Undercurrent (10 page)

When I reach the car, I find the crate full of Holden’s Own sitting by the car’s back bumper. Inside, Ivy is stretched out, seat back, looking sound asleep. Her shirt is gaping open, giving me a glimpse of her black, lacy bra. I feel strangely furious, knowing Ross probably had himself a good look.

She jumps when I bang on the window.

“Another whole box?” she cries in disbelief after popping the trunk and letting me back in the car. “Nice one, Cal. Seriously, I don’t know how you pull it off. . . .”

“To be honest,” I answer, “I don’t either.”

She kisses me on the lips. She lingers, and I feel electricity course through my body as her tongue flicks around my mouth like a little lizard.

I’m the one who finally pulls away. “Now please drive,” I beg her. “I want to get out of here.”

CHAPTER 10

While we idle in the driveway outside my house, Ivy lays another
kiss on me. But she’s in a hurry now, shoving me out the door, worried she’s going to be late for her math test.

Wiping off Ivy’s greasy lipstick, I get out of the car. And I would have headed right inside were it not for the sound of the popping trunk.

The box of whiskey! I was hoping she’d keep it. But I guess I have no choice.

The effort of lifting the heavy box makes me grunt. Balancing it unsteadily on my knee, I slam the trunk closed. Ivy waves to me before backing out and screeching off, and I’m left standing in front of my house clutching a box that reads Holden’s Own in bold, black lettering. There isn’t a human being in Crystal Falls who would mistake it.

I look over to Edwina’s. I have to get inside my house—quick. I still can’t believe what I’ve done, stealing a dozen bottles of liquor from my father’s work. And obviously I’ve got something going on with Ross, or he wouldn’t have helped me. Not that he seemed happy about it.

Turning around, I notice that the red hatchback is gone. I’m in luck—Mom must have gone out. I head up the path, glancing toward Edwina’s place to make sure she doesn’t see me with the whiskey.

Balancing the box on my knee again, I try the front door. It’s locked. Checking my pockets, I discover I don’t have my keys on me. Where are they, anyway? They probably fell out during the accident and ended up in the river.

But what now? I’ve got to hide this stuff. Not only that, it’s cold and looks about to rain. With no cover over our front porch, I’m going to get soaked out here.

Then I remember how our family keeps a spare key hidden under a big, flat rock by the porch. Or at least we used to, at the house I knew.

I put the box down on the porch and have a look for it. I’m relieved to spot the exact same rock—a big, gray one with two white veins down its center. Prying it up, I find the key right where it’s supposed to be.

Hallelujah. Within ten seconds I’m inside the house with the whiskey, rubbing my aching hands together.

Like a well-trained boy, I kick off my shoes. But then I notice how someone else didn’t bother. Mud is tracked inside, right across the carpet. Mom will go nuts. Well, it wasn’t me—it must have been Cole.

Wait—I forgot again. Cole isn’t tracking anything in from anywhere.

The house is deathly quiet. “Hello?” I risk calling out as I hang my jacket on a free hook. If anyone is home, I’ll have to stuff the box in the closet for now.

But there’s no answer.

I head into the kitchen and open the basement door. The light’s not on. Jess is not down there.

Heading upstairs, I notice that the mud trail continues to the second floor. I’m starting to feel uneasy, seeing the tracks lead to my room.

I put down the heavy box.

Taking a deep breath, I open the door. But there’s nobody in the room, at least that I can see. I check the closet. Empty. I get down on all fours and check under the bed. Nothing but a few lost socks and some dust wads.

I remember the spot under my desk, where I used to hide from Cole when he was on a rampage. I kick out the swivel chair. But there’s no one there either.

Maybe I’m imagining things, I think with relief. But there’s still mud on my floor. Looking closely, I can even make out a clear sneaker print.

I go back into the hall and have another look around. There are faint mud tracks down the hall, I discover, stopping at the door of Cole’s room.

I open it quietly and peek inside.

