Are You Still There (20 page)

It's Chloe though, and I lock in on her eyes. She's got her hands up, like “What the hell are you doing, talking to my friend that way?” But my eyes must tell her something too, because she pulls away from that stance and her own eyes widen and change from irritated to alarmed. Somehow she knows to whisper, “What's wrong?”

I mouth back. “Dad's gun is gone. Safe is open.”

She understands. Not at first, maybe, because she twists toward the office as if she's going to go back there to check, to verify that the gun is really gone. But then she stops, looks at the closed bathroom door, and she gets it. She moves toward the door and raps her knuckles against it. Twice.

“Hey, Mel, you in there?”

No answer.

Chloe dips her head toward mine and whispers, “Remember what Mom used to do when we locked ourselves in there?”

I do. We used to eat candy in the shower. As part of her healthy-eating-for-our-whole-family philosophy, Mom confiscated our candy from Valentine's Day, Halloween, and any birthday-party piñatas. As soon as we got home, we had to turn it over. If we gave her puppy-dog eyes, she'd let us each eat one piece before she stashed it away.

Of course it didn't take us long to figure out we could hide some of the candy in our pockets before we turned it in. We found all kinds of creative places to stash it, and then we'd stand in the shower eating piece after piece, knowing we could wash any telltale crumbs down the drain. The wrappers were a problem though. If we dumped them in the trash, Mom might find them. So we balled them up and stuffed them in our backpacks until we could dump them.

We got away with it at least four times before Mom figured us out. She sat us down and explained that she'd set up the household nutrition for our own good. It all had the flavor of a great, big pep talk. That's probably why we tried it again.

She caught us one more time after that. We'd locked ourselves in the bathroom, and we could hear her rattling the door. Chloe and I stood, cramming sweets in our mouths like starving street kids. Mom shouted ultimatums through the door. We both sank down on the shower floor, holding hands and panting, and I could smell our breath, mine chocolate peanut-buttery, hers sweet-and-sour sugary. Maybe it was the smell or maybe it was the thousands of calories I'd just consumed, but I felt like I might puke. We stayed there, sticky hands entwined, until Mom got the door unlocked with a tiny screwdriver.

She separated us and grounded us from any party where there might be candy, which was every birthday party and school party for the next six months. Apparently grounding from social events was much more effective than the pep talk because we never did it again. Plus around then Chloe and I took separate sides. I went with the Perfect Daughter Program, followed the rules, and dove into academics full force. Chloe decided about that time that Mom was a complete lunatic, that she didn't care about Mom's rules, and in fact she'd defy them as often as possible.

Chloe bangs one more time on the door, bringing me back to the present. “Mel?” she asks, and the unsaid question in her word hangs over my head. She spins around and dashes for the kitchen. I can hear her rummaging around in our miscellaneous drawer next to the silverware one, searching for that baby screwdriver.

She must have found it, because the rummaging stops and suddenly she is by my side again. I hear another voice behind me and I jump at least a foot.

“What's up?” It's Janae. I put my finger to my lips.

Chloe twists the screwdriver in the side of the doorknob, trying to find that secret button that pops the lock undone. And suddenly I realize what complete imbeciles we are. We're about to barge into a bathroom with a deranged, depressed teenager who's probably holding a gun.

I reach for Chloe's shoulder to stop her, to tell her,
Wait, let's call Dad. We should let the professionals handle this
. But just as I reach, I hear the pop of the lock, and she's already pushing through the door. I follow, wanting to be first at the very least, not wanting Chloe to beat me, but I'm swimming upstream, and I can't seem to move past her.

Until she halts.

Then I bump into her and Janae bumps into me from behind.

Mel is sitting on top of the toilet cover, her head bowed forward like she's praying, a black metal object square on her lap. She is not touching it.

“Goddamn it,” she snaps. “Can't you give me a tiny bit of privacy?”

