Breaking Glass (18 page)

During the night, I slept dreamlessly, sounder than I had in years.

I woke to darkness, the brief sensation of warm lips against my cheek.

“Susannah?” I whispered, and fell promptly back to sleep.

I woke up to Ryan sitting at the end of my bed munching on a gingerbread cookie.

“Merry Christmas, Jeremy. Your father’s here to pick you up.”

“Shit!” I said, kicking aside the covers. “What time is it?”

“It’s one in the afternoon. You slept so soundly, no one had the heart to wake you. It’s not Christmas morning—it’s already Christmas day.” He plopped a small, elaborately wrapped package on the bed in front of me. “A little something from the Morgans. And Susannah.”

I tore off the wrapping and opened the small gift box. Inside was a chain with a tiny sterling-silver lifesaving ring at the end. There was also a gift card for a hundred dollars to Sports Authority.

“The charm is from Susannah.”

I turned the charm over. On it were inscribed the words TO MY LIFESAVER.

Ryan’s tone was wooden and flat. The skin under his vibrant eyes was sunken and dark.

“Dude, didn’t you sleep?” I asked. “Where is she?”

“I slept an hour. Susannah packed up her stuff and moved back home.”

“What? Why?”

“Damned if I know. Damned if I understand why she does anything. Fuck her.” Ryan stood and started pacing the room.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with…”

Ryan whirled on me, his face crimson. “
You
? Not everything is about you, Jeremy. Susannah has
issues
. Big-time issues. Maybe if you fucking woke up, you’d realize that.”

I rubbed my temples, a headache pounding. I noticed a fresh scratch on his cheekbone, the skin around it red and puffy. “How did that happen?”

Ryan stared at me, not even bothering to obscure the sorrow tugging at his features with a glowing smile. “I walked into the Christmas tree.”

“Give me a break. Dude, did you guys have a fight?”

Ryan looked away, his voice cracking. “No. After we fished your sorry ass out of the pool, she went to her room and started packing. What did you say to her?”

“Nothing. I didn’t get the chance. I was too busy drowning.”

Now

Cars are parked down the length of Emerson Road. Hedges strung with tiny white lights line the long driveway leading to the Morgans’ palatial home.

We pull into the garage and, once again I assert my right to struggle up the two flights of stairs to the main floor without assistance. Dad shakes his head. “Sorry, Jeremy. On our own premises, it’s one thing. But it’s too much liability for the Morgans to risk.”

The Hulk nods grimly and I realize that this mammoth is going to be stuck to me all night like a wad of chewing gum. Heaven forbid I should fall—there might be litigation.

Those Morgans think of everything.

Before I can protest, The Hulk scoops me up over his shoulder and grabs my crutches with the other hand. Dad carries the wheelchair while I’m carted up the stairs like a sack of cattle feed.

Once on level ground, I refuse the wheelchair, opting for the crutches, and survey the room. The opulent space is jammed wall-to-wall with people. Constellations of tiny lights twinkle on the ceiling. A massive Christmas tree towers at the far side of the room.

Every year, the Morgans’ tree is themed to reflect the honoree. This year, I fully expect it to be decked out with miniature crutches, wheelchairs, and artificial legs.

Subtlety is not a Morgan strong suit.

The first person to ambush me is Ryan’s mother, Celia. Dressed in a red sequined jacket and matching skirt, her blonde bob as solid as a rock formation, Celia Morgan wrings her manicured hands. It’s the first time she’s seen me minus my leg, so I know what’s coming.

I’ve always liked Mrs. Morgan. Which is why she may be the last person I want to see right now. I smile sheepishly. “Hi, Mrs. Morgan.”

Her gaze drops to my bottom half and it looks like she’s about to burst into tears. “Oh, Jeremy. Poor sweet, sweet Jeremy.” She wraps her thin arms around me carefully like I might break and pats my back. “You brave, brave boy. How
are
you?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Morgan. Really. And I’m very happy to be here,” I lie. “Oh, and thanks for the cookies.”

Mrs. Morgan laughs and wipes her eye with the back of her hand, leaving a trail of smeared mascara. “I’m so sorry, honey. It’s just—I’ve known you all your life. I changed your diapers!”

She tries to smile through her tears, and I want to bolt out the front door, down the steps, and into the street. But, of course, that’s not happening, so instead I slam a smile onto my face and say, “It’s okay, Mrs. Morgan. I’m getting used to it.”

