wild. But what was very real, and what remains in the front of my mind, is the shattered wineglass and the energy I produced to destroy it. I felt like a live wire for the rest of the afternoon.

  That was one of the reasons I decided to go for a run before the party this evening.

  It was my first since I arrived at Henley. In my old life, running was a bit of a religion for me. It not only made me feel better; it made me feel smarter. There’s hard science behind that too: running causes brain-cell growth. So I did cross-country in the fall, indoor in the winter, and outdoor track in the spring. And though I discovered I liked being part of a team—being part of a group instead of acting independently was novel for me—I joined because it forced me to run every day. Considering my other major “extracurricular,” possessing stamina and the ability to sprint seemed like very good things indeed.

  Ironically, before today, the last time I sprinted was the day I got caught breaking into Sean Mitchell’s car: the crime that landed me here.

  In retrospect, I should have turned around and gone straight home after my conversation with Pete Lewis.

  I didn’t exactly lie to Mara when the topic turned to love. Pete was the boy I’d been in love with for as long as I could remember.

  I’d gone looking for Pete that afternoon and found him by the soccer field before his practice. A classmate of ours had been assaulted after passing out at a party, and Pete’s friend Sean was the perpetrator. Pete knew it too; rumor was Sean had shown friends the video on his cell phone. But when I asked Pete to do the right thing and stand up for the girl, he not only refused; he told me not to worry about it. “It really wasn’t a big deal,” he said, and he added that the girl had always liked Sean. As if that made it okay.

  His response enraged me, and it destroyed my illusion of the person I believed Pete to be. I’d spent years thinking I was in love with this boy. But the “Pete” I loved was kind and smart and had a sense of right and wrong. He bore no resemblance to this heartless and witless asshole. It was all so clear, so plain now: I was in love with a fantasy, not the real person. I’d been deluding myself about him from the start.

  I knew I needed to calm down. I knew I needed to regroup and recover. But though I felt sick to my stomach, I decided that if Pete wouldn’t help, I would make things right on my own. I knew Sean kept his phone in his book bag, and he always locked his bag in his car before practice. I would get into the car, take the phone, and anonymously turn over the evidence to the authorities.

  Straightforward enough.

  I didn’t count on the squad car.

  Though I knew the local police cruised the school grounds on a semi-regular basis, I wasn’t thinking properly or “seeing” straight. So I somehow missed the approaching patrol car. I was sliding the wire lock pick through Sean’s window when the police car rolled to a stop in front of me. The police officer called out to me and I panicked. Then I started running.

  Jumping out of his car, the cop pursued me on foot. I ran for the familiar territory of the woods behind the school. I knew I’d opened a good distance between us, but I couldn’t resist the urge to look back to double-check.

  Another mistake.

  Turning, I failed to see the root of a tree directly ahead of me, and a fraction of a second later, my arms were dog-paddling the air as I went slamming into the ground. It was a bone-rattling fall, and as I scrambled to my feet, the officer threw his body at me, making me his tackling dummy. It took him a three count before he was able to catch his breath and huff out the words: “I . . . said . . . ‘Freeze’ . . . bitch!”

  I tried to explain. The problem was that I was the one who’d been caught in the act of committing a crime, and by the time Sean was “strongly encouraged” to hand over his phone, the video he’d taken had magically disappeared. No evidence of the assault remained. An official search warrant was required to try to retrieve the file, so the powers that be decided on a deal: official charges wouldn’t be pressed against Sean or me. However, my “obstruction of justice”—running away from the police on school grounds—was crime enough to get me expelled.

  I spent my run this afternoon mentally rehashing the whole incident, regretting what I could and should have done differently. Who would have guessed my need to sprint now would somehow feel every bit as strong as it did in the past?

  The party is in a suite on the second floor of a senior dorm. It’s in full swing by the time I arrive. The guys who live here have tricked the place out nicely, and they’ve even set up a small bar next to the fireplace where the keg sits. A combination of stolen road signs and neon beer ads adorn the walls along with a giant Henley banner, navy blue stitched with gold.

  My eyes immediately find Pankaj sitting at a poker table in one corner of the room. I don’t see the others, so I meander over. Pankaj has changed his clothes since earlier in the day. Instead of the black T, he’s in a short-sleeved ivory-colored guayabera. Despite the heat, he looks cool, almost elegant, and there’s a calm intensity in his amber eyes. I can practically picture him in a party scene in an alcohol ad.

  I look down at what I’m wearing and a wave of embarrassment crashes over me. The ripped jean shorts were a mistake, the lack of makeup a boneheaded call. Was I trying to look bad? I grab the small makeup bag in my purse, remembering that it’s stocked with Birchbox samples. I turn and quickly apply two strokes of mascara, and then the O-Gloss. I still need a wardrobe overhaul, but at least my lashes and lips look good . . . hopefully even appealing.

  The poker table is one of those authentic green-felt deals, and it looks like it’s been passed down from student to student for decades. You can probably date it by the rings left by wet beer cups. The three other guys at the table are all beefy, and they all sport Henley-branded athletic wear. There are also two girls at the table. One’s wearing a baseball cap slung low on her forehead. She’s studying the game with an intense look of concentration. The other is the preppy Brit from the library, who I’m now positive is the one who invited Alex, though Alex is nowhere to be seen.

