Figment (11 page)

I moved over to the large drafting table in a corner. A half-finished picture of several guys skateboarding was pinned to it. He’d drawn them doing jumps off a set of stairs. They seemed to fly through space like acrobats. I bent to examine it more closely. “You’re really good.”

He shrugged, the tips of his ears going pink. “I just fool around. It’s fun, though.”

I picked up a piece of paper lying on the table.

London REcreated

Young Artist Showcase: Oliver Downing

Solwatt Gallery 25.6

“Are you having a show?” The twenty-fifth
was in a couple of days.

“Yeah, well.” He fiddled with some chubby pencils lying on the table, rearranging them into a straight line. “My boss thought some of them might sell.” He cleared his throat. “Crazy, right?”

“Not at all. Is it by invitation?” I teased. “I’d love to come.”

“Really? It’s not going to be much, but there’ll be a good party, at least, and some free food and booze.”

“Sounds perfect.” We smiled at each other; then Oliver moved abruptly before the moment got awkward. “Here, did you want to use my laptop?” He picked up a slim silver Mac and handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I took it and ran my fingers across the slick lid. Dread began gathering in my throat. There was nothing to be afraid of, I told myself. I didn’t even know what I was looking for.

Oliver bent over his drawing again, and I opened the computer. It felt odd to be typing on a keyboard again after a few weeks away. My in-box had over a hundred e-mails. I scrolled through them rapidly. Ads, notices from school, random messages from friends about the accident, and—oh, no—about fifty messages from Becca. I clicked the first one open.

Zoe, I cannot even tell you how sorry I am about the whole mess the night before you left. I never, ever want to betray you. I was under some serious pressure—I don’t want to say more than that—but you probably know what I mean. You’re my best friend in the whole world, and that will never change as far as I’m concerned. I hope you can forgive me—please??? Love, Becs

The next one was basically the same. And the next one. And the one after that. Poor girl. I felt a surge of sympathy. This whole thing hadn’t been easy on her either. And it had all worked out after all—I was okay and with Davis again.

Becs,
I typed.
Thanks for all the e-mails. I’m sorry we left the way we did, too. Everything is awesome over here. I can’t wait to fill you in when I get home.

Better not be more specific than that. Just in case my parents were reading my e-mail from their computer. I wouldn’t put it past them, no matter how well my mother and I had made up.

Don’t worry about me, though. Love, your BFF, Zo

I hit
send
and glanced up at Oliver. He was apparently absorbed in his drawing, scratching away with his back to me, but I sensed he was trying to give me some privacy. A sensitive guy. I liked that.

I took a deep breath and went to Google. My fingers were poised over the keyboard but trembling so hard, I wasn’t sure I would hit the right keys. I hadn’t seen any press about the accident. And I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to see that night spelled out in black-and-white. I didn’t want to relive those memories. But I
had to find out what was missing from my dream.

Car accident May 20 Stanton,
Connecticut, I typed.

I hit
enter
, and a page of search results popped up. Apparently, the accident had been one of the lead news stories that day. I’d have liked to feel flattered, but nothing much happens in Stanton.

I clicked through the first few entries—local newspapers, all reporting pretty much the same thing.
Local teenagers driving on Route 28 . . . slick conditions . . . speed thought to be a factor . . . I scanned each article briefly before moving on to the next. Nothing. Nothing. Then, at the end of a transcript from the TV news, the words jumped out at me: There was one fatality: Davis Edwards, 18.

The sentence hit me square in the chest. My breath went out of my lungs as if I’d been punched. Oliver turned to look at me, and I gave him a sick smile I’m sure didn’t convince him for one minute. He turned around again, and my eyes flew back to the article.
What? What? What?
my mind was screaming. Davis’s name was linked. With my fingers shaking so badly I struck the wrong key several times, I finally clicked on it.

An obituary popped up.

