Dead to You (15 page)

The sickness is roiling inside of me—the panic and the laughter. That’s what it is, I think. It’s a sickness. I didn’t have it when I was a little kid, I know that by the look of horror on Mama’s face when she watched me spin out of control at Dr. Frost’s. And I feel it there now, heavy, like I swallowed a boot—yeah, like I swallowed a goddamn boot and it’s trying to hike its way up my ribs, trying to get out. And I don’t want to let it, because Cami’s here and she’ll think I’m a total freak if it happens, but it’s so strong I don’t think I can stop it. I don’t have any control. I push my head between my knees and try to suck in some air.

“Ethan, are you okay?”

I nod and flash her the okay sign, but she still looks worried. I want to get away from her so she doesn’t see it. I want to run, but I know what’ll happen. Same thing that happened at the basketball game. I need every ounce of air I can get so I don’t pass out and fall down. How would that look, huh? Pretty fucking worse than if I sit here and let the sickness run its course.

And it does.

It sounds like I’m dry heaving, but then the hysterical laughter spews out.

Cami, fidgeting and anxious, stands up. “Ethan, do you need help? I’ll get your mom!”

I grab her wrist. Shake my head and cover my face, so she doesn’t see it all ugly and distorted. I hold her arm and she sits down next to me, looking helpless, and then she puts her arm around my shoulders and holds on. I hold up my forefinger to let her know I’m almost through it. But I know, once I’m through, Cami’s not going to want to be anywhere near a freak like me.

I can’t help it now, though. I can’t hide it. I need her.

When I can finally speak, all I can say between gasps is, “I’m sorry. I’m really not as fucked-up as I seem.”

“Man.” Cami shakes her head. “What was that all about?” She’s not leaving.

“It’s just a problem I have. Some sort of nervous reaction to stress after all the crap I’ve been through, I guess. Doctor says I’ll probably grow out of it.”

“Uh, it might help if you could cut down on the drama,” she says.

“You think?”

She grins. God, I love her. I do.

We sit there together, growing cold on the steps, waiting.

And it’s not good. It’s really not. It goes some
thing like this.

Dad: You’re grounded for life. I have a thousand chores for you to do, including kissing Blake’s ass. No friends over. Cami, go home forever.

Me: But, Dad, he started it.

Dad: Family meeting tonight after everybody calms down. For now, you are dead to me.

At least that’s how it feels. I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I have never been grounded before. Ellen always just let me do whatever, and I didn’t get into much trouble. Here, with all these rules . . . it’s like a trap I can’t stay away from. After a while I pick up my pile of clothes. They’re still in a tangled mess on the floor where I put them after Blake tossed my stuff out of his room. I sort through them, fold them, and put them all away.

After that, I drag all the boxes marked ETHAN into my room and stack them in the corner where they’ll be safe. And then I go over to the pool table to gather up the collage of photographs.

But it looks like a tornado went through it. The photos are flipped over and scattered around like somebody picked them all up and threw them into the air, letting them stay wherever they fell. And I’m beyond pissed off.

Several of them are missing. And a couple of them are ripped.

And it’s not okay. It really isn’t. My breathing gets all shallow and scratchy and I don’t know what to do—I just circle the pool table, not knowing where to start, how to fix it. Finally I snatch up the remaining photos and bring them into my room, wishing I could get a lock for my door. I sit down on the floor and spread them out, gently, trying to breath normally. And as I attempt to re-create the collage exactly as before, I stare at the empty spots, trying to remember which ones are no longer there. It’s like trying to plug in the broken pieces of my life. I can’t remember what’s missing.

I text Cami.
Guess what? Blake wrecked my photos.

She replies instantly.
Jerk. Wait, you still have phone privs?

Yeah. They wouldn’t take that away. They’re obsessed w/keeping track of me.

I noticed. But can you blame them?

I think about that.
No, I guess not.

At least we can still talk this way.

I smile and type.
Yeah. Family meeting tonight. Should be interesting. Will let you know!

I’ll be waiting.

I bite my lip.
No date tonight? It’s Sat. No games or practice.

She doesn’t answer for a while. And then all she says is,
Nope, I’m busy with some other projects at home tonight.

