Counting Backwards

by Laura Lascarso

  As the next few days pass and I’m no closer to getting out, I feel more and more desperate and out of sorts. By the Saturday of the Harvest Ball, I’m considering something drastic.

  I sit on Margo’s bed and watch her go through her final stages of preparation for the dance. We’ve been at it since early that morning—pedicures, manicures, facials. Margo asked to borrow scissors and trimmed my hair for me. I finally shaved my legs, which took forever. I did it with only half a heart, not even bothering with my knees.

  Margo looks stunning in her burgundy gown. Her hair is a golden crown on top of her head, and her shoulder blades look like birds’ wings, ready to take flight.

  “How’s this color?” she asks me, puckering her lips to model a splash of crimson across her porcelain face.

  “Very dramatic.”

  She stares at her reflection, practicing the appropriate smile for when she’s crowned Autumn Queen. She’s been at it all day. “Too big,” she says. “Too much teeth. That one’s kind of bitchy. I like it.” She glances over at me. “T, you’re not even wearing mascara. Get over here.”

  I slouch over to her vanity and she fusses over my face, bossing me around as to how to contort my eyes and mouth. I try to be a good subject, but I’m really not into this sort of thing. When she’s done, she turns me toward the mirror.

  “Voilà.”

  I stare at my reflection in the murky mirror—full, pouty lips, smoky eyes, flushed cheeks, naked throat. But it’s not my face, it’s hers. My mother. All dolled up for a night on the town, putting on a fake face to the world. The longer I look, the worse I feel, like I’m trapped in a car that’s headed for a brick wall. Her face, her body, her weaknesses, her addictions . . .

  “I can’t do this,” I say to the woman in the mirror.

  I get up and walk down to the second-floor bathroom, turn the faucet on high, the hottest water I can handle, and smear it around my face. I get a puddle of liquid soap in my hands and scrub until my skin is red and raw.

  “Taylor, I’m so sorry,” Margo says, beside herself. “I really thought you’d like it.”

  I shake my head. I can’t speak. The soap is making my eyes water. I’m sure of it, because seriously, this is the stupidest thing to be crying about. I grab some scratchy paper towels and dry my face. I glance down at my dress, at the huge water mark staining the front of it.

  “Damn.”

  “Come here,” Margo says, and pulls me over to the dryer. She punches the metal button and I stand under it, letting the hot air fan my face and dry her dress while I focus on the dingy puke-green tile. She comes back a minute later with some makeup remover and fixes my face while I punch the metal button again and again. The dress is dry, and when the air cuts off, I know I’m going to have to say something.

  “Taylor, are you all right?”

  “I just had . . . a moment where . . .” I take a deep breath and rub the knot in my chest. “I looked so much like my mother.”

  “Oh,” she says, sounding surprised. She studies me for a moment. “Well, few of us are blessed with flawless complexions such as yours, so if you want to go au naturel, that’s fine by me.”

  I nod, grateful that she’s not going to push me any further. “Thanks, Margo, for . . . understanding.”

  “You’re okay, though, right? You’re still coming?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  The safety calls us to line up, and I take a couple of deep breaths and put on a happy face. Victor waves to us, and next to him Dominic waits for me. His black hair is done up with spikes, and he looks like a rock star in a black dress shirt and tie. With my matching black dress, it looks as if we planned it. Then I realize Margo probably did plan it. In any case, we look good together. And even though it’s petty, a part of me wishes A.J. were here to see it.

  “Mon ange,” Victor says, taking Margo’s hand and twirling her for his benefit. He compliments her gown, her makeup, her hair. As I stand there watching the two of them, I feel a little sentimental. It must be nice to have someone who adores and accepts you, despite your imperfections.

  “Hey, good-lookin’,” Dominic says, and gives me a brotherly peck on the cheek. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re all babed out.”

  “Thanks,” I say, grateful he wasn’t around fifteen minutes ago when I had my little meltdown.

