Made You Up (25 page)

Why did you leave?

T
he world tipped sideways. “W-what?” I stuttered.

“Charlie’s not real. There’s no one there. There never was.” Miles pulled me around to the other side of his truck. The words buzzed in my ears, and everything stopped. The wind stopped rustling the trees; even the bug on Miles’s windshield froze in its tracks.

“No.” I tore my arm from Miles’s grasp. Shock radiated out through my limbs. “No. You’re lying. She was there— she was right there!” I’d seen her leave the house with us; I was sure. “Don’t lie to me, Miles. Don’t you fucking lie.”

“He’s not lying.” Tucker came around on my other side, his hands up.

“She’s real, Tucker. She’s . . . she’s got to be . . .” I looked toward McCoy’s again, expecting Charlie to pop out from
the other side of the house, playing a game. I’d yell at her for scaring me, and I wouldn’t let her out of my sight again until we got home.

But she didn’t appear.

“Go home, Beaumont,” Miles said to Tucker. “I’ll take care of her.”

“Alex,” Tucker said again, moving closer to me. I stepped away, wiping my eyes. I couldn’t cry. Charlie wasn’t here. She was at home. But the more I wiped my eyes, the more tears spilled out.

Home. I had to go home.

I climbed into the passenger seat of Miles’s truck, buckled myself in. Home.

“It’ll be okay.” Tucker leaned through the window, holding my hand and speaking softly.

What was “okay”?

Miles’s door slammed. The truck roared to life. Tucker slipped away with the rest of the scenery.

Miles kept talking to me, but I couldn’t hear what he said.

She was just there. She had always been there.

The front door slammed against the hallway wall when I threw it open.

My parents were at the kitchen table. Eating dinner. Like nothing was wrong. Their heads shot up when I appeared in
the doorway. I suddenly realized I couldn’t breathe.

“Charlie,” I choked out.

My mother stood first. She still had her napkin clutched in one hand, and she came at me with it like I was a baby who’d spit up. I backed away from her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Alex, honey . . .”

“How can she not be real?”

A whimper came from behind me. Charlie stood in the hallway, her chess set held in both trembling hands. It was the chess set she’d had to get new black pawns for, because I’d flushed all the old ones down the toilet. One of the pawns was wedged between her teeth. When she whimpered again, it fell out of her mouth.

“What’s going on, Alex?” Charlie asked, her voice shaking as much as her hands. “What are you talking about?”

“Charlie . . .” A knot formed in my throat. My vision blurred again. “But . . . but I remember you bringing her home from the hospital. Feeding her and taking care of her and watching her grow up and . . . and she always had Christmas presents under the tree, and you always set a place for her at the table . . . and she has to be . . .”

“She
was
real,” my mother said. Her voice had gone tight, strained in a way I’d never heard it before. “But she died. Four years ago.”

Dad stood up as well. I didn’t like that everyone was standing.

“Charlie died before she turned five. As—” Dad’s voice broke. “Asphyxiation,” he said. “I should never have let her play with my chess set—”

I backed away, shielding Charlie from view. She whimpered again. The chessboard tumbled from her hands, and now all the other pieces joined the black pawn on the floor.

“I’m calling Leann.” My mother went for the phone. “We shouldn’t have waited so long. This has gone too far. There’s got to be a stronger medication she can prescribe.”

“She doesn’t need stronger medication.” A hand wrapped around my arm. Miles stood where Charlie had just been, glaring at my mother. Anger radiated off him, deep and cold. “She needs parents who give a shit about telling her what’s real and what’s not.”

My parents stared at him, both of them rooted to the spot and completely silent.

“Miles,” I whispered.

“How could you not tell her?” He got louder by the second. “Charlie’s been dead for years, and you think it’s okay to pretend she’s not? Did you think Alex wouldn’t find out? Was she too crazy for that?”

“No, it’s nothing like—” my mother began.

“Like what? What could justify that?” Miles’s fingers dug into my arm. “It better be pretty damn good, because that’s fucked up. That’s really fucked up. You’re the ones she’s supposed to be able to trust—you’re supposed to be the ones she can go to when she can’t tell. But instead she has to take a bunch of pictures because if she tells you anything, you threaten to send her to an asylum!”

Tears filled my mother’s eyes. “You have no right to come in my house and tell me how to treat my daughter!”

“Oh, really? Because I know terrible parents, and you’re one of them!”

“We tried,” Dad finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We tried to tell her. Alex was in the hospital at the time—she’d just had an episode, she wasn’t doing well—and no matter what we said, it just . . . rolled off.” He looked at me. “Like you couldn’t hear us. At first we thought you were just in shock. We thought you understood. But then you came home, and you were talking to her, and we realized that . . . that you didn’t.”

