M.I.N.D. (14 page)

The way his blood is rushing through his veins, I can tell he's having the time of his life. I, however, am terrified. Not that I intend to bail. I said I'd do it and I'm sticking to the plan. I took the leap, I made the plunge, Alice in Wonderland, falling through the sky.

Though technically, I'm not the one falling.

Physically speaking.

Above, the sky is ballooning. Below, it's shrinking. Rising up to greet him, the ground is dropping upside down. If I could scream, my throat would be bleeding. He's grinning like the Cheshire cat and yelling, “Yahoo!”

In the roar of the wind, his voice sounds distant. Strange that he can hear at all. I guess it's true that sound travels through bones. He spills into a cartwheel and tumbles through the air, twisting, flipping, a starfish in the sky, and I have to wonder, do starfish have bones? The human body has two hundred and six of them. How many can a person break all at once?

Stretching for miles into the horizon, somehow the ground looks brighter; even the mountains are glowing like tinsel. Plus, I'm getting this weird sensation, like something is out of sync. I once read that time slows down the faster you go. When the skydiver finally lands, will Leanne be married with a minivan full of kids? Will Ethan have solved the mystery of life? Will Zack be old and bald? Crazy thoughts, I know, but nothing these days makes much sense.

Wait.

What's happening?

He's in a head-down position…

Um, why are we plummeting (in slow motion) headfirst to the ground?

Um, diver? Is there a problem? But he can't hear me, since I'm not actually talking. It's all in my mind, which is presently out of my head and having second thoughts.

A violent spin sets in, and by his flailing arms and legs I'm guessing that something is wrong. Something needs correcting. Promptly. He grunts. Loudly. Bunches up like he's doing crunches. Somersaults once, twice, a human yo-yo twirling down to earth.

Um, diver?

Hello?

He straightens.

Glances at the altimeter…

5,000 feet:

…pulls on something at the bottom of his rig.

A shiver slices down his spine.

“Oh, shit,” he says.

Oh, shit? No worries. He's experienced. He knows what he's doing. Besides, if there's a problem, the chute will open automatically. I know. I did my research.

Right?

RIGHT?

Why is his pulse in overdrive?

I probably should have done more research.

4,000 feet:

He's fiddling with something on the rig.

The muscles in his jaw tighten and his mouth nosedives to a frown.

I feel like I'm in that dream where I'm about to take a biology test and realize I forgot to study. Or I'm that cheerleader who forgot to put on underwear.

3,000 feet:

…arms and legs splayed in an X, like he's been tied to four horses and they're ripping him apart…

…trying to push onto his back, trying to look up, trying to see (I'm assuming) what the problem is…

…whipping…whirling…

…around and around and around…

DIVER WHAT'S HAPPENING?

2,000 feet:

He's straight again, feet toward the ground.

Breathing hard, lungs tight, heart pounding, he joggles the handle at the side of his harness. Something flies off.

Um, wasn't that the chute? Shouldn't it be opening—with him attached to it?

He pulls on a cable, gives it all he's got. Of course! (Whew.) He's got a spare.

His stomach has that sinking feeling, like you're in a car that's skidding on ice and even though it's happening in slow motion, you can't stop. You're about to collide with that Chevy and all you can do is honk your horn, say a prayer, hope for the best.

It's not opening.

1,500 feet:

Time isn't just slow, it's practically stopped.

I've heard that can happen in the face of disaster.

I should probably bail. But I don't want to. It's like seeing a fatal accident on the highway. You don't want to look, but you look anyway.

Except I'm
in
that accident.

How often do you stare death in the face and live to tell about it?

1,250 feet:

He's sweating now, buckets of it pooling under his arms.

Sure, I can get out, but what about him? His poor mother. What if he has a little brother? What about a sister? He probably even has a dog.

What a hottie, I thought back in the hangar while ogling his buff, muscled bod. And a college guy too. He called me sweet-stuff and told me I had a nice smile. I thought Leanne would choke with envy. Just before boarding the plane, he handed me his frat cap and asked me to keep it safe. I can see why he wouldn't wear it, helmet requirements aside. It would have been swept off his head, into the blue, gone with the wind. Up, up, and away.

