The Evolution of Mara Dyer

by Michelle Hodkin

  14

  I WENT SLACK WITH FEAR, AS IF I WERE A PUPPET AND Phoebe had cut my strings.

  “It fell out of your bag,” she whispered.

  I stared blankly at the picture until I heard my name called. I shoved it in my pocket and asked to use the bathroom. Brooke nodded. I grabbed my bag and fled.

  Once inside, I hid in a stall and rifled through it. I took out an old paperback I’d found in the garage and decided to read—one of my father’s, I think, from college—along with the sketchbook I hadn’t been in the mood to draw in and a few charcoal sticks and pens.

  And my digital camera. The one my parents gave me for my birthday. I didn’t remember putting that in my bag at all.

  My pulse raced as I withdrew the picture from my back pocket and stared at it. I turned on the camera, pressed the menu button, and waited.

  The last picture taken appeared on the screen. It was the same photo in my hand.

  The picture before that was also of me asleep, in the same clothes I wore last night, my body in a different position. And the picture before that. And the picture before that.

  There were four of them altogether.

  Horror weakened my knees but I braced myself against the stall. I had to keep standing. I had to see if there was something, anything, any way I could prove that Jude took the pictures, that he was alive and in my room and watching me sleep. I thumbed through the camera’s features as I forced myself to breathe.

  The camera had a timer.

  My bag had been searched; whoever checked it would have seen the printed picture, but to them, that’s all it would look like. Just a picture of me asleep. They might think I scratched my eyes out myself.

  And if I showed the digital camera to them, or to my parents, they might think that I took all of the pictures myself; that I used the camera’s timer to set up the shots. The why didn’t matter; I just came back from an involuntary stay at a psych unit. Why would never matter again.

  I stifled the screams I wanted to yell but couldn’t. I put the camera and the picture back in my bag. I went back to the common room and it was all I could do to sit still. Phoebe the psycho stared at me the whole time.

  I ignored her. I detached. I was being tested, Mr. Robins said, evaluated to see if I could hack it in the outpatient world, and I needed to prove that I could.

  So when the session finally ended, I seized on Jamie—I needed the distraction.

  “Do you miss Croyden?” I asked, my voice falsely light.

  “Sure. Particularly when they make us do positive self-talk with Chariots of Fire blasting in the background.”

  Thank you, Jamie. “Tell me you’re kidding?”

  “I wish. At least the food’s good,” he said, as we lined up for lunch.

  I was about to ask what we were having when a piercing scream sounded from the front of the line. I was already on edge and that nearly sent me over. I watched, frozen, as a blond girl with a delicate doll face separated herself from the group.

  “Megan,” Jamie said in my ear. “The poor kid’s afraid of everything. This happens a lot.”

  Megan was now backed up against the opposite wall, pointing at something.

  A large, cartoonishly handsome “student” was walking in the direction of her extended forefinger. He crouched down low, just as I rose up on my toes to try and see.

  “It’s a ring snake,” he called out. He lifted it with both hands.

  I exhaled. No big—

  Megan screamed again as the boy ripped the snake apart.

  I was paralyzed for a second, not quite believing what I’d seen. The cat last night, and now this—anger rushed in and I seized it. It was better than fear. I couldn’t do anything about the cat, but I could do something about this.

  I pushed past the people in line as the boy, who more accurately resembled a Cro-Magnon man, dropped the mangled pieces on the white carpet with a satisfied look.

  He towered over me but I looked him in the eye. “What is wrong with you?”

  “You seem upset,” he said evenly. “It’s just a snake.”

  “And you’re just a douchebag.”

  Jamie appeared by my side and looked down at the mess. “I see you’ve met Adam, our resident sadist.”

  Adam pushed Jamie into the wall with one arm. “At least I’m not the resident fag.”

  There was cheering and chanting of the “Fight! Fight! Fight!” variety, which mingled with a counselor’s high, hoarse voice shouting, “Break it up!”

