Counting Backwards (7 page)

“I’m not trying to be your therapist,” he says, “and I don’t have a key to the basement.”

“Could you get one?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“Why not?” What good is a key to the stairwell if it only leads to the basement? Maybe he has one and he’s lying about it. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll figure out who he is and tell on him.

“Because I’m not trying to go for a walk outside,” he says tensely. “One more question and then we’re done. Better make it good.”

One more question. What should I be asking him? What more is there to know?

“Where do you keep your keys?” I say, then add, “So the safeties don’t find them.”

It’s an obvious question, and he probably knows why I’m asking it, but he also seems cocky enough to answer me. But instead he’s moving across the room, coming closer and closer until he’s right in front of me. Definitely
within
reach. Maybe he has night-vision goggles, too.

“Do you think you could get them?” he says. He’s so close I can feel his voice in my bones and the heat coming off his body. His sharp, piney scent reminds me of the woods behind my grandmother’s house.

“Maybe I could,” I say, fighting to keep my voice from quaking.

“I keep them
real close
,” he says, and then he’s moving again, circling around until he’s standing right behind me.

But I don’t wait to see what he does next.

I dart away, scrambling sideways like a crab, and follow the hallway out of the darkroom. I stumble up the stairs and don’t stop until I’m back in my bedroom on the third floor, where I stand in the middle of my room, breathing hard.

After my fear and adrenaline fade and my brain starts working again, I know one thing for certain: I have to figure out who he is.

I have to get those keys.

The next morning I stand in front of my smeary mirror and inspect my hair, which hasn’t just been cut, it has been severed, with loose strands dangling down and a strange slant going from one side to the other. I could probably convince Kayla to let me borrow some scissors to fix it, but that would feel too much like giving in.

Unable to do anything about my hair, I review the facts about my mystery man in the basement. Judging by our closer encounters, I figure he’s a good bit taller than me. Deep voice with a Southern accent, although accents can be faked. I’d say he probably likes to talk a lot too. Fairly smart and very sneaky.

Really, his voice is the best thing I have to go on. All I have to do is hear him talk and I’ll know. But if he wants to remain anonymous, he won’t talk to me or within my earshot. I need to be listening without
appearing
to be listening.

During walkover, I spy on the boys’ line to see if any of them are looking my way. A few of them are, but it doesn’t really count because I’m already staring at them like a crazy stalker.

In first period, Mr. Chris passes out worksheets on American Revolutionaries like Paul Revere and the notorious traitor Benedict Arnold. Sulli’s my partner for the assignment, but instead of helping me answer questions, he’s retelling that stupid rumor—the one where I’m the psycho and the Latina Queens are the victims of my homicidal rage, which by now feels like old news.

“So that’s why you stole that sharp,” Sulli says to me, like he’s Sherlock Holmes having an
aha
moment.

“Your psycho girlfriend stole the sharp,” I say, glaring at Brandi’s back because I know she’s listening. “And you can tell her I’m going to get her back. If I’m lucky, it’ll be bad enough to get me kicked out of this place.”

“I like it,” he says, reaching over to pick up a piece of my hair, letting it drop against my cheek. “Short and
sexy
.”

“Don’t
touch me.” I scoot my desk back to where it was before we teamed up—I’ll finish this assignment myself. I’m fairly certain Sulli is
not
my man in the basement, unless he’s incredibly good at faking accents. I stop and listen to the voices of the guys all around me, but it’s impossible to get a good read with everyone talking at once.

First period ends, and I continue my search in Algebra II and English, but no likely suspects surface. By lunchtime I’m ready to tell Margo about my secret meeting, if only to see whether she might have a lead. But then I’d have to tell her
about the key. And if people find out there’s a key to the stairwell door, the safeties will come looking for it, and it might be lost to me forever.

I have to think long-term.

We stroll out to the pen, and Margo walks over to Victor, who is standing, as always, with A.J. I follow her over even though it’s a little weird, the way
they’re
always together and
we’re
always together, like some forced double date.

