(Don't You) Forget About Me (21 page)

That was how Gardnerville became the place we know today.

Lachman Gardner—my father—created it.

I am suddenly certain of something else: if Piper succeeds in destroying the reformatory, she will be taking all of Gardnerville down too.

“I wasn't expecting to see you here.”

I jump as Elton's voice carries across the room.

Slowly, I turn to face him. “I came to see the quints.”

“I didn't know you were friends.”

Elton stands in the doorway with Foote at his back. I stare at Foote for a moment, looking for some sign that he is on my side and not getting ready to double-cross me. His face is flat and he doesn't meet my eyes. I focus on Elton again. “We're not friends. We're family.”

He gives me his bright, blank politician smile. “Sky, I'm worried about you. I've said it before and I'll say it again: if there is anything you need, you can come right to me for it.”

“Yeah, as long as that thing is purple and round and makes the whole world go gray.” I cross the room, ready to kick his silver legs out from under him if that's what it takes to get away. He is stronger and steadier than I've given him credit for, though. His hands grip my shoulders and he propels me backward step by step, until my spine is pressed against the lab table with the pile of purple pills.

“Have a pill. Take a few extra for later too. It may not seem like it right now, but it's for your own good. We've talked about that before. Maybe you've forgotten.”

“I remember more than you think.” I lean forward, close enough to kiss Elton, and then I whisper, “I remember the night Piper didn't come home. She said you slept under the stars together beside the depot. You proposed to her there. Even though you didn't have a ring and she was too young. You told her you loved her. Couldn't live without her. The next morning, you were woken up by the train tearing through town.”

Elton's face goes red and his hands clench my shoulders harder. “That's a story. It didn't happen.”

I smile then. “Really? 'Cause Piper never told me that. You did. Just now.”

He releases me and takes two steps back. “It didn't happen,” he says again, but less certain and with something else under his words. He reaches down to rub his knee and to avoid my eyes and to remind himself to be strong like steel. But that touch only increases the something else, because the something else is longing. Not longing for his lost limbs. Longing for the softer man who'd believed in love. And Piper.

“Take the pills and get out.” His voice is hard.

“Which pills?” I ask. Spinning away, I move toward another table, where pills as red as cherries are stacked in neat rows. “Scarlet runners?” Grabbing a handful, I fling them at Elton and move to the next table. “Or maybe some of these pretty-in-pink foxgloves. I've heard they give heart to those who lack courage.” I chuck another handful at Elton and then walk to the last table, where only a few yellow pills lie scattered across an open notebook. I pick one up and pretend to be stumped. “This one must be new, but it kind of looks like a . . . a sunflower.”

I walk toward Elton with slow, deliberate steps. “I wonder what would happen if I took this pill. Or better yet . . . what if the whole town took this pill? Would we wake up singing a happy good-morning song, spend our whole day skipping everywhere we went, and fall asleep with a smile on our lips?”

Elton's eyes have narrowed to two angry slits, and his mouth is a hard, flat line. “You think because you pulled something out of my head that you know the whole story. You don't, though. You don't know the half of it.”

“Well, why don't you tell me about it?”

Leaning down, Elton picks one of the purple pills off the floor. He looks at it for a moment, removes an invisible bit of dirt, and then stands and holds it out to me. “Take the pill and I'll tell you anything you want.”

You'd think at this point, being so close to the truth, I wouldn't even be tempted. Oh, how I wish that were true.

Elton knows it too. He can see the struggle on my face. “Do the smart thing, Skylar.”

My hand itches to smack the pill out of his hand, but I swallow the impulse. “You take it.”

Elton blinks at me and then brings the pill to his lips. It's an amazing bluff, a fake-out. . . . But then I see it on his tongue just before he closes his mouth.

“Spit it out! Are you crazy?”

With a gurgling cough, Elton spits the pill back out onto the floor.

“Why'd you do that?” I demand.

“You told me to,” he says, still staring at the saliva-covered pill oozing its purple coating all over the floor.

I reach forward to shake him, to make him meet my eyes, but I don't want to touch him again. He was right about me not knowing the whole story. Elton is a master manipulator. The whole pretending-to-take-the-pill stunt is him playing with me, trying to confuse me, making me think of Piper, reminding me how alike we are. He still doesn't get that I see that as a positive thing. Maybe it's time to drive the point home.

“You do what I tell you to now? Well, good.” I point to the window. “Exit that way and try to grow some wings before you hit the ground.”

