Private 03 - Untouchable (6 page)

OLD FRIENDS

I stared out the front window of Billings the next morning, waiting for Ariana and Taylor to finish getting ready. Tiny droplets of rain dotted the glistening windowpane and the sky was overcast, a perfect backdrop for my heavy mood. I took a deep breath and released it slowly through my lips, marveling at how the campus beyond still managed to look beautiful to me even at this time of year, even in this state of mind. It was already mid-November, but the grass was still green and clipped and the evergreen shrubs perfectly shaped. Overnight, beads of water had frozen along the leafless limbs of the trees at the end of the walk, forming a canopy of diamonds. Back home there would be nothing but brown and gray. Dead grass, dead plants, piles of soaked and rotting leaves the public service had neglected to pickup. November was one of Croton's ugliest months of the year. Nothing was ever ugly at Easton. Even in the wake of murder.

There was a bustling on the stairs, and I turned to find Ariana and Taylor coming toward me, Ariana pulling on her pristine 
white calfskin gloves. "Ready?" she asked, looking positively bright-eyed.

"Ready."

The moment we walked outside I was nearly knocked over by a gust of wind and a smattering of drizzle. Ariana and Taylor stepped out of Billings behind me and instinctively huddled close.

"I need coffee," I mumbled, buttoning the top button on my new Lands' End wool coat, which my father had ordered and had shipped directly to me. It was much more practical and boxy than any of the designer coats the other Billings Girls had hanging in their closets, but at least it was warm.

"I need oatmeal," Taylor added.

She was looking a bit more like herself today. Her blond curls danced around her face, and she had gotten some color back in her skin. Although that might have just been the wind.

"So, you're going to eat today?" Ariana asked, tucking her arm through mine as we speed-walked across campus, our shoes clip- clopping on the wet stone path. "Both of you?"

"I'll give it a try," I said.

The truth was, my appetite had yet to return. The only reason I was in such a rush to get to the cafeteria was to see if there was any more news, if anyone had heard anything about this Rick character. If worse came to worst, I might even seek out Walt Whittaker for a tete-a-tete, as awkward as that would be. Whit's and my dating experiment had only imploded a little over a week ago, the very night Thomas was found, but Whit also had a blood connection to 
the powers that be at Easton. His grandmother was on the board of directors, which meant that I might just have to suck it up and talk to him.

We were about to turn up the short path to the cafeteria when I saw someone out of the corner of my eye. I paused and my pulse started to race, warming my skin. Detective Hauer. Out for his morning stroll, even in this weather. If there was one person who could tell me more than even Whit could, it was Hauer.

I stopped and waited for him to join us.

"Good morning, ladies," he said with a kind smile, though his brown eyes looked sad and tired. His black trench coat was stretched over his stocky frame, the belt barely tying at the waist. "Brisk one."

"Yes, Detective. It certainly is," Ariana said, her southern manners kicking in.

"How are you today, Reed?" he asked me.

I don't know why I grew warm at his singling me out. We had met on the quad before, just like this, except I had been alone at the time. Plus he had interviewed me with the chief just yesterday. We were practically old friends.

"Is it true, Detective?" I asked. I felt a rush of nauseating excitement and dread at being able to pose the question. Finally. "Did they really arrest that guy? Did he do it?"

He lifted his head slightly and studied me for a moment before answering. "We do have a suspect in custody, yes. But as to whether or not he had anything to do with your friend's death, we're not sure yet. He's still being questioned."

"But if you brought him in, you must have had a good reason," Ariana said.

"There was compelling evidence, yes," the detective said.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Just that he's a suspect, that's all," the detective told me gently. "I know how close you were with Thomas, Reed. I didn't have a chance to tell you yesterday, but I wanted you to know how sorry I am for your loss."

Ariana's grip on my arm tightened. Like that last moment in the blood pressure sleeve when you think the doctor might be taking the thing a pump or ten too far just to see if you'll pop. The twisting in the back of my throat returned. I tried to swallow but couldn't, and my eyes instantly watered.

"I promise I'll let you know as soon as we know anything for sure," he told me.

I nodded. I wanted to thank him, but I knew I had to wait for this latest wave of misery to pass.

"Thank you, Detective," Ariana said, easing her death grip slightly. "Come on, girls. Let's get inside before we freeze."

She really was becoming more like a mother every day. And I couldn't have been more grateful for it. If it hadn't been for her tugging on my arm, I might have stood there in the cold all day.

"Ladies," the detective said, stepping back.

"Bye," I heard myself say.

Ariana led us over to the door and opened it for us, waiting for Taylor and me to go through first. The warmth of the heated 
cafeteria enveloped me, and I breathed for the first time in what felt like hours.

"There. See?" Ariana said, facing me and Taylor. She slipped out of her light blue cashmere coat and folded it over her arm. "Don't you feel better now? Don't you both feel better?"

