Remember Me

by Bernard,Romily

  I sit down, hit play. The video is short, less than four minutes, and it’s at a distance, shot from a telephone pole near the parking lot . . . you can see my mom step onto the ledge, you can see her hesitate, and then jump.

  Watching it the first time made me hurl. The second time, I nearly cried. The third? I realize she hesitates because she’s talking and my heart rams into my throat.

  I sit up straight. Is there someone else there? I rewind the video. She talks. She jumps.

  I do it again. She talks. She jumps.

  I close the video, pop a CD into the other drive, and install an editing software package I downloaded last year from a Russian site. Running the security video back through program, I can pause on the frame where my mom looks like she’s talking. Then I enlarge it, lighten the shadows, tweak the coloring. . . .

  And realize there’s not just one person standing behind my mom. There are two.

  The one on the right is slim, tall, and could be anyone. The second is bulky, tall, and has to be Joe. Has to be.

  What’s he doing there?

  I rerun the enhanced video, watch how the figures move, sweat breaking out between my shoulders. I can’t tell what they’re doing. There’s light from the streetlamps below—enough for them to see, nowhere near enough for me. After another minute, I turn it off, sit on my hands to make them stop shaking. It’s been four years. This shouldn’t be so hard.

  So why’s my face wet with tears?

  Get it together. Get it together.

  Think it through. Why did I get the DVD in the first place? Is this linked to the other interviews I’ve been receiving?

  Possibly, but there’s no label, no message at the end of the video, no handwriting like before, so either the person who’s been giving them to me has changed it up . . . or someone else gave me the security video.

  So who would that be?

  What a joke. Like I care. Now that I’m past crying all I can think about is Joe. I know it’s him in the background. I know it. It’s in the line of the shoulders, the way the figure swings to the left after she jumps. It’s him and it makes me think of his nasty smiles. Except they weren’t just nasty, were they? They were . . . knowing. Smug. Dangerous.

  In the months after my mom’s death, he used to watch me. It felt like every time I looked up, he was staring. I thought it was because he had forgotten how to grieve. Really it was because he enjoyed watching my pain.

  Or because he was trying to figure out if I knew.

  If I guessed.

  My temples really are thumping now, my pretend migraine coming to life. I scrub them hard with both hands before hitting the eject button. The DVD slides out and, for a second, I just stare at it.

  Is that . . . ink?

  Picking it up by the edges, I examine the DVD’s inner ring and think—think—there’s a smear of green ink on the inside. Like someone’s thumb was stained, smudging ink onto the plastic as the DVD was put into the case.

  Griff draws in green and blue ink, but he would never have given me this footage. He doesn’t think I should be pursuing this. He doesn’t—

  Oh, shit, now I’m crying all over again.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  It takes more courage than I would have thought to walk up to Griff the next morning at school. I wait for him in the hallway, feeling a bit like a spider hiding in a corner, until he stops by his locker on the way to homeroom.

  “Griff?” I put my hand on his arm and he recoils.

  “What is it, Wick?”

  Heat rolls up my neck. “Did you give me the DVD? Of my mom on that building?” I can’t bring myself to say “suicide” anymore because it’s not accurate. I can’t bring myself to say “murder” either.

  “No idea what you’re talking about,” Griff says.

  He does though. Griff’s barely breathing. His body’s strung so tight and I don’t understand. We’re not together. He gave me something he knew I would want even though he didn’t approve, didn’t think I should have it.

  He helped me even though I’m the last person he should ever want to help.

  How did he even know?

  “Thank you,” I whisper, rolling my hands into fists so I don’t touch him.

  “Don’t read anything into it.”

  How can I not? I need to say something here and I don’t know what it is. I want him to look at me, but he won’t.

  Griff shuts his locker hard. “Milo told me you wanted it.”

  I blink. Milo had no business telling Griff anything. “I . . .”

  “What kind of person would give you something like that?”

  I bristle. “Someone who wanted me to know the truth.”

  “You really believe that’s what this is about?”

  “That’s exactly what it’s about.”

  Griff yanks his book bag onto his shoulder. “I asked my cousin about your mom and he got the recording from her file. I wanted you to get it from me, not Milo, from someone who cares about you, not someone who’s egging you on.”

  The pain is brief and brilliant and all I can hear is my mom saying how you will hurt the ones you love even if you shouldn’t. This hurts. Once upon a time, Griff would never have hurt me. Maybe that’s the difference. He no longer loves me like I still love him.

  I shake myself. “He’s not egging me on. He’s—”

  “If you want to concentrate on the truth, remember that there was nothing to see. She jumped. She was alone.”

  She wasn’t, and if she was murdered, if she jumped to save us, if I spent all this time hating her . . . but Griff walks away before I can say a word. He doesn’t even look back, which is just as well probably because now I’m slumped against the lockers, arms folded across my stomach.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  Then again, maybe it was.

  I love him, and it’s ruined me. He’s ruined me. He walked into my life like any other person, but there was something about the way he talked to me and then something about the way he treated me and then . . . there I was, hostage for another smile. My life was not my own anymore.

  I sacrificed Griff to protect him and Lily and Bren from Carson and from the futures they deserve and he could destroy.

