Complicit Read online

  Then she called 911.

  The time right after our mother’s death is a blur for me. Malcolm and Angie and Cate have helped me piece it together after the fact, but all I can recall is darkness and sorrow and a deep, deep well of pain.

  I wanted her back.

  I cried.

  And I wanted her back.

  We were placed in emergency foster care. Then we were placed in a group home. We had case managers and new schools and new teachers and people who tried to track down relatives willing to take us. There were none. At the home I pined and ate nothing. I refused to go to school and got sick when I had to. My only attachments were to my sister and a filthy silk blanket square I’d taken to calling Pinky. Cate did what she could, but it wasn’t enough. I grew bony and pale and picked up lice and a lisp and a bad habit of pulling out my eyebrows that made me look odd and somewhat slow. When the Henrys agreed to take both of us, no one was more surprised than our social worker.

  Miss Louise, of the permed hair, cat’s-eye glasses, and heavy makeup, smoked menthol cigarettes on the car ride over. “I know I told you how hard it is to keep families together. Especially at your age. But Malcolm and Angie specifically requested a brother and sister who were both in grade school. Guess they must want to skip over the diaper-and-tantrum stage, huh?”

  Cate giggled and held my hand. I desperately clutched Pinky in the other.

  It turned out the Henrys didn’t want to skip over anything. They’d already been through the diaper-and-tantrum stage with their own two children: Madison and Graham, who’d both been killed instantly in a tragic traffic accident involving malfunctioning railway signals. Their ages at death: nine and six.

  Cate and I were meant to fit right in.

  The Henrys gave us everything. They had the money for it. Danville was one of the richest towns on the outskirts of the San Francisco Bay area, nestled far to the east in a stretch of rolling California hills and mossy live oaks. We lived in a mansion, behind iron gates. We had our own rooms and our own toys, and we swam in a black-bottomed pool with a waterfall that overlooked ranch land and steep winding trails. Cate got a pony. I got piano lessons. We went to an esteemed private academy meant to nurture our individual talents.

  Twin losses brought us together. Made us a family.

  Almost.

  FIVE

  I know that guys my age usually look to athletes like LeBron or Brady or Lincecum for inspiration, but the person I admire most has got to be jazz pianist Thelonious Monk. Maybe that makes me weird or pretentious or whatever, but his music is the one thing in life that can make me feel relevant and make me feel free. Monk wasn’t afraid to be different, you know? He cut right through what other people called dissonance and he played outside the chords. That kind of vision takes guts.

  It’s also the kind of vision I’m wishing I had during the morning break at school. That’s when I catch sight of Jenny Lacouture standing by her locker in the hallway. Her soft blond hair’s pulled off her neck and her slim legs are bare beneath her plaid skirt. We’ve been spending a lot of time together lately, Jenny and I, so I’d like to think she’s standing there on purpose, just hoping I’ll notice her.

  How could I not?

  I walk over to her with butterflies flapping inside of me, good ones, the kind that make me feel like I could float. Jenny’s a junior like I am, and she plays piano, too, which is sort of perfect. Techniquewise, she might even be better than me, but that’s a lot harder to admit than it probably should be.

  “I’m not holding your hand today,” I tell her.

  Jenny’s brown eyes go wide and I can almost hear the wheels turning inside her head as she tries to figure out if I mean what I say. I do, of course, just not in the way she thinks.

  “It’s my nerve thing,” I confess. “I’ve told you about that, haven’t I?”

  She looks down to see the gloves, the way my arms are sort of cradled against my stomach.

  “Oh,” she says. “What happened?”

  “They went numb this morning. At breakfast.”

  “But you’ll be okay?”

  “I should be.”

  “What’s it called again?”

  “The neurologist thinks it’s a form of cataplexy, but that’s usually only seen with narcolepsy, and I don’t fall asleep in weird places or anything. So it’s idiopathic.”

  “What does that word mean?” she asks. “Idiopathic?”

