by Erin Watt
Silently, I fill them in for her. I know we should’ve warned you that the guy who ran over your sister three years ago is now going to your school but we were too busy being mad and tearing down your bedroom door.
I don’t say this out loud because I’m tired. Tired of the drama, the attention, the pity, the worry. All of it. I keep my mouth closed and my head down. I toe off my shoes and brush by her. She moves out of my way, but her distress follows me like a dark magnetic cloud.
I stop at the stairs. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”
“It’s not nothing. Oh, Lizzie, I’m sorry. I’m sick with worry all the time. Every minute that you’re gone from the house, I keep thinking what if. What if you’re hurt, too? I can’t have that happen.”
I run up the stairs. I need to get to my room and away from my mom. I reach my bedroom and stare in surprise. I’d forgotten they’d removed the door. I spin around to see Mom right behind me. She flushes with guilt, not even able to look me in the eye.
I fist my hands at my sides, digging the nails in deep so that my self-inflicted pain keeps me from going off, saying things that will end up in an ugly shouting match.
Instead, I trot downstairs and aim for the back door.
“Where are you going?” Mom screeches in alarm.
I lean my head against the wood door frame. There are black marks on it around the handle. Likely from my dad. His fingers are always smudged with oil or grease or dirt. I rub my finger against one mark. It doesn’t budge. “Outside,” I mutter. “To the swing.”
Not waiting for her to respond, I jerk the door open and dart outside. The autumn weather is crisp and fresh. Dried leaves that have just started to fall crunch under my feet as I walk and then begin to run toward the rope swing hanging in the corner of our lot.
Dad hung this swing when Rachel was eight. She climbed on it and broke her wrist a week later. Mom cried and begged Dad to take it down, but, strangely enough, he didn’t. Instead, I wasn’t allowed to swing on it by myself for an entire year after that. Mom didn’t think it was safe.
Despite her fears, I never injured myself on it, and now, years later, it’s still strong as ever. I sit down. The afternoon sun gives my face a kiss. I take a deep breath and push off with my toe. I want to get over Rachel’s death, but here, in this house, in this town, it’s impossible.
Rachel is everywhere. Her room is in the same exact condition it was the night she died, except Mom has made the bed. Rachel never made her bed. She’d wake up late, throw the covers on the floor and rush to the bathroom we shared. Downstairs in the mudroom, Mom still has her name in white chalk over her section of the storage bench. The piano that only Rachel ever played still sits in our living room, meticulously dusted each and every day by my mother. The wood-and-rope swing Dad constructed for Rachel is still hanging in this yard, even though no one has used it since she died. If I go into Rachel’s room, I’ll see her volleyball uniform hanging on the back of her door. Even her toothbrush is still in her side of the Jack-and-Jill bath.
I once asked Mom why. She broke down and shut herself in her bedroom for an hour. Dad glared at me the whole time. I never asked again, but Mom told me later that it was so we would never forget.
Forget Rachel? How could you? Even if you razed this house and all its possessions to the ground, you wouldn’t forget her. I don’t say any of this to Mom, though. The grief counselor they sent me to after Rachel’s death says everyone grieves in their own way and that no way is wrong. But I can’t help but measure my sadness, or lack thereof, against my mom’s or dad’s or, hell, even the kids at school.
All of them expect me to react a certain way, but I just want to be me. If I knew who me was. I’m trying to figure that out. It’s why I keep trying different things. I don’t fit in here. None of the Darling crowds feel right to me. That’s why I went with Ashleigh the other night. It’s one of the reasons that I slept with Chase—no, sorry, Charlie. I thought, wrongly, that I’d find out something about myself.
I guess I did. I found out I make shit choices when it comes to guys.
Shame tickles my throat. I gulp it down, because really, I have to cut myself some slack about this. Having sex isn’t a crime. I’m seventeen—most of my friends, Scarlett included, have already lost their virginity. Macy had sex for the first time in freshman year, Yvonne when she was a soph. Technically, I waited way longer than most of my peers.
