Undercurrent (16 page)

“Hi, Ivy,” I say to the girl standing in the entranceway. My mother gives us some privacy, even turning up the TV in the living room. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you go to Becca’s party,” she tells me. “Omigod, you look like hell! What happened?”

“I had a bad afternoon.”

“No kidding.” But her sympathy stops there. “Well, nothing fixes a bad afternoon like a kick-ass evening,” she assures me breezily. “So get yourself together, and let’s go.”

“Look, I really don’t know if I’m up for a party,” I say. “I have a headache.” I decide not to mention the dizziness and the ringing in my ears.

“Cal! You’re such a whiner lately. Seriously. Take a pill and get in the car. . . .”

I think about it. It is tempting. Ivy is looking particularly amazing tonight, wearing very short shorts with sheer gray tights and heels. And if anyone could take somebody’s mind off crippling pain, it would be her, I suppose.

“What about Hunter?” I ask, hoping to finally get the story about what’s going on there.

Ivy rolls her eyes. “Hunter’s mother is having some fancy birthday party, a big catered family thing. I was invited, but I passed. But he’s stuck there, at the house, all night. . . .”

Ivy leans in close, and I can smell her perfume again. Her resemblance to the girl in the poster I ripped down from my bedroom and locker is suddenly incredible. Except she’s not faking anything. My body is in charge now, and it wants to head off with her, into the night.

“Okay,” I reply.

“Just get rid of that goofy hat,” she says. “Oh, and don’t forget the stuff,” she whispers. “Where is it, by the way?”

“Where is what?”

“The box of booze,” she says, sounding frustrated.

“Oh, it’s up in my closet. My parents would never look there. It’s a mess.”

Ivy sighs. “Are you out of your mind? What a stupid place to stash it.” She flashes a glance at the living room, where both my parents sit. “How are you going to get it outside without getting caught?”

Get it outside? “I don’t know,” I admit. Because, until now, I hadn’t ever considered moving it at all.

“Seriously, Cal,” Ivy says, her voice angry but still low. “Just go get it—I’ll distract your parents. Okay?”

I nod like a dumb animal before heading back upstairs to my room. There, I change shirts, putting on something I hate but think Ivy might like. I look in the mirror and remember the comment about my baseball cap. But how can I go out without it? When I check the hooks on the back of the closet door, I find a knitted hat. Wincing, I peel off the baseball cap and then roll the patterned hat over my head. I look like I’m wearing a tea cozy. But whatever. It feels a lot less painful than the stiff cap.

I uncover the box of whiskey and hoist it to my chest. It feels unbelievably heavy this time. I’m nervous about this. But it will be a relief once the stuff is finally out of the house.

As I reach the top of the stairs, Ivy holds up a hand. She marches straight into the living room.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Harris!” she says, as if they’re eighty years old and deaf. “How are things with you both?”

This is my cue. I hurry down the stairs, fingers barely gripping the box. Squeezing into the entranceway, I get a knee under it to help and manage to exit the front door. Seeing Ivy chatting up a storm through the living-room window, I quickly hide the box behind her car.

Back inside, I can hear Ivy telling my parents about all the activities and sports she is involved with at school. The question hits me again: Why is she even interested in me? My sex appeal? Come on.

But that does seem to be the central attraction as Ivy tongues my ear on the way to her car after saying good-bye to my parents. It’s exciting but also sort of gross, especially afterward, when I have to use a finger to clear out my ear canal in order to hear what she’s saying.

“Forget about the trunk, just stick the box in the backseat,” she’s telling me. Like usual, I do exactly as she says and then get in the passenger seat. We drive off, leaving the blue, flickering light from my house behind.

CHAPTER 15

If Ivy’s driving seemed scary during the day, it’s downright
terrifying at night. Constantly drifting across the line, burning around blind corners, and flooring it through red lights, she is so reckless, I’m actually amazed to arrive at Becca’s house in one piece.

