Complicit Read online

  Still there was nothing to be done from a legal standpoint. A dark stalemate formed between Cate and the world around her.

  Then these things happened:

  Scooter moped and stopped talking to me.

  Sarah regained consciousness, but remained in intensive care.

  Angie fretted and began seeing her own therapist again. Twice a week.

  Malcolm suffered in stoic silence the way he always did.

  My hands kept going numb. The doctors freaked and I convinced myself I was slowly dying.

  And so it went for weeks.

  Until the day I stopped going to school. Not because of my hands, but because the guilt over what I’d done made my stomach burn so badly I couldn’t leave my room. I was in agony. Dr. Waverly came to the house to see me, and I overheard her talking with Malcolm about admitting me into an inpatient treatment program for panic disorder. That was the first time in my life that I thought seriously about killing myself. With a rope. In my closet. This was also the day that Cate marched downtown to the police station in the bright autumn warmth and confessed to setting the barn on fire in a fit of misguided rage.

  Judgment was swift: On the eve of my fifteenth birthday, my sister was sentenced to thirty months in a juvenile detention facility for arson. I was in my room the morning she came to say goodbye. She didn’t mention the conversation we’d had the night before as I huddled hamsterlike on the end of her bed. Cate simply drifted into my room looking pale and tired and walked straight to my bookcase where she plucked my copy of Black Boy right off the shelf. I watched as she ran her finger across the title.

  With her back still to me, she asked, “What’s that quote you like so much in this book? I heard you telling Malcolm about it. The guy goes to vote and he writes something on the ballot.”

  “He writes, ‘I Protest This Fraud.’”

  Cate turned around. Her eyes were full of tears.

  “Oh, Jamie,” she said. “Don’t let anyone else tell you who you are. Ever.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She bit her lip. “I … I did a bad thing once.”

  “I know.”

  “And I don’t know how to make it better.”

  “You can’t,” I said.

  She handed me the book.

  “I want to try.”

  3

  PLAYED TWICE

  THIRTY-TWO

  On Sunday morning, Angie does that thing she always does. She knocks on my door with the backs of her knuckles, tap-tap-tap, then opens it before I can answer.

  “We’re leaving for church in ten minutes,” she says brightly. Then she freezes.

  I sit up, chest bare, hair all rumpled, my mind swirling with memories of Cate and what she’d done and what I’d done and how I’d do anything to get my hands on a photo of my real mom.

  Anything.

  My hands.

  I look down. My hands are working again.

  Then I realize what Angie’s looking at.

  It’s not me.

  It’s Jenny. Beautiful Jenny who’s curled beside me, eyes shut tight, soft blond hair spilled across my pillow like a promise. She’s so beautiful that seeing her fills me with a twinge of melancholy. Like she’s too good for me or I’m not good enough, for her, both of which are true, I suppose.

  I glance up at Angie.

  “Shh!” I say in a tone dark enough to startle us both. “She’s sleeping.”

  Angie frowns, lines forming on her otherwise perfect face, but she retreats and closes the door. Okay, she slams it.

  Beside me, Jenny stirs and smiles as her eyes flutter open.

  “Your mom’s going to hate me, isn’t she?”

  “I won’t let anyone hate you,” I say.

  Jenny stretches, arching her back in a way that enchants me. “How very chivalrous.”

  “Is that so bad? Chivalry?”

  “It’s only bad if the sole romantic gesture you have to offer is saving me.”

  I’m not sure what Jenny means by this, but she’s smiling when she says it, which reassures me I haven’t done anything wrong.

  “Your hands are all better,” she says.

  “Yeah, they are.”

  Jenny reaches out and rubs my fingers, like she did last night. Only I can feel it this time.

  It still turns me on.

  “Jenny,” I say hoarsely.

  “Yeah?”

  “I really like you. That’s not chivalry talking, either. I swear.”

  “I like you, too,” she says, and then she kisses me.