Elton looks up from the pill at last. He blinks at me the same way he did before taking the pill and then turns toward the window. Oh, he's good. I'll give him that. He's playing chicken with me. Waiting for me to admit I've been bluffing and fold. I cross my arms over my chest as he uses a chair to clamber up toward the windowsill. One curved leg and then another steps up, and then he is crouched, framed inside the window. This is the part where I'm supposed to break. I can see the tension in his back and the trembling in his legs as he waits for me to—

Elton jumps. His silver legs, like pistons, push him up and out into the air, where he hangs for a moment—frozen—before falling. Foote pushes past me and then dives through the window after Elton. He doesn't hang in the air; he doesn't try to fly. He aims downward like he is racing to see who can reach the ground first.

Reflexively I put my hands over my ears, not wanting to hear the crash, the screams, the whatever comes next. For a full minute I hold that pose. Eyes closed. Ears covered. Trembling from head to toe. Then slowly I let my hands fall and open my eyes. I am in the science lab. There are pills everywhere. I wonder if I took one without knowing it. Maybe I imagined everything that just happened. That maybe happened. That couldn't have happened.

I slide my feet across the floor as if I am on ice and it might shatter beneath me. When I reach the window, I take a deep breath before leaning over the sill and peering down. Foote and Elton both lie there.

I stumble backward, crashing into the quints.

“Elton. Foote.” The words fall from my mouth as a shaking finger points toward the window.

The quints nod. “We know,” they say, watching me with their milky-white eyes.

“Well, you're the geniuses here. Do something. Fix them.”

Their brows furrow, and something that looks like pity slides across their faces. “We don't fix things that are broken. We just try and find ways to make it hurt less.”

“Of course.” I push through them, and they quickly scatter. Then I am taking the stairs two at a time and my sandals are skidding on the slick floors as I run down the empty hallways. I push the front doors open with a bang and the humid air gives me its usual big wet kiss hello, but I barely notice because Elton is sitting up, rubbing his head like it aches, but otherwise he looks fine. His hair isn't even messed up. There isn't a single ding on his metal legs.

I look past him, my chest expanding with a dangerous kind of hope—that is quickly deflated.

Foote lies still and twisted.

I turn away so fast it makes me dizzy. The too-blue sky swirls above me. Then a hand grips my arm.

“Come with me,” Elton says.

I go without argument. He'll probably funnel a pile of forget-me-nots down my throat.

Just ten minutes ago that seemed like something terrible, but at the moment I can't quite remember why.

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, LET ME GET WHAT I WANT

Eight Years Ago

I MUST HAVE BEEN UNCONSCIOUS FOR ONLY A
few moments after the fairy orbs exploded, because when I opened my eyes and the world reappeared in front of me, it was full of smoke and chaos. The air smelled like rotten eggs. I tried breathing through my mouth, but it had a matching sulfurous taste that coated my tongue. Pulling my shirt up so that it covered my nose, I headed toward where I had last seen you.

You weren't there.

That was when I first felt afraid. Truly afraid.

“Piper!” I screamed your name. “Piper!” The sound coming from my mouth was shrill and crackly. It made my throat ache. But I couldn't stop yelling as I stumbled across the field, sometimes tripping over bodies. Beyond a quick glance to make sure they were not you, I tried not to look at them. They were frozen in the poses they'd been in at the moment of the explosion—eyes wide, mouths smiling, and arms stretched out, reaching toward something wonderful.

I circled around and around in the field, every time making the circle a little smaller, until finally I was at the center. LuAnn was curled up, a ball of misery, sobbing into her hands.

I stood over her for a moment, trying to hate her for what she'd done. But I couldn't, not even with you missing—or worse. Crouching down, I tapped her shoulder.

She shuddered. “Is . . . is it time to go?”

“No, I'm not from the reformatory,” I corrected her.

Finally, she glanced up at me. Already she looked like a different girl. “Oh. They'll be here soon then.”

“Yeah,” I quietly agreed. There was no use in denying it. Then I asked, “Have you seen Piper?”

LuAnn's hand went to her mouth. “I'm not sure I know her. Did she touch one?”

I nodded.

“You're one of the Gardners, aren't you?” LuAnn said, recognizing me. “Is Piper your friend?”

“She's my sister.” I spit the words out.

I hated her then. Just a little bit.

Tears filled her eyes. “I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That's right. I knew that. It's just that everything is so fuzzy right now. I don't even know why I did it. I really don't.” She began sobbing again, and her face fell back into her hands.

