What We Knew (21 page)

Plunking down in our pathetic garden, I texted Lisa. I wanted the world to stop, but I also wanted it to go on like normal. I wanted Lisa to respond with something ordinary, like,
We’re at the pool
or
Meet us at the Dog House
. But I knew after last night there was no going back. Why didn’t she come to me? Why didn’t she tell me where she was going?

Because you suck at dealing with the hard stuff.

It’s true. I can’t help it. And I was doing it again. Waiting when I should’ve been out looking. Sometimes our city seems small and suffocating, but right then it seemed huge as I thought of all the places where Lisa might be hiding. I stared at my phone, a million “what-ifs” screeching through my brain. What if I’d gone to Lisa after what happened in Troy? Would she have opened up about Larry? Or are some things too horrible to tell even your best friend? That’s how I felt when I told Foley—

Foley.

Waiting for him to answer, I plucked an aphid from a leaf and crushed it between my fingers.

“Hey, what’s up?”

I could tell by his voice that he’d been sleeping.

“Have you heard from Lisa?”

“No.”

I watched a bee crawl inside a wilted squash blossom. Poor garden, I’m not good with silent things that need attention. It was my fault that everything was dying again.

“Trace?” Foley said. “You still there?”

“I need to see you,” I said. “Can you meet me at the park?”

Foley sighed. “Listen, I can’t do this … whatever this is … this thing with you.”

“It’s not about me,” I said. “It’s about Lisa. It’s bad. I don’t know who else to talk to.”

Foley didn’t hesitate. “Give me ten minutes,” he said. “I’ll meet you by the fountains.”

Brushing dirt from my shorts, I ran inside to change. My mother was at the table making a grocery list. “I’m going out,” I said as I passed through the kitchen.

“Whatever,” she responded, still hurt. “I’m going to get the car.”

Listening to her mumble something about me fending for myself for dinner, I closed the bedroom door and texted Lisa again. Nothing. I threw on clean shorts and a shirt and ran to the garage for my bike. A fine layer of dust coated the seat. The chain was stiff with rust and the tires needed air, but it would do. Zigzagging down the driveway and into the street, I pumped hard, not toward the park but toward Lisa’s. My legs burned.

I think part of me expected the house to look different somehow, contaminated, all that sickness throwing an eerie cast over everything. But the car was in the driveway and the truck gone. Shades drawn. Front door closed. Same as always. Mrs. Grant was sleeping. Larry was working. Maybe I had it wrong. I didn’t want to believe something so ugly, so dark had been happening to Lisa. It’s a survival mechanism, the way we look toward the light, refusing to adjust to the dark.

We can’t handle the dark.

I pedaled harder, faster, my vision blurring as I flew down Cutler and strained up Parkwood, the same route Lisa and I had taken the night before, only now I was gripped by guilt as the looming woods swallowed my shadow. I could barely breathe. There were people everywhere, smiling, oblivious to the darkness siphoning the air from my lungs. I almost turned back, but a voice called out. Foley was straddling his bike beside the paddle boats. Jerking his head for me to follow, he led me behind the basketball courts, to a picnic area set back in the pines. Wearily, I leaned my bike against one of the cast-iron grills nobody uses. Foley climbed onto a picnic table, soft and damp with rot, and pulled me up beside him, holding onto my hand gently, but firmly.

What is it about Michael Foley that always makes me open up? Even when I want to hold back, I can’t. I stared at my knees and told him everything, starting with Katie’s diary and ending with the red mark on Lisa’s cheek. When I looked up, shock and anger had hardened his kind eyes. I knew what he was thinking, what he’d like to do to Larry. There’s a killing part inside each of us. Until last night, I didn’t think I was capable of hurting someone like that. But I am. Foley is, too. Cursing, he drove his fist into the table. Sweet, gentle Foley. I took his hand and told him to take a deep breath.

“He’s got to be stopped,” he said. “What are you gonna do?”

My mouth went dry and my heart started pounding. The feeling of being on stage and forgetting my lines. I shrugged. Foley flashed me a look. “You’ve got to do something,” he said quietly. “You can’t just shut down.”

Gritting my teeth, I dropped his hand. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You have to tell Lisa’s mother.”

“No way. Absolutely not.” I jumped off the picnic table and grabbed my bike. “Were you even listening? I almost killed a guy last night. The wrong guy. What if I’m wrong again? This will hurt Lisa’s mom so much. And Lisa never actually said it, that Larry … you know.”

Foley’s eyes softened as though he understood. I wanted him to come over and take my face in his hands and tell me I was right, but instead he gripped the handlebars and leaned in, whispering gently, “
You’ve
never actually said it, Trace, that you were raped. But that’s what it was, what that guy did to you.”

“Go to hell,” I growled, shoving the bike at him. I wanted to claw his face, but he grabbed my wrists. It was the nightmare all over again, only now I was the one who’d been buried alive. All I wanted was to rest in peace, but Foley was digging deeper—
If you can’t say it, maybe Lisa can’t, either
—clawing the ground—
Say it, Trace
—clearing the dirt from my eyes—
Say it.
From the bottom of a dark hole, I looked up through the trees, at the cloudless sky above, and I said it.

Raped.

I was raped.

He raped me.

I said it again and again, waiting for the change. Finding your voice to speak the truth is supposed to be empowering, but I didn’t feel powerful. I felt weak and fragile and small. My brain turned to dandelion fluff and floated away on the wind.
Make a wish.
My body wanted to follow, but when I tried to right my bike, it weighed a ton. I could barely hold it steady enough to climb on. I stepped hard on the pedal, but the tires skidded on the pine needles and I lost my balance. Foley caught me.

“Sit back,” he said, swinging his leg over the crossbar. “I’ll take you home.”

“What about your bike?”

Foley shrugged.

Giving in to exhaustion and grief, I wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my tear-dampened cheek to his back. How did I become this shriveled clinging thing? Foley and I used to be equals. Back before the world started taking me apart, piece by piece. Once upon a time there was the plaza in winter where two rosy-faced children sat, sipping hot chocolate, steaming the air with their laughter and the sweet awkwardness of first kisses. Where did that go? Where did I go? I wanted to stretch toward the sun and feel the wind on my face, but I stayed curled inside myself until Foley led me inside my house and tucked me in bed.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I woke, my room was awash with the bluish light of nightfall. I checked my phone for messages. My text clouds were stacked like thunderheads—all delivered, but none read. I tried calling, but Lisa didn’t answer.
Maybe her phone’s dead. Maybe she’s dead. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
I called her house, hoping Mrs. Grant had found a note explaining why and where they’d gone, but Larry answered.
Maybe Larry killed them.
I fumbled the phone and pressed the end button. Shaking, I watched the screen go dark.
Safe.
But then the phone lit up. My ring tone chimed. I took a deep breath and answered.

“Tracy? It’s me. We got cut off. Have you heard from Lisa and Katie?”

I expected Larry to sound different, more threatening somehow, but he sounded exactly like he always had. Like the same Larry who gave us piggyback rides around the living room when we were little or took us for ice cream after school. The Larry I always liked. The one I never understood why Lisa hated.

“Is Mrs. Grant there?” I asked timidly. “Can I talk to her?”

“She’s at work,” he said. “She’s hoping the girls will show up there. Listen. About last night. I don’t what Lisa’s been telling you—”

“Lisa hasn’t told me anything,” I shot back.

Larry sighed uneasily. “I know things got a little crazy,” he said. “But this is a family matter. Okay? We just want Lisa and Katie to come home.”

I looked to the window, at the rapidly fading light. “Maybe you should call the police.”

“I just said it’s a family matter,” Larry said sharply. My heart kicked. There was an awkward silence. Then Larry spoke again, his voice measured: “If you hear from them, you’ll call me first, right? Tell them I’ll come get them, wherever they are, no questions asked.”

I heard myself say “Okay,” and then I heard a noise in the kitchen. “I’ve got to go,” I said, abruptly hanging up.

I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to our cupboard doors opening and closing, over and over. My mother searching madly for something. Annoyed, I opened the bedroom door. The sound grew louder, faster, a familiar rhythmic beat.
Definitely not cupboards
.
Definitely not Mom.
I shuffled down the hall to find Foley, white cords trailing from his ears, drumming along to whatever song was blaring in his head. I waved my arms. Foley stopped thrashing and yanked the buds free. “Was I really loud?”

I shrugged.

“You hungry?”

I nodded.