Funny the things we think about in the face of doom.

Funny the things that drop into our heads.

1,000 feet:

His guts turn to water.

750 feet:

Is his life flashing before his eyes? His mind's eyes, I mean. If he were watching it for real, I'd be seeing it too.

The ground is on the verge of meeting his face.

Oh. My. God. He's really going to die.

500 feet:

I really should go, but how can I leave him all alone? Up in the air, so to speak.

I can't…can't leave him behind to die…

Except…if I'm still here when he hits the ground, what happens to my body? Will I become an empty vessel, or like the diver will I bite the dust?

400 feet:

Under his goggles, tears are spilling.

If I could cry, I'd cry too.

I'm really,

truly,

sorry.

I just can't stay.

I close my mind's eyes, concentrate, will myself back…

300 feet:

WHY ISN'T IT WORKING?

200 feet:

“Good-bye, world,” he whispers.

No. Wait. That was me.

Virtually speaking.

Must try again…must concentrate…

150 feet:

I'm still here.

Trapped in a DOA.

Dead. On. Arrival.

Oh God oh God oh God.

I'll never see Leanne again. I'll never graduate from high school. I'll never go to college. I'll never get married and drive a minivan.

I'm sorry, Mom. Sorry I ever yelled at you. Sorry for throwing out your lunches.

Mom. I mentally choke up. Mommy.

She always told me not to wait till the last minute. Why don't I ever listen? What is wrong with me?

Concentrate, concentrate…

100 feet:

…sucked up through the rabbit hole, like the last drop of slush slurped through a straw…

? feet:

Pop.

Ground zero:

“So, Cassie, how was it?” Leanne asks, staring at my face.

“No more,” I tell her. “This has got to stop.”

Who am I kidding? Like any good addiction, you stop when it kills you.

***

Blood is spurting everywhere, his life rapidly draining away.
No!
I want to scream.
You have to save him!
Ignoring the shocked crowd gathered at the drop zone, the EMTs swarm around him in an urgent but controlled choreography, immobilizing his broken body onto a backboard, cutting through his clothes, applying splints and braces. They move him onto a stretcher and rig up an IV.

“He must have shattered every bone in his body,” someone is saying. “I can't believe he's conscious, let alone alive.”

“It's pure luck he landed on that bush,” says a man, scanning the scene. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“Hallelujah!” a woman exclaims, pressing her palms together as if in prayer. “It's a miracle!”

The EMT monitoring his vitals glances up but doesn't stop me as I move toward the stretcher. I place the cap next to the skydiver's body, carefully avoiding the wires and tubes snaked across his bloodied chest.

“I kept it safe for you,” I manage, holding back a sob. “Just like you asked.”

Something in his eyes lights up when he sees my face. “Hey, sweet-stuff,” he says, his voice barely a sigh. “Want to hear something funny?”

I nod my head, though I can't imagine what could be funny about any of this. I thought he'd been killed. A chill runs down my spine. While we were falling, I'd believed, I'd truly believed, that I was going to die along with him.

“Your smile…” he says softly. “As I was falling, I kept thinking about your beautiful smile.” Well, that explains why I couldn't get out. I was trapped by his thoughts—thoughts about me. He closes his eyes and I panic, thinking he's slipped away. But then his eyes shoot open and he looks right at me, as if he can see inside my soul. “Good thing you weren't going tandem,” he says, ever so quietly. “I guess fate was on your side.”

They wheel him into the ambulance. The doors slam shut, and in the next instant lights are flashing, the siren is wailing, and they're speeding away.

“Wow,” Leanne says as we're walking back to the parking lot. “He really must have liked you. He was talking to you in his final moments.”

“He's not going to die,” I say over the catch in my throat. “He's going to be all right, I just know it.” And in that moment, I believe, I truly believe, in miracles.