Standing, I looked over the field. The smoke had cleared, but the last of the sun was gone and it was a dark night. I decided to circle the field again, but already I knew you weren't there. Except you had to be there. You couldn't have just disappeared. I marched back to the spot I'd last seen you, while giving myself a little pep talk. “Piper is alive. She is fine. She did not disappear. She will be lying right there, and when I finally find her, she'll open up her eyes and say, ‘There you are, Pollywog. What took you so long?'”

And amazingly enough, that is exactly what happened.

You were right at the spot I expected you to be. The same spot I'd already gone over four or five times. Your eyes fluttered open as I threw myself onto the grass beside you. Then you said the exact words I'd imagined, as if I'd put them into your mouth.

I never told you any of this, Piper. It was like I wished you back into existence. And I knew you wouldn't like that.

“I feel funny,” you said as we were walking home.

“Funny how?” I asked, worried.

You hugged your arms to yourself and then held them out, wiggling your fingers in front of your face. “I feel funny like I'm not all here. Like something is missing. I feel . . . I feel like a ghost.”

I laughed, or tried to anyway, but it sounded hollow and false.

“That bad, huh?” Piper laughed too. Hers sounded a little closer to the real thing.

“You're fine. You'll see when we get home. You look the same as always. You
are
the same as always.”

“Okay, yeah.” Piper stopped wiggling her fingers and let them fall to her side. “The same. I still feel like a ghost, though.” She laughed. “Maybe I've always been a ghost.”

A horn sounded behind us then, and we had to jump to opposite sides of the street to let the reformatory car carrying LuAnn up the hill pass by. With the car between us, I couldn't see you, and for a moment I worried that you had disappeared again. That maybe you really were a ghost. But then the car passed and you were still standing there, and Chance came running down the road with one of his “so happy to see you” barks.

You never mentioned the ghost thing again, and we never spoke of that night. We never even put it on tape. It was like we thought if we could just forget it, then maybe it had never happened at all.

FIFTEEN

“DAMN YOU, ELTON!” I SCREAM THE WORDS EVEN
though he is long gone and even though it upsets my precarious balance and sends me spinning underwater once more. As I cough and sputter and gasp for air, the life jacket that Elton strapped me into like a straitjacket, with my arms pinned to my sides, pushes me to the surface and onto my back again. I kick a few times, gently—too much will send me spinning again—and study the ceiling of the pool room.

It pains me to do so, but I have to admit it: Elton is an evil genius. The pool is the worst place he could've put me. There is no place in town, including the reformatory, where I would feel so completely out of my element.

Even worse, the longer I'm in here, the harder it becomes to stop myself from thinking about Jonathan dying in this same place . . . at Elton's hands. The fight between them keeps replaying.

Distantly, I remember hearing Elton say, “Take her to the locker room and get her cleaned up, Foote. But don't let her leave. I'm gonna fish Jonathan out, and then we're gonna see if Skylar can make a dead man talk.”

Now I can't help but wonder if Elton is disposing of Foote in the same callous way that he got rid of Jonathan.

Tears fill my eyes and I quickly blink them away. More liquid is the last thing I need right now.

“Swim lesson's over.”

I jerk toward the unmistakable sound of Foote's voice, and it sends me into another underwater spin, but this time something snags the back of my life jacket, pulling me up and then out of the water. I try to tell Foote how happy I am to see him, especially to see him alive and well, but a thick wad of emotion clogs my throat. He bends down to where I lie at his feet, a weepy beached whale. Gently he unzips the jacket, helps me to my feet, and then wraps a towel around me. My arms are stiff after being pinned to my side for so long, but somehow I force them up and around Foote. My heart pounds harder than it should for a boy I barely know, risen from the dead. I can feel the grin stretching across my face.

He does not hug me back. Instead he gently pushes me away.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“Elton asked me to deliver you to the reformatory.”

I stare at Foote, unwilling to comprehend. “Deliver?”

“I'm sorry,” he says, and then he scoops me up as if I weigh nothing at all and carries me out of the pool room and into the hallway. Elton is waiting there, looking grim and determined.

“Be careful, Foote,” he warns. “I know you think that you like her, but trust me, the Gardners are made out of nothing but smoke and mirrors.” There is no mistaking the bitterness in his voice.

“If you're concerned, you're welcome to come along,” Foote offers.

“You can handle it. Now get her away from me!” Elton snaps. It's then that I can see how afraid he is. Of me. Not wary like he's always been, but actually and truly—ready to pee his pants—terrified.