But if I had to do it over again, I’d turn around and walk away.
Wouldn’t I?
I scrub my hands over my face, but a soft whining noise has me lifting my head. For the first time in what feels like years, a genuine smile tugs on my mouth.
I hop off the swing and wander over to the wooden fence that separates our yard from the Rennicks’. The sweetest sight greets me—big brown eyes and a wet black nose and the sloppy, drooly tongue of the big black mutt whose head is popping out from between two slats. The gaps in the fence are just big enough for Morgan to stick his head through, but not enough that he can wiggle his whole body free.
I wish he could, though. I’d love nothing more than to run around in the yard with him and be the receiver of his doggy kisses. Actually, I want all the neighborhood dogs to join us—Morgan, Mr. Edwards’s yappy terrier and the Palmers’ labradoodle. That would be a thousand times better than sitting here thinking about what a failure I am.
“Hey, buddy,” I greet the dog, kneeling down to pet his face.
His tongue instantly comes out to lick my hand. He looks so happy to see me that I want to cry. Animals break my heart sometimes. They love you so unconditionally, so deeply. Even when you’ve mistreated them—and I’ve come across many abused animals at the shelter—they still want nothing more than to please. Fucking heartbreaking.
“How was your day, cutie?” I ask him. “Did you chase any squirrels? Find any sticks? Tell me everything.”
A male chuckle sounds from behind me, and I shoot to my feet in surprise. When I turn around, I’m expecting to see him.
Only it’s not him.
It’s Jeff.
7
“Hey there, Lizzie.” Jeff smiles at me, then at the furry head sticking out of the fence. “Cute pup.”
“He is. And it’s Beth,” I correct by rote.
A crooked smile appears. “Right. Beth. I forgot. You’re all grown-up now.” He reaches out and pulls on a lock of my hair, something he did back when I was fourteen and had a giant crush on my sister’s boyfriend.
I try not to blush and fail. “You’ve been gone awhile,” I say to cover my embarrassment. I head back to the rope swing and plop down on the wooden seat.
His crooked smile grows into a full-blown grin. He doesn’t look any different than when he left Darling two years ago. He still has that solid square jaw and dark eyes that crinkle at the sides when he smiles. My sister thought he was the most beautiful boy in the world. I didn’t disagree.
“Two years,” he confirms. “But Darling hasn’t changed at all, has it? The same stores, streets, people.”
“Yup.”
“I like it.” He brushes some nonexistent dust off his jeans. “Everything overseas was foreign and different, but Darling is the same. That’s why we always want to come home, yeah.”
“Yeah? You picked up an accent,” I tease.
He grabs the rope and gently pulls me forward. “Hard not to after two years there, but I’ll lose it in time.”
“Do you miss England? I’d like to go sometime.”
“Would you?” He chuckles. “I don’t think you’d like it. You’re made for small-town America, Lizzie. It fits you. There’s no point in going away from here. It’s got everything you need. People you love and who love you back. Out there, no one really knows or gets you.”
“Dinner!” Mom calls from the back door.
“Great. I’m starved.” Jeff wav
es a hand toward my mom to let her know we’ve heard her. “Come on.”
“Are you staying?” I drag my toes into the ground to bring the swing to a stop.
“Yeah. I miss your mom’s roast beef. Can’t get that over there in the UK. The meat’s not the same, you know?”
“Aren’t they famous for their cows? I read that on the internet somewhere.”
He throws an arm around my shoulders. “Didn’t they teach you in fifth grade that seventy-five percent of what’s on the internet is trash? You going to trust me, your old friend Jeffrey, or some online rag?”
“You.”
“That’s right.” He squeezes me.
His arm feels strange around my shoulders. It doesn’t belong there. This is Rachel’s boyfriend. It’s her shoulders his arm should be around.
