The Rules

by Stacey Kade

I held it up to my father.

  “When I’m around her, the block in my brain goes away. Yesterday in the cafeteria, she was picking on Jenna—”

  My father sighed. “Ariane.”

  “Just listen! She was picking on Jenna, and the energy started to go out of control, but I stopped it. Last night, she was hurting Zane—”

  “Zane?” he asked with a frown.

  Uh-oh. I squirmed inwardly before answering. “Bradshaw.”

  His expression darkened. “The police chief ’s son? This is the police chief ’s son?” His voice rose.

  I ignored him; I was on a roll. “The lights were flickering and everything, but I managed to send it into those shaving-cream pies instead of all over the place. I controlled it.” I flipped through more pictures and slapped down one of Rachel covered in white goop.

  I kept going before he could interrupt again. “And this morning, I knocked Rachel’s cell phone out of her hand. I didn’t even have to work that hard to do it.”

  He sat up straighter in his chair, his gaze sharper now. “You’re telling me that you’ve done it? You’re back in control?”

  I hesitated. “It’s not as—”

  He slid the tumbler across the table to me and nodded toward it. “Show me,” he commanded. “Move it.”

  I thought about trying, but it would have only been for show. I could always feel it when the barrier dropped. And right now it was very much in place.

  I took a deep breath. “I can’t,” I admitted. “I don’t have it quite yet. I still need Rachel around to, I don’t know, trigger it. She’s the key, but I’m so close—”

  His mouth tightened. “It’s not her. It’s you. It’s always been you, your head, your block. The conditions you set for it to go down. It’s a combination lock you established.”

  I stared at him, startled by the depth of frustration in his voice.

  He sighed. “There’s a pattern to your power outbursts. I wasn’t sure before, but now it’s pretty clear. When someone’s suffering at the hands of a more powerful person, your block vanishes. And when it comes to Rachel”—he gestured to the laptop and photos—“you identify with her victims in particular. Probably because you put the wall up to protect yourself from Dr. Jacobs. You won’t defend yourself, but your subconscious won’t allow others to suffer if you can do something about it.”

  I blinked. I’d never thought about it that precisely. But he was right. When I saw someone abusing their authority on someone who was powerless to defend themselves—most often Rachel and her multitude of victims—it kind of made me crazy.

  “The trouble is, as far as I can tell, you don’t have any control once the barrier is down,” my father finished.

  “Okay, fine,” I argued, “but now I know what the combination is, and I can keep working on my control. That’s more progress than we’ve made in years, right?” I heard the desperation in my voice and hated it.

  He nodded slowly, but I could sense the words bubbling beneath his surface. He was going to say more. He was going to tell me to stop.

  “All I need to do next is figure out how to keep the barrier down or control it without needing Rachel to do something horrible first,” I said quickly. “I can do that. I’ve got two more opportunities to—”

  “Ariane,” he said with a tired but knowing look. “What about the rest of it?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, wary.

  “I mean, the police chief ’s son,” he said, biting off each word.

  Oh. “I only agreed to go out with him to get closer to Rachel so I could practice. It isn’t real.” It hurt just to say that. It was real, far more than either of us had intended or I could allow.

  My father laughed, except not like it was funny.

  I stiffened.

  “Ariane, kiddo, you are good at so many things, but you’re terrible at hiding this kind of emotion.” He reached out and tapped another photo of Zane and me at the activities fair. This one had been zoomed in, and I could see us clearly. Zane in mid-gesture, explaining something with wild hand movements, and me watching him intently, as if waiting for the end of the story or joke.

  “It’s written all over your face,” my father said. “You’re a blank screen when you’re sad or angry or frustrated or scared. Like right now.” He nodded at me. “You wipe it all away. You probably had no choice in that—a survival mechanism at GTX. But when you’re happy, genuinely happy, it shows.”

  He paused. “The first time you tasted french fries, I saw it.” He laughed. “Light shining through dark glass.” He held up the photo of Zane and me. “Same thing here.”

