I feel his hand stroking the back of my head, twirling my hair in his fingers.
I pull back, so I can see him. He still has that smile on his face. Maybe I have one, too.
Finally, I turn toward the house and that’s when I see everyone peering at us through the kitchen window, clapping and cheering and cracking up, and Donal and I break apart, laughing.
“Those jerks,” he says, still beaming, like he’s embarrassed but also glad they caught us.
“Happy New Year,” I say to him.
“Happy New Year, Beth.”
“I guess we should join the others,” I say.
“I guess,” he says, pretending annoyance.
He grabs my hand and pulls me gently back inside the house.
When we walk in, Chita smirks at us until I stick my tongue out at her. Brendan has put on that dumb Prince song even though 1999 was a million years ago, and everyone’s going crazy, and Donal and I join in, dancing and jumping up and down, feeling like the year ahead will bring us nothing but good times. It’s what everyone believes on New Year’s, isn’t it? A fresh start. Hope for better things to come. And I actually do feel it, caught in the moment. But even then I think of Sam. I hope he feels this way, too. A new year in his new life. Moving forward.
CHAPTER 14
The Other Kid
Josh
“Wake up.”
I open my eyes, and I see Sam crouching above me. “Wake up,” he whispers again, though I was already sort of awake.
It’s New Year’s Day. Last night we rang it in by watching the ball dropping on TV with Sam’s stepdad. After that, I brushed my teeth and then when I got back to Sam’s room, he was in bed, shirtless. Without the coating of Jack Daniel’s, I felt nervous. There was room in his bed for both of us, but I saw he had set out a sleeping bag on the floor, and my flash of disappointment was overtaken by relief. We lay in silence for a while, then Sam said, “Thanks for doing this, Josh. Thanks for coming with me.”
I didn’t say anything back.
“You awake?” he says again now. But he knows I am. I look at my phone. It’s a little after seven. I can see a grayish morning light poking through the window shade.
“Earl just left. Coast is clear.”
“What about Beth? And her friend?” I ask.
“They’re still asleep. By the time they wake up, we’ll be gone.”
I get out of the sleeping bag. I’m a little stiff from being on the floor all night. Sam’s packed his backpack and he’s dressed. Even his bed is made. I see a piece of paper, folded, on his pillow. A note saying not to worry, he’ll be back later, sorry. Sorry because we’re basically stealing Beth’s car for the day. She leaves the keys on a hook by the kitchen door. Sam knows how to drive—Rusty taught him, believe it or not—but he doesn’t have a license. “I’ll drive the speed limit. I’ll be careful.”
I pull on my jeans, and ruffle a hand through my messed-up, flattened hair. I hate not showering, but we can’t risk that. I pack all my things into my duffel and lace up my sneakers. My stomach growls but I’m not hungry. I’m too anxious to think about food.
“Ready?” he whispers.
“Uh-huh,” I say, but I’m not.
He opens the door gently, and then pulls it closed when we’re in the hall. He puts a finger over his lips. I don’t need reminding to be quiet, but part of me hopes that Beth wakes up and foils everything.
We step quietly down the hall, and when we pass Beth’s closed bedroom door I think about bumping against it, but I don’t. All I can do is follow Sam. We walk on through the den to the kitchen. Sam grabs the keys hanging on the rack, opens the kitchen door. Out we go. Beth’s car sitting in the driveway, waiting for us.
There’s still a chance for Beth and her friend to wake up. Or maybe Sam’s stepdad will come back, having forgotten something. Sam unlocks the car and climbs in. He sticks the key into the ignition, the engine giving a rev. Maybe Beth will wake up now. Maybe she’ll hear. Sam motions for me to get in, so I open the door. I pause, glance at the kitchen door, and then I climb in and slam the door too hard. Sam backs out, puts the car into drive, and somehow he looks natural doing this, like it’s old hat for him. I look in the rearview mirror, hoping to see Beth running from the house after us. But she doesn’t.
