Unnatural Deeds

by Cyn Balog

  Oh, fuck it. It doesn’t matter. You’re gone and I’m here, and hindsight’s a massive waste of time. Some things are inevitable.

  Chapter 39

  What word would you use to describe Z?

  Kind. He was always thinking of others. He used to leave me gifts in my locker. Stupid, silly little things like stickers and candy. He liked to give the impression he was a bad boy, but down deep, he was a puppy dog. He lived to make people smile.

  When was the last time you saw Z?

  After the dance, when he drove me to the hotel.

  After your fight.

  Yes. When he had to “fix” something. But I don’t know if he really could have. He was…

  Yes?

  Always trying to help, whether he could or not. Shortsighted. That’s another word for him.

  As in…

  He’d give and give of himself until there was nothing left.

  Who do you think wanted to hurt Z?

  I can’t believe anyone wanted to hurt him. Maybe they just wanted him. That’s the person he was. But there was only so much of him to go around.

  —Interview with Parker Cole, junior at St. Ann’s

  It’s been eight days since they found me.

  I am walking again. I only had one break, a compound fracture of my thighbone, and though it aches through the pain medication, it’s healing. But parts of me never will. I am whole, but only on the outside. Inside, my thoughts are black, tortured, consumed.

  The hospital room where I’ve spent the last week is depressingly void of color. A vent blows hot air onto my face. My throat is dry, my mind awhirl with thoughts of that night in the Kissing Woods with Z. Lips and hands and intense desire. The darkness, the bony tree limbs scratching at us, the desperation.

  The death.

  “Victoria,” a voice says, luring me back.

  I blink. Father Leary is looking at me. He’s been at my bedside presiding over me these past few days, murmuring prayers to the Holy Father while I pretended to doze. My parents hover behind him. We are all good at pretending these days. My mother pretends to read a magazine, and my father seems acutely interested in something on his fingernail, but I know they are both hanging on my next words. “What?” I croak.

  “The police need to talk to you about what happened in the woods.”

  I close my eyes. At first, my parents said that I was too fragile to relive those moments. At first, they defended me. They said that their daughter wasn’t capable of hurting a fly. They said that yes, Victoria may have had some mental confusion, but she’d never resort to violence. But the police have become more and more persistent, my parents more and more doubtful. Now, my parents don’t look me in the eye.

  Leary turns to my parents, then back to me, a troubled look on his face. “I’m sorry, Victoria,” he says, his voice flat. “You can’t put them off any longer. You’re going to have to talk to the police.”

  They want me to tell my story, but I get the feeling they already know it. One version, anyway.

  The room is crackling with tension. When my mother takes my hand, I expect a jolt of electricity, but her hand is cold. She and my father volley their meaning-fraught glances over the bed before my mother opens her mouth to speak. Then she closes it. She leans over and brings my hand to her cheek. She doesn’t have to say a word, and I don’t want her to. I don’t want to hear those words out loud.

  I know she will tell me that you’ve been dead for nearly two years. She will say that you’re just in my head, Andrew.

  And of course, you won’t be here to back me up. To share in the responsibility with me. Just like I wasn’t there for you.

  What a bitch payback is.

  They will say that what happened to Z is all my doing.

  They will say that I swung that tree branch at Z, while he raised his hands to shield himself, asking me why I would do such a thing.

  They won’t understand when I tell them that I couldn’t stop. That you needed me to protect you.

  I will defend you, Andrew. I will always defend you.

  Because how many times did I tell myself I’d rather die than disappoint you again?

  Chapter 40

  How well did you know Z?

  He was in the play with me.

  Were you friends?

  Yes.

  Were you romantically involved?

  …What?

  Did you have a romantic relationship with Z?

  …

  Miss Zell?

  I have a boyfriend, sir.

  And who is your boyfriend?

  He has nothing to do with any of this.

  Who is your boyfriend, Miss Zell?

  That’s… Why does it matter?

  It’s important information. This is a criminal investigation.

  Well, he’s… His name is Andrew. He’s really shy. He’s agoraphobic. I…I’ve known him since I was little. He lives next door. He’s homeschooled. He’s a brilliant pianist.

  Were you cheating on him?

  …

  Miss Zell, were you seeing Z while you were involved with Andrew?

  …

  OK, let’s try a different question. When was the last time you saw Z?

  On the night of the dance. So, Saturday?