Like?

Like . . . making sure you live through the family meeting. *grin*

She makes me calm. She does. I don’t know how she does it.
Sneak over tonight if you dare. Everybody’s avoiding me like the plague so it’s pretty safe.

Maybe. I gotta go now tho, k?

Yeah . . . thanks. You made me feel better.

Duh.

I grin and shove my phone into my pocket. And I look at the photographs, laid out like before, but with gaping holes now, and it’s killing me trying to remember which ones aren’t there. The one with Cami and the sno-cone machine is missing. I know that much.

Maybe once he has Gracie on his side, he’ll try to take Cami away too.

With the blood washed off, Blake’s face doesn’t
look nearly as bad. His swollen lip has gone down a little already and his nose looks normal. He does have a gray shadow under one eye and a red spot on his cheekbone, but they’re hardly war wounds. He sits in a chair at the far side of the room. Mama and Dad sit on the couch, Gracie between them. I slip into the remaining chair as the grandfather clock starts chiming six. I look at Gracie, and she looks at me, solemn.

I’m sorry.
I mouth the words and make a sad face.

She smiles grimly, way beyond her years, and I feel like we’re on some dumb TV drama again. I worry that she’s here. She shouldn’t be here. But I don’t know where she’d go. Maybe Mama and Dad think there’s still a chance we can have some magical perfect family or something. Maybe by calling it a family meeting, in their minds it means peace, love, and happiness.

Dad lays down the rules. Everybody gets a chance to speak. No raised voices. Calm and civil. Yeah, right.

Mama says, “We’ve heard Blake’s side of the story already. Ethan, let’s start with you. Tell us what happened today.”

I feel like we’re all in kindergarten. “Cami and I decided to go sledding and you asked me if I’d take Gracie, which I did. We walked over to the big hill and Gracie and I went down the hill together a couple times, and we were having a blast, when Blake came storming over. For some stupid reason, after ignoring her for as long as I can remember, Blake is suddenly superprotective of Gracie and he even threatened me last night to stay away—”

“That’s because you’re a
stranger
!” Blake roars. “You guys, I’m trying to tell you. He’s a phony. That’s not Ethan!”

Mama raises her arms. “Stop it, Blake.” She points to me to continue.

I feel mildly redeemed. “He told me to stay away from Gracie, which is crazy. I think he’s just jealous that Gracie and I get along.”

“I couldn’t care less,” Blake says. “I’m just trying to save her life.”

“Boys. Calm down,” Dad warns.

Gracie looks alarmed and Dad whispers something to her.

“This is not fair,” I say, and I struggle to be calm, remembering what Cami said, but my voice pitches higher. “He’s scaring her. Will you please tell Gracie that she doesn’t have to be scared of me? Sheesh.”

“But he’s violent!” Blake says. “Look at what he did to me.”

I sit up in my chair. “You started it! You start it every time. You throw a punch or shove me and you expect me to walk away? Forget it. I wasn’t raised to be a pussy.” I turn to Mama. “Maybe you guys need to teach sonny boy here to stop starting shit!”

“Don’t use that language in this house,” Dad says, and he’s looking upset, like he just realized he lost control of this. “It’s unacceptable.”

“What’s unacceptable,” I say, “is that you are letting Blake get away with stuff because ‘things are tough for him.’ Oh, poor Blake. Try trading places with me, Blakey. Try taking your antagonizing act to the streets. You’ll see where that gets you.” I laugh bitterly. “In the morgue.”

“Mama, he just threatened to kill me. He’s not safe. And he’s not Ethan.” Blake has a smug look on his face.

“Blake,” Dad says. “That’s enough. Both of you.”

I think I’d feel more hurt by the accusation if Blake had any credibility left, but it’s clear he doesn’t. What hurts, though, is that Mama and Dad aren’t making him stop.

Gracie sits quietly on the couch, wide-eyed. I feel bad for her. I do. She’s stuck in this mess. I half-smile at her and she half-smiles back. Then it’s like Mama realizes Gracie’s here and this family meeting isn’t what she thought it would be. “Paul,” she says, and gives Dad a look. Dad picks Gracie up and takes her to her room, and I’m glad they finally got some sense.

