Modern Monsters (Entangled Teen) (18 page)

Heartbreak:
crushing and overwhelming grief, anguish, distress.

Everything I’ve lived up until this point, most of my existence, my social life, has revolved around my best friend. Trying to make him proud, trying to make him happy. Playing his secretary and puppying around while he made friends and I lurked on the sidelines.

Some small inkling of me feels like…he’s almost right. He has this big, beautiful future full of endless possibilities. He could become president; he could cure Ebola or cancer. He could invent something. Go into space… There has never been anything I thought Brett couldn’t do.

Me? I’m a useless waste of space who can barely manage a coherent sentence. He’s right: I’ll be lucky if I get into college. It’ll be a miracle if I
graduate
from college. If I end up doing anything more with my life than flipping burgers.

And yet…

For any mistake I’ve ever made, I never would have set Brett up as my whipping boy. I never would have sacrificed him to save myself. I never would have let anyone take the fall for my mistakes. If spending time with Autumn has taught me anything about myself, it’s that I don’t have to be brilliant or extraordinary to be special. I’m worth something more than being a scapegoat.

An image flashes across the forefront of my brain, of Brett and Callie the day she returned to school. Callie’s fear, about how she might walk right by her rapist and never even know it. In the end, her rapist walked her to class and tried to comfort her.

I don’t know what the right answer is for me…

But I know what the right answer is for Callie. I have to protect her after I failed to do so the night Brett assaulted her.

I take a step away, pulling Brett’s hands from my neck, my shoulder. “I love you, man, and you’re my best friend. But if you’re really sorry…you’ll plead guilty and take your punishment.”

Brett’s face crumples. He stares at me like I’m a stranger to him.

That feeling is mutual.

My chest hurts. It’s hard to breathe. I’m on the precipice of falling to pieces and I just want to get outside and get some fresh air.

He doesn’t try to stop me.

I bolt down the stairs two at a time and dash outside. Even when my feet hit the sidewalk, I don’t stop. I need to run, to get away from Brett’s house and the memories there, away from the looming monster I’m going to be partially responsible for bringing down on him and Patrick.

Eventually, I stop running because I can’t breathe and my legs are wobbling. I keep walking. I walk all the way to work and every inch of me hurts, and Amjad looks up at me when I step inside like he’s seen a ghost.

“Victor, what happened? What’s wrong?”

I don’t begin to know what to say. He flips the door sign to
B
e back later
and ushers me into the back, pulls up a folding chair for me to sit, and I hunch over, breathing in, breathing out, trying to gather the pieces of myself back up. I’m vaguely aware of Amjad taking a bottle of beer from the freezers and placing it against the back of my neck. Surprisingly, the shock of cold helps me focus.

I have no idea how long we sit there like that. Once my breathing has evened out, Amjad takes a seat across from me. I roll the bottle of beer along the nape of my neck, then press it to my forehead. Pretty sure he can’t sell this now.

“What happened?” he asks gently.

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to do anything,
is what I mean to say.

What I actually say is the truth.

I say everything. The story comes spitting out in fragments and stuttered pieces that I have no idea if they are making sense. I tell him about the party, about how guilty I’ve felt, about Autumn and Brett, about my dad, about how my best friend is going to jail and I know I’ve made the right decision but I don’t know how to feel at peace with it. I just need to say it or my chest is going to burst.

Amjad listens to everything with patience. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and his voice is so soft, the way I would picture a father’s voice to sound. “You are making a right choice, Victor. Focus on the light you’ll be shedding over that poor girl.”

Is that what it will do, I wonder? If I testify against Brett, if he and Patrick go to jail, will Callie feel better? I have to think this is what she would want, because what happened to her was not okay.

Amjad has to get back to work, but he tells me to hang out in back as long as I need to. Which I do. I go behind the freezers and let the cold air wash over me, soothing the heat that’s sunken into my bones from the run-slash-walk here. Only then do I text Autumn to let her know where I am, that I’m all right, that I can walk home because I don’t want her to worry about me. She texts back within thirty seconds to say she’s on her way.

