Delicate Monsters (5 page)

Then maybe that poor kid whose life she'd fucked up so badly had waited for her to respond or else he'd simply struggled to come up with the right words, because his second email, sent a full forty-five minutes later, read:

I just want to know why you did it.

Please.

 

chapter seven

Fencing class blues.

Miles had them.

The girl who'd somehow become his sparring partner lunged forward and hit him again and again. Miles stood stoically in defeat. Or what he thought was stoically.

The girl yanked her helmet off in disgust. “You're not even trying.”

“How do you know that?” Miles asked. “How do you know I'm not trying? Maybe this is the best I can do.”

“You don't move.”

Miles removed his own helmet and laid it gently on the floor beside his foil. “I need water.”

The girl trailed after him, too close for his comfort. She was small, smaller than him, and wore her sweaty hair pulled back in a ponytail. Despite their default pairing, Miles didn't know her name and didn't intend to ask. What he did intend to do was shrink as far away as possible from her as they walked. He wanted to make sure they didn't accidentally touch.

She piped up again while he was bent over the water fountain. “I saw you puking behind the Dumpster at 7-11 this morning.”

He turned to glare at her.

She batted her eyes and smiled. Her cheeks had dimples. “I've seen you do it before, you know. You use a plastic bag. It's cute.”

He stood up straight. “I have food allergies.”

“Is that what you call a hangover these days?”

“I'm not hung over,” he said. “I've never been hung over in my life.”

“Really? After that crazy thing you did last week, wandering around like a nut, talking to the sky, I thought you were pretty wasted. You should see a doctor about your allergies then. Find out what makes you sick.”

“I know what makes me sick.”

The girl cocked her head. “Then why do you keep eating it?”

“Go away,” Miles mumbled. “I don't want to talk to you.”

The girl shrugged, then obliged. Miles felt weird, not inside his head, but all over, like the world around him was spinning at some strange new speed and his body had yet to acclimate. He asked the PE teacher if he could run laps for the rest of the period instead of dueling. The teacher nodded and waved him off. Miles wriggled out of his uniform and left it folded neatly by his locker. Then he went outside.

Once on the track, Miles started to jog. He'd had the weird feeling for days now, ever since the vision, the one he knew was coming but couldn't see clearly. His visions always came true, and they always ended with death. He remembered his first vividly: in the aching months after his father's suicide, a flock of headless crows had haunted his childhood dreams, well before he'd seen the birds in real life.

Since then his visions had snowballed, growing bigger, more powerful, as if his own grief were a conduit for more. By now Miles had seen it all, gripping flashes of the future that predicted car accidents and natural disasters, murder and mass suffering, even that bombing at the Boston Marathon and the Japanese tsunami. But this recent vision confused him. Miles thought this was because it involved
him
somehow. That hadn't happened before, and he didn't know what to make of it, didn't know if it meant he was doomed or saved. What he
did
know, however, was dire: the clock was ticking, and the countdown had begun. He had days, weeks, maybe a month. Miles knew he needed to understand, but then again, his needs never amounted to much.

Miles tried moving a little faster. He increased his stride and pumped his arms. The running felt good, an act that quieted his mind, although his shoes were worn thin and the jean shorts chafed his thighs raw. A group of guys were playing Frisbee near the south end of the track. They stopped to watch him pass.

“Hey, fag!” one of them called out cheerily.

 

chapter eight

Emerson balked at Trey's suggestion. He put his head down and dribbled out to half court. No, he didn't want to go to Trish Reed's house on Friday night. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He also didn't want to talk about it.

What Emerson
did
want was to keep shooting hoops all afternoon at his favorite city park. Located smack in the center of Sonoma, it was a place where he could enjoy patches of warm sun and heated moments of sweat-soaked glory. It was a place where chickens ran loose in the grass. Then, after he was done playing ball, Emerson wanted to go home. Take a shower. Do his homework. Go to bed.

That was it.

