Текст книги "Twisted Fate"
Автор книги: Norah Olson
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My locker was nearly side by side with Allyson’s on the second floor by the stairs, which meant she could easily leave yellow sticky notes on it reminding me about chores we had at home or just offering her usual sisterly good cheer. Like: “Hi, Cutie!” or just a picture of a talking cat with a bow on its head—I guess that was supposed to be Hello Kitty. She dotted her i’s with hearts and every time I saw one of these sparkly, bubble-written monstrosities I nearly barfed. Imagine having to listen to the Barney theme song on permanent repeat. That’s what it was like getting these notes. There was nothing wrong with them—they all said nice things—but somehow everything about them was wrong.
“Oh my God,” Becky said, pulling the latest one down, sticking it to the front of my sweater, and reading it. “Do you really have to meet your mom downtown at the historical society after school? I was hoping we could take the back way home and get in a little four-twenty action on the way.”
Becky was wearing her headphones, a red-and-gray flannel shirt, and black skinny jeans. She fiddled distractedly with her new nose ring, a small silver hoop that looked like it might already be irritating an infection. She had a wide mouth and full lips and small square teeth. And she polished her nails so that every other finger had black or red nail polish on it. Today she was wearing a gauzy scarf with little skulls all over it. Lockers were slamming shut all around us and voices were raised and slightly rowdy at the end of the day, just kids happy to be getting out, happy to have a couple hours of freedom before it started all over again.
Of course I wasn’t going to meet my mom downtown. Becky didn’t even need to ask. Mom wanted to get Ally and me some new shoes. She could get them for Ally. I’d just broken in my slip-on Vans and I had no intention of seeing what her idea of a fashionable pair of shoes looked like. I had a closet full of things my mom thought were so “me.” This is “so you!” she would say, holding up a pair of low pink wedges. Or: “This would look great on you!” holding a powder-blue silk blouse up just below my chin and taking a step back to nod approvingly. “Stunning.”
Ally loved this kind of thing, and she generally did look stunning in whatever Mom picked out for her. But these shopping outings weren’t my thing. I always felt like I was being dressed like a poodle. It was an outfit or shoes for my mother, not for me. It was an outfit or shoes that would make my mother look good because she had a daughter who had fancy clothes or looked pretty. Sometimes when I was out with her I felt like a bracelet she owned and not her daughter. And I always heard it when Ally was standing beside her: “She’s so pretty!” they’d say—right in front of Ally as if she didn’t exist at all. As if she was something my mother had bought for herself.
I pulled the yellow sticky note off my shirt and crumpled it into a ball, dropping it into the bottom of the locker where it landed on a pile of maybe two hundred other crumpled yellow notes.
“Yeah, four twenty sounds good to me,” I said.
“Hell yeah,” Becky said, and laughed.
I put my history and science books away and jammed that evening’s homework into my backpack, turning around just in time to see Declan Wells striding up the stairs two at a time, his bag over one shoulder, his board under his arm, and his wavy black hair falling around his shoulders.
“Speak of the devil,” I whispered to Becky. Though it was hardly by chance that he appeared. Declan met us upstairs at our lockers every day after school.
He stopped in front of us and bent his head to the side. “Aw, yeah. Does someone need a little mental vacation from the strain and stress of pretending all goddamn day that we are not really living in some tedious made-for-TV movie about the failure of the education system, the folly of youth, and the burgeoning surveillance culture? A little lift perhaps? A little journey to a softer world?”
Becky and I looked at each other, shook our heads, and grinned. Declan could never just say “Hey, homies.” Or “What’s up?” He loved to hear himself speak too much—but then again we loved to hear him too. That boy always made me smile.
I pulled my skateboard out of my locker and set it on the smooth gray tiled floor, then stood on it to make myself as tall as Declan, folding my arms across my chest. I looked right into his wide-set dark-brown eyes and then he laughed, almost to himself. “Yes? Ms. Tate? You have something to share with us?”
“I’m up!” I said, then pushed off and maneuvered down the hall on my board against the steady stream of kids headed out for the day. I turned and glanced back to make sure he was looking, then did a perfect, tight kick flip right in front of the upstairs office.
“She’s crazy,” I heard him say in that admiring tone—the one he had where he sounded excited, like he might almost laugh. I looked back just in time to see Becky nod in agreement and then watched as they both stopped short. Mr. Fitzgerald leaned out of his office and called my name.
“Tate! How many times have I told you not to skate in the hall?”
“Probably thirty,” I called back to him. “Maybe forty. But who’s counting?”
Declan and Becky stifled their laughter.
“Carry that board out of the building or I will confiscate it this time.”
I flipped the skateboard up into my hands and kept walking, ignoring him. Becky and Declan followed behind me.
