"Yeah."
He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at his shoes. Looking at him, I couldn’t help but remember the fact he used to stand like that when he was a little kid and had done something wrong. My little brother. Now he was taller than me, with a goatee and broad shoulders. And he was going to be a father. Weird.
"Zaza," he said. "What am I going to do?" He looked up at me, his eyes full of fear.
"Oh God Chance," I said. I opened my arms to him, and he fell into them. I hugged him and patted his back. It reminded me of our parents' funeral. I had comforted Chance while he cried. I'd been dry-eyed.
He pulled back. "She doesn't want to tell anyone," he said.
"I know," I said. "She's got some silly idea that she's going to be able to hide the fact she's pregnant."
"I don't know who we'd tell anyway. Mina's parents would go through the roof, and Grandma Hoyt would be less than pleased."
I pictured our stern, proper grandmother and grimaced. Chance was right.
"But she's got to see a doctor or something right?" he asked me. "I mean, she can't just let it go."
I shook my head. "No, she needs a doctor. I think." Now that it came down to it, I knew very little about pregnancy. Considering I was the only biological child my mother ever had, I'd never even seen her pregnant. I had no idea what to tell Chance.
"She's just so scared," he said. "But I am too. I'm freaked out. And she's had a few days to adjust to the idea. I've only had a few hours. I want to comfort her, but I don't know what to say or what to do."
"I'm sorry I just blurted it out like that today at lunch," I said.
"No, I'm glad I know. She wasn't going to tell me, and I'm glad I know."
"Well, she's going to have to tell someone sometime, Chance."
"Yeah." He looked so overwhelmed.
"Hey," I said, reaching out to touch him, "you're doing the best you can. She needs you. If you're just there for her, it'll be enough."
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know if it will or not."
In the distance, the clock tower on campus began to toll the hour.
"Damn it," said Chance. "I've got to go. I'm going to miss curfew."
"Me too," I said. "Take care of yourself, Chance."
"You too," he said. He started off, then stopped. "And watch the drinking, huh, Zaza? I don't need to worry about you and Mina too."
"Sure," I said.
But when I got up to my room, I downed half a bottle of vodka. No way was I dealing with one of those dreams tonight. No way.
* * *
I awoke to Jason bending over my bed, shaking me. "Azazel," he was whispering urgently. "Wake up."
Making a face, I sat up in bed. "What are you doing here?" My head was pounding, but I was used to that.
"Shh!" he said.
I rubbed my face with my hand. "What are you doing here?" I whispered.
"Come with me," he said. "I'll explain once we're out of the dorm."
We snuck out the fire escape again. Outside the dorm, there was a cool, night breeze that licked at my skin. I pulled my pajamas close, shivering a little. "Jason," I said, "what are we doing out here?"
He grabbed my hand. "Come on." He pulled me with him as he walked.
"If you're taking me out for some tryst or something, I am so not in the mood for that kind of thing right now."
"Are you drunk again?" he asked.
I glared at him. "I wasn't going to have another one of those dreams. You don't know what they're like."
"I do know what they're like. I've had nightmares before. They're bad. But you've just got to come to terms with whatever it is you're trying to run from."
"What?" I said.
"I think what we've got to do tonight will help you with that," he said.
"What are we doing tonight?" I asked. "Where are we going?"
"The assembly hall," he said.
The old church. "You are trying to get me to have sex with you again, aren't you?"
Jason stopped and pulled me close. He kissed my forehead. "Azazel, I'm an eighteen-year-old guy. I'm always trying to have sex with you." He pulled back. "But no, that's not why I snuck you out of your room tonight."
"So why?" I said.
Jason started walking again. "It's not going to be easy for you to hear," he said. "Especially if you're drunk."
"I'm not drunk," I said. "Or even if I am, I'm always about this drunk, so it's not that big of a deal."
He sighed. He just kept walking. I hurried to catch up. It didn't take long to get to the old church. We went around to the side door. I expected Jason to pick the lock, but it was already open. I shot him a look of confusion. He just pulled me inside.
"I've already been in here tonight," he explained, shutting the door behind us.
I gazed up at the stained glass. Tonight, it seemed as if it were watching me, judging me, telling me that I was unworthy to set foot inside this building. I shivered again, but this time it wasn't from the cold.
Jason was looking at the floor, shifting nervously on his feet. "This isn't going to be easy for you to hear," he said again.
A mounting feeling of dread seemed to pour down through the stained glass windows. "What?" I said again.
"It's Chance," said Jason.
"What happened to Chance?" I asked. Chance was all I had left. My family was all dead, and if something had happened to Chance—
"Nothing happened to him," said Jason. "Not yet, anyway."
What did that mean?
