The Replacement (6 page)
Authors: Brenna Yovanoff
"You're excused," Mrs. Brummel said, but not in that wispy, understanding voice that teachers sometimes use. Her tone was no-argument, like if Tate didn't go, there was a chance that she would be escorted out by the school rent-a-cop. For a second, Tate looked like she might hold out for forcible removal. Then she grabbed the books off her desk and walked out without looking back.
The rest of the class sat in awkward silence. I held on to the corners of my desk to keep my hands from shaking, and Mrs. Brummel did her best to wrench us back to Nathaniel Hawthorne and Hester's big stupid dilemma until the bell rang.
Out in the hall, Roswell was just being dismissed from his math class and he swung into step beside me. "Ready for some conversational French?"
I shook my head and started in the direction of the back parking lot. "I need some air."
He looked at me like he was trying to figure out how to phrase something. "I think you should go to French," he said finally.
"I can't."
"You mean, you don't
feel
like it."
feel
like it."
"I mean, I can't."
He folded his arms and suddenly looked a lot bigger. "No, you mean you just don't feel like it. Semantically, it's possible."
I pulled my sleeve down over my hand and reached for the door. "I have to go outside," I said, and my voice was low and unsteady. "Just for a little while. I really need some air."
"No, you need to tell me why you look like stone-cold death. Mackie, what is
wrong
?"
wrong
?"
"I hate this," I said, and my voice sounded tight. "I hate the way people are always fixating on things that aren't any of their business. I hate that no one can just leave it
alone
. And I
hate
Nathaniel Hawthorne."
alone
. And I
hate
Nathaniel Hawthorne."
Roswell shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down at me. "Okay. Not what I was expecting."
He didn't follow me.
I stood on the far side of the parking lot and leaned against one of the biggest white oaks, letting the rain filter down between the leaves and land on my face. The bell rang and I stayed where I was, numb and breathing too fast because I wasn't always the best student when it came to doing the reading, but I knew the book enough to know that maybe Hester goes around with a big red
A
pinned on her dress, but Dimmesdale's the one with it burned into his skin. He's the one who dies.
A
pinned on her dress, but Dimmesdale's the one with it burned into his skin. He's the one who dies.
Behind me, there was the rough idle of a car and then a voice said, "Hey, Mackie."
Tate had pulled up next to the curb in this absolute monstrosity of a Buick and was leaning across the front seat. Apparently, she'd decided she was done with school for the day. Or, more likely, done being a public spectacle. She put her hand on the edge of the passenger window. "The rain isn't going to stop. Do you want a ride somewhere?"
The car sat idling against the curb, its wipers flicking back and forth. Long primer-gray body, poisonous fenders. It made me think of a wicked metal shark. "That's okay. Thanks, though."
"Are you sure? It's not a problem."
I shook my head, watching the rain drip in a wavering curtain off the front bumper so I wouldn't have to look at her.
Her face was softer and younger looking than normal. I stood under the dripping oak and debated complimenting the way she'd faced down Mrs. Brummel, just to have something to say--tell her I was impressed by the way she could be sad and stared at and still tell everyone to go straight to hell.
After a minute, she killed the engine and got out of the car. "Listen. I need to talk to you."
When she came across the grass to me, she had this look on her face, like out in the parking lot, in the open, she wasn't so sure of herself after all. Like maybe I scared her. Her mouth had a bruised look. Her eyes were blue underneath, like you get from not sleeping.
When she came up next to me, she turned so we were standing side by side, staring out at the parking lot. The point of her elbow was inches from my sleeve.
"Do you have a minute?"
I didn't answer.
"Jesus, why don't you ever
say
anything?" She turned and stared up at me with her teeth working on her bottom lip. It looked raw, like she'd been chewing it a lot. Even reeking like iron from the Buick, she still smelled crisp and kind of sweet. It made me think of flowering trees or something you want to put in your mouth. The kind of smell you shouldn't notice about girls who are covered in tragedy and Detroit steel.
say
anything?" She turned and stared up at me with her teeth working on her bottom lip. It looked raw, like she'd been chewing it a lot. Even reeking like iron from the Buick, she still smelled crisp and kind of sweet. It made me think of flowering trees or something you want to put in your mouth. The kind of smell you shouldn't notice about girls who are covered in tragedy and Detroit steel.
