Transcendent (20 page)

“You really want to know?”

I nodded, squeezing his hand more tightly. “But only if you want to tell me.”

“I don't want to scare you away. I don't want . . .” He paused, his whole face tensing as he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. “I don't want my life to be too much for you, Iris. Too complicated. I don't want you to feel like I'm nothing but baggage. Because I am, that's probably true, but . . . but I'm trying to make it better. For Zo. She deserves a better life than the one we've been stuck with so far. And you—you have enough to worry about already without adding in all of my issues.”

“You're not baggage, Zane,” I said, leaning in closer, my knee pressing up against his. “I want to know
you
. The good and the bad.”

Zane laughed at that, but it was an empty laugh. His eyes still looked just as sad, no hint of a smile. “Trust me, there's a lot more bad than good. The good I could probably catch you up on in sixty seconds or less.”

The room was quiet for a moment, nothing but the sound of our breathing and the dim rumble of traffic from the city outside those walls.

“You've probably guessed this much,” he said, breaking the silence, “but our mom and dad were total fuckups at the whole parenting thing. My dad stopped by here and there in the early years, but we were just one of a handful
of families to him. Not that any of his families mattered. He had his boys. Still does, I guess, but I wouldn't know for sure since it's been about five years since we heard anything at all. He never grew up, never became a real man. If he's still alive right now, he's probably passed out on someone's couch—he'll wake up at three in the afternoon, sell a few scammed phones, make just enough cash to get his next high. Pass out, do it all over again tomorrow.”

He paused, shaking his head slowly. I could feel the rage, the resentment, reaching out from him, its own living, breathing thing—like a limb that I couldn't see but knew was still there, just as much a piece of him as his arms, his legs.

His words, though, they made me think about my dad—about how devoted and loyal he'd been to me my whole life. Being a father, I realized . . . it was about so much more than just shared blood.

“And my mom . . .” he started again, “my mom tried. She did what she could. But it was too much, and one day a while back, she took us over to have dinner at my aunt and uncle's and then she . . . she took off. No one knows where, or if they do, no one tells us. She calls once in a while, says she'll be back for us someday. Her brother, though, my uncle Leo, Brinley's dad—he made something of himself, unlike the rest of the family. He trained to be a mechanic and he worked his ass off to provide for my aunt
and Brin. He was a good man. Still is, maybe, somewhere deep down, at least. We came and went from their place at first, stayed with other friends sometimes, but in the end we were pretty much living there full-time.”

He stopped, staring off at the ceiling. I waited, holding my breath, for him to continue. But seconds passed, minutes, and still nothing.

“Zane . . .”

He glanced back down at me, and I saw the tears pooling in his eyes. That tough facade was crumbling, disappearing. His face looked years younger.

Zane was a boy. He was just a boy who had lived too much too soon.

“Everything was good,” he said, each word shaking and unsteady, an obvious effort. “Great, actually, the best it had ever been for the two of us. Leo and his wife, Monica, were solid people. We had three meals every day, and I never had to worry at the end of each month that we'd have to pack up and move. Monica was so sweet to Zoey, treated her the same way she treated Brinley. She was furious at my mom, hated her for leaving us like she did, but she never said a bad word in front of Zoey. But after Disney . . .” He flinched at the word. “After Disney, it all changed. Everything. It changed so fast, I can barely even explain how it all happened.”

He cocked his head, squinting at me. I shifted, crossed
and uncrossed my legs, even more anxious now.

“Sorry,” he said, blinking at me, as if he'd just realized that he'd stopped talking. “I was just thinking that I've never said any of this out loud before. I never talked about what happened to anyone. Only Zoey knows, but she was there; she saw what went on for herself. You . . . you're the first person I'm telling. It's crazy, you know, since I've only really known you for a few days now. It just—I don't know, it feels like more than that, I guess. It feels like you get me already, and I didn't even have to try.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said, bumping him with my shoulder. We were silent for a moment, the confession sinking in.

“When they found out about Brinley,” Zane finally said, “they kept it together, Leo and Monica, for a few days, up until the funeral was done. They were both hysterical—but only behind closed doors. Zo and I heard them crying all night, and she'd be crying all night, too. It was like we were living with a ghost. Brin was still there. She was everywhere. After the funeral, after Leo had to go back to work, it got real fast. Leo and Monica stopped knowing how to function. They stopped eating, stopped cleaning. If they couldn't be taking care of her, they couldn't be taking care of anyone. Not themselves, not Zoey or me.”

He paused, the sickening weight of the story seeming to press every last bit of air from the room.

