Counting Backwards (11 page)

“What if I get out and I can’t handle it?” Margo says. “What if I fall apart again?”

“You’ll learn fast, Margo. It’s not so different from being in here.”

She shoots me a doubtful look.

“For real. You’re like . . . a force of nature. The first time I met you, you totally scared the crap out of me. You fight back against bullies like the Latina Queens. And you’re practically running your own small business with Victor. There’s so much you can do. Plus, you’ve got great . . .” I search my brain bank, trying to come up with what attribute Margo would appreciate the most. “Hair.”

Her lips twitch like whiskers, and she almost smiles. “I’m a natural blonde, you know.”

“I know,” I say, and nod emphatically.

She takes one last drag from her cigarette and throws it in the toilet. It hisses back at us like a snake.

“Okay, T, I’ve had my confessional. Let’s hear yours.”

“What do you mean?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Every time I look at you, you’re staring at the fence or else scoping out the safeties. Not to mention the map of Georgia. I know you want out of here.”

There’s no point in trying to hide it from her; she’s too observant. But if Margo knows and A.J. knows . . .

“Are you going to tell somebody?” I ask her.

“No, but you should know that Sunny Meadows has zero tolerance for runaways. You saw what they did to you just for running
inside
the fence.”

“They’d have to catch me first.”

Margo looks at me. “They will.”

“What about the Harvest Ball?”

“What about it?”

“What’s the security like?”

She shakes her head. “They’ve got safeties everywhere—on the lawn, in the gym, in the bathrooms. Besides, even if you got over the fence, where would you go after that? There’s nothing out there but ticks and mosquitoes. And no one comes down that road unless they’re coming here. They’d send out a search party and find you before morning.”

“Not if I had a car.”

Margo grabs me by my shoulders and gives me a light shake. “Not on the night of the Harvest Ball. They’ll be
expecting it, and it would really ruin my reign as queen. Everyone will be talking about you instead of me. Don’t you care about my feelings at all?”

She wilts into the saddest pout I’d ever seen. Her eyes even get a little misty. What an actress.

But she may have a point. It’s bad timing to try an escape when they’re fully staffed. And I sure don’t want to get tackled or thrown into a time-out room again. That would really ruin the ball for me, not to mention Margo’s dress. I need a better plan than climbing the fence. I need a car. I think of the gum in my pocket. Maybe by then, I’ll have one.

“Fine,” I say at last, because she’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“Promise?”

“I promise I won’t run away on the night of the Harvest Ball.”

She hugs me tightly and it takes me by surprise, her gesture of friendship. I never really had a girlfriend before, definitely not the BFF kind, where you trade clothes and talk about boys and prison breaks. Maybe because I never felt comfortable bringing anyone home, not knowing what state our apartment or my mother would be in. I never found a girl I could trust to keep her mouth shut. But at Sunny Meadows everyone has their own baggage they’re dealing with, so there isn’t so much shame in it. And we’re forced to be with
one another all the time—part of why I hate it—but in this case, it’s kind of . . . nice.

“It’s time,” she says, “for me to show you how much fun Sunny Meadows can be.”

Twenty minutes later during “outside activities,” we’re flying down the hill behind the dorms on cardboard boxes Margo convinced one of the maintenance guys to pull out of the recycling bin for us. The scattered leaves help us zoom faster and soften our falls. The safeties watch us from the top of the hill with their arms crossed, but from a distance, it looks like they might be smiling.

We go up and down, over and over, headfirst and butt first. We make a train with our arms and legs, with Margo as conductor. I haven’t acted like such a kid in so long, and it feels good to just let go and have fun.

A couple of more kids join in. I keep hoping to see A.J. among them, but he never appears. Margo convinces me to race some guys for Twinkies, and we wind up winning, while others compete to see who can wipe out with the most style. Sulli proves to be a real daredevil, sliding down backwards and somersaulting at the bottom.

“I think he’s trying to impress you, T,” Margo says with a mischievous grin.

