Thicker Than Water (14 page)

“The bank's foreclosing on the farm.”

A few things happened at once. First, blood rushed to various parts of my body—my heart, which started pounding; my ears, where the sound of it was like gushing water; and my temples, which throbbed with the superfluous supply. Then there were my eyes, which both twitched and widened like I was having a seizure. Dad was watching me closely. I think he might have been afraid I was actually going to start swallowing my tongue.

“What does that mean?” I finally managed to get out. Jane leaving was inevitable. I wasn't expecting today to be the day, but I'd known it was coming. Foreclosure was probably inevitable, too. Somehow I'd been able to ignore that fact.

“Well,” Dad was saying, his head resting on one hand, “that means that we'll have about a month or so until we need to find somewhere else to live.”

One month. One month would be graduation. I'd put on my cap and gown, get my diploma, and head home to my cardboard box on the side of the road.

I swallowed nothing. I hadn't taken a bite of dinner yet and I knew I wasn't going to.

“So—so what are we going to do?”

In an irritating turn of events, Dad's eyes actually looked
less worried or heartbroken about being homeless with his kids than about losing a probably cheating wife. I wanted to slap him hard across the face when he shrugged and pulled on a string at the cuff of his shirt.

“I don't know. I wish I did. I've been trying to come up with some options. I've talked to the bank a handful of times—there's just no way to pay the money they're looking for.”

I blinked for a while, trying to decide if the tears that threatened to fall were out of sadness, anger, or frustration.

“So I'm going to shut down the seed business and get a job,” Dad said.

I was surprised by that—up until now, it seemed like he wasn't planning on taking any action during the downfall of our family.

“Where are you going to get a job?”

“Anywhere that pays enough to try to get an apartment, I guess.”

I tugged at the macaroni and meat on my plate with the prongs of my fork. I thought about the money I'd saved. I thought about how I could get more. I thought about the rights and wrongs in life and how the line was far too thin between them.

“I've got some money saved up, Dad. Do you think . . . ? I mean, if you can make a mortgage payment, will the bank maybe do something for us? Help us out or something?”

But he'd shaken his head.

“Sweetheart, that's so wonderful of you and I really appreciate you saying that. But we're almost six months behind on
the payments. The bank's long past second chances. It's over.”

And then, finally, the tears came. His, not mine. Mine still pooled, but never fell. His were an overflowing ocean of regrets. My regrets, like everything else about me, stayed tucked inside where only I could hear them.

When we buried Mom, we buried so much money that I couldn't help but think about it. As the one who wrote the checks while my father was immobile in his grief, I was burdened with the details of each expense. Death isn't just about loss. It's about math—and, more specifically, about subtraction.

But life is all about math, too.

Subtracting this house from my family.

Multiplying the expenses I'd thought I had.

And dividing my father and brother and mother from me.

I didn't even excuse myself from the table when I left to call Lucas. And I didn't even greet him when he answered.

“I'll do it,” I said quietly when he picked up the phone. “I'll go see Dr. Frank.”

ON TUESDAYS, INDIVIDUAL SESSIONS ARE IN THE MORNING INSTEAD
of group. The only people who are awake right now are the ones who have to be. Except for Tucker. He's sitting next to me, his pinky tentatively brushing up against the side of my hand. He got up early to see me off. He says it's just because he's hoping Jennifer is bringing a short skirt for me to wear to court. I know his flirting is an attempt to distract me from myself because it doesn't come naturally to him. His teasing reminds me of middle-school slow dancing.

“I wish I could go with you,” he says after a long silence. I swallow, unsure of what to say. Do I wish that? Am I grateful that he can't?

“Thank you,” I say, because it's polite and the only thing I can think of. Tucker moves his arm around my waist. Our kissing has given him a new confidence about touching me, which would annoy me if it weren't so desirable. I think
about grabbing his hand and pulling him back toward my room. In hushed whispers, we would slip under the covers of my bed. Our snuffles and giggles would be muffled by our mouths and their real intentions. Aarti might wake up, but she wouldn't tell. I'd find a way to make love in this place where there isn't any love left at all.

