We'll Never Be Apart (13 page)

The fruit slices easily. The flesh inside is a brilliant orange. “Here.” He holds a square of mango between his thumb and pointer finger. Juice drips down, making a path over his knuckle.

I take the mango from him and pop it into my mouth. All thoughts of bacon are forgotten. My lips pucker at the tangy taste. It's a heady combination of orange and apple infused with pineapple. I can feel the sugar somersaulting through my veins. I want more.

He laughs, low and husky, and slips a piece of mango into his own mouth. “It's good, right?”

“It's . . . all right,” I say.

“You're a shitty liar, you know that?”

I shrug, purse my lips. And smile. A real smile. One that I feel all the way down to my toes. Happy. I'm happy. How long has it been since I've felt this way? “It's kind of awesome,” I say.

And all of a sudden I'm ravenous.

I devour almost the entire mango in the short time it takes Chase to throw together a simple sandwich. I've just shoved the last piece of gooey-delicious awesomeness into my mouth when Chase turns to me with a goofy grin on his face. “You're a messy eater.”

I swallow hastily and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

“You missed,” he says.

I wipe at my face again, but he just shakes his head and goes to get a paper towel from the dispenser by the sink. I can feel my cheeks heating up. I bet they're bright red. Now he's staring at me, his expression serious. The look he's giving me is scary and exciting—more exciting than scary—speaking to a part of me that only Jason could ever speak to.

“Here, let me.”

I wince a little as he wipes some of the sticky juice from my cheek. His hands on my face are like a hurricane. A storm of nervousness and anticipation begins to churn inside me. He's close enough to kiss me. Jason was the first and only boy ever to kiss me. I wonder what Chase's kiss would feel like. Would it be like Jason's, rough and hard, with a glimmer of conquer behind it? Or would it be softer and sweeter, without pretense? Somehow, I think the latter.

Laughter sounds from outside the door. We come apart like grass split by a bolt of lightning. Chase flicks the light switch and the room plummets into darkness. Muted voices come from the other side of the door. Whoever is there has stopped right outside the kitchen.

Even though we're no longer touching, I can feel Chase across from me, our fear ballooning between us. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable beep of the lock and whoosh of the door opening. But it doesn't come. The voices fade, and then they're gone. We're safe. For now. Chase waits a few seconds more and then turns on the light. “We should probably clean up,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” I mumble. While Chase returns the food to the refrigerator, carefully arranging everything so it's just as we found it, I wipe down the counters.

Chase moves behind me, brushing my back as he walks to the kitchen door. “Ready for the next adventure?” he asks.

Am I ready?
Yes.
I am.

“I think some of the techs come up this way to smoke,” he says.

We're back in the stairwell, but this time we're going up, up, up. There's a black metal door at the top, but this one is different from the others. It's got a bar across it and a big sign that reads
CAUTION EMERGENCY EXIT ALARM WILL SOUND
. The door is propped open with a wooden triangle, wedged at the base. Chase opens the door and gestures for me to go ahead.
Ladies first.
I step outside, but I'm not prepared for the rush of frozen wind that blasts my cheeks. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my hoodie to ward off the chill. Still, the night is clear and beautiful, with a thousand stars winking in the sky and the crescent moon hanging low and bright. My grandfather and I used to go on walks at night. We would gaze up at the stars and bask in their glow. That's when I thought I could be anything, an astronaut, a doctor, a dancer on a star—then Cellie ripped it all away.

Chase closes the door carefully, making sure the wood stopper stays trapped in the threshold. The roof is littered with antennae, chimneys, and other stuff I don't recognize, stuff that's probably part of the building's internal organs. A couple of rusted lawn chairs are off to the right, and there's a bucket filled with murky water and floating cigarette butts. To the left, another square rises from the roof and a ladder leads to the top. I make a beeline for the ladder. I want to get as close to the stars as possible.

