Let Me Know

by Stina Lindenblatt

  “Can you give Juan and Matt one too? They live near me.”

  I barely keep from groaning out loud. “Sure, no problem.”

  Alejandro waves his friends over. “Marcus is giving us a ride to my place.”

  Matt smiles, the movement at the corners of his lips barely noticeable.

  Juan bumps fists with me. “In what year did Jordan first retire?”

  “Nineteen-ninety-four,” I reply.

  Alejandro snorts. “Dude, it was nineteen-ninety-three. Thought you were supposed to be smart. What with being in college and all.”

  This time I do groan. Shit, that was an easy one. “It’s not like knowing Bull’s trivia is required to be an engineer.”

  That gets a snicker from Alejandro and Juan. “You said it,” Juan says. Matt looks around, either searching for someone or already bored of the basketball talk.

  We walk to where I’m parked while I think of ways to ditch Juan and Matt. The only boy who’s animated is Juan, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to fill the uncomfortable void hanging over us, or if he’s clueless about the odd tension suddenly sluicing off his best friend.

  “Do you play basketball?” I ask Matt.

  He shakes his head, hands shoved in the pockets of his ski jacket. Unlike Juan and Alejandro’s jackets, his is clean and without any obvious wear.

  “He’s into science,” Juan explains. “His dad is a university physics professor. He’s really cool. He explained how physics determines which direction a ball will bounce.”

  Alejandro huffs a laugh and shoves his friend’s arm. “Not that you understood any of it.”

  Juan’s face reddens. “Maybe not. But it was still cool.”

  “And you live near these guys?” I ask Matt. University professors tend not to buy houses in the projects. The school caters to middle class students, but they are bussed from farther away—and not within walking distance of Alejandro’s house. Which means it’ll take even longer before I can be with Amber again. Both my dick and my heart grumble in protest.

  Matt looks toward the street. “No, but my dad is picking me up later on. He had tests to grade.”

  “Matt always comes over after school on Wednesdays,” Alejandro says. “He’s been helping me with math since you got shot.”

  I cringe. Frank screwed us both up in more ways than one. I used to tutor Alejandro so he wouldn’t be kicked off his school’s basketball team. He’d been headed in that direction because of his math grades. “Thanks,” I say to Matt. “I owe you one.”

  He shrugs, and again avoids looking at me. He reminds me of a student in my engineering program. He doesn’t often make eye contact and is awkward around people, but the guy is a fucking genius. I’m guessing Matt is too if his father’s a physics professor.

  I unlock the car doors and the three scramble inside. A few snowflakes drift from the dark gray clouds. Hopefully the heavy snowfall holds off until I get to Crossfields. I’m not missing out on seeing Amber, but I’d rather avoid the fucked up roads if I can. I don’t have chains for the tires.

  I park in front of Alejandro’s house. Before he can escape the car, I place my hand on his arm. Matt and Juan are already scooting out of the backseat. Juan slams the car door and they wait for Alejandro on his side.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say.

  Alejandro doesn’t reply. His body turns rigid and he stares out the front window. It’s like he’s not even here with me, but not in the same way as Amber when she has a flashback. He has shut down, though I suspect it’s because he knows what I want to talk about. He’s never acted this way before. Until Frank hurt him, he was always outgoing and friendly.

  Matt and Juan stand on the sidewalk, waiting for Alejandro to join them. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bouncing like a basketball, but he still refuses to look at me.

  So not to make the guys any more curious than they already are, I try to look casual, a relaxed smile on my face. It feels anything but that. “Frank needs to be locked away, but I can’t do it on my own. Ryan is dead, and you’re the only other person who can tell the cops what Frank did.”

  I watch for signs that he knows others who are involved, but he doesn’t give anything away. He continues watching out the front window. I can’t tell if he even notices the darkening sky or the falling snow or the dented bumper ahead of us.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he says, voice lifeless. “I told you he didn’t do anything.”

