One of Us Is Next (20 page)

“No,” Nate says, rubbing a hand across his face as he turns to me with a weary expression. “If I were you, I’d take that as my cue to leave. Trust me.”

When I get home from Nate’s, my dad is alone at our kitchen table. It’s the same table we’ve had since I was a kid, a wooden monstrosity that could seat all seven of us comfortably. I used to be squished in the middle next to the wall—the worst, hardest-to-access spot for the youngest kid. I can sit anywhere I want now, since there are only three of us left in the house, but somehow I still find myself squeezing into that chair every night.

Dad is writing on a yellow legal pad, surrounded by a pile of what look like blueprints. He’s wearing a Myers Construction T-shirt that used to be black but has been washed so many times that it’s turned pale gray. “You’re home late,” he says without looking up. Fritz is snoring lightly at his feet, paws twitching like he’s dreaming about taking a walk.

I go to the refrigerator and pull out a Sprite. I need to wash the taste of sour beer out of my mouth. “My internship is really busy,” I say. “Since Eli’s getting married next week.”

“Right.” Dad scratches out a note on his pad. “Good to see you stick with something, I guess.”

I pop the top from my soda and take a gulp, watching him over the rim as something inside me deflates.
Your dad really knows his stuff,
Nate said tonight. It’s true, but Dad never shares any of that with me. All I get are these pointed little comments. I usually ignore them, but tonight I’m not in the mood. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

Dad keeps writing. “Your mother said you quit that play you’re in.”

“So?” I prod. “Why do you care? You haven’t been to one of my plays in years.”

He finally looks up, and I’m struck by how deeply etched the lines in his face are. I could swear they weren’t so prominent yesterday. “I care because when you make a commitment to something, you should stick with it.”

Yeah. You
should.
Unless you’re the laughingstock of the entire school and being onstage is only going to make it a hundred times worse. I would’ve ruined that play for everyone in it, even though most of them don’t see it that way. Lucy doesn’t; she’s still not talking to me.

And if I’m being totally honest, it wasn’t that hard a decision to make. I stopped caring about acting a while ago, but neither of my parents noticed. Dad acts like he wants me to change, but he doesn’t really. Any time I try something different, he dismisses it.

But I can’t tell my father that. I can’t tell him anything.

“I had too much else going on,” I say. He lets out a small, dismissive snort and goes back to his paperwork. Resentment swirls through my gut, making me bolder than usual. Or maybe it’s that half beer I had. “Did you say something?” I ask. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Dad looks up, eyebrows raised. He waits a beat, and when I don’t look away, he says, “If you think you have
too much
going on, with the number of video games you play and the amount of time you spend on your phone doing God knows what, then I pity your future employer when you have a real job.”

My stomach drops. Jesus.
Say what you really mean, Dad.
He basically just called me useless. “Until Proven
is
a real job. I work hard there. I work hard in general. You’d know that, if you’d ever given me a shot working with you.”

He frowns. “You’ve never had any interest in working with me.”

“You never asked!” I blurt out. “It’s a family business, supposedly, but you treat Nate Macauley like he’s more of a son than I am.” My mother must not be at home, because my voice is rising and there’s no sign of her. Usually, this is when she steps in to play peacemaker. I gesture at the blueprints, my head still full of what Nate said in his room. “You won’t even tell me what’s up with the mall site investigation, and I was there when Brandon died!”

Dad’s face gets thunderous. Uh-oh. That was the wrong card to play. I want to sink into the floor as he leans forward and points his pencil at me.

“You. Were.
Trespassing,
” he says, stabbing the pencil forward with every word. “And about to take an incredibly dangerous shortcut that I had specifically told you not to take.
You
could have been the one who died. I thank God every day that you didn’t, but I’m livid that you were in that position in the first place. You grew up around construction work, Knox, and you know better. But you have zero respect for what I say, or the work I do.”

I open my mouth, but no words come out. Shame makes my face burn. He’s right on all counts except the last one. Does he really think I don’t respect his work?

When I don’t answer, Dad waves the pencil at me again. “Don’t you have homework to do? Or television to watch?”

Dismissed, like always. But this time, I can’t blame him, and I don’t know how to apologize or explain myself. Especially since he’s turned back to his work like I’m already gone. So I head upstairs with my Sprite, even though Nate’s words keep running through my mind, burrowing into the groove of foggy half memories from the day Brandon died.

If you were totally paranoid, you’d almost think somebody messed with the landing.