From the corner of my eye, I spot my dad talking with a couple. They listen intently. Every now and then, I catch them glancing at me and nodding sympathetically. I think about the canteen in my pocket and look for a place where I can sneak a drink.

Mrs. Morgan draws in a breath, pats her hair, and smiles warmly. “It’s Christmas, Jeremy, and you’re here to have fun with all your friends. People are
really
happy to see you, sweetheart. Go ahead and mingle.”

I want to point out that Susannah is not here, and that no one seems to miss her, least of all the Morgans given how much time she’d spent in their house. But I don’t.

Smiling people mill around me. They remark how brave I am, but no one wants to linger. My palms are sweaty on the handgrips of my crutches. I shift forward to adjust my weight. I’m an idiot for refusing the wheelchair. My leg and arms are already tired.

I contemplate crawling under a table to flee the piercing scrutiny of their gazes and decide the bathroom is a good haven. Pivoting, I change directions too quickly, then slip and tumble headlong into Marisa, scattering the tray of hors d’oeuvres she carries across the floor.

The Hulk is on the scene within seconds to plop me into the wheelchair and check that I haven’t broken anything litigation-worthy. Red-faced, Marisa kneels to clean up the mess.

“Crap,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just keep messing things up for you.” I start to lean over in the wheelchair to help, but Hulk sits me up straight.

“It’s okay, Jeremy,” she says. Smiling, she looks up, a really adorable dimple biting into one cheek. She’s wearing a white tailored shirt tucked into black pants. Her dark waves are pulled back in a severe ponytail. “You’re looking really great. What have you been up to?”

“Nothing much. Just trying to find the coordinates so I can teleport home.”

I want to ask her if she knows anything about the disappearance and reappearance of Susannah’s stuff from my room. If someone put her up to taking it. But I’ve been so rude to this girl that I don’t want her to hate or fear me any more than she probably already does. Or to think I’m totally bonkers.

Marisa smirks. “What—aren’t you having fun? Make sure you eat before you go. The food’s great. But I should get back to work before Mrs. Morgan sees me being idle.”

“Hope I didn’t get you in trouble.”

“Forget it.”

Marisa stands, the tray of ruined appetizers balanced on her palm. “Let me get you something to eat after I get rid of this junk. Head over to the table and wait for me there.”

The absence of Susannah hangs between us like fog, but I’m not sure what I want from Marisa. Help? Comfort?

Unsaid words gather in my throat. What I really need right now is a drink to wash them down. The canteen in my pocket is reassuring pressed against my chest. She turns to leave.

“One more thing,” I say.

Marisa stops and turns around to face me again, her eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

“Why am I the only person who cares that Susannah isn’t here?”

Marisa’s eyes flash with dark heat. “I miss her, too, Jeremy. But there’s not much left to do at this point, except move on.”

“What if I can’t?”

She leans over and touches my arm. “You have no choice.”

She turns to walk away again. I debate admitting my otherworldly encounters, but instead latch onto her wrist. “Do you know a guy named Derek Spake?”

A delicate crease forms between her brows. “No. Why? I really need to take care of this mess.”

Marisa is about to flit away when Mrs. Morgan intercepts us. She’s holding a plate piled high with food. She speaks into Marisa’s ear, which sends her scurrying off even faster toward the kitchen.

“Let’s get this to the table for you, honey,” Mrs. Morgan says, brightly.

Instead of following after Mrs. Morgan, I pause and watch Marisa’s ponytail bounce from side to side as she hustles to the kitchen and wonder why it is I always manage to chase this girl away. I vow to resume AP Calc lessons in earnest as soon as possible.

Mrs. Morgan deposits me at a table and leaves. My insides tense because parting the crowds like Moses with the Red Sea is Patrick Morgan, heading straight toward me.

“Jeremy,” he says, patting me hard on the back. Apparently the gesture is one of those manly things they teach you at Patriarch School. “You’re looking well. I trust you’re enjoying the fête?”

I smile, thinking that fête is probably another word they teach at that school. “Yes. This is great.” His look tells me he expects more. “Quite—” I search my mental thesaurus for the right word.
Grandiose? Overblown?
“—impressive,” I say.