  “What are you afraid of?” I push down the anger funneling beneath the surface; it fights back. “Did he threaten you? Is that why you won’t talk?” I struggle to keep my voice calm. It doesn’t work.

  Again, nothing.

  “He can’t hurt you if he’s in jail,” I say. “He can’t hurt anyone.” Though I’m sure his jail mates wouldn’t have the same qualms when it comes to hurting Frank. Child molesters are at the bottom of the food chain. Where they belong.

  Alejandro breaks his gaze from the front window and turns to his friends. They’re no longer watching us. Juan is busy talking, hands moving with his words. Matt is listening and nodding, attention focused on the snow-crusted ground.

  “I have to go,” Alejandro says, voice still flat. He opens the door and escapes the car as if it’s about to explode. The same way my insides feel at his stubbornness.

  “Shit!” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. As much as I want to shake him, to make him see how nothing’s going to change for him until Frank’s put away, I know it won’t help. I’ll have to find another way to get through to him. If I don’t, he’ll never be free. He could end up screwing any willing girl just to prove to himself he’s not Frank.

  I slam my palm against the steering wheel, again. Like I’m one to talk.

  Ryan and I kept silent because of the shame we felt at what Frank did to us. Alejandro’s silence is no different than ours. We were afraid what people would think of us, what our friends would think of us. It wasn’t only about the risk of being yanked from our home and split up in the foster-care system. It was about the stigma placed on us because a man had sexually abused us. There would be lingering questions in people’s minds, wondering if we had enjoyed it. There would have been lingering questions, wondering if we were gay. There would have been lingering questions as to who we were and how to treat us, given what we had gone through.

  Silence might have come at a cost, but it was one we had been ready to accept.

  Until now.

  I watch Alejandro and his friends retreat into the small single-level house. Alejandro doesn’t acknowledge me as he shuts the door behind them, and a sinking sensation consumes me.

  He’ll never forgive me for what I didn’t do. I might not have been the one to touch him, but after my silence for all those years, I might as well have been.

  And with that realization burning inside me like battery acid, I pull away from the curb and drive toward the mall.

  Chapter Five

  Amber

  Leaning against the black granite kitchen counter, I flip the page in the cookbook. I’ve been flipping pages for the past ten minutes and still haven’t figured out what to make. For Marcus. For tonight.

  “Jingle Bells” chimes through the house and a weak smile flickers on my face. Michael and I used to argue which Christmas carol to pick when we reprogrammed the doorbell from the usual boring ding dong. “Jingle Bells” was Michael’s favorite.

  I push away from the counter. My socks slide over the black and white tiles as I walk from the kitchen into the foyer. I open the door and Emma enters the home she hasn’t seen in almost a year. She used to believe the place came straight out of a fairy tale, with its Tudor-style design. A complete opposite to the modern furniture and artwork inside.

  She smiles even though I can tell the memories of when she and Trent used to hang out here taunt her. Something I’ve had to deal with every day since I’ve come home. And even before I left for college.

  “I’m heading to the sports center
,” she says. “You wanna come? I thought we could toss some hoops.”

  “Sure. Let me get changed.” No way am I missing out on this.

  Emma follows me upstairs to my room. “Marcus is coming today, right?”

  “Yep. He phoned not long ago and said he had a few things to do before he leaves.” I glance out my bedroom window. White flakes swirl through the air, caught up in the wind. It’s light now, but the weather girl promised it’ll become heavier in a few hours. “I hope he gets here before the storm.”

  I slide open my dresser drawer. “I’m making him dinner. Or at least I’m trying to.” I remove my long-sleeved T-shirt and basketball shorts. The shorts that at one time I wouldn’t wear because of my scarred leg. The scars are still there, but they don’t bother me like they once did. “I don’t know what to make. All I know is I want it to be something special.”

  Emma giggles and flops onto my striped black-and-fuchsia bedding. “You can’t cook.”