  “It means they don’t know why it happens.” I roll my shoulders and force a bland expression on my face. I don’t tell Jenny about the other theory I have, the more embarrassing one: that it’s all in my mind, that my hands going numb is some sort of anxiety symptom, set off by high levels of stress and my basic inability to deal.

  Luckily Jenny doesn’t ask more questions. Instead she presses her lips together and smiles that smile I like so much, the one that’s crooked and honest all at once.

  “I’ve seen you fall asleep in class before,” she says. “You’re kind of cute when you sleep, Jamie Henry. I think I’d like it if you had that narcolepsy thing.”

  I try smiling back but it’s weird. Sometimes the things Jenny says are so nice they can make me feel sad. Like right now. It’s my own personal paradox, I guess—either my brain doesn’t know how to be happy or my heart doesn’t know how to let me.

  “I’d like it too if it meant being able to see your face when I woke up,” I say softly.

  Hector Ramirez makes a barfing sound as he walks past us. “Jesus. What the fuck is this shit? A Disney movie? Just hump already and get it over with.”

  “Shut up,” I snap. Goddamn Hector. Jenny shouldn’t have to hear crap like that. Ever. Unfortunately, I can’t flip him off.

  Hector pauses. “So is it true?” he asks me.

  “Is what true?”

  “That Cate’s out.”

  I tense. “Where’d you hear that?”

  He lifts a dark eyebrow. “So it is true? Damn. That’s one rumor I didn’t want to believe, Henry. You know why. Crazy Cate.”

  “Where’d you hear about Cate?” I repeat, although I think I might know.

  Hector throws his hands in the air, feigning ignorance, and begins walking backward. “Dunno, man. Nowhere. Somewhere. Anywhere. But your sister’s a bad girl. Bad, bad, bad. The worst, even. So you tell her she can come see me and we can talk face to face if she’s got a problem with my family this time. Tell her she doesn’t have to—”

  “Stop,” I say weakly. “I’m not telling her anything, okay? I haven’t even talked to her. You probably know more than I do.”

  “You have a sister?” Jenny asks, and a loose strand of hair dances across her collarbone in a way that entrances me. Like it’s got a mind of its own.

  “Yes,” I say, pulling my gaze away. “Hector, you need to tell me what you heard.”

  Jenny touches my shoulder. “Where’s your sister coming back from?”

  “Jail,” I say, then: “I’m serious, Hector!”

  “I’m serious, too,” he yells. Then he’s gone. Swallowed up by the crowd.

  I turn back to Jenny. There’re people all around us, jostling, shouting, shoving, but she’s looking at me with concern. Me.

  I take a deep breath.

  I push down the sad feeling in my heart.

  “Jenny,” I say. “Would you go out with me Friday night?”

  “Yes.” She answers without hesitation, and right then my hands come back to life. Like magic.

  I show her.

  “Look at that.” I wiggle my fingers.

  “So you’re all right?”

  “More than all right. You did that.”

  The look on her face is cautious. “I did?”

  “Oh, sure,” I say earnestly. “You’re like my sun in winter.”

  SIX

  There are no coincidences in life. That’s part of believing in fate, I guess. I also think fate is different than faith, although sometimes it’s hard for me to explain why, which is proba
bly the reason I haven’t been able to get out of going to church on Sundays. Either way, it still makes sense to me that the first time I went numb was when I heard about what Cate did.

  It happened more than two years ago now, in early October. I was a freshman sitting in the well-landscaped quad of Sayrebrook Academy, killing time before class. Actually, I was trying to cram for a science exam, but that wasn’t such an easy task to complete while the varsity cheerleaders practiced their pom-pomming not twenty feet from where I sat. In addition to their short-short skirts, they brought a savagery to their shaking that was difficult to ignore. Finally I squeezed my eyes shut, as hard as I could, and went over the biology terms I’d been studying:

  Neuron

  Dendrite

  Axon

  Synapse

  Neurotransmitter

  Action potential

  “Open your eyes,” a voice whispered right in my ear, and I ducked to one side, annoyed. But I didn’t obey. I didn’t have to; I recognized both my best friend Scooter’s voice and his lame movie quote. I hated Vanilla Sky and he knew it.

