Instinct (9 page)

I pull my
hands away and take a sip of my cider, drawing back in disappointment at its
now lukewarm temperature. If what Cole says is true, and I have no doubt it is
since my skin is quiet, Jake’s violence toward me makes a little more sense,
even if I still resent it.

“Why didn’t he
want you to give me a ride?” I ask.

Cole sighs,
leaning back in his seat. “Jake feels responsible for everyone.” I frown and
start to ask more, but Cole doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m guessing you and he
had some kind of argument earlier?” I nod. “Well, he probably felt guilty over
that and when he realized I was interested in you, he felt like he had to
intervene. I have kind of a bad reputation,” he says a little sheepishly, looking
up at me through thick, dark lashes.

I raise an
eyebrow skeptically. “Shocking,” I respond, keeping my voice dry and even. Cole
chuckles softly and then leans forward, keeping his voice quiet.

“Yeah, I know.
 I ride a motorcycle, I wear black, I’m devilishly handsome.” He winks at me,
and even though I know he’s kidding my heart skips a beat. “I used to have
trouble controlling my gift; or actually, I didn’t bother to control it, and it
made some bad things happen around me. People started avoiding me, even if they
didn’t understand why. Then when my mom died…” His voice breaks, and there is
such devastation in his eyes that I reach out for his hand and squeeze.

“Don’t. You
don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I assure him. He smiles sadly
and shakes his head.

“No, I want to
tell you. I want you to know about me.” He is so earnest that I don’t protest
anymore, but give his hand an encouraging squeeze and wait for him to continue.

“Mom never
really got what was wrong with me, but she always had my back. I did some
really stupid stuff, just mean things because I was angry all the time, and I
got into a lot of fights. She never yelled at me; she would just look hurt,
disappointed. Eventually I started working on my control. And I got better. Mom
was so much happier not having to cover for me all the time. But then she was
out jogging one evening and our neighbor was driving home drunk and hit her. It
took her three days to die, and she was in pain the entire time.”

His voice is
shaking slightly and he pauses to take a few deep breaths. My throat is tight
and tears burn my eyes as I think of how hard it would be to watch my mother
die slowly and painfully, unable to do anything to help. A tear snakes its way
down my cheek and Cole watches it with sad fascination, reaching up to brush it
from my jaw, as though he wants to collect it before it’s too late. My skin is
singed where his finger touches.

“I was angry.”
Cole’s voice is quiet and hard, and his eyes trap mine with their intensity. “Really,
really angry when she died, and I lost control. I broke into the neighbor’s
house the night of her funeral and found him sprawled out on his couch, empty
beer bottles all around him. He was drunk, and he stank, and I couldn’t stop
thinking about how sweet my mom was, how endlessly patient with me and that
waste of flesh was the reason she wasn’t there anymore, and I killed him.”

My breath
catches in my throat and I feel dizzy. He is telling the truth. His eyes bore
into mine, pleading, begging me to understand.

“I didn’t mean
to. But I was so out of control that I pushed fear on him as hard as I could. I
wanted to hurt him, to scare him, but he starting shaking and fell over on the
floor, and when I tried to wake him up, I knew he was dead. He had a heart
attack. It was my fault.”

There is so
much unexpressed agony in his voice as he tells me what he’s done that I feel
my initial shock being replaced by sympathy.

“You didn’t
mean to, Cole. That counts for something,” I say, needing to comfort him in
some way.

He just shakes
his head. “Maybe I didn’t go there planning to kill him, but I knew what I was
doing. I could have controlled myself. Mom would have been so mad at me.” He
blows out a shaky breath and blinks rapidly. I realize he is mastering strong
emotion and I reach out to take his hand again. He waves me away without taking
it, and I pull back, rebuffed.

“Anyway, once
she was gone, I had to come here, to live with my father.”

“Were your
parents divorced?”

He laughs
bitterly. “No, they would’ve had to have been married for that.”

I can feel the
blush in my cheeks and bite my lip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“No, don’t
worry about it. It’s a long, complicated story. I don’t want to get into it
now; it’s not important.” With a sigh he seems to refocus, but the hard edge I
noticed the first time I saw him is back, making the harsh, beautiful lines of
his face cold and rigid where moments before they were warm with sentiment. It
is like looking at a different person.

