“Are you okay?” Alane steered me back to our little gathering in the corner, her stooped shoulders and fluttering hands shielding me from the crowd. The guy whose coffee I’d spilled was still scowling and looming, like he was going to release a thundercloud of rage, but Alane stopped him with a look. “Here. Sit. Ella, get up.”
Ella stood and left me enough space to collapse into the armchair. A shadow materialized overhead, and I looked up to see, to my surprise, Michael Silverman, outlined in gold against the light overhead. “I brought you some water,” he said. “Replacement hot chocolate to come?”
My throat was dry as paper. I wanted so badly to make some witty quip, but I took the water and gulped instead. My throat stayed scratchy. “Sorry for being so crazy,” I said. I couldn’t tell the truth. I couldn’t tell anything approaching the truth. If I said I freaked out over some guy staring at me because of my nonexistent brother, everybody would think I was crazy-pants. “I thought I saw a rat,” I invented. “Near the bathroom.”
“A rat,” Ella said, her voice heavy with skepticism.
“Lucy hates rats,” Alane said. “She’s terrified of them.” I shot her a grateful look. “She grew up in a house where rats would nibble on her toes every night and she worried they’d eat her.” My grateful look collapsed into a warning. “To this day she only has eight toes.”
I couldn’t help it: I burst into a laugh. A slightly hysterical laugh, true, but a laugh. “She’s joking,” I said. “I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I just…think I should go home.” My insides were churning; I couldn’t decide whether to feel sick or excited or humiliated. “Rain check, Michael?”
Michael looked like he wanted to say something, but he only nodded. Alane looped her arm around my back and steered me toward the exit. The paper cup of water crumpled in my hand; I looked for a garbage can and didn’t see one, so I held it, soggy and limp, the whole way home.
* * *
FROM THE JOURNAL OF DR. ATLAS SPENCE
* * *
Re: Ryan Vann, age 10
I was reprimanded by the head of the practice after the last session for including a personal note with my session notes. As I don’t believe I can properly assess this patient and keep a full set of records without consideration of my subjective experience, I have therefore decided to keep two separate accounts of the patient. I will keep one set of strictly clinical notes as well as this journal, which will contain my clinical notes as well as my personal thoughts and considerations. In this way, I will be better able to treat this patient.
I will, after all, need a full record of everything that happened when I join the behavior analysis unit. I may have failed the state’s first “test,” but once I have a record of treating and fixing the most problematic sociopaths-to-be, they’ll need me more than I need them. Ryan Vann is merely the first of many steps.
Ryan has now been undergoing MST for two full weeks. I met with him eager to hear how the therapy was going. Maybe to get some emotion out of him, but probably not. Too soon.
“Good afternoon, Ryan,” I said once we were alone. “How was school today?”
“Fine,” he muttered. “I had a test.”
“A test,” I said. “In what subject?”
“Spelling,” he said, scowling. “I hate spelling. I got five wrong.”
Here I felt my first glimmer of empathy for the client. I, too, had never been much of a speller. My teachers and mother hadn’t figured out I was dyslexic until I was eleven. I didn’t ask him how many questions those five were out of.
“And my sister and I asked if we could go to Six Flags with our friends next weekend, and our mom said yes,” he said. “Roller coasters are cool. I like to sit up front.”
The sister again. I made a mental note. She might be able to help with the client, should I need it.
“Very cool,” I said. “So, how have the talks been going with your parents and your guidance counselor?”
“Stupid,” he said. He didn’t elaborate.
“How so?” I asked.
“So stupid I didn’t do any of it,” he said. “It’s a waste of time. I could be playing football with my friends instead.”
I had to take a moment to swallow hard. He could quite easily be lying, I reminded myself. Children with conduct disorder are often pathological liars. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “How can I make it better for you?”
He kicked at the leg of the couch. “I killed another squirrel yesterday. I cut open its belly,” he said, peeking at me through his curls, almost as if he were daring me to react. “It smelled really bad.”