The room was too small, too close, too hot. An awful sob escaped my throat before I could catch it. I clapped my hand over my mouth. It seemed to break Miles’s anger; his face rearranged itself into a soft expression of pity that I hated. I didn’t want that look from anyone, least of all Miles. Never him. I darted across the kitchen to the back door. I could
hardly see, but I knew exactly where I was going.

I wrenched the door open, tripped down the steps, and sprinted across the backyard.

When I got to Red Witch Bridge, I slid down the embankment of the creek and climbed under the bridge, where no one could see me. My lungs burned, and my eyes stung from the tears.

Blue Eyes. Bloody Miles. Scarlet. The 8 Ball. And now Charlie.

Charlie. Charlemagne. My own sister. If Charlie wasn’t real, then what was?

Was everything made up? Was this whole world inside my head? If I ever woke up from it, would I be inside a padded room somewhere, drooling all over myself?

Would I even
be
myself?

Charlie had been a constant. Never once had I suspected she wasn’t real. She’d always been real. Soft and warm and there when I needed her.

I couldn’t breathe. I pressed a hand to my stomach and sucked in air, but bile rose to block it. My throat closed up.

“Alex! Alex, calm down!” Miles slid down the embankment, planted himself in front of me, and grabbed my shoulders. “Breathe. Just breathe. Relax.”

He took my hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. It beat frantically under my palm.

Was that real? His heart? Was he real?

I stared back at the blue eyes I’d always thought were too good to be true. So were they? Was Miles real? Because if Charlie wasn’t real and he wasn’t real, I didn’t want this anymore. I didn’t want any of this.

“Hey.”

“Are you real?” I asked.

“Yes, I am,” he said resolutely. He pressed my hand harder to his chest. His heart beat like a drum.

“I am real. This”—he put his other hand over the first—“is real. You see me interacting with other people all day long, don’t you? I talk to people; I affect things in the world. I cause things to happen. I am real.”

“But—but what if this whole place”—I had to suck in air again—“what if everything is inside my head? East Shoal and Scarlet and this bridge and you—what if you’re not real because nothing is real?”

“If nothing’s real, then what does it matter?” he said. “You live here. Doesn’t that make it real enough?”

M
iles and I sat under Red Witch Bridge until darkness settled in for good around us. My parents hadn’t come looking for me—I guess they knew I wouldn’t go far. Or they had amazing faith in Miles’s ability to find me. Or maybe they didn’t want to face either of us.

At the house, the kitchen light was still on. I stopped in the backyard, taking a long minute to search the area. It seemed stupid now, but I couldn’t stop myself. I turned slowly on the spot. House, door, street, woods.

We went in through the front door. I closed it loud enough to make sure my parents knew we were back. I didn’t want another confrontation. I didn’t want Miles and my mother going at each other’s throats again.

I did another perimeter check in my room, opened one
of my photo albums on the dresser.

It was all Charlie. Charlie smiling, Charlie playing chess, Charlie asleep with her violin tucked under her arm.

I showed Miles the album. “What do you see?”

He flipped through a few pages. “Furniture. Your backyard. Your kitchen. The street. What should I see?”

I took the album back from him, closed it, and set it on the dresser. No medicine would ever be strong enough for this.

Miles glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was almost one in the morning.

“Will your dad be angry?” I asked.

“Probably. He gets angry about everything.”

Over his shoulder I got a glimpse of white and red; Bloody Miles stood in the corner, grinning at me with his stained teeth.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Do . . . um . . . do you have to go?”

“Are you okay?” He brushed my arm. I opened my eyes.

“I’m fine. I’m good.” I turned toward the bed and the window.

Charlie stood outside, a horrible sad grimace on her face. All sixteen black chess pieces stuck out of her mouth like finely carved tumors. I gasped and jumped; Miles’s arms came around me.

“What do you see?”

“Charlie’s at the window. And . . . and you’re in the corner.”

“Me?”

I nodded. “From Celia’s bonfire. Please don’t ask.”

“I can stay.”

I nodded. I pushed open his arms and walked to the closet, opening the door in Bloody Miles’s face. I peeled my shirt and jeans off and put on my pajamas.

Miles sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes.

“Your parents?” he asked.

“We’re not doing anything.” Besides, they might not be real.

“I think your mom hates me,” he said.

“I kind of hate her,” I said, realizing with a jolt that I meant it. “She needed to hear that. Thank you for telling her.”

I closed the closet door. Bloody Miles’s foul breath fanned over my ear and cheek. I pulled away from him and slid past Miles, into the bed. He lay down and slung an arm over my waist. I didn’t know how to position myself: facing away from him, Charlie stared at me through the window. Facing him, Bloody Miles loomed overhead. I turned to the pillow, eyes shut.

This wasn’t real. They weren’t real.

Miles pressed up against me and buried his face in my hair. He could say he didn’t understand emotions all he wanted, but sometimes it felt like he understood them better than anyone else I knew.