Maeve

Monday, March 23

Knox is already in the drama club office when Phoebe and I get there at lunch, seated on the floor with an oversized Tupperware container in front of him. Phoebe peers into it, her expression quizzical, as she settles beside him. “Are you eating empty hot dog rolls for lunch?” she asks.

“Of course not,” Knox says. “They have peanut butter inside.”

Phoebe wrinkles her nose. “That’s weird.”

“Why? It’s just different-shaped bread,” Knox mumbles around a large bite. He swallows, takes a gulp of water from the bottle in front of him, and turns to me. “Any news from your doctor?”

He must have texted me that question a dozen times since Friday. But I don’t mind; I’m just glad we’re getting back to normal. “No, but the lab is open regular hours today, so hopefully I’ll hear something soon,” I say. Phoebe rubs my arm encouragingly and pulls a bottled smoothie out of her bag, popping the top and taking a sip of the thick purple liquid inside. I didn’t bring anything, but my stomach is knotted way too tightly to eat.

“So why did you want to have lunch here instead of the cafeteria?” I ask Knox.

Knox inhales the rest of his first sandwich and chases it down with another drink of water before responding. “I wanted to talk to you guys about something without people eavesdropping,” he says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“And by people, you mean Lucy,” I mutter. I’m still not over her giving me a hard time when I was looking for Knox at play rehearsal.

“Or Sean,” Knox says. “Or Monica, or Jules.” Phoebe raises her eyebrows, and he adds, “Or anybody, basically. Something’s been bugging me all weekend, so I want to see if you think it’s weird or if I’m overreacting.”

“Well, now I’m intrigued,” I say, but I’m only half listening as I pluck at the beaded bracelet on my wrist. Ita gave it to me for luck the last time I went into the hospital, more than four years ago. I haven’t worn it since and it’s a little tight, but—that ended up being a good day. So maybe today will be, too. “What’s up?”

“Okay, well, here’s the thing. I saw Nate Friday night—don’t ask,” he adds, when my eyebrows shoot up. “It’s a long story, work-related, not important. Anyway. Nate was looking at all these pictures from the construction site where Brandon fell. You know how I told you my dad is helping investigate the accident?” We both nod, and Knox continues, “Well, Nate says he thinks someone could’ve messed with the landing Brandon jumped on.”

“Messed with it?” I echo. Now he has my full attention. “Like how?”

Knox shrugs, his mouth tight. “Removed some supports, I guess? I don’t really know. I wanted to ask my dad, but…he wasn’t in a great frame of mind. And Nate said the whole thing’s inconclusive, anyway. But all weekend, I kept thinking about what that could mean. Why would anybody deliberately screw with an abandoned construction site? And that’s when I started wondering…do you think there’s any possibility that somebody wanted Brandon to get hurt? Like, was actually targeting him by giving him that Dare?”

Phoebe chokes on her smoothie, and I pound her on the back. “Are you serious?” I ask while she coughs. Knox nods. “Like who?”

He spreads his hands wide. “Not sure. Sean, maybe? He was right there when it happened, and he gave me a concussion when I got too close. Maybe he wanted Brandon out of the picture so he could finally be top dog at Bayview, or something.”

“Huh.” I prop my chin in my hands and stare at a poster for
Wicked
on the wall, a bold graphic print of a green witch with a sly smile. I think about the conversation I had with Lucy Chen in the auditorium during the
Into the Woods
rehearsal, right after Knox quit the play.
Everyone knows how to win this game by now,
she’d said.
Just take the Dare.
And she was right. After seeing what happened to Phoebe and me versus what happened to Sean and Jules, nobody at Bayview High who’d gotten a prompt would have done anything except text back
Dare.
Especially someone as competitive and confident as Brandon.

Still—this is Sean Murdock we’re talking about. “I don’t know,” I say slowly. “Sean has always struck me as more of an in-your-face bully. Not to mention a short-term thinker. I can’t picture him setting up something this elaborate.”

Phoebe looks doubtful, too. “Your dad might’ve just meant that the construction company didn’t do their job properly. They went bankrupt, right? That’s probably because they’re bad at constructing things.”

“Entirely possible,” Knox says.

“They’re not done investigating the site yet, are they?” Phoebe asks. Knox shakes his head. “So maybe let your dad finish, and see what the final report says? The video’s not going anywhere. We can share it anytime.”

It all sounds perfectly reasonable—but there’s a little voice in the back of my mind urging me to turn PingMe back on. Just to keep an eye on any ongoing chatter related to the Truth or Dare game. I take my phone out of my pocket and reactivate the alerts, then jump when it rings in my hand. When I look down at the screen my heart nearly stops.
Dr. Ramon Gutierrez.

