Damage Done (16 page)

I tried to get around her, but she moved to block me. I balled my fists. The only reason I didn’t haul off and punch her was because I knew she’d spin a story around it.
Sister of Shooter Goes on School Rampage, Attacks Innocent Reporter Recently Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.
“Please get out of my way,” I said icily. “I need to get to class.”

“You’re going the wrong way, then, aren’t you?” Her smile didn’t budge. It was as if she’d painted it on with her lipstick. “You’re supposed to be in Spanish class right now with Mr. Goldfarb. You share that class with your boyfriend, don’t you? Michael Silverman?”

I ground my teeth and made a mental note to text Michael and Alane as soon as I was out of this hallway:
Don’t talk to any strangers about me. Don’t talk to anyone about me.
“I’m on my way to the bathroom,” I said. “You’re making me miss our review.”

“Well, I would hate to have you angry at me,” Jenny said. “You’ve been through enough, you poor dear.” Her fingers disappeared into her notebook and came out waving a business card, which she proceeded to shove into my front pocket. “Here’s my new contact info, Julie. Give me a call anytime.”

I plucked her card from my pocket and dropped it; it went whirling onto the floor like a downed helicopter. “I’d rather you go take a long walk off a short cliff.”

The smile still didn’t move as I turned to walk away. I could feel it beaming against my back as I continued down the hallway. Forget the second-floor bathroom—I ducked into a first-floor stall just so I could use my phone without some overeager teacher hauling me off to the office. Actually, today I could probably sit in the middle of the hallway and text and chat away, and nobody would dare approach me.

I texted Alane—telling her not to talk to any reporters or anyone she thought might be a reporter or, really, anyone at all about me—and then Michael. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and strolled right out the back doors of the school.

I knew the black suits would be lurking out front, but I doubted they’d be hanging around in back, where the athletic yards and assorted field houses stretched to the woods. I strode in what I hoped was a purposeful manner past a gym class circling the track (who, running in a pack, nearly stampeded each other in an effort to get away from me). I kept an eye out for more reporters, but I couldn’t see anything besides trees and grass. If I did find reporters, the way I was feeling, I’d probably kill them. With my bare hands. I could if I really wanted to. That was what they wanted, wasn’t it, masked behind all their probing questions and fake-sympathetic smiles? To prove Ryan and I weren’t so different after all?

Beyond all the fields and field houses and the football stadium, which, thanks to kids hanging out under the bleachers, was always surrounded by clouds of smoke, there was a dense forest. It wasn’t like it was endless, or haunted, or anything; it stretched for a few miles and then turned into a highway and a development of blandly identical split-level houses. There was a hidden path—weaving around a surprisingly deep patch of mud that bubbled with the shoes of unwary freshmen and over a log spanning a creek—that took students right behind Crazy Elliot’s on the other side. Otherwise, nobody really came out here. There were plenty of other places to smoke or to get high or to make out, and it was an awfully long way to walk for anything else.

Which meant it was the perfect place for me to meet him. I didn’t waste any time speaking; as soon as I saw him leaning against a tree, I collapsed into his arms and rested my head against his chest. “Everybody knows,” I said. “Ella told. Now everybody hates me. I don’t like being hated. I want everyone to like me again. I can’t have people laughing at me or talking about me behind my back.”

He breathed in, then out; his chest pushed into my cheek, then back. He rubbed my lower back with one hand and pressed my head against him with the other. With his fingers tangled in my hair, tracing lines of warmth onto my scalp, I could breathe again. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice slow. “It’s kind of my fault. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, there is something we can do.”

Re: Ryan Vann, age 17

I’ve now had four sessions with Ryan Vann, if you can really call them that. By four sessions, I mean that I’ve entered the state facility, had Officer Noor and his partner escort me to Ryan’s cell, and then, after a brief exchange of greetings, sat silently under the blinking red eyes of the room’s cameras. I’ve tried everything in my arsenal to get him to talk: asking questions, talking about myself, making assumptions about Ryan and his life, matching his silence with silence of my own.

Today, I’m ashamed to admit, I might have gone too far in my attempts. Today was a talking day; I had planned to talk about Ryan and hoped he would chime in with additions of his own. “Eleven people died in that band room,” I said. “Did you know that?”