I stand off to the side while Margo pretends to be flirting with Victor, but really she’s narrating the girls’ orders in French. From what Margo has told me before, they’re mostly candy and cosmetics. Nothing gets written down. Not included on their list is one road map of Georgia, but I’m not bitter. I gather from this exchange that Margo is the girls’ liaison for their smuggling ring, and she takes orders from everyone
except
the Latina Queens, which might be part of the reason they hate her. I’m still not sure about A.J.’s role in this operation. Then I realize I haven’t yet profiled him. I glance at him sideways. He’s big enough, but I’d need to hear his voice to know for sure.

“Pretty sunny today,” I say to him. The weather isn’t much of a talking point. It’s always sunny here. Sunny, Sunny Meadows.

He indulges me by squinting up at the sky and nodding his head in agreement. But he still doesn’t speak.

“How was your lunch?” I ask. He shrugs and makes an icky face. “I think I ate an armadillo, or maybe it was a bilge rat. Very gamey.”

He smiles at my weak attempt at humor. He looks almost friendly when he smiles, but why won’t he talk to me? I need a question he can’t dodge or answer yes or no to.

“I’ve got automotive next. How about you?”

He stares at me, in my eyes, so deep and penetrating I forget I’m waiting for an answer.

Victor taps him on the shoulder. “Onward and upward, my friend.”

A.J. nods once at me and turns away. I grab Margo by her elbow. “Why won’t he talk to me?”

“Who?”

“A.J.”

“He doesn’t talk to anyone.”

“What?”

“I thought you knew that.”

I stare after him. He doesn’t talk to anyone? “Why not?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “He used to talk when he first got here. Then one day he just—stopped.”

The bell rings, and I watch A.J. pass by us on his way inside. He gives me an almost smile and I return it. I want to know what made him stop talking. I realize that makes him an
unlikely candidate for my basement friend, but just because he
chooses
not to talk doesn’t mean he can’t. I won’t cross him off the list just yet.

I continue on to automotive therapy, which is my only elective class. All the electives here have a therapy twist to them—art therapy, dance therapy, team sports therapy, woodshop therapy, and on and on. I figure with automotive, I’ll at least have access to cars, even if we’re not allowed to drive them. I know because I asked the guidance counselor when he was signing me up. “
No driving
,” he said, and made sure I heard him.

I walk into class that afternoon for the first time to find twenty guys in their undershirts, two other girls, and no Latina Queens. I could do a lot worse.

The garage smells like car oil and grease rags and a bunch of sweaty dudes, but I kind of like it. It reminds me of the warehouse, and with all these guys in close quarters I have a good chance of finding my mystery man. For the first few minutes I stand there with my eyes half-closed, listening to them talk, trying to find a match.

Several of the guys have Southern accents, but none seem to fit just right. And the harder I concentrate, the more unsure I am of what his voice really sounds like. It isn’t the same alone in the dark as it is in the daytime with all these other people around.

Frustrated, I turn my attention to phase two of my getaway plan: mode of transportation. Hitching a ride is one option, but not a very desirable one. Even better than being a passenger is being the driver.

There’s an old Ford Bronco and a Toyota Camry parked in the four-car garage, but the teacher, Mr. Thomas, keeps a tight watch on the keys. And even if I could slip them away, neither of the cars is running. At least, not yet.

Mr. Thomas tells me the first thing I’ll be learning is how to change a flat tire. He partners me up with this guy Dominic, who has a tattoo of a Chinese dragon that starts at his elbow and curves up to his shoulder. It’s a beautiful tattoo, with all the tiny scales shaded differently to show how the dragon’s body bends and twists.

“Nice tat,” I say to him. It’s an easy opener.

He glances down and admires it himself for a moment. “Thanks.”

