by Pat White
“I need new jeans,” I offer.
“Obviously,” she chuckles.
“Catherine!” Andrea squeals and hugs me. I’m going to die. I smile over Andrea’s shoulder at Taylor, who wears yoga pants, UGGs and a zip up hoodie over a tank.
“It’s so good to see you.” Andrea releases me and I take a step back, trying to hide my discomfort.
“You too.” I force another smile. These are my friends, the girls who will help me get my life back.
“You are not going to believe what happened,” Taylor starts. “Kyle broke up with Andrea, Brandon hooked up with Camille, and are you ready for this?”
I wait.
“Alex joined the Army,” Taylor says.
I glance at Andrea who shakes her head in confirmation.
“What the—”
“Lame, right?” She interrupts me. “He’ll finish his senior year and head to boot camp.” Taylor leans close so Mom can’t hear. “I think he’s doing it to get Lucy Frye in bed.”
“That’s twisted,” I respond with an old, favorite expression I relearned from watching video of last year’s dance competition.
Mom walks up to us holding two shirts in my new size: extra small. Thanks to the coma diet I lost what little padding I had.
“Girls, what a nice surprise,” Mom says.
Uh, really Mom? It’s pretty obvious I’ve been ambushed and she had something to do with my friends’ sudden appearance.
“What do you think about these?” Mom holds up a pink and a blue tank.
“The pink one, definitely,” Taylor says. Andrea nods.
Mom looks at me.
“Pink’s great.” I shoot a quick glance across the mall at a black shirt in the Zumiez window.
“Are you girls excited about the first day of school?” Mom asks.
“Definitely,” Taylor says, smiling at me.
“Are we catching Mickey D’s before school?” I ask. After all, I do remember some stuff.
“You bet.” Taylor looks pleased that I remembered.
We haven’t hung out a lot since the accident. Sure, part of that’s my fault, but I also think she’s worried I might have a seizure and embarrass her in public or something.
“Six forty-five pick-up?” Taylor asks.
“Cool.”
Taylor quirks her eyebrows and I wonder if ‘cool’ is an approved expression.
“Can we borrow your daughter, Mrs. Westfield?” Andrea loops her arm through mine. I try not to cringe.
“Sure. Meet me back here in an hour.”
“We can drive her home,” Taylor offers.
Spending time with Taylor and Andrea will be a good dress rehearsal for school, yet anxiety flutters through my stomach.
“You okay with that?” Mom asks, like I’m seven and going to a friend’s house to play.
“Sure, go home. I’ll see you later.” I pull away from Andrea and start walking.
“Catherine?”
I turn and Mom hands me a debit card. “It’s got a two hundred dollar limit. Find something pretty.”
Mom hesitates, smiles and takes off towards Macy’s. It wouldn’t surprise me if she secretly stalks us.
“Only two hundred?” Taylor scrunches her nose. “Guess we’ll be cruising the sale racks.”
As we head for Nordstrom I shove the card into my purse, feeling guilty. Two hundred dollars is a lot of money for our family right now.
“Hey, you okay?” Taylor asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“You seem,” she glances at Andrea, then back at me. “Different.”
What do I say to that? I am different, in ways no one can possibly understand. I know I don’t.
I shrug. “Guess I’m a little nervous about school.”
“Don’t be.” Taylor loops her arm through mine.
Is all this touching really necessary?
“We’ll take care of you,” Taylor assures.
For some reason, that doesn’t comfort me.
* * *
Taylor and Andrea pick out trendy clothes in bright colors for me to model. The yellows and greens irritate me, but I force a smile, pretending to be into it.
I buy a pair of jeans, and a few tops. In less than an hour, Taylor and Andrea burn through half of my debit card. I keep a small balance on it in case I find something I really want.
We wander into Lush Cosmetics and the powerful smells trigger a headache. I’ve had my share of those. Hate ‘em.