Trey had a different idea, though, and so did his girlfriend Giovanna, who sat on a park bench in the shade, staring at her phone with obvious impatience. Emerson didn't care. They could go wherever the hell they wanted tomorrow night. He wasn't going to be a third wheel and he wasn't going someplace he didn't feel comfortable. In a school with two thousand students, he should be able to avoid one person without it being a big deal. That seemed fair. Reasonable.

Especially when that person was Trish Reed.

Blowing air through his cheeks, Emerson whirled around, bent his legs, and took a three-point shot. Terrible. His form was terrible. The ball banked off the rim. Trey went in for the easy rebound, then circled back to make a layup.

Emerson hung his head.

“C'mon, man,” Trey said to him, dropping the ball and letting it roll into the grass. “You gotta go. Once the season starts, our Friday nights'll be gone. Poof. It's now or never.”

Emerson glanced at Giovanna. “Parties are more fun when you've got someone to go with.”

“You're kidding, right?”

Sweat rolled down Emerson's forehead, dripped off his nose. “Will May be there?”

“Dunno,” Trey said. “And hell, just ask her out or something, all right? Her shit stinks, too, you know.”

“Fuck,” Emerson said. “Jesus, man. Don't talk like that.”

“What I mean is, you don't go for it, someone else will. Someone who's not worried about having his perfect fantasy ruined by reality.”

“I'm not worried about that. It's just, I like her.”

“That's what I mean. You've been friends for years. You've always
liked
her. But now you want to screw her, and it's messing with your head. But she's still the same girl. She's still cool.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Emerson swiped at his face with his arm. He felt tired now, like maybe he just wanted to go home and be done with the day. Be done with everything. He wasn't even sure how they'd gotten onto the topic of May, because it wasn't May he was thinking about. It was Trish. Well, her and her DA father. That family-wrecking asshole. Worse even, seeing as he was the kind of asshole willing to go after families that had already been wrecked.

“Hey.” Trey said in a conspiratorial tone, cocking his head in Giovanna's direction. “Think you can drive us to her house? Her folks are out of town.”

Emerson trotted over to retrieve the basketball. “Why not? Might as well get you laid.”

*   *   *

Why not
made its case in no time. Things went from bad to worse on the drive out to Giovanna's. She lived outside of town, in the country, and on the way they passed the new soccer facility, where a single patrol car sat in the parking lot. No siren, but the lights were flashing. Emerson made sure to stay well below the speed limit.

Trey grinned and punched his arm when he saw the cop. “'Bout time they hassled some rich folks for a change, huh?”

Emerson wanted to grin back because he and Trey would never be rich folks. They would never play on a club league that charged twenty grand a year in dues and groomed kids to snag scholarship spots that cost less than what their parents paid for them. But Emerson didn't feel the urge to bond over poverty at the moment. That's because up ahead, walking on the shoulder of the highway, was his own brother.

Shit.

He slowed the car down.

Giovanna leaned forward. “Hey, is that Miles?”

“Yeah.”

“He looks like a
hobo
.”

Emerson couldn't really argue with that, but he wasn't sure who the sudden rush of anger he felt was directed at. Giovanna? Miles? He honked the horn. Got Trey to roll down his window.

“Hey!” Emerson shouted. “What are you doing?”

Miles jumped like a jackrabbit, then stared at them with his usual haunted, deer-in-the-headlights gaze. His hair was an oily mess.

“I'm walking,” he said finally.

“Well, get in. You don't have to walk.”

“I'm okay.”

“You're in the middle of nowhere.”

“I'm okay with that, too.”

“Fine.” Emerson bit his tongue. He had a way of getting frustrated with Miles that wasn't healthy for either of them. “See you later.”

He pulled back onto the highway and kept going. Cranked the radio up because he didn't want to hear any commentary at his brother's expense. Emerson's head was still cloudy with ire when he turned down the narrow lane where Giovanna lived. A rural spot with small houses, but a pretty road nonetheless, lined with swaying trees and neatly trimmed hedges. A flock of crows dotted the sky. Although
flock
wasn't the right word, was it? A group of crows was actually called a—

“Look out!” Trey shouted. Emerson hit the brakes, but it was too late. There was a screeching of tires, followed by a soft thud. The air reeked of hot rubber as they scrambled out of the car. A large tabby cat lay in the road with a broken neck and glassy eyes. It had a blue suede collar with a bell on.

