by TE Carter
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I decide to have my aunt bring me to school in the morning. That’s my concession. I can’t face Ryan’s disappointment first. I’ll have to see him at some point, especially since I have to take the bus home, but it’s small victories that keep me grounded.
I’m not surprised to find the picture of Miles and Lucy taped to my locker. Or to see the words psycho bitch written on the bottom of it. I’m impressed someone got here early enough to make sure it was printed and ready for me, but I guess people have a lot of motivation when it comes to making another person want to die. It’s like a national pastime these days. Baseball, then destroying every bit of hope another human being has. Because, I mean, otherwise life gets dull.
When I get to my first class, most of the other students are sitting around in a circle, staring at their phones. When I enter, they instantly become a cone of silence, but they don’t stop texting. I try not to imagine what they’re saying. I already know. I’ve seen the comments so many times before.
At least they’re quiet about it. It’s one of the luxuries of high school. In middle school we couldn’t have our phones out, and so everyone said aloud what they were thinking. Now they say it to one another right near me, but I don’t have to know what they think.
Lauren comes in and pulls a chair up to my desk. “Hey, I’m really sorry.”
“You didn’t do it. And you should be careful. They’ll start texting about you next.”
She looks over my shoulder at the throng of people and shrugs. “I’m nowhere near as interesting as you.”
“Interesting isn’t really the word you want,” I say. “I think you meant … what was it Rory called me? I think it was … monster. That was it, right?”
Lauren taps her fingers on my desk and stares down the people who are texting, but they’re so wrapped up in their phones that they don’t even see her. I don’t need to turn around to know this. I can tell by the disappointment that falls over her glare.
“So, I guess you saw it?” she asks.
“I did.”
“I didn’t know. I hope you know that. I had no idea she would do that.”
“Can I ask you why? I mean, you’ve known her forever. Why would she do it?”
Lauren sighs. “It’s … complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” I ask, thinking back to my first day of school. The day I met Marcus. Oddly, that morning feels more distant than the day Scott killed our neighbors. I guess it’s because no one puts pictures on your locker of the cute boy who lives in your neighborhood and treats you like you’re human. No one hunts you down to tell you you’re okay.
“The thing with Rory,” Lauren says, “is that she’s really sure of what’s right. And she feels this need to make certain she sets right anything she thinks is wrong.”
“So I’m wrong?”
Lauren bites her lip. She doesn’t want to defend Rory, but she doesn’t want to say anything bad about her, either. “It’s not that you’re wrong, but I guess … Well, it’s just that…”
“Just say it. Honestly, just say it. I’m not gonna hate you for telling me you think I’m fucked up. I am fucked up. I’m just not a monster. I didn’t kill anyone. But yeah, it sucks, and it’s part of who I am, and I live with it every day. Plus, I lied to you, and that’s a dick move, and, well, I don’t know. I guess I deserve it.”
“You don’t,” she says. “I know that. But … it’s hard, because I kinda get what Rory’s saying. I don’t totally agree, and I really don’t feel right about how she did it, but I kinda get it, too.”
“What’s she saying? What do you get?”
“Just that you should feel worse about it, you know? I mean, you were kinda chill about the whole thing. Even when you were telling us. You seemed sorta … I don’t know. But I mean … Like, those were people. Kids, Lexi. Your brother butchered little kids, and you don’t seem all that broken up about that part of it.”
I look at my desk. Jonathan Groves sucks dick, I guess. At least that’s what someone who shares my English desk wants me to think. I wonder if Jonathan Groves knows this is here. I wonder if he cares.
“It’s been a long time,” I try to explain.
“Like, five years. That’s not that long in the grand scheme of things.… And something like this? It just feels like it should hurt more,” she says.
I think of Miles. He’d be eleven now. And Lucy. She had this wild red hair, which made no sense because everyone else in the family looked the same. The rest of them were blond and summery and always out of place in Massachusetts, where summer is way too short. But then there was Lucy with her hair right out of autumn.
I spent more than a year obsessing over them. I used to write them letters. I cried every single night for kids I didn’t even know. I felt worse because I didn’t know them. I knew their names, how old they were, what they looked like, but that was it. I ended up learning more about them during the trial and through the media. It turns out that Lucy was exceptionally smart and loved space. She wanted to be an astronaut. And Miles loved jazz music and had begged his parents for a saxophone. They’d already ordered one for him for Christmas that year. I had to think about Mr. Cabot calling and canceling the order. Having to tell them why. I used to wake up imagining that phone call.
There were nights I could almost hear the ghost of the music that Miles loved. I imagined he was there with me, playing the saxophone his parents never got to give him. I would look up at the night sky and tell myself Lucy was up there, traveling around the galaxy.
But you can only hold that kind of pain inside yourself for so long. Eventually you start to fall apart a bit. You start hearing phantom jazz at the grocery store, and suddenly you can’t walk or speak, and everyone’s crowded around you, worried. Until they realize who you are, and then they almost hope you don’t survive the panic attack.