His eyes didn’t even flicker in acknowledgment; he just continued staring at the floor. “The world wants to know why,” I said. “Your sister wants to know why.”

His head jerked up. “Julia?” he said. Though he still had that slow, slurred way of speaking, I could hear the passion in his voice. “What about Julia?”

His sister. That was it. I’d tried talking about the parents, but I’d never once mentioned the sister. I should’ve thought of it sooner. “Julia moved south and is living under a false name,” I said. “She had to flee Elkton altogether. She was being harassed because of what you did.”

He’d moved from staring at the floor to staring at the wall, his breaths coming in short bursts like a bull’s. “Is she happy?” he asked.

“She wants to know why,” I said. “She wants to know why you did it.”

He jumped to his feet and balled his right fist, his eyes still trained on the wall. The fingers on his left hand twitched, but they didn’t close all the way. “She knows,” he said, his voice smoldering. “She knows why I did it.”

“Tell me, Ryan,” I urged. “Tell me.”

He sat back down. Folded his hands in his lap, tenderly closing the left one in his right.

Didn’t say another word.

This is where—I’m ashamed to say—I lost it. I leaned forward and yelled in his face. “Why did you even ask me here? Why did you ask for me if you weren’t going to talk?”

My fists had balled, too, and I was pretty sure my eyes were popping from a red face. I flinched when I felt Noor’s hand on my shoulder. “Doctor,” he said, “let’s take a break.”

Ryan didn’t even look up as I left.

I didn’t make it back to Spanish. Or history. But I swaggered into lunch with my chin held high and Michael on my arm. I didn’t feel at all like swaggering, but I knew I’d need some swagger today. Okay, maybe the plan we’d formulated in the woods made me feel a tiny bit like swaggering. Mostly I felt like shriveling under all the stares I knew I’d get when I walked into the cafeteria.

I wasn’t disappointed. People’s eyes slid off me like oil off water as I swept through to our usual table, which was completely empty. I sat down in the middle; Michael sat beside me, and Alane sat across. I was the queen of my own kingdom. Queendom. “Well, this is fun,” I said. “Anyone want to crawl under the table with me?”

“It’s not so bad,” Alane said, but her eyes darted about, and her cheer seemed as plastic as Jenny’s smile. I followed her eyes to Ella, who sat in the far corner with our other usual tablemates. She had been staring as us, but ducked down when she saw us looking, as if it were even possible for her to hide.

“You can go sit with them if you want to,” I said. “It’s okay.”

Alane recoiled like I’d hit her, then slid her sandwich out of her lunch bag and plunked it on the table. “How could you even say that?” she said, opening her ziplock bag as ferociously as it was possible to open a ziplock bag. “Be real, Lucy. Eat your freaking lunch.”

“You might as well call me Julia now,” I said. “Everyone knows anyway.”

She cocked her head and considered as she chewed. “Do you want us to call you Julia?”

I considered, too. Julia had a brother who did horrible things. Everybody hated Julia. But Lucy hadn’t exactly been a nice person. Lucy had pushed her friends away because she was so terrified of getting close to somebody again and then having them collapse in a pool of blood. Which wasn’t exactly an irrational fear for someone who had once been Julia. “Yes,” I said. “I want you to call me Julia.”

The afternoon went about as well as I’d expected: more stares, more whispers, more people jumping away from me as I walked down the hall. I felt almost like Moses parting the Red Sea. So I was more relieved than anything when the intercom crackled to life in the middle of chemistry and summoned me to the principal’s office. I didn’t even have to wait; her secretary waved me right in. I assumed that had something to do with Jenny, who did seem to be waiting; she pursed her lips and crossed her legs when she saw me, probably biting back questions about Elkton or my brother or the sounds Michael made when I kissed him. I didn’t say hello, and entertained thoughts of her getting detention as I walked by.

“Lucy, good afternoon,” the principal said, removing her glasses and rubbing her eyes. She was pretty for an old person, with a mane of tawny golden curls and skin that looked so soft I wanted to touch it. It was smooth, but she had a neck wattle—the sure sign of a face-lift. “Or is it Julia Vann?”