“Raspberry Tart, you’re favorite.” Taylor shoves a pink bath bar in my face.
“Awesome.” I bite back a cough. “I’ll be at Silver Works. Come find me.”
She nods and is distracted by a bubble bar demo.
I rush out of the store and stand in the center of the mall. Look around. Try not to be overwhelmed. The sounds, eye-catching window displays and hordes of people wandering the mall are freaking me out.
Take a deep breath. Don’t panic.
I ride the escalator to the second floor and hesitate in front of Silver Works. In the mirrored display I see Zumiez. I’m drawn to the dark colors.
I glance around for Mom or my friends. Don’t want to get busted. With a rush of excitement I weave through the flow of shoppers and dart into Zumiez. An odd feeling settles in my stomach. I don’t belong in here, yet I can’t leave.
“Can I help you?” a clerk says. She’s about my age with dark make-up and a pierced eyebrow. Goth girl. I hear Taylor’s voice, even though she isn’t here.
“I need a shirt,” I blurt out. I’d been keeping a lid on it for over an hour with my friends, carefully choosing my words, mapping out sentences in my head before letting them tumble past my lips.
“Okay,” she smiles. “Wanna narrow it down for me?”
“Dark.”
“Brand?”
I shrug. She’s asking too many questions.
Goth girl motions me toward a rack. I glance over my shoulder. No sign of Taylor or Andrea.
“These are on sale, twenty percent off. Hurley, Alpine, Circa. For your boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Brother?”
“No, why?” I ask, sorting through the rack.
“You seem like more of Forever 21 type.”
“Yeah?” I’m getting angry. Not sure why, other than everyone thinks they know me so well, yet since the accident I have no clue who I am.
It makes me want to hit something, scream…
Cry.
Crap, I need to get out of here before I lose it.
“Never mind.” I turn away from the rack.
“Hey, sorry. Wait, don’t leave.”
There’s something in her voice, compassion, I think. I turn around. She shares an apologetic smile.
“Come on, I’ll help you find a shirt,” she offers.
As I wander to the rack I’m distracted by a grey knit beanie on the counter.
“Those look really cute on.” Goth girl grabs one and hands it to me. “Check it out.” She points into a mirror.
I tentatively try it on and like what I see. I’m someone else. I’m confident and tough, not confused and fragile.
“Get me a shirt,” I order. “I mean, thanks for the hat, but I need a black shirt.”
Need? Why do I need it so badly? And where the heck would I wear it? Obviously not to school.
Goth girl pulls a black shirt off the rack. “You could definitely rock this one.”
A swirly white design stretches across the front. It’s unusual. Bold.
She holds it up to me and tilts her head. “Not bad. What do you think?”
She’s looking at me, waiting.
There’s no warning this time. No five or even three-second delay.
Air rushes from my lungs and I’m suddenly standing in a dark parking garage leaning against a post. I see Goth girl walking toward a white compact car. A man, cloaked in shadows, stands on the other side of the car smoking a cigarette. He creeps me out.
Goth girl appr
oaches the car, distracted by a phone call.
“Mom, I’m fine. Save me some casserole. I said I’d do it.”
The guy tosses his cigarette on the ground and steps towards her.
Goth girl has no idea he’s there.
He’s too close.
She glances up. Gasps—
“No!” I scream.
And I’m back in Zumiez, gripping the glass countertop by the cash register.
“Hey, you okay?” Goth girl asks.
I nod. Can’t talk yet. Can barely breathe.
Another HULU. They’re getting more intense. I wonder if there’s a drug to numb that part of my brain and stop this from happening. Maybe I should tell my doctor. Brilliant idea. They’ll re-admit me to the hospital, which means no school, no boyfriend, and no cheer.
No life.
“How much?” I ask.
“The shirt and the beanie?”
I nod.
“Thirty-four fifty-three,” Goth girl says.
“Thanks,” I croak, fear strangling my voice. The hallucination was so real that I can still smell the cigarette smoke.