“I wasn’t
happy about living here, and my father and I… don’t exactly see eye to eye. So
I got into trouble again. Stupid stuff. At the end of last semester, a teacher
was trying to break up a fight between me and David Sharp and I accidently hit
her. I was expelled.” He wears a sarcastic smile now, reminding me forcefully
of his attitude in my dream. I can’t help feeling disappointed.

“So that’s why
Jake doesn’t want me around you? Seems like an overreaction.  I don’t get why
he cares. He hates me, that’s pretty obvious,” I wonder out loud.

“Yeah, well.
He’s weird like that,” Cole says dismissively, clearly finished with the
subject. His mood has changed so abruptly that I am beginning to wonder if I
imagined the heartbroken, desperate boy who talked about his mother a moment
ago.

“Hang on, David
Sharp? Is he related to Nicole?” I ask, suddenly registering the name. Cole
cocks an eyebrow and nods.

“Yeah, he’s
her cousin. Why, do you know her?”

“Kind of. We
ate lunch together yesterday and she offered to show me around town, but I
haven’t seen her today.” Remembering the fleeting hope in her eyes when we made
our plans, I am again puzzled as to why she didn’t come to school today.

Cole is
watching me carefully. “You know what happened with her, right?”

“Um, yeah. Her
friend died and everyone started a bunch of rumors about her, right?”

“Basically.
She was nice. One of the only people who didn’t walk around on eggshells around
me. She’s the reason David and I fought.”

“Really? Why
is that?”

“You know,
I’ve never talked this much about myself to anyone,” Cole says unexpectedly,
looking at me with a calculated expression. “You seem to inspire confidences.
Does this happen to you often? People telling you their deep dark secrets?”

“Well, yeah.
But I guess I’ve learned to ask the right questions. It’s easy when you know if
someone’s lying or not,” I answer casually, thinking that should be obvious.

“I don’t know,
I think it’s more than that. This is really pretty unusual for me.” His eyes
regain a little of their earlier excitement. “Have you considered that it might
be part of your gift? Maybe people are compelled to share their secrets with
you, tell you things they wouldn’t with other people?”

            I stare at him
dumbly, my mind immediately rejecting any suggestion that I’m even more of a
freak than I thought. Abruptly, the whole conversation is just too much for me
on top of an upsetting day. I stand up and throw my bag over my shoulder,
digging for my wallet.

“Look, I’ve
got to go. Mom’s expecting me at the store. Thanks for the ride. And for…for,”
I stammer, unsure of how to address the intimacy we’ve shared. The friendly
interest drains from his expression and it hardens into the cool mask of my
nightmare.

“Oh sure,
don’t mention it,” he says dryly, lips pulled tight. “Don’t bother, my treat.”
He closes my fist around the money I am holding out, fingers a rough caress on
my hand. “We should meet again. There’s a lot to talk about.”

Maybe when I
get my head on straight.

“That would be
great,” I say with mixed feelings. The hard smile dissolves and there is
another flash of the sweetness I saw before.

“See you
soon,” he says, releasing my hand, his fingers lingering a moment too long.
Before I can do anything else stupid, I spin around and head out the door,
forcing myself not to look back. His quiet laughter follows me as I exit into
the bitter evening air.

Snow is
falling thick and fast outside my window. My homework is spread out on my bed
in front of me, but I watch the white glitter cling to the glass, shrinking
into beads of water that slink down and disappear into the dark.  A heavy
feeling rests in my chest, as though all my blood has solidified and is too
heavy for my heart to support. My mind is running through all the events of the
day, but foremost is the image of the murdered girl. There is no good reason
for it, I didn’t know her, and I don’t even know all the details, but that
smiling face surrounded by a cloud of flame-colored hair keeps pushing its way
into my thoughts.

Giving up, I shove
my homework to one side and turn on my computer. Thinking there have to be
follow-up stories on Miranda’s death, I pull up the local paper’s archive
website. It takes me nearly ten minutes to find what I’m looking for, but
eventually one article stands out.

