by Mary Gray
The clicking sound we heard before runs through my head. The click must mean something, so I ask him, “Why do you think it clicked?”
Marcus rubs his hand over the new growth of his beard. “It sounded mechanical. Maybe Jonas pulled a trigger to open the gate.”
It’s a good hypothesis. Easier than finding another remote. I search for a button on the fence. But I don’t see anything there, so I scratch my hands along the dirt for a clue.
“A tree?” I suggest, then spin to search a few close by. I run my fingers on the rough, knobby bark, prick my thumb on what looks like crocodile teeth—thin and jagged. Freaking trees. I move to the next.
Combing the ground close by, Marcus bends down to examine an exposed, splitting root. “If I made a button, I’d put it here,” he says, pointing to where the bark has worn away. I step closer to inspect it, too. Bark, thinly veiling the flesh of the tree, is the only feature we find. There are supposed to be buttons. A diagram or two. I run my finger over the tree root and tug on the bits of bark to see if any of it will move, when I slice my finger on a thorn concealed by deadened leaves. Holy mother—freak. I look up to Marcus to make some excuse for why I’ve hurt myself again, but he’s staring at the fence, so I suck on my finger to draw out the blood.
Marc’s eyes fall to the ground. “Maybe he did make a remote for this.”
There has to be. Otherwise, Teo risks people getting out.
“I’ll search for it,” I offer, looking at the homes through the trees. “Tonight, while everyone’s at Izzy’s house.”
Marcus laughs right in my face. “Think Teo won’t notice if you leave?”
That’s a little rude. Besides, that’s not what I’m thinking. I’ll slip my hand inside Teo’s coat. But I doubt Marcus will like that any better, so I throw the question back at him. “What do you suggest?”
“I’ll search.” He shakes his head at me. “Look around for a stash of insulin, too.”
His eyes rove over my legs, then jump up to my face. “Just show him a little leg, and you’ll have him captive for hours.”
I slug him on the arm, which feels really nice.
“Just sayin’.” He laughs, his eyes sparkling again. “That’s how I’d react.”
All I can do is groan. “I’d rather pull a fire alarm.”
“Assuming Teo has them,” he says, shoulders slumping.
“Where’d he get this little community from, anyway?” I’d like to lean against a tree to relax, but those trees will probably jab me in the back. “He couldn’t possibly have paid for it with his teacher’s salary.” I shift my feet from left to right.
Marc’s cobalt eyes darken like I’ve struck a chord. “No, that’s not how he paid for this place.”
Now I’m getting visions of drug money and the mafia, but that would be ridiculous, so I nudge him on. “Then how?”
Marcus turns his back on me and I watch that muscular back and those low-rider jeans, gulping before looking higher to where he’s grabbing some random tree branch. “There was an inheritance,” he says, not bothering to turn and look at me. Not that I’m minding. The view’s just fine with me.
“What, from a grandparent?” My eyes fall to those jeans again where they’re resting just a little too snugly on his hips, but he turns around, catches me looking, and I glance away. It’s okay that he caught me, though, because he just told me he thinks I’m pretty.
Marcus rubs his eyes, his chin, his hair, as if rubbing the stress from his face. “My dad.”
“That’s an awful lot of money he must have had lying around.”
Marcus laughs and it’s so beautiful, so clear that it matches his face. “Oil rigs.” He smirks, looking away from me. “That was the business my dad was in. It paid well.”
Marcus stops short like he doesn’t want to add anything to that, but I have to know more.
“Okay,” I say, trying to slow my reeling mind, “you’re saying Teo took that money—from your dad’s financial dealings.” He must have been raking in the cash.
Marcus kicks a rock. “It was supposed to stay in the bank for college. He used his part for his precious Dartmouth, but he told me he was ‘investing’ mine.”
That can’t be right. Teo would never take his brother’s money—oh my—of course he would. “But how could your mom let him do that? That was your money for school.”
“Welcome to the Richardson family.” Marcus shrugs. “Mom’s dead, so Teo pisses the money away.”
