(Don't You) Forget About Me (6 page)

FOUR

I STARE AT THE WATER SHOOTING OUT FROM THE
showerhead. My lips are open wide, drinking it in, trying to moisten my cottony mouth. Bringing my hands up, I study my fingertips. They are puckered and pruny. My soaked clothes cling to my body.

I've been standing here for a while then.

I pat my wet pockets, looking for my phone. Needing it to place myself in time.

Nothing.

Wildly, I search the tiled room. All ten showerheads are on full blast. Steam billows out into the connected bathroom. Water creeps out as well. I look down and see it beginning to lap over the tops of my flip-flops. Taking a step back, I feel something squish beneath my foot. It's a sodden ball of cloth, oozing red. Gingerly I pick it up, exposing the covered drain. With a relieved gurgle the water rushes down. I give the shirt a hard shake and it opens up, revealing its secrets.

A Swiss army knife that echoes loudly when it hits the floor. I drop the T-shirt over it, and it falls with a familiar alligator symbol on top. Not a T-shirt then, but a polo. I pick the whole bundle up so that the knife is once more swaddled inside.

Flip-flops squishing, I step into the bathroom, not bothering to turn off the still-running water taps. There's a row of urinals to my left.

The boys' locker room.

The door to a bathroom stall yawns open in front of me. The tape recorder and my cell sit on the back of the toilet inside. I rush forward, reclaiming the phone first—my lost love. The screen lights up at my touch, delighted to see me too. The picture of the field full of forget-me-nots that I set as my wallpaper is unmistakably mine. But the time can't be right. Three a.m. I couldn't have lost an entire day. I've had some fuzzy moments, maybe even a few seconds that have slipped away completely, but never the white-outs that hardcore notters experience. I push the phone into my pocket, not caring if the wet kills it. It has betrayed me.

A drop of water from my soaking hair plops into the toilet bowl. I stare down at it, transfixed by the pretty violet-colored water. Then I see the five pills floating in the center. Their purple coloring has bled away, revealing a bland gray interior.

Fishing the pills out, I try to shove them into my other pocket, but a wad of wet paper gets in the way. Pulling the pocket inside out, I peel the paper from the cloth and shove the pills in its place. The paper is folded into a neat little origami square.

That's when I remember a hand pushing it into my pocket. Jonathan. And then a text from . . . Oswell Young. Ozzy to his friends. He works at the reformatory. We have an arrangement. He's been trying to find out for me whether or not Piper is inside the reformatory. He feeds me false hope and I give him—

I remember. His mouth and hands on me. Lately he's been pressing me for more, which makes me think it was no accident that he chose a Monday to meet up. If the door hadn't flown open . . .

My mind runs through the memories again, but it's all fuzzy and then goes completely black. After I get some sleep and sweat out the rest of the forget-me-nots, it'll come back to me. Probably. Maybe.

Somewhere nearby, a door bangs shut. Quickly, I shove the note back into my pocket. Slipping out of my shoes, I pick them up and then creep out of the bathroom and into the rows of lockers.

I scan the room, making sure no one else has stayed behind. It's empty.

My legs are stiff as I edge my way around the pool, not wanting to get too close. The sound of my ragged breaths echoes through the room by the time my fingers close around the door handle. It is a relief when the door shuts behind me, but I am not out of this yet. The hall is bright and empty. I hurry down it, feeling exposed. And then, finally, I'm at the south exit.

The early-morning air is as damp as my skin, and heat lightning flashes against the far edges of the sky. I jog across the deserted parking lot, heading toward the housing development that borders this end of the high school. Jonathan's bloody shirt, along with the knife, has me shaken. Probably better to stay off the streets; I'll cut through backyards to get home.

Heart thumping, I reach the chain-link fence, a quiet green lawn stretching out on the other side of it. I lean against it, unable to believe it was so easy to get away. Wishing I knew exactly what I was running from. I look back, and that's when I notice the football field at the other end of the school is all lit up. They would never have practices this late; all the players are afraid of the dark.

I should go home. I should rinse the toilet water from my remaining pills, take another, and hope that this time it takes everything awful away. Instead, staying along the edge of the parking lot, I walk toward the field and its too-bright lights.

