Learning Not to Drown (21 page)

After we sit for a second or two in silence, the house phone rings.

“Drea, I bet,” says Peter, pushing himself up from the floor. I shake my head at him. “Fine. I'll tell her you're home and alive.”

He leaves, shutting the door behind him. Part of me wishes he had pressed me to talk. Part of me wants to dump every thought I have swirling around my head about Luke. Maybe Peter would have some good advice. Who else will understand like Peter?

I drag myself over to my bed.

Dad has thrown a pile of mail onto the middle of my mattress. Most of it is college junk mail: packets and
brochures from universities, bragging about their scholastics, their campus life, their setting, their sports. The rest are postcards. I flip the first one over, see Drea's scribbly handwriting:
Hey, Clare! Can you believe they still make these things? How could I pass up a postcard with a cat wearing a cowboy hat!! Best $1.50 I've ever spent.
The other postcards feature Drea's college rating system on the back—
hot guys: 10, scenic: 3, dorms: 4.5
. The normalcy of it is jarring. My life is spinning so out of control. Was it only two months ago when I was most worried about asking Mom's permission for the college trip?

I turn on my cell phone. Ten missed calls and eight text messages from Drea. Missed calls from Omar, Chase, and Skye. Nothing from Luke.

It's not like I expected anything. Not really. He probably knows he's in trouble. Knows he dragged me into this. I'm so pissed at him right now. So why do I desperately want to hear from him?

It's better this way. As soon as he calls, as soon as he writes, as soon as he shows up, I have to call the detective. I
have
to.

•  •  •

The next morning Mom pops her head into my room early. “Clare. Phone for you.”

“I don't want to talk to anyone.” My voice is scratchy.

“You will take the call. I already told Chris Jordan you're here.”

I sit up in bed. He must be calling for more lessons.

“Hi, Chris!” I can't believe how happy I am. “How's the swimming going? I'm back home now, so we can do
another lesson. What works for you?” Fantastic. I can't wait to teach Chris again. And it'll help take my mind off . . . everything.

“Ummm . . . hi, Clare. Actually, I'm calling to say that my mom won't let me take swimming lessons from you anymore.” His voice is sad and low.

His mom won't let him take lessons from me.

It doesn't matter that I was able to convince him to try. That I'm a certified lifeguard. That there probably isn't anyone better in our town to teach him.

“Oh,” I say. “I'm sorry to hear that. Is she sure? Maybe I should try talking to her.”

“Yeah, she's sure,” he says.

“Okay. I understand.”

“Clare.” Lucille's voice suddenly replaces Chris's. “While we have you on the phone. In light of recent events it'd be best if you don't reapply for lifeguard, or even cover any of our lifeguard's shifts. I'm sure you understand why. Well, then, good-bye.”

They hang up before I have a chance to even ask a question, or try to convince Lucille to change her mind.

This is Luke's fault. It's
all
Luke's fault. Wait in the car, he told me. Like staying in the car would protect me from any of this. He made me his getaway driver! And me . . . How could
I
be so stupid? How could I have trusted him? Why the hell didn't I stop and think before I agreed to drive him? I could go to jail. And even if I don't,
everyone
thinks that I was in on it. Maybe even my friends. Maybe even Drea. I've already lost my job. What's next? I'll have to work three times as hard at
school to prove I'm not cheating. I'll be watched every time I go to the grocery store or the gas station. No one will hire me. How could he do this to me? How could he be so stupid? So selfish?

I start to scream. Out of control. I'm going fucking crazy. I throw myself onto my bed and let my pillow muffle my screams until my voice dies.

“In keeping with our unit on social issues of contemporary society, today we are going to discuss our prison system,” Mr. Clark, my US history teacher, said. My head snapped up. If I had known this was on the syllabus, I would have stayed home. Omar sent a caring glance from his seat next to me and reached over to squeeze my hand when the lights were turned off. I sunk down as deep as I could in my chair.

