Brightside (7 page)

“My kid’s a regular Picasso. Look at all the crap I’ve got on my fridge.” Mom laughed.

I crumpled up the drawing and ran to my room. She came in later, heard me crying. She wished I wasn’t such a whiny brat. She tried to console me, make me feel better, but her thoughts told the truth and made everything so much worse.

* * *

Danny couldn’t stay still, kept shifting, tapping his legs like a drum, thumbing the paint off his pencil. I made him my helper and asked for colors, but he didn’t know them all by name. I pointed. He figured it out. By the time I was done with the drawing I was ready to crumple it up like I did with Mom. Anyone who saw it would know I was no artist, I’d never been good with faces, but I’d sort of captured Rachel’s insecurity, the way she adjusted, sucked in so her belly wouldn’t spill over her skirt.

Danny asked if I was done. I tore it out and handed it to him.

He said it was perfect and I said it was nothing.

Danny held up the picture, his eyes all shiny. “It’s everything.”

He jumped to his feet and ran over to Rachel. Handed it to her. He pointed back to me and she smiled. I felt guilty and left, wandered out into the forest and carved Michelle’s name in that tall pine tree. They hadn’t told us we could venture into the woods, but I didn’t care, just kept walking until I found that tree. Pulled out my apartment keys and dug into the bark. For a second, I thought the key might break, but I just kept carving, digging, needing to see her name, pretend I could make things right.

If only I’d told her the truth, hadn’t been so greedy about the house, been smarter like Dad had told me to be. Maybe then I wouldn’t have ended up here, trapped on this fucking mountain.

Fucking Saul.

I knew he was suspicious at BMW, knew he was thinking about turning me in, but I pressed, thought I had a few days.

When Michelle’s name was finally carved, I fell against the tree and wept. I can’t remember ever crying like that as an adult. My mind falling into the past. I thought about getting lost in the snow as a kid, that nice woman hugging me, taking me home.

The home I’d never see again.

The sun began to set, and the temperature dropped, the tears warm trails down my cheeks. I finally got up, walked back towards the apartment. That’s when I heard the car. It rounded the curve way up the mountain. It was dark blue, definitely a Chrysler. The same kind Michelle drove.

I started running. She’d come to save me!

The car was half a block away. I still couldn’t see the driver, but I knew it was Michelle. I wasn’t a piece of shit. She’d forgiven me, probably knew about my ability all along.

I ran into the middle of the street, waving my arms like an idiot.

“Michelle! Michelle!”

The car was going fast and headed right for me. I closed my eyes, thought it couldn’t stop, the screech of brakes louder than anything I’ve ever heard.

I opened my eyes, the car only a foot from me, its front door thrown open. It was the quickest I’ve gone from one feeling to another. First thinking I was free, saved, still loved, then
straight to scared shitless, because the driver was out of the car, running right at me, screaming for me to get down, his big fucking pistol pointed right at my face.

It happened so quick I just saw flashes. Blue jeans, black windbreaker, angry brown eyes. And then he was on me, kicking my legs out, pushing my head, slamming me to the ground.

His black boot went on my cheek like he was squashing a bug. He shouted, “Stay the fuck down.”

I yelled like a little girl. “Get off of me!” Then I grabbed his boot and pushed it off to prove I wasn’t.

The boot went away, but metal came back. Hard. The barrel of the gun pushed at my temple, dug into the bone like it didn’t need a bullet.

I could barely open my jaw. It sounded all screwed up when I said, “What’d I do?”

“You want to die?”

I didn’t try to talk. Laid still. Focused on the cold gravel digging into my cheek, not on the gun twitching, pressing like all this guy wanted to do was pull the trigger and splatter my brain across the street.

He put more pressure on the gun, his breath straight caffeine. “You think it’d matter if I killed you?”

Two footsteps approached, cowboy boots. And then Melvin, Brightside’s sheriff, asked, “Everything okay?”

I wanted to say no, it wasn’t right at all, but the gun was still there, pinning me down.

Black boots said, “Yeah, it’s fine. Go back inside where it’s warm.”

Melvin said, “I’m okay. Reminds me of home.”

“I was just finishing up with this guy.” The prick tapped the side of my head, letting me know where he wanted to put the bullet.

“I think he learned his lesson,” Sheriff Melvin said.

Black boots pulled the gun off me and kicked my leg when he walked back to his car. “You get up before I’m gone and you’ll be sorry.”

The Boots called themselves agents, but I never would. Even the term “cop” was too good for them.

Face down on the ground, though, I’d never been so still, my eyes on the American flag rippling back and forth.

Melvin chuckled. When I didn’t look at him, he said, “Know what I’m thinking right now?”

I turned just my face because I figured he wouldn’t leave until I did. He stood there, a huge smile hanging underneath the darkest pair of sunglasses.

“I was thinking about what that guy asked you. I was thinking no one would care.”

I got to my feet and stepped to the side. The Chrysler zipped by and for a split second I was staring into the eyes of the man who could have ended me. I wished he had.

Melvin asked, “You okay?”

I waited until the car made its way around the Circle and disappeared down Main Street. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

Melvin put his hand on my shoulder and guided me to the curb. He had this bushy white mustache, which made him look like the guy from the Quaker Oats commercials on a bender.

“Have a seat a second.”

I felt like I’d just been kicked in the balls, the body, the face, but I deserved it. I was the idiot who ran in front of a car. The idiot that thought Michelle would ever want to see me again. Even if she lived in the next city over, she wouldn’t come. Not unless it was to demand an apology or watch me suffer.

