by Clara Stone
If it’s not that, I’m not sure what could have happened between this morning and now. “You want to talk about it?” I ask again.
She shakes her head and wraps her arms around me. My insides twist and the ache to do something, anything to swallow her pain, increases. How am I going to help her, if she doesn’t tell me what’s wrong . . . unless this is about me and she . . .
I shake my head. She needs time before she’ll open up. I just need to give her time. I squeeze her shoulder even harder.
She exhales. “I found a piece of paper after I hauled Dad to bed.” She swallows, like just the thought of it is killing her slowly. “It was an ultrasound. I had a baby sister, Heath,” she murmurs into my chest, and my gut twists as I absorb the words. “My mom was five months pregnant the night she died. The night I killed her.” She chokes on her words.
She blames herself? This girl, who once made a huge deal about killing a spider, thinks she’s a killer? This is wrong on so many levels.
“Baby, no.” I try to stop her. I never asked her about that night, and she never told me. But I don’t like seeing her like this. I need to do something to help her ease this pain.
“You don’t understand, Heath.”
She shoves at me for distance, and I let her. Not because I want to. But because, right now, I know she needs space.
“I know you think it’s your fault, Ace. But it’s not.” For God’s sake, she was only eight then.
She jumps to her feet and hugs her waist, like she’s trying to cradle herself. “I never told you what happened that night.” Her voice shakes, weak and vulnerable. She stares off at the wall, like she’s reliving a painful memory. I keep quiet. “Mom picked me up from ballet practice. On the way, she’d told me that they couldn’t afford my dance classes anymore, with Dad working for the non-profits and tax season over.” She smiles. “She was so good with numbers, better than most CPAs. But her boss had cut back her hours, and they’d had to make sacrifices. I was so mad.” Her eyes turn to me, and tears spill from them.
I sit there in the tub, every muscle tightly coiled. She needs this, I keep telling myself. She needs me to hear what happened. So I listen.
“I was so mad that she’d take away something I loved so much. I wanted her to look at me and tell me she was okay with ripping my dreams from me.”
She looks down and away, like she’s disappointed and angry at herself. It scares me to see her like this. Ace has always been a strong-willed person. She’s never once complained about anything in her life. This broken, guilt-ridden girl is not the person I know she is. And that’s scaring me beyond reason.
“I screamed at her to pull over, and even threatened to jump out of the car. Mom took her eyes off the road, turned her head to look at me. I saw a car driving toward us on the wrong side of the road and I screamed, startling her. She jerked the steering wheel, and the car swerved. Mom tried to regain control, but it was too late. The car flipped, rolling over four times before it came to a stop against a tree.” Ace shuts her eyes, like she’s trying to squeeze the pain out of her heart. “She looked at me, blood smeared everywhere. She was shaking. I couldn’t get out; my seatbelt held me hostage. I called her name, over and over, but I was so helpless. She was too far away and dying. It was like I was in the middle of a nightmare. Her last words before she lost consciousness were, ‘It’s okay, baby. Everything will be okay. I love you.’” Her words slur between the sobs that shudder through her slender frame. “That was the last time I saw her awake. She wasted her last breath to tell me she loved me. Her killer. If only I hadn’t been so damn pissed, she’d still be alive.” She opens her eyes and more tears spill. “I didn’t see that my obsession and love for one thing was going to cost me something else. I was so blinded by anger.”
I’m equally relieved and horror-struck by what she’s telling me. Relieved that I’m not the cause of her pain, and horrified because I never knew what she went through, how much she blamed herself for her mom’s death—a feeling I understand all too well. Still, I wish I could do something for her, that I could take away her pain. But I can’t. No matter how hard I wish, I can’t change the past.
“I’ve wished so many times that it was me and not her.”
I stand and thrust my hands deep into the front pockets of my jeans, turning them into tight fists. Before I can say or do anything, she holds her hands up, like she doesn’t want to be touched.