  When the hand is called, Pankaj lays out his cards for the others to see. He smiles at the guy directly across from him. The guy doesn’t smile back.

  “Well,” Pankaj says, “I guess that’s how it goes.” He reaches into the center of the table and sweeps up not only the pile of chips but also an expensive-looking watch.

  Not good , I think. When personal belongings become part of the pot, it tends to mean one of two things: (1) a player is desperate and out of money, but still eager to gamble; (2) that same player is getting hustled. That’s when trouble starts. Especially if alcohol is involved.

  The guy’s cheeks flush. His hairline is soaked with sweat. I can’t tell if this is because it’s insanely hot in the room, because he’s drunk, or because he’s hot, drunk, and angry. The guy’s got about forty pounds on Pankaj: some muscle, some flab.

  “ You cheated,” the guy hisses.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.” Pankaj’s tone is calm as he shakes his head. “I was sitting here playing, same as you.”

  “ You were counting.”

  “Which is technically not illegal,” the English girl says. “Just frowned upon.”

  “He was counting cards,” the guy repeats to the other two guys. He pushes his chair back and stands. “So you either give me my watch back right now, or else.”

  “Why don’t you show him what you mean by ‘or else’? Like, or else what?” one of the other guys interrupts with a menacing grin. He stands too, as does the third guy.

  “Or I’ll make him sorry.”

/>   “I understand why you’re upset,” Pankaj says. “This is a very nice watch.” In a fluid movement, he takes it from his right hand and slides it over his left, clasping it around his wrist. “If you want to try to win it back, I’m happy to keep playing.”

  I glance around the room. I wonder how many of this guy’s friends will join in on the “make him sorry” promise. It doesn’t seem like an especially violent crowd, but heat, beer, losing, and testosterone is never a great combination . . . I move to the nearest window, look down at the ground floor below, and yank the window up as far as I can.

  “Thanks,” the Brit says to me, trying to fan herself with her hand.

  “I know, right? So hot in here.” I walk back to the table as things appear to be getting even more heated.

  “ You have ten seconds to take my watch off your arm and give it back to me,” the first guy barks. “One . . .”

  Pankaj, who’s also now on his feet, seems unfazed.

  “Two . . . three . . .”

  I look at the guy. I am certain when he gets to “nine” he’s going to hop over the table and deck Pankaj. I don’t think this is nearly as obvious to Pankaj, though.

  “Six . . . sev—”

  “My contact! I just lost my contact!” I shout. “Can anyone help me look for it?” I bend down, purposely knocking into a few people near me to create a distraction. Only one person makes an effort to help, but that’s enough. The time and space allow me to dart forward and grab Pankaj’s hand. “Follow me,” I whisper, yanking him down to a crouch so the crowd obscures us and then pulling him back to the open window. “Jump!” He flashes me an are you crazy? look, requiring me to add: “It’s two flights, you baby! Jump!”

  His poker rivals rush from the table. Their chairs crash to the floor behind them.

  “Gangway!” Pankaj whisper yells, then hops out the window. I vault out behind him. It’s only in midair that I realize it actually is pretty far to the ground. When I land, I fall onto my back with a thud.

  “What the hell?” someone shouts above us.

  Followed by: “Where’d he go?”

  Pankaj leaps to his feet and helps me to mine, dusting the dirt and grass off his ivory linen shirt. “ You didn’t have to do that. I had everything under control and—”

  “Quiet!” I whisper. My back is aching, and my sides are bruised, but I ignore the pain. We’re still right below the window, right at the edge of the building, far too close for comfort, but because I’m unfamiliar with the environment, I don’t know if we should try to make a run for it now or stay hidden. A second later the question is answered for us. The heavy wooden dorm door slams open, and out comes a stampede. It’s hard to tell how many of the guys have mobilized, but the odds of outrunning them have just plunged.

  My eyes scour our surroundings in a panic. The nearby shrub is just big enough to conceal one of us. I stop thinking as instinct and adrenaline take over. With one hand I grab the top of Pankaj’s arm; with the other I reach for the back of his head. I yank him to me because I need to make this believable; I need to make this appear spontaneously passionate and sloppy. I kiss him hard, pushing him into the shrub and shielding him from the group of guys who gallop past us.

  “Show your face, asshole!” the watchless loser yells into the night. Several of his friends are screaming taunts of their own. They’re still close by, but moving farther away. There’s also a high-pitched voice screaming inside my head: We do NOT kiss first. This is NOT. WHAT. WE. DO! And then another tone comes through, this one lower and calmer. It’s the voice of my inner strategist, who is confident enough to tell my inner Miss Manners to shut up.

  “Get back here, dick!” another voice calls out. “And give Pat his watch back!”

  I know Pankaj wants to show himself; he wants to prove that he can take whatever it is they throw at him. I also know that this isn’t going to be a fair fight; there are too many of them. With every shout, Pankaj squirms, and I can feel the tug of his pride and his need to defend himself. I understand it, I even respect it, but I am not going to let this happen, so I inhale deeply and press myself against him more urgently.

