Where Silence Gathers (9 page)

The apartment is dark and quiet. Moonlight cascades over the kitchen counters and the rug in the living room. Nothing seems to be amiss. No reason for my instincts to be bristling like a threatened porcupine.

A sound reaches my ears. Faint, but I know I didn't imagine it. Wood sliding on wood. The drawer to my desk. I freeze.

Someone is in the apartment.

It can't be Missy or Saul. Angus would have waited for me on the steps. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. Rational thought is suddenly impossible.

Slowly, I retreat. Step by step. Back toward the door. Almost mockingly, Fear tiptoes beside me, his hand on my arm. I don't acknowledge him. My lungs begin to shriek. Doesn't matter. All that matters is getting outside, to the car, and away.

Wait. Maybe it's just Andrew. No, not
just
Andrew. He nearly overpowered me in his office today. He wanted that flash drive. Enough to bring him to this? How do I get him out of here before Saul or Missy come home?

The gun.

I need to get to the gun in my glove box. Then I can confront whoever is stupid enough to break into the apartment where the only family I have left sleeps and eats and lives. I take another step, my heel high off the floor. Only a few more feet—

Creak
.

For the second time today, time utterly stops. I feel my heart leap into my throat, and the stranger isn't opening the drawers anymore. The silence quivers. Then there are footsteps. Coming for me.
Thud-thud-thud
.

I dive for the open doorway.

The intruder is faster. A rough hand hauls me back, wrenching my shoulder, and slams me into the wall. That same hand covers my mouth, eliminating the chance to scream. The stench of unwashed body assaults my senses. I struggle, still trying to shriek, but every part of me is pinned. Heavy breathing heats the back of my neck as the person laughs.

“Wow, you're pretty,” a voice purrs against my temple. Definitely not Andrew. “Would be a shame to scar that smooth skin.”

I retort, the words muffled by his big palm. He's male, without a doubt; I can feel him against my thigh.

Before I can think of a way to get free, the voice adds, “Where is it?”

Where's what?
I start to ask. Then it occurs to me. Of course, the flash drive. What else could it be? The hand falls away, giving me a chance to answer. I should call for help; Angus might be home. I should shatter the night with a scream. Instead, I hear myself growl, “I think it's where your balls should be.”

Pause. I steel myself for a blow, and in the instant of silence there's another sound, not at all faint. An engine. There's no mistaking whose car it is, because that tell-tale pop of the exhaust bursts through the night. Horror washes over me and I'm slow to react, to comprehend.

No.

Missy, coming home early. My attacker must know time is running out, too, because he presses even closer. Outside, a dog begins to bark.

“Tell anyone about this, we go after your precious Saul and Missy next,” he hisses.

I try to speak again, this time to beg him not to hurt my aunt. Before I can, there's a flash of movement and a moment of searing pain against my skull. I fight a wave of dizziness, but it's no use. The darkness swallows the darkness.

Eleven

Dr. Norris shines a light in my eyes. Back and forth, back and forth. I study him and remember a time when his hair wasn't so white and his eyes weren't so watery. We're in his kitchen, since Missy rushed me right to his front door. His office is on the other side of the garage, but I guess that was too far to walk before doing the examination.

“Are you feeling dizzy at all? Nauseous? Or anything out of the ordinary, really?” the old man asks. His bones creak as he flattens his palms against his thighs and stands.

Out of the ordinary. Right on cue, that voice penetrates the medicinally induced fog around me.
Alexandra
. I force a bright smile, looking our town's only doctor in the eye as I chirp, “Nope.” My head has stopped throbbing, at least.

“You need to be more careful.” My aunt rests her hand on my shoulder, as though to assure herself that I'm really solid and sitting here. She's been doing that a lot since she found me on the floor of our apartment—after I tripped on the edge of the rug and hit my head. That's the story she knows, at least. The truth would put her in danger, and I need Saul and Missy to be safe. “It's late,” she adds, sighing. “Let's go home. It's safe for her to sleep, right?”

Dr. Norris nods, and Missy follows him into the other room, checkbook in hand even though we can't afford this. My new pills rattle in her purse. They leave me in the kitchen. I stay there to gather my composure. Across from where I sit, there's a window. Something moves in the glass. My pulse picks up speed again before I realize it's just a reflection.

I stare at the girl. She stares back with wide, fevered eyes. I don't recognize her. She must be me, though, because we lift our hands at the same time. Blink at the same time.

“Alex? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Coming.” I turn my back on the stranger.

They're both waiting for me by the door. Dr. Norris winks and presses a sucker into my hand, just like he did when I was little. I manage to thank him, and the old man pats my cheek as Missy pulls me into the night. He smells like cigarettes, which he shouldn't, because everyone knows he was diagnosed with lung cancer last year. Still, I understand. Even when we know something is bad for us, we depend on it anyway, because it's easier than acknowledging how broken we are.