“Yes, it’s Julia Vann,” I said. “The documents my parents gave you at the beginning of the year were forged. So if you want to kick me out of school, just get on with it. I won’t blame you, and I definitely won’t shoot you.”

The principal flinched, then sighed. “Nobody wants to kick you out,” she said. “And I certainly don’t think you’re going to shoot me or anyone else. You’re not to blame for what your brother did, and I hope everyone here will eventually be mature enough to understand that. I wanted to call you down to prepare you for what’s waiting for you on the front lawn.”

Dread filled my stomach, sick and heavy. “I saw Jenny in your office.”

She creased her brow. “Who?”

I gestured toward the door. “Jenny. Jennifer Rosenthal. She’s with the
Sun.
Well, now she’s with the
LA Times.
”

“A reporter? One snuck in?” She sighed and rubbed her forehead, then picked up her phone. “Nancy? Is there a woman sitting in the waiting area?”

I could hear the secretary’s voice faintly through the receiver. “Yes, ma’am. She’s the mother of a concerned student.”

The principal looked questioningly at me. I shook my head as vigorously as I could without it sailing off and out the window. Concerned, my ass. “Red lipstick, blue pantsuit, that’s Jenny.”

“Did you hear that, Nancy?” the principal said. “She’s a reporter. Get her the hell out of here.” She hung up with a decisive click. Some of the dread drained out of me. A bunch of it still weighed me down, don’t get me wrong, but the burden had eased a bit. Someone was on my side. “Now, Lucy. Julia. What would you prefer I call you?”

“Call me Julia.” It came out easier the second time. I had never really been Lucy. I’d wanted so badly for Lucy to be real, but I’d only ever been Julia.

“Julia.” She sighed. “I can’t believe a reporter snuck in. Irv’s been so vigilant about posting people at the doors.”

So it had gotten to the point where people were trying to sneak in, then. “Are there more reporters outside?” I said wearily. “I hate the ones who yell. They’re my least favorite.”

The principal stared at her desk, as if she just couldn’t bear to look me in the eye. “None other than the one in my office,” she said. “Not yet.”

“Well, that’s a positive thing!” I said.

“Well…,” she said.

“Well!” I said. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Well,” she said again, frowning faintly. I could hear a bang in the outer office, like Jenny had kicked over a chair on her way out, or thumped on the secretary’s desk. Or the ceiling had fallen in and crushed her. “There aren’t reporters outside yet. But people have been posting about you online already, and I’ve received a number of calls from parents demanding your expulsion. A number of students, too, have stopped by to tell me they no longer feel safe.”

I shifted in my seat. “I am not my brother,” I said. “I didn’t do it.”

“I know that.” The principal’s smile was warm and unexpected. “That’s exactly what I told them. We’re a public school, Julia, so we don’t have to worry about frightened donors. I just wanted you to be prepared for everything, and know that I stand behind you.”

I took a deep breath, then another, then another. “I don’t think I have to worry,” I said. “I’m confident people will see the truth. They’ll see that I’m not my brother. That I’m the opposite of my brother.”

She gave her desk a comforting rap. “I hope so, Julia.” The corner of her mouth twisted. “You don’t take the bus, do you? If you can, you should call your parents and have them pick you up.”

I imagined what would await me on the bus: more whispers, more stares, a sudden hard push to the back that would send me hurtling out the emergency door and into a long pink splotch on the highway. But then I imagined what would await me if I had to call my mother: the trembling would begin as soon as she saw the people clustered outside. The hard shaking would ensue once the reporters and potential angry parents swarmed the car, thumping on the hood and the windows. She’d shrink in her seat, trying to hide, but there wouldn’t be anywhere to escape the noses flattened against the glass. “I’m okay. My friend is going to drive me home.”

“Your friend. Alane, right?”

I nodded. “Alane. Or Michael. Silverman. He might take me today.”

She steepled her fingers together, and her eyes turned flinty behind her glasses. “Alane and Michael are good kids. I hope they’re right to trust you.”

