by Anna Shinoda
I think, Mom, please say something. Please make this stop. But she just sits there, rubbing her damn fingernail.
He asks me if when I looked in the organizer, I realized Luke had stolen items and was returning them with fake receipts. I say no, Luke would never ask me to drive him if he were returning stolen goods. Luke wouldn’t do that to me.
He asks me if I am sure that Luke would never involve me in an illegal activity.
I pause. And have to answer truthfully. I whisper no. I am not sure. I hear Mom’s sharp inhale beside me. She did not like the way I answered that question.
He asks me if Luke confided in me that he had made fake receipts. I say no.
He asks me if I saw Luke with any of his friends that day. I say no.
He asks me if I saw anyone else in the parking lot of Compute This who might have been suspicious. I want to say yes, that the person looked a lot like Luke, so maybe they are mistaking this other person for my brother. But I know I can’t lie, even if I thought it would help him. Even if that is what Mom would want me to do. So I say no.
He asks me if Luke has ever asked for my help before. I say yes. I am sure he has, because he is my brother. But never for anything illegal.
He asks me if I am sure. I shake my head.
He asks me to answer yes or no, verbally. I say no. I’m not sure.
He asks me if I know where Luke is. I say I think still in Tennessee, living with a friend. I can’t remember the city.
He asks me if I have a phone number or address for this friend. I say no. He said he’d write or call with his new information, but he hasn’t yet.
He asks me if I know any information on any of Luke’s friends in Tennessee. I say no.
He asks me if I know the names of Luke’s friends in Tennessee. I say no.
He asks me if Luke left a cell number, or any phone number at all. I say no.
He asks me if Luke has an address in Tennessee. I know I have answered this already. I say no.
He asks where I last saw Luke. I say when we dropped him off at a bus stop.
He asks where the bus was going. I say I don’t know, because we dropped him off before he bought his ticket. And he didn’t say where.
And then I think how weird that was. How strange that we didn’t park and walk him to the window. That Mom didn’t buy the bus ticket for him. That we didn’t sit with him on the bench, waiting for the bus to come. That we just dropped him off and said good-bye on the curb.
Then I realize. Oh, my God.
Mom didn’t want to know where he was going. She didn’t want me to know where he was going. Maybe she’d had a call from Dad to warn her, when the police had showed up. Or maybe she’d just guessed he’d be in legal trouble soon.
He asks me what bus station it was. I say I don’t remember.
Mom breaks her silence. Offers to write down the name of the station and the time we dropped him off. He hands her a pen and paper. I’m surprised that she would give that information up. But how much help is that, really? We don’t know how long he waited at the bus station before leaving. How many transfers he made. He doesn’t have a credit card, so it was paid for all with cash. And who is going to remember Luke out of all the passengers taking a bus that day?
The interrogator looks at me and says he thinks I can probably remember a little better now that day I drove Luke to the three stores. And that I am probably ready to rewrite my account of what happened, including looking at the organizer, the stops we made, the approximate times, and anything else I think is important. He tells me I am doing fine, and to take my time.
He is silent while I write a much more detailed account of the day. Mom is silent too. I sign it and date it.
He tells me he’ll call if there are any more questions. He gives both Mom and me his card and says I should call him if I remember anything else.
He says that if Luke comes home or calls or writes that I need to call him immediately. That goes for Mom, too. And Dad. And Peter.
He says that he can have me arrested for obstructing a police investigation if I do not call, that they will have no choice but to assume that I was an accessory to this crime if I do not call.
He asks if I understand.
I nod and say yes, I understand.
Safe in the car, my head starts pounding. I’m exhausted. The detective’s questions have my mind spinning. The seriousness of it all crashes over me. If they think I helped Luke . . . If they think I knew he was doing something illegal, I could go to jail. Acid rises in my throat, burning my esophagus, then my tonsils. I swallow. Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit.
Dad asks, “How did it go, Clare? Everything okay?” I glare at him. Is everything okay? Really?
