Two Roads (8 page)

Those were the last words we ever spoke to each other.

I remember everything from that night, the night Ben’s tears finally got the best of him, the night he bought a gun at a small hunting store in our neighborhood and decided to sit on the roof, once and for all. I remember the night he sat by our chimney like he always did--it was his favorite spot--and looked out at the sky and the stars and the moon and the snow and the complete, utter calmness of our dark neighborhood. I remember the night he pressed the gun to his head, took a deep breath, and squeezed.

The night he pulled the trigger, and our silent neighborhood wasn’t so silent after all.

~

She dreamed that one day, she would dance in a field of green

she would smile so often she would not even notice she is doing it

she would feel buoyant, light and happy and free.

She dreamed of a perfect life.

Of freedom.

Of love.

But it never came true, and now she doesn’t know

how to dream

anymore.

~

No
one knows why Ben did it, why he pulled the trigger. I always thought he was happy, except for those few times, and I guess so did everyone. After my parents and I moved into a new home on the site of their company in Silicon Valley (the thoughts of what happened in our old LA house became too much for us) I kept telling myself the suicide was all my parents’ fault because they tore him away from his true love--archeology--and that he was probably secretly miserable at their company. That’s why I refuse to work for them.

I tell myself it was Logan’s fault because they spent so much time together toward the end, and if anyone were to notice the signs, it should’ve been him.

I tell myself it’s my fault because I’d heard him cry before, because I knew something was off about him, and yet, I did nothing.

But I don’t really know whose fault it is, because he never left a note or anything, and that may be the worst part of all: the not knowing.

After a while, once my apartment goes dark and the tears have dried up, I clamber to my feet. I think about Logan that night, hugging me like he was my friend and like he really cared, like he wasn’t as to blame as I was, and then the fury rises up again, and I know what I have to do.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, clean up all of the lemonade spill and the upturned furniture from earlier, and I decide it’s time to pull a revenge prank on Logan--a really, really great one too. Pranking him has never failed to distract me before, and I am not ready for it to stop now. So I pull out Ruby’s makeup kit, put on black lipstick and mascara, slip one of her sketchy-looking dark leather coats over my head, and then, just like that, I’m ready. Before I leave the room, I take one last look at myself in the mirror. I don’t look like me, I realize. I look like someone entirely different, someone who doesn’t let anything phase her.

I’m glad I don’t look weak. I hate looking weak.

With a deep breath, I spin away from the mirror, grab my bag off the ground, and walk straight out of my room. An icy wind jolts through me as soon as I step outside, but the coolness is oddly refreshing. It seems to run along my body and wipe everything clean, clearing my head, my thoughts. It puts me right back into my factory mode: just another pretty face who can’t be fazed.

And that’s exactly what I want.

Without hesitating, I race down the stairs to the bottom floor, run up to the far end of the building, and stop at the room where I know he lives. I press my ear to the door for an instant, listening to see if he or Jaden are there. They aren’t, as usual; they’re probably out quizzing each other about useless math question or something. Whatever it is, I am sure it’s gag-me boring if it involves Logan.

Glancing around to make sure no one is looking, I pull a paperclip out of my pocket, bend it so it forms a single, small wire, and put it between my gritted teeth as I adjust my skirt. Then I carefully insert it into the lock, poke it around until I hear a click, and pull. The door swings open, revealing a completely dark room without as much as a sound. A small smile flickers across my lips. Let the pranking begin.

Needless to say, this is not my first time breaking into Logan’s room.

As soon as I’m inside, I close the door, flip on the lights, and head straight to his bathroom. Steam is still spilling from the open door as I enter--he must have left recently--and I immediately bend down by the toilet paper. I strip the roll of the normal paper and shove it in the trash, kicking it out of reach. Then I grab some duct tape from my bag and put it on the roll instead. It wraps around effortlessly, and I stand back, admiring my handiwork. It’s a good start--time to move onto phase two.

I’ve decided, given the suckish nature of today, that Logan deserves a three-pronged prank.

For the next part I head to the main room, where Logan’s bed is located. I bend down by the wall nearest the door, reach into my purse, and pull out a stack of two-hundred-something pieces of paper, all bundled together. I grab the top one and hold it in front of me to ensure everything looks good--it does. The poster is an uber-creepy stalker-photo I took of Logan mid-yawn the other day, with his eyes scrunched up and his expression all weird and convoluted. Let’s just say it’s not the most attractive picture ever. Beneath his nose is a sharpie-drawn mustache I added for emphasis. I photoshoped a red “I HATE PEOPLE” hat on top of his head as well, just for good measure.

At the bottom of the image, his hands look like they are holding a sign, which reads: “WANTED: Logan Waters,” then in small font beneath it, “Fake-mustache serial killer, known pedophile, and well-hated for his obnoxious eyelashes.” I find myself nodding, as if to give my own approval, and then I get to work. I pull out several rolls of tape, then one-by-one I stick all two-hundred of the WANTED posters of Logan around the room. I work until they completely cover the walls, then the beds, then the sofa. I even tape some of them over the TV as well. When I’m finished, almost every inch of Logan’s room besides the floor is covered in the WANTED posters. I step back and release a sigh of relief, because they look pretty damn good, too.

Finally I move on to part three of the prank, the one to seal the deal. Without making a sound, I walk over to Logan’s bedside table, pull open the third drawer where I know his more cherished items are located--I know my way around his room pretty well, all from experience. I sift through the drawer for a few minutes before I find what I’m looking for. Buried deep in the back of the drawer, hidden from reach, lies two old pictures of Logan and Ben from seven years ago as they stand on the beach, shirtless and with their arms around each other, grinning like idiots (mostly because a hot girl they both used to crush on is the one taking the picture). Logan loves these two pictures. I know it because he used to show them to me all of the time.