Dinner is less of a mess than I’d imagined it would be. My parents love Jeff and are thrilled he’s back at the table.
“It’s like old times.” Mom sighs.
“Only better because we’re older and Lizzie is prettier and I’ve been lifting.” He flexes and Mom laughs at his playful antics.
Dad grunts some form of approval.
“How are sales at the store?” Jeff asks my dad. “I heard they might be opening up a Home Depot in Lincoln, so some competition might be cropping up, huh?” Lincoln is a town twenty minutes east of us.
“They’ve been saying that for years and it still hasn’t happened. And even if does, I’m not worried. Those big-box people don’t know the difference between an Allen wrench and a Phillips screwdriver, son. As long as they keep employing ignorant boys, the folks here will always come back to me.”
Jeff and my dad talk about the store some more, and then Jeff tells us about his grandparents’ apartment in England, except he calls it a flat and his accent bothers me a little but I can’t explain why. Of course you’re going to pick up certain phrases and mannerisms when you live somewhere else for two years.
It’s not Jeff, I guess. I’m just on edge from everything that happened today. Seeing Chase at school. Finding out that Chase isn’t Chase. He’s Charles. Charlie. The boy who, in my house, is looked upon as a villain. A murderer.
I’m Charles Donnelly. And I’m sorry.
As I pick at my dinner, moving my mashed potatoes around on my plate, my mind drifts. I try to recall what I know about Charlie. He was a summer kid, as far as I remember. His parents were divorced, and he visited his mom in Darling during the summer and lived with his dad the rest of the year. His dad lives in Springfield or Bloomington or something. Definitely a city, but I can’t remember which one. And I only know this because my parents told me. I’d never met Charlie before Saturday night.
I shove some mashed potatoes in my mouth and chew quickly.
I don’t think Rachel ever met him, either. He was a stranger. A teenage boy who came to stay with his mom one summer, stole a car, took it for a joyride and ran over my sister.
Again, I know those details only because of my parents. I wasn’t allowed to read the newspapers after it happened. There was no trial. No media storm. My parents shielded me from the whole thing. Charlie took a plea deal and was whisked off to juvenile detention. It was all very nice and tidy.
Except it left my family a mess. In pieces.
And, ironically, Chase wasn’t the only one who wound up in prison.
I snort at that thought, and everyone turns toward me.
“Ah. Sorry,” I mutter, staring down at my plate. “I was just thinking about...something funny.”
My father’s tone is tinged with disapproval. “There is nothing funny about what we’re discussing, Elizabeth.”
What are they discussing? I’d completely tuned them out. When I lift my gaze, I find three grim faces staring back at me.
“Anyway,” Jeff says, picking up wherever he’d left off, “I also disagree with the administration’s decision to let him attend Darling High.”
My pulse kicks up a notch. They’re talking about Chase.
Dad nods tersely. “We’re planning on voicing that sentiment when we meet with the school board.”
My gaze swings toward my father. “What? Why are you meeting with them?”
“Because it’s necessary. They need to know that we don’t take kindly to that boy being allowed back into the community. I don’t give a shi—a damn,” he says hastily, “who his mother is married to these days. He should not be allowed to attend the same school as my daughter, as my—” Dad’s voice gets louder “—my surviving child!”
I cringe. Is that how they think of me? As their “surviving child”?
I scrape my chair back. “May I be excused?” I mumble under my breath.
“No,” Dad says. “We have a guest, Lizzie.”
“It’s Beth now.” This time it’s Jeff who does the correcting.
I glance at him with grateful eyes.
“And I should probably take off anyway,” Jeff continues, even though his food is only half-eaten. “I’ve still got a ton of unpacking to do at home.”
“Tell your mother I’ll give her a call tomorrow,” my mom says. “I’d love to catch up with her and your father.”
“They’d love that, too. Maybe we can have a barbecue this weekend, while the weather’s still nice. Like old times,” Jeff says, winking at my mom.