There’s that figure again, the wasted body covered up in blankets. I freeze, watching the slow rise and fall of its birdlike chest. A length of tubing hangs out of its throat, running to the nearby machine that is doing all the breathing.

With the bed jacked like a monster truck, I can see there’s no one hiding underneath. I walk in. Fist raised, I check out the closet. There are sheets, a few blankets, and some medical supplies, but otherwise nothing of interest. And definitely no one hiding inside. Checking out the floor, I find no more mud.

No one’s here, I’m certain. My shoulders relax.

That’s when I hear a strange noise.

It’s coming from behind me—a sort of gargling sound. The figure in the bed is calling out to me, I know. I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want to go over. But I feel like I have no choice.

The noise stops as I approach the bedside. The person wears my brother’s face. I stare into familiar green eyes, now regarding me with eerie stillness. And I keep staring, thinking about life with my brother, and all the things that have happened to us since we arrived in Crystal Falls.

The eyes seem to never blink but just look at me.

You’re not my brother,
I think.

It’s a terrible thought. But it’s true. I know this because now I remember the last moment I saw him. It wasn’t even a week ago. I was dangling above the roaring blackness, and Cole was there, holding on to me by my wrist. He held on with all his might, promising over and over to never let me go.

But I was too slippery. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t hold on.

“I’m sorry,” I say now, to the unmoving figure. “I’m really sorry.”

I watch as tears spill from the staring eyes.

I remember the whiskey.

I rush out into the hall, where the box still sits. Grunting with the effort, I hoist it up and bring it into my room.

Where do I hide it?

Looking around, I decide that the only possible option is my closet. Unfortunately this requires some excavation. Once again I uncover strange things—hockey sticks and baseball mitts, balls, bats, and hats of all varieties. None of them interest me.

I dump everything on my bedroom floor until there’s a path to slide the box to the very back. Then I pile all the gear on top.

I look again at all the mud on the floor. Having no explanation for it, I don’t want to even start discussing the matter with my mother. So I fetch the dustpan and broom and begin sweeping up all the crumbs of mud from the entranceway, the stairs, and finally my room.

I then get the mop and clean up what remains.

My timing couldn’t have been closer, because my mother comes home literally a minute after I’ve gotten rid of the evidence. She catches me just as I’m coming out of the kitchen after returning the mop to the cupboard.

Jess is with her. Instead of greeting me, the dog runs straight into the living room as if being chased.

“Hi, Cal,” Mom says. “I just needed to zip into town to pick up a prescription for your brother. I hope you weren’t worried when I wasn’t here.”

I shrug. “I think I lost my key in the river,” I mention. “So I had to use the one under the rock to get in.”

“Oh, dear. I didn’t think about that,” she replies. “It was just a quick errand. . . .”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Mad?” I repeat. “For what?”

“For leaving Cole alone. I know you don’t like that.”

“Oh.”

“It’s just that with you being in the hospital, we really relied on Edwina a lot last week, and I felt like I couldn’t ask her again. But I made sure his tube was extra secure first, and there’s the backup generator in case the power went off.” The shame of leaving her paralyzed son alone shows on my mother’s face. “I’m sorry, Cal. I know I should have waited until you got home. . . .”

“Mom, it’s all right—honestly,” I tell her.

Fortunately the phone rings. Mom runs off to answer it. Relieved to escape, I start heading back upstairs.

“Hello?” I hear her say. “Oh, Coach Keller!” she exclaims brightly.

I stop on the stairs. Coach Keller? What does the guy want this time?

“No, Cal’s doing much better. In fact, he’s just come back from a walk. Would you like to speak to him?”

No, no, no.

She calls out for me.

Cursing, I head downstairs again. Taking the phone like it’s a live hand grenade, I speak: “Hello?”

“Cal!” the voice of my gym teacher buzzes in my ear. “How’s it hanging?”

How’s it
hanging
? I really can’t stand talking to this guy.

“It’s Callum, actually,” I correct. “Only Cole is allowed to call me Cal,” I explain.