It’s probably that completion thing the doctor talked about, or my brain putting random information together and making up stories. I saw a news flash last night about a woman being mugged at the mall. My brain is replaying it, that’s all.
I hand Goth girl my debit card. I don’t chance looking into her eyes again.
“Need a bag?” she asks.
“No, thanks.” I’ll bury it in my Macy’s bag beneath the clothes Taylor picked out for me.
“Are you lost?” a male voice says.
I figure he’s talking to someone else. I glance over my shoulder to see if my friends are looking for me.
My eyes lock with J.D. Pratt’s. He stands there, cocky as hell, holding a Wicked G Energy drink.
I snap my attention to the clerk. I’m going to be sick. All over her glass counter.
And I think I’m ready for school? I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Hey, J.D.,” Goth girl says.
“Morgan,” he greets.
“Here ya’ go.” The clerk aka Morgan hands me the receipt.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asks.
“Yep, thanks.” I need to get out of here.
I shove the shirt into my bag and turn to J.D. Up close he’s taller than I remember. I catch a glimpse of his eyes, a brilliant shade of turquoise. I figured they’d be black.
I refuse to be intimidated by this jerk.
“You should be in jail.” I shoulder my way past him.
“But I’m not, thanks to you.”
I freeze and slowly turn around, rage burning my throat. “Yeah, how do ya’ figure?”
“Because you were partially responsible for the accident.”
Liar. He was reckless, driving too fast, not paying attention.
I fight the urge to lunge at him, rip his eyes out and stomp on his chest. Like that would convince the world I’m back to normal?
“I’m partially responsible?” I repeat.
“You know it.” He leans against the counter, analyzing a display of stickers.
“Bastard,” I let slip.
He shoots me a taunting smirk. “My, such language from Miss Perfect Prom Queen.”
Prom. I would have gone with Greg if I hadn’t been strapped to a hospital bed, a breathing tube shoved down my throat, a shunt inserted into my skull so my brain wouldn’t drown in excess fluid.
Tears sting my eyes. No, I will not cry in front of him.
Clinging to self-control, I walk away from my tormentor, the creep that destroyed my perfect life.
“You look good,” he calls after me. “You make cheer captain yet?”
A tear slips down my cheek. I hate him in a way that terrifies me. My BP is probably spiking 200/100.
Calm down! I don’t need to stroke out in public, in a store where I don’t belong.
In front of J.D. Pratt.
Fake it till you make it.
I repeat the words in my head and wipe a tear from my cheek. I will not let him get to me. I have to stop crying—from physical pain, emotional pain. It doesn’t matter. I just need it to stop.
“Catherine?” Taylor and Andrea saunter up to me carrying bags from Lush, Macy’s and Forever 21.
Taylor touches my arm. I blink back another tear. I’d give anything to be alone in my bedroom with no one touching me.
“What happened?” she says. Is that concern in her voice or excitement?
“I can guess.” Andrea nods toward the store.
Taylor spots J.D. and hands her bags to Andrea. “I’ll handle this.”
My friend marches into the store to defend my honor. I feel weak and fragile, and I hate that someone else has to fight my battles.
But I don’t have the energy to finish this one. Not yet anyway.
Chapter Three
“Uh-oh,” Morgan said to J.D.
He turned, thinking it was Catherine. Instead, her flake friend was marching toward him. He was disappointed. He wished Catherine had come back to shut him down.
“Haven’t you done enough to her?” Taylor said, not getting too close.
They were all afraid of J.D. Pratt, the slacker who cared more about getting high than graduating from high school.
“What did I do now?” he said.
“You like totally upset her.”
“Then she should ‘like’ totally stay in her house so she doesn’t have to see me.”
“Oh, my, God. You are such a loser.”
“At least I’m not stupid.”
The blond took a step back as if he’d flung cat turds at her.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Get out of my face.” He turned to the display case and eyed a set of skateboard wheels.