Missy and I get into the truck and head home. We don't speak. As always, Elvis is oblivious to the strain filling this space like Dr. Norris's cancer, unseen but devastating. When Missy first found me, Fear hounded us all the way to the doctor's. Now Worry appears behind her, his hands fluttering over her. For the first time, he addresses me. “She's wondering if you told the truth about your accident,” the Emotion mutters. “She's worried that you won't survive this.”

“This?” I repeat, so quietly that Missy doesn't hear. She's immersed in the road, lips twisted in thought.

Worry begins to disintegrate. His answer drifts to me. “Grief.”

The brakes squeal when Missy parks. We both get out and climb the steps. Missy goes right in, but I hesitate at the threshold, remembering what happened just a few hours ago.
Wow, you're pretty
. Somehow, I know the intruder won't be back tonight. He'll be back, no doubt, but not tonight.
Would be a shame to scar that smooth skin
. My stomach quakes, and I make myself step through the doorway. I turn the lock, something we haven't done in years. Saul has a key.

It isn't until we're completely inside the apartment that Missy finally breaks the silence. She takes a breath and faces me, her expression unfathomable in the darkness. “Don't you ever scare me like that again,” she says, holding my face in her rough palms. My aunt's scent is a combination of soap and laundry detergent. It's one of the best smells in the world, but I can't tell her that. The words just won't come.

For once, though, I close my eyes and let myself enjoy her warmth. “I'll try not to,” I whisper, tightening my hold on her wrists.

“It was strange.” She frowns. “When I got home, I was going to straighten the trash cans. But there was a dog at the bottom of the stairs, and it wouldn't stop barking until I went up. Maybe someone is watching out for you, huh?” Without waiting for a response, Missy gives me one last troubled smile. Then she pulls free to lumber down the hallway into their room. The door shuts.

The moment I hear the click, I go to the kitchen and rummage around in the fridge. There isn't much here; we survive mostly on cereal and microwave dinners. But I find something that will work. Something that will give me a semblance of control, that makes me feel the tiniest bit powerful and able to make a difference in this place of so much sameness.

Something that will express my gratitude.

Bowl in hand, I slip back outside and down the stairs, around the corner to where the garbage cans are lined up. I leave the cold broth on the ground and wait for a minute, hoping to see the creature who's just as damaged as I am. The shadows stay empty. After another minute, I give up and go back up the stairs.

In the morning, the bowl is licked clean.

A fly buzzes past my ear.

Around me, everyone's clay has become something. While I've been away confronting the past, my peers have moved forward. Georgie is making an ashtray. Briana's bird has spread its wings, straining to break free of the base its feet are molded to. As always, she aims for perfection; while others are just creating basic shapes, Briana is using a sharp tool to create tiny feathers. I sneak glances at her, thinking about how she won't be in Franklin much longer. She'll move on to bigger and better things, like college, and it makes me happy. It does. Once I find the strength to face Nate Foster, at least I'll know that my friend will be living enough for the both of us.

It's impossible to concentrate; dreams assaulted me throughout the night. I tossed and turned and the blankets tangled around my torso, trapping me like a seat belt. There was the sprinkle of broken glass. Pain. Silence. The wail of distant sirens. A limp hand. A river of blood. Someone sobbing. When the alarm clock went off, I floundered in disorientation. Surrounded by rain, glass, metal. It still feels like I haven't woken up completely.

In a vain attempt to appear like I'm doing something, too, I keep flattening and twisting my own block until it looks like some kind of lagoon monster. Mr. Kim already expressed the need for productivity, since I'm so behind. I can feel him keeping track of my progress. No one at the table speaks; it's been this way since I first found Briana and Georgie by the lockers. They're angry. Understandably so; I'd be irritated with me, too. Vague excuses and hollow apologies aren't enough. But they're better than the truth, and they're better than any of the lies, so now I just accept the silence and wait.

Finally, Georgie can't hold her curiosity back any longer. “What did they call you to the office for?” she mutters, pinching the edges of her ashtray.

This morning, just after first hour, Principal Bracken hunted me down and gave me one of the severest lectures I've ever gotten in my life. And that's saying something. I sum it up for her: “I've been informed that if I miss any more school, I won't be able to graduate.” I keep my attention on my clay, but I sense Briana stiffening.

Georgie, on the other hand, just snorts. “No surprise there.”

Any other day, I might snap back, but my head aches too much. I forgot to take a pill this morning. Missy did her best to convince me to stay home—ironic, her actually encouraging me to skip school—but the idea of lying in bed with nothing to distract me from my thoughts wasn't exactly appealing, so here I am. What's bothering me most, though, isn't what happened with the intruder, or with Andrew, or the fact that the flash drive is still locked. Or even that my friends are beginning to see my holes and shortcomings. No, what's uppermost in my thoughts is that I haven't seen Revenge yet today.