A spotlight appeared, zooming around the room, then settling on Skeleton, in a top hat with a cane. He began to tap-dance.
Tap, tap, tappy tap.
From one side of the TV to the next. Using his cane, he pointed at the screen: violent criminals in orange, looking insane and not one bit sorry for all they'd done.

Tappy tap, tap.
He pointed at weapons carved out of toothbrushes, sharpened to makeshift blades.

Tap. Tap. Tap.
A fat, balding officer gave us the virtual tour, saying, “Three meals. A library. An hour of exercise out in the yard. People can send them televisions for their rooms, magazines.”

Skeleton twirled. Stopped and pointed. Criminals,
talking about splitting into gangs. About how every day is a day of war. About how they have to avoid being someone's bitch.

Stomach acid rose, my throat burned.

Don't think about Luke. He's not like any of these people. Don't think about gang wars and rape. Don't think about makeshift weapons. Don't think about how Luke could fit into that.

Tappy tap, tap.
The grand finale. Skeleton twirled, twisted, tapped down my aisle. Transferred the spotlight from his glaring white bones to my blood-drained face, just as Mr. Clark flipped off the TV.

I felt like all eyes were on me.

“We have about fifteen minutes left,” Mr. Clark said, “so let's discuss. Do our prisons serve their purpose?” He scanned the room. “Yes, Mandy?”

“Three meals a day, an hour of exercise, TV, magazines, a warm and dry place to sleep. Doesn't sound like a bad deal, especially for someone who can't keep a job to earn those things on their own.”

Not a bad deal, Mandy? From watching a stupid twenty-minute video, you think you know enough about prison to deem it not a bad deal?

She looked over to me, giving me a smug smile before she continued, “Look at Clare's brother, Luke. He's obviously not learning his lesson. How many times has he been in and out of prison, Clare?” With this, Skeleton stood on Clare's desk, clapping his hands in a circle. Bravo.

There was a collective gasp from everyone in the room. I stopped breathing.

“But what about programs that can actually help them integrate back into society?” Omar said quickly, rescuing me, steering the conversation away from what Mandy had said, before Mr. Clark could even react. “This video didn't go over things like job training or drug rehabilitation or mental health programs. If we invested money in those types of programs, maybe we'd see fewer repeat offenders.”

“And spend more tax dollars,
our
hard-earned money?” Mandy retorted. “No way. They deserve only bread and water. Maybe then they wouldn't want to go back.”

By “they” she meant Luke. Luke deserved only bread and water. My hands balled into fists under my desk. I wanted to punch her pretty little button nose into her head.

“We are talking about
humans
here, Mandy,” Omar angrily retorted. “Not stray rabid dogs.”

Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “Okay. Interesting points from each of you.” Pausing, scanning the room, he asked, “Does anyone else have anything to add?”

Nothing to add. No one wanted to discuss this. Especially not me.

“Okay. Let's talk homework,” Mr. Clark told us. “Write an essay on your thoughts about our prison system, based on the video and on what you'll be reading in our government book tonight, pages 259 to 314.”

And then the bell. Which I hoped would release some of my discomfort. But instead I felt
everyone
glancing my way. I could only hope that something dramatic would happen to take the attention off me. But there was no
girl fight with one biting the other, or someone getting caught smoking weed, or a major earthquake. Just everyone's persistent eyes following me, and the loud clank of Skeleton's bones.

The next day I expected the rumors and whispers to continue at school. My savior came in the form of one gorgeous new student. His name was Ryan Delgado. His messy hair, hazel eyes, and perfectly crooked nose gave the girls all something else to talk about.

There are two weeks left of summer, and I am practically hiding, staying in my house away from eyes and questions. Skeleton is everywhere. Whenever I leave home: whisper, whisper, whisper. I know everyone is putting random facts together mixed with gossip, coming up with a story: that Luke and I are thieves, that I was the getaway driver, that we ran off to Tennessee to evade the law, that my parents are hiding Luke somewhere and not telling the police. Our whole family: criminals. I never want to go back to school. But at the same time I miss the distraction while studying history, English, science, and even math. The only thing that makes me feel okay is sliding stitch after stitch to create baby blankets, listening to my needles
click
as I watch my fish swim.