Mom says, “They have her fingerprints on evidence but nothing that will convict her.”
“Where did they get her fingerprints to compare?” They continue the conversation as if I’m not in the car, creating a sense of disbelief that this is actually happening to me.
“Remember? They do a fingerprint scan on anyone getting a license now. At least she didn’t do anything illegal. I think she’s safe. Let’s just hope that nothing she said will get Luke in trouble.”
I turn my glare toward her but don’t say what I’m thinking: Fuck that. If he goes to prison again, it’s his fault. Luke’s making me an accessory to his crime could ruin my life.
But Luke wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t. Besides, the police could be wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a receipt scam. Maybe Luke’s innocent. My stomach turns, telling my brain that I know better. Luke is guilty. And he almost made me an accessory to his crime.
In the wrong place at the wrong time.
Chapter 38
Reputation
THEN: Age Fourteen
“Tovin, Clare?”
“Here.”
“You come from a family with quite a reputation.” I
had been in high school for less than fifteen minutes, and I already hated it. Skeleton squeezed into the seat with me, knocking my pencil off my desk. As I bent to pick it up, my new teacher continued with roll. When he finished, his eyes traveled around the classroom.
“I am known for being one of the more strict teachers at this school. I can tell you all now that I do not teach people who are slackers, nor do I teach those who cannot follow the rules. If any of you fall into either category, I suggest you save us all a headache. I’ll happily transfer you out to another teacher’s class, hmm?” His eyes fixed on me.
Choice one: stay in a classroom with a teacher who obviously has preconceived ideas about me, prejudices based on my brothers’ actions in his classroom. Choice two: transfer out. Would transferring out make it an admission of guilt? After all, he did tell me to leave if I were a slacker or a troublemaker.
Would other teachers look down on me because of who I was related to?
I sat up straighter, blinked back the tears, drained the hot blood from my face. Stayed and proved him wrong. Lucky for me, teachers gossip, and by the end of June my own reputation of being a smart, hard-working, well-mannered student began to overshadow the others that I had by association.
Chapter 39
Fault
NOW
Mom barely sets her luggage in her room before heading to her ornaments, now covered in three weeks of dust. I escape immediately to my room to check on my fish. Come on, guys. Make me happy. They’ve survived the vacation feeder and the power going out in our house twice while I was gone. The tank is a little dirty, but the water level is good, the temperature is right, and the fish look bright and healthy. Peter did a great job taking care of them. I slide down the wall and sit on the floor in front of the fish tank, trying to let my mind rest as I watch the fish glide.
There is a knock as the door opens. That’s usually Mom’s move, but this time it’s Peter.
“Hey,” he says as he sits on the floor next to me. “Drea’s called about three times in the past two hours. She says she’s been call
ing and texting your cell phone all day.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket. I didn’t even remember to turn it on when the plane landed.
“You should at least call her to say you are home and alive,” he says, picking at a piece of white fuzz on the carpet. “She’s stupid worried.”
“I can’t talk to Drea about this.” I groan. “What am I going to say? That my idiot brother I’m always so quick to defend made me an accessory to theft?”
“Clare, thirty seconds after the police arrived, the whole fucking neighborhood was up in our business. They all saw your car being searched. Sure, they’re all assuming it has something to do with Luke, but they know it was your car.”
I bury my face in my hands. “What am I going to do?” “If it were me, I’d clear it up once, to my close friends. They know you, right, so they know you wouldn’t be involved. Screw anyone else. They can think whatever they want.” He pauses, looking from the fuzz to my eyes. “You okay? After the police?”
“Not really,” I say. “It was brutal. I don’t want to talk about it. And I’m not really allowed to talk about it anyway.”
After we sit for a second or two in silence, the house phone rings.
“Drea, I bet,” says Peter, pushing himself up from the floor. I shake my head at him. “Fine. I’ll tell her you’re home and alive.”
He leaves, shutting the door behind him. Part of me wishes he had pressed me to talk. Part of me wants to dump every thought I have swirling around my head about Luke. Maybe Peter would have some good advice. Who else will understand like Peter?