“Blake,” Mama says, “Gracie said she saw you shove Ethan before he started punching you. You neglected to tell us that little bit.”

“I did not!” Blake says. It’s ambiguous as to what he’s denying—the shove, or the neglecting to tell—but either way, he looks guilty.

I feel a warm rush of love toward Gracie, stepping up to defend me. I owe her big.

“And Ethan,” Mama continues, “as a matter of fact, I
do
expect you to walk away from a shove. You’re older, and you need to be the bigger person here.”

“But, Mama! He starts it every time! That’s not fair—” I start to protest further, but she holds her hand up.

“No,” she says. “Shh. Just listen. It’s this simple. I don’t care how that horrible woman raised you or what you’ve had to resort to, but when you live here, you’re going to follow my rules. Clear?”

My jaw drops as her words cut into me. Did she just insult Ellen and me? I think she really did.

Dad comes back and sits next to Mama.

And Mama stares at me, waiting. “I said, is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I finally say in a cold voice. “But will you please make Blake stop scaring Gracie—”

“Quiet,” Mama says. She turns to Blake. “Now, Blake, this nonsense about Ethan not being Ethan has to stop. Really. I know you’re hurting, but you need to control your words, especially in front of Gracie. I know it’s really hard for you, and that things are different than you expected. But this isn’t going to solve anything. It only makes things harder and it’s really hurtful, not just to Ethan, but to all of us. So stop. Okay?”

Blake folds his arms over his chest. “I think you should get a DNA test.”

I feel my face heat up. “Jeez!” I shout at him. I can’t help it. “Can you not shut up?”

Dad sits up like he’s ready to grab me if I go after Blake, but I stay in my chair like a good son. Dad gives me a long look, then turns to Blake. “Blake, that’s enough,” he says with finality. “Done.”

Blake shrugs and looks sullen.

It’ll take all my strength to keep from killing him with my bare hands.

It’s dark and way after ten when I hear finger
nails tapping on glass. I almost fall over myself getting from my room to the slider door. I let her in and slide the door closed again, smooth and quiet.

“You made it! You are awesome,” I whisper. She brings crisp air in with her and it wakes me up.

She grins. “How did it go? Awful?”

“Pretty bad.”

Cami unzips her coat and slips it off. We sit on the floor by the slider in the dark, away from any heat vents, since noise obviously travels both ways. And in case she has to make a fast getaway. “But it’s over. I just hate that Blake is making Gracie scared of me.”

“Do you think Gracie is really scared of you? Or is she scared of the fighting?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. And I don’t. “I wonder if she thinks I could ever possibly hurt her because I hurt Blake?”

“Would you?”

“Of course not. Never.” I search Cami’s face. “Do you think I would?”

“No,” she says. “Not even if you wanted to.”

But that’s not enough for me. I ask, “Do you think I would ever hurt you?”

Her black eyes are sweet. “No way. Never.”

I sit back, relieved. “What did you do tonight?” I ask. I like how this is, sitting here in the dark, whispering. It gives me goose bumps to have her this close, this intimate.

She waves her hand like there was nothing of note, and then she says, “My mom and I do this thing once a month where we make a hundred and fifty sack lunches for the shelter. They hand them out to the shelter patrons so they can have a meal on the road when they go find work and stuff. So, yeah,” she says, almost like she’s embarrassed to tell me. “Tonight we did that.” She laughs. “My fingers still smell like peanut butter.”

She breaks my heart, she really does. Does she have any idea how much I counted on shelter sack lunches? They were gold. “Let me smell,” I say.

She holds her fingers to my face and I take her hand. It’s soft. I close my eyes and breathe in. I can smell the peanut butter, barely. I open my eyes and she’s watching me. I hesitate, moisten my lips. Then softly kiss the tip of her forefinger. And she stares at me.

I swallow hard. Hold her fingers to my lips, and she doesn’t pull her hand away. I kiss her second fingertip, and then her third. Her pinkie. And then I go back to her forefinger and run my tongue over the tip of her fingernail, my eyes never leaving hers. Her eyelids close halfway, and I circle her fingertip with my tongue and then kiss it again.