Jason took my hand again. "Come with me." He led me through the back of the old church and down some steps into its basement. The basement was ancient, constructed from old stone. It smelled musty and alive somehow. Jason found a light bulb, hanging on a chain, and turned it on. The light bulb swung violently, casting moving shadows throughout the room. In the corner of the basement, in the shifting light, I saw Chance. He was tied up and gagged. His eyes were closed.
"I knocked him out," said Jason.
I was shocked. I was appalled. "You did what?"
"I told you this wasn't going to be easy for you to hear," said Jason.
I went to Chance. Knelt by him. Touched his face. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breathing was labored.
Jason yanked me away from Chance. "Don't go near him," he said.
"Jason, what have you done to my brother?" I demanded, struggling against him.
"Hold still and listen to me," Jason said.
I was angry. I was betrayed. Jason was what everyone said he was. He was evil. He was trying to kill off my entire family. If it weren't for him, they'd all still be alive. Jason had started this whole mess, running into my life out of the woods.
I held still. "I'm listening," I said. This needed to be good.
"I was using Chance's computer to do some homework," said Jason, "and I found something."
"What?" I said.
"You know how you can set AOL Messenger to save your chat history in a file in your documents?"
"You looked at his chat history?" I asked. "Why would you do that?"
"I don't know," said Jason. "I was just suspicious. It seems like it was too easy. Getting us into the Sol Solis. How did Chance have the ability to get us assigned roommates?"
"Jason, we made seventy zillion phone calls and filled out mounds of paperwork to get into this school," I said. "It wasn't exactly easy."
He shrugged. "Whatever. The point is that I looked at the chat history. And I found out that he's in communication with the Satanists."
"What Satanists are there to even be in communication with?" I asked. "Michaela Weem is dead. You shot her yourself. She's the one who masterminded this whole thing."
"I don't know who it is," said Jason. "They use handles, and I don't know his real name. But he and Chance are planning something. They're planning to kill us both."
I shook my head. "No," I said. "I don't believe that."
"I read it," said Jason. "It was
all right there. In black and white."
"No."
"Listen, you've got to face the facts. Your family can't be trusted. You're all alone in this, just like I am. We can't trust anyone except each other."
"Chance didn't know anything about the Satanists," I insisted. "They never told anyone in town until you were eighteen. And I've never told him. So he still doesn't know." I was starting to cry. I didn't believe Jason. I wouldn't. He was wrong. Not my baby brother Chance. No. He was my only link back to the person I used to be. And I loved him.
Jason patted my back, trying to comfort me, but I shook him off. "Don't touch me," I said. "You're lying. You're just saying this stuff because you want me to be alone like you. Fuck! God knows what you're doing to me, Jason. Before I met you, I would never have done the things that I have done. And now . . ." The faces of my brothers Noah and Gordon flashed in front of me, just the way they'd looked in their final moments. Stunned. Blood trickling out of the holes in their foreheads. Holes that I'd made.
Jason put a gun in my hand. "I know you're upset," he said. "But we have to stop him."
"No," I said. I looked down at the gun in my hands, wanting to fling it away from me. Instead, I flipped off the safety and pointed it at Jason.
"Jesus, Azazel," said Jason, looking frightened.
I sobbed and let the gun go slack at my side. I went back to Chance, tucking the gun into the waist of my pajama pants. I wiped tears away from my face and sniffled as I untied him.
"Azazel, don't do that!" Jason said.
I pulled the gun out and pointed it at him again. "We're not hurting Chance," I said. "No. That's the line. We're not crossing that line."
"He's trying to kill us," Jason said. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"He's not trying to kill us! You're wrong! He's my little brother, and he would never do that!" I broke out into fresh sobs as I freed Chance's hands.
"Azazel," said Jason, reaching for me.
I jammed the gun back in his face. "Stay back," I said.
I shook Chance. "Chance, wake up," I said. "Wake up."
"You're crazy," said Jason. "You're crazy, and drunk, and frigid, and I don't know why I waste my time on you."
I turned to him for a second. "That's what you think of me?" I asked, stunned.
"Well, what is it you think of me?" Jason asked. "That I'm a psycho killer? That I'm evil? Which is worse, Zaza? Huh?"
Jason never called me Zaza.
That was weird. I looked around for a second. In fact, everything seemed a little weird. In fact—
But Chance was stirring. I turned to face him. "Chance, are you okay?" I asked, tears streaming down my face.
Chance had a gun. Where had he gotten that gun?
"Thanks for untying me," he said. "I'm glad you've come around. We've been waiting for you to see what a monster Jason is. Now that you see, it shouldn't be too hard. Kill him."
What? We? I shook my head slowly. "It's true?" I asked. "You're working with the Satanists?"