The dread seeped back into my stomach. She might profess to trust me, but she didn’t, not really. In the end, behind everybody’s smiles and reassuring words, all they saw was my brother. “They’re right,” I said coldly, and stood. “Am I done here?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “We’re done, Julia. Like I said, do let me know if you need anything, or you’re having any trouble with anything.” She stood, too, and stuck out her hand. I shook it. Her skin was clammy even in the room’s heat. “Please take care.”

“I’ll take plenty of care.” I gathered my things and showed her my back, walking quickly and deliberately. I was glad to see she’d at least rid us of Jenny.

At this point, chemistry was almost over, so I headed straight to band. I lurked in the hallway outside the band room to wait for the class to empty out, then went in, took my seat, and took my time screwing together my clarinet, greasing each piece of cork. My old reed had chipped, so I let it die and stuck a new one in my mouth to moisten.

By the time I deemed the reed sufficiently soft and screwed it onto my mouthpiece, I realized I was the only person in the band room. If I stood up and yelled, my voice probably would have echoed. I laid my clarinet gently across the music stand and knocked on the door of the band director’s office. The door cracked open. “Hello?” I called hesitantly inside.

“Oh. Lucy.” The band director peered back out at me. She was rolling something between her fingers. I squinted. Was that pepper spray? Seriously? “You didn’t hear the announcement? I canceled practice today.”

I squinted further, narrowing my eyes into slits of suspicion. “I didn’t hear any announcement.”

“Yes, well,” the band director blustered, “it was a bit last-minute. I sent around an email this morning.”

So was it an email or an announcement? I opened my mouth to clarify, then felt myself deflate like a leaky balloon. “So what’s next?” I asked. “Are you going to decide to have tryouts again, then decide another clarinet is more suited to second chair? Let me guess: I’ll be cut.”

The band director stared at her desk. Whatever she was holding knocked against it. Her hand was shaking. Yes, that was definitely pepper spray. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tears rose in my eyes, but I pushed them back. Or tried to, anyway. “Yes, you do. I know you do.” But there was nothing to discuss; she only continued to stare intently at her desk.

I returned to my seat, picked up my clarinet, and blew into it as hard as I could, making a sound between a honk and a squawk that might have come from an angry moose. I could practically hear the band director cringe, so I did it again, and then again, and after the third time I realized my cheeks were wet. I pulled my clarinet away from my mouth, gently swiveled it apart, packed it carefully into its case, and took it to the hallway outside the chorus room, where I settled to a seat on the tile and waited for Alane, my head resting on my knees, so that anyone walking by would see me as nothing more than a head of hair and an anonymous pair of legs.

That was how Michael found me an hour and a half later. He nudged my hair with his sculpted calf. I looked up. “Hey there,” I said. “How was swimming?” The chlorine drifted off him in waves.

“Good. Exhausting.” He extended a hand; I grabbed it, and he pulled me to my feet. I staggered a few feet into him and rested there for a moment. “How was band?”

I pulled away. “I’m not welcome in band anymore,” I said.

“What? No way,” he said. “I don’t think that’s even legal. You should sue or something.”

I shrugged. “I’m not welcome anywhere anymore,” I said. It was becoming easier to accept, a dull thud rather than a sharp pain.

He gave my hand a squeeze. “We’ll fix that,” he said.

I let my eyes close and my head fall against his shoulder. “We will.”

Alane came bustling out a few minutes later, cheeks red and eyes blazing. “I just told off half the choir,” she said. “Lucy—Julia—we’d better literally be best friends forever, because I don’t think I have any other friends left.”

“You have me,” Michael offered.

Alane punched him in the shoulder. It wasn’t a play punch, either; the thud reverberated through the hallway. “You’re a guy,” she said. “Guys can never really be friends with girls.”

Michael winced and rubbed his arm. “Okay, ouch,” he said. “On that note, I’ll take Julia home. I owe her a bowl of chicken noodle soup. It’s my specialty and it makes all your problems float away in a stream of deliciousness.”

“Unless there’s heroin in it, I doubt it’ll float away my problems,” I said drily.

It was Alane’s turn to thump me. “Don’t even joke. Heroin would taste terrible in soup, anyway.”

“You’ve tasted heroin?” Michael sounded totally serious, but he jumped back before Alane could punch him again. “I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to do it.”

“Anyway.” Alane shifted her backpack. “You drive Julia. I’ll go run interference.”