  I reach down to lift the hem of my dress so it won’t get dirty on our walk across the lawn, when I see A.J. across the lobby, staring at me without even trying to hide it. I remind myself we’re at war—that he’s the enemy—and shift my eyes away. I think of his keys, stashed in the secret pocket of my duffel bag, completely useless to both of us. I hope he’s missing them.

  “Ready?” Dominic asks, offering me his arm.

  “Let’s go.”

  We make our way along the paved pathway, passing through a tunnel of safeties. The safety who tackled me on the lawn points me out to the others like, Watch out for that one. Margo was right about the heightened security, but it’s dark, and there are so many of us that they can’t possibly keep track of everyone all the time.

  Dominic chats with Margo and Victor while I scan the staff parking lot. If I could sneak away from the dance, climb into one of those SUVs, and curl up in the back hatch, maybe I can stow away when the staff leaves for the night. But I’ve left my money in my room. I’ll have to think up a reason for a safety to take me back up.

  “Taylor.” Margo snaps and grabs my arm—the girl is a mind reader. She pulls me into the gym and doesn’t let go until the door has been shut behind us.

  I scope out the inside—safeties at every exit and more patrolling the gym and the hallway to the bathrooms. They must have hired extra staff, because I’ve never seen so many of them before. The dance committee has done a nice job. There’s a huge black screen with an orange light behind it, to look like a harvest moon. They’ve scattered fallen leaves all over the floor and used pinecones and glowing jack-o’-lanterns as table centerpieces. I’ve never been to a school dance before, but it’s nice seeing everyone dressed up. The lights are dim and the music’s loud. Dominic brings me punch and then leads me out to the dance floor. He has good rhythm, and we dance with Margo and Victor in a larger group. Before long I realize with some surprise that I’m actually having a good time.

  “And now, young ladies and gentlemen,” one of the teachers calls from up onstage. “I’d like to announce this year’s Autumn King and Queen.”

  There’s a digital drumroll provided by the DJ, and the woman produces a large white envelope from inside her jacket. The voting was done by secret ballot in school on Friday, and the wait has been hard on Margo. She fidgets beside me, chewing on her lip and ruining her carefully applied lipstick. I reach out and squeeze her hand.

  “This year’s Autumn Queen and King are . . . Ms. Margo Blanchard and Mr. Victor DeMatais.”

  “Oh my God!” Margo says, and throws her arms around me. Victor takes her elbow and guides her onto the stage. He fades to the background as Margo gives the crowd her Endearing-but-Not-Overly-Joyous smile, winking at the knit of Latina Queens who glare back with pinched faces. The teacher crowns them both officiously, and they descend to the floor for a slow dance reserved for royalty. The harvest moon shines on Margo wherever she goes, and she looks just like one of those actresses in the old-timey movies. A real-life princess.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find A.J. holding out his hand to me. Is he asking me to dance? I glance around for Dominic, who is chatting with some guys from Automotive. I decide then that I’m done ignoring A.J. The silent treatment hasn’t gotten me very far. I need a new tactic. Maybe he’s in the mood to negotiate.

  I take his hand, and he leads me to the floor. Another slow song comes on, and my palms start sweating. I’ve never danced with a guy like this before. His hand slides down my side, coming to rest on the slope of my hip. Every time my dress shifts, I’m made more aware of how little fabric there is between his skin and mi
ne.

  Meanwhile my other hand holds his in a death grip. If I’m cutting off his circulation, he doesn’t complain. My eyes are focused on his knees, trying to anticipate his movements and not trip on my dress or his feet.

  He lifts my chin and points to his eyes. Look at me, he says without speaking. I swallow hard and train my eyes on his, letting him me lead me across the floor. But once my nervousness fades, I force myself to focus on the only thing that matters.

  “I want my mold back, A.J.”

  He smiles like it’s funny, and it infuriates me that he’s not taking this seriously. I decide to take a gamble—all or nothing.