Chance sighed. "Are you going to shoot Jason or am I?" He leveled the gun at Jason.
Chapter Five
April 25, 1990
Ted finally revealed his plan to me, and he wants me to be a part of it. Me? Can you believe it? I can't. We're going to start working immediately, probably tonight. And he's worked it so that I can stay out as late as I need to help him. I'm actually getting an independent study credit for this. I'm so excited!
Ted is so, so gorgeous. And the fact that he picked me to help with this plan means that he must think there's something special about me too.
Chance sighed. "Are you going to shoot Jason or am I?" He leveled the gun at Jason.
"No," I said.
Chance's finger tensed on the trigger.
And there wasn't time for thinking, there was only time for action. I whipped my own gun up, quickly aimed, and squeezed three shots into my little brother's torso. His face registered shock, pain, and then . . . nothing.
Sobbing, I feel into a heap on the floor, forcing my eyes shut tight.
And when I opened them, my dorm room was bathed in sunlight. I was tangled in my bed covers. I was still sobbing. And my head was pounding like a brass band was playing in my head.
It had been a dream?
But it had seemed so, so real.
Rubbing at my eyes and trying to calm my sobs, I picked up my phone from my nightstand. I called Chance. It rang and rang and rang for a ridiculously long time, but then he answered.
"Zaza?" he mumbled sleepily. "Why are you calling me at six in the morning?"
I sobbed in relief. "I'm sorry," I said. "I just had a dream. I needed to know you were okay. You're okay, aren't you?"
"I'm not going to be able to go back to sleep," he said.
"I'm sorry."
"Are you crying?"
"No. No, I'm fine," I said. "Try to go back to sleep."
I hung up. I flopped back on my bed. My head throbbed in response to the sudden movement.
Well. Drinking wasn't working anymore. It didn't drown out the dreams. And it just left me with hellish hangovers. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe whatever my subconscious was trying to tell me was too important to be ignored anymore. Maybe I was going to have to face it.
But before I did any of that, I was going to drink a lot of water and take a lot of ibuprofen. Ugh.
* * *
Professor Moretti had asked me to stay after class. I stood at his desk, hugging my books to my chest. He was flipping through a stack of papers to find mine. I wished he'd just say whatever he had to say and let me go. I knew I wasn't doing very well in school. I didn't really care. I probably had a bright future as a professional assassin, and you didn't need a high school education for that.
"Ah, there it is," said Professor Moretti, pulling my paper out of the stack.
"I'll try to do better," I said.
"What?" said Professor Moretti. Then he shook his head. "Oh, no. Amy, that's not why I wanted to talk to you. I found your paper very insightful."
"You did?" I was pleasantly surprised. I was still hung over from drinking before bed last night, but it felt good to have done something well. I didn't feel like I'd done much of anything right in weeks. I barely remembered writing the paper. I did remember that it was about Things Fall Apart, the book we'd been reading. Well, the book we'd been assigned to read. I'd cobbled it together from reading a few chapters, class discussions, and a judicious use of SparkNotes.
"You seem to have quite a large amount of empathy for Okonkwo," said Professor Moretti.
"Well, his whole life gets destroyed, doesn't it?" I said. "It's not his fault. It's the fault of the white missionaries. They just come in and totally mess everything up."
Professor Moretti shrugged. "Some critics think that Okonkwo is a classical tragic figure, like Odysseus or Hamlet. His tragic flaw could be seen as his pride or his rashness. Some feel that Okonkwo brings his downfall upon himself."
"I thought you said that my paper was insightful," I said. Why was he pointing this out to me, anyway?
"I think it was. I think that most of my students have difficulty identifying with an African character from the late 1800s. You seem to be able to put yourself in his place quite readily. I think that qualifies as insight into the work."
I nodded slowly. "So was it good or was it bad?"
"The paper is well-written. You shouldn't worry about that. I'm sure I'll give it a high mark."
Then why was I talking to him? "Thanks," I said. "Is there . . . anything else?"
"I just find it so interesting that a girl of your age and your experience would so strongly be able to put yourself in Oknokwo's place."
"I didn't really do that," I said. "It's just obvious. I mean, all Okonkwo can do is react. Everything just goes from bad to worse in that book. I mean, isn't that why it's called Things Fall Apart? Because things fall apart in the book?"
"The title is an allusion to Yeats poem. We discussed that
in class."
"Yeah," I said. "I've studied 'The Second Coming.'" Three times this year, actually. In every English class I'd been enrolled in during my senior year. "But, I mean, that's Yeats' point too. He thinks that the world's coming to an end. Or that the era of Christianity is coming to an end. And everything's falling apart."
Tortured: Book Three of the Jason and Azazel Trilogy Page 7