Learning Not to Drown

by Anna Shinoda

  I shake my head. I can’t stop crying.

  “Will you hide the money here? Just until I can figure out what to do?” I’m still crying, but at least my brain is working.

  A mischievous grin crawls across Drea’s face. “I’ve always wanted to slit open the bottom of the mattress and hide a big wad of cash there.”

  “Do you think that’s the safest place? I mean, if they do it in a movie, doesn’t everyone know about it?” I ask.

  “Who would think of looking for almost ten thousand dollars in my mattress? Otherwise we can tuck some here and some there. As long as we don’t hide it so well that we can’t find it again.”

  The next half hour is spent splitting and hiding the cash, feeling more like criminals hiding our illegally acquired loot than two high school students putting away my college savings.

  “Thanks, Drea,” I say, leaving her house and preparing to go into battle.

  No one seems to notice I was gone. Mom is in the kitchen, fixing dinner. My heartbeat slows—the confrontation can be put off for now. I find Peter in his room, wrapping gifts.

  I hold up my shopping bags. “It’d be handy if we had more than one pair of scissors in this house.”

  After a few minutes of cutting and taping, chopping through Santa’s face and lining it up with reindeer, I get the courage to talk to Peter.

  “So . . . I’m not in here just to wrap gifts,” I say.

  “What’s up?” He doesn’t look up from the tag he’s writing.

  “They arrested Luke today,” I say.

  “Yeah, I know. I overheard Mom talking on the phone to Luke’s lawyer,” Peter says, looking at the pile of ribbons.

  “Mom wants me to give up my college savings for Luke’s bail.” Now I have his attention. I continue, “She actually went to the bank today and took all the money out of my account.”

  “Is that legal?” he asks.

  “Apparently it is, since I’m under eighteen and she had to sign on the account originally. But I found the money in her purse and took it back. She doesn’t know yet.” I look him in the eye. “She’s going to kill me when she finds out.”

  “Wow. Mom’s stealing from her own kid’s savings account. It’s a new low, even for our family.”

  “Crazy, right? Mom says she needs my money since she doesn’t have enough. But she says I’ll get it back when he shows for the trial. Do you think he will?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not.” Peter looks down, starts to tie gold ribbon around a package. Gives up and slaps a premade bow onto the top.

  “I don’t know why they’d need that much money,” I say, “He stole a car. Bail couldn’t be that much, could it?”

  Peter clicks the top of his pen, looking up, his jaw clenching.

  “Clare, he didn’t just steal a car. He… sexually assaulted the girl driving.”

  “What? Sexual assault?” My stomach acid rises. Does he mean rape? Luke couldn’t have done that.

  “I don’t have any details. Just what I overheard. The charges are carjacking and something to do with sexual assault.” Peter’s jaw muscles tighten and release.

  “Luke has made some bad decisions in the past, and I know he’s violent when he’s wasted. But I don’t think he’d do that. That’s a whole different level of fucked up than what he is,” I say as Peter’s clicks the pen as fast as his thumb will move up and down. Click, click, click, click, click, click, click. Finally he stops.

  “Clare, I’ve been seeing a therapist at school. It’s . . . helpful. Good, actually. And you should do it too.” He looks back down, flipping a box along the wrapping paper roll.

  “Why?” What, I’m crazy now? And so is Peter? Why therapy?

  “For a lot of reasons. You know we don’t have the best parents. And Luke—Luke is . . . Can I tell you something? Something only my therapist knows, so you need to keep it a secret forever. No telling Mom or Dad. Or Drea. Or anyone.” I want to walk out of his room. Nothing that he is planning to say can be anything I want to hear. “Okay.” My stomach turns.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Not ANYONE.”

  “Okay, I promise. Not anyone.”

  Peter takes a big breath in, looks back at his wrapped gift, winds a piece of ribbon around a finger. “I was twelve. Dad was at work that day. And Mom took you with her Christmas shopping. She told Luke that he was responsible for me, and we were just here at the house watching TV, but then his friend Heather— Do you remember Heather? The girl with long black hair and blue eyes who used to come over sometimes? You were eight and you used to always tease Luke—‘Luke and Heather sitting in a tree—’”

  “I was hoping they’d get married,” I interrupt. “She was so nice. And she didn’t seem to care that Luke had been in jail a few times.”