I drag myself over to my bed.
Dad has thrown a pile of mail onto the middle of my mattress. Most of it is college junk mail: packets and brochures from universities, bragging about their scholastics, their campus life, their setting, their sports. The rest are postcards. I flip the first one over, see Drea’s scribbley handwriting: Hey, Clare! Can you believe they still make these things? Why would I e-mail when the lobby of the hotel has postcards with a cat wearing a cowboy hat? Best $1.50 I’ve ever spent. The other postcards feature Drea’s college rating system on the back—hot guys: 10, scenic: 3, dorms: 4.5. The normalcy of it is jarring. My life is spinning so out of control. Was it only two months ago when I was most worried about asking Mom’s permission for the college trip?
I turn on my cell phone. Ten missed calls and eight text messages from Drea. Missed calls from Omar, Chase, and Skye. Nothing from Luke.
It’s not like I expected anything. Not really. He probably knows he’s in trouble. Knows he dragged me into this. I’m so pissed at him right now. So why do I desperately want to hear from him?
It’s better this way. As soon as he calls, as soon as he writes, as soon as he shows up, I have to call the detective. I have to.
The next morning Mom pops her head into my room early. “Clare. Phone for you.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” My voice is scratchy.
“You will take the call. I already told Chris Jordan you’re here.”
I sit up in bed. He must be calling for more lessons.
“Hi, Chris!” I can’t believe how happy I am. “How’s the swimming going? I’m back home now, so we can do another lesson. What works for you?” Fantastic. I can’t wait to teach Chris again. And it’ll help take my mind off . . . everything.
“Ummm . . . hi, Clare. Actually, I’m calling to say that my mom won’t let me take swimming lessons from you anymore.” His voice is sad and low.
His mom won’t let him take lessons from me.
It doesn’t matter that I was able to convince him to try. That I’m a certified lifeguard. That there probably isn’t anyone better in our town to teach him.
“Oh,” I say, “I’m sorry to hear that. Is she sure? Maybe I should try talking to her.”
“Yeah, she’s sure,” he says.
“Okay. I understand.”
“Clare,” Lucille’s voice suddenly replaces Chris’s. “While we have you on the phone. In light of recent events it’d be best if you don’t reapply for lifeguard, or even cover any of our lifeguard’s shifts. I’m sure you understand why. Well, then, good-bye.”
They hang up before I have a chance to even ask a question, or try to convince Lucille to change her mind.
This is Luke’s fault. It’s all Luke’s fault. Wait in the car, he told me. Like staying in the car would protect me from any of this. He made me his getaway driver! And me . . . How could I be so stupid? How could I have trusted him? He’s been in and out of prison my whole life. Why the hell didn’t I stop and think before I agreed to drive him? I could go to jail. And even if I don’t, everyone thinks that I was in on it. Maybe even my friends. Maybe even Drea. I’ve already lost my job. What’s next? I’ll have to work three times as hard at school to prove I’m not cheating. I’ll be watched every time I go to the grocery store or the gas station. No one will hire me. How could he do this to me? How could he be so stupid? So selfish?
I start to scream. Out of control. I am going fucking crazy. I throw myself onto my bed and let my pillow muffle my screams until my voice dies.
Chapter 40
Class Discussion
THEN: Age Sixteen
“In keeping with our unit on social issues of contemporary society, today we are going to discuss our prison system,” Mr. Clark, my US history teacher, said. My head snapped up. If I had known this was on the syllabus, I would have stayed home. Omar sent a caring glance from his seat next to me and reached over to squeeze my hand when the lights were turned off. I sunk down as deep as I could in my chair.
A spotlight appeared, zooming around the room, then settling on Skeleton, in a top hat with a cane. He began to tap-dance. Tap, tap, tappy tap. From one side of the TV to the next. Using his cane, he pointed at the screen: violent criminals in orange, looking insane and not one bit sorry for all they’d done.