“’Sup, Mr. Fitz?” Declan said as they passed. “Happy to go home after a long day as guardian of America’s future rocket scientists and Walmart greeters?”
Fitz said, “Watch yourself, Wells. Have a good afternoon, Becky. Oh, just a minute . . . Wells, we have a new student starting next week. He’ll need to shadow someone for a day and get shown the ropes, and guess who’s going to be doing the showing?”
“Aw, serious? Me? I’m not like Virgil or something, you know, guiding some newbie through hell. That’s really not the archetype I prefer, Mr. Fitz.”
Mr. Fitzgerald smiled and shook his head. “Nice Dante reference, Wells. You have such a good brain in there. Maybe your attitude could catch up to it, huh? And guess what? You are gonna be Virgil for a day or some of those missed detentions are going to magically multiply. The student’s name is Graham Copeland. Nice kid. Getting a little bit of a late start and I think he needs someone like you to show him around.”
“C’mon!” I yelled from the end of the hallway. I didn’t hear everything Fitz had said but I’m sure it wasn’t worth spending another two seconds of our lives at school. “Half pipe’s awaiting! And so’s the other pipe.”
They caught up to me and we ran downstairs and out into the parking lot. Becky was already taking the little bowl out of the top pocket of her flannel and she started packing it as we walked. She could barely get through the day anymore without medicinal help. She’d just started getting high a couple months ago but she was already making up for lost time. Usually she would smoke right after school, then go straight to her room and listen to LCD Soundsystem’s Sound of Silver over and over again while she wrote computer code and did other hacker things that were so geeky even me and Declan could barely understand her. She also made jewelry out of sea glass and superglue and wire that she gave to people as gifts. It was like some kind of stoned Santa’s workshop in her room with electronic music instead of Christmas carols.
And she was running out of people to give them to. Their cleaning lady already had two necklaces, a bracelet, and three sets of earrings. And the cleaning lady’s kid had a sea glass necklace she had made him that he’d drawn a big W on with a Sharpie marker. “For Wolverine,” he told her. I had a whole cigar box full of necklaces. Some of which I’d just hang in the windows of my room to catch the light. Declan took her sea glass stuff and actually put it back in the sea. “It’ll get better with time,” he told her when she caught him doing it. Before Becky started getting high, she used to do schoolwork with the same intense concentration. But now it was just coding and sea glass and she seemed much happier now.
“What did Fitz want?” Becky asked, brushing her long red hair out of her face as we ducked beneath the low branches that hung before the footpath down to the creek. The fall leaves crunched beneath our feet and the air smelled good, like autumn: wood smoke and mud and pine and the faint brackish salty smell of the ocean that hung in the air all around.
Declan said, “He wanted me to show some new kid around. I swear, he thinks just ’cause of my PSAT scores, I always gotta represent the school or some bullshit.”
“It’s your own fault,” I said. “You could stop winning chess games and science fairs and maybe drop out of the Model UN and debate team. The reason he got that idea is because you actually do represent the school. Duh.”
Becky nodded in agreement. “Shoulda done the wake-and-bake method of studying for the P-sat,” she said, inhaling deeply and passing the bowl to him. She coughed and smiled. “I think that helped knock me down to average from slightly above. Except in math.”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think anything could depose you from being the scary computer math nerd queen,” I said. “Anyway, who’s the kid?”
“Graham somebody.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Graham Copeland?!” I shouted. “Gross. That’s the creepy fucking dweeb I was telling you about.”
I took the bowl from Declan. Becky was laughing at the way I’d said “creepy dweeb,” or maybe the way a squirrel had run across our path, or she was just laughing because, as usual, she was high or thinking about something else when other people were talking—I couldn’t tell which.
Declan shrugged. “The car kid?”
“Creepy dweeb,” Becky said to herself, snickering.
“Oh my God, you’ll be with him all day and telling him about school? This is too good. You have to tell me all about him.” I handed Becky the bowl and grinned back at Declan. “I just know there’s something weird going on there. There’s a story in there that we don’t know.”
Declan shrugged. “Your motivations seem suspect, Tate. Him being a dweeb or a nerd or socially outside the norm is hardly a reason for me to spy on him, but perhaps you’d like to simply admit to us how you feel about this creeb. This dewy breec, this weepy bed wrec.”
“Oh God! Stop with the anagrams!” Becky yelled. “He’s worse with the anagrams when he’s stoned,” she told me, but of course I already knew this.
“It’s true,” I said, looking at Declan. I don’t think those even count as anagrams. Weepy Bed Wreck? He’s just making up words.
“I’m simply saying that if you want me to spy on him because you feel hormonally compelled to spend time with him, you might as well just say so.”