Melvin used the side of his cowboy boot to sweep the bloody gravel at my feet. “You sure you’re okay?” He pointed at The Cabin. “We can go in there.”

I didn’t know much about The Cabin at the time, but I knew enough to stay away.

I wiped off my hands, pretended like I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t have to ask Melvin to leave me alone or tell him I couldn’t talk. All I did was look up and read the banner rippling above the Square, the big red letters on both sides:

“Welcome to Brightside. Welcome Home.”

Brightside was plastic. It was all just pretend. Everything. The jobs, the town, the Council, our freedom to shop. Each detail fabricated so we wouldn’t jump off the edge of this damn mountain.

And the plastic rubbed off. It let me pretend Rachel and I were in love, that Michelle had come to rescue me, that I had options. It almost got me killed.

Day 8, I showed up to my job and pretended to work. Rachel kept sneaking glances. She was out of my range. The first few times I’d seen her, she wore thick pants, long-sleeved shirts. This time she was in that red leather skirt, her legs smooth and sexy all the way to the slit.

I wished I’d never drawn that stupid picture.

She said she was going to try out the diner. Heard they had good burgers. She asked if I’d like to go. She wanted to pretend this was all just fucking fine. I guess I needed that, too, because I said sure.

The first few dates were intense. Neither of us had been with a Thought Thief before Brightside. It amplified every quiet moment. No more pretense. No more lying.

Even the bad shit felt good, because it was true.

Our accelerated relationship let us believe we’d met our soul mates. I didn’t even care when I received Michelle’s letter, the one telling me how happy she was I’d been taken to Brightside, that I was out of her life. She said she felt raped by our relationship, that I’d lied, stolen every private thought. She wanted me to die a slow, painful death.

But to hell with her. I had Rachel, someone who loved me for me. It made me feel worthy. It made me better.

I did drawings for Danny, promised him one a week. Sometimes I gave him two. I wasn’t a real artist, but Danny liked them. They brightened his day.

I’d spent my whole life hurting and disappointing other people, manipulating them. With Danny I just had to move my pencil. Vertical and horizontal lines flying across the paper. The images took shape, a massive brick wall filling the page, a hawk soaring through the sky.

My entire second week in Brightside, I’d sit on the bench sketching, put on my oversized headphones. I knew people laughed. I’d heard all their silent jokes, but I didn’t give a shit.

I grabbed the eraser, put a giant hole in the middle of the wall, and then picked up the blue pencil. Brilliant blue skies and a luscious green meadow on the other side of the wall. A pile of
broken bricks gathered under the hole, a young boy climbing up it. The boy had a lopsided grin on his face as he grasped the hand of an unseen man reaching through. Freedom.

It’s not very often I looked at one of my drawings and smiled. They were never that good, but this one was and Danny loved it. All he needed was a drawing to make him happy.

Rachel needed more, especially when she heard me dreaming of Michelle. Day 39 when I couldn’t give her the answer, because pretending was so fucking exhausting. Then the Boots came to take her away.

* * *

Two nights later, after my session with Sharon on Day 41, I found myself walking. I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t as cold as it’d been the day I burned my five-year-old face, but cold enough to snuggle into my jacket and zip it up all the way. Cold enough to remind me my low expectations for this place had been way too high.

The Cabin sat up on the hill, where Rachel was most likely sitting in some catatonic state, wondering why she ever trusted me. I could have visited, but I didn’t want to see what I’d done.

I shoved both hands in my pockets and went to the railing overlooking the park. I leaned on it, but not too far because the weld looked weak and fifteen feet was only high enough to hurt. Still, it was too high. I stepped back.

Brightside spread out before me, our nothing of a town stuck on the side of a mountain. The cemetery was another two hundred feet up. Three hundred yards to the welcome center. The town of telepaths was hard at work, my thoughts all my own.

The statue of Jonas
Stonebrook
stood by the pond. Jonas was the founding father of this place. His son, William, had been branded a Thought Thief. Some guy shot him in his home. William bled out on his bathroom floor. Jonas was old, angry, thought there was a better way. He sold the land up here for a buck, thought he was giving the government a humane option.

The statue of the skinny old man with his gray hair and scraggly beard stood stoically by the frozen water, almost like he was lost in thought. I wondered if he regretted creating Brightside.

I stayed on the path until I hit the woods, the full and bright moon illuminating the way. I headed for the tallest tree, found the five long slashes buried in the bark. Michelle’s name scratched out. Rachel’s name in her place. I pulled out the knife I’d swiped from the diner, started scratching it out. I don’t know why. I suppose I was simply crossing off another woman, another broken heart, bullshit love.

I’d told myself things could last with Michelle, even if she found out the truth. Then I tried to believe it was even better with Rachel.

Always pretending. Making shit up in my head to believe I had a chance, that happiness was possible, even for someone like me.

Sharon would say my expectations were the problem, that they were setting me up for failure. Reality can never live up to your imagination. Expectations imply a future, which doesn’t exist. There’s only the present.

The next day I met Krystal. I was at the deli and something smacked the tile behind me, made me jump. I spun around and bumped into this amazing ass, grabbed it for balance so neither of us fell.

Krystal was bent over, straight-legged, picking a small box up off the floor. I couldn’t see her face, but the bright red hair gave Krystal away. That and her ass pointed right at me, her white bakery coat so short I could see the tiniest strand of her red thong.

I’d seen her a few times, but always thought she was too intimidating, her arms covered in tattoos, her pierced nipples on full display under that tight shirt.

I wasn’t thinking about Rachel locked away in The Cabin. I also wasn’t thinking about work because I was done for the day. I was only thinking about the present. Krystal’s ass.