“So we came home from school one day, not even a week after the funeral, to find my aunt had thrown out every single thing in Brinley's room, even all the clothes and the toys that Zoey could have used, too. She was drunk, maybe even high, I don't know—she might have been desperate enough by then to be taking something to numb it all. Anyway, she was raging, but I was upset that she hadn't stopped to think about Zoey before throwing it all out. So I dragged Zoey to the bedroom and went to confront Monica. She started screaming, spitting at me—she was acting insane, like a crazy lady out on the street. When I looked in her eyes, I saw a stranger. It was like everything, all the pieces that made Monica
Monica,
had died with Brinley.”

He shuddered, as if the memory, even now, made him go cold. “I hadn't realized at first, but Leo was home the whole time, too, even more messed up than Monica was. When he heard her screaming at me, he came out raging. He kept shouting that we needed to get out, that we had no right to keep bothering his family. I said some things back, I don't even remember. Before I knew it, he had an old kitchen knife jammed up against my throat. Gave me a warning cut, the scar I have now. And then he told me that I had five minutes to disappear for good before he got rid of me himself. He said . . .”

Zane squeezed his eyes shut, and I felt his entire body
tense next to mine. I tensed, too, terrified for what was to come.

“He said that if Brinley couldn't be alive, Zoey and I didn't deserve to keep breathing either. I grabbed Zoey and ran like hell. Haven't spoken a word to either of them since. They might regret it. They probably do. They were good people, before those fucking lunatics took their daughter from them. But I never want to see their faces again after that bullshit. Ever.”

I wanted to hug him, but I wasn't sure I could even move. I wasn't sure I could even breathe.

“Right after that,” he continued, pulling me back to him, “I got my tattoo from one of my buddies. Zoey begged and begged to get one, too, and I finally let her do it. For Brin. Probably proves I'm not the best guardian, but it was important to her.” He pulled his T-shirt back to show me the tattoo more fully—thick, jagged lines curling from the top of his neck down to his collarbone, and extending beyond that to skin I still couldn't see.

“It's a vine with thorns surrounding the letter
Z
.
Z
for Zoey, not for Zane. It was a reminder to myself that I'd protect her always, no matter what. And it was also to prove that not only the scar from Leo would mark me. I can mark myself, too.”

“That scar,” I said, my words fragile, almost too quiet to be heard, “that scar makes you infinitely more amazing
to me. That scar makes you the strongest person I know.”

Zane opened his mouth as if he was about to refute me, deny that he could ever be amazing or strong, but I reached out and put my fingers to his lips.

“I know you don't believe it yet, but you deserve good things, Zane. You deserve to be happy.” I leaned in closer, my lips landing softly on the scar. “You deserve to be loved.”

“W
HAT DID YOU
just say?” Zane asked, pulling away. His eyes were squinted at me like I'd just made some kind of awful accusation—I might as well have said he was repulsive and I hated him, from the way he was looking at me now.

“That you deserve happiness,” I said, the words shakier this time, less certain. “And love, you deserve love.”

“Don't say that.” He cut me off, turning his face so that I could no longer see his eyes. “Please, don't say that, Iris. You don't mean it.”

“What . . . ? Oh no, I didn't mean it like
that
,” I said, my heart pounding as I pieced together just how exactly he'd interpreted my words. “I didn't mean it as in
I love you
, that's not what I was trying to say, it's just . . .”

“Well, whatever—however you meant it, it's not what I do. I told you that last night—I don't have time for that bullshit. I love Zoey, and that's it. I don't love, and I don't
get loved either. There's too much hate to have room for anything else. Better you know that now. Okay?”

I nodded, too numb to say anything else.

“I need to head out now,” he said, prying his fingers from mine as he pushed off the couch. “I have some work to do before I pick Zoey up from school.”

“What kind of work do you do, anyway?” The words slipped out before I could stop myself. As much as I didn't want to care, I did.

His scowl deepened. “That's my business. Don't you worry about it.”

“Fine,” I said, already regretting that I'd asked. I'd known that would be the answer, hadn't I? Especially now, when he was already so on the defensive. “But what about Abigail?” I was desperate to bring him back, to remind him of what really mattered. “When will we go?”

“We can go whenever we want,” he said, shoulders hunched as he jammed his hands in his pockets. He glanced at me for a second before turning back to face the door. “As soon as tonight, I guess. It's your decision, if you're ready or not. She's home now, back at their apartment in Crown Heights.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Where had the real Zane gone? The Zane who talked about his family, the Zane who cried if he needed to cry. “Let's go tonight, then.”

