Between (27 page)

Mr. Riley stares at Josie. “I’m sorry about your sister. I haven’t had a chance to tell you that yet.”

“Thank you.” Josie stares him straight in the eyes. I know it makes him feel uncomfortable; how could it not? Imagine having to face the world with mismatched pupils every day. He averts his gaze after a few seconds.

“She liked you,” Josie says to him.

“I liked her, too.”

“So … don’t tell on us, okay? We aren’t doing anything wrong.”

Mr. Riley stares at all of them, his mouth slightly agape. He seems small and self-conscious, the difference in his eyes so awkwardly noticeable. Even as an adult—as a teacher, an authority figure—he’s unable to stand up to a group of teenagers. “You really don’t think so, do you?”

They don’t answer him.

“Look at you,” he says, with a sudden burst of uncharacteristic confidence. “First there were six of you … then five … and now there’s four. You’re not invincible, kids. I would think you’d realize that by now.”

“Alex.” I put a hand on his arm. I feel restless, agitated, and excited all at once. “I have an idea.”

Topher flicks his cigarette on the ground in Mr. Riley’s direction. “You can’t talk to us that way.”

Mr. Riley only stands there, red faced and glowering. He begins to back away.

“Isn’t he going to do something?” Alex nearly shrieks. “He’s just going to let him get away with that?”

“Hey.” I squeeze him. “Come with me. I think I know where Richie went.”

Seventeen

The memories are coming more quickly now, with less warning or time for me to prepare. I don’t have to seek them out as much as I simply fall into them accidentally, as though I’m getting better at accessing them. As I remember more and more, it’s like pieces of the puzzle are getting filled in, one by one. I don’t necessarily like the picture of my life that they’re creating, but I’m grateful to have something other than a blank slate peppered with a few random details.

In one memory, I’m riding my bike—with training wheels—down the sidewalk as my parents stand behind me, watching nervously. In another, I’m at a slumber party with Josie at Mera’s house. We’re maybe eleven years old. It’s the middle of the night, and we’re drinking diet soda straight from a two-liter bottle, passing it around like booze while we play Truth or Dare. A few seconds later, I see myself in high school—probably ninth or tenth grade, from the looks of my hair and outfit—sitting in the back of study hall, my desk pulled close to Richie’s as we doodle on each other’s history notebooks.

Almost as quickly as it appears, the memory dissolves, replaced by another. This time, it is an early winter morning. I’m at home. My house still has its original antique windows. When it gets below a certain temperature, frost will form on the insides of the glass. I watch myself standing in my messy room, doing stretches in thermal running pants and a top, and lean over for a moment to scratch my initials into the frost on my window with an acrylic fingertip:
E.V.
R.W.
I’m older now, a bit thinner. I’m guessing I’m seventeen.

The clock on my nightstand says 5:02 a.m. It’s so thickly dark, the moon obscured by clouds, barely a star to be seen, that it might as well be midnight outside. I own reflective gear to keep me safe from traffic, but I’m not wearing it today. Even the streetlights are out this early. In the dark, alone, with nobody to see me, it seems almost like I’m not even there.

The only light from my room is the glow of the computer monitor on my desk. I check to make sure my door is locked. Then I sit before my computer and open the Internet, find a bunch of e-mails from [email protected]. The first message reads:

For youre entertainment, baby.

Xoxo

Vinny

There are attachments. It’s photograph after photograph, each one worse than the next. There must be close to a hundred in total. In some of them I’m wearing a bra and underpants. There are a few of me on the filthy mattress in Vince’s apartment, posing in trashy lingerie that I could not possibly have purchased myself. The poses are so unlike anything I would ever think of doing that, even as I’m staring at them, even though I
know
it’s me, there is a part of me that thinks: this could not have happened. I can’t remember ever sending so much as a racy picture of myself to Richie. I am a virgin. This is practically pornography. It makes no sense. Yet it’s here, not Photoshopped: me, degraded, smiling with teeth gritted so tightly that my cheek muscles are visible beneath the skin. My only small comfort is the fact that, behind my forced smile, it’s obvious I’m not enjoying myself.

I notice that my eyes are wide as I stare at the pictures, scrolling down to look at all of them, clearly horrified by what I’m seeing. Once I reach the bottom of the last e-mail, I close the files, shut off my computer, and leave the room. Outside, the air is so cold that I’m sure my face goes hotly numb almost immediately. I’m wearing a hat and gloves, but my cheeks are undoubtedly on fire as I run, breathing in and out, finding a rhythm, burning through mile after mile until the sun begins to rise, cracking against the horizon.

It is torture that all I can do is watch and follow, my motions automatic and ghostly, literally hovering behind myself, unable to run. Unable to free myself from these damn boots.

I run all the way to his house. The kitchen light is on. He’s waiting for me; it seems like he’s expecting my arrival any time now. I tap lightly at the door before letting myself in, and I stand in the warm room, catching my breath, watching Mr. Riley as he spoon-feeds a tiny baby girl who sits in a high chair at the table.

He barely glances at me. “How long have you been out so far?”

The clock on the stove says 6:54.

“A couple hours.” I stretch my arms overhead. The ceiling is so low that my fingertips graze the pale yellow spackling. “Where’s your wife?”

“She’s asleep. I took the morning shift with the baby. Get yourself a glass of water, Liz.” Finally, his glaze flickers in my direction. “You’ll dehydrate. You won’t make it home.”

The baby—her name is Hope, I remember—has applesauce smeared all over her fat, red cheeks. She coos with delight and smiles adoringly at her father, who is wearing a white T-shirt and pajama pants.

“Did you eat breakfast?” he asks.

When I don’t answer, he says, “I’ll take that as a no. You’ve gotta eat, Liz. You want to pass out along the road? You want another concussion?”

