The Epidemic (10 page)

“Brandon Vega and Tracy Thurgood were the first in town,” she says. “Both died after ingesting a self-mixed poison. Since them there’s been five other suicides.”

I stare at her, shocked. “Five?”

“Yes,” she says. “And that’s just in the past six weeks.”

I let the idea wash over me, unable to imagine how a school would be able to overcome such heartbreak. Seven deaths just in Roseburg, and that doesn’t even include Catalina and Mitchel.

“People are scared,” Virginia says, and looks down at her
fork, twisting it in her hand as she studies the metal prongs. “The media used to keep stories like this quiet for fear of inciting the behavior; they didn’t publish details. But now that the public is aware, updates are constantly streaming. We’re so aware that it’s all we talk about anymore. It’s all we are.”

She sets down the fork with a clank and leans in. “And then they tell us that we have no right to be depressed. After the deaths, they brought in grief counselors and set them up at the school. They had us journal more often. We had to go through corrective therapy. All in some misguided attempt to
fix
us, when really we just want them to leave us alone.”

Her anger comes through, and I think that she’s been waiting to confide in somebody, even if I’m a stranger. And yet . . . I don’t feel like a stranger. The longer I’m with her, the more I think we could be friends. Then again, I just made that same mistake with Eva.

Virginia continues to blame the doctors, and I start to wonder if she isn’t part of a mass hysteria. Could that be the real cause of this outbreak? Of course, I’ve seen the other side. I’ve seen the kind of therapy they offer—or, rather, I’ve felt the threat of it. And how they use it to convince closers to stay in line. Convince clients to seek help with us. Therapy isn’t how it used to be; it’s not just talking. It’s manipulation—at least, that’s what happens when ethics are set aside, especially in experimental treatments. Especially when money is involved.

“We did everything they told us to do,” Virginia says. “It didn’t help, but we tried. And then someone leaked the journals
and therapy notes. After that, the doctors closed ranks. They’re quiet now, but we know they’re working on something. We feel it. We feel their pressure.”

“Who leaked the journals?” I ask. It would be horrible to bare your soul to a therapist, only to have it put up for public consumption.

“No one knows,” Virginia says. “But it was cruel. Everyone got to see exactly what we thought—our true emotions. Our secrets. It scared our parents, our friends, the public. And then one of my friends, Diana, she . . .” Virginia’s posture weakens, and she lowers her head.

“Some of the other students read her journals,” she whispers. “And they eviscerated her online, tore her life to shreds. One boy even told her she should kill herself.” Virginia’s lip hitches up in a sneer, and she glares across the table at me. “Well, she did,” she says. “And she won’t be the last, either. But the therapists tell us that it’s all going to be okay. That
we’re
okay. But by avoiding pain, by employing closers, the doctors have taken away our ability to cope. Just because we can put on a happy face doesn’t mean we’re fixed. No, in fact, I’m pretty sure we’re all broken. The system’s broken. But who can we tell this to?” she asks. “Who can we trust?”

“You can trust me,” I tell her, meaning it. Feeling the ache that’s pouring out of her. She hasn’t mentioned her involvement with Catalina or how much she knows about closers, but I want to help her anyway. Even if she doesn’t have answers for me.

But rather than comfort her, my words seem to snap her
out of the trance she was just in. She brushes back her hair from her face, adjusts the hem of her shirt self-consciously. “Wow,” she says, trying to smile away her emotions. “I just dumped that all on you,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” I tell her, wanting to continue the conversation. But Virginia reaches for a large scoop of the whipped cream and puts it into her mouth. She avoids my gaze. She’s going through the motions of normalcy—a sign of avoidance.

“You’re really easy to talk to,” she says eventually, her voice shifting up. “I bet you hear that a lot.”

I smile. “No, not much. I don’t have a lot of friends.”

She scrunches up her face like she doesn’t quite believe it. If only she knew how much people hated me for being a closer. Then again, she might hate me too if she found out.

We finish our pie, and I listen as Virginia tells me about school, the upcoming volleyball championships, who’s dating who—all the stuff that a typical person would talk about. Her words are hollow, though. I can feel that she has more to say—the sort of things I want to hear—but she’s not ready.