  “Yeah. I liked Heather too.” He gives a half smile. I want him to stay on this part of the story. Just remembering Luke and a friend, a girl we all liked. Nothing bad. But. Pushing away my worst memory of Luke never helped me. I need to hear what Peter has to say. “Anyway, she called and wanted him to come over. We put on our coats and boots and walked the mile over to her house. I forgot my gloves, so when I got there, my hands were freezing. It’s crazy. That detail. How clearly I can remember the cold. We didn’t knock, so Heather was still sitting on the couch, chewing her fingernails. Next to her was this guy with gray front teeth and sullen cheeks. I think his name is Dan. I still see him around sometimes.”

  He stops again. Rolls out another piece of wrapping paper and measures the next box. Cuts the paper jaggedly. For a moment I think he won’t tell any more of the story. Then he continues. “Heather jumped up and ran over to us, just gushing over how cute I was and how happy she was that I was there. Her breath had that almost sweet smell that you get when you’re drinking. She gave Luke a kiss on the cheek and told him she’d make him a cocktail. As she walked to the kitchen, I remember Luke nudging me, pointing at her butt because it was barely covered by her long-sleeved dress or shirt or whatever it was she was wearing.”

  His jaw muscles tighten again for a second. It’s hard for him to keep talking. Keep telling me this story. It’s hard for me to hear each word, because, really, don’t I know already where it’s leading?

  After Peter’s jaw relaxes, he continues. “She made me a hot chocolate—with marshmallows. As soon as we sat down on the couch, Dan tapped Luke on the shoulder and said, ‘I got what you need.’

  “Luke said ‘Shut up’ at the same time Heather said, ‘Hey. Not in front of the kid.’

  “Luke told me to stay on the couch and watch the basketball game, and he headed down the hall to Heather’s room with Dan. She stayed with me, ruffling my hair and giggling and drinking and saying how she wished she had a little brother like me. She refilled my hot chocolate each time she got up to make herself another—five times. I remember it was at the beginning of the second quarter when we got there. Knicks versus Heat. By the middle of the third period, she was pretty trashed and Luke hadn’t come back. It wasn’t bad sitting there, but the Heat was ahead by twenty something, and Heather kept passing out and waking up, and I was bored and I wanted to go home.

  “So . . . then Dan came out of the room, woke up Heather, and told us he needed to leave. A minute later Heather said, ‘I’d better see what kind of trouble your brother is getting into’ and stumbled down the hall. She was really drunk, Clare. . . .”

  Peter stops again. The box sits on the wrapping paper. He looks down, as if he’s just now realizing that he was in the middle of wrapping a gift. He folds the edge, making it smooth before taping it. Then he looks up at me. “I’ve thought a lot, Clare, about what I could have done differently that day. I could have told Luke I wanted to go home as soon as I was bored. I could have asked Heather for another hot chocolate, even though I didn’t want one. Or maybe if I had gone back for my gloves, we would’ve gotten there a little bit later and Dan and whatever drugs he had would have bee
n gone. Maybe if one thing had gone differently that day. Know what I mean?”

  I nod. We sit in silence for a minute or two. He’s done with the story. He can’t tell me any more. But he has to. I need to know. “Peter, what happened?”

  “I had to pee. So . . .” Peter pauses. My stomach is a rotten apple core. “I walked down the hall to the bathroom. Heather’s door was open just a crack. I peeked in. I could see Luke and Heather lying together on the bed, facing each other. Luke was running his hand up her bare leg, and she looked like she was asleep.”

  Peter pauses again. “I went the bathroom.” His eyes are watering. “On the way out I heard Heather saying no. I stopped at the door. I wanted to keep walking, not look in, but then I heard her again.” He pauses, swallowing.

  “I’ve never heard anyone’s voice so scared before.” His voice cracks. “She was begging him to stop. I put my eye up to the crack, Clare.” Another pause. “I looked in for only a second. Just a second. But it was long enough to see. He didn’t stop, Clare. I know what I saw.”