I could beg Sam to stop. But I know nothing can stop him. And I can’t back out. I have to go with him. It’s the least I owe him. The very least.
I think of the last time we set off together, over three years ago, on our bikes. And then I think about the last time Sam headed toward Anniston in a car. I still don’t know why he wants to go there. But there’s so much I’ll never understand.
As Sam pulls onto the interstate, I try and calm myself. Everything’s going to be okay. And we’re together at least—he’s not alone. We’ll do this—whatever this is—get it over with, then go back home.
And we’ll be safe. We’ll be fine.
===
Sam drives the speed limit all along the interstate. It’s early and it’s New Year’s Day, so there aren’t many other cars out. We don’t speak. Maybe he’s thinking about what awaits him in Anniston.
After we pass Bessemer, its ugly shutdown steel mills off in the distance, Sam starts talking, like he’d been in the middle of a story and was picking up where he left off.
“I never went inside Kaylee’s house,” he says. “But I know where it is.”
“Is that where we’re going?” I ask.
He nods, staring ahead at the road. “Rusty stopped messing with me once I started seeing Kaylee,” he says. “He even acted happy for me, or pretended to. At first. But one night, after I came back from a date, he got up from the couch and was real quiet and weird, just staring at me. He had this lazy eye and it would twitch when he was mad or upset, and it was twitching right then. So I knew to be careful. And I was right to be. He said something about my piercings, how they made me look like a fag. ‘Does your girlfriend know she’s dating a fag?’ he said. Normally, I didn’t say anything back. But that night, I dunno. Something snapped. I said, ‘Fuck you.’ His eye twitched and he threw a punch at me. He missed, though. I was ready for him.” I see Sam, his jaw clenched, hands tight on the steering wheel, like he’s reliving that moment and ready to fight again. “Then I grabbed his arm. I’d gotten stronger. Doing push-ups and shit while he was at work. I grabbed his arm and twisted it and he let out this babyish sound, like he was in pain, and then I punched him a few times in the face. He broke loose and backed up. He was holding his face where I hit him, and he looked at me like he was afraid of me. I’d never seen him look that way. It felt so good.”
He stops, and I think that’s the end of the story, and part of me is relieved. But part of me knows I have to listen. And after a wave of silence, he starts in again.
“I was about to walk to my room . . . and he said to me . . . He said, ‘She doesn’t love you. She’ll never love you. No one will ever love you. Not after what I’ve done to you. I’m the only one who will ever love you now.’” Tears trail down Sam’s cheeks.
“It’s not true,” I say. My throat kind of closes up. I want to say more—to explain to him why Rusty was so wrong—but if I speak, I don’t know if I can come up with an explanation that makes any sense to him, or to me.
Sam wipes his eyes and then focuses on the road. We drive along in silence for a good while, before he starts up again. “It was a few days after that he got his idea.”
“What idea?”
“Of replacing me. Finding another kid.”
“Oh,” I say, my belly doing a violent flip. I think about the other kid he tried to take, the one who fought back, who managed to look at the license plate. I wonder if he has nightmares, or if he’s just gone on with his life.
It’s so easy to push things back in your brain, till it isn’t.
�
�He asked me if I wanted a little brother. I said no, because I knew what he meant. I could see the wheels spinning in his brain. That’s why he taught me how to drive,” Sam says, tapping the steering wheel. “At first he said it was in case he got sick and needed to be driven to the hospital. But that was bullshit.”
“What?” I ask, not following.
“The truck. He wanted me to drive the truck. When he took the kid.” He looks over at me, then back at the road. “He wanted me to help him.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I said no way. But I knew he’d do it without me. And he did.”
What was that kid’s name? I can’t remember. I can’t even picture him, though I’m sure his photo appeared in some papers. He was a hero, I guess. “What would have happened, if he’d . . . if he’d actually taken that kid?”
“I don’t know,” Sam says.
“Would he have let you go?”
“Let me go?” Sam asks.
I nod.