After two days of my successfully avoiding everyone, Drea busts into my room, saying, “You can't hide in here forever. And seriously, you need to tell me what happened. There's a crazy rumor going around that you and Luke stole some shit together and you were arrested.”

I tell her I didn't steal anything, that I have never done anything illegal besides drinking with her, speeding,
and making a rolling stop instead of a complete one. She's hurt and angry that I haven't taken her calls or sent a text. She wants more information, more details on what happened. She wants to be able to defend me. She needs me to tell her something more.

It's too tiring to deal with this conversation. I wish she'd just leave, but I know she won't. So I tell her I was just driving Luke around as a favor. If he did anything illegal— Ha! I used the word “if.” I'm still trying to defend him. If he did anything illegal, I didn't know anything about it.

I don't tell her Luke used me. He used me for my car. And I don't tell her how angry and sad and frustrated and confused I am.

Hiding behind the excuse that I can't talk while police are still investigating, I let her change the topic to her trip, Lala's latest, the scholarship Omar was just awarded. I let her talk to me like everything is normal. At least it makes
her
feel better. After about thirty minutes I make up some job that I need to do for my mom, so Drea will leave.

Back to my knitting. I finish the last row of another baby blanket. Usually as soon as I have one finished, I take it to Loving Hearts immediately. I have two ready. But I'm afraid. What if Peggy somehow knows? She couldn't. The shelter is forty-five minutes out of town. Still. I can't drop them off now. I can't risk seeing her disappointed in me.

I fold up the blanket, gently giving it a little hug before sliding it under my bed. In the next moment I
am casting on another 132 stitches. This blanket won't go anywhere either. I'm just knitting now to hear the needles
click.

•  •  •

School is back in session. My friends and I sit in the shade of the spruce trees in the quad, chowing on our lunches, listening to the sounds of Ryan tapping his bongo drum and his friend Gary playing an acoustic guitar, surrounded by Cranberry Hill's finest. A flyer for their upcoming performance at Luv-a-Latte sits on the grass next to me.

I expected stares when the year started, and the first day was a little rough, but now no one seems to be saying anything about me. Not even my friends. Drea must have talked to them. They haven't asked anything, and I'm not providing any extra information. Even Lala, who usually can't get enough of gossip, hasn't brought it up once.

“Can you believe the amount of homework we have? It's only a week in. They're killing me already!” Omar's eyebrows rise, almost cartoonlike.

There's a collective grumble from Drea, Chase, Skye, and Lala, and they continue to banter about school and deadlines. I chime in with an obligatory complaint.

I'm actually glad for the extra homework, for the excuse to avoid any situations where people might bring Luke up, to avoid seeing Ryan and Gary playing at the coffeehouse, where Mandy might feel the need to show off to her Cranberry girls by asking ridiculous questions. I'm glad to stay at home and escape into essays. But I'd never actually say that out loud.

•  •  •

Toward the end of September a tube of Mandy's lipstick goes missing from her purse during AP French, the only class we have together. When she starts squealing, every eye in the room—even Skye's—
even Skye's!
—goes to me. Never mind that I rarely wear lipstick, especially not the deep lavender shade that has disappeared. When the teacher insists that Mandy dump the whole contents of her purse out before we send out the bloodhounds, she pulls the lining out as extra proof. Skeleton points out a small hole, just big enough for a lipstick tube to escape through. The lavender shade is found between the lining and the shell. Mandy begins to rant about how cheaply made the purse is, interrupted by our teacher saying,
“En français, s'il vous plaît!”.

Skye won't look at me, her porcelain skin turning a deep shade of red. She thought I was guilty. Maybe not on the surface, but somewhere inside she did. She's my friend. She
knows
me. She still thought it was possible that I'd stolen the lipstick.