I looked at Taylor and she blew out a sigh, smiling slightly. It was the first smile I had seen on her since the Saturday night when we had all been in New York City, partying like the carefree idiots we'd been at the time.

"Yeah. Definitely," Taylor said, unbuttoning her plaid coat.

"Definitely," I echoed.

Now I just had to start believing it.

RESIGNED

Our grades arrived.

Grades. I had forgotten the quarter was ending. But there it was, in my mailbox in the hallway outside the school store: a crisp, cream envelope standing at an angle right up against the window. I could see hundreds of others just like it in hundreds of other mailboxes. A few feet away, a group of dizzy freshmen ripped theirs open and compared their contents. They giggled in triumph and groaned in dismay. My fingers itched to work my combination, but my fight-or-flight reflex kicked into high gear. I couldn't deal with this. Not right now. I turned around and walked out into the cold.

As soon as the door closed behind me I felt lighter somehow, empowered. I'd finally taken control of something, however small. I knew I'd have to look inside that envelope, but for now I was resolved to remain ignorant. And it felt good.

That night, I was determined to actually study. Whatever those grades were, I was going to improve upon them in the second 
semester. This was exactly what I needed to get over Thomas. I would become a brain. An overachiever. I would throw myself into my work and forget about everything else. I walked determinedly into the library with my history book and my notebook and a new pen. I was going to take notes for the next day's quiz, using the advice Taylor had given me at the beginning of the year. All I had to do was copy the first and last sentence of every paragraph. That was where Mr. Barber always got his quiz questions. It was busywork. If I couldn't handle even that, I was in big trouble.

Every person I strode by stopped what they were doing to watch me go, and I felt my shoulder muscles coil, but I kept my focus dead ahead. I was tired of everyone staring at me. Whispering about me. Asking me if I was okay. But how could I blame them? In the past couple of weeks I had become a walking catastrophe. Spacing out in class. Staring at nothing in the library. Sleeping until the very last moment possible because usually those last twenty minutes were the only sleep I got. One morning I was so out of it that I was halfway across the quad before I realized I was wearing two different shoes. At Easton, that was akin to showing up naked.

Well, as of now, that was all going to change. I had to stop waiting for one of those fairy-tale godmother people to come along and hit me with a wand to the head to make me forget everything. It was up to me now.

In the center of the library, two guys from Drake House, one of the less appealing guys' dorms (nicknamed "Dreck House"), sat at the end of a long table. Neither of them looked up when I passed.

I liked them already. I sat down at the far side and opened my book.

Okay. Here we go. Work time.

"Reed?"

I blinked a couple of dozen times. My eyes stung. Finally they focused on Josh, who was sitting down across from me. I felt like I'd just been shaken awake. I glanced at my watch. Half an hour had passed. My notebook was blank.

"Hey," he said. He looked wary as he placed his messenger bag down on top of the table. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said through my teeth. "I just wish people would stop asking me that."

Josh raised his hands. "Sorry."

I felt instantly guilty. I couldn't start snapping at my friends now. If I lost them too, I would have nothing at all. Something between a sigh and a groan parted my lips.

"No. I'm sorry." I crossed my arms over my notebook and my forehead hit my wrist. "I didn't mean to tear your head off," I said into the table.

"It's okay," Josh whispered sincerely. "What's going on?"

I felt his finger touch my pinky. It warmed me all over. One millimeter of skin on skin, and my whole body reacted. What would Thomas have thought? Was he watching me right now? Was that even possible? Did he know I was having warm and fuzzy feelings for one of his best friends? I squeezed my eyes closed and shook my head, trying to shake the thoughts out.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't. Nothing was fair.

"Reed?" His voice took on a serious, concerned tone that set every inch of me vibrating.

With a sigh I lifted my head enough so that my chin was now on my notebook. I looked up at him pathetically. I wished he would just hug me. Somehow I felt that if I could find myself in Josh's arms--just held there in his arms--I could start to feel okay. But how could I do that? How could either of us do that?

"I just wish I could get out of my head," I told him after a long moment. "It's unlivable in here."

Josh smirked. He leaned forward, bringing his face close to the table, so close to mine I could see every light freckle across his nose. "I might have an idea of how you can do that, if you're interested," he said, with a mischievous glint in his normally glint-free eyes.

Well. That was foreboding.

I sat up straight. "If you're talking about pot or something, I'm not interested," I said, adjusting my books as if I was actually going to study. "Considering," I added pointedly.

"It's not drugs, Reed. Come on," Josh said, sitting up as well. "How idiotic do you think I am?"

I blinked. Ablush moved in from behind my ears, warming my face all the way to my nose. So this was what shame felt like.

"Then what is it?" I asked.

"It's better," he said.

