Ultraviolet

by R. J. Anderson

  Faraday nodded. “I thought as much. Especially since there was such a brief interval between the time you and Tori left detention and the time you arrived home. It’s difficult to imagine how you could possibly have gotten rid of her body in that space of time.”

  “But people still think I killed her,” I said. “I know they’re talking about it. Even if the police don’t charge me, what kind of life am I going to have when I get out of here? How can I go back to school, or get a job, when . . .”

  Wait, what was I doing? He didn’t need to know all that. I cleared my throat and said, “Never mind. Sorry.”

  Faraday folded his hands together and propped his chin on them, his eyes searching mine. “Do you have anyone you can talk to? Besides Dr. Minta, I mean?”

  I gave a mirthless laugh. “Are you kidding? I can’t even talk to him.”

  “Someone in your family, then? Your mother?”

  “Definitely not my mother. She’s been convinced that I was crazy since I was six years old.”

  “Because of your synesthesia?”

  It still hurt to think about it, even now. I nodded.

  “And yet,” said Faraday, “synesthesia often runs in families. So it’s possible that one of your relatives has it as well.”

  “Not in my family,” I said.

  “Are you certain?”

  I wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. My mother didn’t talk much about her childhood, but I knew she’d been an only child and that both her parents had died of cancer, one when she was little and the other when she was in her late teens. And my father’s relatives all lived out on the East Coast, so even if one of them turned out to be a synesthete, what good would that do me?

  “Well,” Faraday said after a moment, “if you can’t talk about your situation, is there anything you can do to take your mind off it?”

  “The medication I’m on makes it hard to read,” I said. “I don’t really like watching TV. I used to play my keyboard a lot, but—Dr. Minta won’t let me bring it—”

  A lump dislodged itself from the middle of my chest and swam up into my throat. I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Quietly Faraday got up from his seat, came around the end of the table, and offered me his handkerchief. I stared at that crumpled white square, my throat clenched tight and my eyes stinging like I’d washed them with soap. Then his hand came down on my shoulder and the warmth of that touch— so clumsy and so comforting at the same time—dissolved me completely. I grabbed the handkerchief, buried my face in it, and cried.

  Faraday just stood there, letting it happen, and after a moment he took his hand away and moved back to his chair. It was the right thing to do: the door was open, and we both knew the rules. But in my mind I took his hand and held onto it and leaned against his side, and he stooped down and put his arm around my shoulders, and I clung to the comfort of that imagined embrace until the grief moved through me, out of me, and was gone.

  “All right?” asked Faraday, as I straightened up again.

  “Yeah,” I said thickly. I put the handkerchief down on the table between us, and he took it back. His fingers were rough and calloused, yet there was a strange elegance in the way he folded up the damp cloth and tucked it back into his pocket. Who even carried a handkerchief anymore? It made me wonder, not for the first time, what kind of life he’d left to come here.

  “Alison,” Faraday said, “you don’t have to tell me anything. But if you ever want to talk to someone . . .” His gaze met mine. “Then I’m here.”

  It wasn’t the words: Dr. Minta had said the same thing any number of times. It was the way he looked at me when he said it. Not like he was trying to imagine how lonely and frightened I felt or how desperate I was to be understood, but like he knew.

  “I do want to talk,” I said thickly. “I just . . . I don’t know where to begin.”

  Faraday sat forward, not taking his eyes off me. “Take as much time as you need,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  ELEVEN (IS INTIMATE)

  I hadn’t thought I was going to say much to Faraday, especially not at first. Maybe just one or two things, and save the rest for later. But once I started talking, it all came out in a rush: missing my music, hating therapy, longing to get out of Pine Hills yet not knowing where else I could go. I told him why I’d gone off my medication and how miserable it made me feel to be back on it again. I told him about Mel, about Micheline, about my mother. I even told him, so help me, about Kirk.