I let Amjad know I’m okay and heading home, and go outside to wait. A phone call to Sherrigan and Carter is due, even if they haven’t returned my last one. Might as well tell them what they missed, though I sum it up for them on the limited voicemail time I’m given. Patrick and Brett are the culprits—but they’ll probably know that by the time they listen to this—and I can give a statement if needed. I know Autumn will, too.

She pulls up to the front of the store just as I’m finishing my message. I get into the car and her arms immediately find their way around me, holding tight, practically putting her in my lap, and I don’t think I realized how much I needed that until now. I nestle my face into the warm curve of her neck and breathe in deep.

When I finally pull away, it’s to give her a smile that I hope is as reassuring as I mean for it to be. “I’m okay.”

Autumn’s eyes are a little glassy. She blinks a few times and smiles back, managing to get her almost-tears under control. “I’m really proud of you. I know it wasn’t easy to do.”

No. It wasn’t. Truthfully, I wonder if I would have the ability to do it again. If I could have walked into that house if I’d been 100 percent certain of what I was going to find. I like to think I would, but who knows?

“Can we go home?” I ask. The weight of the day is pressing down on me, and for once, I’m desperate to feel the comfort of my own house around me. I’d even like to see Mom, just for a sense of normality.

Autumn says, “Of course we can,” and shifts back properly into her seat.

Mom isn’t home when we get there. I get changed into pajamas because I fully intend on sitting around doing
nothing
the rest of the night, and Autumn sits with me on the couch while I lay my head in her lap, and she pets my hair as I drift in and out of sleep and dreams.

Autumn is gone before Mom gets home. She said she needed to go to Callie’s and find out if she heard anything from the police yet, and if not, to fill her in. I have a feeling Callie’s family would be the first to know. Autumn asks if I want to go with her, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Callie knows me, sure, but we aren’t close and I don’t know how her parents would feel having me there.

Instead I continue watching TV until Mom gets home. She puts her things away and I hear her in the kitchen for a while—probably putting something in to bake—but then she emerges and takes a seat on the couch beside me. At first I wait for her to say something, but I think she’s just…watching television with me. Or trying to. Not sure she’s getting the humor of
South Park
.

I hit the mute button and take a deep breath, which spurs her into looking at me curiously. “Am I bothering you?”

“No,” I say quickly. I don’t know how to get out the rest without simply blurting it. “Brett raped Callie Wheeler.”

Even without directly staring at her, I can see from the corner of my gaze how Mom’s mouth opens and her eyes widen in shock. “What?”

I refuse to let it sting that she sounds so surprised that
Brett
would do such a thing while she was willing to immediately believe that I had. I’m trying to let that go. “He raped her while this guy named Patrick took pictures. I th-think the cops have already taken Patrick in.” By now, maybe they’ve gone to Brett’s, too. I’m not sure how to find out.

Mom presses a hand to her chest, slowly turning her head back to the TV. She has no idea what to say. Not that I blame her. I don’t know what to say, either. What can be said?

Eventually she offers, softly, “I’m so sorry, Victor.”

I mean to say
it’s okay
, but the words get stuck in my throat, because it isn’t feeling very okay right now.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next morning, Mom keeps me home from school. I might stress out about the missed classes this close to finals, but I got a phone call late last night from Detective Carter, asking if I could come in sometime this morning, and I wasn’t exactly going to say no.

Mom drives us to the station. It’s the first time I’ve been here, seeing as they took my initial statement at the clinic, and I almost feel more nervous now than I did then. If that’s even possible. I haven’t gotten a text back from Autumn yet about what happened at Callie’s, and I didn’t want to call and bug her in case she had other things going on. For that matter, it took a lot for me not to text Brett to find out what’s happening on his end. I don’t know that he’d even answer.

I wonder if I’ll ever see my best friend again outside of a courtroom or prison.