I would focus on this. I would focus on proving that I was right, that I was as ordinary as I said I was. After I proved it—to myself, once and for all, and to Zane and Zoey—then maybe I could prove it, somehow, to my family next, my friends. Keep on proving it until everyone else believed me, too.

Zane gave a brisk nod. “Okay. Tonight, then. I'll pick Zoey up and we'll meet you back here. We'll all head out together.”

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. He didn't look back once as he walked out of the room.

“See?” I said out loud, to no one at all. “I touched your scar, and I didn't come anywhere close to healing
you
. Not anywhere close.”

•   •   •

Soon after Zane had left me in the empty apartment, the entire colossal reality of my promise hit—the hopes that Abigail's parents were pinning on our meeting. To me, this was just a doomed experiment. But to them . . . to them it meant everything.

A wave of nausea swept over me and I jumped from the sofa, racing to the bathroom. I just barely made it there in time, hands and knees pressed to the cracked tile floor, my face hanging over a toilet that likely hadn't been cleaned in years. I shook as I purged everything out, every
muscle pulsing, pounding as my stomach emptied.

“What the hell is going on here?”

I jerked myself up, spit and tears running down my face.

“Jesus, you're a sorry sight.”

“Oh my god, I'm s-so sorry,” I stuttered, wiping at my mouth with my sleeve. Anthony was frozen in the doorway, his face an angry grimace as he stared down at me.

“I didn't know you were home, I thought you were out, I . . .”

He waved me away in disgust, turning so that he didn't have to look at me. “I was sound asleep in my room. Woke up to some nasty howling and didn't know what the hell was going on. Thought some strays musta crawled in the window and were going at it, from those awful sounds I was hearing.”

“I'm sorry I woke you,” I said, trying to push myself up, hands gripping the grimy toilet rim for support. But I was too shaky and weak still. “I wasn't feeling well. But I'm okay now. I'll clean everything up, don't worry. I just need a few minutes and then I'll . . .”

But Anthony didn't seem to be listening. He had spun back toward me, his brow scrunched, eyes squinting in concentration. “Why do you look so damn familiar?” he asked, taking a step closer as he studied me. “They never brought you around here before; I'd have remembered
that. No, you've never been here, but . . .”

“You must be thinking of someone else,” I said, my fingers curling even more tightly around the edge of the porcelain. I looked away, desperate to break the connection, to be out from under his scrutinizing glare. “We've definitely never met, but I get that a lot. I have one of those faces, I guess.” I was rambling now. “Anyway, I'm going to clean up, so you can just head back to bed. I won't be disturbing you again.”

He continued to stare, unblinking, as I tried for a second time to push myself up off the floor. I was successful this time, standing on my wobbly but upright legs. But we were too close now, our eyes level, aligned across the all-too-limited space between us.

“I'm going to clean up,” I repeated, hoping this time the words would stick.

Anthony shook his head, grunted. The moment seemed to have passed, for now. “Fine. But don't do it again, you hear? Next time you get sick, use the sidewalk and let me sleep.”

He turned away, leaving me alone in the bathroom. I wanted to feel relieved, but I couldn't, not really—that had been too close. Maybe Anthony hadn't put the pieces together yet, but he still could. He could turn on the news at any minute now, or pick up a paper with my smiling face below the headline.

The truth hit me all over again, just as I'd said it to my parents. There was no point in running. I couldn't stay hidden forever, not from my family and friends, not from the rest of the world, either. I was buying time, nothing more.

Time to prove that I wasn't what or who people thought I was. Hopefully.

•   •   •

The rest of the afternoon was an agonizing sludge of time, too many hours of lying on the sofa, nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and think about what I would say, do, feel when I sat down next to Abigail's bed.

I must have dozed off at some point, because one minute I was alone, wondering what Abigail would look like, what she would say to me, and the next I was opening my eyes to Anthony once again leaning over me. I jerked up, instantly tensed and wide-awake.

“You're her,” he said, simply. His voice was quiet but confident—no hint of a question this time. “The girl on the TV and in the papers. Christ,
everyone
seems to be talking about you. Talking about whether or not you're some kind of miracle child.”

I sat up and swung my legs around to brace my feet against the floor. There was no point in denying it now. “I just needed some time on my own to figure things out . . .
starting with how to handle all these reporters.”

He scratched his neck slowly, considering. “Seems like a whole lot of people are looking for you, not just the reporters. And you're
here
.” He chuckled.

The laugh wasn't intentionally sinister, maybe, but it still made my skin crawl. I hugged myself, smoothing my hands against the prickle of goose bumps tracing up my wrists. My eyes caught the clock above the stove. School had ended an hour before, which meant Zane and Zoey would be back soon. I hoped. As long as they were coming straight here . . .