  At a certain point, a magnetic pull takes over, and we’re drawn into each other with what feels like a furious click. His lips are on my cheek, my tongue, my neck. There’s no space or air between us. The force keeps us pinned to one another, and when we finally come up for breath, the air is still and silent.

  My heart is pounding and my clothes are a mess. Pankaj’s lovely linen shirt is now totally wrinkled, grass stained, and smudged with dirt. I have no idea how much time has passed. Either the unhappy meatheads have run far enough away that we can no longer hear them, or they’ve abandoned their mission and headed back to the party.

  Pankaj blinks at me. He runs his hand through his hair. It’s trembling slightly. “ You know, you’re pretty good at that, Legacy,” he murmurs.

  “I come from a long line of perfectionists,” I say, realizing the bobby pin that was holding my hair back now hangs uselessly at the side of my head. I can only imagine what I look like—and it’s not perfection.

  He laughs. “There might be something to this whole genetic inheritance thing after all.” After a peek at his new watch, he unclasps it and slides it over his hand. “Here,” he says, holding the watch out to me. “ You’ve earned this.”

  “No way.” I reposition the bobby pin, dust off the dirt and stray leaves still stuck to my shirt, and stand up straight. “I couldn’t possibly. You won that fair and square.” I cock my right eyebrow at him. “Didn’t you, Rocket?”

  “Welllllll, that might depend on your definitions of ‘fair’ and ‘square.’”

  I smile. “So,” I say, “I guess we’re not going to be heading back to the party?”

  His eyes go to the second-floor window, and he shakes his head. “No, I think I might head back to my room. Do you . . . maybe want to come with me?”

  Before I can answer, flashing lights start blinking in front of me. They float across my field of vision in blue-and-orange striped bars. Almost immediately I feel dizzy. “I, uh.” I wobble backward.

  “I mean, it’s no big deal,” he replies, trying to backtrack.

  “No, it’s that I’m starting to feel . . .” I don’t exactly know how to describe it. “It’s weird. I started seeing these multicolored flashing lights.”

  “Floaters? I get them too. Usually at the beginning of a migraine. Is your head hurting?”

  “No, but I’m starting to feel a little nauseous.”

  “I will do my best to assume that’s unrelated to my invitation.”

  I manage a laugh, but I’m starting to feel worse. “I think I should head back to my uncle’s house . . .”

  “Do you want me to walk you?”

  I shake my head. I’m happy he asked, but I’m worried that at any minute I’m going to hurl. The only thing that makes throwing up any more uncomfortable than it already is is yakking in front of someone else. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

  “I know I don’t have to,” he responds. “But you saved my ass back there. The least I can do is hold your hair back and avert my eyes if you barf.”

  There is genuine concern for me on his face, and I cave. Despite my desire to act brave, I would like the escort. He extends his arm, and I take hold of it. It’s exactly as strong and steady as I imagined it to be.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By the time Pankaj and I reach my uncle’s house, a headache has taken over my entire skull, the pain echoing inside. We’ve been walking in silence; I’m not feeling well enough to banter, and besides, I don’t want to say anything stupid or that I might regret. He doesn’t seem that interested in chitchat either. We stop in the shadow of the front walk.

  “Thank you,” I say. It comes out as a whisper.

  Pankaj smiles, leans in, and gives me a soft kis
s on the cheek. “Feel better,” he says as he squeezes my hand. “And sweet dreams.” He turns and walks back in the direction of campus.

  I watch him disappear down the road before heading for the front door. Under the fluorescent glow of the porch light, I start rubbing my eyes to try to get the pain in my head to subside. Incredibly, the more I paw at my eyes, the more I seem able to keep the throbbing at bay. I reach into my pocket to retrieve my key, and I feel something smooth and metallic collide with my right hand: the not-so-fairly-and-squarely-won watch. I half smile, half wince as I slid my hand through the steel wristband and clasp it on my wrist.

  As I look down at the watch’s face, I’m seized with such an intense sensation of vertigo it feels like I’ve just been let go after being spun in circles. I grip the doorjamb, shutting my eyes tightly to stop myself from crashing to the ground.

  That’s when I see the explosion.

  A fireball shatters windows and blows the doors off a small white house. Its orange-brown clay-tile roof buckles with the blast, and the body of a woman comes flying out, her limbs limp, like a tossed rag doll. Seconds later, two men—one wearing an aqua T under a white sports coat, the other dressed in a Hawaiian shirt—stumble out of the gaping hole that was once the door of the burning house. They’re coughing violently, covered in black soot and blood. The man in the sports coat scans the area as he staggers around the debris-strewn street. He seems to be looking for movement, for any sign that the bombers are still nearby. But the only motion is in the distance. Windblown foreign flags wave and snap at the base of an enormous statue—a giant silhouette of a freedom fighter in a broad-brimmed cowboy hat.

  The second man out of the building, the man in the Hawaiian shirt, has run directly for the woman. He gathers her in his arms and presses his ear to her heart. Her eyes are lifeless. He pulls away, his mouth open in a silent, anguished howl . . .