(Don't You) Forget About Me (12 page)

“Now,” she said, “I can finally say I've been to one of the places on Milly's wall.”

The memory makes me ache for Piper. More than once, I've dreamed of her escaping from the reformatory. And I've wondered where she would go. If she stayed in town, she would come to me. I know she would. But what if she couldn't stay? What if the only way to remain safe was to leave? Maybe right now she was in one of those other places from the posters, and maybe right now she was writing a letter to say she was safe and that I should join her there.

It's a fantasy. Piper would never leave without me. But for a minute I let myself believe it. I let myself imagine boarding that train to join her. I imagine the darkness as the train chugs through the long tunnel cut into the mountains and then the light bright and blinding on the other side.

I must make some sort of noise—a murmur or a moan of someone caught inside a nightmare—because Angie glances up at me with a startled expression.

I look away from her. Scan the nearly empty restaurant. Through the wide front windows I see that the rockers on the front porch are empty. The old-timers must have gone home. Inside the café, there is only one other person besides us, a scrawny boy I vaguely recognize from school. I feel a shiver of some memory warning me to pay attention as I watch him down an endless pile of cheeseburgers and french fries. I've seen at least five burgers delivered to his table since we've been here. He eats almost desperately, shoving the food in, his panic palpable. His secrets flash like neon signs—bright enough for anyone to read them.

That's when I remember that I saw him yesterday, right before LuAnn jumped onto Elton's car. He'd been heading into Milly's then. I wouldn't be surprised if he practically lived here. It's the best place for a boy who knows that no matter how much he eats, it won't be enough to fill him up. He's trying to fight it, but this is a losing battle. Right now it's taking everything inside him not to eat the plate along with the food. And then the table, the chair, the pie display case, and Milly herself. He's battling the urge. Who knows how long he'll succeed. He's drinking glass after glass of Elton's drugged water too. I watch him take a sip, and for a moment the hunger recedes, but then it roars back stronger than ever.

It's like this when a fourth year drags on into August. Kids who thought they were normal, who thought they were safe, suddenly find out otherwise. Sometimes they are able to keep it at bay long enough for someone else to implode and drain all the excess energy away. For them, that's all it takes for their newfound powers to disappear.

Every teenager is a potential fuse during a fourth year. Usually there are a few tiny flare-ups that quickly fizzle out, like Jonathan shooting fire from his fingertips. It was a cool party trick, but it wasn't much good for saving his sorry life. You never know, though; in another month he might've had enough power to level the school. Now that would've been a fourth year. One person all lit up, consumed by the power and taking as many other people as possible down with them. Later they come to in the reformatory, like they are waking from a bad dream into an even worse one.

That's why the plan to place the potential troublemakers preemptively in the reformatory is silly. Anyone can implode at any time. There is no prevention. No damage control. There's only counting losses and cleaning up.

I push my chair back with a loud screech. “I'm going,” I announce. Angie nods but doesn't look up from her phone. It must be Elton on the receiving end of all that furious typing. I wonder what she's writing. If she's mentioned that I'm with her. I decide that I don't care and turn toward the door. The rain has started; it pounds against the roof, demanding to be noticed. I reach behind me for the rain slicker, and only then do I realize that it's gone. That I haven't seen it since I ran from Elton's car, the forget-me-not melting away inside me.

Piper will be pissed, I think. Then I remember.

Always remembering. Damn these memories that will not die. And every time is as painful as the first time. Every time, everything inside me rebels against the idea.

I dig into my pocket to throw some cash onto the table. My eyes are still directed at the window, but I'm not really seeing it anymore; instead my gaze is directed inward, lost once again in the fantasy of Piper escaping from the reformatory.

That's why I don't see her at first, and by the time I do, she is almost out of sight. She travels along the sidewalk, right past Milly's front porch. Her hands are tucked into the pockets of the yellow rain slicker, and the hood completely covers her bowed head. She moves quickly, without hesitation, as if she knows where she's going and is in a hurry to get there.

