Complicit Page 8

  I inhale quickly.

  There they are.

  Three messages all from wildcatnevin24@gmail.com with receipt dates from the past three weeks.

  All have the same subject line:

  the owl and the goddamn pussycat

  I look at the oldest email first.

  My chest burns.

  It’s about me.

  TWENTY-THREE

  That day more than three years ago when I sat in Cate’s bathroom, gripping the photo of myself as a child, was the first day I truly understood the depths of Cate’s illness. Her instability. Her bleak, lost future. But when you’re thirteen understanding isn’t the same thing as empathy or compassion or a call to action or any of those words that might actually be helpful. Back then, understanding was just a thing that made me scared. I’d lost my mom and now I was losing Cate. Who would I lose next?

  Then a noise came from outside—a car door slamming shut in the driveway like a gunshot—and I jumped to my feet. I couldn’t let anyone find me in here. I tore from the bathroom to the front-facing window of Cate’s bedroom and looked down to see her wrapped in Danny Ramirez’s arms. The art of contrast: He was dressed in dark jeans, hand-tooled cowboy boots, a wide-brimmed hat, while she wore fishnets and a black dress hiked up so high her garters showed. Cate leaned against Danny, hip bone to hip bone. She ran fingers down his cheek, his neck, his chest, a light territorial tracing, then said something to him. He laughed and pulled back. Tipped his hat to her.

  Got into his truck and drove off.

  I sprinted back to Cate’s bathroom and gathered up everything I could, the papers, the pills. I couldn’t hold on to the rum bottle, so I thrust that under her linen closet with my foot, then bolted for my own room, slamming the door shut behind me. I threw her things into my closet, then flipped on my keyboard and put my headphones over my ears. Heart jammering, I ran my fingers across the keys, forcing out some scales and chord progressions before settling into Brubeck’s frenetic “Take Five.” It was the fastest song I could think of. I focused on the rhythm, foot tapping wildly against the hardwood floor.

  Someone touched my shoulder.

  “Gah!” Nerves quintupled, I leaped about five feet into the air before whirling around. There stood Cate, cheeks flushed with some inner heat and both hands placed firmly on her hips. Long rips ran up and down her stockings, but I knew she wore them that way on purpose.

  I pulled the headphones off. We stared at each other. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d come into my room voluntarily.

  “How’s Danny?” I asked lamely.

  Her expression turned smug, like a cat standing over a bowl of milk that’d been poured for someone else. “He’s good. Very good, in fact.”

  “Isn’t he, uh, going out with Gwen?”

  She shrugged. “We’ll see who he asks to the Winter Formal next month.”

  “You know, I th-think Dane might like you.”

  She snorted. “I think Dane might get his dick cut off one of these days if he doesn’t watch where he’s trying to stick it.”

  “Oh!” I said, alarmed, although there was a tiny part of me, deep inside, that wouldn’t have minded all that much if she’d actually gone through with that threat.

  “So what are you up to?” Cate asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  More silence. Cate eyed me like the tigress she claimed to be, green eyes glittering and sharp. Like the turning blade of a knife.

  “How did Mom die?” I blurted out.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why’re you asking me that?”

  “Well, they never caught the guys who killed her, right? Maybe—”

  “Maybe what, Jamie?”

  “Do you think she could have, uh, could she have, you know, killed herself?”

  Then all of Cate’s edges melted. She ran over and hugged me for the first time in months, all softness and warmth and a sort of ripe, sweaty odor that reminded me of old socks and made me think maybe she wasn’t that clean.

  “God, no. She would never have done that. Never. She loved us. She didn’t want to die. Trust me.”

  I felt like crying again, but didn’t want to do that in front of Cate. “Did she … did she ever used to call me Jim?”

  “Do you remember her calling you Jim?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “I think I do. I think I remember that.”

  A faraway look came over Cate. Like sorrow and satisfaction all at once. She kissed my forehead hard enough for her lipstick to brand my skin.