“That sounds lovely. Lizzie, why don’t you walk Jeff to the door? And then you may be excused to your room.”
I don’t thank her for that, but I do thank Jeff when we stand in the front hall. “Thank you for backing me on the name thing. They refuse to call me anything but Lizzie.” I swallow. “And I’m sorry if you felt like I was trying to run you off. I just... I’m not in the mood for family togetherness.”
He nods. “I get it. My mood sank pretty fucking fast when I saw that killer at school today.”
Guilt arrows into me, and suddenly I find myself praying that nobody at the party on Saturday saw me going into the bedroom with Chase. That nobody saw either one of us walking out of that room hours later with our clothes disheveled.
It never happened. Maybe if I just keep saying that, over and over again, I’ll actually be able to forget it.
“Don’t worry, though.” Jeff’s voice lowers ominously. “He won’t get away with what he did to us.”
I eye him warily. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he won’t get away with it.” Brown eyes glinting with fortitude, Jeff pulls me in for a tight hug. “He took away the most important person in my life, in our lives. Trust me, he’ll pay for that.”
“He did pay for it,” I point out, but my voice comes out weak and shaky, hardly a firm objection.
“Three years in juvie?” Jeff spits out. He’s still holding me, and his breath fans hot against my cheek with each angry word. “You think three years makes up for the loss of a life? He killed someone.”
“It was an accident,” I whisper. “He didn’t hit her on purpose.”
“That doesn’t make her any less dead, now does it?”
The venom in his tone makes me flinch. Gulping nervously, I ease out of his embrace. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow. I’m glad you’re back, Jeff.”
The anger in his eyes dims, replaced with a flicker of joy. “I’m glad I’m back, too.”
I close and lock the door after him and then hurry upstairs to my bedroom. Once again, the lack of a door throws me for a loop. Frustration has me stomping forward with more force than necessary. My room happens to be directly above the dining room, and I smile with grim satisfaction at the thought of my parents hearing my angry footsteps thudding on the ceiling.
They might have taken away my phone, but I’m still in possession of my laptop and an internet connection. For all I know, they hacked into the computer and set up a bunch of spy programs or parental controls, but I don’t care if
they did. I know they’d never take away the laptop. I need it for schoolwork, and school is very important to my parents.
I flop onto the bed and open up a search engine. It doesn’t take long to find out everything I can about Chase, and it’s not much more than I already knew. He pleaded guilty to reckless homicide. As a minor, he was sentenced to three years at a juvenile correctional center in Kewanee. I heard it was a harsh sentence, because most of those cases get only probation. Chase—I mean Charlie—started serving his time when he was sixteen. That’d make him nineteen now.
The only valuable piece of information I discover is the picture. All the papers ran one photo of Charles Donnelly, and the kid on those front pages looks nothing like the guy I met at the party.
No wonder I didn’t recognize him. Back then, his hair was cropped short, almost completely buzzed off. His features were smoother, giving him almost a baby face. He had no facial hair. His mouth was more sullen, whereas now it’s...tighter, resigned.
I run my finger over the computer screen, tracing Charlie’s grainy lips. Does he regret what he did? Does he wish he never stole that car? Never drove over the speed limit? Never hit my older sister and sent her flying onto the pavement?
The gruesome image brings bile to my throat, but it doesn’t make me want to circle the wagons and raise the pitchforks and march to Chase’s house in a violent mob.
If anything, I want to talk to him. If I had my phone, I’d use the number he gave me and... And what? Text him? Call? What the hell do I say to the boy who ran my sister down with his car?
Ding.
An IM screen pops up with a chime. It’s Scarlett. I glance toward my gaping doorway. Luckily, my parents aren’t lurking there. I mute the volume of the chat window and read Scar’s message.
You there, bb?
Yes, I quickly type back. The parentals didn’t take my laptop away.
Oh, perfect! This is just as good as texting.