For a moment I'm tempted to apologize. To tell Elton that I didn't think he would actually jump out of that window. I am still not entirely sure why or how that happened. It doesn't seem possible that Piper could have gotten to both Ozzy and Elton. And even if she did, that leaves the question of why they'd wait until they were near me to try out their wings. Of course, the simpler answer is that I did it. I made them jump.

But that's impossible. Piper puts thoughts into people's heads and I take them out. That's how it's always been. Lately, though, lots of things are not the way they've always been.

As Foote carries me down the hall, I twist around to glance over his shoulder at Elton. He's already heading in the other direction at such a quick pace one might think he's running away from me. Elton thinks he does a good job of hiding his discomfort with the strange powers that rule this town, but his fear has always been obvious. Or it has to me, at least. It's actually amazing that he ever allowed Piper to get so close to him, maybe it's even a testament to how much he truly cared for her.

For this reason, I hope that Elton keeps going until he's on the train headed out of town, because I have a feeling that things are about to get a lot scarier around here and I'm not sure he can survive it.

The front doors bang shut behind Foote and me, hiding Elton from view. Once outside Foote finally sets me down, and together we survey the mostly empty parking lot.

“We're supposed to wait here for the reformatory van,” Foote tells me.

“So where are we really going?” I ask, because somewhere during that short walk the sense of betrayal seeped away and I relaxed into Foote's arms. Without even reaching into his head, I finally decided once and for all that he was someone I would trust.

Foote's deep chuckle reverberates through my body. “Wherever you want to go.”

“Home first,” I answer immediately. “There's something I need.”

“And then . . . ?”

“And then we'll see,” I say. Though my plan extends beyond the next five minutes, I'm keeping it under wraps for the moment. I know Foote well enough by now to guess he won't go along with my idea to turn myself in at the reformatory. But it's the only smart thing to do. Gardnerville is such a small town there's no point in running, and even hiding wouldn't be effective for too long. More importantly, it's the move I've been destined to make. I've tried every way I can think of to look for Piper; now only the most obvious one is left: going into the reformatory to find her myself.

“Okay.” Foote pulls some keys from his pockets, tosses them into the air, and catches them again. “How about we take Elton's car?”

It sounds like a fine idea to me, and moments later we are cruising down the road.

A block away from my house, we decide to ditch the Prius and walk the rest of the way together. We have only taken a few steps when the ground trembles beneath our feet. It's a smaller tremor than the earlier one, but I still grab hold of Foote's arm, and when the shaking is over, that grip slides lower so that we are holding hands.

Once I have hold of his hand, I can't stop myself from going a little further. My fingers find his chest, broad and amazingly whole, not a single rib bent the wrong way. Next I move to his shoulders. They're straight and even. It's not enough. I want more. So the examination continues. Rising onto my tiptoes to reach him, I explore the back of his neck, finding where his backbone begins. I've gone this far without being pushed away, and now my curiosity takes me even further. My arms wrap all the way around him, trapping his arms to his sides, while my fingers glide down his spine. I stop when I reach his lower back, where the waist of his pants creates a line I don't feel bold enough to cross.

“Well?” he asks. His voice rumbles from his chest, and it's only then that I realize my ear is practically pressed against it.

I take a step back, dragging my reluctant hands along with the rest of me.

“You're not dead,” I say. “You're not even hurt.”

“No, not anymore,” he answers softly, his breath fanning my cheek.

“How? Why?”

“I don't know. I've always been lucky that way.”

“Lucky,” I repeat, remembering. “Like the lucky rabbit's foot that didn't work for the rabbit.”

“That's me.”

“So when you jumped out the window after Elton, you did it to save him. You absorbed the hurt, instead of him.”

“Yeah,” he admits softly. “Sort of like that.”

“And you've always been that way, even before you came here?”

Foote nods. “I'd tell you the whole story, but it's a long one and I don't think we have the time.”

“Yeah, okay,” I agree, containing my curiosity.

We continue toward my house, this time hand in hand, which leads me to marvel at the comfort that comes from having another person's fingers intertwined with your own.

It ends too soon. When we reach the front porch, Foote gently extracts his hand. “Go get what you need. I'll stay out here and keep watch.”

I reluctantly agree and then slip inside the unusually silent house.

“Mom? Wills?” I call. No one answers. Worried, I run up the stairs to Piper's room, wondering if the impostors are still there, but the room is empty and the bed neatly made, as if they'd never been there at all. For some reason this makes me even more uneasy.

Ignoring the urge to run through the house searching for Mom and Wills, I turn toward Piper's dresser, to get what I'd come back home for in the first place. But the piles of cassette tapes are gone. Did I move them? It's possible, but I seem to remember seeing them here. For whatever that's worth.