  “Go away,” I said, swatting at him like I would a bug.

  “Why?”

  “I’m studying.”

  “You’re always studying, Henry. Where’s it ever gotten you?”

  “I’m not worried about where it’s gotten me. I’m worried about where I’m going. And you should too unless you don’t mind living in your stepmom’s basement for the next twenty years.”

  “Ouch,” Scooter said. Then: “Oh, shit, look at that.”

  “Is it that goth chick again? I told you I don’t think she’s—”

  “No, dude. It’s cops.”

  I opened my eyes.

  On the far side of the quad by the admin building, no less than four city police cars sat parked, lights flashing but not making any noise. The cops themselves stood talking with a group of adults. I could see the principal, Mrs. Watkins, and at least two of the school guidance counselors.

  “What’s going on?” Scooter breathed.

  Two girls ran past us then, straight up to the cheerleaders, who’d paused in their pom-pomming to watch the scene.

  “It’s Sarah Ciorelli!” one of the girls cried out.

  Scooter gasped.

  My head turned.

  Sarah?

  “She’s in the hospital! They don’t know if she’ll make it!”

  Then it seemed like everyone was screaming. The news traveled fast, racing across campus as if tragedy had its own action potential: Fourteen-year-old freshman Sarah Ciorelli had been badly hurt in a midnight fire that destroyed one of the main barns on the prestigious Ramirez ranch property. It’s where she, and a lot of Danville residents, my own family members included, boarded their fancy show horses.

  And Sarah was Scooter’s girlfriend.

  My books tumbled to the ground. Lined paper notes fluttered from my grasp.

  “Scooter!”

  “What?” He had his phone out, frantically texting. His cheeks had gone red, his eyes wild.

  “I can’t feel my hands,” I said. By now the wind was scattering my papers across the courtyard. They danced and twirled in the sky like sad flakes of snow too stupid to know they didn’t belong.

  “I don’t care about your hands, man! This is Sarah we’re talking about. It must be some kind of mistake. It has to be. I don’t get why she’d—”

  “I’m fucking serious!”

  Scooter blinked, startled. I rarely swore. He finally looked at me, gasping and hunched over with arms that hung limp and lifeless like they were made of wood. “Huh?”

  “I can’t feel anything. It’s my hands. They’re numb.”

  SEVEN

  I’m in gym when Cate calls. Even though I’ve been excused for the day, Coach Marks, the PE teacher, insists on making me change clothes. It’s a dick move on his part, but whatever. A lot of people don’t like me on account of what my sister did and I can’t do anything to fix that. So this is the reason I’m sitting in the corner, alone, squeezed into a pair of green athletic shorts and a white Sayrebrook Academy shirt that’s at least two sizes too small, while everyone else does Pilates on the yoga room floor. Pilates. It probably comes as no surprise that sports aren’t really my thing, so gym clothes or not, I just thank God I’m not having to flop around on a faded foam exercise mat, showing off my lack of core strength or something.

  I sneak a glance at my phone once the class is done with warm-ups. I’m hoping to see a message from Jenny, although I know it’s unlikely. She’s got this thing about texting at school that I’m trying not to take personally. Some promise she’s made to her mom. I tell her I understand, but the truth is, I don’t. Not really.

  That’s when I see it. Not a text: a voice mail. From an unlisted number. My ringer’s off, which is how I missed the call, but deep down, I sort of expected this. That’s part of fate or karma or kismet, isn’t it? Getting what you deserve.

  Well, I definitely deserve this.

  Hey, Jamie babe. I know you know who this is. I know you know other things, too. So maybe it won’t come as a surprise when I tell you I’ll be coming back to Danville soon and that the person I want to see most is you. Then again, I’ve been wrong before, haven’t I? So why don’t you go ahead and consider this fair warning …

  “Hey! Hey!”

  Someone’s yelling at me and I can’t answer them. I can’t answer because I’m standing in the locker room with my head stuck beneath the sink faucet and my heart’s pounding so fast it feels like a runaway truck. It feels like my brakes have gone out. It feels like—

  Like I can’t breathe.