Instead, I move in closer to him and rest my head against his too-bony, almost-sharp shoulder. It's like leaning against a bookshelf, but I pretend it's soothing.

When Jennifer comes in, she's carrying a plastic garment bag over one arm, the kind you get at the dry cleaners. She blinks when she sees Tucker, then nods at him. I stand up and take the bag.

“I—I guess I'll go change,” I say. Tucker stands, too.

“I better get back . . .” he says, trailing off. There's nothing for him to get back to, but I understand. We've reached the end of whatever kind of solace he can offer me. We walk back toward my room and Tom the guard tails us from a few yards away.

“Listen,” Tucker says in a hushed voice when we reach my door. He takes my hand. “I don't have anything to say that will make you feel any better. I can't give you anything but me. But, for what it's worth, you have all of me that's left.”

It's such an intimate thing to say, so adult and almost foreign. I blink, unable to respond. Then he places a Polaroid picture in my hand.

“I'll be here when you get back.”

And then he's gone, back down the hall with Tom still
behind him. Technically, Tom probably shouldn't have let Tucker be out and about at all this morning, but I think he feels sorry for us. Maybe he sees something star-crossed in our faces.

I look down at the picture. It's Tucker's “bio-pic,” the picture they take of you the day you arrive at BT. They paste it to the wall by your room, allegedly to give you a sense of ownership over your surroundings. I think it's in case there's a new staff member who can't put names to faces yet.

And the thought I can't get rid of is:
He gave me a picture to remember him by
.
As though I won't be back
.

Tucker disappeared before he could see my outfit, but it wasn't much to write home about. Jennifer had decided to go conservative, not that I'm surprised. The navy blue skirt is long enough to cover my knees and reminds me of her ever-present suits. The white shirt is crisp with sizing, not ironing. The shoes feel like weights fastened with tacky buckles. Jennifer nods when I come back out, though, so I guess I fulfill whatever vision she had of “Cecelia Price—Defendant.”

Leaving BT feels surreal. The hallway seems to narrow as we move closer to the detention center's territory. We're getting more boxed in as we get near the reflective double doors. We walk through them and we're at our first checkpoint. The deputies review Jennifer's credentials, my court documents, our IDs. It isn't until we're out in the sunshine that I really open my eyes. It's not like I haven't seen life moving around me. We have windows and doors and picnic
tables and grass. But somehow, because it's monitored and fenced in, that kind of outdoors feels more like an imitation.

Jennifer's car is exactly what I expected—a reliable Camry, a few years old but in good shape. It's clean, but not recently washed. Everything inside is stock. Her GPS is the kind you plug into the cigarette lighter.

“Any requests?” she asks, flipping on the radio. I shake my head. Honestly, I'd prefer silence, but then she might feel compelled to make me talk. I'm saving all the words I have for when I'm forced to say them.

Our second checkpoint is at the razor wire–topped gates at the edge of the detention center grounds. We go through the same procedures. This time, a sheriff has us step out and takes a look through the car for contraband. I can't imagine what he's afraid we'd smuggle out.

It's been months since I've been in a car. It doesn't take long before I start feeling queasy; the bumpy back roads into town were a bad choice. I feel my stomach lurch as the Camry swings around a curve. To attempt to stifle my vomit, I decide to ask questions.

“So, could they take me into custody today?”

Jennifer gives me a sideways glance. “Yes.”

“Would I be placed back in BT?”

Jennifer shook her head. “No, if the proceedings don't go our way, they would transfer you over to the detention center.”

“And if it does go our way?”

“You'll be acquitted.”

“Right.” I look down at my shirt and run a hand over the pearly buttons. I've never had a shirt like this before. Lately, my life is filled with far more firsts than I'm comfortable with. I close my eyes and lean my head back, hoping that I won't puke all over the nicest thing I've ever worn.

Imagine what you expect a courthouse to look like—brick, somewhat old, possibly a little grimy. The intention would be stately but the effect would be outdated. That's how the London County Courthouse looks. It's a knockoff courthouse—one that looks legit, but really doesn't have the same style or flair as a legit courthouse with pillars and statues and a garden outside.