“Wow.” I don’t know what to say, so I stare at the knobby trees. “Your brother really screwed things up.”
Blowing the steam he’s collected in his lungs, Marcus says, “At least Teo’s saving us from the Living Rot.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but he keeps his mouth shut. I can almost feel a tangible wall coming between us. Just like before, he pulls on the front of his hair, and I want him to stop.
“You’re doing it again,” I tell him. “You’re thinking about something, and you don’t want me to know what it is.”
Marcus looks at me, eyes wide as silver spoons. It’s like he can’t believe I’ve watched him long enough to know such a thing. You are wrong, Marcus. I smile thinly.
“It’s just—” Marc scuffs his feet on an exposed tree root “—we make Teo out to be the bad guy, but really, what’s so different between us?”
It’s like he’s become a prop in a child’s game. All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey stopped to pull up his sock, Pop! goes the weasel. And Marcus is the weasel right when I least expect it. He can’t possibly compare himself to Teo. It’s like comparing an iron maiden with a yo-yo.
But his face reads earnestly. His blue eyes are clear. So I ask what he must be wanting me to ask him. “What do you mean?”
He runs his hand over his stubble, moves on to the back of his hair. “Just what I told you. We’re really the same.”
He couldn’t be more wrong. “You are everything good that your brother is not.”
His blue eyes flash, a spark amazingly like his brother’s, though blue. “Am I? Don’t take it personally, Cheyenne, but you barely know me.”
For one humiliating millisecond, my voice makes a strangling sound before I’m able to close it off. How can he say that? I know we haven’t grown up together, that we went to two different schools, but I’ve seen him, wanted to get to know him. Every time, he was the one who backed off.
“Let’s just say I’ve screwed up before,” he mumbles between his teeth.
When I shake my head, Marcus says, much too loudly, “I killed someone. Do you get it? I killed someone, so we really are alike.”
He can’t be serious. I’ve experienced so much warmth from him. He doesn’t cause pain. It’s like I’m dreaming, not really awake.
I’m sure there’s an explanation—a freak accident. He fed someone turnips and they were lethally allergic. Someone slipped on some ice in front of his house. A worker fell from his roof, and he hasn’t been able to forgive himself since. But then Marcus is opening his mouth and I have to really focus to understand everything.
“It was late,” he tells me, watching the gnarled roots on the ground. “You could say I was missing my mom, so I grabbed one of dad’s liquor bottles to—I don’t know—I guess to find a friend. But then it was suddenly empty, and I didn’t feel so good, so I made my way to the fridge for my insulin, but I remember being so confused because all of it—it was gone.”
Marc walks around to the other side of the tree, putting distance between us, and I don’t want to push him to be near me, so I gingerly lower myself to the dry ground, hugging my knees.
“You know,” Marcus says, voice so monotone it doesn’t sound like him, “it was stupid for me to be drinking, being diabetic.” He kicks a few leaves. “I think, whether I lived or died that night, I didn’t really care. But I knew I had to get some insulin, so I hopped in the car.”
No. He said he’d been drinking.
“I
tried pulling out of the garage—it took me a few tries—when my dad came outside.”
I’m not really sure I can hear what his dad had to say. All I see is a scowling man marching out to the garage.
“Dad was drunk, too,” Marc’s saying. “Kept telling me to get out of the car, but I didn’t care. He never cared for me, not like Mom—she’s the one who always got my insulin. Teo helped me after she died, but when he went to Dartmouth, I was on my own—kept screwing it up.
“So I decided to drive to the pharmacy myself, because it’s not like Dad would. Everything’s sort of a blur after that,” Marc mumbles, “but a few things I remember just fine. I remember Dad jumped in the car, and I tried pushing him out, so he punched me and I floored the gas.”
No, no.
“We fishtailed our way through our neighborhood. I was mad at him. I just wanted him to leave. I remember thinking, ‘If I drive fast enough, the car will separate and I’ll be free.’”
Marc.