  “Meet me tonight in the basement,” I say. “If I don’t get my mold back tonight, then tomorrow morning, I’m throwing your keys over the fence. All of them.”

  His smile turns into a frown, and he shakes his head slowly, like he’s disappointed. I don’t like to make threats, but I don’t know what else to do.

  The song ends, and he spins me in a slow circle. His fingertips trail down the inside of my arm, giving me chills, and he leans in so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck. Just when I think he might have something to say, he lets go of my hand and walks away, heading straight for the door without looking back. There he nods at a safety, and the two of them leave the gym together.

  “Are you guys together?” Dominic asks, suddenly at my side. I hadn’t noticed that another song came on and all around me, people are dancing.

  “No. We’re just . . .” I pause. “We’re not together.”

  Margo comes over and throws her sweaty arms around my shoulders. “This is so amazing!” she screams into my ear. “I can’t believe it. Can you believe it?”

  I catch Victor’s face behind her, looking rather smug, and wonder if he had anything to do with their double victory. I wouldn’t put it past him to use his influence as the school’s black market supplier to give Margo what she wanted.

  “I never had a doubt, Margo.”

  “Oh my God, this is my song!” she shouts directly into my ear, and kicks off her heels. “Come on, T, dance with me.”

  She pulls me out to the floor and we dance together, song after song. I try to lose myself in the music, but I keep seeing A.J.’s face in my mind, that moment when he leaned in close enough to kiss me.

  Suddenly the music cuts off and is replaced by a deafening shriek that seems to come from all around us. It takes me another second to realize it’s the fire alarm. Water starts spraying from the ceiling, and girls are screaming, Margo among them—“My shoes! I have to find my shoes!”

  I chase after her. Victor catches her by the waist, her shoes in his hand. Dominic is with him, and he puts his arm around me, guiding me to the door as people push and shove on either side. The safeties close around us like a net and funnel us out onto the lawn. We stand in the wet grass in our bare feet and ball gowns as two fire trucks barrel through the opened gate. There’s no smoke or fire anywhere as far as I can tell, but rumors reach us like a game of telephone—trash fire in the bathroom, caused by one of those lit jack-o’-lanterns.

  I glance sideways at Margo.

  “It wasn’t me,” she says. “I wasn’t even smoking.”

  I glance past the school building, past the fire trucks and police cars, to the front gate, which is still wide open. The guard is nowhere in sight. Then I look to the dorms, where A.J. must be right now. Surely they must have heard the fire trucks and the commotion on the lawn, but no one has left the building.

  “What happens if there’s a fire in the dorms?” I ask Margo. “How does everyone get out in time with all the locked doors?”

  “The doors automatically unlock,” she says, then clasps one slender hand over her mouth, perhaps guessing at my motives.

  “Safety first,” I say to her.

  All around me, people are complaining about how their shoes, their dresses, and their night have been ruined, but mine just got exponentially better.

  I know how to get out of the dorms and past the gate.

  CHAPTER 11

  That night I unlock the boys’ stairwell door for A.J. and follow the stairs down with his keys stashed all over my body—in my pockets, my socks, my bra. I make my way over to the couch and sit down. A few minutes later, I hear him come in.

  “I can smell your shampoo,” he says. “Are you still wearing that dress?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad.”

  My face flushes with heat. How can he be so reserved in the daylight and so open down here—like two different people?

  The cushions move as he sits down beside me.

  “How was the rest of the dance?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say, and think back to that trash fire and all that it revealed. “It actually ended pretty spectacularly.”

  “You know, I would have taken you.”

  “You never asked me.”

  “You weren’t speaking to me.”

  “Hmm . . . how frustrating is that?”

  He’s silent, and I figure it’s because I’ve hurt his feelings. I didn’t come here to be mean. I just want what’s mine. “I want my mold back, A.J.”

  “Where do you plan on going when you leave here?”