“Hey,” Virginia says. “Want to go to a party after this?”

I’m struck silent. After everything we just talked about, a party sounds like the last thing anyone would want to do. Virginia senses my hesitance.

“You asked what we do around here,” she says. “The real answer is we cry in private and party in public. Tonight is a party. You should come.” She picks up the bill on the table and glances at the amount before fishing through her wallet
for some cash. She sets down the money and turns to me, her eyes pleading.

She doesn’t have many friends left,
I think.
This is my chance to step into that role. This is my chance to find out who I am.
But even I can feel how unethical this is. The idea of exploiting her misery drowns me in guilt. I’d be a closer—playing a role for
my
benefit instead of hers. But I don’t seem to have another choice.

“A party sounds fun,” I say, making her smile. I glance down at my clothes, wondering if I look okay, but Virginia quickly waves it off.

“You look great,” she says. “Don’t worry. Everyone’s going to love you. Want to head over now? We don’t stay out too late around here.” Her expression falls slightly. “Makes our parents worry.”

It’s possible that Virginia’s fears are based in reality, but there’s also a chance that this is part of a delusion. That her grief is making her paranoid.

Virginia gets up from the booth, and I take a look around, noticing that the waitress is watching her more closely than she should. Monitoring her. When the woman’s eyes dart to me, I lower my head and follow Virginia out of the diner, wondering if I’ve just gotten caught up in her delusion.

OUTSIDE THE DINER, THE SKY
is an orange glow. Virginia and I walk side by side until we pause next to a silver car with a bundle of unburned sage hanging from its rearview mirror. We get inside, and the space is fragrant and comforting.
Aromatherapy,
I think. We occasionally use it with our clients.

“My dad’s old car,” she says when she notices me staring at the sage. “And I hope you don’t mind, but I
technically
don’t have a license. But don’t worry.” She waves her hand. “I’m an excellent driver.”

I remember what life was like before I got my license, and it definitely involved breaking some permit laws. Otherwise I would have been dependent on my dad or Deacon to drive me everywhere.

“Just don’t kill us,” I tell her with a smile, although I quickly
tense at my unfortunate choice of words. Virginia pretends not to hear. I take a moment to glance around at Arthur Pritchard’s car, hoping to find some huge clue about my past, which of course is not there.

Virginia slips a CD into the stereo. The music that comes out of the speakers is haunting, itchy. Long whines of guitar strings, a melodic sound of a pained voice. The words are dark and depressing, but when I turn, I see they don’t have the same effect on Virginia. She drives, looking over at me with a smile.

But if I’m honest, I’m starting to feel a little suffocated. It’s not just the depressing music; I also feel fear. Selfish, personal fear. I’m playing a role: the role of Liz Major, a girl whose identity I stole. I want to be myself—I’m desperate to be myself. But I don’t know who she is. I don’t know who I am.

The thought of that leaves me lonelier than ever, and I wrap my arms around myself. I turn and stare out the window at the passing houses, thinking about the last time I went to a party—not as Catalina, but as Quinlan McKee.

A memory blooms across my consciousness and I cling to it. I nearly forgot it entirely because it didn’t seem important at the time. But now it feels like everything. A tether to who I used to be—who I thought I was.

It was a night while Deacon and I were broken up, a few weeks after one of our ill-conceived hookups. He acted like it had never happened, breaking my heart yet again. After that, both of us were determined to keep our relationship platonic; however, his lingering glances threatened to derail all we were working toward.

Aaron, Myra, Deacon, and I were heading back from some shitty party near the college campus. For the first time in a while, Aaron and I weren’t on assignment. We were enjoying a night off, playing pool in some guy’s living room until a fraternity showed up and crowded us out. Deacon was driving my car, taking us all back to Aaron’s, where I was spending the night because my father was at a conference. Myra was in the backseat with me, more than a little drunk, and changing her clothes without a care that the rest of us were in the car.