My stomach roiled, though I didn’t let it show on my face. At least, I hoped I didn’t. Kids like this would take the slightest hint of discomfort and run with it. “I can imagine,” I said. “So over these last two weeks you killed a squirrel, made plans to go to Six Flags with your sister, and didn’t do as well on a spelling test as you would have liked. What else did you do?”
“I can tell you what I didn’t do,” he said. “I didn’t go see the guidance counselor. Not once. Or the school therapist. And my parents didn’t make me do anything, either.”
He’s probably lying, I told myself again. I found it hard to believe that these parents would turn a blind eye to such behaviors, especially given what I’d warned them about—that if these behaviors weren’t corrected, they would set. Rotten dough would make for spoiled bread. A boy with unworked-upon conduct disorder might very well grow up to display strong psychopathic tendencies.
And kill more than a squirrel.
My brother and I slept in our bunk beds, aka our tower and our lair, until we were ten. The big double digits. I’d already befriended Liv—Olivia Liang—who was the second to die in the band room. Liv would come over and perch with me atop my bed, where we’d dangle our legs over the side so that our feet swung in my brother’s space. If he happened to be there, he’d swat at our toes and growl and pretend to snap at them. I’d giggle and pretend-scream, but Liv would just frown at me.
One day, as my brother and I were just getting to school, Liv caught me and pulled me away from him. We hadn’t been walking hand in hand, but our fingers might have been brushing each other’s as we walked. “Julia, I’m your friend,” she said. “You know I’m your best friend, right? That I ‘love you like a sister’?”
“LYLAS,” I said automatically. My eyes strayed over her shoulder to my brother, who was tapping his foot impatiently as he waited. We were in the same class, and we always walked into school together. On days I was sick, he’d stay home, too.
“I’m telling you this because I love you,” she said. “Everybody is talking about you, you know. They’re laughing at you. Because of the whole thing with Gabriella at recess.”
My back stiffened. I didn’t want to think about what Gabriella had done at recess. “People are laughing at me?” I’d seen the side glances, seen snickers sucked back into throats as I walked by, but I hadn’t spared them much more than a passing thought. At least, until Gabriella. “Why?”
“Because of you and your brother,” she said. “Gabriella was right. It’s weird. You guys, like, hold hands. You sleep in the same room. You’re always together. It’s creepy. It’s like you’re in love or something.”
“I do love him,” I said, but my mind was already racing. People talking about me behind my back? People saying mean things about me? People laughing at me? The very thought made me itch like I had bedbugs.
“Not love,” she said. “Of course you love him. I mean, like, in love. Like you want to marry him.”
I hadn’t ever really thought about it, but I could tell by the way she wrinkled her nose and spat the words that I was supposed to be disgusted. “Ew, gross,” I said. “No way.”
She linked her arm with mine. “So you need to stop hanging out with him so much,” she said. “Get your own room. And I’ll tell everyone you’re not a total weirdo.”
The itching settled into a sick feeling in the pit
of my stomach. I couldn’t be laughed at. I just couldn’t. “Okay,” I said. I held her arm tight, like it was the only thing anchoring me to the earth. “Let’s walk in together.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
Liv and I marched right past my brother and into the school. My brother didn’t show up for class that day. I found out later that he had gone home sick, but I didn’t care. Even if I knew I’d pay for it later. I wasn’t being stared at, for once.
When I got off the bus, he was waiting for me at our stop, his arms crossed and a stormy expression on his face. “You don’t look sick,” I greeted him.
“You went in without me.” Far from sounding mad, he sounded sad. “Now the Demetros will never see their cat again.”
I lifted my chin, fighting back the wave of nausea that came when I pictured the cat’s fate. I felt sorry for it, and sickened by what had surely happened, but I couldn’t build my life around that mangy old thing. Also, it had scratched me once. “I had to,” I said. “People were talking after what Gabriella said.” Might as well dump the whole load on him at once. “And I want my own room, too.”
