“Does your brother not want you to be alone with me?”
Blake’s eyes dart in my direction. What do I see in those eyes? Indignation? Fear? Rage? I don’t know, I don’t know …
“What are you talking about?” he asks as if truly stymied, totally floored by the question. I’m impressed by how quickly he’s composed himself. I feel like I’m observing a master class in lying. I’ve clearly rattled him—his expression a moment ago sure didn’t lie—but he recovered in a nanosecond, shifting the focus onto me by trying to make me look ridiculous. Maybe I’m finally figuring out just who Blake is. Maybe I’m understanding him better by the minute.
“When I walked in on you guys the other day at your house—right before you drove me home,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady, “he was saying he didn’t want you to be alone with … with something, with somebody. Was he talking about me?”
Blake tosses his head back and chortles. “Yeah. My little brother doesn’t allow me to be alone with my girlfriend.”
The word “girlfriend” makes me shudder. The longer I’m with Blake, the clearer I am that I don’t want to be his girlfriend.
“Then why did you lie to him?” I persist.
Blake rolls his eyes. “Okay, I’ll bite. Lie to him about what?”
“About what you were doing today after school? You told him you had a yearbook meeting.”
Blake waves a hand dismissively through the air. He’s still acting haughty, but the good news is that he’s so busy trying to think on his feet that he’s driving slower, no longer whizzing maniacally through the rain-slicked streets.
“Busted,” he tells me with a sneer. “You caught me lying to my brother. Will you alert the media, or shall I?”
“Why wouldn’t he want you to be alone with me?” I say, my voice eerily calm. “And why would you agree to that?”
“Oh, good god !” Blake says. “This is the most asinine conversation I’ve ever had!”
“Left. Turn left!”
“What? ”
“Left! My street is this left.”
Blake’s already overshot it, but he turns sharply, making the tires screech in the rain. I hold my breath, wondering if we’ll hydroplane or spin out.
Somehow, the car steadies itself, and I exhale slowly through puffed-out cheeks.
“I know where your house is,” Blake mutters, and as scary as the turn was, I’m incredibly relieved he’s taking me home. I don’t know where else I think he might have considered taking me; I’m just so desperate to get home.
Home. I wish I were going to my real home. I wish my mom and dad would be there waiting for me. Tears spring to my eyes.
Blake glances at me from the corner of his eye and abruptly pulls alongside the curb, just a couple of houses up from mine.
“Baby,” he says.
Damn. He noticed my tears. My heart sinks. Clearly, it’s time for Dr. Jekyll to reappear on the scene, full of a fresh set of excuses on behalf of that pesky Mr. Hyde. I don’t want to hear his excuses. I don’t want to deal with his faux-guilt, or his boyish charm, or his smooth explanations, or whatever tricks he pulls out of his bag to get his way and wriggle his way back into people’s good graces. I just want to be somewhere that I can breathe.
Blake touches my hair and I recoil.
He drops his head. “I’ve been such a jerk.”
I swallow hard, shivering in my wet clothes as the rain thrums against the windshield. “Please just take me home.”
“This is not how I intended this to go, baby … ”
And please stop calling me baby.
“Man,” Blake says under his breath. “I guess I didn’t realize how it would affect me to go back there.”
Ah. Time to shift the attention yet again and pull out the trusty ol’ sympathy card. What a nice pithy package of several of his manipulative techniques rolled into one.
“Blake, please take me home.”
“Baby, I just need you to … ”
I suddenly fling my door open, jump out of the car, and start running toward my house. I’m not afraid; I’m just done. I hear him calling after me, but I keep running, rain pelting my face as I pump my arms and pound my soggy shoes into the asphalt.
His shouts are piercing the air—“Baby! Baby! ”—so I put my hands over my ears as I run through two neighbors’ yards to shorten my distance.
Slosh, slosh, slosh go my footsteps through their lime-green lawns.
Home.