I climb. My face is wind-stung and the cold of the ladder's metal bars bites into my fingertips. I climb faster, place my foot on the last rung, and hoist my body up over the ledge. The D ward looms in the distance, dark and silent. I study it, waiting for a sign of life in the windows, but everything is calm. From here you can see all of Savage Isle, the A and B wards, the water, the city lights that twinkle in the distance. We're even standing above the thick gray mist of the fog line. Another breeze comes, cuts across the rooftop, and pastes my jeans to the backs of my knees.

Chase's hand touches my shoulder. I whirl around and the wind whips my hair into the side of his face.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

I study the white oblong scar on his cheek. “I like it up here.”

He gives me a soft, sad sort of smile. I wonder what I said to make him look like that. “Me, too. You want to sit?”

There aren't any chairs up here, so I assume he means we should sit on the ground. It's dry, but I bet it's really cold. “Sure,” I say. We sit at almost the exact same time. An involuntary shiver ripples through me.

“I hate it here.” Chase stares off into the distance.

“It's not so bad, once you get used to it.”

“I don't think I'll ever get used to being cooped up.”

A question hovers on the tip of my tongue. The question I've been waiting to ask since we met.
What did you do to get locked up?
Chase breaks the silence. “You've been here before, right?”

“Once. With my sister.” I trace the cracks in the roof with my finger.

Maybe he senses my reluctance to talk about my past stints at Savage Isle, because he quickly changes the subject. “What'd your roommate get Quiet Roomed for?”

I don't want to talk about Amelia, either. Her story isn't mine to tell. Plus we're friends. And friends keep each other's secrets. So I ignore his question and ask one of my own. “What about you, have you ever been to a place like this before?”

His scar twitches. “No. I've never been to a place like this before. And, God willing, after this, I'm never coming back.”

I chew my lip. Chase doesn't seem like he belongs here, in the aquarium full of jellyfish. Like right now, he sits completely still. He doesn't fidget or sway. His eyes are focused on the horizon. Steady. So steady. “You're not a jellyfish,” I say.

“Huh?” He peers at me through the darkness.

“It's something my sister and I made up last time we were here. This place is like an aquarium, everyone swimming in circles, never stopping. All the patients are like jellyfish.”

“But I'm not a jellyfish?” A wry smile appears on his face.

“No, you're not a jellyfish. You're definitely something else.”

“What about you? Are you a jellyfish?”

I think about jellyfish and the dangerous toxins they inject into their prey. “I don't know,” I say honestly. “I hope not.”

Chase palms his head and his fingers ripple his hair. “What happens if someone wants out of the aquarium?”

There's no way out. But I don't want to tell him this. Not when he still has hope. Hope to break the surface and taste the salt in the air.

Chase stands up, as if all this is too much for him. He walks to the edge of the roof, where he picks up a piece of gravel and hurtles it as hard as he can over the side, into the bottomless black night. I think he would cry out if he could. Silence always hurts more.

I go to him, not sure of what to say or do. I want to absorb his rage. Take away his sadness. Smooth the scar on his face. Fix him. But I don't know how. I couldn't fix Cellie. I can't even fix myself. I extend my arm, just a little, until the side of my hand grazes his.

“Why'd you leave?” he asks.

He's asking why I escaped with Jason. I'm not surprised he knows. He insinuated as much the first time we met,
Overheard some techs talking about how the fire starters are back.
So I tell him. I tell him about Cellie and her fires and the one that killed Jason and about the charges against me. He doesn't ask for more information about Jason, but I know he feels the tremor that runs through me when I mention his name.

“We'll find your sister,” he says, and it sounds like an oath, a sacred promise. What started as a deal, a bargain for each other's services, has suddenly changed. Because now he's talking to me like a friend, a real friend. Like he's committed to something bigger than himself. What I don't tell him is the reason I need to find Cellie. I'm sure he assumes it's to get her to confess, to repent and then atone. I don't think he would understand the real reason. He'll find out soon enough. He'll probably be there when I wrap my hands around her skinny throat. That'll be the hook that unravels our tenuous friendship. He won't be able to look at me in the same way. And I won't blame him. I wonder if he might even try to stop me. What would I do then?