“In that case,” she says, “you should have given him your number.”

Twelve

Nothing But the Truth

“Thank you, Brendan. Your presentation on the psychological factors involved in female shaving was, uh, enlightening. You're up next, Cassie. Are you ready?”

I don't want to be here. After what happened yesterday, I'm still shook up. But I couldn't cut school—if caught, I could kiss off my psych grade. As for pretending to be sick and staying home, ever tasted my mother's chickenless chicken soup? She would have skipped work to hover over me. Picturing the skydiver's battered face, I feel like crying all over again, but I throw back my shoulders, force a bright smile, and say, “All set, Ron.”

For obvious reasons, Ron Ramsbottom, our retro-hippie psych teacher, doesn't believe in surnames. Today he's in acid jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. I can't help but wonder about the psychological factors involved in
that
decision.

I clear my throat. “It is my intention to demonstrate the relationship between nonlinguistic body motions and communication. I'll be using certain interrogation techniques as used in crime detection and will therefore be requiring a volunteer.” Tentatively, I approach Zack. “How about you?”

He looks vaguely uncertain, like he's afraid I'll shrink his brain and knows he can't afford the loss. And then I panic. I devised my questionnaire with only him in mind. What if he says no? I probably should have had a plan B.

“Of course, if you're scared…” I say.

He grins. “What the hay. If my body is involved, I'm your man.” He pounds his chest gorilla-style, and everyone jeers.

“Great.” I smile at him, but not too much.
Retain a friendly but neutral manner.
I drag my chair over to his desk and sit across from him. I examine my nails.
Appear relaxed, and he'll relax too.
“Is your name Zack Wasserman? Are you a sophomore at Amersham High School?”
Start the interrogation with easy questions that require a simple yes or no.

“Are you Cassie Spassie? Will you sit on my lap?”

Laughter erupts. Disorder in the courtroom!

His lips are slightly parted, a sign that he's flirting. Once upon a time, that look would have sent me straight to cloud nine. Now I wonder what I ever saw in him. My gaze drops to the yellow stain on his shirt. It looks like mustard. What did he have for breakfast, hot dogs?

“I'll be asking the questions,” I say, trying to maintain a stern expression.
If the suspect answers with a question, quickly establish who's in charge.

“Ooh, I like when the woman takes control.” He leans back in his chair. Clearly, a relaxed signal. He suppresses a yawn. Maybe too relaxed?

“Good,” I say. “So we're on the same page.”
Legitimize what he says. A supportive approach can be very effective.

“Hey, you never said there was any reading involved!”

The class howls. Adam Fefergrad throws an eraser at his head, and Zack calls out, “Watch it, fart-face, or I'll make you eat that!”

“Settle down!” Ron barks. “You're looking at a thousand-word paper on respect in the classroom.”

“That's a nice watch,” I continue, motioning to Zack's wrist. “Was it a present?”
Get him talking, then slip in the real questions.

“Yeah. From my dad.” His eyes are crinkling, his smile wide. A clear case of happy body language. But wait. What's this? He tilts his head to the side and casts his eyes downward. Aw. Now he's sad. Something is obviously bothering him.

I nod sympathetically.
Use empathy to encourage him to keep talking.

He doesn't speak.
Silence can lead to a tension that makes him want to fill in the gap.

More silence.
Silence in itself can be an answer.

Or not.

Moving along… “Zack, I see you're not wearing your cap today. Can you please tell us why?” I look at my nails again.
Show a mild interest.

He strokes his chin.
Chin stroking: a signal that the suspect is thinking.
No, wait. Now he's looking up and to the left, which means he's trying to visualize something that happened. No, wait. That's up and to the right. I flip through my notes. Aha! He committed an offense and is reliving it in his mind.

“I just remembered,” he says. “It's in my locker. No caps allowed in the classroom.”

I peer at his face. “How does that make you feel?”

He leans in close. “How does that make
you
feel?”

When subject acts like a dork, ignore distracting remarks.
(That last one isn't from the manual. I made it up.) “You like your cap, don't you,” I say. A statement, not a question.