Sherrigan comes into the lobby and beckons me into the back, instructing Mom to wait for us. I leave my phone with Mom in case Autumn texts or calls. Sherrigan sits me down in a small, quiet room with a tape recorder and a notepad, and asks me questions with the same unimpressed tone of voice as he did last time. How did I come to find out about Patrick? What happened during our conversation? What happened when I spoke to Brett? He focuses a lot on Brett, actually. Which makes sense, I guess. I have to struggle to keep my sentences coherent and from reducing myself to a stuttering mess.

I don’t leave anything out. Everything from Autumn and me getting hold of Aaron’s phone, to going to Patrick’s before calling the police because we didn’t want to report false information. Sherrigan listens to everything I say with patience, and I’m exhausted by the time he reaches out to turn off the recorder.

“I think that’ll be all for now. If we need anything else, we’ll give you a call.”

The heels of my hands press into my eyes. At least this time, he was kind enough to give me a glass of water as a reward for sitting here for two hours. “H-have Patrick and Brett been arrested?”

He rises to his feet and gathers his papers, glancing at me. “I’m not really in a position to tell you that, seeing as Patrick is a minor. Though whether the court will try him as one, who knows.”

That doesn’t answer my question about Brett, but I leave it alone. I know contacting him won’t reflect well on me, but I can find out other ways, I’m sure.

Sherrigan leads me out of the room and back to the lobby. The moment I turn the corner, I see Callie and her parents seated across from where Mom is. I wonder if they even know who the other is.

Callie lifts her head and spots me. Her eyes go wide and she leaps from her chair, startling everyone with the speed in which she rushes to throw her arms around me. My chest constricts painfully. I remember the first day at Autumn’s apartment, the way Callie still seemed leery of me, and now this. How far we’ve come.

“I’m so sorry, Vic. I’m so, so sorry,” she whimpers, voice thick with tears.

“W-what do you mean?” I put my hands on her shoulders to nudge her back a little so I can look at her face. “Why w-would you be apologizing to me?”

Her big eyes are watery, and by the fact that she’s wearing eyeliner and mascara, I’m guessing she wasn’t expecting to be crying today. Girls seem to think ahead about these things. I can barely remember where I put my shoes when I try to leave the house.

“For everything,” she whimpers. “For accusing you, for Brett. I just found out when we got here…”

I open my mouth, waiting for her to calm herself down before trying to ask questions. “I th-thought Autumn went to tell you that it was him and Patrick yesterday.”

Callie’s parents step up behind her, and I can feel Sherrigan lingering behind me, Mom still by her chair but standing, all of them puzzled as to what’s going on. Callie draws her bottom lip into her mouth briefly, frowning. “Yeah, she did…and the police called me as soon as Patrick was arrested, but…”

Her mother murmurs to her, “Honey, he may not have heard.”

I feel like someone has dropped a pound of lead into my stomach. “Heard what?”

Callie looks at her parents and back at me. “Oh… Oh, God. Brett’s in the hospital.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“I see. Yes, thank you very much.”

Mom hangs up and lowers her phone, taking a deep breath. My eyes haven’t left her face the entire phone call, but judging by her tone, I’m guessing it’s not good. She leans back in the car seat and looks over at me.

“No, we can’t see him.”

“B-but did they say if h-he’s going to be okay?” I ask, voice wavering.

“They won’t tell me much. We aren’t family.”

We used to be,
I think. Brett always felt like family. His parents felt like my parents. I look out the window and keep my silence, letting Mom drive us home without further questions.

Suicide:
the action of killing oneself intentionally.

Attempted, in Brett’s case.

Callie didn’t know much. Or maybe I didn’t hear the words coming out of her mouth because all I could do was stare at her impossibly wide, teary eyes while she explained to me what she’d been told, but her voice seemed to go in and out of range.

After I left Brett’s house, he went down to his father’s office, took the lockbox out of his desk, removed the gun, and shot himself. He didn’t even bother trying to delete the photographs of Callie’s rape from his computer. He must have known there was no point.

The vision of his face is so vivid when I close my eyes. His terrified look of horror at the idea of his entire life, of everything he’s worked for, of
perfection
, going down the drain.