Davis Edwards, age 18, died Monday, May 20, in a car accident near Stanton, Connecticut. Davis was the only son of Sherry and Matthew Edwards of New Yamston, Connecticut. He
was a student at West Seaton High School, where he played varsity lacrosse. Davis will be remembered for his wit, love of fun, and creativity by his many friends and family. A memorial service will be held on May 24 at Hall-Jordan Funeral Home, 820 Mulberry Ave., Stanton.

Davis was dead. Davis was dead?! The seconds ticked past as I squeezed my eyes shut, grinding my fists into the sockets. Was I crazy? I was. I was crazy. My breath mewled in and out of my throat. I was sweating, shaking, perspiration trickling down the sides of my face and pooling under my bra cups. But the moisture was all on my skin, because my mouth was as dry as crepe paper. My fingers groped for the infinity charm around my neck, found it, squeezed. The room was airless. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? How could Oliver work without the windows open? The obituary glowed on the screen in front of me like some kind of evil temptation. It dared me to look at it again.

“Hey.” It came out as a croak.

Oliver turned around, a pencil in his hand. I had no doubt my face looked completely bizarre, because he immediately rose from his stool, his eyes wide with surprise. “Zoe, are you okay?”

Little black spots were gathering in front of my eyes. Oh, it was so flipping hot. I was going to be sick right on Oliver’s rug—I knew it. The black spots were getting bigger. I bent over and rested my head on my knees. “I—I’m actually a little sick. But, um, can I print something out?”

Oliver knelt on the rug beside me, his arm across my back. “Forget the printer. You need a doctor.” He fumbled in his pocket. “Here, I’ll call the clinic—it’s right around the corner.”

“No!” I straightened up. My stomach threatened to rise up in my throat again, and I fought it down. “Sorry. I’m not really sick. Just, um, surprised. I found out I failed one of my exams.” I listened as if from a great distance to the ordinary-sounding words tumbling from my mouth. “Maybe something cold to drink? Like a Coke?”

“Oh, sure, absolutely.” Oliver looked glad to be able to do something. He scrambled to his feet.

As soon as he was out the door, I hit
print
on the computer. The obituary hummed out of the sleek silver printer on the side of Oliver’s drafting table. Then, fast, I erased my search history and closed out the window, being sure to log out of my e-mail. I shut the laptop just as Oliver came back in bearing a glass of Coke with ice.

I jumped up and snatched the paper from the printer, stuffing it into my bag. “Actually, my mom just called—”
Whoops, he knows you don’t have a cell phone.
I plowed ahead anyway. “—and she needs me at home. My, uh, dad just cut himself in the kitchen. So I have to go. Sorry!” I was down the hall before he could say anything. After a brief, tense struggle with the locks, I wrenched the front door open and pounded down the hall to the stairs, the obituary burning in my bag as if it were radioactive.

The empty, late-afternoon street seemed strangely hostile, as if it, too, were hiding secrets. I pounded along the pavement, my heart keeping time with my steps. I kept my eyes forward, scared that if I looked right or left, I’d see phantoms coming out of the doorways. I had to find Davis. There had to be some explanation. Unless I was crazy. Mad. Insane. Nuts. Bonkers. Out of my mind. Certifiable. I’d never realized how many words there were for crazy before.

My parents had said he was dead. And here was proof—concrete proof. Which would leave only one explanation. That I was crazy. Enough to imagine Davis in front of me—would that be a hallucination?
Oh yes, Zoe, I believe that’s what it’s called. Hallooo-cination. Say it five times fast!
I mentally flashed through the few genuinely crazy people I’d encountered in my life, their hair a mess, carrying odd collections of old bags and useless items. No. That wasn’t me. I was normal. A little shaken up, maybe, but normal enough to comb my hair. And I didn’t talk to myself. Unless Davis wasn’t real, in which case, who the hell had I been talking to? And kissing?

