Afterward (24 page)

“I'll be glad when the time changes, so we can have more daylight to play in,” I say as I plug in and get ready.

“Yeah,” Ethan says, and something about the way he says it makes me look at him more closely. Like something is chewing away at him. But maybe I'm just imagining it. And anyway, Ethan counts off like nothing's up.

We fiddle around for a while, but it's like we're playing when we first met. Hesitant. Careful. Ethan keeps stopping, steadying his cymbals, and counting off again.

“I'm just off tonight,” he says.

“It's okay,” I say.

We struggle through a song or two and then all of a sudden Ethan's arms go limp, and his drumsticks drop to the floor by his feet with a clatter.

“Caroline, I have to tell you something.”

I'm standing, still holding my guitar. “Should I sit down?” I ask.

“I think so, yeah,” says Ethan, and his voice is tight and quiet.

Maybe Ethan's therapist thinks we shouldn't hang out together anymore. Or maybe his parents want to move back to Austin. Maybe his mom found out somehow what happened that night at the creek, and she hates me so much now I'm never going to be allowed over again. My heart starts pounding hard. I slide my guitar off my body and sit down on the cement. Ethan isn't looking at me. I can tell from the way his chest is moving under his black T-shirt that his breathing is coming quickly. Maybe too quickly. I'm worried he might pass out.

“Ethan,” I say, “do I need to … like … go get someone?” I picture myself sprinting across the backyard in the fading sunlight, rapping my knuckles on the back door until his mom or dad comes to see what's the matter.

But Ethan shakes his head no. He just starts talking.

“I have to tell you this, Caroline. Because … I like you.” He flushes and shakes his head, embarrassed. “I mean … you know what I mean. I like playing with you. You're my friend, and it's so easy to be around you. I can't say that for a lot of people right now. You're funny. And you're smart.”

I nod, my eyes big.

“When you first came here,” he pauses, takes a breath, “you wanted to know what I remembered about Dylan. About how he was taken. And the truth is I couldn't remember much. Not then. But my memory … it's weird sometimes. There are holes in it, and sometimes the holes get filled in when I don't even expect it. Dr. Greenberg says that's what happens with traumatic memories.”

I nod again because it's all I seem able to do, and I wonder if Dylan is having the same sort of feelings and memories as Ethan, only he doesn't know how to voice them.

But why is Ethan mentioning Dylan now?

And then, suddenly, I feel it. Like when you know someone is walking up behind you. Or when you sense that it's just about to rain. I know that Ethan is about to tell me something I don't want to hear but have to listen to. My heart starts hammering away inside my chest.

Now Ethan's mouth is moving and words are sliding out, lining up one right after another. I want them to stop coming, but they won't. He's careful how he puts them in order, with pauses in between. He isn't looking at me as he talks, just staring at his drums.

He tells me a terrible story with the scariest monster in it. Scarier than the wolf in
Little Red Riding Hood
or the evil stepmother in
Cinderella
. Scarier than Jason in those old eighties horror movies Emma and I used to watch. Scarier than anything I've ever seen or heard.

And in the story, Ethan is the scary monster's helper.

And my brother is the prey.

I blink. I blink again.

Ethan isn't crying, but it's like he's going to.

“I understand if you never want to see me again,” he says at the end of the story. “But I wanted to tell you this. So you wouldn't think it was your fault what happened. And Dr. Greenberg tells me it's not my fault either, but I don't know. Either way, it isn't yours.” His voice is barely a whisper.

We sit there in silence, and I find myself reaching for my guitar. How can I be here, with Ethan? How can I sit here with him after what he's just said he did?

How can I want to reach out to him and want to cover him with a raincoat or my arms or something and protect him? How can I want to scream at him, yelling at the the tops of my lungs, my fists clenched? How can I feel both wants tugging at my insides?

And then I hear myself saying, “I have to go,” and I'm standing, somehow, my guitar still strapped on. “I'm sorry, but I have to … go.”