There are already a lot of cars here, so we have to park down the street. Which means carrying the box of booze far. Ivy misreads the pained look on my face as we get out. “Oh, sorry, did you want to drive? You should have said something. But you have to get over yourself, Cal. It’s really sexist of you to keep saying that I can’t drive.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“Well, you’re the designated driver then.” Ivy throws me her keys. “Don’t forget the alcohol, Cal!” she shouts.

“Sorry.”

I open the back door and get out the heavy box. I realize I’m doing an awful lot of apologizing around Ivy—for slamming the door too hard, for a wet sneeze in her car, for turning down the volume on her sound system. I think it’s getting on her nerves. Catching up with her, I almost start apologizing for my apologizing.
Shut up, Callum.
I just have to relax, but she’s stressing me out. I never felt this way with Willow, I realize. I always felt relaxed with her.

I follow Ivy up to the house, where we let ourselves in. The music is blaring. People are everywhere, mostly seniors, but a number of juniors I’m not expecting to see.

Everyone cheers when they see me. And then they swarm me. Next thing I know, they’re sticking money in my face.

“How much for one bottle? Can we get a deal if we get two bottles?”

I really don’t want to sell the whiskey. But at least it will get rid of the evidence, not to mention the heavy box I’m stuck with. “Uh, six dollars a bottle,” I tell them, picking a number off the top of my head. “Two for ten.”

“Cal!” Ivy yells. “What the hell?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Why are you giving it away like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s twenty-five bucks a bottle!” Ivy corrects. “Like usual.”

The buyers are pretty unhappy to hear this, with a lot of voices chiming in that I should honor my original offer. Ivy is firm, though, and tells them to take it or leave it. Still, things are getting ugly. But then the low supply and high demand becomes apparent, and people start bidding against one another. First ten a bottle, then twenty, then the twenty-five . . . And they don’t stop there. By the end twelve buyers are left standing, each walking off with a bottle for a cool fifty dollars apiece.

Which means that not only am I finally free of that stupid box, but I have six hundred bucks in my hands. Six hundred bucks! I’m still counting it in disbelief, grinning like a nutcase as people walk off in a huff.

I know this is wrong, but I just can’t stop smiling.

“Who are you?” Ivy suddenly wants to know.

“What?” I answer, feeling uneasy. “What do you mean?”

“Are you Cal’s evil twin or something? Because that was a piece of genius you just pulled off.”

“What can I say?” I reply smugly. “I guess I’m just a natural-born businessman.”

“More like a master manipulator.”

“It’s the same thing.”

Ivy laughs and kisses me on the mouth. It feels incredible, her soft lips combined with the thick fold of bills in my hand. And this time I don’t feel sorry about anything at all—until she suddenly stops.

“Hey!” she says, punching me in the shoulder with surprising force. “You didn’t save a bottle for us!”

“Oh, yeah,” I answer, not that I wanted any. I remember the tasting session my father once gave us of his product and how I ended up with my face in the toilet bowl. “Sorry.”

“Who can blame you at those prices?” Ivy admits. “Anyway, don’t worry. We should be able to score enough swigs to keep us going.”

I shove the money deep into the front pocket of my jeans. We start making our way around the party, which is in full swing. I notice that some kids have beer and look happy enough, despite missing out on the whiskey. We pass a hefty senior showing off by crushing a beer can on his face. Some other dude tries and really hurts himself, putting a bleeding dent in his forehead. Everyone laughs, including me.

I keep close to Ivy, who helps herself to every bottle of whiskey she comes across. She chugs it straight, winces, and then passes it back to me. I put the bottle to my lips and pretend to take a drink. Even a splash is too much, making my eyes water and my stomach clench. I guess I just really hate alcohol.

Ivy clearly doesn’t share my distaste though. Before long she’s totally losing control: stumbling around, dancing terribly, and laughing at everything anyone says. Meanwhile I’m ignored, feeling like her chaperone. When she does remember I’m here, she yanks me over for a kiss, but our teeth clang or her tongue pokes me in the eye. It’s both disgusting and annoying. Each blast of her hot whiskey breath makes me gag—I feel like I’m on a date with Mr. Guise.

I finally leave to go look for a bathroom. Not finding one on this level, I head up to the second floor.