She doesn’t get it. Because of her, I’m alive. She gave me a reason to start smiling again after my mom died.
“I destroyed our family. I didn’t understand before, but now I do. Dad has every right to hate me. It should’ve been me. Why wasn’t it me, Heath?” Her body trembles with sobs.
No more. I can’t stay away. I pull her into me and wrap my arms around her. I’ve given her enough time and space. She’s can’t blame herself for that night. She can’t. “No, baby. No.” God, what do I tell her to make her see how good she is? That she’s no more responsible for her mom’s death than she is for the sun setting. If she hadn’t been at the hospital that night, I would have gone out for ice cream with Hudson like we’d planned and we both would’ve been victims of drive-by shooting at the ice cream shop. She saved my life. She saved Hudson’s life. “You were meant to stay alive so you could save me.”
She sobs into my shirt, and I don’t even care the fabric’s getting wet from her tears. All I want to do is help her heal.
I’M TRYING.
I’m really really trying.
But it isn’t easy. Not when I keep running scenarios in my head about how I could’ve had a baby sister; she would’ve been ten years old now. I wonder if she would’ve had the same bleach-blonde hair as me, or deep, chocolate-brown eyes like Mom. If she would’ve been a big fan of horror movies too, and if we would have been best friends.
I sigh, trying to push the heaviness out of my chest.
It’s been a tiring few days, between all the crying and talking and school. But I know I’m going to be all right, because Heath will help me through it. I’m still not completely sure how I feel about the fact Mom was pregnant when she died, though. And I’m not sure I’ll ever be okay with knowing I caused the accident that killed them both. I don’t care what Heath says. It was my fault.
However, there was some truth to his words. It’s in the past, and I can’t change what happened, no matter how much I wish or grovel over it. It’ll take time, but eventually, I’ll come to terms with it.
I round the corner, heading toward shop class with sandwich in hand—PB&J, my favorite. My eyes widen when I see Lisa standing by the door, arguing with someone. Hastily wrapping my sandwich back in its foil, I throw it into my bag and quicken my step.
“. . . should’ve never let someone like you work on the project,” I hear her say as I come up beside her.
“Vincent didn’t do this.” Rock’s voice bellows with anger. “If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t have gotten as far as we had.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
I step around Lisa and into the classroom, moving past Rock so I can see for myself. I nearly lose my footing on a stray fragment of painted wood. Steadying myself, I look up. “Oh. My. God!” Broken wood and shattered glass are spread across the room, like someone took a wrecking ball and swung it around. The stage, the podium, all of it’s been destroyed.
Vincent is off to the side, sweeping up the jagged pieces scattered on the floor. He wields the black and yellow broom with a vise grip. His eyes connect with mine, but he doesn’t say anything. He just presses his lips into a thin line and looks away.
“What the hell happened? Who did this?” I demand, turning back to Rock and Lisa.
Rock stands still, his nose flaring, shooting arrows at Lisa with his eyes. She ignores him.
“I knew this was going to end in disaster,” Lisa says, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I don’t even know why our Dean allowed someone like him . . .” she says, pointing to Vincent in
disgust, “on school property. I’d bet half my trust fund, this mess is some sort of retaliation against him.” She wraps her arms under her chest and huffs.
“If you’re so fucking sure, why don’t you bet your entire trust fund?” Rock takes a threatening step toward Lisa, his hands turning into white fists.
“Rock,” Vincent warns, moving toward his brother, the broom still in his hands.
But I’m quicker. I step between Rock and Lisa, feeling my hackles rise. I don’t like the way she accused Vincent either. If anything, it’s because of him that we’d made so much progress. But I also know that if I don’t do something, Rock’s fist will smash into Lisa’s face, and that’s not good for anybody.
“I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding.” I say. “Let’s just take a moment, okay?”
Lisa waves her hand dismissively and pivots on her heel. “Whatever. I trusted this project with you, Ace, because I knew you could make anything happen.” She looks over her shoulder as she storms out of the room. “Don’t let me down.”