“I’m calling the police to have you arrested for harassment,” she threatened.
“You do that.” J.D. looked at Morgan. “Can I see the black Deathwish wheels?”
Morgan opened the case and glanced over J.D.’s shoulder at fluff brain. A few seconds later, Morgan sighed and leaned against the counter. Catherine’s ditz friend must have left the premises.
“What was that about?” Morgan said.
“My charisma can be overpowering.” He shot her a smile.
“Yeah, right.” She chuckled.
He could tell he charmed her, unlike the effect he had on Catherine Westfield.
What did he expect? Princess Catherine blamed him for ruining her perfect life. Yet she looked damned healthy to him, fully recovered and ready to lead the cheer team through another year of rah-rah’s.
He’d always admired that about her. When the Princess set her mind to something you could bet it would happen. She’d will it to happen. Like raising the most money for the cancer walk, or adding organic protein bars to the vending machines.
Organic protein bars. Jesus H.
He wondered what new cause she’d dream up this year other than torturing J.D. That was a given. Girls like Catherine didn’t let injustices go without retribution.
He’d take it, deserved or not.
“Hey, she forgot this.” Snatching a grey beanie off the counter, Morgan rushed to the store entrance. She glanced right then left. With a shrug, she returned to the counter.
“I’ll give it to her,” J.D. offered. “She’s my neighbor.”
“I don’t know.” She eyed him. “Maybe I should track her down through her credit card.”
“Whatever.” A part of him wanted an excuse to see Catherine up close again. To ease the guilt.
“I’ll take two sets of the black.” He pointed to the case.
Morgan rang up the wheels, the only kind he’d be using in the foreseeable future since he’d had his license suspended. At least he wasn’t in Juvie.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Morgan held up the beanie. “She really liked it.”
Catherine Westfield? Wearing a beanie? He’d trad
e his Animal Collective tickets to see that.
“Not a problem,” J.D. said.
“She obviously hates you.”
Yeah, so what else was new?
“I’ll make an anonymous delivery,” he said, glancing at his phone. He had to catch the bus, get home and check in. Otherwise Detective Ryan would come knocking on his door, waking the old man from a drunken stupor and creating all kinds of hell for J.D.
“I gotta go.” J.D. grabbed his bag.
“Wait, okay here.” She shoved the beanie into a plastic bag and handed it to him. “Thanks.”
“Yep.”
* * *
J.D. had planned to drop the beanie off on the Princess’s porch, but the roar coming from his own house changed his mind.
“Damn it, Billy,” J.D. muttered.
His younger brother didn’t know when to back off. Taking the steps two at a time, J.D. whipped open the front door. Dad’s angry voice echoed from the back of the house.
J.D. raced into the kitchen where Dad was pounding on the pantry door with a closed fist.
“What’s going on?” J.D. said.
“That little prick stole my whiskey!”
“I did not!” a muffled voice said from inside the pantry.
Dad grabbed a pot from the stove and pummeled the door. “Come outta there, you pussy.”
“Dad, hang on.” J.D. instinctively reached out.
The old man swung and whacked J.D. in the head with the pot.
Good thing it wasn’t cast iron.
J.D. stumbled, gripping his head. “Dad, stop! He doesn’t have your booze.”
“No? Then you’ve got it. Stole it for one of your pot-smoking parties, didn’t you?”
J.D. scrambled around to the other side of the kitchen table. Dad hurled the pot. J.D. ducked and it hit the cabinet behind him. He reached for his cell phone to call for help.
No, J.D. could handle this.
Dad grabbed a ceramic water pitcher from the cabinet and tossed it at J.D.’s head. He missed again, shattering the pitcher against the wall, which pissed him off even more.
J.D. needed to calm him down before the old man did something really stupid.
His dad ripped open cabinet doors looking for a more effective weapon. J.D. spotted the butcher block of knives on the counter. Adrenalin rushed through his body. No time to waste.