Death Spiral (17 page)

I press my fingers against my eyelids and push the world into blackness until my thoughts settle. Then I toss my napkin into the trash and leave the mall to head back to school. The one place where life still resembles normal.

***

A layer of frost covers the windshield of Aunt T's car when I get to the parking lot. I start the engine and crank the defroster. I might as well wait for the glaciers to melt. If I want to make it back to school in this geologic era, I'll have to scrape. I manage to clear a notebook-size patch of glass before my fingers go numb. Good enough. I get into the car and start back to school.

I decide to take the back road. It's faster. Bio starts in ten minutes, and the threat of Mrs. Stratberry hangs over me. I'm a few blocks from campus when a squirrel darts into the road. Slamming on your brakes to avoid smooshing a small rodent is one of those no-no's they teach you in driver's ed, but what I know and what I do when the life of a small, fluffy creature is at stake are two different things. I hit the brakes.

The car doesn't stop. The wheels flatten the squirrel with a sickening thump. I brake again as I zoom toward the intersection. Still nothing. I have the red, and the light's getting closer. I pump the brake, but the pedal is soft. It's then I see a car coming the other direction. I punch the horn and swerve hard to avoid a collision.

I don't know if it's minutes or seconds that I'm sprawled across the steering wheel, but when I blink open my eyes and find my view angled to the tops of the trees, I know something's wrong. For one concussion of a moment I think there's been a tectonic event, but then the truth hits me like my head must've hit the wheel: I crashed Aunt T's car. I don't have a license. I'm in a ditch.

I sit up, my head pounding, and turn the key, hoping by some cosmic miracle I can get out of the ditch as easily as I got into it. The wheels just spin with a helpless whir. As I rub my right shoulder, throbbing beneath the gray band of seatbelt, I see a dude in a denim jacket running from the top of the embankment and stumbling down the berm toward me. He reaches the car and jerks open the door. The smell of pot wafts off him. I cough and slowly sit up.

“Hey, man, you okay?” He's staring at the angle of Aunt T's car, and there's panic in his eyes. “Should I call for help?”

“No!” The strength of my response makes my head pound even more, and I slide back down into the seat. A picture of tow trucks, blinking lights, and cops runs through my mind, followed by the fact of having “borrowed” Aunt T's car and driven without a license. “I'm fine. Really.” I open the door and wobble to my feet. The edges of me feel blurred. I reach to the hood for balance. “Don't call anyone.”

“Hey, man, that's cool. If you say so.” He looks relieved that I don't want to file an accident report or call the cops to the scene. I might've been the one who spun off the road, but driving while baked doesn't exactly endear yourself with the authorities. He's a polite stoner though, and adds, “Can I at least give you a ride?”

I agree to let him take me back to school. There's no blood, thank god. Internal injury, maybe, but no outer damage. Nobody will know what happened. It's the kind of pain I'm used to hiding—on the inside.

I take one last look at Aunt T's car. There's already so many dents and dings on the thing, maybe she won't notice a few more. I'll get someone to pull it from the ditch later. I'll have the car home before Aunt T gets there.

One can always hope.

***

Five minutes later, I'm back at school. My legs are shaky and my right shoulder throbs like a mofo, but I down a few Advil, and head to the first-floor bathroom for a quick mirror check, so I don't enter bio looking like an extra from
The Night of the Living Dead
.

As I slap my face with cold water, the day replays in my head. The medical examiner's death. Dr. Monroe's call. Genetic IPF. My car accident. Car accident? All other thoughts screech to a halt as I hear Anj's voice: They think the medical examiner's brakes might have failed. Could my accident be connected to his? Did someone mess with the medical examiner's brakes and then mess with mine?

I slap more cold water on my cheeks. Or did the brakes just fail? Aunt T said the car was vibrating, but she never said anything about faulty brakes. Maybe I hit a patch of ice and skidded out. I close my eyes and recall the scene. I don't remember seeing anything but dry pavement.

My phone buzzes. I jump and pull it out from my bag to see a text from Jesse.
Where are you?

I check the time. Shit. Class started fifteen minutes ago. I smooth my hair and head to bio doing my best impression of a normal girl.

Mrs. Lopez asks for a pass when I walk in fifteen minutes late. I tell her I don't have one, and she tells me to see her after class. I nod and go to my table. Anj's seat is empty. She must still be busy with Tara and Sylvie and the Hunger Days stuff, so when Mrs. Lopez says to find a partner for today's lab, I don't have to worry about making up an excuse to avoid her.

