Complicit (19 page)

Jenny does a lot of taking.

She's the one who grabs my hand when I show up at lunch period to crumple beside her, burying my face against her shoulder, to tell her where I've been and what I haven't learned. She's the one who drags me through the quad and up into the woods behind the school's organic garden and beneath the swirling foul gray sky, and where she shoves me up against a bare wood storage shed, scrunches up her face, and presses her lips to mine. I like that she does this, not just for the obvious reasons. I like that she doesn't pet my hand and ask if I'm okay, when it's pretty clear that I'm not. I like that she doesn't encourage me to smile sweetly and tell bland lies in order to spare her feelings. I like her. Period.

The kiss between us starts out tender, achingly so, like maybe she thinks I'm fragile or on the verge of tears, which I sort of am. But it's not long before our kissing becomes something more, something urgent, each of us grasping at the other in a way that's frantic and hungry and grateful all at once.

Soon I'm not thinking about whether she's done this with other guys or if they're better at it than me. The only thing I'm thinking about is how good it feels to be with her and how the briefest of moments can bring such infinite pleasure. I slide one hand up Jenny's shirt as she watches me, eyes half closed, a wry smile on her lips. She's not wearing a bra and my fingers revel in the softness of her skin, the shape of her, the way she leans into my touch. I lower my head to kiss her more, to put my mouth around her—

“Classy,” a voice says, and we leap apart, both of us scrambling to fix our clothing. I stand protectively in front of Jenny as Hector Ramirez sidles up the path with one smart-ass look on his smart-ass face. A beam of sunlight peeks through the cloud layer, lighting his dark hair with amber.

“What do
you
want?” I snap, embarrassed at both how hard I'm breathing and how angry I feel. Jenny brushes dust and tree dander from my back and shoulders. I reach to do the same for her.

Hector shrugs. “I don't
want
anything. But I happened to see you two come out here, and right after that, I saw old lady Briscoe take some new family on a tour of the place. I figured they were about five minutes away from discovering you in flagrante delicto and thought maybe you'd want me to give you a heads-up on that.”

I tuck my shirt back in my pants and glance down the hillside. Sure enough, the school secretary is waddling through the wet grass with some stuffy-looking parents and their middle school kid in tow.

“Thanks for that, Hector.” I take Jenny by the hand.

“Hey,” he says before we can leave.

I look back at him. “What?”

“You hear about the fire out on Dove Lane this morning?”

“No. What fire?”

“Apparently someone used a bunch of M-80s to set the church Dumpster on fire. Burned a tree and part of the roof, too. Cops are going nuts right now trying to find out who did it.”

“And you know this how?”

“Danny texted me.”

“Danny?”

“Yeah, he's home for winter break now. Told him it kind of reminds me of stuff that used to happen around here, if you know what I mean.”

I tighten my grip on Jenny's hand. “Yeah, I know.”

“Funny, how that works, huh?”

“Not that funny. But thanks again for the heads-up. I appreciate it.”

“No you don't,” he says grimly. “But you should.”

 

 

My sense of dread is palpable. Jenny and I walk arm in arm back down the trail, but I can't stop twisting my head to look up at the mountain and out over the rolling hills. I'm searching for signs, omens, anything. Smoke signals of my sister's ire.

We make it back to the main quad. Other students see us and stare. I know they know that we're dating. Or together. Or something. I wonder if that makes them look at me differently, knowing there's someone who doesn't judge me by what my sister did. Knowing there's someone who likes me more than they do.

“You think Cate set that fire?” Jenny whispers.

“I don't know.”

“But that's what you're worried about.”

“Yeah.”

“So call the cops.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“What would I say? I don't know anything. I'd sound crazy.”

“Come on.”

I shiver. “I can't tell them what I can't explain. It's just a feeling I have. That it's a warning from Cate. Or a message. But I don't know what it means.”

“It means she's destructive.”

“Or self-destructive.”

“Same thing.”

My head is starting to hurt. I press my fingers to my temple. “I need to think about this more.”

“What're you doing after school?” Jenny asks.

“I've got a doctor's appointment.”

“After that?”

“Don't know. I'm not looking forward to going home tonight, I know that much. Did you have something else in mind?”

Jenny points the toe of her shoe into the ground. “My parents are out of town. I thought maybe you'd want to come over. Spend the night even. We could talk some of this out. Family drama shouldn't happen in a vacuum, you know?”

I stop walking. Play at stupefaction. “Wait. You're asking me to stay over? At your house?”

Her cheeks go pink. “Well, not like
that.
”

I bend to catch her eye. “I know.”

“Maybe a little like that,” she admits.

Even in my doom-and-gloom state, I can't help but grin. Then I walk Jenny to her class. When we get there I don't want to let her go.

“I'll see you tonight,” I tell her. “I promise.”

FORTY-FIVE

I arrive early for my appointment with Dr. Waverly so I sit on the waiting room couch and try reading some of the book Cate gave me. With this choice comes the inevitable worrying—I
should
be doing homework because winter break is coming up and that means finals. And I
should
be preparing for my fifteen-minute presentation on the Jimmy Carter grain embargo in U.S. History that's due in class tomorrow. However, not only is hell having to give a fifteen-minute presentation on the Jimmy Carter grain embargo, but if I'm serious about deconstructing this so-called miracle life of mine and putting out any and all fires I may have helped spread, maybe homework shouldn't be my top priority right now.

So Sophocles it is.

I start with
Electra.
A few pages in, I'm reminded what it is I don't like about Greek tragedies—they're weird. They also have something in common with me in that they don't seem to say what they mean. From what I'm getting, though, Electra and some other people are angry about her father's murder and vow to avenge his death. After that, Electra does a lot of crying and scheming and there's not so much in the way of action. This bores me. I do however make note of the fact that Sophocles's take on fate is far different than mine, what with all the oracles and premonitions.