“He was never going to let me go.”
I turn and gaze out the window, the scenery rushing by an ugly blur. I think I might roll the window down. I need air. But I just rest my head against the cool glass, and I’m glad that we ride along for a few miles without any talking. Without any stories.
“Everyone thinks I must be so happy he’s dead,” Sam says, ending the silence.
“Are you?” I say.
“I mean, I am, in a way,” he says, focused on the road. He’s quiet for a minute or so, like he’s remembering something. Then he says, “I’m also sad.”
My stomach feels tight again. “Why?” I finally ask.
For a moment Sam focuses on driving, sticking to his lane. Then he exhales loudly. “There were times when . . . I don’t know. He was all I had. And there were times when . . . Never mind.”
“You can tell me,” I say. He’s told me so much already, but I know there’s so much more he hasn’t talked about. Might never talk about. So much that will only stay in his brain. That must be the loneliest feeling in the world.
“The thing is, there were times when he was good to me.” His voice is soaked with emotion now, and I see his chest heave.
He sniffles, takes a breath, and slows the car and takes an exit off the highway. Anniston. We’re here.
We drive along past a bunch of strip malls for a bit. There are hills in the distance, surrounding the city like a big high fence. Eventually, he turns into a neighborhood of small homes with hardly any trees. It all looks new, but not fancy. He pulls up in front of one house, redbrick, one story, with light yellow trim. Two cars are parked in the garage and one in the driveway. A wreath hangs on the front door. An inflated Santa Claus sways around in the middle of the yard.
Sam turns off the engine and we sit there a minute. He’s not even looking at the house. He just gazes down the street.
“This is where she lives.” He unbuckles his seat belt. “Come with me?”
“Yeah,” I say. I know he’s nervous. I am too.
We both get out and walk to the front door. He stands there for a second, then rings the doorbell. Another deep breath. It seems to take forever, he’s about to push the doorbell again, but then we hear a latch being undone. The door inches open. It’s a man, about Dad’s age, maybe older, with buzzed gray hair and an angry-looking face. He’s kind of bulky—a mix of fat and muscle—and he’s wearing a checked button-down tucked into jeans, loafers on. “Yes?” he says, giving us both quick glances.
“Hi, Mr. Clarke. It’s Sam.”
“Sam?” he says, sounding confused. He gives him a closer look. “Oh. Oh.” For a second I think he’s going to slam the door on us. “What are you doing here, son?”
“I want to see Kaylee.”
He just stares at Sam, then at me. “I’m his friend,” I say.
Mr. Clarke steps out onto the little porch and pulls the door shut behind him. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Is she home?”
“How did you get here?” the man asks. “Your folks know you’re here?”
“Please, can I see her?” I can see something rising in Sam—panic, sorrow, desperation, all mixed together.
“Please,” I say. “We came all this way. Sam really wants to see her.”
“That’s not possible. I think you boys should leave.” He gestures to our car. “Your parents know you did this? I don’t think—”
“You have to let me see her.” Sam’s voice sounds high-pitched, a little crazy.
“Now, son—”
“Kaylee!” he shouts. He makes for the door but Mr. Clarke blocks him. Sam tries again, and this time the man takes hold of Sam by the shoulders and physically backs him away. “I told you, you can’t see her. Now please don’t make any more trouble.”
Sam struggles, tries to push past him, but Mr. Clarke grabs Sam’s arm and yanks him out into the yard. Sam’s strong, but this man’s stronger. I follow, tense with a readiness to do something if I need to.
“Kaylee!” Sam shouts again.
“Sam,” I say, trying to talk some sense into him. Coming here was a bad idea. We need to leave.
Then we all hear the front door open. Everyone stops. A girl steps out. She’s in jeans and a sweatshirt. She has this fake red hair with streaks of blue or green in it—it’s hard to tell in the morning sun. She has a nose ring, a lip ring, multiple earrings. But she looks scared, not like some tough girl. She has her arms folded around herself, like she’s trying to keep warm.