Jesse, on the other hand, charges over to my seat the second Mrs. Lopez finishes giving directions. Before he can reach me, I turn to Raven, an emo who hardly ever talks, and ask her to be my partner. She shrugs and grunts, something I interpret as yes. I open the lab manual and pretend to read the instructions. Jesse's not so easily cast off. He stands at my table, firing off questions about what happened and where I was during lunch and if I'm okay, until Mrs. Lopez orders him to choose a partner and get to work. I turn and swallow as he walks away. Thank god Raven's too into her own suffering and angst to notice mine.

I manage to get through lab without doing much of anything, and I'm attempting to sneak out at the end of the period and avoid my little after-class discussion with Mrs. Lopez when her voice stops me. She waits until all the other kids leave, then closes the door and tells me to sit. I drop my bag and take the seat closest to the front of the room. She leans against my table and folds her arms across her flowered blouse.

“You were late to class,” she says, her brown eyes searching my face. I feel her watching me even when I look down.

“I know. I'm sorry. I—”

“Save it. I've heard every excuse possible. My favorite one was when Arnold Klint told me he was on the highest level of Angry Birds, and he had to finish the game before he could come to class.” She sounds strict, but her voice hides a smile. For the first time today, I relax a little. It's strange to find a lecture about truancy relaxing, but after everything else that's happened, it's a relief to be in trouble for something so normal.

“I want to show you something,” Mrs. Lopez says. “Come with me. You can leave your stuff, we'll be back.”

I start to protest, but the look on Mrs. Lopez's face shuts me up. I leave my backpack on the floor and follow her out the door, through the empty halls, and upstairs to the art wing. The hall smells of clay, paint, and chemical fixatives. Combine that with the pizza, and my stomach is starting to turn. Mrs. Lopez stops in front of the current display of portraits without saying anything. I have no idea what we're doing here, and I don't care. I'm just going through the motions. If Mrs. Lopez wants to give me a course on art appreciation, I'll be her pupil.

Apparently anything goes in art class because some of the portraits on the wall are brightly colored cubist style, others are sketched with charcoal pencil, and still some are photographs. And then there's Duncan's piece. He's created an enormous digital collage, Andy Warhol style, of Anj, which, according to the explanation beneath, he made with some computer gizmo called a graphics tablet.

I'm vaguely scanning the rest of the art, when a kick of surprise nails me in the chest. At the far right corner, inconspicuous among the brighter colors and larger pieces, is the photo Jesse took of me with his phone. Below it, he's written one word:
Authentic.
There's a hundred ways I could interpret his meaning, but his intention hardly matters. The caption might as well be phony after what I said to him today.

I turn from Mrs. Lopez, so she won't see my face crumble, and wait for her to deliver the hidden reason for us being here. The message I guess is meant to be secret because all she says is, “These portraits take a lot of hard work, don't you think?” and leads me back down the hall. Soon we've come full circle and we're back to where we started. Mrs. Lopez stands outside her class and watches me like she's waiting for me to speak, but someone must've forgotten to give me the script. I have no idea what my lines are supposed to be.

“This could be yours,” she finally says.

“A science classroom?”

“No. Science.” She crosses the hall and comes to my side. “Think about it, Faith. You could get a degree in biology, a master's, a PhD. Commit yourself to something like those kids do with their art. You're smart. All your teachers say the same thing. But your grades, if you don't mind me saying so, are nothing to be proud of and neither, as I've been told, is your attendance record lately.”

I lean against a locker and dig into my pocket for the lighter. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Sorry. I don't do pep talks. This is a reality check.”

“Well then how about a little fantasy for a change?” I smile, but the joke falls flat.

“I see how much you like science,” Mrs. Lopez continues as the door to the chem room opens and Ms. Muller, the young new chemistry teacher with the hip clothes and trendy haircut, stomps into the hall.

“But there are no signs of rodents in my room,” Ms. Muller snaps at someone still in the classroom. “I don't see why you need to lay all those traps.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience, ma'am,” says a voice that makes me stand up, stop digging around in my pockets, and listen. “But I'm the Rat Catcher. I'm contracted with the district to deal with pests, and someone reported a pest problem in the science wing.”

“Well it certainly wasn't me.”

The Rat Catcher steps into the hall. He looks directly at me, then he turns back to Ms. Mueller and shakes his head as if deeply concerned by this troubling prospect of pests.

He turns back to Ms. Muller and shakes his head as if deeply concerned by this troubling prospect of pests. “You can never be too careful though, can you? We have to keep the students safe. You know how many diseases rodents carry, and if a student got sick and you hadn't reported the problem, I'd hate to think of the lawsuit. I'll be back in a few days to check the traps.”