Ethan is nodding like he expected as much, and I am on my bike and I am pedaling and I am crying so hard. I can barely see to make it home, and the darkening sky doesn't help. As I reach my street my entire body is gripped with panic. I have to see Dylan. Now.

I dump my bike and guitar in the front yard and race to the door, trembling. I can barely manage the key in the door. I imagine walking in and finding all the windows wide open, my brother vanished, my mom racing up and down the halls of our house calling his name.

But inside all that's happening is the television is on, and I catch a glimpse of my mom's ponytail and her hand clicking away at the remote.

I dart up to Dylan's bedroom and open the door. He's curled up around his pink horsie blanket, gripping it tight. The glow of his nightlights makes him look golden. Peaceful. Perfect.

I sink to my knees at the side of his bed, and I watch him take breaths as I try to catch my own. My mind is frantic with questions. How could anyone frighten my brother? How could anyone hurt my brother?

And how can I be friends with someone who did?

 

ETHAN—306 DAYS AFTERWARD

My dad shuts the front door and turns to look at me and my mom. He's smiling, of course.

“I think that went well, right?” he says.

My mom is smiling, too, but I know she's trying too hard. Maybe not as hard as my dad, but still.

“I think it's good,” I say, and I do, actually, but I look down and see my thumbs traveling up and down my knuckles.

“That's great!” my dad answers, and he sits back down on the living room couch and picks up the pieces of paper that Principal Berry and the school's counselor have just dropped off. He leafs through them even though we've spent the past two hours talking about every single word that's written on them. Everything from optimal schedules to classroom seating to locker placement.

“So you're ready to be a junior in high school next fall?” he asks me.

I shrug my shoulders. The idea to go back to school came from Mrs. Leander. She said I was ready—that I'd made tremendous progress over the past several months. When she asked me about going back, even part-time, it was like she was asking me if I wanted to run for president. Technically, it was something I was able to do. But in actuality, I wasn't sure I wanted to.

What if I don't go back? Do I just stay at home every day, visiting Jesse at the frozen yogurt place when Caroline isn't there? If I don't go back to school, do I live here with my parents for the rest of my life? If I don't go back to school, and I don't have Caroline, do I never have another real friend again outside of my semi-awkward, semi-cool video game and frozen yogurt friendship with Jesse, who probably still wonders if everything that happened to me is his fault?

“What do you think about the schedule, Ethan?” my mom asks, taking a yellow piece of paper where Principal Berry has sketched some times and course names.

“I think it's good. It's good to go in for the stuff I feel I'm strongest at for now, and keep meeting with Mrs. Leander in the afternoons for everything else.” That means homeroom, Spanish I, English Literature, and US History in the mornings, then lunch in the cafeteria—maybe—and then home to work on math and science with Mrs. Leander.

My mom stares at the paper and then looks up and across the room like my dad and I aren't there.

“I can't believe we're here already,” she says, finally. “Talking about going to school.”

I nod. I can't believe it either, really.

“I think it's good that Principal Berry will be meeting with the students first and letting them know your schedule and that you're excited to be going back,” my dad says, “but that you don't necessarily want to talk about what happened.” The words
what happened
are as close as my dad can get to naming my kidnapping. Dr. Greenberg says my dad is probably having a harder time dealing with everything than my mom because he likes to pretend he's all right all the time even when he isn't.

“Maybe,” I say. “But maybe I should just go there and not stand out? I mean, it's not like everything wasn't already all out in the news and everything.” My parents glance at one another but don't say anything. I imagine Caroline sitting in on a student meeting in the auditorium about how to handle the Kidnap Victim. I'm glad she's a year ahead of me and there's no chance we could be in any of the same classes. But still. I imagine walking past her in the hallway and her ignoring me, like we never knew each other at all.

My throat tightens like it has the past few weeks, whenever I've thought about Caroline. Suddenly I need to stop thinking about school. I need to stop talking to my parents about it at least.