“Kaylee,” Sam says.
“Go back inside,” Mr. Clarke barks at her.
But she just stares at Sam. “What are you doing here?” she says. She has a high, little-girl voice that doesn’t match her appearance.
“Kaylee,” Mr. Clarke warns.
“I came to see you,” Sam says. “I wanted to see you. I miss you. I wanted to—” His voice cracks. He’s crying now. “You’re . . . You’re so beautiful.”
Kaylee shakes her head, slowly. “No,” she says. “No.”
“I miss you,” Sam says.
“No,” she says, wiping her eyes, a dark mascara-stained tear running down her face. “I don’t . . . I don’t know you. Go away.”
“Kaylee,” Sam says, the hurt in his voice so raw that it makes my chest ache.
She doesn’t say anything else. She just turns and walks back into the house. I think that Sam’s going to scream and try to run after her, but he just goes down on his knees and gazes at the closed door. Mr. Clarke still stands there, glaring at us like we’re intruders.
And maybe that’s what we are. Intruders.
“You boys go on home now, before I call the police. You shouldn’t be here. You should be home with your parents. Go on,” he says, like we’re stray dogs.
I walk over to Sam. “Sam, let’s go. Please?”
Sam’s face is wet with tears, but he looks calm. He stands and walks to the car. We both get inside.
“Let’s go home,” I plead. Mr. Clarke is still standing in the yard, watching us, waiting for us to go. “Sam.”
He clutches the steering wheel and stares forward at nothing. I wonder if he’s even heard me. But he finally turns on the ignition. “There’s one more place,” he says. “One more place I have to go.”
CHAPTER 15
Again
Beth
I wake up to Chita’s snoring at a quarter to nine. I should sleep in, but I’m hungry. And thirsty. I scoot out of bed, leaving Chita on the air mattress that’s pushed up against my closet. I open the door, softly as I can, and go to the kitchen. The house is quiet. Sam and Josh must still be sleeping, too. I open the fridge and grab a water bottle and take a few sips, walking back to my room. Maybe now I’ll be able to get back to sleep.
But I just lie there. I keep thinking of the kiss with Donal, over and
over again. I know he’ll text me today, and I wonder what he’ll say. I grab my phone and click, but there are no messages. Not yet.
Eventually, Chita stirs and opens her eyes and stares at me. “Morning,” I say, and she groans. “Want some coffee?”
She sits up, her hair shooting off in a million directions. “Sure,” she says.
I head back to the kitchen. I wonder what the weather is like, so I glance out the window of the kitchen door. That’s when I notice that my car is missing from the driveway. My first thought is Earl took it, for some reason. But I can see his truck is gone, too.
I look at the key rack. My keys aren’t there.
A panic rises from my gut. Did someone steal my car? In this neighborhood, it seems ridiculous.
But Sam also went missing in this neighborhood.
Sam.
“Where’s my coffee?” Chita teases, coming into the kitchen. But when she sees my face, she says, “What?”
I don’t say a word. I race down the hall. I don’t even knock; I just barge into Sam’s room. No one’s in there. The bed is made. “Oh my God,” I say, trying to push down panic.
Then I see the piece of paper on the bed with my name on it.
“Beth? What’s going on?” Chita calls.
I grab the note and read:
Beth,
I went to Anniston with Josh. Please don’t worry or freak out. I took your car. I’ll be back tonight before Earl gets home, I swear. I left my phone and Josh has his turned off. Please don’t tell on me. I’ll be okay.
I’m sorry.
Love,
Sam
===
“Oh my God,” I say. I keep repeating it: omigodomigodomigodomigod.
“What’s going on?” Chita asks again, sounding as anxious as I am.
I hand the note to her. She reads quickly, then says, “Oh shit.”
I sit on Sam’s bed. I’m close to hyperventilating. This can’t be happening. He can’t be gone. I’ve lost track of him again. Again!
We Now Return to Regular Life Page 25