Deacon tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel, completely out of time with the smooth jazz he insisted on, as he avoided looking in the rearview mirror. Once Myra pulled her T-shirt back over her head and swiped out her hair from her collar, she leaned back in the seat and turned toward me.

“Much better,” she said. “I hate those push-up things.”

“I don’t hate them,” Aaron called out, not even turning to look back at us. I kicked playfully at his seat, and he laughed. Myra flicked my leg with her finger.

“What’s up with you?” she asked me. “That boy was all about you tonight, Quinlan. What was his name?”

“Gleason,” I told her with a pointed look.

“Yeah, that one.” She smiled as if saying it might be good for Deacon to hear all about it. He’d brought dates around me since the breakup, something I pretended not to care about.

“Not my type,” I told her. And he wasn’t. He was just another dude at a party who thought teaching me how to play pool would end with him teaching me a few other tricks
involving balls. “He wasn’t horrible,” I said. “But he wasn’t for me.”

“None of them are ever your type,” she said under her breath. “Well, almost none of them.” She nodded toward Deacon.

Although he didn’t catch her comment, Deacon lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “I hope you’re not giving Quinn advice on how to use her closer party skills to manipulate unsuspecting young men, demolishing all the lies I’ve told myself about true love and soul mates.”

I hold Deacon’s amused gaze for only a second before looking out the window into the dark night. “I never use my skills for evil,” I told him. “Not even when you call me at three in the morning begging me to tell you good night so you can sleep.”

“Ohhh . . . ,” Aaron sang, and pointed at Deacon.

“Demolished,” Deacon muttered.

“You’ll get over it,” I told him, fighting back my own smile. Myra did a dramatic double take between the two of us and then made a sound like
mm-hm
and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Calling at three a.m.? Good thing you two are broken up,” she said sarcastically, and exchanged a look with Aaron, who had turned around in the seat to grin at her like an idiot. “What happened to Reed Castle?” she asked. “The closer from Tillamook. I saw you two talking the other day. He’s hot. Pretty sure he was his school’s quarterback once upon a time.”

“Tight end,” I corrected.

“I bet.”

“Hello,” Deacon said with a wince as he pulled into the
parking lot in back of Aaron’s apartment complex, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Self-censor, please. I actually know Reed—we used to hang out before he moved. So I’d rather not listen to the two of you rate his body parts.”

I turned to Myra. “I’d give it an A,” I told her.

“No,” she responded seriously. “Easily an A plus. Maybe A plus plus?”

Deacon snorted a laugh, shaking his head.

In reality, I’d met Reed only a handful of times, and none of them had involved seeing naked body parts.

Deacon parked my Honda near the back of the brick building and yanked up the emergency brake. When he got out, he opened the back door for me, standing over me as he pretended to pick casually at his fingernails.

“So Reed, huh?” he asked, not looking at me.

“Maybe,” I said as I reached back into the car to grab my bag from the floor. Part of me wanted to hurt him. At least a little bit.

“I’m just trying to be friends,” Deacon said offhandedly. “Thought that was the plan.”

Now I was the one who was hurt. I pushed past him, hooking my backpack strap over my shoulder as I headed toward Aaron’s apartment. “You should go home, Deacon,” I called, turning to walk backward so I could see him. “It’s nearly three and you need your beauty sleep.”

“Me? Quinlan, I’m the most gorgeous thing out here.”

I laughed. “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

Deacon slammed my car door shut and then jogged over so that he could walk beside me. “You’re right,” he said. “
You’re
the most gorgeous thing out here. But I’m a close second.”

My smile faded slightly, and I looked sideways at him, finding him staring straight ahead as if he hadn’t spoken at all. Our pace slowed—stretching out every moment together. Every second was precious. Myra passed us, glancing back at me and smiling before disappearing inside behind Aaron.

Just before we got to the door, Deacon reached to take my elbow. Without hesitation I turned and stepped in to him, burying my face near his neck. My entire soul ached for his. We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing against each other. And then Deacon leaned down, his lips near my ear as his fingers slid under my hair.

“I’m still crazy about you,” he murmured so quietly it was like a secret. And I closed my eyes and let the thought consume me.