It’s dark up here, and much quieter, which is a nice break from the chaos and pounding music downstairs. I find the bathroom, but it’s occupied. Rather than hang out at the door, I wander off to have a look around the house. I come across a TV room, where a girl sits, looking bored.

“Willow?” I can’t believe it—what’s she doing at a party like this? She looks amazing wearing a cute black dress and some makeup. More amazing than ever, in fact.

Willow seems happy to be recognized. But seeing me, she makes a face—the same disgusted expression she made after I slammed that kid’s head into the locker.

“Listen, I know you don’t like me now,” I say. “And who can blame you? But I just wish you would give me a chance. Because I really need to tell you something.”

“What?” she demands, I’m guessing more because she’s a prisoner in the room than because she’s curious.

“I’m not the guy you think I am. Well, not exactly the same. To be honest I don’t really know who I am anymore. . . .”

Willow runs out of patience immediately. “I don’t even know you, Cal, other than how you run around school, acting like a jerk. Okay?”

My head drops—this is not going well. “Look, I know it looked bad, but I’m not like that. Please. I don’t want you to think that about me. I’m not a jerk. I’m really not.”

“Why do you care all of a sudden what I think about you, anyway?” she exclaims. “You never even knew my name until a week ago. Now you’re acting like my opinion is the most important thing in the world to you. . . .”

“Because it
is
the most important thing in the world!” I insist. Hearing my own embarrassing admission, I feel myself flush. Yeah, real smooth, Harris. But Willow just looks terrified of the red-faced psycho blocking her escape. “Wait,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry for yelling. I know I’m not helping. I’m just trying to tell you that I don’t remember things being like this between us. I’ve always known your name, Willow, since the first day I met you. Honest.”

Either she doesn’t believe me or she doesn’t care. And I’m definitely making her even more nervous. She stiffens as I sit down on the sofa opposite her. I see her glance at the open door. I’m scared she’ll run away, but I’m willing to take the chance in the hope that she’ll feel more comfortable.

“Willow, listen to me,” I continue. “Something happened. I don’t know if it was to me, or to everyone. Before my accident, everything here was different. The whole town. It was cleaner, nicer. There were more stores on Main Street. And tourists—there were tons, coming to see the falls.

“And we were friends, you and I. We met last year in biology, in Mr. Schroeder’s class. Do you remember that? We were lab partners.”

“Yeah, I remember Mr. Schroeder’s class. But we weren’t partners—and you were always thrown out of class for goofing around.”

“No,” I say. I rub my face in frustration. “Another thing—my best friend was Bryce.”

“Bryce?” she repeats with a snort. “Nerdy Bryce?”

“Don’t call him that,” I reply. “He’s cool.” Which means I’m defending the guy who tried to murder me. But that can’t be the same Bryce either. Whatever happened to me, and whatever happened to Willow, has happened to him too.

“Anyway, then I went over the falls and went into a coma,” I tell her. “And when I woke up, all these strange things started happening. First, Bryce tried to kill me in the hospital, tried to smother me to death,” I explain. “And then Ivy started . . . started liking me, I guess. And everyone started acting like I’m some kind of badass and a football star.” I shake my head, wondering how I ever believed any of this, even for a second. “Except I’m not. I’m not! I swear to you, I’m just a regular kid, like anyone else!”

“Okay,” Willow replies, still fearful. “Whatever you say. Just calm down, Cal.”

I do need to calm down; I feel light-headed, like I’m running out of air. “And that’s another thing!” I blurt out. “No one in Crystal Falls
ever
called me Cal before! Everybody called me Callum, except for my brother.” The room starts to spin. “My brother!” I shout. “Who I’m now supposed to believe is completely paralyzed? Well, he isn’t paralyzed! I know, Willow, because I saw him, right before the accident!”

Then something weird happens: Willow begins dissolving in front of me. Everything goes white. I feel myself slumping over, my head hitting the sofa cushion.

And then, like a bubble coming up from dark depths, another memory rises to the surface.