Broken and twisted, Oswell lies on the black asphalt that runs like a ribbon around the outer rim of the stadium. Directly above him the press box hovers menacingly. I look up toward it and then trace the line back down to Oswell. He started up there, that much is clear. The only question is what happened between up there and down here. I have a suspicion. Or maybe it's a hope. I take a step forward, with the idea that if I can get closer, if I can touch him, I might know for sure.

A hand grips my arm, stopping me. “No time for a close-up. You need to get out of here.”

I turn and see Foote. A bandage is wrapped around his bicep. He is always bandaged up in one place or another. On his head he wears his fedora, tilted low so that it shadows his eyes.

“When I told you to run, I meant away.” He increases the pressure on my arm, forcing me to take little steps farther and farther away from the light.

I stare at him. “When did you say that? What happened?”

“I thought the whole point of taking those pills was not remembering?”

“You don't want to tell me? Fine.” I jerk my arm away from him. We are now deep in shadows and his face is nothing but a dark blob I'd like to drive my fist into.

“Wait.” Foote's words stop me before I've gone two steps. “Elton said he needed your help getting the truth out of someone. We tracked you down in the library study room with that guy.”

“Oswell,” I say, and then, “Why are you even working for Elton?”

“Why wouldn't I? Once I heard you worked for him, I thought he was golden.”

“He's not. And I don't work for him. We have a history, and I . . . It's really none of your business.” I glare at his hidden face, wondering what I would see there. A part of me is tempted to reach out, but a competing instinct tells me to keep away. I listen to the latter one and take a step back. I should walk away, but Oswell is still there, silent and broken beneath the lights.

“Elton send you to clean that up?” I indicate Oswell with a jerk of my chin.

“That's not Elton's to clean up. Mine neither. We weren't even here when it happened.” Foote pulls his hat off, and the moonlight hits his eyes, so I can see them glaring down at me. “But you were.”

My stomach twists and I'm unable to hold Foote's gaze. I stare at my toes instead and then back at Oswell, again tracing the line from the top of the stadium straight down to the spot where he now lies.

“He jumped then.”

“Didn't see it myself. Elton's girlfriend was here with you, though. Way she told it, he took off like he thought he could fly. What do you think put that thought in his head?”

Not what. Who. And there's only one person I know of who could do such a thing. Piper. The word is so loud in my own head, I wouldn't be surprised if Foote could hear it too. Then again, he doesn't need to; he's been in town long enough to have heard about her.

“How many of those pills did you take?” Foote asks, abruptly changing topics.

“Well, this has been fun,” I say, deciding I've had enough of Foote. He's too damn comfortable for a newcomer. “But I should get going.”

To prove it, I march back toward the fence line. Wishing I wasn't still wearing my too-short shorts, I push one foot into a diamond-shaped opening for a boost, and then grip the top of the fence, pushing myself up.

“You stopped breathing. And that was after you puked up a bunch of vile purple junk. Even then, there was still enough of that stuff inside you that you forgot how to breathe.”

I feel right now like I've forgotten how to breathe. And how to move. And how to tell him he's a liar even when what he says sounds like the truth. So much like the truth that I can feel the way my chest would've grown tight, squeezing in on itself, begging for air. My heart frightened and galloping—that almost feels like a memory too, along with Foote's eyes staring into mine. “Breathe. Breathe.” A chant, an order, a plea. Helpless, I heard the words, but couldn't remember what they meant any more than I could recall how to pull oxygen in and out of my lungs.

Somehow my toes find a grip on the other side and then I get my second leg over and hop down. Without looking back to see if Foote enjoyed the view, I start walking.

“Accidental overdose,” I call to him. “Happens to notters sometimes.” I shrug like it's no big deal, like I'm not totally shaken. Had I really been that bad? Could I really have come that close to dying?

I push the questions aside, unable to deal with them right now.

In the distance thunder rumbles, and I start to run, hoping to get home before the storm breaks.

EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD

Five Years Ago

YOU STARED AT THE STATUE OF LACHMAN GARDNER
like you were committing it to memory. And then you picked up the sledgehammer and swung. Lachman's right arm shattered into a pile of pebbles. You crouched down and began shoveling the pieces into a plastic bag.

“Help me,” you ordered. “Hurry!” So I did. Using only the light from the crescent moon, we gathered every last bit of Lachman's crushed arm; you even had a small dustpan and broom to scoop up the bits too fine for our fingers.

That was how the destruction of Lachman Gardner, our illustrious ancestor and the founder of Gardnerville, began.

At first everyone was shocked. Who would hurt good old Lachy?

It was funny that people were so fond of him. Judging from the quotes etched at the base of the statue, he was a self-aggrandizing bastard.
AS GO THE GARDNERS, SO GOES GARDNERVILLE. LONG LIVE THE GARDNERS. LONG LIVE GARDNERVILLE!
Nobody seemed to hold it against him, though. Or if they did, perhaps they figured a little self-importance was to be expected from the man who'd built the reformatory and overseen the construction of the tunnel through the mountain that would bring the train and modernization to our sleepy town. If Lachman had never come upon this place, people would still be living the same primitive existence they'd been stuck with a hundred years ago.

But you, Piper, you hated Lachman Gardner.

I don't think I ever really knew why. Maybe you didn't quite know why either.

Maybe it was because Daddy was the spitting image of him and you couldn't hate him so you hated Lachman instead.

I think there was more to it, though.

I think it had something to do with the reformatory.

Over the next few weeks we returned to Lachman. With the sledgehammer or sometimes a little chisel and hammer, you broke him down piece by piece, and then together we swept him into plastic bags. Finally, only his clay shoes were left.

Daddy was furious. Every time another piece of the statue disappeared, he'd march down there to examine the damage. Then he would come home and ask me, “Who did it?”

At first when I told him I didn't know, he would shake his head and walk away, muttering that it must have been an accident. It was difficult for him to conceive of this type of betrayal—to his mind, an attack on Lachman was the same as someone planting a knife in his own back. But as Lachman continued to shrink, Daddy could no longer pretend that it was not deliberate.

He began pressing me harder.

“Tell me who did it.

“You know.

“I know you know.

“This isn't your secret to keep!”

I told him I didn't know. Every single time, that was my answer. He grew less and less satisfied until finally, when only Lachman's feet were left, he dragged me from our house all the way to the town square where the last bits of Lachman waited. I remember the look on your face, Piper, when he grabbed my arm and pulled me stumbling and tripping behind him.

“Tell me who did this,” Daddy demanded once more.

“I don't know,” I answered, my voice small and trembling.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me so hard that my vision went spotty and little starbursts of color shimmered before my eyes. I blinked, clearing the spots away to focus on you instead. You stood frozen behind Daddy, looking even more frightened than me. Following my gaze, Daddy turned toward you.

“You know who did this?” he asked.

“How would she know?” I demanded, pushing myself between them.

Daddy gave me a careless shove. Still dizzy, I stumbled backward and fell.

Ignoring me, Daddy took a step toward Piper. “You love Lachman, don't you, Piper? Why don't you show Skylar the proper way to treat Lachman. 'Cause I think she's the one who's been doing this terrible thing. But she looks up to you. Doesn't she? C'mon now, Piper, set an example for Skylar and kiss that man's shoes.”

You didn't even hesitate, Piper. You stepped forward and sank down to your knees so that you were kneeling before Lachman. Then you kissed the tip of each shoe.

Daddy laughed and turned to me. “Another piece of that man goes missing, and I'm taking it out of your hide.”

Later that night, you let me take the first swing at Lachman. Then we alternated until he was nothing but crumbs to be scooped up and carried away.

Daddy kept his word. He beat me bloody while you watched and Chance barked himself hoarse.

A few weeks later, when I could walk again without wincing, we went up to the reformatory. Bit by bit, scraping the skin from our knuckles, we pushed our hands beneath the fence and left little fistfuls of Lachman scattered in piles on the grounds of the reformatory.

I still don't know what it was all about, but there was something satisfying in doing it just the same.