  “Jamie, hey! You all right, man?”

  Water is pouring down the back of my neck, my shirt.

  Someone shakes me.

  “Hey!”

  Whoever it is shakes harder, then grabs onto my collar. I’m yanked upright. My hair’s matted flat. Water streams into my eyes.

  “I’m fine!” I gasp. “Seriously.”

  I blink until I can see. Nick Hsu, a senior, is holding me at arm’s length. His face reflects irritation. Confusion, too, along with a good helping of contempt. I’ve seen it all before, though. Nick’s not the first person to look at me that way.

  I take a deep breath. Feel my heartbeat start to slow. I’ve had plenty of panic attacks before, but this was different. This one was bad. My hands are tingling like crazy, but they haven’t gone numb, which is a relief. I couldn’t deal with the paralysis again so soon.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Nick releases me and takes a step backward. “You ran out of that gym like your ass was on fire. Coach made me come see what’s up.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I’m okay now.”

  “Well, here you go.” He holds something out.

  It’s my phone. I take it from him and that’s when it comes back to me. Sort of. I still don’t remember getting from the gym to the locker room, but I do remember what it was that set off my anxiety. It wasn’t Cate’s voice. It was her words.

  Her threat.

  “Thanks,” I say, but I feel sick all over again.

  Cate’s coming back to Danville.

  For me.

  EIGHT

  After school I have to take the bus to see my therapist, Dr. Waverly. She might be a shrink, actually, not a therapist. I’m not sure. She’s the kind of doctor that can give you medication, but she also likes to talk about my feelings.

  So maybe she’s both.

  I get off at my stop in Danville Village at ten to three, which gives me enough time to walk the rest of the way. I skirt sidewalk puddles and rich ladies pushing strollers. This is a real upscale part of town, and instead of regular square buildings, all the businesses here live and breathe inside Victorian row houses. One of them is Dr. Waverly’s and I could probably find it in my sleep, that’s how well I know the place. Maybe that’s not such a great thing to admit, but I’m not certifiable or anything like that. It’s just, after what happened with ou
r mom, I had issues with worrying. I like to think that’s normal.

  The ironic thing is, when we first moved in with the Henrys, Cate was the well-adjusted one. Cate was everything then. At eight years old, she was precocious. Outgoing. Spunky. She took to Angie in an instant, slipping into poor dead Madison’s rich-girl role like an understudy. I was pretty much her polar opposite, and my problems became glaringly obvious on the day Grammy and Grandpa Karlsson, Angie’s parents, came to visit all the way from Sweden for our first summer with the family.

  At that point, we’d only been with the Henrys for seven weeks.

  At that point, our mother had only been dead for seven months.

  At the airport, Cate bounced and ran straight for our new grandfather. She wrapped her arms around him. Legs, too.

  “Well, well,” he said, squeezing her hard. Cate wouldn’t let go. “She’s a friendly one, isn’t she? Run right into the arms of Charles Manson, this one would.”

  Grammy Karlsson, who was shaky and mean-looking, peered down at me over the rims of her bifocals and said, “What’s wrong with his face?”

  I cowered. A lot was wrong with my face. My eyebrows were still gone, and in addition to being gaunt and sickly and practically hairless, I cried way too much, at the drop of a hat, an act that left my eyes pink and puffy like a lab rat’s. Nothing made me happy. Not the niceness of Angie and Malcolm. Not the vibrant spirit of my sister. Instead, my well of sorrow grew deeper and wider with each passing day. I got picked on in school for my lisp. I wouldn’t talk or do my work. I worried about monsters. I worried about planes hitting our house. I worried about people breaking in and killing everyone. I worried I would go crazy and kill everyone. I had nightmares about blood and more blood and death and body parts and loss and terror and I was scared.

  All the time.

  Of everything.

  “He’s a good boy. He’s just … still adjusting,” Angie told her mother. “Go on, Jamie. Hold Grammy’s hand.” She nudged me forward. I stumbled and my stomach cramped like I might get sick, which I knew would be bad, but I did what I was told.