“When we got to the Target pharmacy, I knew I was supposed to slow down, but my reflexes were off, and I turned several seconds after I should have. There was this group of people—a mom, an elderly lady, and I remember someone small, a little kid.”
No.
“But I missed them—”
Oh, thank God!
“—and I remember congratulating myself, but then I yanked the steering wheel left and plowed straight into this stop sign cemented into the ground.”
My blood runs cold.
“At first, I thought it was awesome—I mean, I nailed the car like that and I wasn’t even hurt. Sure, the windshield was blown to bits, but it was really cool. But then I remembered my dad, looked over, and the stop sign was stuck in his head—” he sucks in a breath and my heart’s pounding in my ears. What’s he saying? That’s not what he’s saying. I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t offer a breath.
I try to make sense of what he’s just said. He killed his dad? No, there must be more to this story, so I don’t say anything, squeeze my legs harder into my chest.
“Afterwards, the state asked to see me,” Marc’s saying, and I’m backpedaling because it can’t be true. His dad can’t be dead because of him. “Teo took me to court,” he continues, “and, well, you know how my brother can be with people. Instead of me getting locked up, he got me community service.”
Nothing’s making sense anymore. Good people don’t make things happen like this. He was a victim. He was missing his mom. He took charge of his own insulin supply and—no. No, no, no. Everything’s hurting. My shoulders and heart feel heavy. When Marc talks to me, it’s like his words are echoing, not coming together like they should in order to make sense.
When he says “seventy hours,” and “a new man,” I’m left wondering how he could ever be that. Because killing your father turns you into nothing. Nothing but sorrow and pain and numb. So he must be telling it wrong. His dad forced him to drive that car while drunk, and Marcus really did succeed in pushing him out of their car before he left.
But then Marcus is laughing, which sounds much more like someone’s just kneed him in the groin. He’s telling me drunk drivers shouldn’t get second chances, that some days he wonders why someone didn’t serve him with lethal injection instead. He tells me he’s the reason his father is dead.
The echoes come faster, like someone’s stuck me in a tomb; I’m on a Ferris wheel, but the words are moving too fast. He’s the reason, he’s the reason his father is dead.
Eventually the echoes slow, die down. Marcus has stopped talking, stares at the tree root again.
With his low voice rasping, he finally says, “So really, Teo and me are the same.”
I’m in that tomb, trying to make sense of all the sounds. I never knew my father, thought that was bad enough, but to be the reason why he’s dead? I’m glad I’m already on the ground.
I let my legs break loose from my clutch; they’re asleep, all tingly like sand’s shaking around from inside. I don’t know what to say; I feel like there should be words coming out of my mouth, but what he said is true. He killed someone. I’ve tried to understand, but there’s no way I can imagine what that feels like, to know the car you drove ended up becoming the vehicle for someone’s death. My lips eventually move. “You were a minor.”
Marcus walks around the tree toward me, eyes locking on mine as soon as he comes around. “One more screw-up and I’d be in juvie,” he says, eyes more dead than flat. It’s all beginning to make sense. That one math meet, where he recited the Pease porridge hot rhyme, was so odd, so misplaced, it must have been around the same time as his dad’s death.
His dad.
No wonder Marcus has a hard time facing reality and reverts to clowning around.
“But you’re living your life differently.” I try keeping my eyes on his, but it’s hard because my voice sounds wobbly and not really like my own. But it’s the truth—he hasn’t pulled an extravagant stunt at the math meets since junior year.
Marcus crashes down on the ground, leaning against the knobby tree.
“Trying. Not really succeeding.” He picks up a rock and chucks it at the fence, which zaps it before it drops. Okay. Maybe that wasn’t a rock since it zapped. “It’s been a hard year.” Of course it has. He lost his dad.
“But, and I’m really sorry to say this, but your dad wasn’t even a nice guy,” I find myself saying, remembering a few comments he’s made about his dad, and knowing Teo is who he is because of who raised him.
“Doesn’t matter.” Marcus grits his teeth, his face hardening like stone. Stone, because it’s easier to grow hard than feel the guilt and hurt.