  But Jamie wasn’t remotely fazed. He was smiling, actually, and stared directly at Adam, who had pinned him against the wall. “Hit me,” he said. His voice was low. Compelling.

  And Adam looked all too happy to oblige. He pulled back his fist, but a heavyset counselor in a wrinkled, too-tight dress shirt reached him first and wrestled his arms back. The veins in Adam’s arms and neck bulged, making the tattoos on his forearms appear to twitch. He had a short, military buzz cut and his scalp was completely red beneath it. It was kind of comical, honestly.

  “Wayne,” Brooke said, waving to the counselor, “help Adam calm down. Jamie, you and I are going to discuss this later.”

  “Discuss what?” Jamie asked innocently. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  Another adult, a guy with a ponytail, said to Brooke, “He instigated it.”

  Jamie turned to him. “I did not instigate anything, dear Patrick. I was calmly but indignantly standing here as Adam needlessly ended a reptilian life.”

  “Two o’clock,” Brooke said sharply. “You’ll miss drama therapy.”

  “Shucks.”

  I snorted. People whispered around us, stealing looks. Jamie seemed to enjoy it.

  “That was ballsy,” I said to him as we moved up in line.

  “Which part?”

  “The part where you acted like you wanted him to hit you.”

  Jamie looked thoughtful. “I think I actually did. Funny thing: It’s like coming here has made me more combative.”

  “Hmm,” I murmured.

  “What?”

  “You just made me think of something my dad sometimes says.”

  He raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Put a petty criminal in maximum security prison and he’ll come out knowing how to rape and pillage.”

  “Precisely,” Jamie said, nodding. “My urge to hit things is directly proportional to the cheeriness of the staff. And I find everything ultra-annoying lately. And everyone.” As we neared the end of the line, I watched Wayne hand little paper cups to each of our peers in front of us. I glanced at Jamie.

  “Meds first, then food,” he explained.

  “For all of us?”

  “Part of the package,” Jamie said as the line moved forward. “Drug therapy in conjunction with talk therapy, yadda yadda yadda.” And then it was his turn. He took two little paper Dixie cups from the counselor, the one who broke up the almost-fight.

  “Hi, Wayne,” Jamie said cheerfully.

  “Hello, Jamie.”

  “Bottoms up.” Jamie tossed the contents of one cup back, then the other.

  Wayne glanced at me then. “You’re next.”

  “I’m new—”

  “Mara Dyer,” he said, handing me two cups. I peered into them. One was filled with water, the other with pills. Unfamiliar pills; I recognized only one.

  “What are these?” I asked him.

  “Your meds.”

  “But I’m not on all of these.”

  “You can talk to Dr. Kells about that later, but for now, you gotta take ’em.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “Rules are rules,” he said, shrugging. “Go on, now.”

  I tossed them back and swallowed.

  “Open your mouth,” he said.

  I did as I was told.

  “Good work.”

  Do I get a gold star? I didn’t say it, but I wished I had. Instead, I trudged after Jamie and we ate together. Miraculously, I even laughed.


  Just as I was beginning to think this place might not be so terrible, Dr. Kells appeared in the corner of the room and called my name.

  “Good luck,” Jamie said as I rose from our table.

  But I didn’t need luck. Despite my bad night and worse morning, I knew the script well. I could pull this off.

  As I left the dining room, though, fingers tightened around my wrist and pulled me into a niche. My eyes followed them up to Phoebe’s face. I glanced behind me; we were out of view.

  “You’re welcome,” she said tonelessly.

  I wrenched my arm away. “For what?”

  Phoebe’s face was a blank mask. “For fixing your eyes.”

  15

  SO PHOEBE THE PSYCHO SCRATCHED MY EYES OUT. Not Jude.

  I was relieved and angry at once. Jude took the pictures and made sure I found them today, and that was terrifying and awful, yes.

  But I was glad he hadn’t scratched out my eyes. I didn’t know quite why, but I was.