Ever since we met, that afternoon in my living room when I was twelve, he's been a constant presence. Waiting at the kitchen table in the morning, sitting beside me on the way to school, offering commentary on every little thing throughout my day. My best friend. Of course, his nature pulled him away sometimes, but never for more than a few hours. This is different, now. Somehow I know that he's avoiding me, and it's even stranger considering this is the time he should want to be near me most.

Something about last night unsettled him. He'd been so quiet. I wish he would appear so I could demand answers. Or at least tell him to get over it.

That fly darts by again, and my gaze follows it around the light on the ceiling.

Briana leans toward me. “Alex? Are you feeling okay?” She touches one of my ragged nails. The touch is so gentle, so concerned, that I want to run.

I study our hands and try not to think of my mother, how she used to squeeze my fingers and tell me I was going to change the world. “Just tired is all,” I say, trying to sound dismissive. “Think I'll go to the bathroom and splash some water on my face.” Before she or Georgie can respond, I slide off my stool and leave the room. Mr. Kim doesn't notice.

The bathroom is empty. I head straight for the last stall and shut the door. Pressing my back to the opposite wall, I search for the words that always bring me here. There it is, among all the others.
FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL ANDREA. PENELOPE IS A SLUT. TRACEY LOVES WILL.
I touch the letters of her name, picturing her in this same spot, carving the truth of what she felt. “Mom,” I whisper, desperately wishing she could answer.

She doesn't.

It's become instinct, to leave school when it becomes unbearable. Today, though, there's no Andrew to visit and no Revenge to pull me away from the edge. If I went home, Missy would only hover, and Saul would either scold me or try to talk about Nate Foster. Neither of which I can deal with right now. So I wipe my eyes, lift my chin, and go back to class.

Relief touches Briana the moment I walk in. Georgie just raises her brows as if to say,
Wow, you're still here?
Making an effort at normality, I glare back and sit down. The clay waits expectantly. All I can think of molding it into is a flash drive. Or a gun. Somehow I don't think Mr. Kim will be impressed by either of these.

“ … making that for, anyway? I thought everyone in your family quit,” Briana is saying, adjusting her bird's beak so it's not quite so sharp.

Georgie sighs. “Mom started again. I know I shouldn't be encouraging her, but it's kind of pathetic when she uses a Pepsi can for the ashes.”

“Must be that time of year. My mom has also been wanting to start again.” Briana sighs too.

Mom
. Maybe it's the head wound, or the time of month, or I'm just losing it, because that's all it takes. Georgie still has her mother—to make things for, to worry about, to mock. Another Emotion shimmers into view, this one meant for me. Sorrow. He has a scent similar to what I imagine the ocean would smell like. Salt and wind and the vastness of the unknown.

Mr. Kim says something as he walks past us, but I don't hear the words. Sorrow brushes my cheek with his pale fingers, and it takes all of my strength not to let the tears spill from my eyes. I don't stop myself from looking at his face. He doesn't seem surprised that I can see him. He doesn't say anything, and I don't either. His touch evokes a dozen images. Me and Mom at the lake. The two of us curled up with a book. Making cookies together in the kitchen. I want to tell Sorrow how much I despise him, but it sticks in my throat; he's crying for me. As if he feels the wound Mom's absence left behind.

Maybe he does.

Georgie pokes my arm. “Hey. Back to earth, Alex. I feel like you're going to start drooling any second.”

I force myself to glance away from Sorrow and stare at the lump in front of me. Right now it's nothing. Like Nate Foster's front door, it's just potential. Its fate is my decision. A fan hums in the corner, sending cool air over my skin. For a few minutes I'm not sure I can make a choice even as simple as this. But then Sorrow kisses my cheek—something he's never done before—and walks away.

My mom will never kiss my cheek again.

The thought jolts me into motion. Of their own volition, my hands return to the clay, which has cooled in my absence. It becomes warm again. I work with a mindlessness that consumes. Sorrow has opened another door I can't close—not today—and all I'm capable of is remembering. My hands move without guidance. The fly darts by again, ignored.

“Who is that, Alex?”

The question jars me. The light pouring through the window is suddenly too bright. More time must have passed than I realized. I look at Briana blankly, and she's frowning at the clay in my hands. I follow her gaze.

He looks up at me with those eyes that see everything. See my weakness. See me. I'm no artist, and to anyone else it probably looks like no one, but I know who it's supposed to be.

Just like last time, my friends wait for an answer. I swallow, clenching my jaw so hard it hurts. How can this be? I'd meant to sculpt something else entirely.
Someone
else entirely. “No one. He's no one,” I mutter, wishing I meant it. That's the biggest lie of all, though. My friends just stare.

I crush Forgiveness with my fist.