I looked down at the blank pages in my notebook and took a deep breath. "I'm in."

ENOUGH DAMAGE

My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears I had a feeling they would be ringing later. I hadn't been in Ketlar for weeks. Not since Thomas was still alive. Not since he had brought me here to have sex.

Make love.

Use me?

I had no idea anymore. And now I'd never be able to ask him. Whatever it had been, being so close to the place where it had happened was conjuring several physical reactions.

Nausea. Shaky knees. Headache. Watery eyes. I was one big side effect.

"Come on," Josh half-whispered the moment the elevator doors slid open.

It took a lot of effort for me to move. I followed him out into the hallway and toward the common room. I knew I should be excited and curious about what, exactly, Josh had in mind, but ghosts of memories were crowding out any immediate concerns. Visions of

Thomas sprawled out on the leather couch. Playing video games on the flat screen with his friends. Raucous laughter and cheers and jeers.

There was none of it now. The place was dead. It smelled antiseptic, as if someone had come in and bleached the walls. The TV was gray and the game console had been stashed underneath in the cabinet. One guy I didn't know read at the table in the corner by the light of a dim lamp.

It was as if all the life had gone out of Ketlar along with Thomas.

Josh quickly crossed the common room--the only place in the dorm where I was legally permitted to be (not that I had heeded that rule in the past)--and headed into the far hallway. Suddenly I knew where he was taking me. To his room. Thomas's room.

"Uh, I don't think this is the best idea," I said.

"We're not gonna get caught," Josh whispered, taking my hand, just as Thomas had taken my hand right here in this place not all that long ago. "Mr. Cross has been in meetings practically twenty-four/seven since they found Thomas."

I tripped forward as he tugged me. My murky brain tried to find the words to tell him that the last place on Earth I wanted to be was Thomas's room, but we were already in the hall. My breath caught. There it was, the closed door looming up on the left like a creature from hell that could swallow me whole. Inside that room were all of Thomas's things. The clothes that still smelled like him. The books he always stacked next to his desk. The bed that we . . . that we . . . that--

I opened my mouth to say something. Anything. I could not go in there.

And then we were walking past it.

Josh opened the door at the very end of the hallway. "Here we go."

"What? But I thought-"

I stepped into the tiniest room I had ever seen, barely larger than a Billings closet. The walls were bare, but there were paint splatters everywhere, in every color of the rainbow. I recognized Josh's bedspread from his old room. The bed, desk, and dresser had all been pushed up against one wall so that three easels could be set up along the other. The third was dominated by a tall, slim window. Next to the door was a skinny closet jammed with clothing.

"They moved me here the week after the funeral, after they inspected all my stuff for clues or whatever," Josh said, dropping his messenger bag on his bed. "My old room is a crime scene now."

"Oh. God. I didn't even think of that."

"I know," Josh said, his eyes dark. "I hate it. It's like, how much can one person go through? It's like I--" He stopped himself mid-ramble, as if biting his tongue, and glanced at me. "It just sucks."

"Yeah," I said. I had no idea what else to say.

He moved over to the corner where there was a paint-speckled box with a handle on top. He lifted it with one hand and used the side of it to shove some papers and pens on his desk aside so that he could set it down. Watching him, I felt like I could see what he had been like as a little kid. Somehow he had gotten smaller.

More vulnerable. And I realized, suddenly, how selfish I had been.

"Josh, I'm so sorry," I said, dropping down on his bed. I shrugged out of my coat and laid it aside. "Everyone keeps asking me how I am, but I never asked you . . . are you okay?"

Josh blew out a breath through his nose. "Yeah. I guess," he said. "The whole thing is surreal, but... what am I going to do, you know?"

I stared at him. "Most of the time you seem so normal. Howare you dealing with all this?"

He looked down. Shuffled his feet. "I have my ways."

Ooooohkay.

"Like what?"

"That's why I brought you here," he said. He popped open the box and lifted out a few paintbrushes. "I'm going to show you one of them."

He slipped an iPod from his jacket pocket and placed it in its speaker system on his desk. One hit of one button, and suddenly the room was filled with screeching guitar. I had to concentrate to keep from wincing.

"What're you doing?" I shouted.

"Helping you get out of your head!" Josh moved over to the first easel and opened up a few jars of paint that were sitting in the attached tray. Then he did the same at the second easel. He turned and handed me a few of the brushes. I stared at them, confused. Did he expect me to paint?

Josh lifted one of the jars from the tray and walked to the center 
of the small room. He dipped one of his larger brushes into the jar.

"This is what I do when my headspace becomes . . . unlivable," he told me.

Then he dipped the brush in the paint, came out with a big glob, and flung it at the canvas. Half the paint hit the canvas--a huge, red slash across the stark white. The other half of the paint hit the wall. Now I understood where the splatters had come from.

"Try it," Josh shouted.