  “To a city.” I’m not giving him any details, but I’ve already got it mapped out in my head. I’ll drive the car to Valdosta. There I’ll take a bus to Atlanta. Trey has a couple of good friends who live there. Maybe they have a couch I can sleep on until I find a job.

  “City living is expensive,” he says.

  “I’ll get a job. Or five.”

  “What about your parents? Won’t they be worried?”

  “I’ll call them. Eventually.”

  “And your probation? What about that?”

  My probation, the thorn in my side. Breaking probation is a pretty serious offense, but there must be some way around it.

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Sounds like you’ve still got some kinks to work out.”

  “I’m leaving, A.J., whether you help me or not. If it’s not the shop car, I’ve got other ideas. If I have to climb the fence and hitch a ride, I’ll do it. I’m not giving up.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. Then finally he says, “I thought so. That’s why I went to the trouble of having your key made.”

  I stop and replay his words in my head, not trusting my own hearing.

  “What?”

  “I made you your key.”

  I don’t believe him, but I want to. Still, I need proof. “Show me.”

  I hear him stand, then the squeaking of the bulb screwing into its socket. The light flickers on, and he holds up the shining, silver key. I step closer, in a trance, until I see the Ford imprint reflecting in the light. He really did it.

  “I’ll give you this,” he says, “but you have to do something for me first.”

  I have no clue what I could possibly do for him. “What is it?”

  “Promise me you’ll stay until December.”

  Is that all? I think, then realize the gravity of his request. December is a whole month away. There’s no way I’m staying until then.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “You mean it?” He studies my face closely.

  “I’ll stay.” I make my face blank, revealing nothing. “Until December.”

  He hesitates, like maybe he’s having second thoughts, but finally holds it out to me. I pluck it from his fingers and shove it deep into my pocket.

  “Thanks.” I retrieve one of his own keys and hand it over. “This one’s for you.”

  “Where are the others?”

  I collect his keys from their various hiding places while he watches with some curiosity. I unwrap the silver chain from around my ankle and drop it into his hand as well.

  “Sorry for breaking your chain.”

  “I forgive you.”

  He takes a step toward me, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s staring at my lips. He’s going to kiss me, I think. And
I realize I want him to. “Besides,” he whispers, “you still need to get past the gate, don’t you?”

  The front gate. Of course that’s why he made me the key, because he’s counting on that gate to keep me here.

  “Yeah,” I say, giving nothing away. “There’s still that.”

  I know then that this thing between us can’t go any further. Because in a few days I’ll break my promise to him. I’ll be gone, and it’ll only hurt him more to think that I was lying to him this entire time.

  “Well . . .” I begin. I should go now, right now, but I can’t seem to tear myself away from his eyes, making my head feel foggy and dim. I take a step backwards and stumble. I laugh a little, nervous and high-pitched. “I guess we better go,” I say.

  “So soon?”

  “Yeah. I’m tired and . . .” I don’t finish my thought, just turn and walk toward the door. Behind me he unscrews the lightbulb, then follows me out of the darkroom and up the stairs. At the stairwell landing I muster up the courage to meet his eyes again. This is probably the last time I’ll see him here, in our secret place. Something needs to be said, a good-bye of sorts, but I don’t know how without giving myself away.

  He pulls me to him, wraps his arms around me like a warm winter coat, and kisses the part in my hair. I’m suddenly gripped with emotions that are too big for my puny little heart to handle. There in his arms I want to confess everything, that I’m leaving despite my promise to him. I want to tell him I’d like to see him again on the outside, and thank him for being my friend and helping me get out of here. But if I tell him those things, he’ll know I’m a liar. He’ll think I’m using him, and maybe I am.

  I break away from his embrace. “Good night, A.J.”

  I turn away and slip silently onto the floor and into my bedroom. I crawl under the covers and relive the night in my mind. My plan is coming together now, so smoothly that it seems like it’s meant to be. I couldn’t have done it without him. I hope when I’m gone, he’ll be able to forgive me.