“I guess. I mean, we're not married or anything.”

“How many caps do you own?”
Ask direct questions. A lengthy response means he's hiding something.

“One.”

Oh. Okay.

But wait. Now he's shifting in his chair.

A little nervous, are we?

Of course, it's only natural he'd be a little nervous discussing his cap after being questioned by the police.

I meet his eyes. “Did you take Amanda home from the carnival?”
Establish eye contact. See if he flinches.

He shrugs. “It's not exactly a secret.”

Brendan perches on the edge of his chair.

“It's true,” Vardina pipes up, nodding vigorously. “I saw them leave. It was around dinnertime. I know because I was starving.”

Aha. It was still early. Plenty of time to go steal a car. I look back at Zack. “Were you wearing your cap at the time?” I ask, watching his face carefully.

He blinks. “Yeah, so what? I was also wearing underwear.”

Interesting. A little defensive. But not that much.

Brendan, on the other hand, is smirking. “Of course he was wearing it. He probably wears it in the shower. His underwear too.”

“That's enough!” Ron shouts when the girls start heckling.

“I'd like to talk about last Friday,” I say, turning my attention back to the perp. “What can you tell us about that night?”

He wets his lips. “If this is about Brendan, he had it coming.”

Lip wetting = dry mouth. Dry mouth = tension. This is good.

Except…he hates Brendan. No surprise there.

Fists clenched, nostrils flaring, Brendan jumps up from his chair. “You oversized piece of fecal matter! I ought to—”

“Brendan, sit!” Ron commands. “Now! You're looking at another suspension!”

Mouth closed, chin jutting, Brendan sits down.

“Are we almost done?” Zack asks, tapping his fingers on his desk.

The only thing I can deduce from this is that he has the attention span of a goldfish. “Just a few more questions,” I say. “On Friday night, were you wearing your cap on the riverbank?”

“Duh. I wasn't wearing it
in
the river.”

“In your own words, can you tell us about that night?”

Brendan jumps to his feet again, thinks about it, then sits back down.

“Jerk,” Zack mutters. “Do we have to talk about him?”

“Actually,” I say, “I want to talk about Vardina.” This is where I get brilliant.

“What did
I
do?” Vardina wails.

“Do you like frogs?” I ask Zack.

He holds himself still and stares without blinking.

I keep my eyes fixed on his face. “Where were you when she went into the water? Did anyone see you? Are you aware that someone put a frog in her towel?”
Ask rapid-fire questions. When the suspect is prevented from completing an answer, his stress level rises.

In a lame attempt to appear innocent, he opens his eyes wide and pouts like a child.

“What can you tell me about that?” I ask.

“Ribbit, ribbit?”

The class starts laughing again, and while Ron is trying to restore order, I pick up the locket from under my T-shirt and quietly say to Zack, “Pretty, isn't it? I found it, wasn't that lucky? It just turned up in my backpack. What do you have to say about
that
?”

He looks at me like I have two noses. Definitely a sign of confusion.

I finger the pendant. “Funny about the things we find,” I say, even more quietly. “They always come back to haunt us.”

He stares at me, still as death.

Oh, he's good. He's very good. I lean forward and whisper, “I know, Zack. I know what you did.”
Use the I-already-know approach and gauge his reaction carefully.

It's very small, hardly noticeable, but it's there just the same.

His right eye twitches.

Suddenly he bounces off his chair and falls to his knees. “I confess!” he cries, clenching his hands in front of his chest. “I'm guilty! It was I who put the frog in Vardina's towel! Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I beg you, have mercy!”

Michael Noodleluck throws his pencil case at him, and Vardina jumps to her feet. I slip the locket back under my shirt. “I knew it!” Vardina shouts, making a fist. “I knew it was that moron! Way to go, Cassie! You rock!”

“That concludes my presentation,” I say to Ron. “Based on the suspect's body language, I was able to infer that the suspect was guilty of the aforementioned crime, thereby eliciting a full confession.”