The corners of my lips twitch into a smile. I know I’ve found what I need.

But at the same time, a sudden aching feeling of guilt seizes me as I look at the picture and think about how important it is to Logan, how it is one of the few things he has left of Ben, and I know how much he cherishes it. Destroying it will hurt him, will
break
him, and I feel my stomach twist even tighter at the thought.

I can’t do this.

This is going too far.

I can’t--

But then I think of where Ben is now, where he
isn’t
, and I know I have to--for me. So I pull out a pair of scissors and hold it to the first picture. For another instant, I hesitate. I almost feel like I’m doing something wrong, like ruining something this important to Logan is crossing a line, like this is going to be a big mistake and it’s going to hurt him too much. I almost stop, too, but then the hatred starts remerging and I can’t stop myself. With a single deep breath, I start cutting. And cutting. And cutting.

I don’t stop until the first picture is almost completely shredded into random pieces that are so small they will certainly never be pieced back together. Then, almost systemically, I gather up all of the pieces and tighten them into a cylindrical shape with a rubber band.

Next I pull a sharpie, a string, and a small sticky note out of my bag, and with the shredded photograph pinned between my chin and my collarbone, I begin writing.

This is a ransom note
,
I write
.
I have sacrificed the first picture. You have twenty-four hours to put in writing that I am in every way your superior or the second one gets the same fate. I will contact you further for details on the drop.

- C

When I finish writing, I slip the pink note in between the rubber band and shredded photo, attach the string, and hang it from the fan. And just like that, I turn on the fan, so the whole cylindrical hostage goes flying in continuous circles around the room. Then I grab the second, untouched picture, sling my purse over my shoulders, and fast-walk out of the room before anyone can see me.

As soon as I reach the door, right before I leave the room, though, I stop. My gaze drifts back across the mess I made, between the WANTED signs everywhere and the duct tape toilet paper and the photo sacrifice, and I can’t help but smile once again. I did well. I admire my work for probably too long, just standing there, leaning against the door, and imaging the horror on Logan’s face when he comes back to his room tonight.

He’s going to be so pissed,
I think to myself, wishing I could be there to see it.

The one thing other than poetry that never fails to make me feel better? My rivalry with Logan. Thank god for nerdy college boys.

Finally, I turn back to the door and start to push it open when I hear a noise on the other side. Like, footsteps.
People
footsteps.

Automatically, I freeze. Every muscle in my body tenses up as the doorknob turns ever so slowly… and not from my doing. There’s a click, a grunt, and in steps Logan Waters, his eyes bright and his lips pursed into a full-on, goofy smile.

And then he lays eyes on me.

And I lay eyes on him.

And like a light going off, his grin disappears.

Oh fucking shit.

I try not to look as awkward as I feel, so I casually lean against the wall, yawn a little, and nod to him like I’m here every night waiting for him. It doesn’t help, unsurprisingly, because his eyes are full of anger. As he scans the room, I see his jaw working like he’s fighting off the urge to scream at me or something. When his eyes fixate on the torn photo, though, that’s when the rage really shows. His fists clench so tightly I swear he’s going to punch either me or the wall
as he turns ever so slowly from the fan back to me. Our eyes lock for the longest moment, and his dagger stare seems to burn into mine. I gulp--really gulp. He looks absolutely furious, and if I didn’t know better I’d think he is about to go on a rampage of sorts.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

I really did it this time. I went too far. I ruined it.

My stomach twists as he glowers at me, his eyes seemingly burning holes into mine.
I
did this to Logan.
I
made him pissed like this.
I
won this round.

I did it.

So why do I regret it so freaking much already?

The heat between us right now is intense, and it’s like his glare is burning into me. His hands are trembling, and I know I really did it this time. I know because of the strength of his stare, the fire I feel with him this close to me, the tightness in his abs from the tension, and the deep, aching regret in my stomach.

“Heya, Logan,” I finally say, winking at him and acting as casual as possible. It’s amazing how easy it is to pretend to be calm even when you feel anything but it. Logan doesn’t seem to notice my wink, though, and he just keeps glaring at me. Me, in my all black clothes and dark eye-makeup. Me, with way too much cleavage showing to be socially acceptable. Me, looking--let’s be honest--like a totally hot punk rocker.

“Heya, Cali,” he manages to grunt out, smiling a forced-together sweet smile but the rage behind it is evident.

“You look like you’re going to kill me right now,” I say like it’s nothing, lolling my tongue around in my cheek. I know how much it pisses him off, so I make it as blatant as possible, but this time it only makes me feel shittier.

This was a mistake.

This was a huge clusterfuck of a mistake.

As much as I hate Logan, I should never have gone as far as ruining something that relates to Ben.

“Odd,” he says, and his voice is this weird mix between a shout and a mutter. It does not sound very happy, either.

I cock my head to the side. “I’ll say.” We both talk in these clipped, forced voices, like we’re holding knives on each other but are trying to continue a normal conversation anyway.

After a while, Logan steps forward. “Your presence has been… interesting,” he says in a low voice.

We’re so close together now that we could practically be kissing each other--a really, really puke-worthy thought. I feel the warmth from his thighs mingling with my body, his arms and his chest just a few inches from mine, and he hesitates, shifting his jaw to the side so that I’ve decided he’s either going to strangle me or kiss me.

I hope for the former.

“Very interesting indeed,” I say slowly. “But, you know how I can’t resist my
favorite nerd
’s room. It’s just such a charming place.” I gesture at all of the destruction I caused, but Logan just glares at me.