  “Hey,” I said, leaning out of he gasp. “What was that for?”

  She smiled her wide Cheshire grin, the one I’d never understood and never would. “For being you.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I take a shower before I go out. The hot water and soap feels good on my bare skin, lather and needly pinpricks slicing off the layers of dust and sweat that I’ve collected.

  It’s been a long day.

  Too long.

  I try to forget about Cate and those creepy emails and whatever the hell’s wrong inside her head. The things she’d written to Angie were rambling and vaguely threatening and mostly incoherent. I didn’t understand any of it. I didn’t even understand the connection to “The Owl and the Pussycat” poem, which was something I’d looked up after finding the title of it written on the back of a photo our mother had taken. But it had all been nonsense.

  Like Cate’s emails:

  (you can’t pretend i don’t exist angie)

  (jamie’s the one i want he was mine before he was yours and he’ll be mine again)

  (the past is what matters angie you’ve been brainwashed if you think otherwise)

  (you can’t hide him from himself not anymore)

  (i’m coming for him)

  (i’ll show you)

  (i’ll show everyone)

  (bitch)

  Part of me is sad for my sister and part of me is angry. Angry that she’s been set free into the world without any help for her weaknesses, for her sick, sick mind. Angry that Angie hasn’t done more to reach out to her. Cate’s her daughter, after all, no matter how she’s disgraced herself and our family. A mother’s love should be stronger.

  But I’m also angry that Cate wants something to do with me.

  My stomach burns, nearly doubling me over.

  Why didn’t anyone tell me about Cate getting out sooner?

  Why didn’t someone warn me?

  The voice inside my head returns.

  You know why, it says.

  Because you deserve this.

  I feel sick. I stumble from the shower and grab for the jar of Rolaids I keep on the edge of my sink. My insides have a way of getting bad when I’m stressed, which is another one of my body’s depressing reminders of how constitutionally frail I am. It’s like my stomach gets filled with acid or I swallow too much spit. I chew a chalky handful of the antacids, then drink a glass of water. Then another.

  When I can breathe again without pain, I stand up straight. I close the cabinet door and wipe away the condensation that’s gathered there. I’ve managed to grow a little stubble across my upper lip and along my neck so I’ll have to shave if I want to look halfway decent when I show up at the party tonight. I pick up my razor and look at myself in the mirror.

  What the hell?

  I peer closer. I run a hand across my own face. Most of me looks normal, like what I am or what I’ve become: your average suburban white kid, one with brown hair and blue eyes, and who is remarkably unremarkable. I’ve had people tell me my lips are my best features, which is meant to be flattering but always makes me cringe. Some guys can pull that off, having more feminine features, but suffice to say I am not one of them. But that’s not what I’m looking at right now. No, it’s my eyebrows.

  Patches of hair are missing from my eyebrows.

  A sliver of fear scrabbles up my spine.

  I’ve been pulling at them again. That’s pretty obvious.

  Onl
y I can’t remember doing it.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I drive myself to the party. Rock City’s not close, but it is secluded, which is what matters. A steep cluster of stone caves line the western wall of Mount Diablo, north of Danville, and the whole area is hidden from the main road. During the summer, the state allows overnight camping, but only teenagers with nowhere else to go come up here during the other three seasons. For good reason. Ten years back some kid got drunk and fell while crawling out of one of the caves in the rain, pitching over the cliff and smashing onto the rocks below. Rumor has it his ghost still hangs around, waiting to shove other kids to their plunging death. But if you ask me, the most shocking thing about the tragedy is that it hasn’t happened again. Trust me, there’s usually a whole lot of stupid going on up here.

  Dread and anticipation war inside my chest.

  On the side of good, there’s Jenny.

  On the other, there’s my sister.

  My fears about someone starting up with me about Cate are not unfounded. I’ve had to deal with it for years now. It’s not about having a criminal for a sister; it’s about what happens when your sister makes a lot of people very unhappy.