Whoops—my mother overhears this. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her shoot me a disturbed look. But then something hits me: If I’m so sure that the Cole upstairs isn’t my brother, who is she supposed to be?

Keller interrupts the thought. “Er, all right,” he says. “Whatever you say, bud.”

The dead air remains between us for easily ten seconds as I turn and watch Mom tidying the kitchen counter. Except for the weird old clothes she wears now, she doesn’t seem that different.

“I hear you went for a walk,” Coach Keller continues. “That’s great. Keep that body moving. So when do you think you’re coming back to school?”

“I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow,” I tell him flatly.

“Tomorrow? Wow, now that’s terrific news! Listen, I don’t want to pressure you, but the sooner you’re back, the better. We need you, son. You know that. The school needs you.”

The school needs me? What is he talking about?

“And the team’s pulling for you, hoping you’ll make the next game. Do you think you will?”

The game? He means football, obviously. Why does he care?

“Um, I don’t know,” I answer. “Maybe.”

I don’t know why I say this. The truth is I haven’t been to a Crocodiles game since Cole got thrown off the team. Why would I want to freeze my ass off cheering for the second-to-worst team in the league?

“Just maybe?” Keller asks.

“Probably,” I lie. “Listen, I need to go. But thanks for calling, Mr. Keller.”

“Coach Keller,” he corrects.

“Coach Keller—sorry. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, son. Keep that body moving!”

Hanging up the phone, a weird notion hits me. Was Keller asking if I would go to the game or
play
in the game?

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” my mother asks.

“What?”

“Cal, you’ve just suffered a serious head injury,” she reminds me. “I know you made a commitment. But you’re not going anywhere near that field until the doctor says it’s safe.”

“Okay, okay,” I answer impatiently. It’s not like I want anything to do with the football team anyway. I just want to know: Why is Coach Keller calling me? What does he think I am exactly?

I head upstairs to check if I have any messages. Waiting for the computer to boot, I find myself staring at one of the trophies on the top of my shelves. It’s gold painted, and it features a helmeted figure running with a football. I have to climb on the desk to get it down.

I look closely at the plaque beneath.
Callum Harris
, it’s been engraved,
Rookie of the Year, 2011
.
Crystal Falls Crocodiles
.

I think again about what Mom just said:
You’re not going anywhere near that field until the doctor says it’s safe
.

I get a chill. Is that why the coach is calling? Because I don’t play football—that much I am sure about. I can barely catch a ball, and throwing one, well, that’s even worse. Even Cole gave up on me, saying I was just pretending to be that uncoordinated to drive him nuts. But I honestly wasn’t pretending. I just suck at football, like I suck at most team sports.

A quick poke around the equipment I’ve tossed back into my closet quickly turns up a pair of football cleats, still filthy with dried mud and grass. On the tongues the initials CH are traced in ballpoint. Weirder still, it looks more like my careful capitals than Cole’s messy scrawl.

I try one on—it fits perfectly.

I turn up a worn old football, also with CH on it, this time written in black marker. What I don’t find is a Crocodiles helmet or uniform or any sort of football pads. But then I remember how Cole’s kit really stank and got kept in the garage.

Putting the shoes and the ball back, I close the closet door. Behind me, one of the ancient computer’s drives makes a sound, presumably asking:
Hey, whatever happened to floppy disks? Why don’t you use them anymore?

My messages. I want to look at them again, to see if anything new has arrived.

That’s when I notice my desk.

One of the drawers isn’t properly closed. And I know for certain I shut this drawer, because it’s the one that contains some pretty incriminating items: a roll of money and a gun.

I pull out the notebooks and lift the lid off the shoe box. And for some reason, I’m not even that surprised at what I find in there.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

CHAPTER 11

With twelve hundred students, Crystal Falls High is a big school,
with kids coming from a number of towns nearby—the Bus People, as they’re called. From the front, the concrete building looks pretty old and outdated, but inside, everything is brand-new thanks to a renovation the year before we arrived in Crystal Falls. Out back is the new library annex along with a large sports field surrounded by a running track and bleacher seating.

