Ripple

by Heather Smith Meloche

  Ripples spread out from the center of the pond’s surface.

  “And her father’s mother was a little weird and liked her morphine.”

  I toss in another rock, the ripples multiplying.

  “I would expect, Tessa, that your parents’ parents were crammed full of issues of their own, and maybe their parents, and maybe their parents before that. Addiction is a fucked-up pattern. It’s chaos theory.”

  I glance at her standing next to me. “And then there’s us, Tessa.” We’re so close, her tiny breaths warming my face. “We’re under stress. Under pressure. We’re part of the pattern. And we react to it in our own, habitual way so we can get through each grueling moment.”

  Her eyes pierce me like she’s looking right into my brain, hooking us together. She gets it. Tessa Leighton absolutely gets me.

  She gives a weak smile. “Thank you. I mean, for looking at it that way.” Then her fingers tickle my palm as she collects the remaining stones from my hand, and she points toward my neck. “What does your tattoo mean?”

  I swipe my finger over the MUNDUS VULT DECIPI the way I did a hundred times when I first got it and it was scabbed and still painful.

  “It means ‘The world wants to be deceived.’”

  She breaks into a smile and whips the stones at the water until they sink fast, too many chaotic ripples to keep track of. When she turns back to me, her face is serious again, the pale light of the moon making her cheekbones, her chin, the ridge of her nose look sharp and pronounced. “I also have to figure out what to do with Seth. Truthfully, I’m afraid to let him go. I’m scared to be on my own. But maybe that’s the best reason to break up with him. I rely on him like the other guys. Probably more. And it would hurt him if he knew about the guys I see behind his back.”

  She laughs in an incredulous way, shaking her head. “I can’t believe I just told you all that.” She shrugs and gives me a half smile. “But thank you for listening.”

  “I can’t say it’s easy to hear. But I dig your honesty.” And I think how, even though it’s a lot for me to take in, I actually don’t see her any differently. I mean, some of the greatest people in the world are seriously flawed. Like Mom. I’m just glad Tessa trusts me enough to tell me how she feels.

  “So,” she says, cautious, “now that you know more than anyone, please don’t stop talking to me.” Her words squeeze at my heart until I can’t breathe.

  “Listen,” I tell her honestly. “If I say I’m good with just being your friend, I’ll be lying, Tessa. Even with all your problems, I like you. A lot. But you’ve got some serious stuff to work through. So as much as I want to kiss you and do all kinds of wild, kinky things with you, I can’t go there.”

  She nods, her eyes begging. “I know. It’s not fair of me to ask this of you. But you’re the only one who even slightly gets what I’m going through. I just . . . I don’t want to see you walk away.”

  She’s so close to me and she’s just told me she might break up with her boyfriend. I let my forehead fall gently against hers and give a huge sigh. “All right. Let’s call whatever we have Strong Friends Without Benefits. I’ll be here for talking things out, but that’s as far as it can go.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “My pleasure. But not too much pleasure.”

  And she laughs in that genuine way I love.

  Tessa

  This moment is so simple—our foreheads pressing together. His breath mingling with my own. For the moment, I feel safe and content. But I have to get back home.

  “I should go.” I step away, giving Jack an apologetic look. “I’m sure I’ll get yelled at for being late already. Still, I’m really glad we talked.”

  “Me too.” Jack flips on the flashlight again. We make our way up the hill and pass Ryan’s grave. Jack waves. “See ya soon, buddy.”

  I give him a sympathetic smile and wonder what it would feel like to lose a sibling. Willow and I fight, but I can’t imagine life without her.

  Jack starts the car to take us back to the hospital, where my car sits. When the hospital is only a moment away, I use the time to talk about something way lighter than the last half hour. “When did you learn to play the violin?”

  “I interned in Austria with an orchestra,” he says.

  My mouth drops open. “Really?”

  “No.” He flashes a smile. “I taught myself. My violin was a beat-up shell I got at the flea market. I restrung it and stained it. Then I figured out how to play it.”