Becky looked at me, rolled her eyes, then started laughing again. Declan grabbed me around the waist and spun me in a circle. “Tate’s got a crush!” he said, and then kissed me.
“You know who I’ve got a crush on,” I told him, looking right into his eyes.
He smiled at me, returned the look. “Life’s long, Tate. There’s lots of crushes to have.”
The woods were becoming prettier by the second and I was happy to be there with my two best friends. We walked along the trail out to where it met back up with the road that led to our neighborhood. Then I put the skateboard back down on the pavement.
“Of course I’ll check him out for you,” Declan said.
“Can we please go buy some Doritos now?” Becky asked. “Or cake. Oh! You know what would be good? Cupcakes. My mom made some yesterday. Let’s go to my place.”
“I’m gonna skate,” I told them. The fact was I loved skating when I was a little high. There was a good winding downhill to my house and almost never any cars and it felt amazing to cruise down it right to the door of my house. “See you tomorrow.”
“Bye!” they yelled in unison, grinning and looking like the coolest people you could ever spend an afternoon with. I watched them turn around and walk beneath the trees that flanked the sides of the road, leaves just beginning to turn yellow and hope and mystery filling our whole small world. Then I got on my board and leaned into the curve, coasting home.
From: [email protected]
Dear Dr. Adams,
We’d like to thank you for all the help you’ve given Graham over the last year.
As you know, he will be starting school again next week, and we are beginning to feel some trepidation. Kim has mentioned again the possibility of homeschooling—she would be able to stay home with him and has the credentials to teach him, and we feel they have as strong a relationship as a boy like Graham could have with a stepparent. We were wondering if you could advise us. I’m sure you understand our concerns, and I’m wondering if maybe this is the best route to take.
I know you’ve said it’s important for him to get some socialization, and while we essentially agree, the fear and risk of reliving anything close to what happened in Virginia has made us very reticent. We’re concerned that his social life be a healthy one. We don’t want to see any more heartache.
We’ve read the books you recommended about the benefits of combining drug regimens with talk therapy, and in theory we are fully ready to support Graham any way we can, but in practice it seems daunting.
He’s still working on the Austin, and I’m planning on buying him another antique car for Christmas, which I think will also be therapeutic. And we’re getting him that better telescope he wanted. Trying to encourage his healthy preoccupations. His mechanical skills are really quite excellent, and the best times we have together are in the garage just tinkering. Or outside looking at the stars.
We’ve tried harder than anyone to put the past behind us and invested as much as a family can in the health of our child. We’ve come a long way from last year. But I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t still afraid of my own son sometimes. I’m hoping that you can give us the best advice. We agree that his spending should be monitored, and there’s no need for him to have his own source of income at this point. He’s getting his usual allowance, and we make purchases for him. I’m happy to update you regularly as we make this transition.
Also we know that there have been some advancements in the drug regimens since Graham was prescribed, and we’d like to make sure he’s on the best possible plan. Please let us know about any pharmaceuticals you think could make this time easier for him. Thank you again for your support.
Best,
David Copeland
After that first day when we saw him out by his car, it seemed like he was always around. I would almost say lurking around but it was his own house, so I guess you’d just call it hanging out. Most of the time he was working on his fancy car or filming things.
Once when I was practicing some tricks in the driveway he came over and asked if he could film me—you know, doing kick flips and simple stuff.
I shrugged. “Sure,” I said. “Do you skate?” He had the tall, lanky, hair-in-your-eyes look that kinda said skater, so it was a reasonable question.
“Nah,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll break my neck.”
I laughed and then skated over to him, stepped off the board. “Here,” I said. “Give it a try. You’ll be fine.”
He smiled nervously and put his foot on the board. And when I looked up into his face, his eyes looked really funny. Like his pupils were huge. Big black disks in the center of blue. Whoa, I thought, maybe he will break his neck if he’s going to try skating all messed up on whatever he’s messed up on. He stepped onto the board and just stood there and that’s when I noticed Ally walking down the driveway carrying a wicker lunch basket.
“My sister can do some good driveway tricks too,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, you should ask her about it sometime.”
Ally sat on the low wall near the house and just watched us. She gave me a funny, skeptical look—the kind that said, “That boy can’t skate,” and I almost laughed out loud.
Sometimes she could get that kind of look our father had where he would just stare blankly and then ask what kind of boats you’d sailed. Graham didn’t look like he could keep himself upright on a skateboard, so I doubted he had any sea legs. And things like sea legs were pretty important to Ally, who still sailed with our dad quite a bit.
“So, um. How do I do it?” Graham asked.
“Skate!” I said.
