Dangerous Boys
Page 11
Ethan sighed, reluctant. ‘Call me, if you need anything.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ I repeated, and again, I was shocked at how sincere my voice sounded, as if I really believed it. Ethan hovered in the doorway a moment more, then awkwardly bobbed in and kissed my cheek.
‘Goodbye.’ He smiled hesitantly, then he walked away.
I shut the door behind him and sank back against it. I could still smell the faint scent of his deodorant or aftershave – something fresh and citrus. I’d noticed it last night, on our date.
Last night . . .
I felt a desperate laugh rise up in my chest. I’d thought I could leave all this behind. It seemed so naive to remember, kicking my feet up on Ethan’s dashboard, holding hands like kids in the movie theatre, kissing until midnight.
Now is the time to put away childish things . . .
I didn’t know where the saying came from, but it echoed in my head as I walked down the hall and into the small room off the den that Dad had used as an office. It was like the rest of the house now, with half-empty shelves and spaces where he used to be, but I forced myself to go through the box files and drawers in turn, assembling what was left of the paperwork; old bills, receipts and more.
It took me hours to go through it all, sat at the kitchen table, one of my brand-new college-lined notebooks and pens at my side. I’d imagined using them on my first day of classes, away at college, ready to learn. Now I had a different task.
Mortgage statements, bank account balances. Gas and electric, groceries and gas. The neat set of numbers on my notebook grew, frighteningly long with every new expense. I’d never known, the money it took to hold our lives together. We’d never been rich, just comfortable; but with Dad gone . . . Mom had taken the house in the settlement, but there was no alimony, no child support since I turned eighteen in the spring. I flipped through the papers, certain I had to be missing something, but it was all there in stark black and white. Mom had been draining her only savings account these past months, trying to keep us afloat. Now that she had no job, there was no way to pay the bills.
We would have nothing.
I looked up from the papers. It was dark outside, and my eyes ached, and that fervent panic had ebbed into something worse, something empty and bleak with resignation.
There was no avoiding it any longer. I’d tried, playing make-believe all summer long, but fall was almost here now, and the truth was beating against my skull in a dull, heavy ache.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
I called Ethan.
It was late. I shouldn’t have, but it was the only thing I could think of to keep the future at bay. Not the future I’d dreamed of, bright and full of shimmering possibilities, but this new ugly prison that had suddenly reared up before me, dark enough to block out the sun.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, standing aside to let him in. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I don’t want to be alone.’
He wrapped his arms around me, like I knew he would. ‘It’s OK,’ he murmured, gently stroking my hair. I clung to him, my fear mingling with a relief so sweet it made the darkness recede, just a fraction.
I could hold on to him.
Tonight, I could hold him, and I wouldn’t be alone.
I wait for an hour on a hard plastic chair in the hallway, hugging my arms around myself to keep from falling. After the madness of the fighting and the fire, the screams and the sirens, I’m finally alone.
I close my eyes against the cheap fluorescent lights, sinking into the darkness. Safe and still.
But I’m not safe, not yet. He could die.
And if he doesn’t . . .
‘Chloe!’
I snap my eyes open. Sheriff Weber is sprinting towards me, out of breath. His shirt is buttoned wrong; they must have woken him to get down here. ‘Jesus, Chloe, are you OK? When I heard on the radio . . .’ He reaches out to touch my shoulder, then stops, suddenly unsure. ‘What happened? They said there was a fire, a boy got stabbed . . . ?’ He pauses again, catching his breath. ‘You’re bleeding.’ Weber looks frantically around. ‘Can we get a nurse over here? Someone!’
I slowly shake my head. I haven’t spoken since the nine-one-one call, and now, it takes me a moment to get the words out. ‘It’s not mine.’ I finally manage to whisper.
‘What?’ Weber turns back to me.
‘The blood.’ My voice is hoarse, my throat still burning from the smoke. ‘It’s not mine. It’s his. I’m OK.’
Weber paces back and forth for a moment. ‘The boy. It was one of the Reznick kids, wasn’t it? Where the hell is he?’
‘In surgery.’ I clasp my hands tight. ‘They say . . . They say he might not make it.’
‘Christ.’ Weber swears, and I realize through my daze that it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him curse. The other guys at the station always ran their mouths off, as crude as they came, but the most Weber ever uttered was a pained ‘Dangit!’ when he caught his finger in the desk drawer one time.
Weber stops pacing. ‘Have you talked to anyone yet?’
I don’t reply.
‘Chloe?’ Weber’s voice is careful, but I can hear a thread of uncertainty in his tone. He crouches down in front of me, unwieldy, leaning in so his eyes are level with mine and I can smell the tang of mint on his breath. ‘This is important, I need you to listen to me. Have you talked to anyone, anyone at all? One of the other deputies?’
I shake my head. ‘I . . . I haven’t said a word,’ I whisper. ‘They said I was in shock.’
‘OK.’ Weber gives a sharp nod. ‘You need to think very carefully about what you say. You understand?’ His eyes burn into mine, hooded and dark. ‘What happened in there, I’m on your side. Maybe you were fighting, maybe he tried to push you too far . . . But things like this can get out of control. You need to call someone: your parents, a lawyer. You need someone here to make sure things go right.’
I shiver. ‘I don’t understand,’ I whisper. ‘It was all a mistake. I never meant—’
‘Your parents.’ Weber cuts me off. ‘Did you call them?’
I shake my head again. ‘They won’t come. My mom . . . ’ I stop. ‘Nobody’s coming for me.’