I run toward the exit, tripping over my own feet. Piper's name is on my lips, but I choke it back, not wanting to jinx it. My hand is on the door when I remember Angie. I glance back at her and then at the boy, who is plowing through another cheeseburger.

“Hey, Angie,” I say. Her fingers pause, and she looks up, clearly annoyed. I jerk my head in the direction of the boy. “Unless you want to rename your kid Pork Chop, you might want to get out of here too.”

I don't wait to see if she understands my warning or follows my advice. I don't hear the heavy door clang shut behind me or feel the rain or the way my whole body is shaking.

I scan the street from right to left, but there is no sign of the yellow rain slicker anymore. I run down the empty road, looking up and through the little alleys between shops. Finally, I spot her three blocks ahead of me. I pick up speed, trip on my flip-flops, kick them off in opposite directions, and take a skidding turn onto Jefferson.

I've lost her.

I keep running. Keep looking. It is everything I can do to keep from screaming her name, to let her know that I am searching for her.

I slow when I reach South Street Park, feeling lost but unwilling to give up. A lot of the notters hang out here. They take turns drifting away, leaving one sober person to act as their anchor. I joined them a few times, but when it was my turn to stay behind in the harsh glare of reality, I flaked and decided to take a pill anyway. It was just bad luck that one of the girls stumbled into a hornets' nest. She was fine. All's well that ends well, I thought. The group disagreed. They made it clear I was not welcome to join them anymore.

Now I see a group of them lying on the picnic tables in one of the pavilions. They are so still they might be dead bodies, except for one who is on her feet and twirling this way and that. Her eyes are closed and her arms are up as if she's dancing with an invisible partner.

“Don't mind her,” someone calls out to me, and that's when I notice another girl, sitting cross-legged atop the middle picnic table. “She's in the sweet spot.”

“Right.” I nod, even though I have no idea what she's talking about. Crazy notters—they forget that not everyone understands their made-up lingo. “You see someone in a yellow rain slicker around here a few minutes ago?”

She tilts her head and considers the question. “Yeah,” she says at last in the slow way that heavy notters have. “Maybe not so long ago. That way.” Her finger stretches out, pointing north toward the duck pond.

“Thanks,” I say, dashing back out into the rain. It is coming down slower now, no longer blurring everything in front of me. I see her then. At the opposite end of the duck pond. She's heading into the trees. Piper used to call it the forest and scare me with stories of grizzly bears that waited in dark tangles of underbrush for small children to walk by and become their afternoon snack. I must have been almost ten before I realized that only harmless bunnies and squirrels hid in the scant half acre of trees and underbrush. The real woods were farther out, winding through the mountains, a true wilderness that stretched for miles.

I thump across the rickety wooden bridge, scaring the ducks, which launch into the air around me. The bit of bright yellow grows smaller, sinking into the tangle of trees. I plunge through the underbrush, tripping over fallen branches, but never take my eyes off that hint of color, determined not to lose her again.

Of course, I do.

A spiderweb coats my face, and in the second it takes to scrub it away, she's gone. I continue pushing through the trees, scanning them, until I burst out into the open and the back of Al's Grocery. No sign of Piper. Spinning, I head back into the trees. Now slower and more methodical. Again, I see a hint of color. I run toward it, and instead of moving away, it comes closer until it is on top of me and we nearly slam against each other.

Foote stares at me, the rain slicker clutched in his gigantic fist. “I was calling your name,” he says. “Didn't you hear me?”

I grab the slicker away from him, pressing it against my nose, wanting some evidence that Piper has been inside it. “Where did you get this?”

“It was snagged on a tree back there.” He gestures behind him to his left, and although I know it is futile, I jog in that direction, still looking. Still hoping.

Foote is on my heels the whole time. I abruptly stop and spin to face him. “Where was it? Show me the exact spot.”