Emerson swore. Giovanna clasped her hands to her face and started to cry.

A nightmare. This was a total nightmare. The cat wasn't Giovanna's, but a neighbor's, and Emerson knocked on their door, only they weren't home. He was forced to leave a scrawled note of apology on the back of Trey's fantasy football picks, which he knew made him look like a total tool, but it was the only paper he had. Then, using his bare hands, Emerson moved the dead cat to the shoulder beneath a eucalyptus tree so no one else would run over it.

A chill floated into the air like a warning. Giovanna sprinkled white honeysuckle flowers over the animal's striped fur. Trey said nothing, just looked shaken. They all stood there for a moment. Then, because there was nothing else for them to do, Emerson waved good-bye to his friends, got back into his car, and drove off. He glanced once in his rearview mirror, just in time to see the sun fall behind the hills and darkness creep up behind him.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
Emerson thought wearily. Followed by:
I need a goddamn drink.

 

chapter nine

“Why don't we talk about why you're here?”

It was her first therapy session with him, and Dr. Call-Me-Tom MacDougall looked as shabby and unprepared as Sadie had feared. He had a baby face and very blue eyes, also like a baby. Sadie was inclined to be critical, but he sat in a chair that had wheels on the bottom, for God's sake. Not to mention the specks of his lunch that dotted his shirt and the fact that one of the oversized laces on his fashion sneakers was untied.

“I'd rather not,” she told him in a rare moment of candor.

“Then what do you want to talk about?” He had a small laptop perched on his knees, fingers poised at the ready.

Sadie racked her brain. A part of her wanted to screw with him, make him flustered and red-faced, and wish her gone. She could do it, too. He was young, probably fresh out of therapy school, and it wouldn't even matter if he were gay or straight. She could talk about sex or masturbation, about the slick heat of female desire and how she sometimes woke with a lit match burn between her legs that drove her out of bed and into the world, ready to set fire to anyone or anything that got in her goddamn way.

She could definitely tell him all that.

And it would drive him crazy.

But Sadie resisted. She held her impulses in check for the greater good. Her good, that is. Dr. Call-Me-Tom had already given her some speech about how he might need to refer her to another doctor if he deemed her “issues” too far outside his area of expertise. That would be a pain in the ass, Sadie thought. The school probably wouldn't think too highly of it, either.

“I've seen therapists before, you know,” she said. “Lots of them.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“Have you talked to them?”

His head bobbed like a toy. “Briefly. Your mother gave me permission to gather information that might be relevant to our work together.”

Her mother.
Sadie twitched, wondering what details of her life might've already been shared. The day she set fire to her parents' wedding photos, no doubt. Or how she'd gotten thrown out of preschool for “emotional cruelty.” Maybe even the time the loud-mouthed neighbors had attempted to file a restraining order against her, because Sadie put maggots in the potato salad at their big Fourth of July celebration. “Tell me what's wrong with me then. From all the information gathering you've done.”

Dr. Call-Me-Tom sat back in his chair. “I don't have a professional opinion yet. Maybe there's nothing wrong with you.”

Sadie was skeptical. “You think?”

“Thinking isn't the same as knowing.”

Touch
é
, Dr. CMT.

“What
do
you know then?” she asked.

“I know that you have a history of acting out.”

“Is that a technical term? Do I have, like, an Acting Out Disorder?”

“It's possible. When a child's acting out is more excessive or destructive than what's considered normal, we sometimes refer to their behavior as
oppositional defiant
. There's information in your history to support that diagnosis. However, for an older child or teenager who's established a pattern of destructive or antisocial behavior, the criteria is sometimes met for what we call a
conduct disorder.
”