  November twenty-first. And what were you doing on the evening of Sunday, November twenty-second?

  If it was late on Sunday, I was probably sleeping. My parents don’t let me out late on a school night.

  And what did you do that morning?

  I went for a run. I always run along Route 11 in the morning, before school.

  Did you see the Honda Civic belonging to Z on your run?

  Yes. It was parked on the shoulder of the road.

  Did that strike you as odd?

  Yes, but I assumed it broke down or something. It was an old car.

  What happened while you were on your run?

  I was jogging. I must have slipped and fell, and I guess I tumbled down the slope. I don’t remember a lot. When I woke, I was lying in a ditch and I could hardly move.

  So you never saw Z while on your run? Not at all?

  No. I… No. I’ve said this before.

  We found some text messages from you on his phone that said you were planning to meet him that night, in the exact place where he was killed. Can you explain that?

  …

  Miss Zell.

  I… No. Honestly, I can’t remember. I-I went for a run.

  —Police interview with Victoria Zell, junior at St. Ann’s

  When I’m released from the hospital, Mom and Dad take me out to dinner. They say I need it.

  Skin and bones, that’s what they call me. I used to be strong, a long, long time ago. Now they say I am on my way to becoming a walking skeleton. I nibble at my salad; I haven’t eaten much in more than a week. What I do manage to get down always comes back up.

  But food won’t fill me. From now on, for the rest of my days, I will be empty.

  Back at home, I wander out to our spot. My parents never took down the purple lights. They haven’t hung Christmas decorations or shoveled the snow from the walk either, almost like their world ended that night too. Piles of snow drift against the place I used to sit, leaning against the peeling paint of the picket fence. I crouch down, boots slipping on the slick, silver surface of old snow. I think of the shimmery satin dresses blinking in the colorful strobe as we swooshed through the dimly lit gymnasium, of Macbeth, of those eyes. Those big, blue eyes that were my world.

  Are my world.

  That can never change, can it, Andrew? Even now, we can never undo what’s been done.

  I reach out and scrape at the paint on the fence. It’s badly in need of rehab. You used to be the one to paint it, since your stepfather never did. I
wonder if it will ever see a paintbrush again. Your stepfather has come outside on more than one occasion, drunkenly using this fence as target practice. Some of his arrows are still buried in the wood. I wonder if the shape of the digs spells your name.

  I start to pull our silver gum wrappers from between the slats. There are dozens. I pull them out one by one, opening them and setting them flat. They’re damp from snow. I reach into my pocket and pull out a lighter. Then I light a corner, watching each paper burn. They burn to embers, drifting through the air.

  Like fireflies.

  They extinguish themselves on the snow. As I look down, I see the tip of another silver wrapper poking through the slats of the old fence. I take the piece of gum and unwrap it, folding it into my mouth. “Thanks, Z,” I whisper.

  He laughs softly. “Any time.”

  “Andrew left me. I haven’t seen him since…”

  “Ah, Precious. Well, you can’t trust anyone. You were the one who taught me that.”

  I smile. I suppose I did. “The police interviewed me at the hospital. It was horrible. They think it’s me. I can tell. They think that I did those horrible things to you.” I chew for a moment, but it doesn’t do much to calm me. My voice is hardly a breath. “They don’t understand.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but I can hear Z chewing too. I start to chew in unison with him, hoping the rhythm will lull my nerves.

  “I’m worried,” I finally say, shredding the wrapper in my hands.

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  More laughter. “Aren’t you always, Vic? But don’t. When they come for you, you won’t be going alone.”

  “I won’t?” I ask, and once again, I know he will tell me the very words I needed to hear. Z has always been the master of knowing exactly what to say. I don’t even have to ask my next question. It’s like my body trembling is a sign only he can read.

  “It’s strange. I understand everything now. Before, the blinds were closed and I could only see part of the truth. Now, I see it all.”

  “That’s like the Aleph,” I whisper. “From Reese’s class.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You see the truth about me?”

  “Yeah, I see it all. I’ve been inside your head, Vic. I know it was you with the acid. I know you had no choice. You were afraid. You’d already lost so much.”

  My teeth chatter in my skull. I am all contradictions again, warm yet shivering, scared yet thrilled. “You understand why I did it, Z?”

  “I get you, Precious.” He reaches out and finds my hand with his cold one, squeezing my fingers. He’s still wearing the same bulky sweatshirt he’d worn when I last saw him. That sweatshirt made it impossible to tell the exact moment when his heart stopped. I’d had to put my hand under it to feel his chest, beautifully muscled and warm, twitching before it stuttering to a halt.

  But Z’s much stronger now, eternal. He bears no bruises or welts or pain, no fucked-up life with no home, no future. Z is strong, resilient. This is the Z I know and love. His eyes twinkle like ice-blue stars, just like they had as they stared lifelessly at the full moon…but they’re wider and brighter and more breathtaking than ever before.

  “You don’t hate me?” I ask nervously.

  “No. We’re perfect.” He pushes a lock of hair behind my ear and touches my temple. “In here, no one can disappoint us, can they?”

  I swallow hard, liking the sound of that. “Don’t leave me. You won’t leave me, will you?”

  “You can never rid yourself of the Zahir, Vic. I’m still here. More than ever. I’m still here. Lady M said it best.” The smile that breaks out on his face is enough to light the entire darkening sky. “‘Out, out, damn spot,’ huh, Precious?”

  He leans over and kisses the top of my head. His lips are cold as ice and light like snowflakes, but he’s still the same Z. The same, only better. He’s my Z now. Only mine. The Z that will never leave me, even in the hell I’ve built for myself.

  I pull Z beside me. Silently, shoulder to shoulder, we let the darkness stretch over us like a blanket, insulating us from the blind, blind world.

  HUNDREDS ATTEND FUNERAL FOR SLAIN TEEN

  Bangor, ME—Approximately 800 attended a funeral service on Tuesday for a murdered Duchess teenager.

  Zachary Zimmerman, 17, was remembered at St. Ann’s Church in a service celebrating his life. Zimmerman was found beaten to death in a wooded area off Route 11 in Duchess at about 10:30 a.m. on November 23. That unsolved crime has sent shock waves through this small, tight-knit community.

  The service had a number of youths in attendance, including students from St. Ann’s High School where Zimmerman was a junior. Zimmerman was a member of the baseball team and had recently portrayed Macbeth in the autumn play.

  Duchess Mayor John Richardson spoke at the funeral, praising Zimmerman for being a model student and a helpful friend, and calling for action to help address violence in the community.

  “It’s been different in the week since he died,” St. Ann’s junior James Burney said. “Z always put people in a good mood. Half the time we’ve been expecting him to show up and tell us it was all a joke.”

  Police believe that Zimmerman was targeted by someone he knew. They are still investigating several leads.

  Zimmerman’s death prompted a public meeting last week with county and law enforcement officials and church and community leaders to discuss ways to combat violence in Central Maine.

  “Zachary’s death has had a tremendous impact on us all,” Father Leary said. “Having lived in Central Maine all my life, I’m shaken. Shaken that something like this could happen to someone who never did anything but try to help others to better themselves.”

  Acknowledgments

  I am deeply indebted to so many people who helped to draw Unnatural Deeds out of my head and into your hands.

  First and foremost, all the hugs and kisses go to Mandy Hubbard, my agent and writing BFF, who can always be counted on to read my first drafts and suggest edits to elevate it to a creepiness beyond anything I could’ve come up with on my own.

  Secondly, much love to Annette Pollert-Morgan, my wonderful editor, for taking a chance on this crazy little book and whipping it into shape. A big thank-you goes out to Elizabeth Boyer, Nicole Komasinski, Danielle McNaughton, and the entire staff at Sourcebooks. I am deeply appreciative to everything you’ve done!

  Unnatural Deeds would still be hanging out on my computer if it wasn’t for the encouragement and insightful critiques from these wonderful ladies: Margie Gelbwasser, Lynsey Newton, Charlotte Bennardo, Jennifer Murgia, Cindy Sorenson, Tara Goodyear, Sara Bennett-Wealer, Gryffyn Phoenix, and Jen Nadol. You are all rockstar writers and I adore you!

  I also have to thank everything that has ever made me feel out of control with desire. It’s because I know that feeling so well that I felt compelled to write about it. I’m looking at you, chocolate-marshmallow ice cream, Sherlock, and the two weeks of vacation I get every year.

  As usual, I saved the best for last. Thank you to Brian, Sara, and Gabrielle for everything. No contest, you three are my true obsession. I love you most.

  About the Author

  Cyn Balog is the author of a number of young adult novels. She lives outside Allentown, Pennsylvania, with her husband and daughters. Visit her online at cynbalog.com.

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