Maybe my emphasis is wrong, or maybe it’s the half-smirk I haven’t bothered to wipe off my face, because my clumsy erudition seems to offend him. Pat Morgan’s brilliant smile freezes. His eyes glaze with heat. He leans in close enough for me to smell his Ralph Lauren aftershave. Voice gruff, he whispers in my ear. Instead of the charm school valedictorian, he now sounds like one of the husbands from Mob Wives. The hand that rests lightly on my shoulder squeezes hard. “Don’t get all wise-guy on me, Jeremy Glass. I’m onto your shit. You think I don’t know about you?”

He pulls away, the bright smile gleaming, and waves to some passing guests. Then he turns back to me. The smile still lingers, but the blue eyes have gone ice-cold. “Do you really think this miserable party was my idea?” he hisses. “You think I care if you get a fake leg or if you have to hop around like a kangaroo for the rest of your life? You’re just a goddamned stupid kid who ran into the street drunk off your ass and got hit by a car. This party was Ryan and Celia’s doing. And, lucky for you, they don’t really know that you’re such a mess. That you’re your mother’s son, after all. Lucky for you they don’t know about all the dirt I’ve swept under the rug as a favor to your father and my wife.”

He stands and chuckles as if we’d just exchanged pleasantries, pats me on the back, then strides away, the crowd swallowing him whole.

I’m heating up like an ant placed under a magnifying glass in the sun. I need to get out of this hellhole. I need a drink. Now.

What was that all about?

Drinks are flowing. I spy my dad again, laughing just a little too hard at something Celia has said. She reaches to push a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead with a manicured hand. I’m wondering if it’s possible that I’ve managed to unhinge them both.

I’m about to make my getaway to the bathroom and spend some quality time with my Civil War canteen when Ryan slides into the seat next to me. “Dude! Want a sip of this? It’s good stuff.”

My eyes go wide. It’s one of those things Ryan always did at parties to test my mettle. I’d always made a show of refusing. Jeremy the Teetotaler.

He slides me a glass filled with clear liquid and I’m so grateful I almost hug him. I drain it in one long gulp. Ryan looks at me, baffled as my hidden talent comes to light. “I’ve never seen you drink like that, Jer. I’ve never actually seen you drink at all. You sure you’re okay?”

I set the empty glass down and stare at him, letting the words that sit on my tongue mingle with the warm afterglow of my elixir. “I am now.”

Ryan looks uneasy. Maybe it’s because the way my vodka-fueled gaze slices cleanly into his. “What, Jeremy? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What’s up with you and Derek Spake, Ryan?” I blurt.

I note the split second his face drains of color. And how, just as quickly, he layers an easy smile over it.

Ryan laughs. “You mean that guy from the Hurley Wildcats? Unspeakable Spake? What about him?”

I drum my fingers. The room starts to wobble. “What were you guys up to?”

Ryan stands abruptly. “What’s gotten into you, bro? The presentation is going to start any minute.”

As if on cue, the lights dim. A spotlight flares and illuminates the platform in front of the Christmas tree. Patrick Morgan steps up to the podium.

I turn back to Ryan, but he’s gone. Either I really did touch a nerve or I pissed him off for being such an ungrateful bastard. I’m betting it’s both. It’s dark now, so no one sees me as I fill my empty glass from the canteen. Twice. I figure I’ve just inhaled what amounts to three-quarters of a bottle. And I’m feeling it big time.

Ryan appears on the podium beside his father. He’s brandishing a high-tech object above his head. This one looks more like a propeller blade than a leg. The room falls into a sudden hush. Patrick Morgan clears his throat and his deep voice rolls over the room like mountain thunder.

“I want to thank you all for coming tonight. In the spirit of Christmas, each holiday season the Morgan family honors a deserving member of our community. For my son and for me, this year is more special than most.”

Patrick Morgan clears his throat again and sips from a glass of water. Apparently, I’ve got all the Morgans choked up tonight. He continues. “You all know our star track and field marathoner, Jeremy Glass, without whose efforts the Riverton Devils Track and Field team would never have taken home the Division Championship title this past season. Jeremy’s been running faster and longer than anyone else for nearly as long as he could walk.

And for most of that time, he’s been my son Ryan’s best friend.” Again he stops, apparently overcome by my sad tale. I bite back the hysterical laughter that rides shotgun on an incoming wave of giddiness. His delivery is smooth. Smooth as the three glasses of vodka sloshing around in my gut.