  Jenny kisses me.

  I lean back and I let her. It’s transcendent, this kiss, this skin on skin, this her touching me touching her. After a while, I reach up to wrap my arms around her waist and we keep kissing and touching until we’re both breathing hard. Until waves of pleasure are pulsing through my body like sizzling streaks of fireworks rocketing through the new year’s sky. Until there’s nothing more I want than to be with her like this, right here, right now. For a long, long time. Forever, really.

  I want to lose myself in this moment.

  I want to forget

  the empty ache where my mother should be,

  my sister’s madness,

  my own rotten feelings of guilt

  my complicity

  I want to forget it all.

  But even in this most perfect of perfect moments,

  I can’t.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The fooling around thing Jenny and I are doing is interrupted by my phone.

  No, no, no. No way. Come on.

  I try ignoring it. I try focusing on my mouth and breath and skin against hers, this moment I’ve felt only in my dreams.

  It’s touch.

  It’s taste.

  It’s so much more.

  But … Monk.

  I groan. I pull back and pick up my phone.

  Unknown caller.

  “I have to answer this,” I tell Jenny. I roll out of bed and walk across the oval hooked rug to stand by the window. Outside there’s a hint of sun and a pair of sparrows flit around the branches of the Japanese maple in the side yard. “Cate?”

  “Hey, boner.”

  My fingers grip more tightly around the cell phone. There’s a certain level of apprehension that comes with talking to someone you know is capable of murder. Especially when they don’t know you know. “This isn’t the, uh, best time.”

  “No? Why not? What’re you doing? Are you fucking?”

  “What?” How does Cate do this? “No!”

  She yawns. “You sound horny.”

  “My God, Cate. What is wrong with you?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Yes! I would!”

  I hear her smoking. Picture red-stained lips on gold filter. “Nah, never mind. Look, are we on for today or what?”

  “Just tell me when and where.”

  “Jesus, you want me to do, like, everything.”

  “Cate, I don’t know where you are.”

  She laughs, a strange, uncontrolled giggle. “Me, neither. I’m way too high right now. It’s, like, you’re asking me metaphysical questions.”

  “I’m asking where you want to meet! I want to see these pictures you have. The ones of … Mom.”

  There’s a long silence. I fret. Have I pissed her off again? I’m pulling at my eyebrows and I am fully aware of it. This is too much. She is too much.

  “Peet’s on Highview at one,” she says finally.

  “Peet’s?”

  “Or else.”

  Click.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It’s 1:33 P.M.

  My sister is late.

  She’s late and I’m sitting in a corner of the store by myself with a cup of way-too-strong coffee that insists on burning a hole in my stomach no matter how much milk and sugar I put in it.

  It’s not like I should be surprised. Growing up, Cate was known for her lateness. To everything and everywhere. School. Church. My recitals.
Christmas dinner. Her own surprise party that she planned for her sweet sixteen. It used to make me so mad, like she got some sort of sadistic pleasure out of making people wait. Dr. Waverly tried to tell me people sometimes did stuff like that when they felt they weren’t in control of other aspects of their lives, but even with all of Cate’s issues, I never bought into that.

  Crazy or not, control’s sort of her thing.

  I snatch a newspaper off the empty table beside me and try to read. It’s local and predictably dull. Last night was the holiday light parade and today there’s a candle-making workshop downtown. Oh, and the farmer’s market has extended hours all the way up until Christmas Eve. Such events are Big Deals around here, because we’re Rich People pretending to have Small Town Values. However, there’s also an editorial expressing concern that “those” type of people are prowling around Danville again. For emphasis, this article includes a picture of a homeless family who’s been staying in their Honda Civic at a nearby park. The caption beneath the photo reads: THEY CHOOSE TO LIVE THIS WAY, and well, now, that is some nice holiday spirit going on right there, let me tell you. Jesus.