I give a simple nod and let my shoulders slump.
“Don’t let me down,” Rock mimics Lisa, making faces.
I snort. “Yeah, don’t ever do that again, hmm . . . ‘kay?”
“Whose fucking side are you on, anyway?” he says, storming off to the back of the room.
I take a step forward to follow him, but change my mind when my gaze lands on Vincent, quietly sweeping up the debris. Rock will be fine. He just needs a minute to cool off. I’m not so sure about Vincent, though. Cautiously, I walk toward him.
I feel stuck, not knowing what to say or do. It feels an awful lot like the first day we’d started working together. Only Heath’s fist has been replaced with Lisa’s accusing words.
“I—”
“Don’t,” he says without looking at me.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” I defend myself.
“Yes, I do.” He turns to face me, his features unreadable. “You were going to apologize.”
I shake my head. “Dude, you don’t know me that well. I was going to say that I don’t think these modifications are going to work.” I gesture to the ragged remnants of our project.
A small smile lifts the corners of his lips, and I grin wide.
“Why are you so annoying?”
I feign innocence. “Why are you being a jerk?”
He sighs, shaking his head, the smile still lurking at the edges of his mouth.
“How about I sweep, and you pick up tools?” I offer, looking warily at the tools scattered around the room.
“Why are you so damn afraid of tools?”
“I’m not afraid.” I walk forward and grab the handle of the broom, tugging at it. He doesn’t budge, holding it in a firm grip.
“Let go,” I say, pulling at it again.
“Answer my question,” he counters, staring at me with one eyebrow raised.
“I’m just . . . cautiously aware of the dangers that surround them.”
“You’re a strange girl, Carrigan.”
I stick my tongue out and jerk the broom from his grip. “It takes one to see one.”
“You do realize you just called me a girl,” he says.
“I also noticed you didn’t deny the accusation.” I wink at his perplexed expression before turning away to start sweeping.
For the next thirty minutes, we try to clean up as much as we can. Rock is still a no show. I wonder what he could be doing in the back room. He’d been so close to losing it on Lisa. I wonder if he’s upset that he almost punched a girl. But man, she’d been so adamant that this was Vincent’s fault, that he doesn’t belong here.
I can understand why Rock nearly punched her. Sure, Vincent’s a little less put-together than most here, and he doesn’t care about what others think of him, but without his commitment to this project, we wouldn’t have gotten nearly as far. Why would he have destroyed his own work? It just doesn’t make sense. But then, the million dollar question is: who did do this, and why?
When the bell rings, ending the lunch period, I put the broom away and dispose of the dustpan full of splintered wood. I look over at Vincent. He’s standing in front of the destroyed stage, just staring at it. His features are impassive, and I wonder if he’s feeling the sting of Lisa’s words. I don’t care what she says or thinks—he does belong here. I want to tell him that, but I know he doesn’t take sympathy well.
So I pick up my bag and shoulder it, ready to leave. I throw my thumb over my shoulder and rock on my feet. “Sooo, I’m gonna go.”
He doesn’t respond.
“You belong here more than anyone else I know,” I say, unable to contain my thought.
He turns and looks at me, twisting his mouth into a frown. He shoves his fists into the front pockets of his jeans and gives me a hard stare.
“I don’t care what Lisa says, or what anyone else thinks. You’re a good person, and you’re the only reason we got ahead on this project. So, I don’t care what some punk-ass asshole did,” I say, taking a step toward him. I want to hug him and tell him just how much I appreciate him. “I know we can do it again. I know that with you helping us out, we can still meet the deadline . . . and I’m not saying that ‘cause I don’t want to disappoint Lisa. I’m saying it because I really believe in you.”
His lips curve to the side. “Punk-ass, huh?”
“For real? I just complimented you and all you pick up on is my lack of creativity in swear words?”
“I don’t need you stroking my ego, Carrigan,” he says, crinkling his nose.