Foley went to the freezer and brought out a new box of toaster strudels. “Mom went shopping,” he said, tugging at the cardboard zipper.

I looked around. “Where is she?”

“Out,” Foley said. “She went to dinner with some guy. Jim somebody. I told her you were sick. She wanted to cancel, but I told her I’d hang with you. I must look trustworthy.” He winked.

I smiled halfheartedly before shuffling to the bathroom to wash my face. My eyes felt raw and crusty, my skin tight from crying myself to sleep. When I came out, Foley was tossing a hot pastry from hand to hand, muttering under his breath. He lobbed it on a plate and blew on his fingers, then cut the corner off an icing packet and piped out a big gooey star. Two forks, one strudel. We leaned together and dug in.

“These things are much better when they’re hot,” Foley said wryly.

I blushed, remembering the two of us in his living room, on the couch, falling, soaring. There’s a thin line between love and hate, and my heart was jumping double Dutch again.

“Is this okay?” Foley asked. “I can make you a can of soup.”

I shook my head. “This is fine,” I said. “Thanks for staying.”

Foley licked his fork and put it down. “I wasn’t here the whole time,” he said. “While you were sleeping, I went back for my bike.” Foley scooped up my hands and squeezed. Staring at the bruises on my knuckles he said, “Plus I took a detour. To check on your guy.”

Something in his tone made me think it wasn’t good, whatever he was about to tell me. Lisa was wrong—he was dead. An icy chill filled me. I jerked my hands free and squeezed myself tight.

“Just say it, Foley. Whatever it is, say it.”

Foley stepped back like he was afraid I might hit him. “There’s garbage everywhere,” he said. “Old furniture and tires and stuff. But there’s no house made of tarps. Nothing like you described.”

I closed my eyes but the image of my flashlight striking his head made me open them again. “It wasn’t my imagination,” I said defensively. “Or Lisa’s. Or Adam’s or Trent’s. They saw it, too—his house. Trent’s the one who found it.”

Foley raised his hands. “I’m not saying it wasn’t there. I’m just saying it’s gone. He’s gone. That’s a good thing, Trace.”

If it was a good thing then why did I feel so lousy? Probably because going to jail sounded easier than doing what I knew I had to do. I dumped the forks and plate in the sink and checked my phone again. Still nothing from Lisa.

“Will you go with me?” I asked.

Foley looked out the window. “It’s almost dark. I’ll show you tomorrow. First thing.”

“Not the woods,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “The diner. Lisa’s mom’s at work.”

twenty-five

How many nights had Lisa and I spent in the diner where her mom waitressed? Weeks, if you added up all the hours. Maybe even a whole month. I’d always thought of it as just a hangout, but staring at my reflection in the silver siding, I realized it was way more than that for Lisa—the diner was her refuge, a place to get away from Larry.

“You can do this,” Foley said, opening the glass-and-chrome door. I took one step. And then another. Foley’s guiding hand on my back was the only thing keeping me from turning around. I inhaled the familiar smells—coffee, gravy, fried everything—and tried to calm my breathing, but my legs started shaking when I spotted Mrs. Grant updating the specials easel. I think part of me had hoped that the diner would be packed, with Lisa’s mom being pulled in a hundred different directions. Whatever I had to say would need to wait until morning, when she got off work.
See, Foley, I tried.
But the place was nearly empty. Capping her marker, she called my name and trotted over.

“Did Lisa call?” she asked.

I shook my head at the floor, at the black and white tiles that needed mopping. Mrs. Grant lifted my chin. “Did something happen?” she asked. “What’s going on?” I tried to answer, but the worry in her eyes silenced me. Foley spoke up. “Listen, Mrs. G.,” he said. “We need to talk.”

Mrs. Grant frowned at Foley and then at me. “What’s this about?”

When we didn’t respond, she said, “Fine. Hold on,” and then to Val: “I’m gonna take my break.”

When the diner was dead, Lisa and I always sat up front, but Mrs. Grant led us past the bakery case with the mile-high pies, past the pay phone and the restrooms, to a booth way in back, far from any customers. Foley slid in first, across the bench seat. I put my phone on the table, in case Lisa texted, and slid in next. Mrs. Grant checked her phone, too, and then sat across from us.

“Wait,” she said, scooting back out. “This has been a long day. Let me grab some coffee.”