I’m almost home …
Twenty
“What in the world … ”
Aunt Meg, rifling through mail in the kitchen, stares at me wide-eyed as I fling the door open and run inside, dripping on the linoleum and doubling over to catch my breath.
She rushes to my side. “Anne, are you okay?”
I manage to nod, but I’m still too winded to speak.
“Oh my gosh … let me get you a towel … ”
She runs out of the room, then reappears a minute later with a bath towel and a plush terrycloth robe.
“You’ve got to get out of those wet clothes,” she says, draping the towel around me and peering out the window into our driveway.
“Don’t let him inside,” I say through heaving breaths.
“Who?” she asks. “I don’t see anybody. Who’s out there, Anne?”
I press the towel tighter around my shoulders, pull a chair from the kitchen table and collapse into it.
“Who is out there, Anne?” Aunt Meg repeats, her voice verging on full panic mode now.
I press the towel against my shivering arms. “Blake,” I say.
She pulls a chair in front of mine, her eyes frantic. “Why are you running from him? What’s wrong?”
My cell phone, still on the kitchen table where I left it this morning before heading to school, is blowing up with text messages. I glance at it irritably, then reach over and turn it off.
“Did he hurt you?” Aunt Meg asks, pitching her weight toward me.
“No, no,” I say. “I’m sorry I freaked you out, Aunt Meg. I’m fine. Really.”
“Then why are you soaking wet? Where have you been?”
I feel a stab of guilt for not telling her where I was going after school. I figured she’d still be at work when I got home, plus it feels so silly to check in with someone at my age, but seeing the worry etched in her face makes my heart sink.
“Were you with Blake?” she asks me.
When I nod, she says in a shrill voice, “I have some serious concerns about him, Anne.”
I laugh ruefully. “Problem solved.”
“What do you mean?”
I set my jaw defiantly. “I mean I’m done with him.”
Aunt Meg’s eyes search mine. “Tell me what’s happening.”
Go ahead. Tell her.
It’s the damndest thing … that was my mom’s voice in my head. Crazy, right? Yet I know with every fiber of my being that it’s true. So I do what my mother tells me to do. I tell Aunt Meg what’s going on.
As we huddle at the kitchen table together, me still shivering in wet clothes with the towel draped over my shoulders, my hair lank with rainwater, I start talking. I tell Aunt Meg that I’d truly started falling for Blake, that he was the only guy I’d ever felt that way about. I tell her that his grief resonated with me, that I felt drawn to his sadness … but that the more time I spent with him, the more red flags I noticed … flashes of temper, confusing inconsistencies, smooth manipulations …
I tell her about the weird vibe between Blake and Jamie, about the notes, about Natalie’s strangely convincing denial, about the snippets of conversations I’ve overheard between Blake and Garrett, about the rumors swirling around about Cara’s death …
Aunt Meg listens intently, leaning closer a couple of times to smooth my
wet hair with the palm of her hand.
“So today he took me to the spot on the beach where she drowned,” I continue, my tone strangely flat. “He told me I could ask him anything. Well, that’s what he said, but there were clearly questions he didn’t want to hear. It’s crazy how fast he can blow his top.”
Aunt Meg’s eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean, honey? He didn’t get violent in any way, did he?”
I involuntarily shudder. “No,” I say softly. “Not really. But he got … mean. He can be really mean.”
“So, did he answer your questions, even the ones he didn’t want to hear?”
I hesitate, then nod ambivalently. “Yeah … I guess. Some things are weird … he doesn’t seem to remember what he did with Cara’s clothes, for instance, and he didn’t let the whole group know right away that she was in trouble … A few details seem … sketchy. But he had an answer for everything. Tragedies happen, right? And people don’t always react in the heat of the moment in ways that make perfect sense in retrospect. I’m starting to get that he’s a jerk, but the story … it makes sense, I guess.” I study Aunt Meg’s eyes warily. “Cara’s aunt, the one you work with … has she ever expressed any … suspicions about Blake?”