The hard ridge of his glasses pressed into my temple. I liked the pressure. It reminded me that he was there.

“Miles?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t go away.”

“I won’t.”

M
orning sunlight crept into the room, lighting up my artifacts and the freckles on Miles’s face. The sheets were tangled around us. One of his hands was curled in my shirt, warm against my stomach, and the other was tucked beneath his chin. The rise of his body blocked most of the room, so I had to peek slowly over him to check the surroundings.

Bloody Miles was gone.

So was Charlie.

I stopped the thought as soon as I noticed it creeping up on me and allowed it to get no farther than that: Charlie was gone. No amount of hoping or wishing would bring her back. Not really.

The door opened a crack. My mother. I met her eye, expecting her to barge in, to yell at us, to put me under
house arrest for lying to her yesterday, for running out so late, for letting Miles sleep in my room. But she didn’t.

She nodded and turned away.

Miles sighed. His glasses were askew on his nose. I didn’t want to wake him up, but I also didn’t want to be alone. I kissed his cheekbone. He sighed again. I huffed and said, “Miles.”

He grunted, cracking his eyes open.

“Morning,” I said.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

“Okay, I guess.” I wouldn’t have slept at all if he hadn’t stayed awake until I drifted off. The night was a blur now; I couldn’t remember any dreams, just flashes of red hair and chess pieces, wisps of violin music. “You?”

“Better than usual.”

I reached up to fix his glasses. He smiled a little.

“Do we have to go to school today?” I asked. “Can we at least skip the awards?”

“The awards are the one thing we have to go to,” he said. “I have to be there for the club, and if you don’t go you’ll be violating your community service.”

“But McCoy will be there. I don’t want you near him.”

McCoy will burn his eyes out.

“If we don’t go, McCoy will have a reason to call me to his office. Then he’ll have me alone and it will be even worse.”

God, he was humoring me and I couldn’t stop myself. “Then you have to stay away from him. Don’t let him anywhere near you. Don’t even let him look at you—”

“I know.” His fist pressed into my stomach. “I know.”

If I looked at him any longer, I was going to start crying, so I pushed myself up and crawled over him to dig my school uniform out of the mess on the floor.

When I’d finished changing clothes, I had Miles wait by the front door while I crept into the kitchen.

Dad was alone, staring out the window over the kitchen sink. I tapped on the doorframe to get his attention.

“Your mom’s on the phone with Leann,” he said. I checked the clock. Seven in the morning—that had to be a new record for her.

“I’m going to school,” I said.

He turned away from the sink. “Lexi, I don’t think—”

“I don’t want to be here all day.”

“Your mom doesn’t want you to go.”

“Just today, please?” I wasn’t letting Miles go by himself, and I knew, if I kept pushing, Dad would cave. “If it makes you feel better, Miles will be with me all day.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Actually, it does. But you know she’s going to be pissed if I let you leave.”

I waited.

He waved a hand in defeat. “Go. But promise me you’ll
come home if you get scared or panicked or—or if anything happens—tell Miles this, too, so he can bring you back here!”

He had to raise his voice for the last part; I was already marching to the front door.

Believing something existed and then finding out it didn’t was like reaching the top of the stairs and thinking there was one more step. Except when the thing was Charlie, the stairs were five miles high, and your foot never found the floor again.

Being back in school after that kind of drop was surreal, like I was falling past everyone else so quickly they couldn’t even see me.

Everyone ignored us, for the most part. After classes were over, Miles and I retreated to the gym and sat behind the scorer’s table. He barked out orders; all hands were on deck to set up for the awards.

“Celia!” Miles snapped. “Why are you late?”

Celia hurried into the gym, her lank brown hair hanging around her pallid face.

“Sorry!” she whimpered as she settled onto the bleachers, wiping her eyes. “Richar—Mr. McCoy wanted to talk to me.”

My heart sank. Why did he want to talk to her? What
were they doing in his office? Why did McCoy have a picture of her and her father in his house?

Miles scrutinized her. “About what?”

Celia squirmed. “Nothing.”

“Celia. What did he tell you?”

“It’s none of your business, douche.” A little of Celia’s old self resurfaced. She huffed and went to sit at the end of the bleachers, then dropped her head into her hands and began sobbing.

This was worse than usual. Much worse.

I forced my breathing to remain even. If McCoy came anywhere near Miles, I’d be on him like a snake. Like that python.

Be the snake,
the little voice said.
Be the snake. Squeeze the life out of him.

Miles glanced toward the gym doors that led to the rotunda. “McCoy will be here soon,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was worried or scared.

“Do you think he’s still in his office?” I asked. Miles nodded.

Celia was having a breakdown. McCoy was probably sharpening his executioner’s axe.

If I went now, I might be able to head him off. Stop him before he ever left his office. It could work.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Miles. “Restroom break. Stay
away from McCoy if he comes in here, okay?”