I lose focus after a bit, so I lean back and close my eyes. Listen to the burbling of the fish tank and the hum of fluorescent lights.

Cate,
I think.
Why are you doing this?

I am not an oracle.

I am not your goddamn mind reader.

My reverie is short-lived. Sally June, Dr. Waverly's receptionist or bookkeeper or whatever, gets on the phone and it's obvious she's not happy with whoever's on the other end. The white noise machine sitting outside Dr. Waverly's office door is running so no one can hear what's being said inside, but I can hear Sally June loud and clear. She's fighting with somebody.

“Axis one, two nine six point three two. Gaf is forty-eight.” There's a pause, then she says, “Forty-eight!” in an irritated sort of way. I crack my eyes open. Sally June's twirling purple-streaked hair around a pen and staring at her computer screen like it's done her wrong. She hangs up the phone with a huff.

“What was that about?” I ask.

Sally June blows air out of her cheeks. “Just trying to fix something billing code related. They've got it all screwed up on their end.”

“Codes for patients?”

“For insurance companies. Coverage is dependent on the primary diagnosis. If they get the diagnosis wrong, well, they don't pay. Because they're assholes.”

“So those numbers were a diagnosis?”

“Yup.”

I sit up. “What's the diagnosis you just said? Two nine six point three two?”

Sally June shakes her head. “I can't talk to you about patient charts.”

“Well, what's my diagnosis?”

“You need to ask Dr. Waverly that. Also, don't quote me on the asshole thing, okay?”

“But—”

“It's the law, Jamie.”

I nod and slouch back down, but my hands close around the arms of the chair to the point of pain. I understand not sharing other people's information, but why should the law protect me from having information about myself? That doesn't make any sense. Unless maybe there's something so horribly wrong with me that no one wants to tell me. But then, what good is therapy if it involves secrets? Wasn't the whole point of
Oedipus Rex
to
know thyself
?

I'm pretty damn sure it was.

“Here,” Sally June says, standing up and walking over to a bookshelf adjacent to the waiting area. She pulls a large silver book off and hands it to me. I half expect to see the name Sophocles printed on the front, but instead it reads
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

“What's this?” I ask.

“Book of codes. Knock yourself out, kid.”

“Thanks.”

Before she goes to sit back down, Sally June jogs over to the white noise machine and turns it on high. This time when she makes a phone call, I can't hear a thing.

I lean forward as I crack open the big silver book and start to flip through it. Sally June's right. In the index are tons of codes. Some are for psychological conditions I've heard of before, things like social phobia and schizophrenia and eating disorders, but there's also a whole section on sexual dysfunctions. I can't help but take a glance at these. Who wouldn't? They've got everything listed from sexual sadism to premature ejaculation, and I can't exactly imagine the circumstances under which I'd want to talk to Dr. Waverly about any of these issues. If I had any of these issues, I mean.

Which I totally don't.

After some hunting around, I spot the entry that reads 296, which is listed as Major Depressive Disorder. I turn to the page that describes this condition, and damn, it's depressing to read about depression. Not eating. Not sleeping. Not finding pleasure in things previously found pleasurable. Sounds like they've nailed it. My heart patters with lightning-strike curiosity. What was it Cate said was wrong with me last night? A
convert
something. I flip back to the index and run my finger down the page, looking for …

I blink and hold my breath.

There it is.

300.11 Conversion Disorder.

What
is
that?

“Jamie?”

I look up.

Dr. Waverly is smiling at me.

“You can come in now.”

 

 

I sit in the black leather chair. I count the clocks.

Five. There are exactly five clocks in this room.

Dr. Waverly settles across from me. Adjusts her glasses. “So how are things?”

I let my fingers tap against my knees, releasing an uneven bass line of nerves. “Did you hear about what happened on Dove Lane this morning?”

“No, what happened?”

“Someone lit the Dumpster in the church parking lot on fire.”

“I see.”

“It's the church my family goes to.”

“Is that why you mentioned it?”

“I mentioned it because it's bothering me.”

“The fire's bothering you?”

“Yes!”

“How so?”

“I don't know how,” I say, because like I told Jenny earlier, it's just a feeling I have. Feelings aren't always easy to explain. Even to a shrink.

Dr. Waverly clears her throat. “Well, I received a few phone calls from your parents. Do you think we could talk about that?”

My parents? “Yeah, sure.”

“They're worried about you. They told me you've been spending all your time locked in your bedroom lately. That you've been moody and irritable, lashing out whenever they try to speak with you. That you're not going to class.”

I stare at the floor. Feel the back of my neck grow warm. “Oh.”

“Is your anxiety bothering you again?”

“Not really. Not like before.”

“Well, they also said you brought a girl home in the middle of the night, that you got sick all over your car and broke a window, along with some things in your bathroom. Is this right?”

“I … I guess.”

“That doesn't sound like you.”

I shake my head. I don't know what else to say. If I did something, then it
is
me. By definition.

“Are you using drugs?” Dr. Waverly asks gently.

I look up. “No!”

“Or drinking? I know we've talked about the importance of not mixing alcohol with your Prozac—”

“I'm not even taking the stupid Prozac,” I mutter.

“What was that?”

“I stopped taking it last week. I hated it.”

“I see.”

I resent the way she says those words.
I see.
Like she knows me better than I know myself.

“What's a conversion disorder?” I ask.

“A conversion disorder? It's a type of psychosomatic condition. Jamie, look, you can't just stop taking medication like that. There can be bad side effects. Confusion. Rebound depression—”