"Are you insane?" I asked. His eyes flashed at me and something inside of me paused. Hesitated. I looked around. "I mean, they're gonna freak when they see what you're doing to this place."

"They don't care!" Josh smiled and shrugged and I wondered if I'd imagined the sudden darkness I'd thought I'd seen. "I'm the poor, pathetic roommate of the dead guy." He paused for a moment and his expression shifted, as if he'd just realized how callous he'd sounded. "No one cares what I do," he added.

My heart pounded in sympathy for him. "That's not true."

He focused on me as if suddenly remembering I was there. "No! I don't mean literally. I just mean . . . forget it. Come on, Reed. Try this! I swear it'll help."

He took my hand and pressed a brush into it. My breath started to race at his nearness and his excitement. Josh was energized. I craved that. I craved the idea of feeling anything even remotely positive. I pushed myself up and grabbed a jar of blue paint. I dipped the brush into it and looked at Josh.

"Now fling it," he instructed.

I grinned. Suddenly I couldn't help it. Being with Josh made me grin. There it was. So what if it was disloyal? If it was cruel? Right then, I just wanted to keep smiling. So I lifted my arm and flung. Most of my paint hit the wall. The easel only took a drop. Somehow the rest of it splashed Josh in the face.

I took one look at him and cracked up laughing. It felt so, so good to laugh. Josh slowly wiped the paint from his nose with his fingertips, making a nice, wide smear across his cheek.

"Oh my God! You're right! I do feel better," I said.

It hurt to laugh, like I was using a muscle that hadn't been exercised in too long. Josh turned around and I was hit in the face with a smattering of green. Kid was so quick I never even saw it coming.

"Touche," I said, wiping my forehead.

I grabbed another vat of paint and hit him again. He hit me with a blob of red right in the center of my black sweater. I screeched and doused him in yellow. Suddenly we were both laughing and attacking. Before I knew it, Josh was swiping at me with a brush, making random slashes on my clothes. I had paint in my hair, on my shoes, all over my favorite jeans. But I didn't even care. This was the best time I had had in days. The lightest I had felt since Thomas's funeral. Even on my nonbudget, I could sacrifice some clothing for that.

Josh came at me with a brush. I straight-armed his shoulder and held him back, wheezing for breath. He grabbed my waist, twisted me around. I escaped his grasp and headed for the wall.

Josh was everywhere. His hands, his fingers, his breath, his laughter, his weight. It was all one blur, and all of it sent my heart rate skyrocketing.

He was going to grab me and kiss me. Every inch of me was throbbing and I knew he felt it too. He had to. I gripped the sleeve of his shirt and didn't let go. Our bodies were pressed together as the vertical wrestling match started to wane. I could feel his breath on my neck as I slowly straightened up. I looked him in the eye.

Come on. Do it. Please. I just want to keep this feeling going. I don't want to go back. I don't want to go back. . . .

"I think you'd look good in purple," Josh said huskily, teasingly, backing me toward the wall. "What do you think?"

My stomach hurt from laughing and I was out of breath. "Don't. Don't you dare," I said, watching the brush in his hand.

Josh, of course, kept coming.

"Reed, hold still! You have to let an artist do his work!"

He lifted the brush.

"Josh! No! Come on!" I laughed, pressing my hands into his chest. "Haven't you done enough damage already?"

Josh hovered inches from me, taunting me with the paint. Aside from the original blue streak, he had flecks of green and yellow in his hair and a smatter of black across his cheek. He looked me in the eye and grinned.

My heart missed a beat. Then another. I stared at his paint- spattered lips. His breath grew heavier as he stepped even closer. My skin tingled with warmth.

Do it. Please. Just kiss me.

His eyes traveled down to my lips. I could already feel them buzzing. I looked him in the eye.

Please, Josh. Please.

Suddenly, he blinked and backed off. Everything inside of me nose-dived, so fast I almost physically fell over. "You're right," he said. "Enough damage for one night."

My face burned with humiliation. There was no way he didn't know what I'd been thinking. I'd practically said the word please out loud. I had to get out of here. Now. I cleared my throat and wiped my hands on my jeans, making them even messier. My coat and bag seemed, miraculously, unscathed, but I couldn't pick them up in my current state.

"I need a bathroom," I blurted.

"Down the hall on the right."

Josh couldn't even look at me.

"Right. I remember."

After struggling with the door handle with my paint-covered hands I finally broke free and raced down the hall, as if I could somehow leave what had just almost happened behind me. Shoving my way into the bathroom, I startled a Ketlar guy who was standing right opposite the door. I braced my hands on the white sink. My reflection was frightening--matted, sticky hair, multicolored swirls all over my face--but I didn't even care. All I could see were my eyes.

The eyes of a girl who had just tried to seduce her dead boyfriend's roommate.