The school my mother pulls up in front of is just as depressing as I remember. Most days I would rather be anywhere but here. And as you might expect, this attitude isn’t exactly helping my grades. I got away with a lot the first couple of years, but now that I’m a junior, the teachers are wise to my tricks. Suddenly I’m “not applying” myself enough, they’re telling my parents. Suddenly I’m “barely skating along” and “on thin ice” and every other winter-related metaphor they can think of.

“Don’t forget your lunch,” my mother says. She’s in a rush, because Dad is waiting at home with Cole, having promised not to leave for work until my mother returns. She is still reluctant to ask more favors from Edwina and is worried about picking me up later.

“Seriously, I can make my own way back,” I tell her again. “I could use some exercise.”

“Well, I guess it’s fine. But I don’t want you lifting weights, all right?”

Lifting weights? That’s about as hard for me to believe as being Rookie of the Year. But Mom is serious.

“I promise,” I assure her. “No weight lifting. And no trapeze either.”

“Very funny. Remind Coach Keller that you’re not allowed to do anything strenuous. Doctor’s orders.”

“Okay,” I answer. I’m wishing I had a doctor’s note though. Then I could just head straight to the library instead of to gym to be excused. But do I really need a note? It’s not like anyone’s going to doubt my story.

In fact, I’ve learned that my miraculous survival made the news all over the country. For the first few days afterward, our home was swamped with phone calls from newspapers and TV stations. My parents declined all interviews. And soon after I woke up, the world moved on from the boy who went over the waterfall.

Yup. The world moved on, all right. It moved on so far from what I would call reality that it made me the star running back at Crystal Falls High. I confirmed the fact on the internet, in a year-old picture in the local paper’s online edition of me getting a touchdown, with the caption:
Sophomore Star Callum Harris secures Saturday’s victory against the Burnside Hawks.

I couldn’t see my face, which was hidden under a helmet. But the article mentioned my name three times.

Well, I still can’t believe it. Heck, I’m a guy who still can’t even throw a football properly. And now I know for sure because I proved it to myself yesterday afternoon.

Hoping to get back on better terms, I decided to take Jess out to play fetch. Searching the garage, I’d been hoping for a tennis ball but could instead only find the chewed-up old football that Cole liked to throw for her. He could make that thing hang in the air for what felt like forever. Jess would race off in pursuit, barking and darting looks over her shoulder to be on target when it landed.

It was something I could never do. But I needed something to throw. So I took the football.

At first, Jess was reluctant to follow me, but she soon caught a whiff of all those great roadside scents, and we were off. Not wanting to run into Mr. Guise, I headed us in the opposite direction from the campground, up the road to the intersection where the Starlight Motel is located. This time of year, the motel is pretty quiet, I remembered, which meant there would be a nice open parking lot where we could play.

Unfortunately, when we got to the intersection, the Starlight Motel was gone—completely razed to the ground. Walking around, I could now only barely make out the outline of its foundation and the torn-out parking lot beside it. Even its neon sign, a local landmark, had vanished—along with the words
NO VACANCY
, which for six months a year were normally lit underneath.

Just standing there gave me an eerie feeling. But there was now plenty of room to throw a ball for Jess, without the worry of breaking a window or denting a car like before. So after letting the dog off the leash, I placed my hand carefully around the football, just like Cole had once shown me, my fingertips lined up behind the laces. Then I wound up.

“Go on, girl!” I shouted to Jess. “Fetch!”

It was pathetic. The football flew end over end as usual. Even Jess, who had so far been warming up to me on our walk, seemed ashamed by the display, trotting after the ball with little interest.

So I’m sure: Article or not, instead of magically turning into a football star, it’s more likely I’ve magically turned out of one.

Now, walking up to the school, I’m still casting some sort of spell, it seems. Because people are sprinting up to me, asking me how I feel and what it was like going over the waterfall and being in a coma. I don’t stop and barely answer, except to say I’m okay. But they keep grabbing on to me, asking questions and following like a pod of dolphins in my wake.