I close my eyes, trying to grab hold of some solid recollection, when I hear a screech from outside. I fly down the stairs and, hearing a second shriek, follow it out the door that leads to the backyard. Our yard stretches out into a rolling lawn with a scattering at trees at the very back of the property, and in the shadow of those trees is where I finally catch sight of Mom, Wills, and the four girls who think they're Piper.

I sprint toward them, a sick feeling in my stomach, despite by now having recognized the screams as sounds of joy rather than distress. As I get closer, I at last see the source of their excitement.

They're playing a game in which they throw shiny filaments into the air, attempting to snag them on the tree branches. From the number of tinsel-like strands in the treetops, undulating outward like some strange insect infestation, they have been at it for a while.

Wills runs among the girls, yelling along with them, not quite understanding the game but enjoying it just the same. Mom sits on the grass, her head cradled in her hands as if upset about something. It is only when I stop beside her that I realize the origin of the twinkling threads.

I run at the girls to stop them. But it is too late. Much too late.

The cassettes that I was searching for only moments ago have all been ripped apart and unraveled. Not a single one has survived.

It's funny—all those memories I worked so hard to forget, and now when it's too late, I'm finally realizing what I lost.

“Why?” I demand, directing most of my fury LuAnn's way. “Why would you do this?”

She hands me the plastic shell of one of the cassettes. In the transfer, a few broken strands of the tape get caught by the wind. “The past is gone. Let it go.”

Just like that my anger crumbles, replaced by the deep, aching sorrow that's been my constant companion these past four years. “I can't. I've tried and tried, but it keeps coming back.”

“It's time to go,” LuAnn replies, looking past me.

I turn, expecting to see Foote, but instead it's ten guards from the reformatory bearing down on us. I expect LuAnn and the other girls to flee, but, forever unpredictable, they practically skip toward the guards. In moments they are handcuffed and led away.

That's when the six remaining guards turn their attention to me. I think about taking a swing at them. Or running. I'd planned to turn myself in, but now that the moment is here, I'm not ready.

“Skylar.” Mom's voice breaks through my mental chaos. She holds Wills in her arms with what looks to be an iron grip. Our gazes lock. I don't need to seize her secrets to know what she's thinking. It's right there on her face. She's afraid. Not just for Wills, but for me too.

Turning to the guards, I put my hands in the air. “Okay,” I say. “Take me away.” I don't let them cuff me, though, not in front of Wills. When the first guard pulls a pair of handcuffs from his belt, I growl in a soft undertone, “Put those away.” To my surprise, he does it without hesitation.

The rest of them surround me on all sides, but no one touches me. They all share the same wary expression, like they're escorting a ticking time bomb. I almost tell them not to worry, that I've seen enough people hurt for no good reason. Then I remember they're taking me to a place designed to slowly kill the best parts of me. Maybe we're not enemies, but we're not exactly gonna become good friends either.

As we walk, I search for Foote, hoping for some sign that he got away, but when we reach the van, my hopes are dashed. He's seated in the very back and looks like a mess. His face has been beaten bloody and they have him trussed up tight with both his wrists and ankles cuffed. Pushing past the guards, I climb in beside him.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I'm sorry,” Foote answers. “They came in so fast. I tried to warn you—”

“Shhh,” I interrupt. “I know. It's okay. But why are they taking you too?”

If possible, Foote slumps even lower in his seat. “Elton never really trusted me. He was constantly testing me. Today I finally flunked out.”

“If it helps, Elton doesn't trust anyone.”

Foote shrugs. “He had reason not to trust me. When we met, he told me he'd never met a backstabber who could do it without ever lifting a knife, and he said that if I ever crossed him, he'd make me sorry.”

“Typical Elton macho bullshit.” I shake my head. “What does that even mean?”

“It means that I killed someone,” Foote admits in a low voice.

“What? No way. I don't believe that.” No response from Foote, who stares down at his knees. I slide my hand into his, the same way it had been during the walk to my house. “You said before that you'd tell me about your past when we had some time. Here we are with nothing to do but sit back and wait.”

“It's not a nice story.”

“Perfect. Not-nice stories are the only types I know.”

“Okay.” Foote takes a deep breath, as the van begins to reverse down my driveway. “Here I go then, telling you everything.”

“You don't have to,” I interrupt, understanding more than most people how difficult it can be to remember. Trying to lighten the mood, I add, “We could sing ‘Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer' to pass the time instead.”