Aunt Meg shakes her head. “No. All I ever heard was just an acknowledgment of what a terrible tragedy it was. I think her family liked Blake, trusted him … The story seemed perfectly plausible. No one ever questioned it, not that I know of.”
“I guess there’s no reason anyone would. It sure makes more sense than any other theory out there, like Cara disappearing on purpose. Talk about a long shot. So, yeah … I think I probably believe Blake. I just don’t like him anymore.”
Aunt Meg nods and squeezes my arm gently.
I bite my bottom lip. “Dr. Sennett thinks I’m scared of my future,” I say, staring at my hands.
“Your future?” Aunt Meg asks. “What do you mean?”
“She asked about my future, and I told her I couldn’t really envision what was in it … only what wasn’t: Mom and Dad. So maybe I fell for Blake as a way of postponing my future … that I’m clinging to whatever will keep me from moving forward.”
“Wow,” Aunt Meg says in a whisper. “Deep.”
I wave a hand through the air. “But then I thought, ‘That’s so silly, so over-dramatic.’ Talk about psycho-babble, right? I figured I was just freaked out by the thought of falling for a guy; I mean, I feel ridiculous now, but I’ve never fallen so hard, so fast, before. I assumed I was overthinking every little thing, kinda subconsciously looking for an escape hatch, because maybe I still wasn’t quite ready for a relationship … ”
Aunt Meg’s eyes prod me to continue.
“But, of course, the flowers,” I say. “Blake telling me he brings Cara’s mother flowers every Sunday … telling all of us that.” I narrow my eyes. “What a creepy thing to say if it’s not true.”
“Hmmmmmm,” Aunt Meg says.
“He also told me he volunteers at the children’s hospital. One of our classmates overheard him talking about it, and he said Blake is full of crap.”
Aunt Meg and I sit there for a long moment contemplating what it all means.
“Smooth,” I finally say. “Too smooth.”
“So have you talked to him?”
I run a brush through my freshly shampooed hair and sit on the foot of my bed. “Nope,” I tell Sawbones, a steady rain still pelting the roof. “He’s texted me, like, a zillion times and left some messages. I haven’t responded to anything. I guess I’ll tell him tomorrow that we need to cool it.”
“Do it in public, do it in school,” Sawbones says, an alarming hint of urgency in his voice. “I don’t want you alone with him.”
I scoff lightly. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“Are you sure? Sounds like you have been afraid a few times.”
I finger my parents’ rings under my robe. “Not really afraid. I mean, I don’t think he’d hurt me or anything … ”
“You know there’s more to the drowning story than he’s telling you,” Sawbones says matter-of-factly.
“I don’t know that,” I say. “A girl jumps in the ocean for a quick swim one night, gets caught in a rip current, tragically drowns. It happens. Her own family—and the police, for crying out loud—they all accept that what happened is what Blake said happened. Yes, it was creepy being out there on the beach with him today at the exact spot where it happened, but all the crazy rumors? Cara wanting to disappear? I don’t buy any of that. Of course, the bottom line is that I really don’t know. But I know one thing: I’m done with Blake.”
I take a deep breath, relishing the thought—the exhilarating, liberating notion that’s occurring to me just now, this very second—that being done with Blake renders all the other stuff moot. Being done with Blake means being done with Cara, and as crass as that sounds, the very thought makes my muscles relax, makes my stomach unclench, for the first time in weeks. Being done with Blake means no longer having to deal with his crazy mood swings. Being done with Blake means being totally uninvolved with mysterious notes. Being done with Blake means having no reason to worry about creepy vibes between him and his best friend. Being done with Blake means …
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Twenty-One
“Sawyer, I gotta go. Someone’s banging on the door.”