  I throw her a disgruntled glare. “Sure I can.”

  She laughs harder. “Do you remember how you tried to make a grilled-cheese sandwich and almost burned down the house? And what about when you tried to make Jell-O and it wouldn’t set.”

  “How was I supposed to know that kiwi prevents Jell-O from setting?”

  “It’s on the box. Face it, of the three of us, only Trent knew how to…” Her voice fades away. Then she brightens but there’s a false glow to it. We’re both trying. We’re both struggling. We’re both grasping for anything to dull the pain.

  “I can help,” she says. “I bet we can come up with something to keep you from looking incompetent.”

  I huff. “Thanks for your vote of confidence.”

  She giggles again then sighs, the wistful note clear and heavy. “You’re lucky Marcus is coming. Liam wanted to spend Christmas with me, but being with his family is big for him. They’ve always been close.”

  “Your family’s close too.” While growing up, Michael and I practically lived with Emma and Trent’s family, especially during the summers. Often we went camping with them since camping was something Mom wasn’t interested in doing. Work always came first.

  “They haven’t been the same since Trent’s death.” Emma traces her finger along the wide stripes on my comforter. “It’s been hard on them with me gone.”

  I sit next to her. “Are they going to therapy?”

  “I dunno. It’s not something we discuss.”

  “Maybe you should. Before things get worse. My mom’s seeing someone.” At Emma’s confused expression, I clarify. “A therapist. She started drinking again because of what happened. She eventually realized she was screwing her life up, and went back to AA. She said the therapist is helping her cope with everything.” And is helping her deal with her own heavy dose of self-blame. I blamed myself for a long time for Trent’s and Michael’s deaths. She blamed herself for that and for not being able to protect me when Paul stalked me. She also had to deal with tons of guilt for turning her back on me because of a misunderstanding between us after I was found alive. A misunderstanding that drove a king-sized wedge between us, all because she thought I hated her for not protecting me and the ones we loved and lost. But I hadn’t hated her. I’d been spending all my time at Grandma’s house, taking care of Smoky, who’d also suffered at Paul’s hands while we were held captive.

  “I just don’t know how to bring it up with them,” Emma says. “‘Hey Mom and Dad, since you’re all messed up, maybe you should consider therapy.’”

  I snort. “Maybe not with those words, but it wouldn’t hurt bringing it up. You were seeing a counselor, and it helped, right?”

  She nods.

  “Then tell them that. Do they even know you were going?”

  “It’s never come up.”

  “Then it’s time to bring it up.” I push myself off the bed and hold out my hand to her. “Help me find a recipe. I need to buy groceries after the gym.”

  It doesn’t take us long to locate one that sounds delicious and not too hard to make. I check that Mom has everything I need, then Emma drives us to the sports center. Despite my craving to push myself hard, to punish myself for what happened last spring, I manage to rein it in—like I promised Marcus and my therapist.

  We warm up on the treadmill before hitting the mats to stretch.

  “I wish you were on the team,” she says as we hold a pose, stretching our hamstrings.

  “I wish I was too.” Unfortunately some things weren’t meant to be. I can tell she wants to say something, but there’s nothing she can that would make me feel better. To make us both feel better.

  We head to the basketball courts. Several guys who look as if they could play varsity run up and down one court, playing hard. Sweat soaks through their clothing and drips down their faces. One guy passes the ball to a player who is barely open. The boy next to him reaches out, attempting to block the pass. He fails. The other player catches the ball and sets up for the shot. The ball swooshes through the net.

  On the next court, a couple of elementary school kids swing the oversized balls up from between their legs, aiming roughly for the hoop towering above them.

  Emma and I exchange looks, and without saying a word, jog to the teens as they charge down the court. The guy with the ball dodges left while passing the ball to a player on his right. The player catches it and performs a layup. The ball swishes through the net. He and his teammates high-five each other. The others groan.

  “Can we join you?” Emma calls from the sideline.