It’s past noon when we pull into the driveway. Stepping inside, Mom asks, “Are you hungry? Do you want lunch?”

“No, thanks,” I mumble, because I’m pretty sure anything I put in my stomach right now is going to come right back up.

Mom closes the door behind us. “Victor.”

Deep breath. Sigh. I turn around. “Yeah.”

She holds my phone out. Oh, I’d almost forgotten she had it. “You had a phone call.”

I take it mechanically. “Autumn?”

“No.” She studies my face. “From an elderly gentleman named Dave. He said he located your father.”

Every one of my veins floods with ice. Just when I thought the day couldn’t get worse… “What?”

“He said you left your number with him when you came to his house. He should be in your call log.”

The phone suddenly feels hot in my hands and I kind of want to throw it. I’m not sure what to say. “Mom, I wasn’t… I m-mean, I didn’t—”

She cuts me off with a raised hand. “Don’t. You’re old enough now. I can’t stop you from reaching out to him if you want to.”

I drag in a breath, feeling like I can’t quite get enough air. “I d-don’t know what I want. Everything’s been such a mess lately.” And if I’m honest— “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Mom steps closer until we’re toe to toe. I think maybe she wants to hug me, but she hasn’t done that in so long she’s probably forgotten how. Her smile is thin and obviously forced, but yet again I’m stumped by the fact that she’s even trying at all. “Everything is going to be all right.”

It isn’t really comforting. Not on a huge scale, anyway. But I’m able to give her a soft smile in return before retreating to my bedroom. All I want is to be alone. I don’t even plan on calling Autumn for a bit. I just need the silence.

My room feels eerily empty for some reason, like the lack of Brett’s presence is somehow palpable. I sit in the center of the floor, dragging a shoe box out from beneath the bed. Inside it are cards and photos. If I were to put them into piles of Mom, Brett, miscellaneous, Brett’s pile would easily be the largest. He wasn’t really the card-giving sort, but his mom always made sure I had one tucked into my birthday gifts each year. Most of the pictures are of the two of us.

I take the stack and begin placing them out. Grade school, middle school, high school. Interestingly enough, I don’t think I’d ever noticed that the number of photos we took together decreased the older we got. There is only a small handful of them from after eighth grade.

Is it possible that, somewhere along the line, Brett and I really did grow apart as friends? Was there a disconnect there I didn’t see?

Now I may never know.

Reminiscing isn’t making me feel better. If anything, I’m starting to feel angry. I take every picture, every card that reminds me of Brett, Mr. Mason, or Mrs. Mason, and shove it into the trash can next to my bed.

I want them gone. I want everything gone.

Two hours later, I finally dare to look at my phone. I have four missed texts from Autumn, asking if I’m okay, telling me to call her. I hesitate and decide that, first, I’m going to call back the old man from Dad’s place.

The number is the last one on my call log. It rings three times before a low voice answers, “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Dave? Th-this is Vic Howard, um.” Pause. How awkward. “I c-came by the other day looking for my dad?”

“Yeah, yeah. How you doing? I felt real bad you came all that way and I didn’t have any information for you, so I did some digging. I might’ve gotten a forwarding address, if you want it.”

Do I? Seems stupid to not take it in the event I want it eventually. Then again, it could be setting myself up for disappointment like last time. “Y-yes, please. That’d be great.”

Dave slowly reads out the address to me, spelling the street name with care and making sure I’ve gotten each letter correctly.
N
as in Nancy.
C
as in cat. Alternatively, he could’ve just said “North Carolina Street” and I would’ve gotten the idea, but I don’t interrupt him.

I thank Dave profusely before hanging up, stare at the address for a while, and tuck it into my pocket. Maybe I will go out for a walk.

Mom doesn’t protest when I let her know I’m leaving. I shoot Autumn a text—
home. Ok. Going for a walk to park
—and she must be waiting for me, because she answers back almost immediately,
Company y/n?
I give this some thought before replying
yes
.

