The Prologue (11 page)

To be honest, I like the emptiness that I’m feeling, because it doesn’t hurt. When my head is up in the clouds, I don’t feel any of the guilt, none of the pain, any of the confusion or self-loathing or hatred. It’s a blessed release.

My dad calls to check in and he can tell from my tone that something is wrong, and I tell him that I think I’m coming down with something, possibly the flu. He tutts and blames lack of sleep, and says he’ll call the school the next morning and that I should stay home and rest.

When night falls, I can’t force myself to go back to my bedroom. The thought of being in that room alone, in the dark, sends shivers racking through my body and I break out into a cold sweat. I know without a doubt that I will never be able to sleep in that room ever again. Not the room, not the bed, never.

Instead, I go into my dad’s room and crawl into his bed, bringing every pillow in the house that I can find. I put on one of his old t-shirts and inhale the smell of having my dad all around me. It gives me the illusion of feeling safe, and finally, I cry and cry and cry. I cry until my face is tender to the touch from wiping away the tears, until I’ve gone through the entire box of tissues on the nightstand, until I can’t cry anymore and I fall asleep.

I wake up the next morning, and I can’t make myself get out of the bed. I’m still not as alarmed as I should be. In fact, I begin to wonder if I’m just crazy, and whether I should even bother fighting it anymore. The idea of being locked up in a room and just being able to lie in a bed all day long is sounding more and more attractive. Tony doesn’t call or text me; I think he knows why I’m not at school. I don’t care, because I don’t know if I can handle the sound of his voice right now, especially if he’s trying to be concerned.

But as the day goes on and the shadows begin to lengthen, not even the smell of my dad around me can make me feel safe. I’m twitching at shadows I see in the room, terrified that Tony will try and stop over to see how I am. I can’t be alone with him, not like this, not ever again. If he does it a third time, I will break, and I know no one will ever be able to put me back together.

An overwhelming urge to leave the house overcomes me, and I finally manage to sit up. Where to go? Where can I go that Tony won’t find me, that I will actually feel safe? I think back to the last time I actually felt safe and secure, where I wasn’t thinking about Tony in the back of my mind.

It comes to me in a flash; sitting with Zeke in the dance studio. I realize with a jolt of awareness that it’s Monday, and Jenny always helps teach dance on Monday nights. I scrabble amid the bed for my phone, and feel a rush of relief when I see it’s only five thirty. I jump from the bed and don’t even bother with a shower. I just throw a hoodie over my dad’s t-shirt and grab my keys and go.

Ezekiel

13

As the week progresses, Evie loses the forefront position in my mind, beaten back by a huge work load at school, a busy weekend at the club, and time spent with my friends to avoid my dad. Not that I forget about her, not at all. She just loses being a priority, because I can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. Besides, I know how it feels to have people stick their noses into your business, and if someone had tried that with me the way I had with Evie, I probably would have had the same reaction.

When I’m confronted with her empty seat in anatomy on Monday, however, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I can’t help but wonder if she actually is sick and has a legitimate reason for missing school, or if it’s something Tony related. Even though I try as hard as I can not to care about others, I hope she’s alright.

Thoughts of Evie fly right out of my head when I get home, however, and find Cindy waiting for me just inside the door. This isn’t at all unusual. What’s unusual is that she’s clearly been in my room, digging around through my things, because she’s holding a sketchpad and my pencil bag.

“Cindy,” I growl, and make a grab for the drawing supplies.

She dances—literally—out of reach. “Wait! I want to talk to you!”

“Give me that!” I order, crossing my arms and using my big brother voice.

Cindy clutches them to her chest and keeps moving backward, making her eyes go big and round and dewy. “Please draw me today at practice, Zeke!” she begs. “I want to have a drawing from you! Like the one you did of Mom that you gave me! I want one of myself too! And what if you go away to college next year? You’ll want to have pictures of me to take with you, won’t you?”

“That’s what cameras are for!” I shout, and begin to chase her around the apartment.

I’m not out of shape or anything, but I’m no match for Cindy as she scurries around on her dancers feet. Finally I corner her by the front door, and she hands over the sketchpad and bag with a mournful look.

I’m not mad that she went into my room, because she does it all the time, though usually while I’m inside so she can bug me. But I hate that she keeps trying to push me to draw, when she knows that I don’t do it anymore. Unfortunately, I know there’s only one way to permanently get her off my back.

“Fine,” I say shortly, and her eyes immediately get wide again, her mouth opening to let loose a shriek. “Ah!” I hold up a hand to halt her before she can get it out. “One drawing, understand? Just this one time. And you have to promise to never ask again. Deal?”

“Deal!” she squeals, and we shake on it. Then I hustle her out of the house, because now we’re going to be late if we don’t hurry up.

My hands are trembling just a little bit as we pull up to the dance studio, and I have to stay in the car for a minute after Cindy runs in, just to collect myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve held a drawing pencil, and while I’m annoyed that Cindy got me to break my vow, there’s a small part of me, buried very deep down, that’s excited. Drawing and breathing used to be synonymous for me, and even though for the longest time I had no real desire to draw, it was still like cutting off an arm to give it up.

There’s an even smaller part that is battling with feeling concern and worry over Evie, feeling too much emotion for my own good. I know the only and best way to get it out of me is to draw, to let it leak out through my pencil, and I wonder if that is the only reason I truly agreed to do as Cindy asked.

I walk in and can’t help but scan the room for Evie, but she isn’t there and so I settle in a chair where I’ll have a good view of Cindy, but I’m not too close to a few of the lingering moms that are waiting on the last class to finish up. I open to a fresh page and pull out a charcoal pencil, and the smell of the crisp, untouched supplies makes me close my eyes for a moment to fully enjoy it.