Our dad got home late that night and told us he would unscrew our beds and move mine to the spare room the next day. We’d have to spend one more night in bunk beds. I laid on mine, my eyes closed, and tried to breathe evenly through all the sniffling going on beneath me in the lair. When I simply couldn’t take it anymore, I dropped from the top to the bottom. “Are you crying?” I asked, though I knew he was, and that it wasn’t over the Demetros’ cat.
He sniffled. “No.”
I crawled into bed beside him and snuggled up against his back and breathed into his hair. Curls tickled my nose, and he grew very still. “People think we’re weird,” I said. I hoped this would soothe him and maybe save the neighborhood’s other cats. “We need to have more friends. But you’re still my favorite.”
I could feel him relax. “Okay,” he said.
He stayed home from school the next day, and the next day, and the next. But then on Monday he met up with his friend Eddie Meyer, the third to die in the band room, and the two marched together through the front door before Liv and I had even said hello.
—
Alane and I escaped the coffee shop with no further Spence-related incidents, but she only dropped me off when I promised her, cross my heart and hope to die, that both of my parents were inside, waiting patiently for me at the dinner table with a full roast turkey and platter of stuffing. None of this, of course, was true. (I might have gone a little overboard with the turkey and stuffing.)
“Call me if you need me,” she said, her eyes searching.
I nodded. I might need her, but I knew I wouldn’t call.
Inside I found my mother busy with her new favorite activity: cleaning. Every surface and nook and cranny in our house positively sparkled. You could eat soup out of the toilet bowl or brush on mascara in the reflection from the kitchen tiles. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen dust. I wasn’t sure if I remembered what it looked like. “Hi, Mom,” I said, dropping my books on the coffee table.
She turned to me with a tremulous smile, which collapsed when she saw the hot chocolate stains down my front. Her hands twitched; she wrung them together in what looked like an effort not to race over and scrub me where I stood. “Lucy, you’re a mess,” she said. “Give me your dress. I’ll wash it out for you.”
“I spilled my hot chocolate,” I said. Shoot. Alane’s dress. I’d have to remember to apologize later, offer to buy her a new one, though I knew she’d never take my money. I hesitated and focused back on my mom. “Can I tell you something weird?”
Her eyes skittered down to my feet; her shoulders visibly relaxed when she saw I’d removed my shoes. She probably would’ve fainted if I’d left chocolate footprints on the rug. “What is it?”
I swallowed hard. “I think I’m being followed, and that it might have something to do with Ryan. With Elkton. Do you remember Ryan’s old psychologist? My old psychologist? Dr. Spence? I’ve seen him three times now,” I said, and braced myself for her to tell me it was ridiculous, that obviously I’d made a mistake, that all I needed was a hug and all would be okay. That it was okay to talk about Ryan.
I should have known better. Her quivering lip was the only indication I’d said his name. “That’s ridiculous. Julia Vann no longer exists,” she said. Ridiculous. Score one point, at least. It was a hollow victory. “We aren’t from that place anymore. And I’ll thank you never to mention that name in this house ever again.” Her eyes darted again at the stain down my front.
“I’ll say his name if I want to,” I said. “He’s my brother.”
“Lucy Black doesn’t have a brother,” she said coldly. Inside I prodded myself, waiting to feel something, but I just felt cold. Empty. As soon as I realized that, I was swept by a rush of wanting. I wanted so badly to feel something. Why didn’t I feel something? “Now give me your dress.”
Afraid she’d rip it off me if I didn’t comply, I grudgingly changed into sweats and then made a turkey sandwich. It tasted like chalk with mustard, but I didn’t want to be a total liar to Alane.
I was halfway through when the doorbell rang. My mother was probably knee-deep in soap suds or whatever, so I opened the door to find Michael Silverman standing there, shifting from foot to glorious foot.
“Oh,” I greeted him. Ugh, ugh, ugh. “I mean, hey. Hola.”
“Hey, Lucy.” Michael had his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward. I would’ve thought he was cold if it wasn’t eighty-something degrees out. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. With…I didn’t want to say anything there, but did you think you saw your ex? At Crazy’s?”