High School
Students Questioned About Oglesby Death

My source at the
station told me that they have been questioning several of Miranda’s friends at
school about her state of mind in the past few months. He wouldn’t tell me what
they found out, so I interviewed her best friend and her boyfriend. The boyfriend
seemed pretty upset, but it was hard to get him alone, since he was surrounded
by sympathetic friends      perpetually. He told me Miranda had been depressed
lately because her ex had been stalking her. The best friend didn’t confirm
this, but accused the boyfriend of being unfeeling and coming between them. She
seemed to think the boyfriend might know more than he was telling. I tried to
get in touch with the ex, but he won’t comment. The coroner is going with
accidental drowning, probably due to a suicidal leap off the bridge. There is
evidence pointing to a second presence at the scene, but the police don’t want
to push the matter.

The words
reform into what was actually printed and I am struck yet again by the deviation
between what the journalist perceived as truth and what he actually printed.
The article is brief and simply states that police interviewed Miranda’s
friends to check on her mental state, but doesn’t share the results. It goes on
to explain the final ruling on the death as an accidental drowning, implying
suicide without actually stating it.

My stomach is
queasy as I look at the now familiar picture of Miranda that seems to be
everywhere. The same bone-deep instinct that tells me when someone is lying
trembles in my veins as I stare at the round, smiling face in the photo. There
is something hidden there, some truth that has never been spoken, but is still
dwelling deep in someone’s mind, waiting for me to ask the right question. With
a frustrated growl, I jump up and begin pacing my room, my hand on the phone,
itching to call Nicole and get some answers from her. But I subside,
remembering that I don’t have her number, and she hasn’t called me to explain
her absence.

There is a
knock at my door and I halt, realizing I have been muttering to myself for the
past ten minutes. Tossing my phone on the bed, I open the door to admit my
mother.

“I want you to
quit school and work at the store every day,” she says, giving me her usual
cheerful, ingratiating smile.

With a sigh, I
flop down on my bed and give her a stern look. “Mom, we’ve talked about this.
I’m going to be gone in the fall anyway, so it’s better for you to start
getting used to having me at the store less. What happened to hiring someone
else part-time?”

Her lips
tighten in irritation as she sucks in her cheeks the way she always does when
she’s trying not to say what she really thinks. “What did I say?” she asks
finally, her voice impatient.

“That you want
me to quit school to work full-time. Again.”

She passes a
hand over her face and takes a seat next to me. “I just meant to ask how your
day was. I’m sorry, I guess I was hassled at the store today and thinking how
much easier it would have been if you were there.” Mom puts an arm around me
and gives me a squeeze. I hold stiff for a moment and then relax, resting my
head on her shoulder.

“Sorry,” I
say, guilt washing over me before firm resolve takes its place. She knows how
important going to school is to me right now, and my sympathy dwindles as I
consider her selfishness. My entire life I have used my talent to make sure she
gets a good deal, to help her outthink her competition. I have even wielded it
against my father for her.

And lost him.

“You know
what? I’m not sorry. You agreed to this, and for once you could just let me do
what I want. It’s not like I’ve asked for much,” I say roughly, jerking out of
her embrace. “Anything else you want?”

Bewilderment
lines her face and I waver for a moment; she stares at me with childlike
confusion, arms still open from holding me. Then her face clears and she rolls
her eyes.

“You are so
melodramatic. I wasn’t going to say anything, but you asked. Don’t ask if you
don’t like the answer. Goodnight.” She stands and brushes invisible lint from
her sweater, carefully avoiding my eyes.

My anger deflates
and I sigh, wanting to be left alone. “Mom, wait. I didn’t mean it. I’m just
tired.” She nods stiffly and gives me a peck on the cheek before she shuts the
door behind her. 

I drop back
down on my bed and pull the laptop to rest on my legs, looking over the article
again while I consider what I learned from its more revealing first impression.
There seemed to be some question about her death, but it could just be the
difference between suicide and an accident. Or maybe the evidence suggests
someone else was there, someone who pushed her off the bridge.