Complicit (3 page)

It happened more than two years ago now, in early October. I was a freshman sitting in the well-landscaped quad of Sayrebrook Academy, killing time before class. Actually, I was trying to cram for a science exam, but that wasn't such an easy task to complete while the varsity cheerleaders practiced their pom-pomming not twenty feet from where I sat. In addition to their short-short skirts, they brought a savagery to their shaking that was difficult to ignore. Finally I squeezed my eyes shut, as hard as I could, and went over the biology terms I'd been studying:

Neuron

Dendrite

Axon

Synapse

Neurotransmitter

Action potential

“Open your eyes,” a voice whispered right in my ear, and I ducked to one side, annoyed. But I didn't obey. I didn't have to; I recognized both my best friend Scooter's voice and his lame movie quote. I hated
Vanilla Sky
and he knew it.

“Go away,” I said, swatting at him like I would a bug.

“Why?”

“I'm studying.”

“You're always studying, Henry. Where's it ever gotten you?”

“I'm not worried about where it's
gotten
me. I'm worried about where I'm going. And you should too unless you don't mind living in your stepmom's basement for the next twenty years.”

“Ouch,” Scooter said. Then: “Oh, shit, look at that.”

“Is it that goth chick again? I told you I don't think she's—”

“No, dude. It's
cops.
”

I opened my eyes.

On the far side of the quad by the admin building, no less than four city police cars sat parked, lights flashing but not making any noise. The cops themselves stood talking with a group of adults. I could see the principal, Mrs. Watkins, and at least two of the school guidance counselors.

“What's going on?” Scooter breathed.

Two girls ran past us then, straight up to the cheerleaders, who'd paused in their pom-pomming to watch the scene.

“It's Sarah Ciorelli!” one of the girls cried out.

Scooter gasped.

My head turned.

Sarah?

“She's in the hospital! They don't know if she'll make it!”

Then it seemed like everyone was screaming. The news traveled fast, racing across campus as if tragedy had its own action potential: Fourteen-year-old freshman Sarah Ciorelli had been badly hurt in a midnight fire that destroyed one of the main barns on the prestigious Ramirez ranch property. It's where she, and a lot of Danville residents, my own family members included, boarded their fancy show horses.

And Sarah was Scooter's girlfriend.

My books tumbled to the ground. Lined paper notes fluttered from my grasp.

“Scooter!”

“What?” He had his phone out, frantically texting. His cheeks had gone red, his eyes wild.

“I can't feel my hands,” I said. By now the wind was scattering my papers across the courtyard. They danced and twirled in the sky like sad flakes of snow too stupid to know they didn't belong.

“I don't care about your hands, man! This is
Sarah
we're talking about. It must be some kind of mistake. It has to be. I don't get why she'd—”

“I'm fucking serious!”

Scooter blinked, startled. I rarely swore. He finally looked at me, gasping and hunched over with arms that hung limp and lifeless like they were made of wood. “Huh?”

“I can't feel anything. It's my hands. They're
numb.
”

SEVEN

I'm in gym when Cate calls. Even though I've been excused for the day, Coach Marks, the PE teacher, insists on making me change clothes. It's a dick move on his part, but whatever. A lot of people don't like me on account of what my sister did and I can't do anything to fix that. So this is the reason I'm sitting in the corner, alone, squeezed into a pair of green athletic shorts and a white Sayrebrook Academy shirt that's at least two sizes too small, while everyone else does Pilates on the yoga room floor.
Pilates.
It probably comes as no surprise that sports aren't really my thing, so gym clothes or not, I just thank God I'm not having to flop around on a faded foam exercise mat, showing off my lack of core strength or something.

I sneak a glance at my phone once the class is done with warm-ups. I'm hoping to see a message from Jenny, although I know it's unlikely. She's got this thing about texting at school that I'm trying not to take personally. Some promise she's made to her mom. I tell her I understand, but the truth is, I don't. Not really.

That's when I see it. Not a text: a voice mail. From an unlisted number. My ringer's off, which is how I missed the call, but deep down, I sort of expected this. That's part of fate or karma or kismet, isn't it? Getting what you deserve.