  Below the fold, I also learn there’s been a spate of home robberies over the past few days. Mostly cash and prescription meds have been stolen, along with some jewelry, and despite the not-even-trying-to-be-subtle implication that the unfortunate Civic family might be involved, it’s like the bottom drops out of my gut when I read that.

  Over the past few days.

  I set my coffee and paper down.

  I’m giving her ten more minutes.

  That’s it.

  Right then Scooter walks in. He’s preppy as hell in his khakis and Sperrys. He’s also got this fuck-it-all swagger to his walk that I’ve never noticed before. Not that I’ve been looking or anything, of course, since up until last week, I’ve pretty much ducked my head and avoided Scooter Murphy at all costs for the past two years. Today, however, he’s with a crowd of Sayrebrook students, including a couple of girls, and I realize I don’t know if he’s hooked up with anyone at all since Sarah. For his sake, I hope so. No, it’s not a nice thought, considering, but trust me, she wasn’t any kind of a catch to begin with. She wormed her way between us. Acted like she was better than me because of where I came from. That’s not the sign of a kind person, making others feel bad about who they are and what they have.

  The group bunches up at the counter, ordering things like gingerbread lattes and peppermint mochas with whipped cream. They all have pink noses and pink cheeks from the cold. For all I know they’re coming in from an afternoon of sweaty group sex, but at the moment they look so damn wholesome. All that’s needed is snow falling outside and Christmas carolers and an open fire or sleigh or whatever it is that that song says. I look away, feeling a sharp tightness in my chest and that hollow pang of loneliness. I have an urge to text Jenny, but it’s been all of an hour since I dropped her off. I don’t want to seem needy.

  I think I am needy.

  “Henry,” Scooter calls out.

  I look at him, startled.

  “What the hell happened to your Jeep?”

  My cheeks burn. Gross, I know, but I didn’t have a chance to wash it before I drove down here.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Looks like you blew chunks all over it.”

  “I guess it does.”

  “Must’ve been some party.” Scooter wanders over toward my table. This makes me wary for a number of reasons. One, I doubt his sincerity, and two, I can only imagine the sparks that might fly if Cate strolls up while he’s standing here.

  “It was okay,” I say.

  “Sounds more than okay. I heard you left with Jenny Lacouture. She’s cute, man. Real cute.”

  I don’t answer. Jenny’s mine. Jenny’s not gossip.

  “Guess some girls really do go for that loser virgin thing, huh?” Scooter leans into my personal space to run his gaze over the newspaper in front of me. He’s scanning the article about the robberies.

  “What’s this?” he says.

  “Nothing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure.”

  He smirks. “Sounds a lot like—”

  Cate walks in.

  I look at her.

  She looks at me. Then she looks at Scooter.

  She turns and runs.

  “Cate!” I yell, and Scooter laughs in my face. He doesn’t see her. I jump up, managing to bump the table and spill my coffee. The cup flips onto the floor and the lid pops off. I push him out of the way.

  I run after my sister.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Cate!” I call again when I get outside. To my left, I catch a flash of her jeans and the olive-green hoodie she’s wearing. She’s sprinting down the sidewalk at top speed. Her legs move like racing pinwheels, and I run as fast as I can. My heart’s pounding and my fingers are tingling, but my hands still work.

  For now.

  Cate doglegs it down a narrow alley that leads to the parking lot behind the store. Barely breaking stride, she reaches down and snags a loose brick out of a sagging planter box. As she passes behind my Jeep, she rears back and heaves the brick through the back window.

  The glass shatters. The alarm begins to blare.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I screech. I fumble for my keys. I want to turn the alarm off before the cops get called. Hell, in this neighborhood, they’ll probably get called anyway.

  Cate stops dead. She stands there, staring at the broken window, like she can’t believe what she did, either. In the hand that didn’t throw the brick, she’s got this pink bag, she’s holding on to some stupid shiny pink bag.

  I run right up to her. “Hey!”

  She spins to face me.

  I gasp.