  I swallowed hard. “It wasn’t supposed to be real,” I whispered.

  My father smiled bitterly and raised the scotch bottle in a kind of salute before taking a drink. “Pretending to feel something you don’t can often lead you to the real thing, in some form,” he said in a thickened voice, his eyes watering from the sting of the alcohol. “Trust me. But you have to end it now.”

  “No.” The word escaped before I could stop it. It felt like it came from someone else.

  My father looked up, startled.

  And rightly so: I’d never openly defied him. Ever. And just saying it now almost killed me, but I couldn’t live with myself if I stayed quiet. I would give up Zane and everything he represented (happiness, warmth, company) after tomorrow night, but I’d promised myself the next twenty-four hours.

  “It’s just…I’m so close to figuring it all out and I…” I took a deep breath and stopped. Stopped lying to myself and to my father. I wasn’t fooling either one of us.

  I curled my fingers into my fists, feeling the reassuring bite of my nails into my palms. I was real, and I was here. “I don’t want to let this go,” I said. “Not yet. I won’t have this chance again with anyone, and Zane…he’s different.” I blinked against the sting in my eyes, remembering the pleased-with-himself grin he got when I laughed at his ridiculous bog/dear story. I knew I would play that moment in my head over and over again, years from now. And feel his hands on me, not hesitating, afraid, or clinical.

  “Do you understand?” I pleaded, moving to drop into the chair next to my father. “I know it’s selfish and dangerous, but it’s already started. I won’t ever have this again.”

  He opened his mouth to speak.

  But I shook my head. “You talk about my life once I get away from Wingate, but we both know it’s a lie.”

  He stopped, snapping his mouth shut in surprise.

  “It’s going to be me, alone, for the rest of my life, if I’m lucky,” I continued, trying to keep my voice from quavering. “And I’m grateful for that chance at freedom.” My voice broke. “But I want this. Please. I know it can’t be anything…real. It’s only a day or so and then it’ll go away. And if it doesn’t, I’ll end it. But please, just let me have this.” Let me have the silly stories he’d come up with, the heat of his hands, the feel of his mouth against mine. I wanted to store those moments up, food before an endless winter.

  My father sighed. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.” He smiled sadly.

  And I knew I wasn’t going to like what was coming next.

  “Just because you end it doesn’t mean it’s over.” He held up a photo. “If GTX finds about this, even if it’s weeks or years from now, they’ll use the threat of hurting him to get you to do what they want.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. But it was true: I wouldn’t stop caring about Zane just because we weren’t together. Therefore, Zane would be a good source of motivation, as far as GTX was concerned.

  The image of Zane pacing the floor in a small white room like the one where I’d been held for so long popped into my head, and I wanted to throw up. He wouldn’t know why he was there, he wouldn’t understand what was going on, and I would be the one who’d put him there. Everything they’d do to him—and they could do unspeakable things in the name of motivation—would be my fault.

  I couldn’t do that to him.
/>
  My dream of the next twenty-four hours crumbled into dust and blew away. My eyes burned at the loss, and my all-too-human heart gave an extra hard thump of anguish.

  “You’ve hung a bull’s-eye around that poor kid’s neck, and he has no idea,” my father said, his disappointment in me so deep it thickened the air until I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. “It has to stop. Immediately.”

  I nodded slowly. What else was there to say? I’d broken the Rules almost beyond repair. And now I’d pay for that. I just had to hope I’d be the only one.

  AT DINNER, IT WAS CLEAR that my dad’s mood had not improved much from this morning. And the salad only made it worse.

  Since my dad had brought home pizza last night, it was my night to “cook.” I could have pulled one of the many casseroles out of the freezer, but I’d gotten sick of eating those about six months into my mom’s absence. We’d never gotten the hang of thawing them out completely.

  So after I’d dropped off Ariane—my head still spinning from the feel of her skin under my hands—I’d swung by the store to pick up some bread and I’d snagged one of those frozen ready-made lasagnas on my way through.