Then kids just start tumbling down the hill, crashing into one another along the way. That’s when the safeties tell us
it’s time to pack up and get ready for dinner. On our way up the hill, Margo throws her arm around me and belts out the most obnoxious pop song from a few years back and I sing along, if only to repair her off-key rendition.

When we finally break away to go to our separate floors, I think about how she’s being released soon. It seems our friendship is destined to be short-lived. I’m really going to miss her.

All weekend long I call down to A.J. but get no response. On Monday morning I finally see him on walkover, but he won’t look at me, at anyone. His eyes are focused straight ahead, and I wonder if the first floor has done some permanent damage to him. After a couple of hours in there, I thought I was going insane.

Later that day I see him standing with Victor and some other guys in the pen, but not interacting. I wait for him to come to me, even look at me, but he won’t.

“Is he going to ask you to the dance or what?” Margo says, following my gaze. I can tell that she’s concerned about him too, that it’s not just about the dance. “Maybe you should go talk to him, T.”

“I don’t think he wants to talk to me.”

She nudges me a little. “Of course he does. Do you want me to come with you?”

I glance over at him, staring off at nothing. He needs a friend right now, and that’s the least I can do. “No, I got it.”

“Okay.” She squeezes my hand. “Remember, you’re prettier when you smile.”

I leave Margo’s side and make my way over. Halfway across the sea of asphalt he glances up to chart my progress. His face is so completely absent of emotion—I can’t read him at all. I stop just in front of him, and he waits for me to speak.

“I called down to you all weekend. Did you hear me?”

He nods but says nothing. He’s still not speaking. Maybe not even to me anymore.

“Did they find your keys?”

He shakes his head no.

“Was it hard?”

He shrugs. He’s not going to talk to me here in the daytime with everyone watching. But maybe he will tonight, alone in the basement.

“Will you come down to the darkroom tonight?”

He looks at me with uncertainty. Maybe he’s remembering how I walked out on him the last time. Suddenly I feel really bad about it, bad enough to want to explain myself.

“Listen, about what happened the other night . . .” I stare at my hands so I don’t have to look at him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just . . . I wasn’t ready for . . . all that.”

He grabs my fidgety fingers and does something totally unexpected—he pulls me into a big bear hug. I squeeze him back and to my surprise, it doesn’t feel wrong.

“No touching,” a safety barks at us, and we promptly part.

With the rush of good feelings I risk a glance up at him, which is a mistake, because he’s looking at me with a little smile playing on his lips. My face burns with embarrassment, and I can’t figure out why.

“W-well . . . ,” I stutter, “guess I’ll . . . see you later.”

I turn and walk back across the pen before I can get any stupider, trying to act normal and ignore the stares that people are giving me and most likely him, too.

Margo smiles at me like a maniac and starts singing, “Taylor and A.J., sitting in the tree, K-I-S-S—”

“Shh,” I hiss, but she won’t, so I jab her in the ribs until she quiets.

The bell rings, and I continue on to automotive, where we’re hard at work on the Bronco. I volunteer to turn the engine over. Mr. Thomas slaps the keys in my palm, and I feel my strength returning. There is nothing like the feeling of car keys in your hand.

I climb into the cab while Mr. Thomas and a few guys are still tinkering with the engine. I pull my plastic soap case out of my pocket. The soap is gone now, replaced by Margo’s bubble gum that I spent all of Sunday chewing and then smoothing out on the bottom half of the container, all in preparation for this moment.

“Taylor, give it a go,” Mr. Thomas calls while I’m slipping
the key off its ring. My hands are sweating so bad I nearly drop it. I shove my container between my knees and jam the key into the ignition. When I turn it, the starter whines, but the engine doesn’t turn over. Mr. Thomas raises his hand to stop me.

“Give it a minute,” he says.

A minute might be all I have.

I remove the key from the ignition, lick it so it won’t stick, press it carefully into my gum, then lift it out again—painstakingly slowly—so that it doesn’t stretch the impression left behind. I repeat the process for the other side and take a second to examine my results. I hope it’s good enough.

“Taylor.”

