Sloth (19 page)

“No,” she agreed.

“The worst part was that I was all alone with it, you know? So I just thought, maybe . . .”

She gave him a faint “Where are you going with this?” smile. She wasn’t going to make it easier on him.

Adam squirmed in his seat. Touchy-feely stuff wasn’t really his style. “You can talk to me. About how you’re feeling. About . . . anything.”

He wanted to know how she was feeling.

She felt numb.

She felt hollow, like a black hole at her center had sucked away her insides, only no one could tell because the outer shell was still intact.

She felt angry all the time, at Adam, at her parents, at the world, at herself. And she didn’t know why.

Her thoughts were jumpy and sluggish at the same time, skipping from subject to subject only because by the time she got to the middle of a thought, she forgot where she’d started or where she was going. So she felt lost.

She felt like crying every time she laughed, and she rarely felt much like laughing.

She felt heavy.

She felt unworthy

She felt like if someone touched her in the right way, she might disintegrate.

She could turn off the tears and paint on a smile whenever she needed to, which made her wonder if the tears weren’t real either. She felt like a fraud.

But she wasn’t about to tell him any of that.

“I feel fine,” she said coolly. She pushed her plate toward his side of the table. “Want to try some? I’m done.”

“BETH!”

“We’re BOOOOOOOOOOORED!”

“I’ll be down in a minute!” she yelled, gulping down a couple Advil tablets. It was nice that her parents got to spend a romantic evening out on the town while she took care of the twins, she knew—and it wasn’t like she could have turned them down, given the fact that she had no other plans—but handling the twins’ hyperactive sugar craze was about the last thing she needed right now.

She picked up the envelope and pulled out the letter, even though she didn’t need to read it again. It was short, and she’d already memorized it.

No one got mail these days, so although it was probably still too early for college acceptances to arrive, she’d let herself get excited, anyway, just for a moment, when her mother had returned from the mailbox and tossed a letter toward her.

Her first reaction: It was thin. She was screwed.

But then she took a closer look and realized it wasn’t from a college at all. Her name and address were handwritten, as was the return address, a P.O. Box in Texas. She didn’t know anyone in Texas.

She was mystified, but some part of her—maybe the
part that was always watching and worrying these days, waiting for something awful to happen—made her take the letter upstairs so she could open it in private. Her father was at the kitchen table pouring over bills, and her mother had already turned her attention toward the high-maintenance part of the family. When Beth slipped up to her room, no one even noticed.

She’d been up there ever since, coming out only briefly to say good-bye to her parents and receive the standard lecture about emergency contact numbers and keeping the boys away from sugar, fire, and electrical sockets. She’d nodded and pretended to listen, like playing the responsible and dutiful daughter hadn’t become more of an act than a reality, and then gone back to her room, figuring the twins could fend for themselves, at least until it was time to heat up some leftover pizza and watch SpongeBob.

The letter, more of a note, really, scrawled on a slip of hotel stationery, had come stapled to a familiar clipping from the
Grace Herald
.

Two phrases were highlighted in light green:

“We’re all grateful that they had the courage [to turn Payne in] and prevent this from happening again,”

and

district officials say they had no sign Powell was not what he seemed

The attached note was only a few lines long: Good to know I can always count on you . . . to keep your mouth shut. See you soon? JP.

“Beth!” There was a loud pounding at the door. “Come play with us,” Jeff begged—although their voices were as identical as their faces, she was sure it was him. He always took the lead.

“Yeah, or we’ll tell Mom!” And that would be Sam, who could always be counted on to tattle.

Beth folded the letter and the clipping and stuffed them back in the envelope, which she stuck in her top desk drawer, beneath a box of paper clips and old stationery. She shouldn’t throw it out—what she should do, in fact, was take it to the police and explain everything. But she knew she wouldn’t. What if no one believed her story? Or worse, what if everyone did? The way they would all look at her, unable to believe that good, reliable Beth had gotten herself involved in something so publicly tawdry. . . .

And that was just the best-case scenario.

What if Powell came back to town? What if he realized she wouldn’t keep her mouth shut, and decided to shut it for her?

Or what if the police decided to check into her story and started digging into her life? If anyone started asking questions, if anyone found out about the box of pills, about what she had done—no. She couldn’t risk it. She would hold on to the letter, on the off chance that she found some secret store of courage somewhere within her.

But she wasn’t holding her breath.

“Okay,” she said wearily, opening the door. Jeff and
Sam launched themselves at her, each grabbing hold of one of her legs. “What do you two brats want to do?”

“I’m not a brat,” Jeff complained, turning his head up and sticking out his lower lip.

“I am!” Sam shouted, and poked Jeff in the shoulder. “See? Brat! Brat! Brat! Brat!” Each time he yelled the word, he poked Jeff again. Jeff scrunched up his face, squinted, turned bright red, and then began to scream.

“Aaaaaaagh!” he shouted, hurling himself toward Sam with his fingers extended like claws. “I’ll get you!” But Sam, sensing that his brother was about to blow, had already taken off down the hall.

Beth sagged against the wall as the two chased each other through the house, hooting and growling. She gave herself two minutes, silently counting off the seconds in her head until she could justify it no longer, and then ran down the hallway, hoping to find a way to tame the wild beasts.

An hour later, she’d gotten them tucked into a blanket on the couch, one on either side of her, both staring blissfully at SpongeBob and friends. It occurred to her that her parents had wanted her to do something constructive with them—the twins each had a thick workbook with “fun” activities about telling time and counting money. But that would require thinking, and none of the Manning children was up to that tonight. It was so much easier just to snuggle on the couch and relax in the flickering light of the TV. Beth tugged the blanket toward her neck and closed her eyes, trying to forget. . . .

