If You Wrong Us (12 page)

It’s like I’m under some kind of spell. Like the way the Manson family followed Charles. Or the way Clyde supposedly followed Bonnie. Or like that one woman in Canada who helped her husband kidnap and kill those girls.

Love can make monsters out of us. Or is it despair? Whatever it is, it works. I don’t feel like me anymore. I feel like I’ve been swallowed up by a darkness that I never knew was inside. It’s a terrifying place to be—so bad, I’ll do anything to escape it.

Even continue down the hill to follow Becca’s light.

19

B
ECCA

E
xecuting—
executing, ha ha!
—a plan like mine required a lot of work. And time. It clearly wasn’t for the faint of heart, or for those looking for the instant gratification most of us thrive on.

It was about precision, details, sacrifice. I’d learn it would also take nerves of steel to pull off, especially as my game plan adapted and changed, taking on a life of its own. Originally, the objective of the game was to sic the police on Travis.

He’d given me a lot of evidence on his own: his newly painted Jeep with a huge dent that had been cheaply repaired; a sketchy attendance record after the accident; a history of trouble with the law; and swarms of rumors about his general “freakiness” in school.

What I needed was evidence linking him to the site (because I’d lied when I told him I had it); witnesses to back up the motive that he was obsessed with Brit; and an enhanced rap sheet.

I started with the rap sheet, framing him for petty crimes and even accusing him of causing another accident. I knew it wouldn’t amount to anything, but just having it recorded would help our case.

Next up was to plant evidence at the crash site. My car and the Vegas’ car had already been totaled and hauled away before I could use them. But I did get a very nice new vehicle out of the deal. Brit’s one parting gift. Thanks, sis.

I spent days combing over the site with Johnny to find something to link Travis to it; there was nothing to be had. He’d covered his tracks. That’s when I had to go out on my own. I needed to do a little creative detective work to make it happen, but Johnny couldn’t know about that part. For this to work, his hatred of Travis had to be genuine. And justified.

Once I got going, it wasn’t hard. One day, in the school parking lot, I was able to crack Travis’s side mirror and remove a piece of glass that could be transferred to the site, as well as a chunk of rust from the front end of his Jeep. Then I added a candy wrapper and some other garbage with his fingerprints on it that “must’ve fallen out of his car when he got out to assess the damage.”

Now close to the next step—of adding my witnesses to the mix—I was giddy to bust him. But when I looked at the punishment for manslaughter according to Michigan law, I wasn’t impressed. Twelve years looked about the average, and that was only if we were lucky enough to get a guilty verdict. It wasn’t nearly long enough.

A new plan was necessary—one with more pain and the prison time he deserved. That’s when I decided to capture and sedate Travis and force a confession we could take to the police. But his confession couldn’t
look
forced; that was key. We’d have to get it without the risk of him recanting his story and without any opportunity for him to implicate me.

So the chess match began.

Travis didn’t stand a chance. I’d been playing since I was eight years old: the logic and symmetry had always appealed to me. My new objective, to quote Bobby Fischer, was to “crush the opponent’s mind.”

I knew exactly how to accomplish just that. All I had to do was gather my pieces.

With my new plan in place, I needed access to medication. Sedatives for the confession and holding period and something to end it all, if things went awry.
Always have a back-up.

I had the perfect solution: a volunteer position at the hospital. Nurse Julie got me the job.

The first day, Julie took me on a tour around her floor—the second floor. “I’m so glad you’re doing this, Becca. It’s going to be really good for you.”

She had no idea.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m happy to be here.”

She put her arm around my shoulder and I bit the inside of my lip so I wouldn’t groan. I turned up the corners of my mouth to form something that resembled a smile. It was an expression passed down from my father—one that showed up whenever I talked about college.

“You’re going to do splendidly wherever you land, Becca,” he’d say before flashing his grimace. My poor father. He knew I was going to go further with my education than he ever had, and it brought him pain just to think about it. And my parents wondered where the narcissism came from.

That first night at the hospital, I served as an errand girl. Anything the nurses needed, I was at their command. Julie gave me pink scrubs, no doubt an homage to the old candy striper days.

Though I hated pink, I didn’t mind the job.

Make copies of these forms: check.

Clean the waiting area and make coffee: check.

Bring flowers to room 208 and 213: sure thing.

As I did it all, with a smile, I took notice of everything: the number of rooms on the floor; where the patient information was kept; the amount of staff on a shift; the comings and goings in the medication room; and the time when nurses started divvying out evening drugs. That last piece of information was of particular interest to me.

After the accident and my discharge from the Nut Hut, I spent all my free time at the crash site, the hospital, and in my room studying pharmaceuticals. Oh, the things I learned. It’s true it took a lot longer than expected; anything worthwhile usually does.

Several months later, when I was finally ready, I set out to pocket the medication. It worked surprisingly well. Time consuming but effective. After watching the entire process of gathering, distributing, and disposing the drugs, I found a few chinks in the system and used them in various ways.

One afternoon, I wanted to test the theory. I walked into a room with a vase of bright tulips as a cover. As the medication was administered to Motorcycle Man, a twenty-something guy who was recovering from a nasty accident, I created a diversion. I bumped into the nurse’s medication cart on my way to set the vase on the windowsill. As I helped steady the cart, I swapped out the real medication with a used vial that I’d refilled with saline. At that point, I had already decided that an injectable would work the best.

Earlier, I’d found a way to get the used vials before they made it into the Sharps Container. Like I said, it was a slow-going mission, but I eventually had what I needed.