  Sarah wasn’t the only one who spread rumors about Cate. Even before the fire, Hector Ramirez had something against her. He let me know about it not long after Sarah blabbed to me about the things Cate was up to in the woods near the Ramirez ranch.

  The day Hector approached me, I was sitting in a library carrel reading Richard Wright’s Black Boy during lunch. I’d felt unwell of late, since finding that photograph and the information about my mom’s death. But who could I talk to about it? Talking about it meant admitting I’d stolen the items from Cate and the guilt from that made me feel so bad I couldn’t stand it. So instead I sat in the library, straining to absorb Wright’s hunger for food, for life, for everything.

  “Tell your tramp sister to leave my brother alone,” Hector muttered under his breath as he passed by.

  I dropped the book and whipped around in my wooden chair. “What did you just say?”

  He paused. “Your sister. She’s all up on Danny these days. It needs to stop.”

  “That’s between her and Danny.”

  “No, it’s between me and you now. Danny’s going places. He’s valedictorian. He doesn’t need to be dragged down by girls like that.”

  “What do you mean, ‘girls like that?’”

  Hector’s eyes lit up. “Manipulative. Lying. A complete and utter bitch. Do I need to go on? I’ve heard about her, you know. What she lets guys do to her and what she’ll do for them. She comes from trash. She’s trash. Put her on a leash, man.”

  Rage crackled in my mind and flames danced in my line of vision. I shoved my chair back and got to my feet. “Don’t you ever talk about my sister that way.”

  Something in my expression made Hector take a step back. “Why? What’re you going to do about it?”

  “How ’bout this.” I shoved him in the chest with both hands. Hard.

  “Yo, Jamie, don’t do that! No, really. Don’t.” Scooter leaped from nowhere to come between us. He dragged me back. “C’mon, he’s not worth it.”

  “He’s talking about Cate. He called her a tramp!”

  “That’s his problem.”

  “He called my mom trash, too. My mom!” My voice sort of cracked, but Scooter kept pulling me away, toward the nearest exit. He talked to me the whole time, his voice low and rational and soothing.

  “Don’t worry about it, Jamie. Cate can take care of herself. Hell, she’ll probably take care of him, too. You know her. That girl’s got balls of steel, man. She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Just calm down. Jeez, you’re like, shaking.”

  We stepped outside. I wrenched free from Scooter and leaned against the metal railing of the wheelchair ramp. The sky was hazy, like my mind, and it was hard for me to breathe. I didn’t understand what had happened. I wasn’t a fighter. Far from it. I had the heart of a pacifist. The mind of a coward.

  My hands tingled from where I’d put them on Hector’s chest, and I couldn’t get his biting words out of my mind. I closed my eyes. I hated feeling this upset and I hated that Cate had put me in a position where I felt I had to defend her honor. I especially hated that her honor was something she didn’t even bother to value in the first place.

  That was what really upset me.

  More than anything.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I leave Dr. No parked in a tight spot, wedged off-road, between trees, and head over to the party. Too Short’s blasting from a set of speakers mounted in the bed of an F-150, and there’s a long line of white kids snaking around a pony keg. This is pretty much the definition of irony, if I’ve ever seen it, but seeing as I’d take Monk over Macklemore any day, who the hell am I to talk? I’m as full of shit as the next guy. I just keep my head down and avoid the whole scene. Everywhere, all around me, the night air smells sharp, raw, like eucalyptus and mud.

  I end up hiking around for a while, trudging past picnic tables and campfires, but I find Jenny at last. She’s sitting on a stone ledge with a group of her girlfriends from school. I recognize them, her friends. They’re quiet girls, not the pretty or popular ones, but the ones you can tell read a lot and think deeply about things. Too deeply, maybe. The girl equivalent of me, I guess is what I’m trying to say.

  Jenny looks up as I get closer. She grins when she sees me, and the moment this happens, everything else slips away. I’m drawn in like a moth to the world’s most benevolent flame.

  “Hey,” I say, coming to a stop so that I’m standing directly in front of her. I let the toe of my shoe touch hers.

  “Hey,” Jenny says right back, tucking a piece of hair behind one ear. The girls she’s with giggle at the sight of me and hustle off into darkness as if on cue. Nearby, a bunch of senior guys are already crawling past a large sign that reads DANGER: DO NOT CLIMB. THERE IS GREAT RISK OF DEATH OR BODILY HARM and lowering themselves into the caves.

  I sit beside Jenny on the ledge, inching as close as I can.

  “You look nice,” I say, which is lame, but at least it’s something. That’s an observation I’ve made over the years: When you’re quiet, saying something is almost always better than saying nothing. There’s less chance of being misunderstood that way.

  “Thanks, Jamie. You look nice, too.”

  “I do?”

  She nods, but then points to my eyebrows. “What happened here?”

  “Oh. Nothing. Just a bad habit.”

  “You pull them?”

  “Yeah. I’ve even been known to get the lashes when I’m really stressed.”

  “So you’re anxious and stressed?”

  “Sort of,” I say, and well, crap. Now I’m wishing I’d kept my dumb mouth shut. I grit my teeth and brace myself for the inevitable next question.

  Why?

  But it doesn’t come. Instead Jenny sways backward, almost tipping off the wall before catching herself and laughing. I pull her upright. She laughs even harder. That’s when I realize she’s drunk. She slides a thin clear bottle from her jacket pocket and shoves it at me. I read the label. Peppermint schnapps.

  “Where’d you get it?” I ask.

  “Greta’s brother. He’s home from Santa Cruz this weekend. She stole it from his room. Have some. It tastes like Christmas.”

  I take the bottle but don’t drink any. “I have to drive.”

  “Oh, just have a little. Otherwise I’ll feel stupid. Like you’ll think I’m just some dumb drunk girl.”

  “No I won’t,” I say quickly, but the worst thing is that that is a little bit how I feel. So I listen to Jenny and swallow a few sips of the schnapps. It’s sweet and spicy and burns all at once, but soon I’m warmer, looser, and the awkwardness between us fades. Jenny curls against my chest and it feels natural to put my arm around her. To hold her. She’s a small girl and her bones have this avian lightness
to them, like grace. Like truth.

  Like everything good.

  “Jenny bird,” I say, without meaning to, and Jenny crawls closer in response. All the way into my lap.

  I hold my breath at the weight of her, at how damn good it feels to have her on top of me. Both my arms are wrapped around her now. I don’t want this moment to end. I won’t let it.

  She turns her head and looks up at me. Her lips part.

  I lean close to hear her words.

  Jenny says, “Tell me why your sister set that fire.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I exhale.

  “My sister has issues,” I say.

  “It sounds like it.”

  “Who told you about her?”

  “No one told me anything. But when that guy in the hall brought her up the other day, I went online and read about what happened. It’s awful. Did she really burn that barn down and kill all those horses?”

  “Yeah. She did.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. The warm buzz in my head is fading. I need water. I feel parched. Wrung out. “Supposedly she was pissed at her boyfriend for hanging out with some other girl. An ex. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but he’s always stood by Cate, so maybe it is. And she’s never said anything more about it. I don’t think she ever will.”

  “Well, what happened to that girl? The one who was in there?”

  I shake my head. “Her family moved to Texas. She was being treated at a burn center there, last I heard. It was pretty bad. Not just the burns, but a head injury. The trauma.”

  “But your sister, she was messed up before that, right? I read she used to manipulate other girls. Get them to do, you know, things. And that she trashed some guy’s sports car.”

  “Mmm,” I say. “There was never any proof about the car. And those girls did what they did with Cate willingly. It’s not like she put a gun to their heads or something.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “But still. People called her a witch.”

  “It’s just gossip, Jenny. I’m not saying she’s a saint, far from it. But don’t believe everything you hear about Cate.”