"You weren't at the funeral yesterday," she said.
Between us, the current seemed to hum louder. I nodded.
"Why? I mean, your dad seems like he'd be all about 'pulling together as a community,' and considering he pretty much organized the whole thing . . . And, I mean, Roswell was there."
"Religion is my dad's business," I said, and my voice had a flat, mechanical sound that showed me for what I was--a bad liar reciting someone else's lie. "Anyway, a funeral isn't really an ideal social event. I mean, it's not like I would attend one for fun or anything."
Tate just watched me. Then she folded her arms tight across her chest, looking small and wet. Her hair was plastered against her forehead. "Whatever. It's not like it matters."
"You're taking it really well."
Tate took a deep breath and stared up at me. "It wasn't her."
For a second, I didn't say anything. Neither of us did. But we didn't look away from each other. I could see flecks of green and gold in her eyes and tiny spots so deep and cool they looked purple. I realized that I hadn't really looked at her in years.
She closed her eyes and moved her lips before she spoke, like she was practicing the words. "It wasn't my sister in that box, it was something else. I know my sister, and whatever died in that crib, it wasn't her."
I nodded. I was cold suddenly, goose bumps coming up on my arms in a way that had nothing to do with the rain. My hands tingled and started to go numb.
"So, are you just going to stand there looking like a piece of furniture?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't want you to
say
anything--I want someone to listen to me!"
say
anything--I want someone to listen to me!"
"Maybe you should talk to a school counselor," I said, looking at my shoes. "I mean, that's what they're there for."
Tate stared up at me and her eyes were wide and hurt and, for the first time, full of tears. "You know what? Fuck you."
She crossed the lawn to her car and swung herself into the driver's seat. She slammed the door, wrenched the transmission into reverse, and backed out onto the road.
After she'd made it all the way down Benthaven and disappeared around the corner, I let myself slump against the oak tree, sinking to a crouch with my back against the trunk.
I barely felt the rain as it ran down my forehead and the back of my neck.
I hadn't given away my secret because I didn't even know how to say the secret out loud. No one did. Instead, they hung on to the lie that the kids who died were actually their kids and not just convincing replacements. That way, they never had to ask what had happened to the real ones. I had never asked what happened to the real ones.
That was the code of the town--you didn't talk about it, you didn't ask. But Tate had asked anyway. She'd had the guts to say what everyone else was thinking--that her true, real sister had been replaced by something eerie and wrong. Even my own family had never been honest enough to come right out and say that.
Tate had made herself a loner and an outcast when I was the one who was supposed to be the freak. I'd shied away like she might infect me, but she was just a girl trying to get a straight answer from the most obvious source.
And yes, I
was
obvious. When it came down to basic facts, I was weird and unnatural, and the game only worked as long as everyone else agreed not to see. If you took all the kids in school and lined them up, it was clear that I was the one who didn't belong. I was the disease. I crouched under the dripping tree and covered my head with my hands.
was
obvious. When it came down to basic facts, I was weird and unnatural, and the game only worked as long as everyone else agreed not to see. If you took all the kids in school and lined them up, it was clear that I was the one who didn't belong. I was the disease. I crouched under the dripping tree and covered my head with my hands.
I'd treated her like shit because I'd had no choice. This was how the game went, and when you got down to it, what mattered most was staying out of sight. Everything else was secondary. There was no way to fix what I'd done, no way to take it back, because it was just me.
"I'm sorry," I said to the pale, drizzly sky and the dying grass and the tree. To the empty parking lot and my own shaking hands.
CHAPTER SIX
FRIDAYS AT STARLIGHT
W
hen Roswell picked me up after dinner for our weekly trip downtown to see the showcase of local bands, we didn't talk much. I stared out the passenger window while he messed around with the radio, trying to find something he liked.
hen Roswell picked me up after dinner for our weekly trip downtown to see the showcase of local bands, we didn't talk much. I stared out the passenger window while he messed around with the radio, trying to find something he liked.