  And still the words kept flowing, in such a blur of tastes and colors that it made me dizzy. I felt as though I were looking down at myself from some great height, appalled at my own lack of self-control, and yet I couldn’t have stopped talking any more than I could have held back the tide. All I could think was that Faraday hadn’t had a clue what he was letting himself in for.

  But he didn’t interrupt me. Now and then his brows twitched surprise or his lips thinned into a frown, but for the rest of the time he stayed calm, just taking it all in. As the hour crept on I expected him to start glancing at his watch, but he never did. He sat there, giving me his full attention, until I was done.

  “Do you feel better?” he asked.

  Oddly enough, I did. Not that any of my problems had gone away, but the ache in my chest had eased. “Yes,” I managed to say. “And . . . thank you. I’m sorry I took up so much of your time.”

  “No, Alison,” Faraday replied. “There’s no need to apologize. It was my pleasure.” And with another of his odd little hand-on-heart bows, he picked up his briefcase and left, leaving me staring in hazy bewilderment after him.

  It wasn’t so much that he’d said it. It was that he’d really meant it.

  . . .

  By the middle of that week the dry mouth, nausea and headaches that accompanied my medication had subsided, leaving me with just the old, hateful fogginess and fatigue. Occasionally I heard voices—disembodied murmurs that always seemed to be coming from just around the corner, or in the next room— but since they had no color or taste, I could ignore them.

  Meanwhile Kirk had taken to leaving little presents around for me—pictures of animals in silly outfits or celebrities in embarrassing poses or vice versa, occasionally interspersed with staff members’ old yearbook photos. Where he managed to find a picture of a long-haired Dr. Minta perched on a bar stool with his guitar I’d never know, but I crumpled that one up quickly.

  I suspected Kirk thought that if he could make me laugh, we’d be friends again. But when I barely glanced at the pictures and didn’t return his hopeful grins, when I waited to get my meals in the cafeteria until he’d already sat down, when I avoided him in the corridors and never came into the recreation room while he was there, even he had to get the message. Or at least I hoped he would. Eventually.

  Dr. Minta noticed the estrangement, of course, but he put it down to me still being upset over what Kirk had done to the library, and I didn’t correct him. He reminded me that Kirk was already being punished for setting the fire, with more penalties and consequences to come, and that perhaps I would feel better if I allowed myself to forgive him and move on. Especially since Kirk seemed to be the only person I’d really connected with since I got here, and I’d been such a good influence on him overall, it seemed a shame. . . .

  I heard him out politely, and assured him I wasn’t harboring any malice, but I didn’t agree. Until Kirk admitted he’d wronged me and apologized, instead of making excuses or trying to distract me with jokes, I had no intention of going near him.

  Yes, I was lonely. But not lonely enough to make myself vulnerable to someone who’d hurt me once and might well do it again.

  The only person I could trust now, the only friend I wanted, was Faraday.

  . . .

  The room I shared with Micheline was dark, or as dark as I could make it by turning my back to the window and pulling the blankets over my head. But even so, I couldn’t sleep. Not knowing my roommate was still awake.

  Du
ring the day, I usually managed to keep clear of Micheline, except for the occasional group therapy session. But at night, there was no escape. And the constant foul-mouthed muttering, her unpredictable moods, and the way she thrashed around noisily in her sleep made her just as unpleasant a roommate as I’d feared she would be.

  She wasn’t thrashing or muttering right now, though. She was making a sound I’d never heard her make before: a snuffling, wheezing moan like the last gasp of a wounded animal.

  I sat up, tentatively stretching out my senses. Micheline lay huddled with her back to me, the blankets balled up around her feet. Her shoulders jerked in little spasms, as though she were struggling to breathe—or crying.