“What would you do if you could see Jason again?”

I lower my lashes. “If I saw him again?” It's an impossible thought.

“Yeah, if you had one more minute. Just one. What would you do?” Chase steps closer to me, and I think I can hear his beating heart. I close my eyes and pretend it's Jason's heart. So strong. So alive. I pretend the smell of clean laundry is really cinnamon and cigarette smoke.

“I wouldn't do anything. Because he's . . .” I can't say the word
dead.
“Because he's gone.” It's no use thinking what could have been. Hope is a four-letter word.

Chase moves slowly, almost hesitantly, until both of his arms are around me and I'm enveloped in a tight hug. I go stiff. In foster homes, human affection is rare. I used to crave it, like an alcoholic craves the bottle, but now affection makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable. Chase rests his head on top of mine. “I'm sorry, Just Alice. I'm sorry he's gone.”

I pull away from him and look up into his face. I don't want to talk about Jason anymore. Self-denial can be such a beautiful, powerful thing. I need to steer the situation in a new direction. I say the first thing I can think of. “Who's your favorite Muppet?”

His eyes widen a little, confused, but then he decides to just go along with it. “Animal,” he says.

I picture the drummer Muppet with the crazy hair. It fits him.

“Who's yours?”

“The Swedish Chef, obviously.”

He grins and rolls his eyes. “
Obviously
. . .” He steps back and lets go of me. Mission accomplished, the serious moment broken. So why do I feel like I've missed out on something?

Chase runs a hand through his hair again and mutters something about how we should get going. I agree in a noncommittal way. We should get going. But I know neither of us wants to. Especially me. I could stay up on the roof forever—or at least all night—bathing in the moonlight, illuminated and free.

F
ROM THE
J
OURNAL OF
A
LICE
M
ONROE

 

Over the summer we got to know Jason again. Most days we hung out on the roof of Candy's house. The hot tiles poked our legs and the sun scorched our faces, but it was better than being inside, where the smoke from Candy's cigarettes clung to everything.

Jason's mom had died a couple of years back, following his younger brother on the overdose train. Now Jason was just like us, another lost puzzle piece swept under the rug. He'd bounced around a few times, living in different group homes until he finally landed at Candy's. He told us it wasn't so bad there. And we agreed. Because we knew there were worse places. Way worse.

Some nights Candy would take out her accordion and play sad love songs on the porch, making all the dogs in a two-mile radius howl. The neighbor next door said he was going to call the cops if he had to listen to “Moon River” one more time. From the roof we would watch them argue, Candy and the neighbor. It was better than any movie I'd ever seen,
and I'd think to myself,
If I died right now, I'd be happy.

When the neighborhood grew tired and lights flickered off down the block, we'd stay up on the roof. Jason lay between Cellie and me, and occasionally he'd brush his hand over mine. It was then, in those moments, during a summer of record-breaking heat, that my heart slipped out of my chest and into Jason's. I didn't love him. Not yet. To be honest, I wasn't sure I was capable of love, having experienced it so rarely. The love Grandpa had shown me felt like it belonged to another lifetime. Everything from my childhood felt stale, worn away. But I did feel something for Jason, something deep and wide—gratitude, maybe, or devotion or loyalty. During our last stay at Savage Isle, before my epic escape with him, I would replay those nights on the roof of Candy's house in my mind. Our faces lifted toward the sky and the heated wind against our backs. Up there, we were untouchable.