I don’t even wait for him to say goodbye before I end the call and rush out of my room, down the hall toward the front door. Aunt Meg and Uncle Mark are headed there too, both of them speed-walking from the den. We exchange startled glances—whoever is on our porch is practically banging the door down—but none of us slow our stride.
I’m the first one to make it to the front door, but just as I reach for the knob, I feel Uncle Mark firmly take my forearm and pull me back. He peers into the peephole as the banging continues.
“Is it Blake?” Aunt Meg whispers.
Uncle Mark shakes his head.
“Let me look,” I say, then nudge him out of the way and peek outside.
“It’s Garrett,” I tell them. “Blake’s brother.”
Uncle Mark pulls me back once again and opens the door. Garrett’s fist is primed for another whack as the door swings open. He gapes at our faces.
“Garrett?” I say.
He blushes, tossing rain-soaked hair from his face. “Uh … yeah. Hi, Anne. Look, I’m so sorry to bother you folks … ”
“Is something wrong?” Uncle Mark asks him.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh … no, no … just … dropping by.”
“It sure sounded like something was wrong,” Uncle Mark says, narrowing his eyes. “Why were you banging on the door?”
Garrett blinks several times in quick succession. “Banging? Oh, geez, I’m so sorry, was I banging? How rude. So sorry about—”
“Garrett, do you need to see me?”
All eyes fall on me.
“Uh … if you have a minute, yeah, that would be great,” he tells me, his cheeks still bright scarlet.
“We’re all right here,” Aunt Meg says stiffly. Wow. I’ve never heard her sound unperky to a guest before.
“It’s okay, Aunt Meg,” I tell her, working my way out the door. “I’ll just talk to him on the porch … ”
“It’s pouring rain and you’re in your robe,” she says, pulling me gently back into the foyer. “Inside, please.”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you like this,” Garrett murmurs. “And again, I feel terrible about the banging. I guess I thought you might not be able to hear me over the rain. Boy, it’s really coming down, huh … ”
“Do you want a towel?” Aunt Meg asks him, surveying his wet clothes and finally stepping back enough to let him inch his way into the foyer.
“A towel? No, no … But don’t worry, I won’t sit on your furniture or anything. I
’ll just stand right here. I have a quick question for Anne about … school.”
Aunt Meg and Uncle Mark exchange wary glances.
“It’s fine,” I tell them. “We’ll just be a minute.”
Aunt Meg surveys us both, then says coolly, “Stay in the house please, Anne.”
I nod.
“Your uncle and I will be in the kitchen. Right there in the kitchen.” She points to the adjoining room with a raised eyebrow, staring at Garrett.
He gulps and nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
I’ve got to admit, I’m embarrassed yet touched at the same time. Who knew Aunt Meg could transform into a mother bear?
She and Uncle Mark hover significantly for a long moment, then walk reluctantly into the kitchen, glancing backwards at us several times en route.
I wave an arm toward the living room couch. “Sure you don’t wanna sit?” I ask Garrett.
“No, no,” he says, motioning apologetically at his rain-soaked clothes.
The drops are still pounding on the roof.
“What’s going on?” I ask him.
After seemingly tossing words around in his head, he finally responds. “I just … I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I study his face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He twists his fingers into pretzels. “I heard Blake leaving messages on your cell phone. He sounded kind of … frantic.”
“I haven’t listened to any of his messages,” I say.
“Yeah … I guess that’s why he kept leaving more. I wasn’t eavesdropping, really I wasn’t, but he sounded pretty agitated, and I couldn’t help but overhear … ”
“Garrett, why don’t you want me alone with him?”
My question sucks the oxygen from the air. I’m just as surprised as Garrett; I don’t even remember forming the words in my head.
“Alone … ?” he asks, shifting his weight nervously.
I stand straighter and cross my arms. “I overheard you. On Sunday, when I was over for dinner. I heard you telling Blake you didn’t want him alone with … somebody. You were talking about me, weren’t you.” It’s a statement, not a question.
Tragedy Girl Page 13