  It was almost easier to believe she was having an asthma attack. I got up, cautiously, and padded over to her bed. Her eyes were scrunched shut, her mouth wide open, but still she made no sound except those horrible strangled sobs. I glanced back at the door. She wasn’t actually causing trouble, so it seemed like betrayal to call for a nurse. But that only left me to try and comfort her—and the last time I’d tried to talk to somebody who was crying, the conversation had not gone well.

  I’d never been at such a huge party in my life. Tori’s house was enormous, and between the visiting concert band and the bands from our own high school, there had to be at least a hundred and fifty people here. Music boomed from the basement, giggles floated out of the indoor pool, and the kitchen was packed with teachers and parents too busy munching canapes and arguing about the economy to care what the rest of us were doing.

  Where was Mel? She’d convinced me to come to this party, but I hadn’t seen a trace of her yet. I scanned the living room and study, made a quick lap of the pool, then climbed the stairs past a row of Tori’s baby photos to check the upper floor. But all the bedroom doors were shut, and it didn’t seem likely that she’d be behind any of them. I headed back down and peered out the front window, but all I saw was a long line of cars curving away into the gathering dusk. Discouraged, I was about to give up and go home when I heard the familiar ear-piercing buzz of Tori’s Noise, overlaid by three female voices all talking at once:

  “—kind of friend you are!”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything—”

  “Come off it, Tori, we both saw you kissing Brendan.”

  The last voice, to my surprise, was Mel’s. I followed it through a doorway and found Mel and Lara facing off against Tori in the laundry room, an acute triangle of accusation. Lara’s eyes were red, her face smudged with the ruins of her makeup. Mel looked righteously indignant. Tori, on the other hand, just seemed confused.

  “I didn’t even think you liked him,” she said to Lara.

  “I only said that because you said you didn’t like him! If I’d known you were lying—”

  “I wasn’t! I didn’t like him at first, but then—”

  “Liar.” Lara’s voice trembled with rage. “You’re such a liar.” She whirled and fled out the back door. Mel gave Tori a scathing look and went after her.

  “Mel?” I called, but she didn’t answer. The door slammed shut, and Tori and I were left alone, staring at each other.

  For a minute I thought she was going to hit me, she looked so furious. She knew I’d overheard the fight. She knew it was none of my business. She knew that my best friend was out in the yard trying to console her best friend, and for all I knew she thought I’d put Mel up to it.

  But she didn’t move. She just stood there, breathing shallowly. Then she spun around to face the wall, and as her shoulders heaved I realized that Tori Beaugrand was crying.

  I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Sounds tumbled in from the rooms beyond: the bright clink of glasses and the dull crunch of potato chips, Mr. Clarke’s fluorescent-pink bleat of a laugh. Yet the Noise was louder than all of them, and as it needled into my brain, all my instincts told me to flee.

  But it didn’t seem right to just walk out on her. I cleared my throat and said, “Is there . . . um . . . anything I can do?”

  She whipped around, eyes wet and incredulous. “Are you screwed in the head? You think I’m going to believe you give a flying—” Then she straightened up and said coldly, “You really think I’m that stupid.”

  I was taken aback. “What?”

  “Like I don’t know it was you who’s been going around telling people I was a crack baby my parents adopted out of pity? Nice try, Ali-snob.”

  My face heated at the old, hated nickname. Yes, I’d always been something of a loner, but that didn’t mean I was full of myself. “What are you talking about?” I asked, but she ignored me.

  “What business is it of yours, anyway?” she snapped. “I don’t even know how you knew I was adopted, let alone why you had to make up a big story about it. How would you like it if I went around gossiping about you?”

  Where was all this coming from? Sure, I’d remarked to Mel last week after family studies class that I didn’t know why Tori didn’t just admit she’d been adopted—to me, the difference between her vibrant coloring and the much more ordinary hair and skin tones of her parents made it obvious she wasn’t their natural child. But it had just been an offhand remark.