Finally, he switched it off. "So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?" His voice sounded loud in the silence.
"What?"
He didn't look away from the road. "You're not too chipper tonight is all."
I shrugged and watched the strip malls go by. "Tate Stewart is . . . It's just, she freaked out in class today. She wanted to talk to me, and I don't know what to say. Her sister
died
--she needs a professional." And because those things were true but not the whole truth, I told him something else, so hoarse and low it was almost a whisper. "Roz, I don't feel good. I haven't felt good in a long time."
died
--she needs a professional." And because those things were true but not the whole truth, I told him something else, so hoarse and low it was almost a whisper. "Roz, I don't feel good. I haven't felt good in a long time."
Roswell nodded, tapping his palms on the steering wheel in four-four time.
"What's it like?" he said suddenly. "Being--you know."
He made it sound so easy, like he was asking about hemophilia or having double-jointed thumbs. It took me a second to realize I'd stopped breathing. It was hard to describe something you weren't supposed to talk about. And yeah, maybe my dad liked to call it
uncommon
--this neutral, sanitary word--but I could tell sometimes, just by the look on his face, that what he really meant was
unnatural
.
uncommon
--this neutral, sanitary word--but I could tell sometimes, just by the look on his face, that what he really meant was
unnatural
.
Beside me, Roswell was still ticking his fingers against the steering wheel. Finally, he rolled his head to the side and looked at me.
He wasn't stupid. I knew that. He'd known me pretty much my whole life, so it wasn't like I thought I was fooling him. The thing that kept me mute was the chance that if I said it out loud, he'd look at me differently. Maybe it wouldn't be obvious--he'd try not to let it show--but the difference would be there.
And that was bad enough, but stranger, deeper was the fear that nothing would change at all. He might just shrug and carry on like always, which was somehow worse. The truth was an ugly thing, and I couldn't stand the possibility that he might be okay with it when it
wasn't
okay.
wasn't
okay.
He was quiet, watching me in the pauses at stoplights, waiting for an answer.
I rolled down the window and stuck my head out, letting the rain splash against my face. I knew that if I opened my mouth, I'd tell him. The cold air was helping, a little, but under the car's fiberglass quarter panels, the frame was carbon steel and I was starting to feel sick. It was getting worse.
Roswell let out his breath in the long, pressurized sigh that meant he had something on his mind. "I've been thinking," he said after a minute. "This is totally not scientific, and maybe it's not even my business--but do you think you might be depressed?"
I looked down at my hands and then I made fists. "No."
I knew what it looked like. Lately, I was a mental-health pamphlet, answering questions in monosyllables, avoiding strenuous activities, sleeping too much. I wanted to tell him that it wasn't as bad as it seemed. I was just doing my part, playing invisible. That when you're tired all the time and you have to keep your sleeves pulled down over your hands so you don't accidentally touch a handle or a doorknob and a good day is defined by the fact that no one noticed you exist, that's pretty depressing. But it's not clinical.
The Starlight music hall had been a movie theater in the fifties and a regular theater before that. The building was three stories of chalky stucco, trimmed around the windows and the roof with spirals of wrought iron, but now it was rusting like everything else, leaving stains that ran down the front of the building like dried blood. We got in line and gave the bouncer two dollars apiece.
Inside, the crowd was pushed up close to the stage. The old curtain still hung over the stage in huge velvet swags. There were plaster columns along the walls, and the molding around the ceiling was carved with birds and flowers and leaves. Dollhouse of Mayhem was on, yelling about corporate incentives and the government. Their lead guitar sounded like what would happen if someone wedged a traffic accident into a blender. The whole place smelled like rusting iron and spilled beer, and the bad, shaky feeling that had been looming all day broke over me in an ugly wave.
Roswell was saying something very analytical about the music scene at any given time being a barometer for civil unrest, but his voice was fading in and out, and my mouth was full of too much saliva.
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