It’s recent, I know, from the same day that I clung to the railing of the bridge. I’ve just come home, and I’m frightened for some reason, walking around, shouting hello into the eerie quiet.

There’s no answer.

I notice that the attic stairs are down. The attic stairs are never down. Feeling more and more uneasy, I climb up, poking my head into the dim world above.

“Hello?”

My brother is there, at the other end of the attic, lit by a utility light. He’s kneeling on the dusty floor, eyes clenched shut, a gun in his hand.

“Cole!” I shout. “What are you doing?”

Everything goes white again. Through the fog, I slowly become aware of Willow propping me up. “Are you okay?” I hear her asking. “Callum, are you okay?”

I’m crying, I realize, big fat tears slapping onto my pant legs. Embarrassed, I try to stop, but I can’t. I sit there for a moment, sobbing, gulping air, trying to control myself.

Willow reaches around me uncertainly before putting a hand on my back.

“You never see your dad,” I tell her, turning, my eyes still streaming. “He calls you, though, on your birthday, and on Christmas morning, and each summer when you finish school. Every year he says he’s going to fly you out to the Bahamas, where he lives with his rich new wife, and their twins, Samantha and Phillip. Except he never sends a ticket. You’ve met your stepmother two or three times, including at the wedding, but your half brother and half sister—your flesh and blood, you called them—you’ve never even seen them other than in pictures.”

I can see immediately from her face that these things haven’t changed, at least. And that no one at school—no one in Crystal Falls, for that matter—has ever heard this story. I know, because I was the first person she ever told, and that was only a few weeks ago.

I hear a toilet flush, and the bathroom door open. “Willow, girl! I know you’re up here. Stop being so shy and get down to the party!” a voice calls.

A girl appears in the doorway—it’s a friend of Willow’s named Lizzie. They used to hang out a lot, but lately Willow has been with me instead, feeling guilty as she ignores her calls.

Lizzie notices me still crying. “Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?”

Without a word, Willow gets up and races out the door.

I collect myself in the bathroom and head downstairs a few minutes later. My eyes are still red, but big deal, so are a lot of people’s. I jostle my way from room to room, looking for Willow. I can’t find her. I’m starting to think she left. I become sure of it when I see her friend Lizzie glaring at me accusingly.

I want to get out of here too. I want to find Ivy and return her car keys and then walk home. It will probably take an hour, but I don’t care.

The music stops. It goes unnoticed at first, because everyone is still yelling. But finally someone detects the missing bass and backbeat.

“Tunes!” he shouts. “Who’s in charge of the tunes?”

No one seems to know. People start shouting for Becca, a person I’m still kind of curious to identify, if only to see the face of the girl who would throw this kind of party at her parents’ house.

I don’t get the chance. A murmur rises among the crowd, and everything feels suddenly tense. Have the cops shown up for a noise complaint? Or did Becca’s parents come home?

But it’s worse—for me, at least. I see Hunter, flanked by Ricky and some other meathead from the Crocodiles.

The party falls silent. Everyone moves out of their way, opening an alley that stretches across the living room straight to me. That’s when I become aware of Ivy—who is hanging from me, chewing on my neck and grinding up against me.

“You!” Hunter shouts. “Get off my girlfriend!”

I want to comply, but since she’s technically the one on me, it’s easier said than done. Completely hammered now, Ivy doesn’t even register the sound of her boyfriend’s voice—she just carries on, making me look even worse. Boiling with fury, Hunter storms across the room toward us.

No, no, no . . . I really don’t want to get hit again today—especially in the head. But that’s exactly what’s coming—and then some—unless I get out of here right now. Which is also easier said than done.

Within a second, Hunter is on us. Hoping that even he draws the line at punching girls, I spin Ivy around as a shield. She giggles like a ballroom dancer getting an unexpected twirl.

Hunter is stunned, looking more wounded than angry for a moment. “Ivy!” he yells miserably. “What are you doing?”

That’s when the girl finally clues in—sort of. “Oh, hi, baby!” she slurs, letting go of me immediately and wrapping herself around the huge football player. “Wha’ joo doin’ here?”