We go in through a back entrance. Two uniformed officers meet us at the door; Jennifer nods to them and steps farther into the dingy hallway. It's the color of dust and smells like an underground subway station. I can feel the cinder blocks judging me with every step I take.

I've been to this courthouse twice before. Once with Cyrus—he got a speeding ticket right after he got his license. And with Dad, when he was picking up his marriage license. It's funny how a place like this can be a place of anger and sadness or hope and new beginnings. Kind of like the hospital. Kind of like life.

I keep my head down and stare at the floor. Unlike my room at BT, this might really be marble or granite. I can't really tell the rocks apart. Geology wasn't my best unit in science. For some reason, it makes me wonder if Dr. Schafer is here, if she's one of Jennifer's character witnesses speaking on
my behalf. I doubt it. The list of people on my side is short.

Suddenly, these shoes I'm wearing feel like burdens, like I'm weighed down by my very roots. I try not to consider it a metaphor. Instead, I force one foot ahead of the next. The repetition would be soothing if it weren't leading me directly to my worst nightmare—a courtroom full of people I don't know at all and a handful of people I actually do.

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

The prosecutor takes a step toward Judge Collins and gives him a toothpaste commercial smile. His name, Bruce Mason, makes him sound like a game show host—which I guess makes sense since he's putting on quite a performance.

“Cecelia Price was always jealous of her brother, Cyrus. He was talented and successful and got a lot of attention from her parents. After Leona Price, Cecelia and Cyrus's mother, died of cancer, Cyrus was even more determined to become successful to help support his family. And then, in a dramatic twist of fate, Cyrus was injured during a game. His knee was never the same again.”

Jennifer warned me about how this was going to go. I thought I'd steeled myself for the onslaught of indignation I'd feel when a stranger, who would've busted Cyrus without a second thought, stands up and talks about him as though he's a close friend. Painful prickles of something like fury begin to travel up the back of my neck. I stare straight ahead when Mr. Mason turns and gestures in my direction.

“Ms. Price's lawyer will weave tales of a boy who was a
junkie—a boy who stole money, who shot up drugs, who took advantage of his father and his sister. But this boy they speak of was just that—
a boy
. Cyrus was dealing with the loss of his mother and the loss of soccer—the two things he loved most of all. He wasn't perfect, but he was struggling and suffering through a painful time. Even more important is the fact that Cyrus Price had made the difficult and admirable decision to stop taking narcotic medications. Only weeks before his death, he was hospitalized through a week of medical detox.

“Cecelia Price is a selfish girl who is directly responsible for her brother's death. The witnesses speaking today and the evidence you'll see will make it abundantly clear that there is only one person to blame for the fact that Cyrus Price is dead today, and that person is his sister.”

I'm stuck on the word
witnesses
. Evidence was one thing—pictures and plastic bags called Exhibit A or B couldn't hurt me. People were a whole other thing entirely. I try to be surreptitious as I turn my head to look at the benches behind the prosecution. There are a handful of people I don't recognize—experts in whatever field they are in, I'm sure. Behind them are a couple of Cy's teammates. Then there is the officer who arrested me.

“It is the state's recommendation that Cecelia Price remain detained at the Piedmont Juvenile Correctional Facility until her eighteenth birthday,” Mason continues, “upon which time she will be transferred to an adult facility.”

With that, the prosecutor seemed to be finished demonizing me. Really, he couldn't make me feel any shittier and, in
the end, the facts wouldn't change. There were many truths in his opening statement. Combined with the truths that are etched in my brain, I can hardly keep track. Here are the ones I remember best:

           
1. I am/was Cyrus Price's little sister.

           
2. I was jealous of the attention he got from our parents.

           
3. First, I resented his talent. Then, I resented his injury.

           
4. Cyrus was clean for three weeks, two days, twenty hours, and six minutes.

           
5. He died from an overdose when he injected OxyContin into his left arm.

           
6. I might as well have done it for him.

           
7. The pills weren't Cy's. They were mine.