  What does that leave for me?

  In my bag, my phone buzzes and I ignore it. I can’t take my eyes off what’s left of Griff. I can see glimpses of his head, his shoulders as he moves through the crowd. I watch until he’s gone.

  My phone stops buzzing.

  Starts again.

  I stick my hand in, fish around a bit before finding my cell. Milo. I’m not sure I want to answer. Yeah, I’m glad (is that the right word? I’m not sure) I got the security video of my mom. I’m also pissed at him for going behind my back.

  As I try to decide, the call rolls to voice mail, starts ringing again.

  I press the answer key. “Milo?”

  “Wick . . . I need . . . please.”

  He sounds rough—hurt—and my throat twists shut. “Are you okay?”

  “Please come. Please?”

  I can’t. I’m at school. I’m grounded. I’m—the phone clicks. The line’s dead. I hit redial as I head for the parking lot. There’s no answer.

  No matter how many times I call.

  The restaurant looks as abandoned as ever when I pull in almost thirty minutes later. I beat on the door, but no one answers. I try Milo’s cell again. Still no answer.

  Pressing one hand against the front window, I peer through the hazy glass. Someone might be in there. Lights are on and I think—think—I can hear a television playing.

  So where the hell is Milo? I start to pound on the door again and pause. There’s a small half-moon carved into the wood next to the doorjamb, a Cheshire cat smile. It’s the same mark Milo left on my CPU’s case and reminds me of his smile.

  Which
I’m going to wreck if this turns out to be some stupid joke.

  I grab the door handle and it turns in my hand. “Milo?”

  No answer.

  I pick my way around the dust-covered tables, heading for the kitchen door. Is it possible he’s in the computer room? I brush the door with my fingertips, hesitating, and then push my way in. The empty kitchen stretches out on either side of me.

  “Milo?”

  “Wick.” It’s so soft I almost miss it. I turn, spotting Milo on the kitchen floor. He’s splay-legged with a bottle of Jameson held loosely in one hand. He looks like he’s been airlifted in from some epic party and I’m instantly pissed.

  Then he lifts the bottle, revealing a smear of red along his torso.

  “Milo, you’re hurt!”

  “Just a flesh wound.” He laughs, winces, and settles with giving me a weak smile and swallowing more Jameson. The smile turns into a grimace.

  I drop to my knees, using one hand to peel the sodden T-shirt away from his rib cage. “Jesus, we gotta get you out of here.”

  Milo doesn’t respond so I wedge one shoulder under him, boost him to his feet. “How did it happen?”

  He winces and stares into space, teeth gritted.

  “Milo,” I prompt, but he still won’t look at me. “It was your dad, wasn’t it?”

  “He’s . . . not well. I upset him.”

  I angle us through the door and Milo puts out one hand to steady himself, gasping as he does.

  “He wasn’t always like this. Tomorrow he might be totally different.” Milo pauses, his face going pale as he fights through a wave of pain. “I think crazy is like a bug in your brain, scuttling under your skull, wrenching loose all your wires.”

  “Milo, this is way worse than some bug.”

  “It’s fine. Really. He’s actually perfectly normal . . . except when he’s not.” He draws in a wobbly breath. “There are monsters living inside us and, sometimes, they win.”

  God help me if he’s going to get all philosophical again. “We should get you checked out by a hospital.”

  “No hospitals.”

  “Look how much blood you’ve lost. You could be cooking up an infection.” I stagger a little as I reposition him against me. “You sound freaking delirious.”

  “No hospitals,” Milo repeats. “They’ll ask questions about him.”

  He pulls his face close to mine, and for a moment, I’m not staring at Milo the computer builder. I’m staring at Milo the little boy and, somehow, I recognize this Milo even more than the first.

  It’s the fear. Both of us understand what it’s like to hide our wounds.

  “Just . . . get me through to my room,” Milo grates. “It’s no big deal. Perfectly normal. I’ve got first aid stuff there.”

  I roll my eyes. It’s perfectly normal to keep first aid kits in your bedroom? Whatever.

  Milo sidesteps to avoid an overstuffed arm chair and his legs buckle. “Shit,” he whispers, arms tightening around me.

  “Milo, you’re too heavy. Milo—”

  He slumps toward his bed, dragging me with him, and I roll, pushing him backward. It turns me onto my hands and knees. On top of him. I start to scramble off and Milo grabs my sides, pinning my hips to his.

  “I think you’re good for me, Wicked.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  A shadow falls behind his eyes. Regret? I can’t tell and I don’t think I want to know.

  “I think you’re good for me, Wick.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m broken.”

  I almost laugh. “Then I’m no good to you at all. I don’t do broken. I’m not the healing type.”

  “That’s why you’re perfect.”

  I go still.

  “I can’t ruin you because you’re already ruined.” Milo eases one hand behind my neck, cradling the base of my skull like I’m fragile. “I can’t corrupt you because you’re already corrupted. It makes you incorruptible.”

  He laughs like the word is hilarious . . . or amazing.