“I’m in trouble, Mr. Riley.”

He nods, feeds Hope another spoonful. “You look like shit.”

It occurs to me how totally inappropriate this could seem to any other onlooker: me, standing in my coach’s kitchen at seven in the morning, listening as he tells me I look like shit. Me, watching him feed his baby, his wife asleep down the hall, while her husband shares the intimate quiet of early morning with a breathless teenage girl.

But there’s nothing sleazy about it. I know that for sure. I don’t think I ever realized the fact while I was alive, but it seems obvious now: since my real dad was almost never around after my mom died—and when he was around, he let me do pretty much whatever I wanted—Mr. Riley wasn’t just my coach and friend; he was also a sort of authority figure to me. What did he know? Did I tell him what was the matter before I died? I keep watching, hoping to learn more.

“I mean it. I’m in a lot of trouble. Can’t you help me?”

Mr. Riley pauses, puts down the spoon, and looks around the kitchen for a moment. It’s a small room, but lovely, bright and warm, messy with dishes and coffee stains on the countertop, the refrigerator covered in family photos. Even if I leave before Mr. Riley’s wife gets up, I’m guessing she knows that I come here. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to keep secrets from the people he loves.

“You could talk to Mrs. Anderson. Have you considered that?”

I almost choke on my sip of water. “The school guidance counselor? Are you kidding me? She goes to yoga with my stepmom.” I shake my head. “No freaking way.”

“How about a psychologist? I know someone in town. He’s a PhD. Very good.”

“Why can’t I tell you? Why can’t you just sit here and listen, and I’ll tell you everything.” I swallow a mouthful of water. “I want to tell you. I want someone else to know.”

Mr. Riley looks at me, glances at Hope—who is still smiling, highly entertained by my interaction with her father—and closes his eyes. “You shouldn’t be coming here. If somebody sees you, coming into my house this early in the morning … I could lose my job, Liz. Anybody could get the wrong idea.” He stares down at his outfit, which is sparse enough to be construed as inappropriate: the thin undershirt, bare feet, his face unshaven. He’s just rolled out of bed.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go. I run and run, and it never gets any better.” My tone is desperate, pleading. “I can’t think about anything else. I can’t live like this.”

“I told you, there’s a psychologist—”

“Let me tell you about psychologists. You know my boyfriend, Richie?”

He rolls his eyes. “Famous Richie Wilson, dealer to the high school stars.”

“You can think what you want about him. His parents sent him to a shrink last year. He had like three sessions with the guy, and he
confided
in him that he sometimes … well, you know. He sells a little pot. It wasn’t more than a month and the good doctor was hitting up my boyfriend for drugs. His
psychologist
.” I sit down at the table and push my water glass away. “I’m not talking to any shrink.”

Then, as I’m watching the two of us, Mr. Riley does something I’m not expecting. He leans across the table and closes his hand over mine. Just from looking, I can tell that he’s holding on tight. I don’t try to pull away.

“Liz. Elizabeth. I care about you, but I can’t do this. You can’t come here anymore. I can’t risk my career.” He shakes his head firmly. “You need to talk to a trained professional. Someone who can really help you. I’m only your track coach, Liz.”

I blink at him through teary eyes. “But you’re the only person I have to talk to. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“I know that. You know that. But other people might not see it that way.” He pauses. “What if I set up an appointment for you? I could ask around. What if I do some research and find a therapist who has experience with teenagers? I can find you someone good, I promise.”

I stare at my hands. I don’t say anything. I just shake my head.

We both stand up. Mr. Riley hands Hope the plastic spoon, and she bangs it against the high chair with glee. He puts his hand on my back and nudges me toward the door.

I look around the kitchen again. It’s so warm, so calm, so safe. I put my head down, resting it on his shoulder. “I don’t want to leave.” And I start to cry hard. My nose runs onto his shirt. He’s right; I look like shit. I don’t think that I care.

He folds his arms around me in a hug. I imagine his wife walking into the room right now, and what she might think if she saw us this way. But despite how it might look, I know for a fact that it’s nothing; there’s no reason for her to be upset with either of us. It’s just warmth and comfort. It’s innocent. After seeing the pictures of myself earlier, it occurs to me that this might have been the only innocent thing I had left.

He pulls back slightly, brushes a strand of hair from my sweaty forehead. “You’re miles from home. Do you want a ride? I could put Hope in her car seat. It’s no problem.”

“I’ll be fine.” He is pulling away, nervously glancing out the window, probably terrified that a neighbor will see me in his arms.

As I’m walking through his kitchen door, gearing up to start running again, he says, “I don’t care what you say. I’m going to find you someone to talk to.”

I don’t answer; I act like I didn’t even hear him.

Mr. Riley stares at his daughter. He shakes his head. Under his breath, he murmurs, “All right, then. I’ll see you at school, Liz.”

My family is awake when I arrive at home. My parents are used to my early-morning runs; they wave to me from the kitchen as I make my way upstairs.

Josie is in my bedroom. She’s at my computer. She’s looking at the pictures. Specifically, she’s staring at a shot of me and Vince, lying in bed together. Vince is winking at the camera, grinning widely. His teeth are yellow and crooked. No plans to visit Topher’s dad and get them fixed anytime soon, I’m sure.

Josie and I stare at each other.

“You’ve been gone for hours,” she says. Her tone is almost accusing. “I heard you leave. It was barely five in the morning.”

“And you came into my room? You thought it was just fine to go through my computer?” There’s an edge of irritation to my voice that strikes me as unusual. I don’t remember Josie and me ever fighting.

She shrugs. “Yes, I came into your room. What does it matter, Liz? Who is this guy?”