The Rat Catcher tips his head at me, then strides off down the hall with the confidence of a king or a president or a drug dealer and thug moonlighting as a pest control guy. I stand there, jaw unhinged, heart beating in my ears until I hear Mrs. Lopez's voice coming to me from some distant region of the galaxy.

“Faith, are you listening to me…Faith?”

I turn slowly back to Mrs. Lopez. “Sorry, no. I mean yes. I'm listening.”

“You might not turn in all the work, but your answers in class demonstrate your knowledge and interest. I know about your mother, and I know how hard this time must be for you, but I think you could get into college next year if you start really applying yourself now. I'd like you to see the school counselor. She can help you.”

I know about your mother.
Meaning what? That she was a junkie? That she's dead? I know Mrs. Lopez is trying to help, but rage shoots from my chest to my mouth, and I'm about to let it fly about how she knows nothing about my mother, nothing about me, but I stop myself and make my mouth stay shut. I still have the car to deal with. The last thing I need is to land my butt in the principal's office for mouthing off to a teacher.

Years of experience with teachers and their lectures has taught me one thing—if you want them to leave you alone, agree with their point and promise you'll do whatever they're asking.

“Thanks,” I say. “I'll do that. I'll set up a meeting. I'd better get to class now. I don't want to be too late.”

Mrs. Lopez sighs. I'm guessing she sees right through my promise as if my words are nothing more than a pane of glass. “Come in. I'll write you a pass.”

When she opens the door to her classroom, Mr. Jennings and a cop are standing by her desk.

Seventeen

“Mr. Jennings, how can I help you?” Mrs. Lopez asks, keeping her eyes on the cop, a tall woman with a face that looks like it would crack if she smiled.

“I need to see Faith,” the principal answers.

My first thought is relief. They know about the Rat Catcher. They're here to protect me. Quickly I see how stupid this line of reasoning is. To everyone but me the Rat Catcher's the pest control guy. He's here to keep the students safe and take care of rodents in the science labs.

Before I can say anything, Mrs. Lopez intervenes. “Why do you need to see Faith?”

“Probable suspicion of drugs.” The cop's hand strays to the gun holstered at her hip like she's looking for a reason to use it. “We need to search her bag.”

“Drugs!” I blurt. The idea is so absurd, I laugh.

Mr. Jennings, all six-six of him, steps toward me. “Well, if it's ridiculous, then you won't mind opening your bag and letting us search.”

“And what makes you think Faith is carrying drugs?” Mrs. Lopez asks, matching Mr. Jennings if not in size in attitude.

Frau police officer eyes the principal and answers for him. “We received a tip.”

“May I ask who that tip was from?” Mrs. Lopez steps in front of me and for one hopeful moment I think she's going to sort this all out, and my privacy won't be invaded. A science teacher, though, no matter how veteran, is no match for a principal and a cop.

Mr. Jennings presses his hands together and a smile that barely hides his impatience snakes across his lips. “That information is confidential. Now, if you don't mind, we can get started.”

I turn to Mrs. Lopez. “Do I have to? Don't I have any rights?”

She shakes her head. “I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, Faith. If they believe there's probable cause, they have the right.”

I stare at my purple backpack splayed on the floor like the lifeless body of the squirrel I just hit. Everyone's eyes are on me, waiting. I have no choice. “Fine, whatever,” I say, picking up the bag and handing it to Mr. Jennings. “I don't have anything to hide.”

Mr. Jennings lays the bag on a table and starts taking things out, one at a time. He studies each object with deliberate slowness as Frau watches. Sunglasses. Composition notebook. Social studies book. Phone.

“Hello, it's called a tampon!” I shout when he's gutted my backpack.

But apparently he's not done. Mr. Jennings pulls out one more thing and sets it on the table.

“Looks like you're coming with me,” Fran says, holding up a plastic baggie packed with fat marijuana buds.

I try to protest, to insist the drugs aren't mine, but nobody's listening. Frau leads me to the door. I follow her down the hall, climb into the cop mobile, and sit in the gated back seat like a prisoner, my mind reeling. How did the pot get there? Who called in the tip?

And then I get it.

I'm such an idiot! I left my backpack unattended in Mrs. Lopez's room. The Rat Catcher must've called in the tip, then come into the classroom and planted the dope when I went into the hall with her. But why would he do that?

