Damage Done

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2015 by Amanda Panitch

Cover art: front cover photograph copyright © by Roy Botterell/Fuse/Getty Images; back cover photograph copyright © by Cultura Creative (RF)/Alamy

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Panitch, Amanda.

Damage done / Amanda Panitch.—First edition.

pages cm.

Summary: “Julia Vann has a new identity after being forced to leave town because of her twin brother’s terrible crime. Julia is the only survivor but she can’t remember what happened—at least, that’s what she tells the police.”—Provided by publisher

ISBN 978-0-553-50749-2 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-553-50751-5 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-55350750-8 (ebook)

[1. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 2. Twins—Fiction. 3. Secrets—Fiction. 4. Murder—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.P18933Dam 2015 [Fic]—dc23 2013050070

eBook ISBN 9780553507508

Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

For my parents, Beth and Elliot Panitch, who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself

I have one picture left of my brother. I used to keep it in my underwear drawer with the other photos I’d hidden from my parents, confident that my lacy unmentionables, at least, would be safe from my dad’s searching hands. I was wrong. The picture survived only because it’d slipped behind the drawer.

It’s a good picture. The taker, long forgotten, managed to catch us both midlaugh, dark curls flying around our faces, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. We were thirteen, maybe fourteen. Young. Innocent. Or at least I was.

The picture is the last thing of my brother I have left, period. My parents’ preliminary sweep, right after the incident, took his notebooks and papers but left me with more: his varsity swimming jacket, which still smelled like chlorine and sweat and Axe, and some of his books, big, fat fantasies with page corners so creased and worn they fluttered to the ground like frenzied moths when I flipped through them.

I lost the jacket and books when we moved, right before my parents sold the house and I became Lucy Black. I’d gone out for a run, still Julia Vann, and returned to find my things all in boxes, my clothes crammed into garbage bags that smelled like tar. I sank to my knees in the doorway, suddenly dizzy, wondering if I’d pulled a Rip van Winkle and fallen into a trance, running for what felt like forty-five minutes but was actually forty-five days.

“Mom?” I said hesitantly. She stood up from behind a stack of boxes. “What’s going on?”

She swiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. “There was a reporter in the bushes when I went to take out the trash,” she said. “Everybody stares when I leave the house. I can’t do it anymore, Julia. I just can’t.”

So that’s how we disappeared from Elkton, leaving behind bags of trash, our old names crumpled on the floor like dirty tissues, and the eleven skull-sized bloodstains on the floor of my high school band room—my brother’s goodbye.

It took me a good three weeks to learn to respond when people called me Lucy. That was my new name, though I hadn’t officially changed it; it wasn’t like we were in witness protection or anything. Anyone who really, really wanted to track us down probably could have—Lucy is my middle name, and Black is my mom’s maiden name. But the public’s memory is short, and it’s a long way from the top of California to the bottom, and so nobody had called me anything but Lucy in over a year. Not
Julia,
not
bitch,
not
murderer.
It was quite refreshing.

So when Alane called out “Lucy!” my head turned automatically. I wondered, as I usually did, whether I’d still turn if she yelled “Julia!” I didn’t feel much like a Julia anymore. I’d left Julia behind when I carved her name into the music stand I later hid behind as my brother sprayed the room with bullets. An obituary in C minor.

“I’m coming!” I yelled from my front stoop, hoisting my books higher in my arms. Six classes today meant five books to keep track of. They strained my shoulders as I ran down the driveway to Alane’s truck. I slid into the passenger seat and dumped the stack into the well. “Sorry. I dropped all my stuff looking for my keys.”

She snorted and stepped on the gas. The truck lurched forward, scattering my books and uncovering the quarter-sized hole in the passenger-side well under my feet. I usually loved peering through it when we stopped at red lights and parking spots, where I’d seen all sorts of cool stuff. Loose change. Dead things ground into the pavement. “Maybe you should get a backpack like a normal person.”