I think we are all a bit out of breath and certainly shocked, and so it takes us a few moments to gather our words. I'm the first to speak. “Well, not if that privacy involves blowing your brains out.”

Mel cocks an eye open, and I see that her mascara has bled around her eyes. She looks like a monster. “You do realize there are no bullets in this gun, don't you?”

I hadn't. Well, I mean I knew my dad didn't keep the bullets with the gun. Come to think of it, I don't know where he keeps the bullets, but all this happened too fast to do much thinking at all.

“What are we supposed to think?” I try not to sound too accusing. “You locked yourself in the bathroom with a gun!”

Mel opens her other eye. “First of all, I wasn't going to really do it. I was going to
think
about doing it. But then I look at this gun and there are no bullets. I feel royally gypped. In fact, I've been sitting here cursing my luck.”

I look back at Chloe and at Janae, who both seem to have lost the ability to speak. “You need some professional help.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, really. I don't care whether you were really planning to do it or not, this is totally not cool. You need help either way.”

“Yeah, well, I've been telling my parents that for the last three years, and you know how many counselors they've taken me to?” Mel glares at me, as if this whole thing is my fault.

I don't know. But I have a feeling she wants to say.

“Zero. They come from the school of figure-it-out-your-damn-self, don't lie down on some couch and share your soul.”

Janae finally speaks. Quietly. “You don't actually have to lie down on a couch, you know. A lot of counselors don't even have couches in their offices.”

“And how would
you
know?” Mel snaps her voice and her head, pointing her darkened eyes at Janae.

“How do you
think
I know?” Janae retorts, her cadence and tone mirroring Mel's. This seems to work, because Mel goes all quiet. “And you don't need parent permission, by the way.”

“Really?” This comes from Chloe.

“I've gone by myself before. In California, there's some law that says if you're over twelve, you can consent for counseling on your own. There's a free clinic run by Central University. They staff it with counselors in training, so they're mostly pretty young, but that's not so bad. Sometimes the young ones are the best.”

“Really,” Mel says. The word is a statement, not a question. With attitude. But I watch her face, watch how she lets the idea sink in. And then she says the word again, slower, and it's a question. “Really?”

“Sure. I'll take you there.”

Actually we all take her there. Because even though she says she wouldn't have pulled the trigger if there were bullets, I am not convinced. Janae walks with her, arm in arm. I'm glad for this, because now my superhero eyes have turned paranoid. I see every potential danger. I see how fast the cars barrel down the street, how they swerve around the corners, and how easy it would be for Mel to dive beneath their wheels. I see the rusty pocketknife in the gutter. I see everything.

Chloe and I walk about ten steps behind to give them a little privacy. I am tempted to link my arm in hers the way Janae has linked arms with Mel, but I worry that she'll pull away. We haven't walked like that since we were kids.

But she surprises me, because she's the one to grab on to my arm. I accept it, grateful for something to hold on to, realizing now how shaky I am. Holding on to her settles me.

“So do we tell Dad?” Chloe asks.

“If we tell Dad, he'll know I was in his safe without permission.”

Chloe fake-gasps. “Oh no! The golden child will fall from honor!” She laughs. “They probably wouldn't believe it was you anyway. Somehow I'd get blamed for it.” I search for bitterness in her voice, but it must be down deep somewhere because I don't hear it. “Why were you in there, anyway?”

I walk ten steps without answering. Then I take a deep breath and I tell her. I tell her everything I know (except for the part where I spied on her).

“Holy batshit,” she says softly. “I got a card like that too.”

I know this, but I don't say.

“I found it in my locker. It was a queen with a noose around her neck. I didn't realize it was related to any of the bombing crap. I just thought it was from one of the guys I dumped.”

“Did it look like that card you found in Dad's wallet? The one with the ‘tick-tock' written on it?”

She pauses for a moment. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess it did.”

“Why would you think one of your ex-boyfriends would have sent you something that awful?”

“I don't know.” She scuffs her feet.

“And who was the queen supposed to be?”

