(Don't You) Forget About Me (2 page)

That's another reason I don't like him.

“So you
were
on the train,” I say, quickly squashing down the flash of envy that comes with that revelation. Not that I would ever leave Gardnerville, but it's natural to be a little curious about what's on the other side. “Once you leave, you're not allowed to come back. Is that what happened here?” I flick a finger toward his oozing chest wound. “Did you have to fight your way back in?”

“Not exactly,” Foote answers briefly, and then turns around and starts walking again. Even though he is several feet away, I can feel his secrets reaching out.

Well, not secrets exactly. People's thoughts tend to trail behind them, a stream of consciousness flowing like a river. Or a drippy faucet. It depends on the person. I hardly even notice anymore, but Foote's stream is more interesting than most. He isn't thinking about homework or buying more toilet paper. No, he knows something that I don't. Secrets of this sort are like the wild blueberries that come in the spring, growing everywhere the sunshine hits and begging to be picked. I take a deep breath, plucking one free.

And then there is a man with a beard, pointing a gun at the sickly girl I just saw. “Let me on this train, or she's dead,” he says. An oxygen mask covers the bottom half of the girl's face, and the top of her head is lost to a thick fringe of bangs. Together the two create a frame for her wide eyes as they stare down the barrel of the gun and watch the man pull the trigger. Once, twice, three times. But none of the bullets hit her. Everyone turns to stare at someone who is groaning. As they gape, the groaning boy looks down to see the holes the bullets left in his white T-shirt. The man with the gun is taken away as others rush to help the bleeding boy who somehow absorbed bullets meant for someone else. Foote presses a hand to cover the wounds and waves them away. “I'll be fine.”

“You can't keep a secret forever.”

“What?” My voice is sharp, but nowhere near as sharp as Foote's eyes on mine. If I didn't know better, I could swear he knows what I've seen. But that's impossible. Even people who've grown up with me can't tell when I've taken one of their secrets. They suspect—oh, they constantly suspect—but the reason they suspect is because they never really know.

“This town,” Foote says at last. “More and more people are finding out about it. Most shrug it off as an urban myth, but desperate people are desperate to believe and even more desperate to get their golden ticket. It's paradise to them, and they'll do anything to board the train.”

“They're idiots. All of them. Gardnerville is more—” I stop myself. I'd been about to say it was more hell than heaven, but that felt disloyal. And wrong. “It's not what they think it is,” I finish lamely.

Foote shrugs. “A place with no disease where everyone lives past one hundred doesn't sound like paradise to you?”

I remember watching Piper run from the train. “That's only half the story. The rest is the reformatory and fourth years and kids turned into monsters.”

I turn and point to the east, where the reformatory sits carved into the mountains, looming over Gardnerville. The windows glint in the sunlight. They are like the eyes in one of those paintings where the person seems alive and their gaze follows you wherever you go. No matter where I am, that great hulking beast of a building seems to watch me.

“Yeah, I've heard that story before.” Mimicking my gesture, Foote points toward the station. “And right now all the people in there are hearing it too. If they don't like it, I'm guessing they'll leave.”

“They won't,” I reply sourly. “At least not right away, and by the time they do, it might be too late.”

“So optimistic,” Foote laughs, and then groans and presses his hand to his chest.

Instead of asking if he's okay, I take a step away and then another before spinning around and heading back to the station. He's fine. I've spent enough time with Foote to know that whatever happens, he's somehow always fine.

“You could get back on that train,” I call over my right shoulder. “And this time not come back. It might be less hazardous to your health.”

Foote doesn't answer, but it's not because he's thinking it over. A boy full of secrets who can take a few bullets and chalk it up as nothing more than a scratch is made for this town. He's doing just fine here, and I have no doubt that he'll stay.

I can't help but remember the day Foote arrived. I told him “good luck” the same way I said it to everyone—in a caustic tone that suggested they'd need it. A nervous smile was the usual response, but Foote gave me one of his crooked grins. It made me catch my breath, for reasons I didn't want to think about. “That's one thing I don't need,” he'd said.

Now, as I pull the train-station door open and step inside, the mood is grim. This can only mean that Mom has finished giving the speech about the dark side of Gardnerville. Again, this is different than how Dad did things. He'd take the newcomers out, fill them with food and drink and stories that sounded like tall tales and skirted around the gruesome endings. He had a silver tongue attached to a sulfurous soul, and every single person around him eventually suffered for it. But not on their first night. And later, when they found out the truth, they couldn't hold it against him. It was too late—they'd already fallen in love with him the same way everyone always did. Once you loved Dad, you were halfway there to loving this town, because he was the same as Gardnerville—equal parts monstrous and miraculous.

You'd think Mom's way would be better, laying everything out clearly. Risks vs. benefits. But the newcomers never get it. Most of them barely hear the death-and-dismemberment part and instead whine about there being only one TV station, spotty cell phone reception that never goes beyond the mountains, and no internet at all.

“Any questions?” Mom asks with the same too-bright smile on her face.

Right on cue a man steps forward out of the crowd. “You're trying to scare us away.”