Sometimes, when I feel guilty about something, my stomach curls—I have a hard time falling asleep. To think of the nights Marcus has lain awake, fighting the way that his stomach must curl. Guilt is a heavy, hollowing thing. It’s simultaneously the most intangible and most corporeal emotion. Impossible to express, yet so full of weight.
Unsteadily, I find my feet, make my way over to Marcus, and plunk myself right down beside him on the moss and grass. But he doesn’t so much as look up, and I wait for his response, for him to say something, but he doesn’t and I know that he can’t. I would be feeling the same way if I’d been the one to take my dad’s life.
So, gingerly, I reach over and take Marc’s hand, and because there’s not a single serious thing I could say, or not say, I do what I swore I would never do.
I squeeze his hand.
It’s corny. I’m halfway wishing I hadn’t done it, but it’s not like I can wipe Marc’s memory, so I have to own the move. My hand feels warm and sweaty—yet calm—inside of his.
Calm. Huh. Such a foreign emotion. I’ve spent the last year panicked, lovesick, and deluding myself.
Marcus stares at our hands, and I suddenly want to hide again in that tomb.
Slipping my hand from Marcus’s, I scratch the back of my neck. Not because it itches, but because it gives my hand something to do.
Marcus clears his throat. “Did you just squeeze my hand?”
My face pounds like a fever, and I know that can’t be good, because it only feels that way when it blotches candy-apple red. I hate how I wear my emotions on my sleeve.
But Marcus doesn’t seem to mind that I’m blushing, because a tremor of a smile ripples on the side of his mouth. It’s not a look of relief, or even acceptance, but it’s something of an acknowledgement, and that just may be a start. The entire time I’ve known him, he’s been the one to buoy me up. Perhaps I can be the anchor for a change.
I change topics, because I can feel the awkward silence pouring from us both, I say, “So, you still want to leave?”
His gaze shifts and his eyes harden, but a speck of light remains. “Oh, yeah.”
But I must be sure that we’re both on the same page. “You’re completely on board with this,” I repeat. I’d understand if he had issues leaving his brother. Okay, I don’t think that will be a problem at all.
Marcus frowns, staring again at the fence. “Well, I’d feel a lot better if I could get my hands on that vaccine.”
“Okay.” I glance at the fence, too. “While you’re searching for the remote, I’ll look in Teo’s coat.” Crap. So much for not admitting that out loud.
“Are you crazy?” Marcus asks, jumping to his feet. “Don’t even think about trying that, Cheyenne. You’ve seen how my brother reacts to things he doesn’t expect.”
Yes, I’ve seen it, but I’m hoping I’ll be the exception for once. Teo does have a thing for me. But Marc’s hard gaze is searching me, so I nod. “Yeah, okay.” We’ll see.
Finding my way back to my feet, I try to envision us all at Izzy’s and how we’ll know the right time to leave, but then the worst scenario of all strikes me. “What if we can’t find the vaccine in time?”
Marcus shrugs, but that shrug is more like a war cry, because those blue eyes are so bright. “To hell with it,” he says, smiling. “I’ll get infected and take a giant bite out of my brother’s head.”
I hiccup inside, not sure what to think. I don’t want Teo to see a grisly end. He’s the one person on the planet who cherishes me. I rub the ring on my hand, remembering how he wrote, “For Persephone. My only.” At the same time, I know Marcus is right. We do need to put Teo’s life behind our own, because Teo’s mood swings shouldn’t determine who gets to live.
16
Seven couples crowd into Izzy’s living room, shocked by the inside of her house. While the others certainly celebrate their couples’ themes, this one tops all the rest; I’ve never seen a river inside a house.
“Look at that,” one of the Doublemint boys says, “there’s even a little boat.”
The famous Lady of Shalott painting greets visitors in the hall. While her actual story isn’t directly related to Tristan’s and Isolde’s, the painting is the perfect link between the two tales—a boat ride in the water is central to both stories, and both involve death.