  They look us over. “Not interested,” a tall, dark-haired boy says, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  A blond boy jostles him. “Speak for yourself, Dunningham. These two ladies look my speed.” From the way he says it, it’s obvious he’s not referring to the game.

  “What speed?” Dunningham says. “You’re a virgin. You have no speed.”

  Blond Boy’s face turns the shade of Santa’s hat and he hurls the ball toward Dunningham. It bounces off his shoulder.

  “What the fuck was that for?” he grunts.

  Emma sashays along the sideline and scoops up an abandoned ball. “Now, boys. Play nice. My friend and I want to play. We’ll go easy on you. I promise.” She spins the ball on her fingertip.

  Something flickers on a few of their faces. It’s suddenly dawned on them that Emma and I are tall for girls. Five-foot, eleven-inches tall.

  “Okay, you’re in,” a red-haired boy, who’s all limbs, says. He points at me. “You’re with us. Your friend’s with Dunningham’s team.”

  Blond Guy jerks his eyebrows up and down his forehead, already over the proclamation of his virginal status.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Emma warns, walking past him. “I have a boyfriend, and he’s four inches taller than you and about fifty pounds heavier.” Not that he has to worry about Liam, who lives in a town about a hundred miles from here.

  It doesn’t take the boys long to figure out just how good Emma and I are on the court. They challenge us, push us hard, expect us to play at their level. And we do, and so much more.

  We play for forty minutes before the guys announce they have to leave. On the way home, Emma and I pick up the few items I need for dinner.

  As I hammer the chicken breasts with the heavy wooden mallet, pretending it’s the defense lawyer for the upcoming trial, the phone rings. I rest the mallet on the chicken and grab my cell phone off the kitchen table. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Hello. I’m Roger Tucker with The Chicago Post. May I speak with Amber Scott, please?”

  Everything inside me clenches. How the hell did he find my number? It’s unlisted and I’m selective about who I give it to. “I’m not interested. If you have any questions, you need to inquire with the D.A.’s office.” I don’t wait for a response. I hang up.

  “What was that about?” Emma asks, a knife in one hand and a large tomato in the other.

  “It was
nothing. Just some dumb reporter wanting to ask questions.” Who acted no different than a stalker by tracking down my phone number.

  An unexpected chill clutches me. I knock the sensation away. He’s doing his job. He’s not Paul.

  Emma studies the cookbook. “Now you have to dip the flattened breasts in the egg mixture, then coat them with the herbed bread crumbs.” In the background, Carly Perry sings kiss me babe, love me babe, but never leave me babe. “Then you sauté them in the fry pan.”

  I dunk a cold chicken breast into the bowl with the egg. The song ends and the radio jockeys start talking. I’m not paying much attention to their banter—not until one of them says mall shooting.

  My head snaps up. Emma’s frowning.

  “What did they say?” I ask, hoping I misheard him.

  “There’s been a mall shooting.”

  “Where?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I missed that part.”

  There must be a million malls in the US, but it doesn’t stop me from quickly washing my hands and turning the television on in the family room. Emma joins me. Neither of us can be bothered to sit. We stand here, stunned.

  Mom was watching the TV last. It’s on the twenty-four hour news station. A reporter is interviewing a mother bouncing a baby in her arms. Her voice is cracked and choked with tears.

  “We were in the luggage store and heard several gunshots from down the mall. Then there was screaming.” The mother starts sobbing and the baby grows restless and cries, too.

  “Then what happened?” the reporter presses, ignoring the woman’s obvious distress.

  “T-then the salesperson hustled everyone into the storage room and we stayed there till we knew it was safe to come out.”

  “How did you know when it was safe?”

  “Someone called the police on his cell phone and they told us to stay put until security came to get us.” The mother switches the baby into her other arm. Large snowflakes blow against them. Neither the little girl nor her mom look like they want to be there, but the woman is an insect caught in a spiderweb—unable to tell the reporter where to go, and walk off.