He looks at me for a long moment, like I am someone to be pitied. I suppose I am. “This way,” he says at last. We take only a few steps before we reach a small tree with low, gnarled branches. “It was hanging here,” he says, but I can already tell the spot because there are several strands of long blond hair caught in the V of the branch.

Forgetting Foote is beside me, I reach for them and bring them close. Piper was not blond. Although as sisters we don't look much alike, we do share one physical trait: our golden-brown hair that glints with bits of red on sunny days. LuAnn, though, does have blond hair. And lots of other girls do too, of course. I could've been chasing anyone. Disappointment floods through me. Then a beam of sun breaks through the tree branches overhead, and one of the strands separates from the rest. In the sunlight the reddish hue is unmistakable. I can't say how it ended up among the other, white-blond wisps of hair, but right now it is just enough that it's here.

“Let me walk you home.” Foote puts a hand on my shoulder.

I shake it off. “Why were you following me?”

“I saw you by the pond. You looked lost. I was worried. Elton said that when he saw you this morning, you were—”

I cut him off. “Fading fast. I know. Did you see anybody else by the pond? Someone in this rain slicker?”

“I didn't see anyone but you,” he answers immediately, without hesitation.

“Okay,” I say, and then because he is still looking at me and because he's been nice, I add, “Thanks.”

He shrugs it off and holds out his hand. “Now let me walk you home.”

Instead of refusing, I reach out and take his hand. I probably shouldn't trust Foote. I shouldn't trust anyone. But I am so tired of doing this alone.

“Do you believe there are bears in these woods?” I ask him.

His lips turn up slightly, but he doesn't laugh. “Bears,” he says, considering it. “Probably once, but not recently.”

It's a fair answer. I press on. “Do you think it's possible for someone to escape from the reformatory?”

“Someone?” Foote questions.

“My sister, Piper. Four years ago she led a bunch of kids to the trestle bridge at the same time a train was scheduled to come along. A bunch of them drowned.” He's probably already heard the story, but I remind him since he is new to the town and has never met Piper, and the tragedy would just seem like another crazy, unbelievable story.

“I'd heard something like that.” He nods. “But most people say that it was . . . I mean, they say you were there too. Right? That's why people call you the Pied Piper?”

“No.” I shake my head, impatient with his newcomer confusion. “They call Piper that. Her name was Piper, so obviously.”

“Okay,” he agrees, still sounding uncertain. “You would know better than me.”

“I do,” I assure him. “But what I don't know is what happened to Piper after that night. She was on the trestle bridge and then . . . I don't know. It was chaos. I didn't see her again. But I think she was sent to the reformatory.”

“Wouldn't they tell you?” Foote asks.

“Usually yeah, but Piper's a Gardner.”

“And?”

“Gardners always find a way out of getting locked up. I think this time, someone decided they didn't want one of us to get away.”

“Yeah,” Foote says, after a long moment of hesitation. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Which brings us back to the original question. Do you think it's possible to escape from the reformatory?”

“Well . . .” Foote pauses again, this time for even longer. For a moment I think he's going to duck the question and I feel an unexpected sting of disappointment, as if I expect more from him. But then he answers, and he does so perfectly.

“You probably know best about the possibility of your sister escaping from the reformatory too. But for what it's worth . . .” He takes his hat off, runs his free hand through his hair, and puts the hat back on. “I think it's possible,” he says at last. “She could escape. Someone with the will to do it could escape.”

My heart leaps. Foote is new, I remind myself once more. He's never done time in the reformatory, or had a family member in there either. He has no idea what it's like. What it does to a person. Only a stupid newcomer would believe that someone could escape—especially after four years. This should be proof that I can't trust him. It should be a warning to stay away.

Instead, I squeeze his hand, warm and solid inside my two cold ones.

And because I am stupid too, I tell him to walk me home.

 

Once we start walking, Foote is different. Distant. Fidgety. He reaches his hand into his pocket and then pulls it back out empty, with an angry sigh on his lips.