“I bet some reporters would be
real
happy if I could give 'em a good scoop. Rumor is you're on the run and your parents won't say where you went.”

I didn't respond. The room was silent, other than a car alarm blaring outside on the street. I could feel Anthony staring at me, his cool eyes assessing, but I refused to look up, to give away my fear. If he knew how scared I was, he'd also know just how much power he held over me.

“What's Zane playing at with a girl like you, anyway?”

“He's just my friend,” I said, the words sounding weak even to me. “He just wanted to help me out.”

“Zane doesn't just
help
anyone.” Anthony laughed again. “Zoey maybe. But that's out of obligation. Zane does what Zane wants. For himself. Don't you forget that.”

I shook my head, anger welling up alongside the fear.
“So why do
you
help?” I asked, trying to redirect the conversation. He didn't exactly reek of compassion and moral obligation, after all. Why let them intrude on his sad little bachelor pad?

“Hmph,” he grunted, scowling at me. “That's got nothing to do with you.”

“Well,” I said, forcing my voice to sound much tougher than I actually felt, “you know all my personal business now, don't you? So it only seems fair.”

“It doesn't really matter anyway, okay? I knew their dad when we were kids. Their mom, too. I feel bad for them, that's all. I don't do much. Give them a place to stay sometimes, just to get them off the streets. Zane, he was friends with my son, too. Before.”

“Before what?” I asked, my curiosity making me bolder.

“Before. That's all you're getting. This ain't about me anyway. It's about you. About what I'm supposed to do with some crazy runaway girl on my couch. A crazy runaway girl that everyone seems to be looking for right now. Maybe I could even get some sweet reward out of the deal.” His eyes lit up at this, making my stomach dip.

“I'll leave. I'll stay somewhere else. And we can both pretend this never happened.”

“And leave me out of the fun?”

“It's not
fun
. And it's not your business.”

“I want to talk to Zane,” Anthony said.

“We both already know what Zane will say. We'll leave if you try to call any reporters about this. There's nothing in it for you.”

“Well then, good thing Zane's not here just yet, isn't it? Only you and me. And I'm willing to bet not a single other person knows where you are right now?” He paused, his grin growing wider at my silence. “I figured. So you're my little secret right now . . .”

He sat down next to me on the sofa, much closer than necessary. His cool, gleaming eyes were studying me, evaluating my worth, like a pawnshop dealer trying to pin down his price tag. I wanted to leave, run away, far away from this apartment, but I couldn't, not without Zane. Not without meeting Abigail. I had promised him and Zoey.

Anthony pulled out his phone.

“No, don't call anyone, please . . .”

A flash went off in my face.
Click, click.
A second flash, a third.

“Wanna smile, look pretty for the camera? No? Well, no matter, I have proof at least. Can't no one accuse me of lying when I—”

I grabbed at the phone and missed, Anthony's much longer arm holding it high above my reach.

“Nice try. Now, where do I send it off to first, hm . . . ?”

Just as I coiled and prepared for a second lunge, the lock clicked and the door flew open.

“We're going to Abby's!” Zoey yelled, flinging herself across the room and onto my lap. “You're really going to Abby's! We all are.” Her cheeks were flushed, eyes shining with giddiness.

“What's going on in here?” Zane asked, his gaze shifting from me to Anthony. I was gasping for air, my heart still racing, not ready yet to believe I was safe, even with the two of them there. Zane frowned as he stepped closer to Anthony.

“Calm down, Z,” Anthony said, waving Zane off. “Your friend and I were just having a little talk, that's all. Right,
Iris
?” He grinned at me, all his yellowed, crooked teeth on display—all the teeth he still had, that is, as quite a few seemed to be missing, making his smile even more broken and unsettling.

“He knows, Zane,” I said, tearing my eyes away from Anthony. Zoey was subdued now, wrapping her arms around my neck as she pulled herself closer against me. “He's convinced there's something in it for him. Some kind of reward if he gets an exclusive. He just took a few pictures of me with his phone, and . . .”

Before I could finish, Zane dove forward and ripped the phone from Anthony's hand. “You have
nothing
to do with this,” Zane said. He shook his head, his scowl so deep I almost didn't recognize him. “We're leaving. I'm deleting the photos right now, and you aren't going to say anything
about this to anyone. What Iris wants to do next is her own damn business.” He tossed the phone back to Anthony, catching him off guard as it slammed against his chest. “You're a sad old man and I'm sick of you. I'm done. I don't need this charity.”