Frau drives me to the police station and walks me to a room behind the front desk that smells like armpits and cigarettes. She points to a chair and tells me to sit. I wait for her to offer me a dog biscuit and order me to roll over. She doesn't. I'm obedient, though, and I do as she says.

Frau leaves the room and a different officer comes in. This time it's a small, pear-shaped man with unfriendly eyes and a big nose. The officer's name tag says Varelli, but he doesn't bother introducing himself. He takes a seat behind his desk and opens a thick folder, which has far too much information to be about me. What's there to say? I was busted thirty minutes ago for having pot that wasn't mine. That doesn't exactly require an entire file.

“Your mother died of a heroin overdose,” Varelli says. I want to jump up and throttle the guy. What does my mother's drug record have to do with anything? “She had two drug convictions. And you're how old?”

I narrow my eyes at the guy. “Sixteen.”

“And you're here charged with possession of marijuana? That's a serious charge for someone like you.”

“It isn't mine,” I snap, the words someone like you ringing in my ears.

“Oh really?” He yawns, folds his fingers into his palms, and examines his fingernails.

“Yeah really,” I say, wondering which class Varelli took first in police school, the one on rhetorical statements or the one on being a dick. “The Rat Catcher planted it there to make me look bad. He was at school. You can check. He's probably the one who called in the tip about me having the pot.”

Varelli looks up from his fingernails, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “And would this Rat Catcher person be?”

“I don't know exactly.” I try not to panic as I realize how ridiculous I sound. “Apparently he's the pest exterminator with the schools, but I think he's also a drug dealer.”

“And he wants to make you look bad for what reason?” Varelli says, carefully enunciating each word as if I'm either retarded or in kindergarten or both.

I clench my hands into fists and press them against my eyes. “So you guys wouldn't believe me if I came in and told you my mom didn't die of a heroin overdose.” I drop my hands when I say this and glare at Varelli. “There was something else going on before she died. The Rat Catcher's trying to cover it up. He wants her to death to look like an overdose.”

Now Varelli is actually smiling. I want to strangle him. Kick those gleaming white teeth out of his stupid mouth. “I've heard a lot of stories,” he says, “but I think this one might be the best. Come with me.”

I follow Varelli out of the room to the front of the station where Aunt T and Sam are waiting. Seeing Sam, his Phillies baseball cap turned backward on his head, my shame jumps by a power of ten. I want to shout,
This isn't what it looks like!
This isn't who I am!
Of course my aunt had to come, but why drag Sam into this? Then I remember—the car. Sam drove her to work today.

“Your niece has a pretty active imagination. She should be a writer,” Varelli tells them, recounting my story. “Possession under an ounce is a minor misdemeanor. She'll receive a citation and a court date in the mail.”

I sit on a hard, wooden bench with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands while they talk. My mind is a black tunnel. There isn't even a light at the end. I wait while Aunt T finishes discussing whatever procedure there is for letting me out of here, though truthfully I'd rather be thrown in jail than have to face her.

When I've been adequately disgraced, I'm released to the custody of my aunt. Sam walks next to me and asks if I'm okay as we leave the station. Aunt T, on the other hand, strides out of the building, her head high, and her shoulders straight as if to say I have nothing to do with this place. Too many memories, I guess. Different station, different relative, but the scene is the same—busted for drugs and turning to Aunt T for help.

We cross the parking lot to Sam's truck. I climb into the cab and pull down the jump seat behind the driver. The commotion wakes Goldie from her snooze, and she sits up and explores me with her nose. After approving my scent and deciding she doesn't have to growl, she wags her tail, rests her head on my lap, and waits for me to scratch her ears.

I stroke her tawny fur and think of the bumper sticker,
Please Let Me Be The Person My Dog Thinks I Am.
What kind of person does Aunt T think I am? A druggie? A dealer? With all the time I spend alone in my room, I wouldn't blame her for whatever she thinks. Maybe I should just tell her the truth, get it all out, come clean, and face the consequences.

The theme tune from
All Things Considered
drifts into the cab from the front seat. I hear the ramblings of the NPR newscast, but the words don't register. The sound is nothing more than a disturbance of the air as I contemplate the risks of telling my aunt the truth.

I must've fallen asleep because the next thing I remember is Sam pulling into the driveway and Aunt T asking where her car is. I bolt up and close my hand around a clump of Goldie's fur. I've heard petting dogs is good for stress. I rub her sides like my life depends on it and brace myself for a bad situation about to get worse.

“I took the car,” I say so softly I'm not sure anyone hears.

Aunt T and Sam both turn to look at me.

“You took the car?” Aunt T repeats. “Is it at school?”