I leaned against the doorway and put my hands in my pockets, too. “I thought I saw him. But it wasn’t him. It just freaked me out. Again.” I tried to smile brightly. “I’m fine. I’m okay. Thanks.”
Michael tilted his head back and smiled; his molars winked at me from the back of his mouth. “You think I’m going to let you off that easy? I brought this. I figured you might need it.” He produced a plastic bag. I drew the handle aside with a crackling sound to see a container of chocolate ice cream, and I let out a surprised laugh.
“Oh,” I said. “Thank you.” I took the bag of ice cream and stepped back. “Want to come in? I was just eating dinner.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your dinner,” he said. “I just…your sweatshirt. Did you go there?”
My sweatshirt. I was wearing an old band hoodie, one of the few I’d managed to sneak to Sunny Vale. It might as well have announced in glaring neon lights that I’d gone to Elkton High, Home of the Fighting Elks and the crazy-pants shooter who had gone off the wall and slaughtered eleven people.
“I went to a school nearby,” I said. This was the story my parents and I had agreed on. “Before I moved here. I had a…boyfriend who went to Elkton. An ex-boyfriend. A different ex-boyfriend,” I was hasty to add. “This is his old sweatshirt. I just wear it at home because it’s comfortable and I didn’t think anyone would see me and…” Whoa, there, Lucy. Talking too much.
“Cool,” he said. “Was he involved in…what happened?”
I stiffened. The sweatshirt’s tag scraped against my neck. Why had I even put it on? I’d never liked this sweatshirt. “Maybe you shouldn’t come in,” I said.
“No, hey…” He took one of his hands out of his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. It must have been awful. I mean, it was awful watching it on TV and reading about it online, but it’s not the same thing as going to school right near where it happened.”
I relaxed and considered just melting into the door frame. This conversation would be so much less stressful if I could just disappear. “Yeah,” I said. “Well, I was just eating dinner….”
“What are you having?” He was moving past me and into the kitchen before I could reply. So much for not wanting to interrupt my dinner. “That? That’s your d
inner?”
I followed to find him staring at my sandwich with an expression somewhere between horror and disgust. “Yes,” I said defensively, considering running over and shielding it with my body. It was just a sandwich, I reminded myself. And not even a very good one.
Michael shook his head. “We can’t have that,” he said. “As an apology for asking you about Elkton and as an apology for nearly running you down with my car, let me make you dinner.”
“What?” If I listened hard, I could hear the ghostly vibrations of my mother’s scrubbing somewhere above me. At least she’d moved upstairs. My father probably wouldn’t be home for another few hours, if he came home at all. “Really? You already apologized with ice cream.” I held it up in case he’d forgotten.
“Yes. Really.” After a brief scan of the fridge and the pantry, he began assembling kitchen things. A sauté pan, a grater, a chopping block and giant knife, a block of some kind of cheese (white? Was it called white cheese? I didn’t think so), some onion, garlic, mushrooms, peppers, eggs. “Do you like eggs?” he asked, almost as an afterthought.
“I’m allergic to eggs.”
His face cracked right down the middle in disappointment. “Really?”
“No. I like eggs.” I stood and went to go survey the ingredients on the counter. “Omelet? Are you making omelets?”
“Yes. I figured I’d start small the first time.” The first time? That would seem to suggest there were going to be more times. “Go sit down.”
I went and sat at the kitchen table. “Are you into cooking?” I asked. My brother would cook for me sometimes. Not eggs, thankfully; he actually had been allergic. He’d been into Asian food. He’d make me stir-fries with baby corn, which we both loved when we were little because it made us feel like giants, and fried Chinese noodles. He’d make tempura and frightfully inauthentic bibimbap, and even once attempted hand-rolled sushi that began in sticky rice and ended in food poisoning. All of this in our old kitchen, which had been straight from the seventies with its avocado-green furnishings. My heart twanged like a guitar string. He would have loved our new kitchen, where all the furnishings were stainless steel, the walls tiled blue.
Damage Done Page 5