 

Rebecca, our social worker, got pregnant and decided to retire. The last time we saw her, she introduced us to her replacement, Sara. They came to Candy's in separate cars, and I couldn't help but notice that Sara's car was the nicest in the neighborhood. The nicest I'd ever seen. It was shiny silver, and even from the porch I could tell it had a sleek leather interior. A bumper sticker advertised that she had graduated from the private liberal arts college on the other side of town.

As Sara climbed the porch steps, she fidgeted with the cross charm on her necklace. I could tell she was young and nervous, unaccustomed to neighborhoods like this. I imagined her wanting to turn around and run away. The sound of a daytime soap opera filtered through Candy's flimsy screen door as we came out to meet her.

“You must be Alice,” Sara said. She smiled brightly and extended her hand for me to shake. I glanced at Cellie, who was making a show of scowling. She shook her head at me. A warning. I knew she was pissed about getting a new social worker, but that didn't mean she had to reject a gesture of kindness. Sara's nails were clean and manicured. She had perfectly styled hair, and she smelled like expensive body wash, the kind you buy in a department store. I ignored her hand but gave her a warm smile. Rebecca motioned for us to sit on the beat-up outdoor chairs, but Cellie quietly refused.

Sara looked anxiously at Rebecca, who stepped in, her huge belly creating a wall between us. Cellie snickered and lit up a cigarette, a new habit she'd picked up from Jason. Generally speaking, Rebecca was pretty cool with Cellie's bullshit, but today she wasn't having it.

“Um. Hello? Pregnant here.” Rebecca pointed to her ginormous belly, then coughed and waved a hand in front of her face at the ballooning gray smoke. She plucked the cigarette from Cellie's mouth and stomped on it.

Jason appeared in the doorway, shirtless. He stretched his arms, the skin of his stomach taut, his abs rippling. “I can't believe you're not going to be around anymore, Becky,” he said. Sara's cheeks turned a brilliant red.

“Don't start with me,
Valentine,
or I'll call Charlie and suggest that he check your school attendance record from last year.” Charlie was Jason's social worker, and Rebecca didn't like being called Becky any more than Jason liked being called Valentine. Cellie snickered. “And you, missy,” Rebecca spat, pointing her finger at Cellie, “don't think I don't know you've been ducking out on your counseling appointments.” Cellie was required to attend therapy once a week. I thought she'd been going. She left at the right time to catch the bus and returned an hour or so later. Now I saw how stupid I'd been. Of course she'd been skipping. I had no trouble imagining her loitering around town. Up to no good. Her hair a little wild. Her heart a little dark.

Cellie's bottom lip curled, and I thought, suddenly, of an angry cat doused in water.

Sara cleared her throat, desperate to ease the tension. “I was thinking we could all go to lunch, anywhere you want.”

I gave Sara an encouraging look.

“You could join us if you'd like, Valentine,” she offered.

Jason's eyes got hard. “That's not my fucking name.” He spat and disappeared back inside the dark house.

 

We went to the barbecue place down the street. Cellie and I rode with Rebecca, and Sara followed close behind. I ordered the pork ribs with coleslaw. Cellie ordered the same and then accused me of copying her.

After the bill was paid, Rebecca said goodbye to us and Sara drove us back to the house. She went the speed limit the whole way and kept both of her hands on the wheel, perfectly positioned at ten and two o'clock. At Candy's, we found Jason up on the roof. He had just rolled a joint and was about to spark it. I flopped back and rubbed my hands over my face. “Well, that was a disaster.”

“She sucks,” said Cellie.

“You didn't even give her a chance.”

“She's not like us, Alice. Did you see her car? She's not from the Eastside.”

I didn't mention that we weren't always from the Eastside. Grandpa's house wasn't in the best part of town, but it was nice enough, and if he'd lived, we might have attended a decent high school, one where there were plenty of extracurricular activities and less than ten percent of the student body was on free or reduced lunch. Maybe, just maybe, we would have applied to the same private liberal arts college Sara had graduated from.

“So?” I threw my arm over my eyes, blocking out the sun. Jason lay down next to me.