  Phoebe drifted away before I could say anything else. I took a deep breath and followed Dr. Kells down the long corridor, but it felt like the walls were closing in. Phoebe had unbalanced me, and I had to get control.

  After what seemed like a ten-mile walk, I reached an open door near the end of the hall. Dr. Kells had already gone inside.

  The room was white like all the others, and the only furniture in it was a blond wood desk and two white chairs dwarfed by the open space. Dr. Kells stood behind the desk, and a man was by her side.

  She smiled at me and gestured to one of the chairs. I obediently went to sit but almost missed it. Weird.

  “How did your tour go?” she asked me.

  “Fine,” I lied again.

  “Wonderful. I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Vargas.” The man next to her smiled. He was young—in his twenties, probably, with curly hair and glasses. He looked sort of like Daniel, actually.

  “Dr. Vargas is a neuropsychologist. He works with some of our students who have suffered from head trauma and other acute illnesses that are causing them problems.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  “You too.” Still grinning, he moved behind me toward the door. “Thank you, Dr. Kells.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He closed the door, and then she and I were alone. Dr. Kells rose from behind her desk and sat in the chair next to me. She smiled. She didn’t have a pen or paper or anything with her. She just . . . watched.

  The air felt heavy and my thoughts became slow as seconds stretched into minutes. Or maybe they didn’t; time was elastic in the giant empty room. My eyes darted around, searching for a clock, but there didn’t seem to be one.

  “So,” Dr. Kells finally said. “I think we should begin by talking about why you’re here.”

  Showtime. I reached into my memory to recall the symptoms of PTSD to make sure whatever I divulged mimicked that diagnosis and not schizophrenia. Or worse.

  “I’m here,” I said carefully, “because I survived a trauma. My best friend died.” Meaningful pause. “It’s been really hard for me, and I keep thinking about it. I’ve had hallucinations. And flashbacks.” I stopped. Would that be enough?

  “That’s why your family moved to Florida,” Dr. Kells said.

  Yes. “Right.”

  “But that’s not why you’re here in this program.”

  I swallowed. “I guess I’m still not over it.” I tried to sound innocent, but I just sounded nervous.

  She nodded. “No one expects you to be. But what I’m asking is whether or not you understand why you’re here. Now.”

  Ah. She wanted to hear about Jude—that I believed he was alive. I had to answer her, but it was a dangerous tightrope to walk. If I spoke too carefully, she’d realize that I was manipulating her. But if I spoke too candidly, she could decide that I was crazier than I actually was.

  So I said, “My father was shot. I—I thought he might die. And I freaked out. I went to the police station and just started screaming. I wasn’t—I didn’t feel like myself. It’s been a lot to deal with.” My stomach churned. I hoped she’d move on.

  She didn’t. “At the police station, you mentioned your boyfriend. Jude.”

  I hated hearing his name. “Ex,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Ex-boyfriend.”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” she repeated, giving me that same look I’d seen on Dr. West’s face a few days ago. “You mentioned your ex-boyfriend, Jude. You said that he’s here.”

  The words FOR CLAIRE appeared in red on the white wall behind Dr. Kells’s head. I felt a jolt of terror before I blinked them away.

  “The information in your file says that your boyfriend, Jude—ex-boyfriend, I’m sorry—and your friends Rachel and Claire died in the collapse of the Tamerlane State Lunatic Asylum in Rhode Island.”

  “Yes.” My voice was a whisper.

  “But you said that Jude’s here,” she repeated.

  I said nothing.

  “Have you seen him since that night, Mara?”

  I was stone. I modulated my voice. “That would be impossible.”

  Dr. Kells rested her elbow on her desk and her chin in her hand. She looked at me with sympathy. “Do you want to know what I think?”

  Dazzle me. “I can’t imagine.”

  “I think that you feel guilty about your best friend’s death. About your boyfriend’s death.”

  “Ex!” I screamed. Shit.

  Dr. Kells didn’t flinch. Her voice was calm. “Did something happen with you and Jude, Mara?”