There’s little that makes you feel more vulnerable than losing your mind in public and knowing everyone’s waiting for you to give in to it. I hate feeling that vulnerable, so I tucked Miles and Lucy away in a place I don’t go to anymore. But at least now I can go to the store without ending up on the floor in a sweat.
“I did care,” I tell Lauren. “I do. You can’t even begin to know how much I care. How much it hurts. But I didn’t kill them. And I can’t keep hurting for them and crying for my brother and hating myself. I can’t do all these things and still function. I just can’t. There’s only so much I can handle.”
“So you chose your brother?” she asks. “You chose him over the little kids he killed? Don’t you get why Rory feels like she does?”
“I didn’t choose my brother. I didn’t pick him over them. I just couldn’t keep hurting over something I couldn’t fix.” I pause and look at her, although I know she can’t understand. Not really. I know it’s pointless to try to explain, but I do anyway. “I didn’t choose him. I chose myself. I chose surviving.”
* * *
I end up skipping lunch, sitting inside a bathroom stall and counting the minutes until it ends. People come in and out of the bathroom, but I stay silent, hoping they won’t notice me.
No one’s talking about me yet. Not really. A couple girls mention “that crazy new chick with the psycho brother,” and one admits she thinks Scott’s “kinda sexy in a bad-boy way.” It makes me want to throw up. Not because he’s my brother and because I don’t want anyone thinking about him that way, but because who finds a murderer attractive? It’s not like she ran into him at speed dating while he was out on parole and they hit it off and then she found out. She literally only knows he exists because he killed three people, and that’s what she thinks of. Worse, she even goes so far as to say it.
Some people amaze me. And then I’m more amazed that I’m still surprised by them.
The part of the day I’m dreading most is my last class. It’s actually a study hall, which is even worse, because there’s no teacher talking and keeping the focus on some subject we n
eed to learn. It’s just people stuck in a room with nothing to do but look at one another and judge.
And Chloe is in my study hall.
I head toward the back. Usually I sit up front because I kind of like having the time to, you know, study, but today I’m hoping I can fade right out the back wall.
It’s a small group, too. There are only ten of us in total, and that includes Mike Jeffries, who skips school more than he attends.
When Chloe comes in, she looks right at me and stands in the doorway, blocking the entrance for everyone else.
“Get out of the way,” Mike Jeffries says from behind her as the bell rings and most of the people in study hall enter. I guess today was one of Mike’s on days.
I wait for the attack. I wait for her to say something obnoxious, but she doesn’t. She stays in the front and doesn’t turn around for most of the period. Mike Jeffries and some freshman named Wayne sit near me, stabbing each other in the arm with pencils.
The minutes pass and no one says anything. I’ve dreaded it all day, and yet it’s the most peace I’ve had since I told the drama kids about Scott. No one acknowledges I’m here.
But then, with ten minutes left of study hall, the teacher leaves to go make copies or something. The teachers aren’t really supposed to leave us unattended, but they do it all the time. And besides possible lead poisoning from Mike Jeffries, there’s no reason they shouldn’t. We don’t do much. They like to think we’re out-of-control hormones and destruction contained only by a middle-aged guy in a plaid button-down shirt reading us Shakespeare, but we’re just people. And we’re bored people. Boredom worries them, but all it does is drain us of the will to live. Especially in study hall when there are ten minutes left in the school day.
Chloe comes over to my desk after the teacher leaves. I’m sure my expression isn’t welcoming, because she pauses halfway between sitting and standing.
“I can’t do this right now,” I tell her. “Can you save it for tomorrow?”
“Can I sit?” she asks.
I pack up my stuff and gesture to the desk next to me. Clearly, she’s incapable of basic instruction.
“Just say it, then. Since you can’t wait.”
She actually makes eye contact, which is bold, since most people look away when they tell me what a terrible person I am.
“I know we don’t exactly get along.”
“Mostly because you’ve been horrible to me since my first day here,” I point out.
“Yeah, I know. And the thing is … I don’t really like you that much.”
“This is a charming way to start a conversation.”
She shifts in her seat but doesn’t look away from me. “Look, I’m just being honest. I don’t expect us to be friends. I don’t think we’re really … I don’t like you much, like I said. But I wanted you to know … I’m not okay with everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“What Rory did. I’m not okay with it. Sure, I’ll admit it. I felt a little validated by your confession yesterday. It was like proof I was right all along.”
“Right about what?”
“I didn’t like you and I didn’t trust you. And yesterday I felt like I had a reason.”
“But you didn’t. You only hated me because you like Ryan and he’s not interested in you.”
Now she looks away. “Yeah, okay. That’s a huge part of it. I do like him, and he made me feel like shit last year. I thought we were good together, and he just … gave up. And it hurt like hell that he didn’t even know you, that you just showed up and he acted like you were somehow special. I’ve cried for more than a year over him, you know.”
I could tell her. I could let her know it’s not her. In some ways I want to tell her, because I hate knowing she hurts. No matter how horrible she’s been to me. Ryan doesn’t want her to hurt, either, and I could make that go away in an instant.