Well, I definitely deserve this.

Hey, Jamie babe. I know you know who this is. I know you know other things, too. So maybe it won't come as a surprise when I tell you I'll be coming back to Danville soon and that the person I want to see most is you. Then again, I've been wrong before, haven't I? So why don't you go ahead and consider this fair warning …

“Hey!
Hey!
”

Someone's yelling at me and I can't answer them. I can't answer because I'm standing in the locker room with my head stuck beneath the sink faucet and my heart's pounding so fast it feels like a runaway truck. It feels like my brakes have gone out. It feels like—

Like I can't
breathe.

“Jamie, hey! You all right, man?”

Water is pouring down the back of my neck, my shirt.

Someone shakes me.

“Hey!”

Whoever it is shakes harder, then grabs onto my collar. I'm yanked upright. My hair's matted flat. Water streams into my eyes.

“I'm fine!” I gasp. “Seriously.”

I blink until I can see. Nick Hsu, a senior, is holding me at arm's length. His face reflects irritation. Confusion, too, along with a good helping of contempt. I've seen it all before, though. Nick's not the first person to look at me that way.

I take a deep breath. Feel my heartbeat start to slow. I've had plenty of panic attacks before, but this was different. This one was bad. My hands are tingling like crazy, but they haven't gone numb, which is a relief. I couldn't deal with the paralysis again so soon.

“You sure you're okay?” Nick releases me and takes a step backward. “You ran out of that gym like your ass was on fire. Coach made me come see what's up.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I'm okay now.”

“Well, here you go.” He holds something out.

It's my phone. I take it from him and that's when it comes back to me. Sort of. I still don't remember getting from the gym to the locker room, but I do remember what it was that set off my anxiety. It wasn't Cate's voice. It was her
words.

Her threat.

“Thanks,” I say, but I feel sick all over again.

Cate's coming back to Danville.

For
me.

EIGHT

After school I have to take the bus to see my therapist, Dr. Waverly. She might be a shrink, actually, not a therapist. I'm not sure. She's the kind of doctor that can give you medication, but she also likes to talk about my feelings.

So maybe she's both.

I get off at my stop in Danville Village at ten to three, which gives me enough time to walk the rest of the way. I skirt sidewalk puddles and rich ladies pushing strollers. This is a real upscale part of town, and instead of regular square buildings, all the businesses here live and breathe inside Victorian row houses. One of them is Dr. Waverly's and I could probably find it in my sleep, that's how well I know the place. Maybe that's not such a great thing to admit, but I'm not certifiable or anything like that. It's just, after what happened with our mom, I had issues with worrying. I like to think that's normal.

The ironic thing is, when we first moved in with the Henrys,
Cate
was the well-adjusted one. Cate was everything then. At eight years old, she was precocious. Outgoing. Spunky. She took to Angie in an instant, slipping into poor dead Madison's rich-girl role like an understudy. I was pretty much her polar opposite, and my problems became glaringly obvious on the day Grammy and Grandpa Karlsson, Angie's parents, came to visit all the way from Sweden for our first summer with the family.

At that point, we'd only been with the Henrys for seven weeks.

At that point, our mother had only been dead for seven months.

At the airport, Cate bounced and ran straight for our new grandfather. She wrapped her arms around him. Legs, too.

“Well, well,” he said, squeezing her hard. Cate wouldn't let go. “She's a friendly one, isn't she? Run right into the arms of Charles Manson, this one would.”

Grammy Karlsson, who was shaky and mean-looking, peered down at me over the rims of her bifocals and said, “What's wrong with his face?”

I cowered. A lot was wrong with my face. My eyebrows were still gone, and in addition to being gaunt and sickly and practically hairless, I cried way too much, at the drop of a hat, an act that left my eyes pink and puffy like a lab rat's. Nothing made me happy. Not the niceness of Angie and Malcolm. Not the vibrant spirit of my sister. Instead, my well of sorrow grew deeper and wider with each passing day. I got picked on in school for my lisp. I wouldn't talk or do my work. I worried about monsters. I worried about planes hitting our house. I worried about people breaking in and killing everyone. I worried
I
would go crazy and kill everyone. I had nightmares about blood and more blood and death and body parts and loss and terror and I was scared.