One word and I know Dominic is not my man. But he turns out to be pretty cool. He gives me pointers on how to position my body to get the most leverage while jacking up the car and loosening the lug nuts. Then, while we’re switching out the tires, we start talking about music. Turns out he’s seen Choleric Kindness play out in Atlanta. He tells me about where he’s from, how he got involved with drugs and messed up his relationship with his family and his girlfriend.
His parents sent him here to sober up, and he says when he gets out in December, the first thing he’s going to do is try to make it up to them.

Class flies by way too fast. After school is my first therapy appointment at the “healing center.” After about ten minutes of waiting, I get called in. I glance over at the therapist—Dr. Deb—and take a look around her office. At least it smells good in here, like peppermint, and there are potted plants lining the sills of actual windows where you can see the world outside. I sit down across from Dr. Deb in a wing-backed chair. We’re close, but not too close. She looks friendly, but not overly friendly—not as if she cares if I like her or not. She introduces herself as my primary therapist and asks how my first few days have been.

“Decent,” I say, and hope she’ll leave it at that.

“Are you making friends?”

“Yeah,” I say. Margo feels like a friend already.

“Are you getting along with the girls on your floor?”

I wonder then if she’s already been briefed about the haircutting incident—maybe by Kayla—and if so, what version she’s been told.

“More or less.”

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about in that regard?”

I meet her eyes squarely. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep.” It’s not like there’s anything she can do about it, even if she did believe me.

“Then why don’t you tell me about where you come from,” she says, “beginning with your family.”

My family. Not a subject I want to discuss.

“I have a mother and a father,” I say neutrally.

“Are they divorced?”

“Separated.”

“And you were living with your mother at the time you ran away?”

“Yes.” The questions are getting harder already.

“Were you going to your father’s house?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Why not? Why would I?

“My father and I don’t get along.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he abusive?”

“No, just . . . controlling.”

“Controlling. Could you give me an example?”

“He sent me here, didn’t he?”

Dr. Deb nods. “You think that was his attempt to control you?”

I think back to earlier this year, June, which was the last
time I tried to spend the weekend at his house. The school had just mailed out my report card, and it wasn’t too great. I mean, it was pretty good considering how bad the year had been. But he still flipped out on me and told me I was grounded for the weekend. Grounded, after I’d basically been taking care of myself that whole year. My mother, too. So I waited for him to go do something in the other room, then walked out of his house and called a friend to come pick me up. Boy, was he mad at that.

Still, I never thought he’d do this.

“Can you remember a time when your relationship with your father was stronger than it is now?” Dr. Deb asks.

“No. Not since he left my mom.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“About what?”

“Tell me about their separation.”

I was in fifth grade when my parents split for good. I’d just come home from school, and I was inside having a snack when my mom came back. When I saw her, I no longer cared that she’d totally left us for a week or that we had no idea where she went or when she’d be back,
if
she’d be back. I was so happy to see her I forgot about the entire week of worrying.

My dad told me to stay inside, and he went out on the lawn to talk to her. It turned into a fight, something I always hated—seeing them screaming at each other. I didn’t
understand why they were fighting at all. I just wanted him to let her inside so we could get back to being a family.

She stood on the lawn apologizing, pleading with him. When I ran outside, he told me to get back in the house, but I clung to her. She was my life raft, my mother. She needed me and I needed her. My dad got into his car and told me to come with him. I wouldn’t, so he drove off. My mother and I went inside and packed our things, then left in her car. I wanted to stay, but she didn’t. She said it was going to be a new beginning for us.
An exciting adventure
. And it was . . . for a while.

“He’s mad at me for choosing her,” I say to Dr. Deb.

“For choosing to live with your mother?”

“Yes.”

“You think he’s still mad at you for that?”

“I don’t know. Do we have to talk about this?”

“Is there something else you’d rather talk about?”

“I’d rather not talk at all.”

“Okay.”

We sit there in silence. I watch the hands on the clock move by infinitesimal degrees. I can’t get that memory out of my head. My parents’ faces, so twisted up with anger they were like total strangers. Me standing between them. I don’t want to dredge up those feelings. I just want them to go away.