“I thought it was me.” She says this to her feet.

“Seriously?” I stop walking. “Who the hell have you been dating?”

She runs her fingers through her hair, probably trying to decide how much to share with me. “Scum. Guys who know just how to make you feel special and beautiful and important, then after they play around a bit, know just how to make you feel as insignificant as an ant.”

“Why?” I am incredulous, and I just want to repeat the word over and over again. “Why?”

She narrows her eyes. “No comment.”

I know I should tone it down, not sound so big sisterly, but I can't seem to do it. “No way—you don't get off that easy. You always do that. You have to talk to me.”

“Well, I'm single
now,”
she retorts, “if that makes you happy. Not all of us can date Latin hotties, you know.” She starts walking again, fast, and I struggle to keep up. “Besides, you study-dated that brainiac, and he's a weirdo too.”

Thinking of Eric makes my stomach twist.

“So are you gonna tell Dad?” Chloe takes advantage of my silence.

“I think I have to.”

“Why? Mel doesn't have the combo. Dad's been getting the same cards that we have. If he could've figured out who the asshole is already, he would have. Just because a few of the cards have come directly to us doesn't really give us any new info.”

“You think?” I ask, trying to reassure myself.

Chloe grabs my arm again. “If Mom finds out some sicko is targeting us directly, we'll be homeschooled so fast we'll get whiplash.”

She has a point.

An hour and a half later, Janae walks out of the Central University clinic. Mel isn't with her. “Where is she?” I ask at the exact moment Chloe says, “What happened?”

“They kept her. Psychiatric hold.”

“A what?” Something deep in my gut twists.

“She talked to the counselor in private for a long time, and then the counselor came out and said Mel wanted me to come in. The counselor brought in her supervisor too and asked a whole boatload of questions. They basically said Mel was a danger to herself and others, and they had to keep her in a hospital for a few days to make sure she was stable.”

“Her parents are going to shit bricks.”

Janae smiled. “They pretty much already have. Mel called them, once she figured out she wasn't going home today. This is going to sound crazy, but I swear Mel was happy. Someone is finally taking her seriously.”

I think I feel better.

30

MID-FEBRUARY

“Dad, I need to know something.” I corner Dad at breakfast. I keep thinking back to my conversation with Janae, that maybe the school set up the helpline to watch us. That maybe some of
us
are the suspects. That maybe Eric is the guy behind all this. I wonder if they're tapping the phone lines or bugging the room.

“Shoot.” Interesting choice of words. He's sprinkling salt and pepper, and it looks like an egg-bound snowstorm.

“As a part of the investigation of the school bombing suspect, are you tapping any lines?”

“Haven't we had this discussion before?” he asks with his mouth full. He shifts the food in his mouth from one side to another, like the eggs are way too hot and he hadn't waited for them to cool.

“Maybe.” My voice sounds as testy as I feel. Dad looks up sharply, like he's only just noticing how serious I am.

“You know I can't discuss cases with my family.”

“What's more important, Dad, work or family?” My skin prickles.

“Oh come on, Gabi.” He shovels in a bite of eggs. “My job is based on confidentiality. It doesn't mean I'm picking it over you if I follow the basic guidelines of my profession.”

I've got the playing cards in my back pocket, and they are so hot I think they may burn a hole in my jeans. I have to tell him. “What if one of your cases has something to do with me?”

“Gabriella, I have no idea what you are talking about. The only link between you and a case of mine is where you go to school.” He says this all final, like the conversation is over. And it is for a moment, until Dad looks up and adds, “For now, anyway.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means Mom and I are putting some serious thought into pulling you and Chloe out of Central.”

I am sure my jaw has hit the ground. Chloe was right. Homeschool is lurking around the corner.

“It's not a decision I would make lightly. I've always pushed for you to be educated on a public campus. But we haven't been able to close the bombing case.” He says nothing about the notes in his safe. “I'm just not sure Central is a safe place to be right now.”