“Oh my God, you guys.” My voice is low, strangled. “It’s my oncologist.”

“Do you want us to stay or go?” Phoebe asks.

“I don’t—” I can’t think.

Phoebe stands as my phone continues to ring, grabbing Knox’s arm to haul him to his feet. “We’ll give you some privacy but we’ll be right outside.” She circles me in a one-armed hug while simultaneously shoving Knox out the door. “It’ll be okay.”

My phone is still ringing. Oh God, it’s not. It stopped. I missed it. I stare at the screen until my phone locks, then unlock it with shaking hands and call back.

“Ramon Gutierrez’s office,” says a cool female voice.

I can’t talk. I should have asked Phoebe to stay.

“Hello?” comes the voice again.

“Um. Hi,” I croak. My palms are sweating so badly, I don’t know how I’m managing to hang on to my phone. “This…this is Maeve…” I lose my words again, but she catches enough.

“Oh, Maeve, of course. Hold on, I’ll put you right through.”

I slide my bracelet up and down my wrist, the smooth glass beads reassuringly cool beneath my clammy fingers.
It’ll be okay,
Phoebe said. Everyone says that, and sometimes they’re right. But I’ve lived years on the other side of okay. I’ve always expected that, sooner or later, I’d wind up there for good.

“Maeve Rojas!” I don’t recognize the hearty tone as Dr. Gutierrez’s at first. “I just got off the phone with your mother, and she gave me permission to reach out to you directly while she—well. She needed a moment.”

Oh God. What does
that
mean? But before I can torture myself with possibilities, Dr. Gutierrez keeps going. “I’m calling with good news. Your blood work is one hundred percent normal. Your white cell count is fine. I’ll speak to your parents about running further diagnostics if they want additional reassurance, but as you know, this particular test has not steered us wrong before. As far as I’m concerned, your remission is not compromised.”

“It’s not?” The words aren’t sinking in. I need him to say it a different way. “My leukemia isn’t back?”

“That’s correct. There is no indication in your blood work that the leukemia is back.”

I let out a deep, shuddering sigh as all the tension I’ve been storing up over the past month flows out of me, leaving me light-headed and boneless. My eyes fill and quickly spill over. “But the nosebleeds…and the bruises…”

“You do show signs of an iron deficiency, which is obviously not something we like to see in someone with your history. So we’re going to nip that in the bud with a vitamin prescription and more frequent check-ins. Also, I’d suggest you start putting Vaseline inside your nose twice a day. Your membranes are inflamed, which is exacerbating the issue.”

“Vitamins and Vaseline. That’s it?” The words slip out of me flat and numb, with none of the buoyant relief that’s fizzing through my veins. My mouth hasn’t caught up with my heart yet.

“That’s it,” Dr. Gutierrez says gently. “I’ll talk to your parents in greater detail about follow-up and monitoring. This was a frightening bump in the road, but in my opinion it truly is just that.”

“All right,” I manage, and then he says some other things but I don’t hear them because I’ve already dropped my phone into my lap and put my head in my hands so that I can full-on bawl my eyes out. Hinges squeak and I smell floral shampoo as Phoebe kneels on the ground and wraps her arms around me. Knox crashes into me from the other side.

“We eavesdropped. I’m sorry, but we’re so, so happy,” Phoebe chokes out.

I can’t speak enough yet to tell her
Me too.

I need a few minutes by myself after the news. As much as I appreciate Phoebe and Knox being there, I’m relieved when they leave and let me pull myself together. I want to talk to my parents but the lunch bell is about to ring, so I send quick texts with a promise to call later. I already know what their reactions must be: so happy I’m not dying that they won’t even be mad at me for keeping them in the dark for weeks.

Which, I’m only starting to realize, is something I need to sort out if I’m ever going to truly move on from being the sick girl. For most of my life, I’ve gotten a free pass for the things I do wrong. Hardly anyone gives me a hard time or holds a grudge. Even Knox came around once leukemia reared its ugly head again.

It’s not a crutch I ever asked for, but I’ve been leaning on it anyway.

I send one final text to a number that I saved to Contacts instead of deleting like he’d suggested:

Hi Luis, it’s Maeve. I’ve been meaning to thank you for the video. It was helpful. Also, I’m sorry for what I said at Cooper’s game. I didn’t mean it. Not that this is any excuse, but I was having a bad day and took it out on you.

I really am sorry.

I’d like to talk more sometime, if you would too.

Then I drop my phone in my bag. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.