  And then he kisses me.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Milo’s hands are hot against my skin. He holds me carefully, easing me closer like he’s afraid. The kiss is soft . . . sweet. It might even be kind of perfect. If my lips didn’t still expect Griff. If my skin didn’t still burn for him.

  He isn’t there, but my body hunts for him like he’s everywhere.

  Milo kisses my upper lip, the corner of my mouth, the tip of my nose. I’m completely still. He probably thinks it’s because I want him—maybe part of me does. Most of me though is trying not to cry, and when I open my eyes, he’s studying me.

  “I would do anything to make you want me,” Milo whispers.

  I shake my head hard like I’m sure he couldn’t . . . then again maybe he could. Maybe if things were different and I didn’t want a guy who doesn’t want me.

  Milo curves me against him, fitting his mouth to mine. His hands are everywhere, telling stories on my skin.

  About how we could be together.

  About how all things can be fixed.

  Forgiven.

  I break away and Milo cradles my cheek with his palm, his thumb rubbing my lower lip. “He doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t understand what you could be.”

  I try to laugh and it comes out strangled. “But somehow you get it?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Now is the time to really laugh . . . and realize I can’t. Because he does get me. Milo’s the first person who hasn’t made me feel ashamed for what I am.

  I have no idea if that’s a good thing.

  “Why did you ask Griff for the security video?”

  A shadow slides behind Milo’s eyes. “I wanted to give you something no one else could.”

  And be my hero? Of all people, I would have thought Milo would realize we’re the bad guys. “I saw it. Thanks.”

  “Bastard gave it to you? Should have known he’d cockblock me.”

  “It’s not—” I pull back and Milo sags into the pillows, wincing. “Jesus, you look bad. Where’s the first aid kit?”

  He nudges his chin toward the bedside table and I spend a minute rummaging under computer part magazines before finding a white box filled with bandages and antiseptic.

  “I’m going to warn you now,” I say, dousing a gauze pad with rubbing alcohol. “I paid absolutely no attention in health class.”

  “Lucky me.” Teeth gritted, Milo tugs off his T-shirt, revealing a hardened chest marred with blood. He leans one tattooed forearm against his eyes. “Just do it.”

  I press the pad to his side, hold tight even though Milo flinches. “I’m sorry.”

  He doesn’t respond so I work faster, cleaning the wound until I can cover it with another thick gauze pad and tape it in place. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his skin now, but he doesn’t complain—just takes swallow after swallow of Jameson.

  “There. You should be good now.” I tug the bottle out of his hand and set it on the nightstand—just out of reach.

  Milo smiles bitterly. “See, Wick? You’re good for me.”

  “You’re drunk. Go to sleep.” I push up, ditching him on the bed. Once Griff thought I was good for him too. I’m tired of being good for other people.

  I want to be good for me.

  I head for the door, stepping around mounds of discarded laundry and making it only a few feet before I turn around. Should I leave him like this? I chew my thumbnail. Unconscious, Milo looks younger and smaller than he usually does. What if he wakes and needs something? What if he wakes and his dad’s returned?

  Oh, screw it. It’s not like I’m going to go back to school. I push a balled-up sweatshirt off a nearby armchair and curl my legs under me, watching him. I don’t feel myself fall asleep. I must have though, because when I open my eyes, Milo is watchi
ng me.

  “Do you always sleep like that?” His voice is frayed like he’s barely holding himself together.

  “Like what?”

  “All tucked up into yourself, like you’re an animal used to sleeping underground.”

  I roll to my other hip, draw my legs tight underneath me. Too many nights of no sleep and too much stress and too much, well, everything have gotten to me. My entire body feels weighed down by rocks. “Go to sleep, Milo, or I’ll call 911.”

  His laugh is low and dark. It’s the last thing I remember before I slip under.

  I wake up again two hours later and Milo is still sleeping hard. I spend a couple minutes staring at him, trying to decide how I feel about him getting Griff to give me the security feed, and because I can’t decide, I concentrate instead on whether Milo’s dying.

  And whether I should call 911.

  But his coloring is almost dark cinnamon again, which is closer to normal for him, he seems to be comfortable, and, honestly, I have zero way of explaining any of this to the EMTs, so I leave him alone.

  I pad across the room, heading for my sweatshirt, and something soft catches my foot. I look down, roll my eyes. That’s a bra. Who would leave her bra behind?

  A girl who wanted an excuse to come back.

  I pull on my sweatshirt and check the time on my phone. Huh, right now I would be in Spanish class, which means I have almost four hours before I need to be home. So what am I going to do with myself?

  In response, my stomach pinches. I need to eat. Considering this is Milo’s place, though, I have an equal chance of finding food or blowing myself sky-high. I study the door to his pantry, weighing my options. What if he’s booby-trapped it?

  I take a deep breath, tell myself I’m being an idiot, and yank the door open. No explosion. Not really any food either. Most of the pantry is devoted to spare computer parts. What does Milo do for meals around here? Ethernet cables and soldering equipment?

  Eventually, I find club crackers and ginger ale sitting on a crate of motherboards and I take a sleeve of crackers and a soda for me, leaving the rest on Milo’s bedside table.

  Four hours to kill is a seriously nice windfall. What should I do with it?