  On a whim, I’d picked up one of those salads in a bag, a brand I recognized from what my mom used to buy. I was just momentarily tired of all the grease at home and school, and wanted something different.

  Now, at the dinner table with my dad and the salad between us—in the same glass bowl my mom had used—you’d have thought I’d brought home roadkill and dropped it in front of him.

  “What is this?” he demanded, his mouth curling up in disgust.

  What does it look like? “Salad,” I said. And remembered, suddenly, vividly, my mom lecturing all of us on eating more vegetables, including salad.

  Oh, damn. Talk about waving a red flag. After this morning he probably thought I was taunting him, deliberately making a reference to my mom. He’d never admit it, but she’d dealt him a serious blow by leaving. I think he had loved her—or at least needed her—in his own messed-up way. And, of course, it had done serious damage to his ego that she would be the one to want out.

  But I wasn’t trying to send any kind of secret message. I just freaking wanted one food item that wasn’t covered in cheese.

  “Dad—” I started.

  His phone chimed, and he turned away. “Bradshaw.” He paused, listening to the person on the other end. Then he gave a hearty laugh that rang false to my ears. “No, you’re not interrupting. It’s not a problem.”

  Ah, concerned citizen. Probably of the female variety. We got a lot of that around here.

  I tuned out the rest of the conversation. I guess from the outside, my dad looked like a pretty good dating option. He had a steady job, a prominent position in the community, and he was still in shape for a guy his age. Plus, he had that whole sympathy thing going for him—abandoned by his wife with a kid still in high school.

  But if these women just stopped and thought about it, they’d have to realize there was more to the situation than what they could see on the surface. I mean, did they think my mom left because everything was too awesome to bear? Then again, maybe they’d just tagged her departure as another example of genetically predisposed poor judgment. She was, after all, a McDonough. And blood will always tell, or whatever.

  “Well, it’s not the same as being on the field or watching my boy out there, but I wouldn’t miss it,” my dad said with another laugh.

  My phone buzzed, and I slipped it out of my pocket and checked it beneath the table. I expected to see Rachel’s photo on the screen yet again, demanding the latest Ariane update.

  But the screen was blank except for a name, Ariane. Affection tugged at me. I needed to take a picture of her so it would come up when she called. I wondered if she’d let me.

  I got up and headed toward the hall before answering.

  “Hey,” I said. “Please tell me you’re ready to go. Because I am so ready to get out of here.” I checked over my shoulder to make sure my dad was still yakking it up.

  “I can’t.” Her voice sounded flat, dead.

  It sent a chill through me. I pretended to misunderstand. “Okay, so later? How about—”

  “No, I can’t go tonight. Or for the rest of this week. It’s done. What we were doing is done,” she said in that same mechanical voice.

  I took a step back, absorbing her words like a blow. “What happened?”

  Her breath sounded ragged; she’d been crying. “Ariane?” I asked, alarmed.

  “It’s nothing I can explain to you, so let it go, okay?” I could hear the steel in her tone even as she was trying not to sniffle.

  Her dad. He’d found out. Had he hurt her? My jaw tightened. I’d always known something was up at home for her.

  “I’m coming over,” I said.

  “No, you can’t,” she said sharply, which only further convinced me I was right to be concerned.

  I made a quick decision. She’d be pissed at me, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let this go.

  “Here are your options,” I said.

  “Zane—” she protested.

  I ignored her. “You can either meet me at Pine and Rushmore in fifteen minutes so I can see for myself that you’re okay, or I’m going to drive up and down your street honking the horn and yelling your name until you come out or someone calls the cops.”

  She sucked in a breath. “You wouldn’t.”

  “You’re going to take that chance? I have an in with the police around here. I could probably get away with that for a lot longer than most.” My dad would leave me to sit and rot in jail for as long as he could on a disturbing-the-peace charge. But it would be worth it.

  Ariane gave a frustrated sigh. “All right. But not until later. Dark.”