  Her face. Even after all this time and all this heartache, Cate’s face is the same as it always was—beautiful and clear and sculpted in all the right ways. She’s black hair and high cheekbones. She’s green, green eyes and red, red lips.

  She’s just so miserable.

  “Cate,” I say, and I already know it’s going to happen.

  I just know it.

  “You set me up!” she screams.

  My hands go.

  The keys fall to the ground.

  I try to breathe. I try to keep breathing.

  “That’s my car!” I choke-squeak. “You threw a brick into my car!”

  “I know!”

  “How did you know it was mine? How could you know that? Have you been watching me?”

  Cate’s nostrils flare but she says nothing. Nothing from Cate means yes. It means guilt. And I’m gut-rot sick of her guilt.

  “Look what you did!” I holler, and I’m talking about my hands and my Jeep and everything. “I did not set you up!”

  Cate balls her fists and screams. It’s an awful sound. Full of pain and insanity.

  My knees shake. My sister is a force I can’t control. “Look, I want to know what’s going on. I read those emails you sent to Angie. You keep talking about me. Like I did something wrong!”

  She claws at her throat. She leaves red lines in her own flesh. “You’re trying to hurt me, Jamie. You always hurt me. That’s what’s wrong.”

  “How am I hurting you? I ran into Scooter by accident. All I want are those pictures. Please. I have a right to see them!”

  Cate’s face goes pale. For an instant, I think she’s going to turn and bolt again. Flee my life in her hit-and-run way. But she doesn’t. She takes a deliberate step toward me.

  Then another.

  “What did you say?” she asks.

  “N-nothing.”

  “You think you have a right to everything, don’t you? You always have.”

  A right to what? God. I take a step back.

  My head is swimming.

  My heart feels like it’s slowing down.

  “I don’t feel so good,” I say.

  “No way,” she growls. “We’re not doing this bullshi
t. You need to listen to me. For once.”

  I don’t know what bullshit she’s talking about. I don’t care, either. Colored dots burst before my eyes.

  “Cate, I can’t, I can’t breathe.”

  My sister grabs for my dead hands and yanks me toward her. “Stop it, you little coward. Do you hear me? Don’t you dare—”

  Everything goes black.

  THIRTY-SIX

  When I open my eyes, I’m bleeding. I taste blood. I taste hot copper.

  My senses return slowly. I hear voices. I feel pain. I realize I’m lying on the ground in the parking lot behind Peet’s. My left shoulder is half submerged in a greasy puddle, and a whole group of people I don’t know are crowded around me, their eyes wide with curiosity and concern.

  Cate is not one of them.

  “Don’t get up,” some guy in skinny jeans says.

  I groan. “What happened?”

  “We think you passed out,” a dark-haired woman tells me. “We found you here.”

  “Your lip’s bleeding,” a second woman says. She’s standing beside the first and she’s wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt that reads i’m the doula. “Your forehead is, too. Not bad or anything. But still.”

  I lift my arms. Move my fingers. My hands are working again. That’s good, at least.

  “I think I’m okay.”

  “Should I call an ambulance?” the guy asks. “You look real pale, kid.”

  “No,” I say. I’m always pale. I roll over and manage to get up to one knee. I grab for my Jeep keys and my head teeters wildly. Did I really pass out? That’s more than a little humiliating. Maybe I’m more hungover than I thought. I press my fingers to my hairline. It feels sticky, but I don’t think my brain is leaking out or anything.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Where the hell is Cate?

  I look back at the three strangers. “Did any of you see a girl here? She’s got black hair. About my height?”

  “We didn’t see anybody. Just you,” says Skinny Jeans. “You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”

  I shake my head. I’m Magic-8-Ball cloudy. Cate was here, right? It’s sort of hard for me to remember. “N-no, thanks.”

  The guy eyes the car keys in my hand while the two women gape at the shattered rear window of the Jeep. The dried puke on the driver’s side door.