“Beth! Wake up!” Jeff shouted, shaking her shoulder. “You’re missing the best part.”

Her eyes popped open, just in time to see a dark figure creep across the screen, lurching toward a peacefully sleeping child. She must have fallen asleep, and the twins must have taken the opportunity to change the channel, unless this was a Very Special Episode, “SpongeBob Goes on a Killing Spree.”

Sam and Jeff burrowed into her sides, pressing her hands over their eyes but peeking out just enough to see what was happening. Beth knew she should change the channel, but she couldn’t find the remote, and she didn’t really want to get up. . . .

The figure came closer to the sleeping boy, and the eerie music rose in the background.

Closer and closer, until—

“Aaaah!” the boys screamed in unison as a knife slashed down. Beth leaped off the couch and switched off the TV.

“Just a movie,” she said cheerfully.

But it was too late. That night, it was impossible to get them to sleep. They wouldn’t let her turn out the light, and kept asking if “He” was going to come and get them. Feeling guilty—as if she ever felt any other way, these days—Beth let them sleep in her bed, together, and promised to sit by their sides until they fell asleep.

Eventually, Sam closed his eyes and fell silent, but Jeff couldn’t stop whimpering.

“Shhh,” Beth said, putting a hand against his forehead. They always looked so small and sweet in their pajamas, tucked under the covers, impossibly innocent about the way anything worked. As if it were the bogeyman they really needed to be afraid of.

“I’m scared,” Jeff whispered.

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” Beth assured him. “I’ll protect you.”

“Aren’t you scared?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“No.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead, then kissed Sam, too, gently so that he wouldn’t wake up. “I told you, there’s nothing to be scared of.”

No wonder he couldn’t fall asleep; lamer words were never spoken.

Miranda wasn’t sure whether the house was abandoned or just a pigsty; it was hard to tell in the candlelight. About thirty people, mostly drunk or high, were scattered around the grounds—smoking in the backyard, making out in the bedrooms, experimenting with mixers in the kitchen. Miranda and Kane were sprawled out on a dusty couch in the living room. They’d snagged the best spot; most of the other couples were stuck lounging on the floor or leaning against each other in secluded corners. It wasn’t much like any party Miranda had ever been to; there was very little “partying” going on, as far as she could tell. There wasn’t even any music.

Not that she cared, not while Kane leaned against her, one hand cradling a beer and the other idly playing with her hair. Was he desperately wishing he could take her off somewhere private and have his way with her? Was he struggling with his fear of intimacy, wondering if his newly discovered love for her could overpower his nerves, and if he could convince her that he was serious about making things work?

Miranda doubted it, but it was a fun fantasy (courtesy, in part, of an afternoon with Dr.
Phil
). She could lean over and kiss him right now. But she wanted more than that, she
reminded herself. She wasn’t that kind of girl. Her friendship didn’t come with benefits.

“Sorry this sucks,” Kane said, his voice slow and heavy the way it got when he was a little drunk. Miranda almost liked him better this way; the cold, sneering veneer fell away and, every once in a while, he was actually nice. She’d always told herself this was the real Kane—alcohol just let him come out and play. “I should have known better.”

“It’s fine,” she assured him. “I’m having fun.”

He snorted, almost spitting out his mouthful of beer. “Yeah, right. Tell me something,” he said, stretching out along the couch and lying down, his head in her lap. He looked up at her. “This okay?” She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. His hair fell back from his forehead, splaying out across her leg. It was so unbelievably smooth.

“Tell you what?” she asked, resisting the urge to stroke his forehead.

“I don’t know,” he said, slurring his words slightly. “Why you’re so sad.”

“I’m not sad,” she protested.

He nodded as well as he could with his head resting on her legs. “Are too. Sad Miranda.”

“I’m not sad right now,” she pointed out, leaning over him so he could see her grin.

He reached up and touched her lips. “Can’t fool me.”

She didn’t know how drunk he was; maybe he wouldn’t even remember this in the morning, which would be better. All she knew was that she was sad—and it had been a long time since anyone had noticed, or wanted to know why.

“It’s Harper,” she admitted, feeling a hint of relief now
that she’d finally said it out loud, even to Kane, who would probably make a joke out of it as he did about everything else. “Everything I say is wrong, and she doesn’t want to talk to me, and it’s like we’re not even friends anymore.” The words came fast and furiously; she’d been afraid that if she said it out loud, she would make it real. But saying it out loud was better than saying it to herself, over and over again.

“She’s just . . . upset.”

“
I’m
upset!” Miranda exclaimed. She stopped herself and took a deep breath. It felt almost like she was talking to herself. “I want to be a good friend to her, but ... I also, I just . . .” She put her hands over her face, humiliated to realize it was wet with tears. “I miss having a best friend,” she choked out.

“Hey,” he said in alarm, pushing himself up. His breath was sour and his eyes glassy, but she didn’t care. “Hey, don’t—” He wrapped his arms around her and she clung to him, for once not wondering what he was thinking or wishing she could kiss him. She just closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. “She’ll be back,” he promised, and much as she wanted to believe him, she knew he was just saying it. Guys would say anything to get a girl to stop crying.

“I hate being alone,” she mumbled into his soggy collar.

He pushed her away, just far enough that he could see her face, and he held her in place so she couldn’t look away. “Stevens, you’re not,” he said firmly.

“I know,” she said, nibbling at the edge of her lip. “It’s just . . .”