She doesn’t have to ask which park. It’s the same one we went to before, and I sit on the benches, facing the jungle gym, recalling the pic on my phone of Autumn with her beautiful face and smile leaning over the railing. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. Ever since stepping foot inside Brett’s house, I feel like someone is squeezing the air right out of me.

The sound of Autumn’s car rumbling into the parking lot reaches my ears after a while, but I don’t open my eyes just yet. Her door opens, closes, and the steady rhythm of her footsteps approaches…and then fades. I finally look up in time to see her crawling to the top of the jungle gym.

She leans over the railing as I approach, her hands braced on the metal bar and her gaze fixed at some point beyond me.

I say, “Hey.”

Autumn takes a deep breath. “Callie told me what happened.”

“Figured she w-would.” Better her than me, because I’m not sure I could have gotten the words out.

After a moment, she tips her chin down to look at me, gaze soft and sad. “I’m sorry, Vic. I’m so, so sorry.”

She sounds it. Because I know now that for as much as Autumn wanted to protect her best friend, she had wanted to protect me, too. I close my eyes and count to three to calm my nerves. “How’s Callie?”

“She’s…you know. Up and down. Relieved, angry, happy, crying, sad. Lots of mixed emotions.”

“I c-can understand that. Why are you up there?”

Her boot taps once on the wooden platform. “Because I’m debating.”

“D-debating what?”

“I’m not sure it’s really appropriate to talk about it right now.”

Nothing feels appropriate to talk about. Brett is half dead in a hospital room. Because of me. The fact that I’m even here and not at his side feels wrong on so many levels. I always knew the day would come when I’d be on my own, when Brett would outgrow me or go to college or move on and this is just…not how it was supposed to happen.

I don’t voice any of this to Autumn. “Go ahead.”

More hesitating. “At Patrick’s place…you kissed me.”

Heat rushes to my face. “Uh…y-yeah. I did. Sorry?” Am I supposed to apologize? Is that what this is about? She kissed me before that, after all.

“Don’t be dumb.” She turns away, the wind prodding at her long hair and brushing it across her soft face. “I just…wanted to know if you meant it, or if it was a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing. It’s fine if it was or whatever…” She takes one look at my expression, blushes, and turns away. “Like I said, not the best time to talk about it.”

Honestly, maybe it is the best time. Because it’s the first time I’ve felt even a sliver of hope or warmth since seeing that text from Patrick, since ruining my best friend’s life. “Guess we never really finished the conversation about what it meant. Did you want me to mean it?”

Autumn scoffs, looking almost offended by my question. She disappears into the enclosed tube slide, which opens right at my feet, so I turn and when she reaches the bottom, I put my hands on her knees to slow her descent so the slide doesn’t drop her ass-first onto the sand.

Autumn doesn’t miss a beat with this. Her fingers grab the front of my shirt and drag me in until my mouth is against hers and I have to hold on to the edge of the slide to keep from falling forward completely onto her.

It isn’t some big, romantic, movie-like kiss. It’s clumsy and spontaneous and wind-chapped, but I wouldn’t think it anything but perfect with the way her lips part against mine, coaxing me along and warming me from head to toe. When she draws away, she stares at me like I’m stupid as she says, “What do you think, genius?”

I wet my lips. “Not entirely sure.”

“Yeah? Then let’s try that again.”

She pulls me closer again until I have to kneel on the slide and brace my hands on the overhang of the tube. This time, it’s a little more real. This time, I’m at least not caught entirely off guard, so I can lean in to kiss her back, to savor the way she doesn’t just kiss with her mouth, but her whole body, with her hands on my chest and in my hair, like she wants to wrap herself around me and can’t get close enough. And I need this, want this, something that can push away the pain and the guilt to make room for something that doesn’t hurt so damned much.

When we break apart, her hands are cupping my face and I think I might pass out from not remembering to breathe, or because she stole my breath away. If I wanted to be so cliché. Her thumb strokes my cheek and there’s so much affection in such a tiny gesture that it makes my insides flutter. “How was that? A little better?”

I smile crookedly, still with my head lost in the clouds somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Yeah. Think so.”