What if they are following me? It will lead them straight to Jackson, to our meeting secretly in the middle of the night. I can’t let that happen. I just can’t.
I text him right away, hope I’m not too late.
Not our spot!
Police might follow.
Safeway on Alameda.
Go in, wait by milk.
I’ll find you.
This is all so much to keep track of. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Jackson texts right back.
See u @ Sfwy in 10
I release the stale breath in my gut, and take in the fresh air. That was too close. I feel like I’m getting sloppy, like my brain is too small to hold all the twists and pockets of possibilities.
What would life be like if I could always be honest? If I could always be who I really am? The thought of it feels as free as dropping down the highest hill on a roller coaster, hands up and screaming the fear away from me. But that’s not really possible, at least not right now.
I see the sign up ahead and cross over to the next block. From the direction I’m coming, I’ll be able to see the back first.
A low rumble comes up behind me, turning from Alameda onto my street. I look down at the sidewalk to hide my face, just in case. The headlights grow brighter as the car gets closer, then it goes past, and all I see is a blinking turn signal as it rounds the next corner.
I take a deep breath and turn on the opposite corner, almost there. Tall street lamps illuminate the loading dock behind the grocery store. All I can think about is seeing his face. It feels like I haven’t seen him for years, even though it’s only been a little over a week. I try to calm myself down, I’ll need to wait a little longer. He may not even be here yet. It’s only been a few minutes since I texted.
I start to cross the last street between me and the back lot. Then I hear it.
A low rumble, and a screech. It’s a car, I think, but I don’t see headlights.
The sound grows louder. Too loud and too urgent. I look toward the noise as I approach the middle of the road. A maroon mass flashes under a streetlight. It’s hurtling straight toward me, only half a block away.
It takes a second for my brain to register it. And another to process that it doesn’t matter which side I go to. I just need to move.
I dash across, toward the parking lot, toward where I hope Jackson is waiting.
I chance a glance at the car, but I can’t make anything out but a blurry black shape behind the wheel. The glance costs me. My legs pump hard, but not fast enough.
SLAM.
The car catches my back foot in midair and twists my body into a grotesque pirouette. I spin into the air, then crash into the pavement, my left foot screaming.
Ahead, the car stops. Maybe they didn’t see me. Maybe they’re stopping to help, but nobody’s getting out. I lift myself onto my elbows to get a better look. The first three digits of the license plate read, 8MK-.
White reverse lights blink on.
No.
The car revs to life. Another squeal.
This is no accident. I have to move.
I roll away, toward the curb. My cell flies out of my pocket, but I don’t have time to grab it. The car is milliseconds away.
Fear drives the adrenaline I need into my muscles. I pull myself onto the sidewalk as the car whizzes past, crushing my phone to pieces underneath its wheels.
The car stops again. It’s going to take another pass, run me down, sidewalk be damned.
I only have one chance to escape it. I have to get inside that store.
I force myself up to standing. The pain in my foot is excruciating, but I propel myself forward. There’s another screech as the car lurches toward me again.
I race to the store. Only twenty feet separates me from the loading dock.
I hear a grumbling clunk as the car jumps the curb, but I can’t look back.
Only five feet now.
The car is close. I feel the heat of the engine licking my heels.
I scream, force my body forward until it slams into concrete and I launch myself up onto the loading dock.
I am out of the car’s reach, but not the reach of the person driving it. I have to get inside.
I pull myself up, yank on the back door. It won’t open. It’s locked.
I pound on the door.
“Help! Please! Help me.”
I see a security camera mounted above the door and wave furiously at it.
“Help! Help!”
The car has stopped. It’s idling in the spot reserved for delivery trucks. The driver is bent over, reaching for something.
I bang on the door. I imagine elevator music and a sleeping security guard at this late hour.
“Please! Please!”
I hear the click and push of the car door as it opens. And then I hear a buzz.
I try the door, and this time it opens. I tear inside and slam straight into the bloody chest of a butcher’s apron. The door slams shut.
“Whoa, honey. What’s the matter?” a heavy voice asks.
“8 M K, 8 M K, 8 M K” I keep saying it, over and over. I can’t forget, no matter what.
“I can’t understand you.” The butcher puts his hand on my shoulder, leans down to look into my face.
There’s a screech outside. I pull the door open. The car is gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I HAVE NO IDEA what time it is. Hospitals look no different in the middle of the night than they do during the day. The halls are always dark, the fluorescent lights always flickering. I’m in the intake room, sitting in a bed whose only privacy from the ten or so other beds is a thin curtain.
My parents are off somewhere speaking with the doctor. What they could possibly need to discuss with a total stranger that they can’t discuss with me, I don’t know. When my parents arrived at the hospital they didn’t chastise me for sneaking out. They didn’t say anything at all. They didn’t have to. Their eyes said everything.
I shift, trying to get comfortable. It’s impossible. Everything hurts. My body feels hard and weak at the same time, frozen taffy one strike away from shattering. There are scratches on my knees, on my palms, purple splotches on my arms and thighs. My foot’s gone numb from the ice. I’m lucky, they say. It’s not broken. But everything below my ankle is swelled up to double what it normally is.
But what really hurts isn’t my body. My greatest pain is internal, my head flooded with questions. Jackson never showed. I kept looking for him, hoping to see his face break through the throng of police, illuminated by the flashing lights of the ambulance, but he never came. He’s the one who texted me. He’s the one who asked me to meet him. Okay, maybe he got spooked by the police, but didn’t he even care enough to check and see if I was okay?
There are darker thoughts too. Could he have had anything to do with what happened tonight? Could he have had anything to do with what happened to June? There has to be some explanation, doesn’t there?
The pain killers are starting to kick in, and all I want to do is sleep, quiet my mind of these ideas for even a little while. I shut my eyes against the light and hear the curtain slide open on the metal rail.
But it’s not my parents behind it. It’s the detectives: Dumb and Dumber. Fabulous.
“Did you find him?” I ask. I’ve already told my story to the police who showed up at the store.
They look at each other, deciding who should talk first. It’s Boyer who does.
“Why don’t you tell us exactly what happened, Emma?” She seems almost sarcastic, like her showing up at all is just her humoring me.
“So no, then?” I ask, angry. Of course they haven’t.
“We need a little more information,” Detective Simms says.
“You want me to draw you a map?” I ask, tired of jumping through their hoops. “Maybe give you his name and address and favorite animal and childhood best friend?”
“If you’ve got it, sure.” Boyer says without missing a beat. “Luc
ky break, by the way, getting hit by a car without breaking a single bone. If I were religious, I might call that a miracle.”
“What do you guys actually do for a living? Because they can’t possibly pay you for this.”
Boyer scowls at me. “Listen, kid, I’ve had just about enough of your bullshit to last me two lifetimes, okay? We got questions, and you’re gonna answer them.”
“I thought you couldn’t question me without my parents around?”
“Rules are different when you’re the victim of a crime. And that’s all you are, right?” Boyer says.
Simms steps in, probably stopping Boyer from punching me in the face. “All we want is to verify the information you gave our colleagues,” he says. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple minutes.”
I glare at them both. “Somebody tried to run me over three times and crushed my cell phone in the process. I’m sure you can see the pieces if you look in the street. They were driving a maroon car, four doors, no idea of the make and model, but the first three digits of the license plate were 8MK. That’s all I know.”
“Why didn’t the butcher, Fred Hughes, see this vehicle?” Boyer asks.
“How should I know? Why don’t you ask him?”
“We did,” Boyer says. “He said he didn’t see any car, just you.”
“What about the security camera? I saw one above the door,” I say.
“The camera only shows the door, not much beyond it. It didn’t see a vehicle,” Simms says.
“Okay. But I did see it, and I’m telling you it was maroon, four doors, license plate 8MK-something. I mean, how many cars could possibly fit that description?”
“We’ve got people checking into it,” Simms says. “How about you tell us what brought you to be in that area so late at night?”
Should I tell them or not? If I don’t, and he’s guilty, it will look exactly like what they’re thinking. Like I made it up. But if I do, and he’s innocent, then it could be even more damaging. To both of us.
“I just wanted a little fresh air,” I say.
“You got plenty of trails in that fancy neighborhood of yours. Why didn’t you walk down one of those?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I got a little nervous because you guys have been following me everywhere lately and everything I do seems to make you think I’m a killer?”
Boyer leans back in her chair, satisfied with herself. She shrugs. “Say we are keeping an eye on you,” she says. “Why should you be worried about what we see tonight?”
Simms shoots Boyer a “watch yourself” look, making me wonder exactly what the rules are right now, and if they’re really following them.
“If there’s anything you haven’t told us before, Miss Grant, now would be the time,” Boyer says.
There’s plenty more I could say, but I don’t. If Jackson was involved, I need to find out on my own first.
“You guys are useless. I’m done talking to you without my lawyer.”
CHAPTER FORTY
IT’S AFTER 4 A.M. when we leave the hospital. My mother wakes me at 6:30.
“Wha… ?” I ask, my speech slurred by exhaustion.
“I said wake up. It’s time to get ready for school.”
The glare I give her must be the glare-iest of my life. Or maybe not. I’m not sure I have any control over my face right now.
“On two hours sleep?” I ask.
“What you choose to do with your evenings has no effect on whether or not you go to school the next day.”
“But—“
“Now.”
She leaves. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Before I went to bed last night they grounded me for another month, which puts me on lockdown past graduation and into the summer. Hopefully I won’t be around that long. Is there still a chance for New York? I have to believe there is, or I won’t make it through even today.
It’s a fight to sit up, a fight to stand, a fight to haul myself to the shower. Every motion is slowed by my aching body, my swollen foot, and my heavy lids. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of how much bigger a fight it would be to stay home.
I throw on a baggy sweatshirt and yoga pants and throw my hair into a bun. With the laces as loose as possible, my foot just barely fits into my tennis shoes, as swollen as it is. Luckily the ACE bandage the doctor wrapped my ankle in last night is hidden by my pants. I can’t imagine having to explain all this to everyone at school, on top of everything else I’m dealing with.
Neither of my parents says anything to me as I slurp down my green tea. They don’t even look at me. There are bags under their eyes, but they zoom around like toddlers who know they’ll fall asleep if they stop moving. It’s a fight for them to be awake too. They’re making a point. The Grant family does not negotiate with terrorists, especially teenage ones. It’s infuriating, but there’s no way I’m going to be the first to back down.
They drive me to school early. The halls are nearly empty. Only the quiet movements of teachers in their classrooms.
It’s hard to recognize my reflection in my locker mirror. My face is puffy, dark half-moons hang under my eyes. If anyone else looked like this I’d probably think they were on drugs. The thought suddenly seems hilarious. I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Mike stands two feet away.
“Everything,” I say, then stuff the laughter away. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”
“What’s the matter with you? You look like crap.”
I should keep a tally of how many times I want to smack him, so that I can accurately deliver after all this is over.
“Thanks for noticing,” I say. “I barely got any sleep last night.”
“You don’t have to get all snappy with me. I came early today so I could see you.”
“Okay,” I say.
He grabs my hand. “I’ve missed you.” He leans in, but I lean away.
“Mike.” My voice is a warning, not an invitation.
He doesn’t listen. Instead he kisses me, his mouth covering my lips entirely as he searches with his tongue. It’s revolting. I pull away.
“Mike. Knock it off.”
But he doesn’t, he presses me against the locker, his chest to mine. “It’s fine. There’s nobody here.” He kisses me again.
“I’m not doing this with you.” I say, and turn my head away again.
He grips my wrist tight. “Yes, you are,” he says. “You owe me.”
“Excuse me?” I say, trying to free my wrist from his grasp, but he’s holding it so tight. “I don’t owe you anything.”
Then he has my other hand too, and he’s pinning both of them above my head with just one of his, against the locker’s vent, its flaps digging into my flesh.
He whispers in my ear. “I want it too. I want what you gave him.”
His other hand darts down between my legs, that place he’s never been. I shove him with my knee as hard as I can, and he stumbles backward.
He looks up at me, breathing hard, his eyes nearly as shocked as mine.
“What’s wrong with you?” I say.
There’s a look on his face then, a realization of what he’s done. “I’m sorry. I crossed the line. I’m sorry.” But the tone of his voice is noble, not apologetic. He’s sorry for the wrong thing. He’s sorry he went too far, yes, but not because I didn’t want him too. He’s sorry because it’s further than he’s supposed to go in general. Further than God wants him to go. I’m not a part of the equation at all.
“Leave me alone, Mike. Seriously.” I walk away, limping on my bad foot.
“Emma, come on.” His voice is pleading. “I messed up, I’m sorry. Let me… At least let me apologize?”
I keep walking, but he’s right behind me.
“I got carried away, okay? But it’s only because I love you. I’m only trying to do what’s best for you,” he says.
“Really?” I say, turning to face him. “You…are…so…ridiculous! Do you know what a joke you are?”
My voice
sounds hysterical. The words are mean, I know they are, but his actions and my pain and lack of sleep have reduced my filter to nothing.
He sputters, and his face twists into an expression I’ve never seen before. He looks like an ape, befuddled by a banana.
“No, you are,” he says with all the force of a child, unable to come up with anything better, pouting like he used to when Paige got a bigger slice of birthday cake.
A laugh explodes from my mouth. He’s wanted me to be afraid of him, and I have been. I’ve let him intimidate me into this stupid arrangement. But now? He looks like an idiot.
“Shut up,” he says.
But I can’t stop. My stomach hurts from it. I double over, use the locker wall for support. Ben and Chuck walk up.
“What’s up with her?” Chuck asks, a smile behind his voice.
“She’s acting all crazy,” Mike says.
“Okay,” Chuck says.
They all seem to stop, take a closer look at me. I’m not sure if they’ve ever seen me like this before—messy, tired, no makeup. My usual polish has disappeared.
“What’s going on with you, Emma?” Ben asks. “Like, for real?” The tone in his voice is curious. Not good curious, disappointed curious. If he sounds like that, then I must look even worse than I thought. The realization helps me out of my fit.
“Nothing…nothing,” I say, gulping deep breaths and wiping my eyes.
“She needs to get right with God, that’s what,” Mike says.
“Oh my god. You seriously have to stop. That’s what an insane person would say.” Only I’m the one who sounds insane and I know it.
Ben turns to Chuck. “Is she like, on something?”
Chuck shrugs.
“Oh my god, you guys,” I say. “You can’t be serious.”
Mike scoffs. “Listen to yourself, Emma. You’re so lost right now.”
I catch his eye and hold it. I can see his confidence waver. Not a lot, but enough. I grab his arm.
“I’m done pretending, okay? Leave me alone. Or you will regret it. I promise you.”
He yanks his arm away from me. “Maybe you’re the one with more to lose, Emma. Maybe you should think about that.”
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