He looked a little confused and then put his foot on the board and pushed along the pavement. The driveway sloped down and curved into the woods. By the time he had reached the end of the slope he had fallen off. He lay there on his back dramatically while I trudged down the driveway. Then I stood over him with my hands on my hips. He was gazing up into the sky with a weird look on his face, a half smile, his eyes drifting from left to right as they followed a cloud.
I looked back at Ally, who was grinning and shaking her head. Then she headed back toward the woods with her basket to pick berries.
I said “All right, captain head case, point taken. You cannot skate. Hand over the board.”
I shrugged and hopped back on the board and skated around his body, then up the driveway and retrieved his camera from where he left it, handed it to him. But I get you, I thought. Behind those dilated eyes is a great big secret.
I rode my blue vintage Schwinn along the winding coastal road to work, feeling the wind blowing my hair around my shoulders. My baby-blue helmet was buckled beneath my chin and I had on my powder-blue silk shirt Mom had bought me and my jean jacket, and my backpack was full of homework. Always so much homework. Sometimes I wished I could be like Sydney and never have to study. It’s not like I couldn’t get good grades, but I had to concentrate and work twice as hard as she did. I knew working hard was one of the best qualities a person could have, but I still felt dumb sometimes. It’s not easy to have a little sister who is so brainy.
I thought about college applications while I rode. I hoped admissions at Emerson would appreciate how hard I’d been working, hoped it reflected in the transcripts I’d be sending. I knew that my recommendations would be good but worried about my grades in English and science, worried that my essay might be a little boring. I started working on it over the summer even though it wasn’t due for several months. I’d even shown it to Sydney—who had actually had some good suggestions and helped a lot. Guess Syd couldn’t wait for me to get out of the house, wanted to make sure she got me into school and away.
I think Syd and I were like two sides of the same coin. She wouldn’t work at anything that didn’t interest her but she had some kind of crazy memory for information. I would work at everything as hard as I could but things slipped my mind all the time. It was hard to keep hold of facts. I liked practical things better and I felt like there was always enough going on to keep me busy. I was like that since we were little. I often felt like Sydney did things and I just watched her do them and made sure she didn’t get hurt. For example she’d never wear a helmet if she was riding a bike. She almost never wore one when she was skating.
That might seem brave, but another word for it is reckless—or maybe even stupid. I liked to have fun too, but I didn’t think the fun came from the possibility that you might get hurt. If Daddy said to put on a life jacket when we were on the boat and it was stormy, I put on a life jacket. I wore a helmet when I rode my bike. Syd thought things like that made me scared or wimpy, but I enjoyed what I did.
I loved biking away on the hills or along the ocean and being alone and away from everyone, feeling free and smelling the salt air and thinking about nothing. I really did think about nothing. I’m not embarrassed to say it. It was a gift. Most people can’t stop thinking about who they are or what they’ll do or what people think about them but I could. I could stop thinking about upsetting things and think about nothing. I could accept the world just as it is and live in it just fine. When life gives you blueberries, bake blueberry muffins!
I always thought one day, maybe when we’re older we’d become better friends and see how what we thought were opposite qualities actually complemented each other. Just like Mom’s and Dad’s.
The leaves were just beginning to change color and the stunning yellows and flame reds whizzed past and crunched beneath my tires in the gutter. The breeze smelled like wood smoke and crisp fall air and it was still warm where it was sunny. I loved days like that. The bright hot sun and the high round clouds made me feel free, like I could do anything.
When I arrived at Pine Grove, I locked my bike out front and then went in to say hi to Ginny. I would be changing linens for the first hour and then would relieve the other receptionist at the front desk. Maybe if there were few calls or little to do I’d get to do some schoolwork before biking back home. The place always smelled like vanilla candles and cinnamon, and the old wood was polished shiny and clean, and the wide plank floors creaked a little beneath the traditional braided rugs Ginny had bought down at the antiques market. The whole place was cozy and charming, like stepping into the past.
The sofa in the lobby was also an antique and Ginny had made a log cabin quilt to throw over the arm. It all looked so perfect and made me happy we live in New England. I honestly couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d like to live. Rockland suited me fine and I was proud my family had lived there for generations; it seemed to make the memories all sweeter and deeper, all of us decades after decades going to the same schools, walking down the same roads.
I looked out the windows at the beautiful ocean. It was always so quiet and peaceful there. I was lucky to get paid to sit in that pretty room. Work was usually fun and laid-back. A few guests checking in, a phone reservation or two. But that evening, there must have been something wrong with the telephone connections at the front desk, or maybe a wireless tower had gone down nearby.
Because a few times every hour I would get a call and no one would be on the other line.
I would answer. I would say, “Hello, hello?” And there would be nothing but silence and then a cold quiet click.