  I was breathing hard but I hadn’t realized it. I closed my eyes. Control yourself.

  “Please tell me the truth,” she said softly.

  “What does it matter?” A tear rolled down my cheek. Damn it.

  “It’s going to be so much harder to help you otherwise. And I really do want to help you.”

  I was silent.

  “You know,” Dr. Kells said, leaning back in her seat. “Some teens have been in this program for years; they started here and then moved to our residential center, and they’ve been there ever since. But I don’t think you need that. I think this is just a way station for you. To help you get back to where you’re supposed to be. You’ve been derailed by everything that’s happened in the past six months—and that’s understandable. You survived a catastrophic accident.”

  Not an accident.

  “Your best friend died.”

  I killed her.

  “You moved.”

  To try and forget what I did.

  “Your teacher died.”

  Because I wanted her to.

  “Your father was shot.”

  Because I forced someone’s hand.

  “That’s more trauma than most people are faced with in a lifetime, and you’ve experienced it within six months. And I think it will help you to talk about it with me. I know you’ve seen other therapists before—”

  Ones I liked better.

  “But you’re here now, and I think that even though you don’t want to be here, you might find that it isn’t a waste of your time.”

  The tears were flowing steadily now. “What do you want me to say?”

  “What happened with Jude?”

  My throat felt raw, and my nose itched from crying. “He—kissed me. When I didn’t want him to.”

  “When?”

  “That night. The night he—”

  Died, I almost said. But he didn’t die. He was still alive.

  “Did he do anything else?”

  “He tried to.” And so I told Dr. Kells about that night, and what Jude tried to do.

  “Did he rape you?” she asked.

  I shook my head fiercely. “No.”

  “How far did it go?”

  My face flooded with heat. “He pushed me against the wall but . . .”

  “But what?”

  But I stopped him. “The building collapsed before anything else happened.”

  Dr. Kell
s cocked her head to one side. “And he died, and you lived.”

  I said nothing.

  She leaned forward just slightly. “Does Jude ever tell you to do things you don’t want to do, Mara?”

  I wanted to shake her. She thought he was some imaginary devil sitting on my shoulder, whispering evil thoughts in my ear.

  “Do you think Jude is alive?” she asked again.

  I wanted to take her by the collar of her perfectly pressed silk blouse and scream, “He is alive!” in her face. It took a mammoth force of will just to say the word, “No.”

  Dr. Kells sighed. “Mara, when you lie, I have to adjust your course of treatment for that. I don’t want to have to treat you like you’re a pathological liar. I want to be able to trust you.”

  She wouldn’t trust me if I told her the truth, but at the moment, I wasn’t convincingly lying. “I don’t think he’s alive,” I said, steadily. “I know he isn’t. But sometimes . . .”

  “Sometimes . . .”

  “Sometimes it scares me, you know?” I hedged. “The idea that he might be? Like a monster hiding in my closet, or under the bed.” There. Maybe that would give her what she wanted without making me sound like too much of a lunatic.

  She nodded her head. “I understand completely. I think your fear makes sense, and it’s something I’d like to work on during your time here.”

  I exhaled with relief. “Me too,” I lied again.

  “Let’s say, hypothetically, that Jude didn’t die in the asylum.”

  I didn’t mean I wanted to work on it today. “Okay . . .”

  “Let’s say he’s in Florida.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “What do you think he’d be doing here? What’s your fear?”

  I was in dangerous territory, but I didn’t know how to evade the question. “That he’s—that he would be stalking me.” Which he was.

  “Why would he want to come all the way to Florida just to stalk you?”

  The mutilated cat. The words on my mirror, written in blood. The pictures. My pulse spiked when I thought of them. “To make me afraid,” I said.

  “Why would he want that?”

  Because I tried to kill him. Because I killed his sister.

  Those were the answers that came to mind, but of course I couldn’t voice them. I shook my head instead and asked, “Why would he assault me in the first place?”