It's the same man I'd pressed past earlier on my way out. The father of the sickly girl—the one the bearded man had shot at. His daughter is now on the floor playing with Wills. If I hadn't seen her with that oxygen mask and practically on the verge of death only a short time ago, I'd never have guessed she'd ever been anything but healthy. This is what Gardnerville does, and for a moment my throat tightens with something that feels like pride. The feeling passes quickly though. This girl's recovery is not without a cost. And Piper and at least fifty others held at the reformatory are paying it now.

“He's right.” This time it's a woman, the little girl's mother. She clutches the man's arm as they both bear down on my mother, who stands stiffly with her back ramrod straight, not even trying to defend herself. “You just wanna keep this place to yourself,” the woman accuses.

Now it's my turn to step forward. Piper would've loved this. All the tension and anger in the room, it's an explosion only needing a spark—and that was a role Piper was born to play. I don't have Piper's flair, so instead I take the part of the wet blanket.

“The train leaves in ten minutes,” I say quietly. “Anyone who wants to return home should get back on. And if you decide to stay, don't say we didn't warn you, because everything my mother said is true.”

“You're just a kid,” the girl's mother sneers. “Why should we listen to you?”

I could tell them about the people I've seen die. I could tell them my own sister killed sixteen of her peers during the last fourth year. I could tell them I'd be surprised if this year isn't even worse. But none of that will touch them. The truth is they won't know the power of this town until they see it for themselves.

“You and your husband made your daughter sick. You didn't get her vaccinated, and then took her on an African safari specifically seeking out the countries where diseases like polio still exist. And you did this because even your most powerful and connected friends all told you the same thing: yes, the rumors about Gardnerville were true, but they only let in people with serious life-threatening illnesses.”

There is silence for a long moment.

“How could you—” the father gasps.

“That's not—it's a lie,” the mother screeches.

I am not paying attention to them. All I see is the little girl watching me with the same horrified look she had on her face when she stared down the barrel of a gun. Somehow that ended up okay for her. Maybe this will too. But I doubt it.

Then I meet the eyes of every person in that room. Or try to. Some refuse to look my way; the rest flinch after a few short seconds, afraid of what I might see.

Behind me, Mom announces it's time for them to head over to Gardner Manor, which means I've done my part and am free to leave. I don't hesitate to head for the door.

Ignoring the roads, I cut through the field behind the train station. It's filled with Gardnerville's version of wildflowers, which is essentially any seed that you put into the ground. In fields and between sidewalk cracks an amazing variety of flowers grow year round. An orchid someone planted years ago thinking it was pretty is now a tenacious weed that grows and spreads and never dies. Sometimes you'll even see their long delicate stems and colorful petals waving defiantly from a snow bank on a cold and sleety January day. Newcomers can't get enough of the orchids, but I prefer forget-me-nots. As I tromp along, I snatch a few and gather them together. As pretty as my forget-me-not bouquet is, the pills that the quints make from them are even lovelier. If I had some, I wouldn't hesitate to swallow one right here and now. Then I would lie down in this field, and for a short while forget the train exists—even as it roars right past me.

Ever since summer vacation began, I've been on the same schedule. I leave the house when the sun's barely risen, disappearing into the day before Mom and Wills even know it has begun.

Today, though, it looks like I'll be stuck in the solid and slightly sticky reality of a humid August afternoon. Then there is the evening thick with chirping crickets and croaking frogs, followed by the long stagnant night to get through.

But those endless seconds, minutes, and hours aren't even the worst of it. What I really dread are the memories that might bubble up to the surface. It's funny—I don't even remember what I am hiding from; all I know is that I don't want to know.

For a second I feel brave. Perhaps today is the day I'll quit being a coward and face those memories head-on. Or I can hurry home and plant myself in front of the TV, letting whatever old movie is on fill my skull and hopefully keep everything else out.

As I turn toward home, the reformatory catches my eye. I stare at it, unable to tear my gaze away, wondering if Piper is inside. I can almost feel her looking out, wanting something from me.

But that's impossible, I remind myself, and then deliberately turn my back to the reformatory.

Piper is gone.

And tomorrow after I get more forget-me-nots, I'll be mostly missing too.

STAYIN' ALIVE

Eleven Years Ago

I PUSHED THE BINOCULARS THROUGH THE TALL
grass, pressing them into your outstretched hand. You'd pawned Daddy's watch for them that afternoon. It was the new one he'd gotten for Christmas. Gold and shiny and big, even on Daddy's large wrist—he wore it only on special occasions, and I could see the way his chest puffed out when he put it on.

“Daddy'll be mad,” I'd said, and you just smiled. You knew as well as me that Daddy would never say a word against you, no matter how many of his prized possessions you took and sold. Once, before I knew better, I thought it was because he loved you best. Later I saw that wasn't it at all. Daddy had it so everybody loved him, but he didn't really love anyone back. Not even you, Piper.

Me, on the other hand, he could never forgive. Probably because I didn't love him at all. Never did, as far back as I could remember. Or maybe it was because you loved me as much as you loved him. Maybe even more. That was the type of thing that would make him completely crazy.