Weber exhales in a long breath. He heaves himself up and moves to the seat beside me. ‘I know a guy, a public defender out in Bloomington. I’ll see if he can come down and sit with you for the interviews.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ I repeated, and again, I was shocked at how sincere my voice sounded, as if I really believed it. Ethan hovered in the doorway a moment more, then awkwardly bobbed in and kissed my cheek.
‘Goodbye.’ He smiled hesitantly, then he walked away.
I shut the door behind him and sank back against it. I could still smell the faint scent of his deodorant or aftershave – something fresh and citrus. I’d noticed it last night, on our date.
Last night . . .
I felt a desperate laugh rise up in my chest. I’d thought I could leave all this behind. It seemed so naive to remember, kicking my feet up on Ethan’s dashboard, holding hands like kids in the movie theatre, kissing until midnight.
Now is the time to put away childish things . . .
I didn’t know where the saying came from, but it echoed in my head as I walked down the hall and into the small room off the den that Dad had used as an office. It was like the rest of the house now, with half-empty shelves and spaces where he used to be, but I forced myself to go through the box files and drawers in turn, assembling what was left of the paperwork; old bills, receipts and more.
It took me hours to go through it all, sat at the kitchen table, one of my brand-new college-lined notebooks and pens at my side. I’d imagined using them on my first day of classes, away at college, ready to learn. Now I had a different task.
Mortgage statements, bank account balances. Gas and electric, groceries and gas. The neat set of numbers on my notebook grew, frighteningly long with every new expense. I’d never known, the money it took to hold our lives together. We’d never been rich, just comfortable; but with Dad gone . . . Mom had taken the house in the settlement, but there was no alimony, no child support since I turned eighteen in the spring. I flipped through the papers, certain I had to be missing something, but it was all there in stark black and white. Mom had been draining her only savings account these past months, trying to keep us afloat. Now that she had no job, there was no way to pay the bills.
We would have nothing.
I looked up from the papers. It was dark outside, and my eyes ached, and that fervent panic had ebbed into something worse, something empty and bleak with resignation.
There was no avoiding it any longer. I’d tried, playing make-believe all summer long, but fall was almost here now, and the truth was beating against my skull in a dull, heavy ache.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
I called Ethan.
It was late. I shouldn’t have, but it was the only thing I could think of to keep the future at bay. Not the future I’d dreamed of, bright and full of shimmering possibilities, but this new ugly prison that had suddenly reared up before me, dark enough to block out the sun.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, standing aside to let him in. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I don’t want to be alone.’
He wrapped his arms around me, like I knew he would. ‘It’s OK,’ he murmured, gently stroking my hair. I clung to him, my fear mingling with a relief so sweet it made the darkness recede, just a fraction.
I could hold on to him.
Tonight, I could hold him, and I wouldn’t be alone.
I wait for an hour on a hard plastic chair in the hallway, hugging my arms around myself to keep from falling. After the madness of the fighting and the fire, the screams and the sirens, I’m finally alone.
I close my eyes against the cheap fluorescent lights, sinking into the darkness. Safe and still.
But I’m not safe, not yet. He could die.
And if he doesn’t . . .
‘Chloe!’
I snap my eyes open. Sheriff Weber is sprinting towards me, out of breath. His shirt is buttoned wrong; they must have woken him to get down here. ‘Jesus, Chloe, are you OK? When I heard on the radio . . .’ He reaches out to touch my shoulder, then stops, suddenly unsure. ‘What happened? They said there was a fire, a boy got stabbed . . . ?’ He pauses again, catching his breath. ‘You’re bleeding.’ Weber looks frantically around. ‘Can we get a nurse over here? Someone!’
I slowly shake my head. I haven’t spoken since the nine-one-one call, and now, it takes me a moment to get the words out. ‘It’s not mine.’ I finally manage to whisper.
‘What?’ Weber turns back to me.
‘The blood.’ My voice is hoarse, my throat still burning from the smoke. ‘It’s not mine. It’s his. I’m OK.’
Weber paces back and forth for a moment. ‘The boy. It was one of the Reznick kids, wasn’t it? Where the hell is he?’
‘In surgery.’ I clasp my hands tight. ‘They say . . . They say he might not make it.’
‘Christ.’ Weber swears, and I realize through my daze that it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him curse. The other guys at the station always ran their mouths off, as crude as they came, but the most Weber ever uttered was a pained ‘Dangit!’ when he caught his finger in the desk drawer one time.
Weber stops pacing. ‘Have you talked to anyone yet?’
I don’t reply.
‘Chloe?’ Weber’s voice is careful, but I can hear a thread of uncertainty in his tone. He crouches down in front of me, unwieldy, leaning in so his eyes are level with mine and I can smell the tang of mint on his breath. ‘This is important, I need you to listen to me. Have you talked to anyone, anyone at all? One of the other deputies?’
I shake my head. ‘I . . . I haven’t said a word,’ I whisper. ‘They said I was in shock.’
‘OK.’ Weber gives a sharp nod. ‘You need to think very carefully about what you say. You understand?’ His eyes burn into mine, hooded and dark. ‘What happened in there, I’m on your side. Maybe you were fighting, maybe he tried to push you too far . . . But things like this can get out of control. You need to call someone: your parents, a lawyer. You need someone here to make sure things go right.’
I shiver. ‘I don’t understand,’ I whisper. ‘It was all a mistake. I never meant—’
‘Your parents.’ Weber cuts me off. ‘Did you call them?’
I shake my head again. ‘They won’t come. My mom . . . ’ I stop. ‘Nobody’s coming for me.’
Weber exhales in a long breath. He heaves himself up and moves to the seat beside me. ‘I know a guy, a public defender out in Bloomington. I’ll see if he can come down and sit with you for the interviews.’