  Peter’s nose is running, and he wipes the tears before they can stream down his cheeks. “I wonder if I could have tried to stop him. If I burst open the door, or called the police or screamed or anything. If I did anything. But I didn’t.”

  His voice lowers to almost a whisper. “I was so scared. Clare, I was so scared. So I went back to the couch. I sat on the couch and I turned the volume up on the TV until I almost couldn’t hear anything anymore. And I stared at the screen, trying to just watch the game. But no matter how loud I put the volume, all I could hear was Heather screaming.’

  “After a long time Luke came out of the room, all proud of himself. I was terrified. He sat down on the couch and asked who’d won the game. I couldn’t answer him. I didn’t know. He tried to put his arm around me, and I jerked away. I was trying so hard not to, but when he looked at me, I started to cry.

  “Then he got angry. He told me to put on my jacket because we were going home. As he flipped off the TV, I could hear Heather sobbing in the other room. Luke could hear her too.

  “Right outside the front door Luke grabbed my shoulders. He got right down in my face and said, ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  “I shook my head. I couldn’t speak. He knew, Clare. He knew I saw. And I thought he was going to kill me. He told me that Heather was a slut and liked to scream like that when she was having fun.” Peter spits the words out. “And when I cried harder, he grabbed me by the throat and said, ‘Don’t you spread any lies about your brother!’ Clare, he lifted me off the ground and said, ‘If you spread lies about me, I will kill you. Understand?’

  “I was able to somehow say yes. And that I wouldn’t say anything. He dropped me into a snowbank. And he left me there. It was freezing and the sun was setting. Once he was out of sight, I got up and walked home. I cried the whole way.

  “I told Mom and Dad that Luke and I got into a fight when we were out walking. He never came home. I was scared for weeks that he’d show up in the middle of the night and kill me. Finally he called from jail . . . and I felt safe.

  “Know what’s crazy? I don’t think he remembers—he was so wasted. Either that or he acts like it never happened.” Peter is answering questions before I can think to ask. He takes a deep breath in. Lets it out.

  I am underwater suddenly, and I can’t find the way to air. My stomach turns hard, my lungs fill with liquid.

  Luke is the reason women are afraid to go out at night. Luke is the reason police carry guns. Luke is the reason for guard dogs and security systems and pepper spray. Luke is the bad guy.

  “Peter . . . I’m so sorry.” What else can I say? There are no tears, because I am forcing them back. My head feels like it’s going to explode. All of these years Peter has been carrying around this secret. While Mom and Dad and I have been welcoming Luke home with big hugs and kisses, Peter has been scared to death of what Luke might do to him. No wonder he never told any of us. Why would he? We’d probably all take Luke’s side.

  Santa’s jolly face looks up at me from the wrapping paper. HO, HO, HO. He laughs. I want to vomit all over his stupid rosy-red cheeks.

  “Clare,” Peter says. “I’m sorry. I know I was really rough on you, growing up. Even before I saw Luke do that, he was always so violent with me. I just . . . I didn’t know what to do with my anger. So I was rough on you. I’m sorry. I’ve owed you that apology for a long time.” “Thanks,” I say, finding a little air in my lungs. “And for telling me. You can trust me. I won’t tell your secret.” Part of me wishes I didn’t know his secret still. “And, I don’t know if this needs to be said . . .” My words stumble; I don’t want to say anything wrong. . . . “But just so you know, I’m not letting Mom use my college fund for Luke’s bail. He can stay in jail.”

  Peter nods.

  “So.” Peter breaks the uncomfortable air. “Can I help you wrap your gifts?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  He turns on his computer, selects a playlist, and lets the music soften the edge of his truth.

  We tie a few bows, tape holiday paper closed. With the gifts all wrapped, I head to my own room. Almost as soon I shut my door, it crashes open.

  “Where is it, Clare?” Mom flies at me, teeth bared. “Where is my money?”

  I don’t give myself time to be intimidated. “It’s not yours, and it’s not here.” I manage to keep my voice monotone and calm, saying exactly what I want to say. “You will give me that money now. Luke is in a holding cell waiting for his bail. I promised him. Where is the money?”