But that’s Ryan’s story to tell, and I won’t do that to him. I know, more than anyone, about keeping yourself safe by lying.
So I shrug instead. I have to let Chloe keep hurting to protect Ryan, and he has to let me hurt to protect himself, and it’s a cycle of self-preservation through the pain of someone else.
“We broke up,” I tell Chloe. “We weren’t even together that long. And it’s really not cool that you hate me because he liked me.”
“I know. But whatever. That’s not why I wanted to talk to you. I wanted you to know that it’s not okay what Rory did. No, I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. I don’t even know if I want to be. I barely know you, and we never really tried, and now … I don’t know.” She pauses. “But you’re still a person, and you don’t deserve this. And I just wanted to say that … as far as I’m concerned … things are still the same with us.”
“So, horribly awkward and uncomfortable?” I ask.
She laughs. “Yeah, I guess. But not because of what you told us. Just…”
“Because.”
It’s not a friendship. It’s barely tolerance of each other. She’s right. We won’t ever get along. There’s a giant gap between us that’s been there since we met, and it’s mostly on her that it exists. I won’t even admit to her now that she made me feel better; she’s made me feel bad too many other times in the last few months. But she’s right: I’d rather we don’t get along for reasons unrelated to my brother.
“So, I’ll see ya,” Chloe says as the bell rings.
“Yeah. See ya.”
I head to the bus, where I’m going to have to face Ryan and where Marcus won’t be. I walk slowly and consider how far it would be to walk home. A few miles? Through most of town? I think about running and seeing how far I can get. How long until I don’t need to run anymore.
I know I made a choice, and this is what came of it. I can either leave and give up, or I can face what my life is now. I can take reality for what it is.
If I decide to leave—if I run—I have to keep running. I can’t turn around and change my mind later.
Run, my brain tells me.
But I don’t. I head to the bus because my feet are tired. My body is tired and my mind is tired. I’m tired of everything.
And I’m so damn tired of running.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ryan isn’t on the bus after all. Eric is, although he just says hi and moves to his seat like it’s a typical day. We weren’t really close in the first place, so I didn’t expect much to change with him. We were mostly friends through Ryan, but I still thought maybe he’d be uncomfortable. That he would say something. Would maybe ask about it. But Eric acts like he doesn’t even know, although I can’t imagine that’s true. Rory made sure everyone knew.
This is proven when some freshman girl I’ve never spoken to comes up to the front of the bus and sits behind me.
“So I hear you get off on killing kids,” she says.
“No, just freshmen,” I reply.
“I wouldn’t joke about shit like that. Given your history.”
I turn around in my seat. She’s leaning forward, so I almost kiss her when I do.
She’s one of those people you look at and you can tell she worries about what everyone thinks of her. Her hair is perfectly put together, and she wears just enough makeup to look like she’s not wearing makeup but also to appear flawless. Her clothes look like she walked right out of a Fashion Week layout. But her eyes are empty. It’s something I’ve grown to recognize in people over time. Some people burn inside themselves. They’re more soul than body. And some, like this girl whose name I don’t know and don’t plan to remember, are merely a shell.
“What history is that?” I ask.
“Like I said, killing kids.”
“You do know that people are individuals, correct? That you’re not every single person on this bus, for instance? So, like, if I were to punch you in the face right now, you can’t go blaming him.” I point to some random guy across the aisle, who’s too far away to hear what we’re saying but looks nervous abo
ut being involved in any discussion we’re having.
“Blood is thicker than water,” she says.
“That literally makes no sense.”
“He was your brother. I’m sure you knew. You were probably in on it.”
“Yeah, totally. The cops just never caught me, because I’m that fucking wily.”
“You’re a bitch.”
“Say hello to the kettle,” I say, and turn around. She huffs from behind me, but I hear her shuffle back to wherever she came from.
I don’t want to do this for another however many days or months it’s going to be. I don’t want to pretend it’s a joke, to dig up snarky retorts to hide how much every single word hurts. I don’t want to sit on the bus and have people look at me. To go into class and wonder if people are texting about me, to worry about what they’re saying. I don’t want to find pictures on my locker or see Ryan in school and know I can’t even say hi.
But I don’t have much of a choice unless I leave Westbrook. Go back home. Head back for Thanksgiving and admit I messed up again. Since I don’t want to do that, this is basically what I have to look forward to.
Still, I decide that I’ll see if I can at least stop taking the bus.
I’m a freaking senior. I shouldn’t be taking the damn bus anyway.
Marcus isn’t around when I get home. I have homework to do, so I just go to Aunt Susie’s apartment. There are several texts from my parents waiting for me, but I ignore them. I’m not in the mood to fill my parents in on the latest drama. I can’t tolerate my mom’s I told you so disguised as worry.
“You’re home,” my aunt says when she comes in from work. “That’s new.”
“I told everyone about Scott yesterday,” I tell her in response.
She nods. “So you’ll be home a lot more, I guess.”
“At least I’m an excellent cook.” I’m not, but it makes her laugh.
Aunt Susie sits on my bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”