“They're coming out,” you whispered at the same time the buzzer startled a nearby flock of birds into the sky.

I squinted, staring past the grass and through the double-layered chain-link fence. I could see the dark, huddled forms exiting the reformatory one by one, like criminals on a chain gang. Some of them were nearly doubled over, yet somehow they found the strength to take another shuffling step forward.

You nudged me with the binoculars. I shook my head in response. I didn't want to look closer. I was afraid of the expressions I might see on their faces.

A moment later, I felt your shoulder shrug against my own, before you put the binoculars to your eyes once more.

“I see him,” you said. “He looks miserable.”

He was Benjamin Walker, the boyfriend of our favorite babysitter, Darla. She always made us ice-cream sundaes for dinner and let us eat them in front of the TV. Benjamin caught her kissing Johnny DelRoy in the middle of our living room while we were scooping the last bits of hot fudge from the bottom of our bowls.

Benjamin didn't say a word. He just stared at the two of them in this awful way. It was lucky it was only a first year and not a fourth year, everyone agreed—it could have been a real tragedy with those two little girls there. Since it was merely a first year, there was calamity but not full-on disaster. What that meant exactly was that Johnny's lips melted right into Darla's, and the two of them were stuck like that until someone got them to the hospital, where the doctors were able to surgically separate them. Benjamin was sent straight to the reformatory, and ever since then, Piper, you had been determined to see him in lockup. I thought you wanted to make sure he was paying for what he'd done to Darla, but sitting in the grass beside you, I suddenly wasn't so sure.

The line of teens disappeared as they circled around the other side of the reformatory. You put down the binoculars and then drew a finger through the dirt, forming a squiggly question mark. “Why do they do it?” You mumbled the words to yourself, wondering aloud.

“If they don't walk, they die.” I answered your question without really thinking. Your head whipped toward me so quickly I would've jumped back if your penetrating gaze hadn't pinned me in place.

“How exactly does that work?” you asked softly. Gently. I was the little sister and you were supposed to be the one who knew everything and condescended to explain the workings of the world. It had never worked that way, though; the secrets revealed all the darkest corners of life to me, long before I was ready to see them. You were my night-light, Piper. You helped keep the darkness away.

“Sky?” You nudged me when I didn't answer immediately. Sometimes, I think, you craved the darkness. Looking back, I can see how impatient you were with me for always being so scared. I can see you thinking that if you were me, and knew what I did, then everything would be different.

Oh, Piper, you have no idea how much I wish that everything could be different. Come back from the reformatory and you can have all the secrets. I never meant to keep any of them from you; sometimes I just forgot that you didn't already know everything.

I told you then. I told you about how it was unnaturally cold inside the reformatory, and how you could see every exhale of breath.

You interrupted me, trying to guess, not wanting to be told. “They make them walk so they don't freeze to death.”

I shook my head and explained how everyone bundles up in layers and they blast the heat so that it comes hissing and rattling from the cast-iron radiators. It doesn't help much; teeth chatter constantly. At first anyway. Eventually the cold settles inside them, and it gets so bad they hardly notice it except that every so often it feels like something is crawling up their spine. That's when they start itching and scratching at themselves. Sometimes it gets so bad they tear their own skin off. They're restrained then, and that's when they start screaming. The walks look like a punishment, but they're not. It's actually the best part of their day.

By the time I finished talking, I was shivering as if I were feeling the cold of the reformatory myself. You wiped my runny nose with the bottom of my shirt and then threw an arm around me. “Want me to French-braid your hair?”

“Uh-huh,” I answered immediately, even though you always pulled my hair too tight. I loved when you paid attention to me and didn't want something in return. You had only just divided my hair into sections when the prisoners came tromping into view once more. I expected to be forgotten. Instead you glanced up for a moment and then went back to finger-combing my hair.

I was relieved. All you'd wanted was to see Benjamin, and now that you had, we would never go to the reformatory again.

I was wrong though. That was only the first of many visits, and every time you said the same thing you had that day as you'd French-braided my hair.

“We're gonna end up there someday, Sky. I can feel it.”

“GG says that Gardners never go to the reformatory,” I interrupted, hoping you would stop saying terrible things. “We always find a way out of it.”

You kept talking as if you hadn't heard a word I said. “We're gonna do something terrible like Benjamin did, and they're gonna lock us up in there.”

“No-oh,” I half sobbed, because your words sounded like the worst kind of secret, the sort that I wished wasn't true. The thing is, secrets are awful in lots of ways, but they almost never lie.

“You can't fight a fourth year, Pollywog. People try, but it gets so deep inside them there's no digging it out.” You were talking to me, Piper, but you were scanning the brick walls of the reformatory. “We're gonna end up in there, I just know it,” you repeated. There was a strange gleam in your eyes as you reached out and grabbed hold of my shoulders. Your fingers dug into my skin. I could feel the cold in them through my thin T-shirt. It was almost as if you'd absorbed some of the reformatory's cold.

“Now, Pollywog,” you said, “we just need to figure out how we'll escape once we're inside.”