  “Fine.” From what I’d overheard, my dad was going to the exhibition game, which would make it that much easier. “Eight.”

  “I’ll be there,” she said. “Don’t come to my house. And don’t honk.”

  “Ariane…” I hesitated. “I’m not trying to be a jerk. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay.” But she didn’t sound like it.

  Ariane was waiting for me when I pulled up. At least I was pretty sure it was her. At our usual meeting place, my headlights caught a slight figure in a gray hoodie, despite the warmth of the evening.

  I parked, and she climbed in, bringing the scent of lemons with her. But she left the hood up even once she was inside.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “What do you mean, what am I doing? You’re the one who blackmailed me into this meeting,” she said, her head turned away from me.

  My stomach tightened with dread. “Look at me.”

  “Why?”

  “Please?”

  She turned toward me, and I pushed her hood away. Her face was clear of the bruises I’d half expected, but her eyes were red and swollen.

  “Happy?” she demanded.

  “Not yet.” I took her hand in mine and pushed her sleeve up. Nothing but smooth white skin all the way up past her elbows. I knew from experience if someone bigger is going to grab you, they usually do it on your forearm. I checked her other arm and found the same thing, which was to say nothing at all.

  She gave an exasperated sigh, but didn’t fight me when I checked both arms again. “My father doesn’t hurt me. He would never do that.”

  Something about the formal way she said “my father” set off warning bells in my head.

  I released her, and she tugged her sleeves into place. “So, I’m here. You can see that I’m fine. Are we done now?” she asked in a clipped tone, but I noticed she wasn’t reaching for the door.

  I shook my head. “No way. What’s going on? Are you in the Witness Protection Program or something?” I tried to joke.

  She defiantly tipped her chin. “If I said yes, would you let it go?”

  But I was on to her by now. “Depends. Is it true?”


  She sighed. “Sort of. And that’s about the best answer I can give you.” She looked away. “I shouldn’t even tell you that much.”

  So she was in hiding. I frowned. “Does this have anything to do with your being declared dead and then not dead?” It occurred to me that being declared dead was a pretty good way to keep people from looking for you. And with the delay in the retraction notice, there might be people who still thought she was dead.

  She jerked around to stare at me.

  “I did some research,” I admitted.

  She tensed, as if she might bolt from the car. “What did you find?”

  “Nothing much. An article about your mom’s accident, and a retraction notice about your ‘death.’ ” I grimaced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up—”

  She relaxed. “No, it’s okay.” She waved a hand at my words. “It was a long time ago.”

  Which struck me as an unusual response, when she’d been on the verge of panic a few seconds ago.

  Once again, I tried to put the pieces of Ariane Tucker together. Who she could possibly be hiding from? Her mother’s family? A grandparent who wanted to keep her? Or, given how intensely she was taking the situation, maybe it was a relative who legally had rights to her.

  “You know, my dad is a jerk,” I said, “but if this is a custody thing, he could probably—”

  “No, absolutely not,” Ariane said. “It’s under control.” She swallowed and fidgeted with the zipper on her hoodie. “Just…go back to your normal life. Tell Rachel I freaked out on you, talking about prom or something already, and you couldn’t take it anymore. She’ll enjoy that.” She smiled bitterly.

  It must have been serious if Ariane was willing to let Rachel think she’d gotten the better of her, even for pretend.

  I focused my gaze on the steering wheel, seeing it but not. “What if I don’t want to go back to my normal life? What if my normal life kind of sucks?” I forced a laugh. I’d had more fun in the last couple of days than I’d had in more than a year. Ariane didn’t try to control me or want me to be somebody I wasn’t. It was a relief.

  She touched my arm, her fingertips cool and tentative. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But this is better for everyone.” She blinked quickly, and I saw tears on her eyelashes. “And besides, who are we kidding? This would have been over on Saturday morning anyway. Maybe even Friday night after Rachel’s party.” Her voice was choked.