Zack rises to his feet, takes a bow, and returns to his seat.

“Let this be a lesson to all,” I say, under his steady gaze. “Crime does not pay.”

The class is howling. Zack, on the other hand, is as pale as a ghost.

***

Leanne's locker pops open and she tosses in her books. “Of course he was tense,” she says, glancing in the mirror on the door. “You embarrassed him.”

“Ha! Zack, embarrassed? I saw him openly exchanging body fluids with Stephanie in the cafeteria. I don't think that word is in his vocabulary.”

She pulls out her backpack. She digs out her gloss, dabs at her lips. “Anyway, you said it was just a twitch. Maybe he had something in his eye. Your experiment proves nothing.”

“He turned pale,” I say. “Don't forget that.”

“Maybe he was tired. Or he's getting a cold. Isn't it possible you misread the signs?”

“Look, forget the body language,” I say. “You can't ignore the fact that Amanda left the carnival with Zack. Vardina even confirmed it. And since we both agree that Amanda was a key witness, it follows that he was with her when it happened.”

“I don't know the logistics,” she snaps. “I just know it was Brendan.”

“Give it up,” I say. “It doesn't make sense.”

“Why do you get to have feelings about things and not me?”

“Why do I get the feeling that this is personal?”

She lets out a long drawn-out sigh, and her whole face falls.

“Leeny?” I ask.

“I thought I'd found a way to get back at him. And now it's all ruined.”

I stare at her. “What are you talking about?”

She looks up and down the hallway. “Promise you won't get all judgmental?”

I wait for her to continue.

“Promise!” she says.

I roll my eyes. “I promise.”

“Remember that big fight I had with Josh?”

“Which big fight was that? I left my scorecard at home.”

“You know what I'm talking about. Valentine's Day. Carly's party.”

“It was couples only,” I remind her. “I wasn't there.” Like she doesn't know.

“So what if my shirt was see-through? I was wearing a crop top underneath. But he said I'd disrespected him and then he left. He abandoned me at a couples party! It was humiliating.”

“Oh,
that
fight.” I also remember her throwing out that shirt, the next day after they made up. “What about it?”

“Well, I didn't tell you everything. Brendan and Amanda were in a fight, too. He was mad at her for flirting with Zack. He was leaving, so I asked him for a lift.” A couple of kids walk by, and she lowers her voice. “So anyway, I got in his car and it just happened. We started messing around. But then he got serious, if you know what I mean. But I got him good. Punched him where it hurts. Then I ran back to the house and called a taxi.”

I gape at her. “Our ex-best friend flirts with the guy I was crazy about, you make out with her stoner boyfriend and then maim him—and I'm just hearing about it now?”

“I didn't say anything because I knew you'd get upset about Zack. And I knew you'd get all judgmental.”

I can't believe this. “You want him arrested because you made out with him?”

“No! I mean, yeah, sort of. I was sure he was in that hit-and-run, and I was worried he'd get away with it. That's why I wanted you to do your thing. I needed you to prove it. He's a sleaze, Cass. He tried to take advantage of me when I was feeling vulnerable. And did you not hear the part about him cheating on Amanda?”

“I'm so sorry you had to go through that, but Leeny, it has nothing to do with the hit-and-run. You were cheating on Josh,” I point out.

“That's different. I thought we'd broken up. I was depressed. And maybe a little drunk.” Her eyes flash with anger. “You see? You're judging me.”

“I'm not judging you, Leeny. I'm just trying to understand why my best friend keeps lying to me.”

“What are you talking about? When have I ever lied to you?”

“If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears, it doesn't mean it doesn't make a sound. Withholding information is the same as lying. You should have told me.”

“Spare me the ethical crap, okay? Can you honestly say you tell me everything?”

I hesitate. I still haven't told her that I jumped into Josh. I know her. Being a very private person, as she put it, she'd never forgive me for previewing his privates. “I tell you everything I possibly can,” I say evasively. “You're supposed to be my best friend.”