Our apartment building loomed in front of me. Odd, I didn’t remember making the turn to get there. A little fold in time. A little blip. It meant nothing. I ran up the inner stairs, for once not caring who saw me. My breathing was ragged in my throat. I pushed open the penthouse door. My eyes flew to our corner.

Everything was gone.

No gray blanket. No backpack. No Davis.

My heart stopped.

It was true.

Then suddenly, from behind me, I heard the door open. Footsteps. I swung around. Davis stood there, smiling at me.

“Hey.” He dropped his backpack to the floor with a thud. “I didn’t know you were coming up. Sorry, I went out for a sandwich. Starving.” He pulled a sub from his bag and unwrapped it. The paper crinkled loudly in the silence. He took a big bite and chewed noisily, sliding his back down against the wall at the same time.

I stood frozen, staring at him.

He patted the floor, smiling up at me. “Sit down—wait, what’s wrong?”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” I whispered.

Davis stopped chewing. Then I saw him swallow with effort. “Why do you say that?” Studiedly casual.

Anger flooded me suddenly. I pulled the obituary from my bag and threw it at him. The paper fluttered to the floor a few feet away.

“What the hell is this?” I hissed. I had to know. I felt as if I were spinning in circles, looking aimlessly for something that only I thought existed.

Davis picked up the obituary. I watched him read it. Surreal, I thought, watching someone read the news of his own death. It was like the
Twilight Zone
, except I was living it.

“Well?” I asked as he finished and looked up. I knew my voice was harsh, but I didn’t care. “Are you dead or not? Do you know how fucked-with my mind feels right now?”

Davis laid the paper aside with exquisite care. “Zo, I’m not dead.” He spoke as if I were a live grenade. “I’m right here.”

“Then what is that, Davis? What the hell is that?” My voice was rising into a windy shriek.

“I can explain this.” He wrapped up the sandwich. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to, but I can see now that I do.” He reached up for my hand. “Sit down. Please.”

Slowly, grudgingly, I sank down onto my knees.

Davis held both my hands tightly in his. “I didn’t want to ever have this conversation. I thought it was a miracle when you lost some of your memory after the crash. That way I could have—I don’t know—spared you.”

I stared at Davis, my mouth slightly open. I was paralyzed, waiting.

“Listen, just please don’t say anything until I’m done, okay?”

I nodded.

His eyes fixed on the opposite wall, and with his hand gently caressing mine, Davis began. “I’m in some serious shit, Zo. After all that grade stuff went down last spring, I got a call from a guy down in Miami. I guess he’d heard about me through the hackers’ grapevine. I won’t get into too many details, but, basically, they were running this credit-card scam out of Dubai. They needed someone not connected with their network to write code. Eli, the guy on the phone, told me no one would get hurt or even notice. We’d hack into all these credit-card accounts overseas, take one dollar from each, and get out. Over a million accounts, and no one noticed, and no one lost more than a dollar.”

Davis paused, pulled a water bottle from his backpack, unscrewed the top, and took a deep swallow. He glanced at me. “You haven’t freaked out yet, so I guess you want to hear the rest.”

I nodded. “Tell me.”

Davis twirled the bottle cap in his fingers. “Look, I never would have gotten into this, Zo, if I’d known more about it. All I could think was that my cut would mean a ton of money for us. We could use it for college. Maybe we could go somewhere together, away from your parents.”

I squeezed his hand, my anger slowly ebbing.

“I didn’t think I’d get caught. I don’t know why, but I just didn’t. And these guys were big-time. They’d been doing other stuff, too, hacking all over the place. But the FBI found out. Eli messaged me a couple of nights before the accident, said I had to erase everything linked to the scam. A federal agent had asked for me by name, Zo. They were closing in on me, and the minimum mandatory sentence was forty years—my whole life, basically. There was no easy way out. I needed a clean slate.

“When the accident happened, I realized I had to take advantage of it. Here was our chance to be together, staring me in the face!” He paused for a moment and moistened his lips nervously.