“So, I'm sad Rebecca's gone,” Cellie complained.

“I know something that'll take your mind off it . . .” Jason said. He took a long drag off his joint and then offered it to me. I waved it away.

“What'd you have in mind?” Cellie perked up.

“Follow me.”

He climbed down from the roof and we followed him down the sidewalk and through the winding streets, chasing the wind and the summer breeze. Along the way, he told us to pick up some rocks. We complied without ever asking why. The three of us walked until the sun started to set and orange light shaded the sky. Finally Jason stopped in front of a house. It took me a few minutes to recognize it. Cracked, peeling blue paint. A warped chainlink fence. A ripped screen door. In the honey glow of the sunset it looked like some sort of tomb, a mausoleum full of broken childhoods. The back of my head pulsed. I thought I heard angry footsteps, a closet door shaking, and then the sound of a fist meeting flesh. Roman's house.

“I found it by accident one day,” Jason said. We sat on the curb across from Roman's house, waiting for the sun to dip below the horizon, for the neighborhood kids to abandon their jump ropes and go inside. “I was out walking right after my mom died, and all of a sudden I was here. They don't get foster kids anymore, but they still live here. He's probably in there right now.”

Jason's words prickled my skin.
He's probably in there right now.
Of all the faces, all the people Cellie and I had met, Roman's face always stayed fresh. His gray and brown beard that would catch spit and food. His grease-stained T-shirts. The gap in his teeth on the right side of his mouth. The hand he called God's Will. I played with the rock in my hand and wished I had picked up something larger, something heavier, something the size of a fist.

As we sat on the curb across the street, waiting for some sort of sign, Jason and Cellie smoked cigarette after cigarette. We didn't talk. None of us wanted to reminisce about our nights spent in a closet, when Roman trolled the halls and played Russian roulette with our childhoods. Besides, we all knew what we were feeling, anyway—sadness, impotence, rage—it flowed through our bodies and then into each other's, and somehow, in some way, it was oddly comforting to know that we were all feeling this again, together.

When the lights went out in the house, Jason stood up. He tossed his rock up in the air, caught it, and then hurled it right into Roman's living room window. Giddy, Cellie and I jumped up and followed Jason's lead. I know it's corny, but as that rock left my hand, I literally felt a weight come off my shoulders; the fear that had been riding on my back all these years was suddenly lighter, more manageable. Some of my power had been returned to me. The sound of shattering glass woke the neighborhood, and lights blinked on one after the other like dominoes falling down the block.

Jason grabbed our hands and we fled. Behind us a door slammed open. Foolishly, I turned around. Sure enough Roman was there, watching us run away, his shadow long and distorted and dark, stretching across his untamed lawn. Cloaked in the night as we were, I don't think he could really see us. Probably wouldn't have recognized us anyway. But for a moment, time stood still and I was a little girl again, hiding in a closet, making paper lion after paper lion.

Afraid, I stumbled over a crack in the concrete. Cellie pulled me up, and Jason shoved us both behind his back. Always the protector. Even though Roman wasn't chasing us, Jason picked up a rock and threw it at him. With a metallic sound, it grazed the beer can in Roman's hand. I'll never forget that moment. The rage in Roman's eyes, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the squeaky sound of our sneakers as we ran away. It was such a thrill.

 

Cellie and I went to sleep early that night, exhausted from the day's drama, but I woke in the small hours of the morning, when the sky was still pitch-black, and discovered Jason crawling beneath my bedcovers. He'd come to me like this before, and I didn't mind it. I liked it when he spooned me. My body fit perfectly into the shape of his.

“Alice,” he said into my hair.

“Yeah,” I said dreamily, bringing his knuckles up and tucking them under my chin.

I felt his mouth curve into a smile against the shell of my ear, and when he spoke, there was a quiet hum of excitement vibrating in his chest. “I'll hurt him worse next time.”