“Okay.”

As soon as I was out of Miles’s sight I began jogging. The rotunda was dotted in red—trophies, pictures, whole pieces of wall dripped with red paint. A long wavy red line led the way from the gym to the main office at the far end of the main hallway. I followed it.

Be the snake.

I strode past the front desk, ignoring the protests of the secretary, and pushed my way into McCoy’s office.

He sat behind his desk, looking unusually put together. Suit. Tie. Hands folded in front of him. Bloodshot eyes. The office was just an office—certificates framed on the walls, books on a bookshelf, computer humming on the desk.

“It’s okay, Mary,” he said to the secretary. She huffed and went back to her seat.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, balling my fists at my sides.

McCoy picked a piece of lint off his sleeve. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’ve been calling Celia down to your office for the past four years. I know you’ve been working on some kind of
plan
with her mother. And I know you hate Miles. I know you’re trying to get rid of him because . . . because Celia’s mom said he’s an obstacle.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Ridgemont.”

“You know
exactly
what I’m talking about.” I glanced out the door to make sure the secretary wasn’t listening. “I’m not crazy, all right? I know about Scarlet. I know about your
obsessions.
I’m not letting this get past me. And I’m not going to let you hurt Miles.”

McCoy rearranged the nameplate on his desk. “You’re mistaken. I don’t plan on doing anything to Mr. Richter.”

“If not you, then who? Celia?”

“I can’t say I know what Celia Hendricks has to do with it.”

“Look, psycho—”

“I realize you’ve had a difficult year, but are you sure you’ve taken your medication regularly?”

“I have, actually. You’re not my mother, so please don’t ask me that again. Now tell me what you’re going to do to Miles.”

“Again, Miss Ridgemont, I’m not going to harm a hair on Mr. Richter’s Aryan head.” He paused, and it took all my willpower not to look away from those searing eyes. “You should hurry back. It would be a shame if you failed your community service requirements right at the end of the year.”

I hesitated. If McCoy revoked my community service
hours, I would definitely get sent away somewhere—Woodlands, or worse—and I would probably lose all class credit for this year. He had leverage; I had pieces of a story and a psychiatrist on speed dial.

He laced his fingers together with a benign smile. “I think we’re finally seeing eye to eye.”

No we’re not, you asshole.
But I couldn’t say that. I couldn’t say anything if I wanted to get out of here in one piece. I stood on the other side of his desk, shaking with fury.

“Have a nice day, Miss Ridgemont.”

I trudged back to the gym in silence.

I couldn’t stop McCoy on my own, but if I told anyone about this, who would believe me? It might sound vaguely believable coming from someone like Tucker, but from
me
. . . There was no way. If I even breathed a word of something this big, my mother would have me committed before I could say
just kidding.

I entered the gym on the other end of the bleachers, near the scoreboard. The bleachers had already filled with athletes and their parents. The members of the club were stationed around the room near the doors. Miles stood beneath the scoreboard, his back to me. Celia stood beside him, like she was on a leash.

McCoy was already there. He was already standing at the mic in the middle of the gym. Already talking.

But if he was here, who had I spoken to in his office?

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to welcome you to our annual spring sports awards. We’ll begin with our league-winning baseball team, who’ve had a great season. . . .”

My shoe squeaked against the floor. Celia turned and saw me there; she was still crying, but harder than before.

Her mother was standing in the shadow of the bleachers on the opposite side of the gym, with her business suit and her long blond hair. But her face—I had seen her face before. In the newspaper. In the display cases outside this gym. In Celia’s own expression—because when they stood side-by-side, the similarities were unmistakable.

But Scarlet—Scarlet was dead. Scarlet had been dead for
years
.

“Remember, Celia,” she said, her voice filling the gym, “I’m doing this for you.”

Celia didn’t react.

“Richard and I have sorted everything out. It’ll be over soon.”

Celia didn’t react because Celia
couldn’t
react because Scarlet was dead.

“You can move on.”

The scoreboard gave an ominous creak. Scarlet smiled. McCoy spoke a little louder at his microphone when the scoreboard creaked a second time. No one noticed. I couldn’t be the only one seeing this. It was
happening
—it had to be—except Scarlet—Scarlet wasn’t smiling at Celia; she was smiling at
me.
And she lifted one pointed, cherry-red nail toward the scoreboard.

I looked up. Red paint dripped down the wall. Each letter was ten feet tall; the two words crunched the scoreboard between them like bloody teeth.

CRIMSON

FALLS

The scoreboard screamed too loudly for McCoy to cover it up. Celia jumped away, scrambling onto the bleachers. Miles turned to hiss at her.

The scoreboard’s supports snapped.

My feet stuttered; Scarlet’s high laughter pealed across the gym.

I shoved myself off the doorframe and slammed into Miles’s back.