Good as I was, I know I’m a little rusty, so I start to limber up with some easy figures, practicing the lines of Cindy’s body, because I know they’ll be the most challenging part. I long ago learned to have respect for ballet, because Cindy can bend her body in some of the weirdest positions I’ve ever seen, and I still don’t understand how her legs can seem to bend in reverse.

As I fill up a few pages with faceless figures, it becomes clear that my skill hasn’t become tarnished from disuse. By the time Cindy and Jenny are working up a sweat, I’m thick into my project, and I’m unable to stop at just one drawing, of course. Before I know it, I’ve filled several pages, trying to get everything just right for the final drawing.

I’m so absorbed that I almost miss the chime of the door bells, and give a careless glance to the door to see who it is. Evie is standing hesitantly in the doorway, her eyes scanning the waiting room. They find me, zoom in, and then she walks purposefully toward me and sits down in the chair next to me. She slumps back into it with a long sigh, and I look at her with raised eyebrows.

She looks… well, to be honest, she looks terrible. I’ve never seen Evangeline Parker look anything less than completely put together, but this Evie is almost a different person. She’s wearing yoga pants and an old and faded Grandview Heights Football hoodie, and underneath I see the ragged hem of an overlarge t-shirt. Her feet are shoved into flip flops, and my eyes pick up the fact that one is navy and the other is black.

And her hair… well, I’ve always thought of her hair as a separate, living and breathing thing because it’s so beautiful, but today it’s a wild animal. Tangled around her face, a cowlick-type thing on the back of her head, and I can tell she hasn’t brushed it in a day or two. I barely notice, though, because I’m too focused on the bags under her eyes and the puffiness around her entire her face. My immediate thought is that Tony slapped her again, but this doesn’t seem to be quite the same. She actually looks as though she’s been on a crying jag, but this doesn’t do much to reassure my thoughts.

She sits in her chair, staring straight ahead with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s sort of huddled over in a very defensive position, or as though her ribs still hurt her, and I begin to fear the worst. I keep waiting for her to look over at me, and when she doesn’t, I strive for something to say.

“You look like a train wreck.” It pops out before I can think twice about it.

To my surprise, though, she lets out a laugh, but it sounds hollow and empty. She finally turns to look at me, and her eyes have that same vacant, spaced out look they did when I saw her last week at school. I’ve never seen someone look like that, as though every bit of life they have inside of them has been leeched out, like there’s just a shell of a body left with nothing inside. With Evie’s unusual, light eyes, it’s even more unnerving and I shiver despite myself.

“Who knew you were such a charmer?” Evie asks sardonically, but even her voice is flat, emotionless but for the sarcasm.

I wait a beat, wondering if she’ll volunteer why she’s here since she doesn’t seem to have anything for Jenny, but she remains silent.

I slowly re-shade a section of my drawing, and finally ask in a low voice, “Are you, like, okay? You weren’t at school today and…” I trail off because I’m not sure what else to say.
And I was worried about you?
I was, but I don’t want to admit it, even to myself. I don’t worry about other people, aside from Cindy.

Evie finally turns to look at me again, and this time, her eyes are full of a deep, aching pain that nearly takes my breath away. They’re covered by a sheen of tears, and I see her lip quiver for just a moment before she takes a breath and seems to regain control. I see her fists clench, her nails dig into her palms, and finally she speaks. “Can we please, please just not talk about me? At all?”

“Sure,” I say quickly, because I’m unnerved and a little scared. I’m not sure if I want to know what happened, if it put that look in her eyes. It occurs to me that this girl has problems and issues deeper and longer than mine, and that I should definitely stay away and not get involved. Luckily, that’s what I’m best at.

“Whatever you want,” I say, trying to put a little bite in my words. “Just… sit or whatever. It’s a free studio.”

“Thanks,” she whispers, and for a while she just sits there as I continue to work. Finally, she looks over and examines my drawing, and I resist the urge to put an arm over my work like a five year old. “I didn’t know you drew,” she comments.

“I don’t.” I look up to find she’s staring at me again, her eyes wide and innocent. I have to fight against the urge to spill my guts. Those eyes of hers should come with a warning label or something. No wonder Tony is so obsessed with her. Scrabbling for some distance between the two of us again, I point at her head with my pencil. “Your hair is fucked up, by the way.”

She scowls and begins to pat her head, and a small part of me is relieved at the small hint of personality and life. Evie finger combs her hair a little bit and then begins winding it around and around into some knot-thing on the top of her head. “Clearly, you do draw,” she says as she works on her hair.

“Not anymore,” I say, keeping my attention on my sketchpad and not her hair, which still looks soft and still smells amazing, despite being a tangled mess. “Cindy asked me to draw her, so it’s a favor, just for today.”

“Oh,” she says softly, letting her hands fall to her lap as she finishes with her hair. She watches me work for a while, putting the finishing touches on one of the drawings. It shows my sister in mid-leap, legs stretched, arms on either side of her, chin tilted up with an expression of total enjoyment on her face. I even kept Jenny in the background, standing with a satisfied smile on her face. I think this one is my favorite, and now that I’m almost done with it, I kind of don’t want to give it up.

If you keep it, it’ll just be harder to keep yourself from making exceptions,
I tell myself.
You’re like a drug addict—you can’t just do it in little, controlled doses.
I know that looking at how good this is will just make me want to keep drawing, keep doing ones that are better and better, and I don’t want that. I don’t even want to be tempted.

Evangeline

14