“Can we take a break and come back to this?” I say. This is something we talk about with Dr. Sugar. That any of us are supposed to be able to “take a break” from talking about something when it gets too stressful as long as we “come back to it” later either at home or during a session. Whenever I ask to “take a break and come back” to something, I think I sound like I'm forty years old.

“Sure,” my mom says, taking the papers off the table and making a nice stack. She'll probably alphabetize them later and flag questions for Dr. Sugar with Post-its.

“Hey, Ethan,” my dad says, “why don't we go by that frozen yogurt place? The one Jesse works at? You've been going over there to hang out and say hi?” This is what my dad does best: sensing a need for a change in our family rhythm and planning an outing.

It's not Tuesday or Thursday or Saturday, so Caroline won't be there. And maybe I could stand to get out of the house, although the idea that my dad thinks I “hang out” at the frozen yogurt place is both funny and sad.

“Okay,” I say, and my mom smiles like she always does when the two of us do something together. Like she's fighting the urge to take a picture with her phone.

We take the Volvo, and on the way there, my dad and I make small talk. About my drumming. (It's going good.) About March Madness. (Kentucky will win.) About one of his patients that he saw that morning (a kindergartner who bites). I wonder if I had never been taken if I would have different kinds of conversations with my dad. Or if we would still just be having these forced talks about nothing much. Like I said, we didn't hang out a lot before. So maybe this is just the way it is and was always meant to be.

What sucks is not knowing for sure.

“Hey, I haven't seen Caroline around,” my dad says suddenly. To him it's just more of the same. Small talk. He can't know how much her name makes me catch my breath.

“Yeah,” I say, staring out the window. “She's been busy.”

“I think you guys sounded really good together,” my dad continues. “I hope she comes back soon.”

“Yeah,” I answer again. I haven't heard from Caroline since that night she ran off crying, and I haven't tried to text her or anything.

I stare out the window of the car. Caroline. Playing drums isn't as much fun without her. Writing lyrics isn't as easy. Even if I never got the guts to share them with her, it was like I was writing them for her to read eventually.

Nothing is as funny or interesting without her. We hadn't even really hung out outside of my garage, unless you count that one weird night at the creek. But even though I only really ever saw her at my house, it's like I feel her absence everywhere I go.

And it hurts like hell.

Dr. Greenberg says I have to give her time just like she gave me time after that night we kissed. That I have to be willing to respect her need for space if we're ever going to be real friends again.

And I want to be real friends with her. Even if our friendship is based on the weirdest, most horrible thing. The idea of not being friends with her is actually more than I can let myself think about.

But it's been weeks, and she hasn't gotten in touch. And I'm scared I know what that means.

We pull into the Tom Thumb parking lot, and my dad starts steering the car toward the frozen yogurt place.

“Dad,” I say, “can we not get frozen yogurt?” The idea of walking inside and maybe having to make small talk and force smiles with Jesse is so tiring.

My dad pulls into a parking spot and turns to look at me.

“Sure. I mean, yeah, we don't have to get any.” He looks confused. “You mean you don't like it?”

“It's okay.”

“But I thought your mom said you liked coming here?”

I shrug. “It's just a good place to come and practice, you know, being independent. While mom gets the grocery shopping done. But the stuff tastes like frozen cough medicine. Covered in sprinkles.”

My dad laughs. “That does sound pretty nasty.”

“It is.”

I want to tell him, too, that being there reminds me of Caroline. That I'm feeling down without her. But I don't tell him that part.

We sit there for a moment, staring at the mostly empty Tom Thumb parking lot.

“I have an idea,” he says, all of a sudden, “for practicing independence.”

“What?”

“You want to drive the Volvo?”

I give my dad a look. My eyebrows must be way up because he nods and says, “No, I'm serious.”

“Is that even legal? I don't have a license or even a permit.”