  I bite my lip, but the angry tears come out anyway. “You can’t have it.” My voice wavers but I pause and make it as firm as I can. “I saved that money for college.”

  Dad pokes his head into the battle, still in his work jumpsuit. “What’s going on in here?”

  Where to start?

  “Our selfish little daughter won’t help with Luke’s bail.”

  Dad looks from me to Mom. He’s going to side with her. He always does.

  “Let’s talk about it, Clare Bear. This is a great opportunity to do something for your brother,” Dad says.

  “Dad, I’ve worked for yearsto save that money.” Please, Dad, side with me.

  “You’ll get it back! As soon as he shows up for his court date,” my father says. “Mom and I trust him enough that we are using our savings.”

  “I saved that money for college.” I am a broken record, afraid that if I say anything else, Peter’s secret will come out.

  “Clare.” Mom’s tone softens. “Clare, we can’t leave him in jail. I . . . I didn’t tell you this before, but he’s been accused of a sexual crime. Do you know what they do to people who are being held for trial for that? They get beaten up. Raped. Luke is my son. He’s your brother. We can’t leave him in jail, not when he can be safe at home with us.”

  She almost convinces me. Even knowing what Luke has done, I don’t want him to be hurt. I want to protect him somehow. But the fear of Luke is strong, and that trumps everything else. I force myself to say, “I can’t.”

  My mother’s face turns ugly. “You are so selfish, young lady,” she hisses. “If Luke gets hurt, it will be all your fault.”

  I shake my head, repeating to myself, no, no, it’s not my fault. It’s not.

  “He’s your brother, Clare,” Mom says, her cajoling voice back. “It’s Christmas.”

  “No.” I don’t have anything more to say.

  “Don’t bother to ask us for anything ever again.” Mom pulls Dad out the door and slams it behind them.

  I stay frozen to the spot where I’m standing. Trying to process it all. To make sense of it all. Luke is a thief. An addict. An alcoholic. A sexual predator. Only a month ago he attacked Peter. And years ago he almost strangled Dad. And yet they still choose him over me. They still chose him. In its own way it’s almost worse than hearing Peter’s secret. Mom thinks Luke is innocent. She doesn’t know what Luke did to Heather. But she can’t deny
what he’s done to us. She loves Luke more, and she’ll always choose him.

  Chapter 47

  Christmas

  NOW

  The next morning Mom is up early, clicking away on a website that sells and ships approved items to inmates. “I’m working on a care package for your brother,” she says. “And tomorrow I’m going to mail out his Christmas card. Do you have your letter ready for him?” “I won’t be sending him a letter,” I mumble.

  Mom crinkles her brow. “You always send him a letter with our Christmas card.”

  “I have homework to do and scholarships to apply for,” I say, grabbing books off the kitchen table.

  “He’s your brother, Clare. The least you could do is take five minutes to write him a letter.” Skeleton stands behind Mom, jaws flapping open and shut, mirroring her stance, one hand on the hip, the other dramatically thrown in the air. “Especially this time. He would be home with us if you had helped with bail.”

  “Just because he’s my brother doesn’t mean I have to write him,” I announce, to the surprise of Mom, Skeleton, and myself.

  Skeleton spins a card with the nativity scene across the desk, snapping Mom out of shock.

  “It’s Christmas, Clare! You will write your brother, and that is final!” She shoves the card on top of my books. “Don’t bother to come out of your room until you have written something nice.”

  I take the pen from Mom’s hand, put my books down.

  What do I write? Dear Luke, I’m glad you’re in jail, because I’m scared of you. Or Dear Luke, I don’t want to believe you hurt that girl, but I know it’s true. How could you have done that? Or Dear Luke, I loved and trusted you, and all you are is a sick asshole. Merry Christmas.

  Or maybe I’ll just do what everyone else seems to. Pretend nothing is wrong. Know he did something bad and ignore it, because maybe by ignoring it, it will fix itself.

  Dear Luke, I write. Best wishes for a happy, healthy holiday season. Clare.

  I hand her the card, hand her the pen. Push Skeleton out of my path.