“I’m just stating the facts. You could try taking the compliment for what it’s worth and say ‘thank you.’”
He rubs the back of his neck and small blotches color his cheeks as he mumbles, “Thank you.”
“Good.” I pull him into a hug and hold him until he wraps his arms around me. “And don’t let this go to your head, okay?” I say, letting him go.
“Me? Never,” he responds, placing his hand on his chest.
I snort before turning around and heading toward the door. “See ya later.”
“Later,” I hear him call behind me.
PISSED AS HELL. THAT’S how I feel right now. I’d heard about the senior fundraiser, how some douchebag had gone on a crazy rampage and destroyed it all. It would have been funny, if it weren’t Ace in charge of the project. I’m worried for her, especially with everything she’s been through over the past few days. And I haven’t had a chance yet to see how she’s handling this latest crisis. I swear, if I ever find out the asswipe’s identity, my foot will be stuck so far up his ass, he’ll need to have it surgically removed.
For the hundredth time in the last hour, I look to where the cheerleaders are practicing. I watch Ace being launched into the air, and my breath catches in my throat. I’ve seen it happen a million times, but worry anyway. I can’t help it; too many things could go wrong.
“Lovelly, get your head in the game,” Coach bellows from the sidelines.
Lacrosse. The one sport I dove into without my father’s push. I’ve trained with the best coaches my family’s money could buy since I was four years old. But here I am, completely out of whack because of a girl. Well, not just any girl—the girl of my dreams. The girl I know, without a doubt, I’m eyeball deep in love with. The girl I’d even give this sport up for.
Head in the game. I twirl the stick in my hands, determined to concentrate.
I catch Troy in my peripheral vision. He’s on the right edge of the field, waving his stick to hint that he’s open. I raise my stick in the air, ready to throw the ball across the field. But Jason interrupts the pass, death-checking Troy’s stick.
Cursing under my breath, I make a quick change of plans. I call out “clear” and “pizza delivery” —meaning I’ll fake goal before taking the actual shot.
I do an extremely quick turn and split dodge at the last second, reducing the space between the goalie and me. I buddy-pass to Eric and
move toward my scoring position. When Eric passes the ball back to me, an opposing team member intercepts, stealing it. With quick feet, I follow him until he attempts a pass. I check the ball with my stick, knocking it to the field. Wasting no time, I run toward it, pick it up with a quick swoop, and head for the goalie. I motion to the left, hoping to get closer to the goal, but Jason body-checks me. I pivot to the right, spinning behind him, and shoot the ball for the win.
“Hell yeah!” I scream, my hands shooting up in the air. My teammates huddle around me, as I watch Jason throw his stick to the ground, cursing like a sailor. Jason’s a worthy opponent—one of the reasons we became friends so quickly all those years ago. But his anger and cockiness always gets in the way of his full potential. Without that, I imagine he’d be even better than me.
My teammates pick me up, tossing me in the air and carrying me off the field, celebrating the victory. After a congratulatory speech from the coach about the coming championship, we wrap up the practice and head for the showers.
“Iceman,” Coach calls.
“See ya later, dude,” Troy says, slapping my back.
“Later,” I answer, shouldering my equipment and twirling my stick as I head back toward the coach. He’s scribbling on his clipboard, his expression stoic. He’s never very expressive, unless he’s pissed. So at least I know I’m not about to have my ass handed to me.
He places his clipboard on the bench and turns. “What’s going on, Iceman? Your game was way off today.”
“We just creamed the other team, Coach,” I say in my defense.
“I know you know that wasn’t your best practice game.” He slaps my back and squeezes my shoulder, shaking it. “Whatever it is, I suggest you keep it out of your mind until after the state championship.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say as he picks his clipboard up off the bench again. I turn and start jogging toward the cheerleaders’ practice area.
“Oh, and Iceman?” he calls. I stop and turn, my eyebrows raised in question. “Remember, if she can’t wait for you, maybe she isn’t the one.”