It makes me uncomfortable, all the fist bumps and high fives I get inside on the way to my locker. Most of these people I don’t even particularly know. I notice other kids, younger ones, scrambling out of my way like I might smack them or something.

This is not what I was expecting.

By the time I get to my locker, I’ve managed to shake off everyone, at least for the moment. Thankfully one of the keys I found in my desk opens the lock. Dumping my bag, I look for the copy of my schedule I keep taped inside the door. But in its place is a torn-out magazine page—a picture of that same woman who seems to be plastered on every surface available to me.

Once again I tear her off. The schedule is right underneath.

“Hey, what day is it?” I ask the little freshman staring at the crumpled poster at his feet.

The kid jumps. He turns and stares at me, clutching his books to his chest.

“Hello?” I say. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Thursday?” he answers uncertainly.

“I mean on the schedule,” I explain.

The kid now looks like he’s having some kind of fit. Is there something wrong with him? “Sorry!” he says, clearly terrified of me. “It’s day two. Sorry!” Slamming his locker shut, he runs off down the hall, shooting a frightened look over his shoulder.

What was that about? I was just asking a question.

“Hi, Cal,” says a voice behind me.

I turn around.

It’s Ivy.

She looks amazing, wearing a leopard-print cardigan and a red scarf, with her hair tied back into a bun and a pair of large sunglasses perched on her nose. Like a Hollywood actress straight out of an old movie.

“Hi there,” I answer. Her perfume washes over me. As sensitive as I am to most smells, I find myself wanting to drink whatever it is straight out of the bottle. “How are you?”

She steps in closer. “Me? I’m fine. But I’m not the one who went over Crystal Falls. So the question is: How are you?”

“Okay, I guess.” It takes all the effort in the world not to stare—she is so gorgeous. “I’m not supposed to lift any weights,” I say, cringing immediately. But instead of laughing in my face, Ivy squeezes my biceps.

“Hmm, you
have
lost a lot of muscle,” she says, frowning. “I guess being laid up in a hospital bed will do that to a guy.” She leans forward, squeezing me against the locker. I can feel her body, soft and warm, for a few seconds before she pulls away.

“Did you decide about the party on Friday?” she asks. “You can’t miss it. It will be great for business.”

I don’t know how to answer. “I’ll try to make it,” I say.

“Do better than try, Cal,” she answers, sounding slightly annoyed. She checks her watch. “Look, I have to go,” she says hurriedly. “But I’ll see you later, right?”

“Yeah,” I reply.

“Great.” She trots off at high speed.

I can’t help myself: I stare at Ivy’s swaying rear. That is, before I see Hunter Holden glaring at me from down the hall. I freeze, terrified, while Ivy walks straight into his open arms. He kisses her on the top of her head. They walk off, pressed together.

What the hell? She’s still going out with him?

A slender, brown-haired girl dodges around them. It’s Willow! And that’s it—I forget all about Ivy and Hunter. Smiling, I try to catch Willow’s eye, but she doesn’t even register my presence as she passes. She continues on with a stack of books tucked under her arm.

“Willow!” I call after her. “Wait up!”

She turns with a confused expression—the way someone might look upon hearing their name announced over a loudspeaker at an airport.

I wave to her and feel a goofy smile stretch across my face. But she just stares back at me. I leave my locker open and jog up to her.

“Hey, how are you?” I ask.

“Um, fine,” Willow replies, frozen, holding up her books almost in self-defense. “You?”

“Good, good.” Already the conversation feels dead on arrival. “Listen, sorry about the other night,” I say. “Was it too late to call?”

“I guess not,” she answers. Her eyes flit around the hallway, avoiding mine.

“It’s just you got off the phone really quick. I thought maybe Elaine was pissed or something.”

At this Willow’s eyes widen. Her expression turns suspicious and angry. “How do you know my mother’s name?”