  “Was it hard to learn?”

  He gives a half shrug. “There are much harder things to learn than the violin. Besides, I like a challenge.”

  “How often do you play?”

  “Not often enough. That’s why it was so cool to play at that party last week. Sometimes, I take it to the senior center and play for them. They appreciate it, and I always feel like I’ve done something really great—for them and me—when I leave.”

  “You volunteer your precious free time to make old people happy.” I say it like I’m ticking it off an incredibly long, unbelievable list of all the things Jack S. Dalton is. “So does your middle initial stand for ‘selfless’?”

  He gives that smug smile again. “Among the ever-popular ‘sage-like,’ ‘skilled beyond belief,’ and ‘sexy.’”

  “What’s an s-word for arrogant?” I ask.

  He winks, flashing another smile.

  “You know,” I say cautiously, “you’re way too smart and talented to not go to college.”

  Jack’s jaw tightens. “And you’re way too creative to not be working on your art every day.”

  “Ah, touché. Well, maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to fit it in sometime soon.” I’ve been considering questioning Grandma Leighton about why she ditched art. Her work is so good that she had to be passionate about it. So maybe I can use what she says to convince her I shouldn’t be her LCH protégé.

  “Well, maybe not going to college next year will just be a school hiatus for me.”

  “Did you even apply to schools?”

  His expression turns rigid. “Listen, Tessa, everyone’s path is different. And just like everything about me, mine’s a little twisted. I’ll find my way to wherever I’m supposed to go.”

  I realize his twisted path has a lot to do with his mom’s twisted mind, and I wonder how much care his mom needs. When I came to the door, I watched how protective he was of her. The pressure on him must be huge. But he deserves massive respect for it.

  Jack turns into the hospital parking lot and asks, “Can you put that flashlight in a pocket behind one of the seats?”

  “Sure.” I reach behind his seat and thrust the flashlight into the pocket. My fingers snag on something that comes out along with my hand. A chill rips through me.

  It’s Emma Hadley’s trademark fuchsia hat. The one she was wearing the night she got hit. I gawk in disbelief at the woven, elfish stretch of yarn, the puffy wool ball dangling from the end. On one side, the wool is ripped and hanging loose. Traces of blood have dried against some of the strands.

  I’ve lost my breath. Her hat in this car means Jack’s mom . . . My fingers and arms turn numb, frozen from shock. But Jack seems oblivious as he pulls through the lot toward my Civic.

  “So,” he says, “inside the hospital, there’s this totally wicked-looking storage room in the basement. It’s like a scene from the best horror movie ever.”

  His perfect angles cut into the darkness, the lights of the hospital casting thick strands of white against his already pale face. He doesn’t see how my mouth hangs open, my heart raging in my ears. My mind whirls with how I’m going to tell him what I’ve got in my hands, what I’ve just found. The hat. The blood. Emma. His mom.

  “I mean, like seriously, chains hanging from the ceiling and grimy walls and everything. If I didn’t care about pissing my n
ew boss off, because she’s totally cool”—he parks his mom’s car next to my Civic—“I’d sneak you down there and—” He turns to look at me, stops. “What? Oh my God, Tessa, what’s wrong?”

  I shake my head, holding up the ripped wool hat in my hands.

  “I don’t understand. What is that?”

  I shake my head again. This sucks. How do I say this? I need a plan for right after this comes out of my mouth. I’ll let him process for a second. Then throw my arms around him. Then tell him we’ll find a way to make this as easy on him and his mom as possible.

  He leans toward me. “Tessa, what’s wrong?” I take a deep breath, and like the breaking of glass on a giant aquarium, I let the words gush out.

  “I found this in the pocket behind your seat.” My hands are shaking.

  He looks at it, still confused. “So?”

  “It’s Emma’s. She’s worn it for years. She had it on the night she got hit. I saw her with it on. I passed her, and I didn’t stop.” Guilt sits thick and icy inside me. “I should have stopped. None of this would have happened if I’d stopped. I could have taken her home. She wouldn’t have been in the dark. Everything would be fine, but I kept driving.”