My hand moves harder and faster across Goldie's fur. Any more stress and she'll be bald. I swallow. “No. I crashed it.”

Sam clears his throat and slaps his hands down onto his thighs. “Okay then, I think I'll leave you two ladies alone. If you need anything I'll be inside. Come on, Goldie.”

Goldie knows where her loyalty lies. She's up and on her feet, shooting out of the car and across the lawn after Sam without a single glance back in my direction.

Without my furry Prozac, I start to panic. Here comes the inevitable, the fucked-up teenager gets the boot. I stare at the floor and await my sentence.

Aunt T remains motionless, her eyes fixed straight ahead on some unknown point. Finally, she turns to me and asks if I'm okay.

“Am I okay?” I repeat, not because I didn't comprehend the question, but because I don't know what to say.

What does Aunt T want to hear? That I'm injured and therefore she can't kick me out because sending an injured minor to the streets is probably against the law? Or does she want to know that I'm fine and therefore she can rinse her hands of me guilt free? And does she mean “okay” as in physically? If so, the answer is yes. Or does she mean “okay” as in mentally? If that's the case, the answer is no. Not even close.

“Look, Faith. I don't care about the car,” she says when I don't respond. “It's the drugs that worry me, and not just the drugs. I got a call from your school today. They told me you've been skipping most of the week. Then there's this crazy story you told Officer Varelli about some person called the Rat Catcher. Was that true?”

The light of understanding in Aunt T's eyes dims and disappointment moves in to take its place. I can't stand being the cause of that in her. I can't stand knowing how she sees me—exhausted, dirty, dishonest. How many times did I see Mom like that and look at her with a mix of disgust and pain, love and hate so deep, I thought the feelings would tear my chest in two?

She's given me an opening, a chance to come clean. The big confession where I open up, purge all my wrongdoings, and my sins are forgiven. I can't do it. I can't tell her the truth and let her down even more. I look out the window to the neighbor's yard where a little boy investigates a snowman that's been deformed by the afternoon sun.

“No, it's not true. I made it up,” I say, still looking out the window as the boy starts to cry, and his mother rushes from the house to comfort him. “I bought the pot off a kid at school. I was messed up when I was driving, then I crashed and I was scared about what would happen if the police knew I was driving stoned without a license, so I left the car and figured I'd get it when I wasn't high.” The lies make me feel dirty inside, ashamed. “I knew you'd be mad, and I didn't want to call you. Then the police found the pot and I guess I was still high when they were questioning me. I panicked and made up the story.”

Aunt T sighs and closes her eyes as if weighing which version to believe, which one she
wants
to believe. The one where I'm lying and going against her wishes and playing detective in a world of heroin and dealers and murder, or the one where I'm buying drugs and getting high and wrecking cars. Some choice.

I try to be patient while I wait for her response, but I can't sit still. My arms itch. My back. My legs. My whole body prickles. I drag my fingernails across my flesh, but I don't get any relief. It's like my own skin isn't right. Like I'm like a snake, and I need to shed into something new.

“I took you in so I could help you, Faith,” Aunt T finally says. The disappointment in her voice hurts more than anything else. “And this is what happens?”

“I don't need your help,” I retort, aiming my arrow at her heart.

“Oh, really?” She opens the glove compartment, slaps around the maps and registration papers, and finds a loose tissue. “Why's that?” she asks, loudly blowing her nose. “Because you were doing so well with your mother? Living without enough food half the time. Picking up, moving to some new flea-infested dump every time your mother lost her job? How many schools have you been to since ninth grade, Faith? Answer me that. How many?” I don't say anything, and she fills in the blank. “Four. You've been to four schools. You are still a child. You are not an adult. I'm not going to just let you go out and live on the streets somewhere. I didn't abandon her, and I won't abandon you.” She reaches back and grips my arm. “Our family has had enough secrets and lies for a lifetime. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

There is. I want to tell her thanks for taking me in, thanks for always being there to clean up Mom's messes. I want to say I care about you, maybe even love you if I understood what love meant. But as usual, when it comes to crawling out of my emotional fortress and risking a bullet, I stay bunkered down where I'm safe. “No. Nothing,” I say. “I'm sorry about skipping school and about the car and about getting high. I'll pay for everything. It won't happen again. You can trust me. It'll be different now.” I stop talking because if I say any more the tears will come, and I'm afraid they'll never stop.

Aunt T clucks her tongue. “Different? Do you know how many times I've heard that?”

She doesn't have to finish this thought. I can read between the lines. I'm just like my mother. Another mess to clean up.