All the time.

Of everything.

“He's a good boy. He's just … still adjusting,” Angie told her mother. “Go on, Jamie. Hold Grammy's hand.” She nudged me forward. I stumbled and my stomach cramped like I might get sick, which I knew would be bad, but I did what I was told.

Grammy's hand felt brittle and papery to me. Stale. She reminded me of an old art project, constructed from paste and macaroni wheels. We walked together from baggage claim and she asked me questions like did they have manners where I came from and why did I still talk baby talk and did I know how lucky I was to have been adopted by such a wealthy family? I felt my own non-stale hand grow clammy and wet, like overripe fruit. I wanted to wipe it on my pants, but didn't dare let go. I didn't dare do anything that might come off as rude.

Making our way down a long flight of steps toward the airport parking lot, Grandpa and Cate skipped ahead, chatting cheerily. I took each step with great care, still holding on to Grammy while at the same time trying very hard not to throw up on my shoes.

“Hey!” Grammy said, yanking on my shoulder socket. “Pay attention!”

I blinked and looked up. “Huh?”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“N-no. I'm sorry,” I said, but with the way I talked back then, it sounded like
tharry.

She pursed her old-lady lips. “Angie says you won't call her Mom yet, but you will soon, won't you?”

My shoulders rolled in a listless shrug.

“You'll forget all about that other woman. I know you will. She sounds absolutely frightful!”

Suddenly my head swam with dizziness. I ripped my hand from hers.

“What's wrong with you?” Grammy asked.

“My mother's not frightful!” I shouted. “She's not!”

She smirked. “That's not what I heard. Living in filth. Having babies on her own. You're better off now. You just don't know it.”

My blood boiled. I wanted to yell at her more, to say something awful, something
more
than awful, but I didn't. I couldn't. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and my vocal cords wouldn't work.

Grammy kept talking, shaking her finger, too, but my ears weren't working, either. I couldn't hear what she said. I couldn't hear anything. Instead I took a step backward. I felt myself trip and fall.

And fall.

I kept falling. Like a dry leaf in autumn.

Then everything around me went dark.

Hours later, when I opened my eyes, I was in the children's hospital with a green cast on my left arm and Cate looking right at me. She had a huge grin on her face. Freckles dotted her nose. She'd taken in sun lately. Me, I hurt all over. Everywhere.

“That was so cool,” she said.

“What was so cool?”

“You.” She shoved Pinky into my lap. I slipped the silk edge of the blanket square into the webbed space between my thumb and forefinger on my good hand, and began sliding it back and forth.

“Me?” I asked.

She nodded. “You fell down, like, a whole flight of steps at the airport. It was awesome. Like a movie stunt!”

“I fell?”

“Grammy Karlsson said you got so upset you held your breath on purpose.”

“What? No I didn't!”

“Uh-huh. Yes you did.” Cate played with her hair. It was different than mine: black, shiny, flowing past her shoulders. “Grammy said you held it until you
fainted.
She thinks you're totally nuts. Told Angie to send you back and everything, but I said I'd help take care of you. She likes me.”

My heart beat way too fast. “Why can't I remember that?”

“Those people in the ambulance. They gave you pills right after. Something for the pain.” Her voice lowered. “You were really screaming something awful, Jamie. But they said the pills would make you forget what happened. Probably a good thing, don't ya think?”

 

 

After I got out of the hospital I went to see Dr. Waverly for the first time. I was shy and didn't want to, but Malcolm convinced me she wasn't the type of doctor who gave shots or reset bones. And he was right. All we did that first time was talk. Dr. Waverly sat across from me and told me that years ago she and her partner had adopted a baby boy from Guatemala and that she liked helping children who were going through similar transitions. Her disclosure about her son made me feel safe. And understood. We also talked about other things, like holding my breath until I passed out. I told her I didn't do that, but that no one believed me. Dr. Waverly said she believed me. I told her I was mad about what Grammy Karlsson had said about my real mom, and she said she believed that, too.