  Jack still looks confused. His mouth slightly open, his eyelids tight as he eyes the hat in my hands.

  I flip the hat so the frayed wool strands come into view, the speckles of crusted blood. “This was in the seat’s back pocket, Jack.” I push the words at him. “Was your mom home when Emma was hit by that car?”

  The change is instant, his confusion turning to wild rage, an anger I’ve never seen in him before. His jaw hardens, the muscles rippling. “Get out of the car.”

  “What?” It’s my turn to be confused.

  “Get the fuck out of this car, Tessa. Now!”

  My eyes widen. His anger flows off him in waves. Instinctively, I lean away, my hand finding the door handle. But I hesitate. This is too much for him to deal with alone. It would be too much for me. “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I—”

  “Get out!”

  Startled, I rip open the door and step out into the cold night.

  “Leave the hat,” Jack says.

  My fingers squeeze the wool. I glance down, not wanting to let it go. I feel like I should return it to Emma. To make her whole again. To apologize for not stopping to help when I could.

  But Jack’s expression is stony, demanding. I put the hat onto the passenger’s seat. Let my eyes flit to his one more time. But he’s turned his head. And even before I can close the door, he puts the car into gear and squeals out of the hospital parking lot.

  Jack

  Sam leans, arms crossed, against his Escalade in the parking lot where I told him to meet me. Despite being the dead of night, he’s got sunglasses perched on his head. Carver, with his usual spastic energy, fidgets close by.

  I pull up and take a deep breath. Tonight has already been a goddamn roller coaster. One minute I wanted to stuff Tessa in a hospital closet and never see her again, the next I wanted to hold her in the middle of the cemetery and just feel her next to me.

  Then she showed me that hat. With that blood. Cute, sweet Emma’s blood. In Mom’s car. And I lost it.

  It was a gut reaction, kicking her out of the car. I don’t think I’ve ever been that pissed off before. But people have been coming after my mom for a long time now, and I’m conditioned to get in their way.

  And if Mom did hit Emma, I need to protect her. That means keeping everyone, Tessa included, away from the whole truth of what Mom is now.

  I suck in another lungful of air. In the distance, beyond Sam and Carver, I spy the mailbox just off the main drag down a thin side street, where Mom dropped her letter full of psycho-ness to Representative Binchy. I get into that fuck-with-the-world mode and get out of the car.

  Sam adjusts his thermal henley as he steps toward me. “Took your ass long enough to get here,” he says. “What’s on the agenda?” His clean-shaven face is filled with curiosity.

  “Yeah, dude. What are we doing?” Carver’s white-blond hair spikes out from the sides of a black beanie. He’s clad in a long-sleeved black sweatshirt and shifts from foot to foot, practically drooling for what my plan might be. He actually looks like a thief. Except for the spray of freckles on his tanned face and his black Bermuda shorts with some embroidered designer label on them.

  “On the agenda tonight, boys, is massive destruction of government property.”

  Carver smiles, but Sam holds his hands up. “Whoa, bro. Not sure I want to go there. Have you heard that my mom is, like, the mayor?”

  “Never fear. This will most assuredly not be a crime against the city. It’s a federal offense. Completely different.”

  I open the back of Mom’s Jetta, where I’d crammed a PVC pipe bomb I made just for the hell of it last year. It’s perfect for this job. I’ll need to position it just right to incinerate Mom’s letter but not do any major damage to surrounding property or human tissue.

  Sam sees the bomb and cringes. “Holy shit. Seriously, dude. My mom was just talking to me about applying to the University of Michigan, but they don’t take people from Jackson prison.”

  I shove the bomb into a backpack and walk up to Sam.

  “Look.” I turn slightly so he sees. “It’s so small, it fits neatly into a backpack. It’s like a little baby felony.”