  “I didn’t say those things about you,” I said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Right,” snapped Tori. “Sure. So what am I supposed to believe now? That you just feel bad for me and want to make friends? And then I tell you what’s going on with me and Lara, so you can spread it all over the school and make yourself feel important? Sorry, try again—”

  “Victoria? Are you all right?”

  We both froze as the door opened and Gisele Beaugrand stepped in. She took one look at her daughter’s face, set down her glass on the washing machine and swept Tori into an embrace. “Sweetheart! What’s wrong?”

  Ash-blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, skin like ivory silk—even in her late forties, Tori’s mother was stunning. But it wasn’t her beauty that made my throat close up, it was the protective, maternal way she held Tori as she demanded, “What’s going on here?”

  “It’s nothing, Mom.” Tori squirmed, reddening. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” Gisele turned Tori toward the light. “Who did this? Is this girl bothering you?” She turned to glare at me. “Are you the one who’s been harassing Victoria at school?”

  I flinched. “I was just—”

  “Leaving,” said Tori between her teeth. “Weren’t you, Alison?”

  She was upset, and somehow it was my fault, and I didn’t know what to say. The words came out automatically: “I’m sorry.” Then I fled.

  I spent all night worrying about how bad that apology must have sounded, how guilty it made me look. Tori really thought I’d been spreading nasty rumors about her? No wonder she hated me. And now her mother did, too.

  But then Mel came bouncing over, and told me Lara and Tori had made up again, and the rest of the party had been great. And when I tried to tell her what Tori had said to me, she laughed it off and said it was just a misunderstanding, she’d get it straightened out.

  So I tried to forget about it, and for a few weeks I succeeded. But then Tori died, and I ended up at Pine Hills, and when I tried to appeal Dr. Minta’s claim that I was dangerous, he’d produced a letter from Gisele Beaugrand saying I’d threatened and harassed her daughter. . . .

  For a few more seconds I hovered by Micheline’s bedside. Then I backed away to my own bed and lay down again. She hadn’t asked for my help, or given me any reason to think she wanted it; and if I’d done anything personally to upset her, she would have let me know.

  So I turned my back to her, pulled the blankets around me and shut my eyes. But it was a long time before Micheline’s sobs subsided, and even longer before I could get myself to sleep.

  . . .

  If Micheline knew I’d heard her crying in the night, she gave no sign of it. The next morning she was back to her old belligerent self, stomping out to the courtyard right aft
er breakfast and wafting back in on a cloud of nicotine. Technically she wasn’t supposed to smoke, but depriving Micheline of cigarettes was just asking for trouble, and besides her older brother kept smuggling them in. So in the end the staff just looked the other way and pretended they didn’t notice.

  That afternoon I went to the conference room to meet Faraday, but he wasn’t there. After waiting ten minutes and hunting around Yellow Ward for another five, I found him at the nurses’ station, helping a frazzled-looking Marilyn with her computer. It turned out he was something of an expert, and he’d just finished solving a network problem that she and the tech support people had been struggling with all day.

  “You should have access now,” he said, getting up and holding the chair out for her. “But let me know if you have any more trouble.”

  “You’re an angel,” Marilyn said fervently. “I thought I’d never get my updates done. Can we keep you?”

  Faraday smiled. “I’ll be around for a while yet,” he said. “Ready, Alison?” and we walked back to the conference room together.

  “I didn’t know you were so good with computers,” I said as we sat down.

  “Oh. Yes.” Self-consciousness gave his voice a twist of lime. “They’re a hobby of mine.”

  “You should get along well with Kirk, then. He’d be on the computer all day if they’d let him.” Not that he couldn’t find a way to get online whether he was allowed or not. I was pretty sure he’d lost his computer privileges after he set fire to the library, but he’d still slipped a printout of an owl wearing a top hat onto my breakfast tray that morning.

  “But you’re not interested?” asked Faraday.

  I shook my head. “I use it sometimes for school, but I don’t like looking at pictures or videos on the computer. The colors are all wrong, and it bothers me.”