Motorcycle Man missed his evening dose of pain meds that day. I wasn’t too worried. If the patients complained enough, they could always get extra. He’d be fine.

If not? Well, what can I say? Sacrifice for the greater good.

Next came mastering the skill of injecting my chosen drug. That’s where the nerves of steel came into play. I got my hands on the syringes but had no idea how to use them. It only took a few online tutorials from a library computer to remedy that problem.

I took the first plunge on my pillow, before moving on to Brit’s old stuffed animals, bananas, and a raw chicken breast.

The final test? A real human being.

Now I’m sure I could have roped in a volunteer from my ASP group, all in the name of learning, but I couldn’t risk it. I was alone in this and I would have to use my own body as a pincushion.

As I got closer to the date of my plan to make Travis
pay, I spent a few evenings locked in my bedroom playing nurse. The first targets were my arms and legs. It wasn’t that bad, as long as I didn’t look when the needle met my skin. The last of the jabs involved a bit more preparation—and by preparation, I mean swigs of Dad’s brandy—because the last target was my neck. I fainted the first time I did it.

Needles used to make me queasy. Even the proper name, “hypodermic needle,” was cringe-worthy. The stainless-steel tube was sterile and chilling, and the longer the needle, the worse it was. But I guess all medical equipment can be unnerving. Tools for the body that can be used to repair or destroy never seem quite right. The part of the needle that really made my stomach roll was the tip, beveled in a sharp point. And the way you flick the syringe before drawing out the medication, letting one lonely drop hang from that beveled point. It made my mouth fill.

Yet despite my aversion to the instrument, I learned to respect it.

There was something satisfying about the way it felt in my hand as the sharp tip of the needle punctured the skin, sinking into the epidermis. That popping sensation as it penetrated the body.

It didn’t take me long to become proficient at injecting.

My plan was in full motion. Even so, the sight of Travis
would sway me from time to time. If only temporarily. I’d see him in school, walking down the hall at a pace always a few seconds faster than most students. A few seconds that set him apart. His muscular arms swaying with each step. Arms that used to swoop out from the dark corners of the school to grab me at random times during the day so he could put his mouth on me. It was those memories that left me uncertain. At times I thought I may have to stop.

Until I remembered Brit.

That’s all it took to get right again.

I continued to work at the hospital long after my lessons were over, moving to entertainment on the children’s floor. I liked being there and, even more, I enjoyed the look I’d get when I told people. It was one of admiration and respect. I recognized that look because Brit was once on the receiving end of it all the time.

It was just one more thing I’d stolen from her.

20

J
OHNNY

I
knew I was falling for Becca about a month after she started tutoring me. We spent a lot of time studying together—I was so behind—and sometimes I talked her into picking me up on the weekends so we could hang out at the coffee shop.

She knew about my messed-up brain. And she knew all kinds of tricks to help me make it work better. She said she understood what it was like to think differently—she believed it’s what made us extraordinary.
We’re the lucky ones
, she said.

Sometimes, I’d ask Becca about her sister and tell her about Mom. That’s how our friendship began—wallowing in our pain. But it soon grew to something much more. And one day, she opened up to me—more than she’d ever done before.

She’d looked nervous all day at school, but of course wouldn’t tell me what was bothering her. Then, after last bell, she called out to me while I was gathering my things at my locker.

“Johnny,” she yelled out. It was the first time I’d ever heard her raise her voice. That did something to me; I’m not sure why. It could’ve been because she never liked to call attention to herself. That was Brit’s role—attention seeker. And Becca seemed to be content with hers—wallflower.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked as she sped over to me, out of breath and all flush-faced. It was then that I noticed, really noticed, just how beautiful she was. Of course, I always thought she was hot in an understated sort of way. But like this—excited, lively, and happy to see me—she took my breath away.

Her hand slid into her coat pocket, like she was trying to steady it. She wore this tweed blazer—a man’s blazer, I’m pretty sure. She wore that thing over everything. Her smart oxford shirts. Her less-smart but more impressive tank tops. And, if she was feeling funky, she’d wear it over her Wonder Woman tee.

That didn’t quite fit … though I’m sure she loved Wonder Woman. Who wouldn’t? But wearing anything commercial like that was not her deal. I later found out it’d been Brit’s.

She seemed stronger when she wore it.

“Would you want to come with me today after school?” she asked, the nerves back.

“Where to?” I said, upbeat, light, hoping it’d make her less nervous.

“The hospital. I do some work with kids there,” she said.

Thinking back, I realized she did always have something to do on Tuesdays, but she’d always been mysterious about it. I absolutely had to know more.

“Sure,” I agreed, and off we went.

While Becca was getting settled in, I ran into Ava’s mom, Rita, at the nurses’ station.

“What are you doing here, Johnny Vega?” she asked, wrapping me in a hug. “Are the girls with you?”

“No, it’s just me.”

Rita usually worked with the psych patients on the fourth floor. My mom and Rita had become fast friends once it was out that Cass and Ava were together. Mom thought it’d be a great idea to have me talk to Rita about psych work. It was really one of my only interests in school, and if I was going to play college ball, I’d need a major.

It was actually a great idea.

“I’m here with my girlfriend,” I told her. “She volunteers with the kids.”

“Rebecca Waters?” Rita asked in a strange voice. She was either shocked or bothered, I couldn’t tell which. Poor Bec; she rubs a lot of people the wrong way.