  “Sweet,” Carver says, eyeing the bomb like it’s chocolate cake. Carver has less to lose. His football-loving dad has donated crap-tons of money to Central Michigan’s athletic department. Though Carver hasn’t even started his college apps, I’m sure he’ll be accepted to Central with open arms no matter what blemishes he has on his record.

  Sam frowns at Carver. “It’s not fucking sweet. This is fucked up. I know you’ve got issues with authority, my friend.” He points at me. “But seriously, what the hell are you thinking?”

  Sam crosses his arms again. He’s a little taller than me and using every inch he’s got to show me he’s not happy. He’s not going for this one, and frankly, I don’t blame him. He’s got a future to protect, even if he’s being pushed into it by his mom.

  But my future prospects depend on destroying the letter in that box.

  “You’re right.” I give him a long, sincere look. “I don’t want you in on this one.”

  “What?” Carver blurts, disappointed.

  “You either.” I nod at Carver. He looks wounded. “This is my gig, so you both have choices. Go home or hang here in the comfort of Sam’s very expensive luxury vehicle and watch the fireworks from a distance.”

  Sam steps up to close the small gap between us. His voice drops to almost a whisper. “First, my parents bought the Escalade used.”

  As if that makes it any less worth a fortune, I think.

  “Second, I don’t get why you want to do this. Can’t we go spray-paint something? Lodge someone’s car in a too-tight space? I mean, why does it have to be a bomb?”

  Maybe for the first time, I get serious with Sam. “Listen, dude, my mom’s done something stupid as hell. I have to make it right.”

  Sam takes in my determined expression. I don’t know how much his mom has told him about my mom’s issues. I don’t even know how much Mayor Kearns really knows, but Sam nods.

  “Okay,” he says. “We’ll stay here and whistle our asses off if someone like, oh, say, the police, wander your way.”

  I give him a grateful half smile. “Thanks.”

  “No worries.” He herds Carver into the Escalade. They watch me cross the street and head to the only public mailbox in town.

  I walk about fifty feet past the blue box to a secluded spot behind a string of bushes in front of the Pineville Post building. Normally, I’d prepare more. Days before, I’d have chosen a place for surveillance like this one in the bushes. I’d have sat there
crouched for an hour or two to determine the patterns of movement in town at this time of night.

  But the town looks dead with it being so late, and I don’t have time for preparation. That letter goes out Monday morning. The cops are dealing with the drunk and disorderly in other places. The time for this deed is now.

  In the shadow, I slip on some utility gloves, pull a wet wipe from my jacket pocket, and wipe the bomb’s PVC pipe clean of any fingerprints.

  My heart is pumping fast. I try to find that calm center I usually have during these pranks of mine. But this is so far beyond a prank. This has moved into territory where I never expected myself to go.

  But I have no choice. I can’t let her destroy her legal career with this crazy letter. We still need any income she manages to bring in if we’re going to pay our rent and bills and stay together here in Pineville.

  I give the pipe bomb one last inspection. I’d made it to see if I could, just for the challenge. It was supposed to be plugging a toilet I’d pulled from some junkyard and tossed in a field. Porcelain’s pretty when it explodes. Instead, it’s here.

  Half gunpowder, half petroleum jelly. Gasoline will keep the fire burning longer to ensure all the letters inside the box, including Mom’s, burn. The wick’s extra long, so I have time to get away.

  But once it’s lit, it’s lit. And there’s no undoing it.

  I search the stretch of sidewalk on either side of the street. No one. I look to Sam’s Escalade sitting in the lot with the lights off, the steam from the purring engine coiling softly into the brisk October night. Then I take a deep breath and think of Mom. Of her hand on my cheek. The way she looks at me like I’m all that matters to her. “I love you, Jackie,” she says. Often.

  I lift the hood on my sweatshirt over my head and start moving toward my target.

  My lighter is lit by the time I’m halfway to the mailbox. The flame touches the wick with a spit and a spark, coming to life. My mouth is dry. My heart is racing. I try to keep my hands from shaking. My usual prank-induced thrill is missing.