I glance up to see Mr. Thomas waiting with his hand raised. I smile as though I’m embarrassed, slip the key back onto the ring, and fit it into the ignition. I twist it, and the Bronco roars to life. The thrill that races from my head to my toes in hearing the sound of that engine is incredible. I hop out of the cab to join the guys in their celebration, receiving lots of sweaty man hugs. Then the Bronco dies, which means we’re not there yet. I tap the container in my pocket like a lucky talisman.

After school I have therapy again, my second session. We meet three times a week, which is three more than I’d like. Dr. Deb starts in with more questions about my family, but
I’m only answering the questions I want to answer. It’s hard to ignore her, because I know I’m being incredibly rude. But I can’t handle another episode like the last time.

After a long silence on my end, the questions finally get easier—
what’s my favorite time of year?
(summer),
what’s my favorite color?
(green),
what do I like to do for fun?
(listen to music). Then she asks me if I’ve ever had a boyfriend, which could lead to something more personal, so I keep quiet and stare at the clock until my time is up.

It’s the longest fifty minutes of my life.

For cleaning the common area all week, I earn media privileges and decide to utilize them that night after dinner. I ask Tracy for permission to go online while
Jeopardy!
is on, because it’s her favorite show and I know she’ll be distracted. I fiddle around on the computer until she’s really on a roll, then pull up Google Maps to study the area surrounding Valdosta. I trace the roads from memory as best I can until I find the spot where I think Sunny Meadows must be, then zoom in until I see a photograph of the dorms staring back at me, chain-link fence and all. It’s a surreal moment—to be staring at the outside of my prison while knowing I’m trapped inside.

Tracy shifts on the couch.

“You’re really on your game tonight,” I say to her, and she nods without breaking her concentration.

I zoom out and memorize the labyrinth of country roads
that lead back to the interstate, then delete my online history so no one will suspect anything. I tell Tracy I’ve got homework to do and head back to my room. There I sketch out a rough map, filling in the names and landmarks as I remember them from my ride here.

I pretend to get ready for bed, stuffing the key mold into the pocket of my pajama pants. Might as well discuss business while we’re down there. I lie in bed and wait for the lights to wink out and for Sandra to come by and see that we’re all tucked away for the night. The time I spend waiting for everyone else on the floor to fall asleep is torturous, especially tonight when I have a feeling like soda bubbles in my stomach. I tell myself it’s because of the key mold in my pocket and not because I’m going to see A.J.

Finally the small noises of the floor fade away, and I rise from my bed to play out my slow and silent dance. I unlock the stairwell door from my side and slip through, easing it shut behind me. When I turn around, I jump back and nearly fall over.

“A.J.”

He’s wearing an undershirt and flannel pants. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he smells good—soapy and clean.

“Is that what you wear to bed?” he says, and it takes me a moment to connect his words with his face, because I’ve
never actually
seen
him talk before. I glance down and see that I’m wearing pretty much the same thing. I realize the intimacy of what we’re doing. Seeing each other after hours, breaking the rules to be together, even if it’s only as friends.

“How’d you get out?” I ask him.

“Two keys.” He pats his keys where they rest against his undershirt. It’s the same place where my chest always gets so tight.

“I thought this key meant something to you,” I say, holding up mine. “No wonder you gave it up so easy.”

“Not that easy,” he says, and smiles playfully. It’s a side of him I’ve never seen before—a teasing, fun side. I stare at his lips, at the scar that only makes him more handsome, makes him real. He stares at me intently, and suddenly the stairwell isn’t big enough for the awkward silence that follows.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go down.”

In the darkroom I’m all too aware of his hand on my back as he guides me across the room, even though I know the way. When we reach the couch I freeze, not knowing how close we should be. How far could this thing go in one night, down here alone, with hours ahead of us? I sit sideways with my knees up, a slight barrier, facing him in the dark.

“Your keys,” I say. “How did you keep the safeties from getting them?”

“I hid them.”

“Where?”

“It’s kind of a trade secret.”

“You don’t trust me?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I dropped them down the sink drain. I figured they might search me when they got the whole story.”