My brother had borrowed my backpack that day. He’d looked so ridiculous, barreling into the band room with my old neon-pink-and-purple bag, that my mouth had still been open in a laugh when he pulled out the gun.

I pushed my books into a neat stack and clenched them between my calves. “Maybe your face should get a backpack.”

“Ouch.” She rolled her eyes. “Good one. I might need a skin graft for that burn.”

The ride to school was bumpy. Physically. Every ride was bumpy in Alane’s truck, or, as I affectionately called it, Alane’s heap of scrap metal. I kept a running account of everything I thought (or pretended) I saw through the hole. “A dime. Part of a hubcap. Something rubber. Ooh! Gold doubloons!”

“
Arr,
matey,” Alane snarled. She squinched one eye shut as if she were wearing an eye patch. Which was not a good idea, if you think about it, because she was driving. “If you do really be finding gold doubloons,
arr,
you could buy your own ship and sail your own self around.”

I stiffened. “I don’t drive. You know that.” My voice came out colder than I’d intended, and Alane’s face fell. “Besides,” I quickly added, “you know you love being my chauffeur. You should just let me call you Jeeves.”

“Jeeves is for butlers,” she said, but her shoulders had relaxed and there was a smile twitching at the corners of her lips. My own shoulders relaxed in turn.

Any tension in the truck fizzled out as we pulled into the student parking lot. We were on the late side of on time thanks to my book-dropping mishap (and also my hitting-snooze-too-many-times mishap, and my oatmeal-burning mishap—it had been a morning full of mishaps), and so the lot was nearly empty, students mostly inside, leaving their cars gleaming iridescently in the sunlight like beetle shells.

“We’re going to be late,” Alane observed.

“Not if we run.”

She frowned at me. “Running is bad for you.”

“Running is good for your heart.”

“It’s bad for your spirit. And you can’t survive without spirit.”

“But you can without a heart?” Her frown deepened, and fear shot through me. I might have gone too far—I didn’t want to make her mad. I slung an arm around her shoulders and leaned in. “Kidding. Just look at the Tin Man. He survived quite well without a heart.”

She smiled. “Just look at most of the kids in our class. They survive without a brain.”

I laughed and pulled away as we began our walk across the parking lot. Heat still rose from the cars’ hoods; some of their engines were still pinging. Unless they all jumped to life and piled upon one another to form some kind of giant Transformer car ready to take over the world, we would probably hit our desks before the late bell rang.

Halfway across the parking lot, I could hear the tinny ringing of the homeroom bell inside. We had a full three minutes to make it. No problem. I stretched my free arm and cracked my neck, and the laughter died in my throat.

There was a man standing at the distant edge of the parking lot, his arms crossed, his face lean and tan. Trendy glasses, large squares, covered what I knew were dark eyes. He was squinting in our direction like he was staring directly into the sun. Even from this far away I could tell his suit was wrinkled and his tie askew. I turned away. Looking at him was like staring directly into the sun, too. Dangerous.

“Alane,” I said, or tried to say. It didn’t come out. My throat had turned to stone. I coughed, breaking the stone into a hundred pebbles that rattled down my neck and settled in my stomach with the weight of a boulder. “Alane, do you see that guy over there?”

She’d pulled slightly ahead of me when I’d stopped to look, and now she paused and sighed. “Come on, Lucy. If we don’t hurry, we’ll be late, and I really don’t want to have to tell Mrs. Corey her lead soprano won’t be at show choir practice today because she has detention.”

“Just one second,” I said. “Please.”

She turned slowly and glanced behind me. “I don’t see anything,” she said. “Now will you come on?”

I looked back. She was right. No one was there. “There was a guy standing there,” I said. My voice sounded as tinny as the bell. “I saw him.”

“It was probably just someone running late,” she said abruptly. “Maybe a teacher. Lucy, seriously, come on!”

I nodded. Again, I couldn’t speak. That hadn’t been a teacher running late. I knew that man.

Or, rather, Julia Vann had known that man.