Tappy tap, tap. He pointed at weapons carved out of toothbrushes, sharpened to makeshift blades.
Tap. Tap. Tap. A fat, balding officer gave us the virtual tour, saying, “Three meals. A library. An hour of exercise out in the yard. People can send them televisions for their rooms, magazines.”
Skeleton twirled. Stopped and pointed. Criminals, talking about splitting into gangs. About how every day is a day of war. About how they have to avoid being someone’s bitch.
Stomach acid rose, my throat burned.
Don’t think about Luke. He’s not like any of these people. Don’t think about gang wars and rape. Don’t think about makeshift weapons. Don’t think about how Luke could fit into that.
Tappy tap, tap. The grand finale. Skeleton twirled, twisted, tapped down my aisle. Transferred the spotlight from his glaring white bones to my blood-drained face, just as Mr. Clark flipped off the TV.
I felt like all eyes were on me.
“We have about fifteen minutes left,” Mr. Clark said, “so let’s discuss. Do our prisons serve their purpose?” He scanned the room. “Yes, Mandy?”
“Three meals a day, an hour of exercise, TV, magazines, a warm and dry place to sleep. Doesn’t sound like a bad deal, especially for someone who can’t keep a job to earn those things on their own.”
Not a bad deal, Mandy? From watching a stupid twenty-minute video, you think you know enough about prison to deem it not a bad deal?
She looked over to me, giving me a smug smile before she continued, “Look at Clare’s brother, Luke. He’s obviously not learning his lesson. How many times has he been in and out of prison, Clare?” With this, Skeleton stood on her desk, clapping his hands in a circle. Bravo.
There was a collective gasp from everyone in the room. I stopped breathing.
“But what about programs that can actually help them integrate back into society?” Omar rescued me. He steered the conversation away from what Mandy had said, before Mr. Clark could even react. “This video didn’t go over things like job training or drug rehabilitation or mental health programs. If we invested money in t
hose types of programs, maybe we’d see fewer repeat offenders.”
“And spend more tax dollars, ourhard-earned money?” Mandy retorted. “No way. They deserve only bread and water. Maybe then they wouldn’t want to go back.”
By “they” she meant Luke. Luke deserved only bread and water. My hands balled into fists under my desk. I wanted to punch her pretty little button nose into her head.
“We are talking about humans here, Mandy,” Omar angrily retorted. “Not stray rabid dogs.”
Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “Okay. Interesting points from each of you.” Pausing, scanning the room, he asked, “Does anyone else have anything to add?”
Nothing to add. No one wanted to discuss this. Especially not me.
“Okay. Let’s talk homework,” Mr. Clark told us. “Write an essay on your thoughts about our prison system, based on the video and on what you’ll be reading in our government book tonight, pages 259 to 314.”
And then the bell. Which I hoped would release some of my discomfort. But instead I felt everyone glancing my way. I could only hope that something dramatic would happen to take the attention off me. But there was no girl fight with one biting the other, or someone getting caught smoking weed, or a major earthquake. Just everyone’s persistent eyes following me, and the loud clank of Skeleton’s bones.
The next day I expected the rumors and whispers to continue at school. My savior came in the form of one gorgeous new student. His name was Ryan Delgado. His messy hair, hazel eyes, and perfectly crooked nose gave the girls all something else to talk about.
Chapter 41
Uncomfortable Routine
NOW
There are two weeks left of summer, and I am practically hiding, staying in my house away from eyes and questions. Skeleton is everywhere. Whenever I leave home: whisper, whisper, whisper. I know everyone is putting random facts together mixed with gossip, coming up with a story: that Luke and I are thieves, that I was the getaway driver, that we ran off to Tennessee to evade the law, that my parents are hiding Luke somewhere and not telling the police. Our whole family: criminals. I never want to go back to school. But at the same time I miss the time away from my thoughts while studying history, English, science, and even math. The only thing that makes me feel okay is sliding stitch after stitch to create baby blankets, listening to my needles click as I watch my fish swim.