I realize there have been a lot of disturbing things that have happened since my accident. Experiences I can’t explain, like my best friend trying to kill me and everything having changed. And worst of all, being expected to believe that my brother hasn’t left his bed for four years.

But even after these mind-bending events, the blow that completely breaks me is that Willow no longer even recognizes me as a friend.

Looking into her rigid face, I can feel a sob welling in my chest. But no, I can’t cry at school. I have to get ahold of myself.

“What do you mean, how do I know?” I plead. “Willow, I know your mom. I’ve been over to your house a ton of times.” From her startled reaction, I can see it isn’t reassuring her and instead it’s having the opposite effect: She’s getting scared.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Just stay away from me,” she says. Turning on her heel, she hurries off down the hall.

“Willow!” I call after her. “Wait!”

She doesn’t stop.

“Harris!” a husky voice barks from behind, before I’m cracked one between the shoulder blades. The pain is incredible. Doubled over, I crane around, expecting to see someone standing over me with a shovel.

The person’s hands are empty but are just as huge as shovels. It’s Holt, a linebacker for the Crocodiles—a gigantic teenager who eats four cheeseburgers for lunch and whose tuft of curly hair, lack of neck, and dull animallike eyes always make me think of a buffalo. I normally stay well out of his way—just in case he accidentally crushes me into the lockers or steps on my foot.

“Hey, you really must’ve nearly died,” the massive herd animal says.

“Huh?”

He nods after Willow. “Because you’re even sniffing the mutts now.”

My eyes blaze. Words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“
What
did you say, fat-ass?”

Holt the Buffalo looks like he’s been stuck with a cattle prod. He thrusts his huge face straight up to mine and reveals an unsettling line of tiny teeth.

“Hehehehe,” the linebacker laughs, the sound rumbling up from the depths of his massive chest. “Good to have you back, little buddy,” he says. “See you at the game.
Go, Crocodiles!
”

I watch in amazement as Holt lumbers off down the hall.

Just then the first bell rings. I’m going to be late for class if I don’t get moving. I rush off to check my schedule. I have history—oh no. Grabbing the books I think I’ll need, I slam the locker shut.

I arrive at room 106 out of breath.

“Mr. Harris,” Mr. Potts announces as I enter. “How delightful to see you!”

The guy is a jerk. I can’t tell whether he is being sarcastic or not.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Potts,” I say, hoping I won’t get a detention. Taking a seat, I feel everyone in the classroom staring at me.

“That’s all right,” Mr. Potts says, waving a hand. “After what you’ve been through, the fact that you’re here at all is remarkable.”

So Potts is being sincere, it seems. Usually he makes a personal mission of cutting me down. I don’t know why; it’s not like I act up in his class. I really think he just can’t stand my face.

Today he looks fascinated with me though.

“So what happened exactly?” he asks.

“I’m really not sure. My memory is still kind of foggy.”

“Really. It’s not uncommon, though, with such traumatic experiences. Do you recall the sensation of actually going over the falls?”

“Yeah. That part I remember.”

“Then what did it feel like?” Mr. Potts asks, leaning forward. “Details! Details!”

The teacher and class listen intently as I describe the experience, the horrible drop and the feeling of being helplessly tossed around the depths of the river. But when the discussion moves to what might have happened before, how I actually came to fall into the river, I feel increasingly uncomfortable. With still no concrete memories of the day before, it feels like I’m giving them a blank sheet they can fill in as they like. The sheriff is already convinced I did something to Neil Parson, and so is everyone on the hospital staff apparently. So why not the people in this room?

Some of them must think I’m lying, I decide, that I never even went over the falls. But why would I make up something like that?

To hide something, of course. But what?

I can see it making sense to people, that I hurt Neil and then swam out to the rocks to play dead. It would explain my life jacket, for sure.

But that’s crazy. What if I hadn’t been spotted? It’s freezing in the river this time of year—I would never have made it back alive. Everyone must know that.

Thinking of Neil, I suddenly realize he was in Mr. Potts’s class. I look over at his desk, which is now empty. I meet the eyes of another person: