(Don't You) Forget About Me (13 page)

It reminds me that I don't really know him, and it makes me nervous. “Forget something?” I ask to fill the silence. The moment the words are out of my mouth, I wince. It's like Helen Keller asking someone if they've gone blind.

But Foote doesn't seem to notice. “No,” he says shortly, and then a moment later, “Yes.” He kicks at a rock and sends it flying down the street. “I used to smoke. Bad habit, I know, but I figured I'd give it till twenty and then quit. Didn't count on moving here though.”

I nod. “Yeah, they stopped bringing cigarettes into town after—”

“I know,” Foote interrupts. “I mean, I mostly know, but not the exact story. I don't have the name of who did it or the year or how many were harmed, but I've lived here long enough to get the gist of it. It was a fourth year—”

“A third year actually.”

“Okay, well, then that probably means there were no casualties.”

“Right,” I agree. “Just second-degree burns.”

“He blew the cigarettes up in their faces.”

“She,” I quietly correct.

“She,” Foote amends. “She blew the cigarettes up in their faces during a third year, resulting in second-degree burns for her victims. I'm guessing that kind of damage would have earned her . . .”

“Three years in the reformatory,” I answer. “One year for a first year, two for a second year—you get the idea. Unless, of course, there are casualties. Then it doubles. Most fourth years end up doing eight years.”

“Oh,” Foote says.

He doesn't say anything more, just buries his hands in his pockets and points his eyes up toward the gray sky that seems to be biding its time, waiting for the perfect moment to come raining down on us once more.

The silence stretches out longer; between it and the sticky humidity pressing against my skin, I can barely find enough air to kick-start our conversation again. But I want it to start. I want to ask him about what happened last night. And maybe I also want to know if Foote has officially switched from enemy to ally.

Perhaps the silence bothers Foote as well, because he begins to whistle. It isn't the cheerful whistle of Snow White's dwarfs or a bird building its nest while preparing for spring. No, this whistle has the slow, mournful quality of a funeral dirge. It suits me; this wet, dark day; and this give-and-take town perfectly.

As I listen, my eyes drift half closed. My feet keep moving me forward but I am not thinking about them any more than I am about Piper's rain slicker hanging heavy over my arm, the strand of reddish hair wrapped so tightly round my ring finger that the tip is turning blue, or Jonathan's letter in my pocket. It's so habitual I hardly even notice the way I am always trying to keep secrets away. But now, with my feet splashing through puddles and Foote's whistle pecking away at little bits of my soul, I let that control slip just a bit. Like a boat loosed from its mooring, I slowly drift out toward sea. . . .

But the sea is more than just waves and sand; there are so many shipwrecks buried there, and I can see them all through my glass-bottomed boat.

From far away, I feel my shoulder brush against Foote's and then—

A dark, flapping cloud rushes toward me, picks me up, and carries me away. I think that I will become a part of the cloud—that it has swallowed me whole—but it spits me out, dropping me so that I fall through tree branches that scratch and grab at me, until finally I land with a splash. Water rushes over me, filling my mouth, my lungs. I drown a million times while my blood leaks into the water, turning it red. I close my eyes, wanting escape, when strong hands find me, cradle me, lift me—

The whistle ends. The vision ends. I am dragged back to dry land by two hands wrapped around my throat.

I stare into Foote's eyes, only inches away from mine and furiously angry. His hands loosen slightly, allowing air in, but he keeps them on my throat, ready to cut off my oxygen supply again.

“What did you just do?” he demands, his voice an angry, low growl. I stare at him. There is no sign of the Foote who took a knife for Elton and barely seemed to notice. The laid-back Foote I'd known before is also nowhere to be seen. And the gentle Foote who coaxed me into letting him walk me home seems like a figment of my imagination. “What did you see?”

“See?” I ask, trying to buy time while I sort out what just happened. I'd let down my guard for just a few moments, but that was more than enough time for Foote's secrets to whisper in my ear. And somehow he knew what was happening. Foote had felt it; he knew I had taken something and he didn't like it. Maybe he even wanted it back, maybe that was why he kept his hands on my neck.

“Talk,” Foote demands.

I try to gulp, but it gets hung up on his fingertips. “I didn't mean to. I wasn't thinking and then . . .”

“And then what? What did you see?”

“This big, dark cloud. It picked you up and you were kind of flying in it. Then you fell into water. You were bleeding and drowning. Then someone grabbed you.” I give him a CliffsNotes-style summary. The main facts are there, but all the feelings—from shock to terror to despair—have been stripped away.

“Is that it?”

I nod and my chin brushes against his fingers. “That's it.”

He takes a step away and I am free. With a deep breath, I stumble backward, needing more distance. My hands go to my neck, massage the skin.

“I'm sorry,” Foote says, his voice shaking as if he is the one who was just assaulted.

This is what comes from trusting someone and relaxing for a few minutes. I want to lie down in the street and cry. With any luck, Elton's Prius will come by, run me over, and finish me off. I don't have that kind of luck though. I would end up waiting hours for his car to pass. The thought almost makes me laugh. I don't, though, because it would end up being just as hysterical as the crying. Instead, as the rain begins sprinkling down once more, I shove my arms into Piper's rain slicker and flip the hood over my head. I try to feel the way that Piper felt in it. The way Piper felt in everything. Strong and certain. Able to bend anyone to her will.

I glare up at Foote from beneath the hood. “What happened last night?”

“What do you remember?” Foote says, and it feels like the conversation I had with Elton earlier today. Except this one isn't going to end with me running away.

“No. What do
you
remember?”

Foote nods, understanding. Giving in. “Elton and I were looking for you. He called your cell, but you didn't answer. Then someone said they saw you heading into the library. We found you in the study room with that Ozzy guy. You were totally out of it. Elton told me to pick you up, take you into the bathroom, and that he would call Angie over to help make you throw up. In the meantime he was going to deal with Ozzy. I got you to the locker room, laid you down, and was waiting maybe fifteen, twenty minutes when your breathing got really shallow. I couldn't wait for Angie any longer, so I carried you into the bathroom and stuck my finger down your throat until you gagged. Then you puked. It was all this purple-colored crap, and I thought you would be okay, but then you stopped breathing altogether. Angie showed up around then and went running for the defibrillator. Between the two of us, we got you breathing again. Then you seemed okay. Out of it, but okay. You were trying to talk, and you opened your eyes and recognized Angie. Since you still couldn't walk, I carried you out to Elton. He was in the parking lot with Ozzy, who was refusing to leave until he saw you. Then after he did see you, he still insisted on staying, 'cause he said we were all out to get you.”

“I don't remember Angie being there,” I say, not that it really matters or concerns me overly much. I just feel like I need to say something and right now I can't deal with my near-death experience or Ozzy's odd show of concern.

“She left after . . . well, I'll get there. I carried you, and everyone else walked up to the press box. It was an ambush, but Jonathan must've had an idea that Elton was coming for him, because he saw us and ran. Elton and I took off after him, while you, Angie, and Ozzy stayed up in the press box. We finally cornered Jonathan in the pool room, and Elton had me hold him there while he went to get you.”

“And Ozzy?” I ask. I don't really want to know, but I have to ask.

“He jumped sometime when you were out there with him and Angie. I guess she freaked out. So I took Angie home while you and Elton talked to Jonathan. Although, I'm guessing it wasn't talking and more like Elton asking you to, I don't know . . . read Jonathan, I guess? Anyway, from what Angie told me, Ozzy's jump seemed like it happened out of the blue. She said you and him were talking softly, when suddenly Ozzy climbed to the top of the press box and without hesitation did a swan dive off. She said he must have seen the ground coming right at the end, because he tried to scream.”

I hold a hand out. “That's enough.”

“I dropped Angie at home and then headed back to the pool,” Foote continues as if he didn't hear me.

“I said that's enough.”

“You wanted to know what I remembered.” He takes a step toward me, and somehow I manage to hold my feet still and keep myself from taking an answering one back.

“I can figure out the rest. I remember the . . .” The words catch in my throat, sticky like taffy. “The knife. The pool. The bubbles. I remember.”

Foote nods. “You passed out once more after Jonathan . . .”

“Drowned,” I say, although I wonder if boiled would be more accurate.

“Yeah.” Foote nods again. “Anyway, Elton told me to wake you up, and then to keep you busy so that he could talk with you again. I thought you'd had enough for one night, so I took you to the showers, and once you started coming to, I told you to take off. I went to run interference with Elton, try to buy you some time.”

Hazily, I can remember it now. Foote's hands tight on my upper arms, propelling me toward the shower.

“Cold,” I said. He released me then to spin the knobs; the water became warm and pleasant. I turned my face into the spray, letting it wash over me. Distantly I heard someone telling me to hurry, but I closed my eyes, letting the shower wash that away too.

Now I stare straight at Foote, wondering if I owe him a thank-you. He helped me, that's obvious. But the hands-on-the-neck routine also proves that he doesn't trust me. Which seems like a good enough reason for me not to trust him either.

“I'm going home,” I tell Foote. “Don't follow me.”

He looks like he is going to argue, but then changes his mind. He tugs his hat down, and a stream of water drizzles from the front brim. “Okay.”

I take a few steps and then several more, and the whole time I can feel him watching. He doesn't follow, though. A block away, I can't stop myself from turning. He is standing in the exact same place, the exact same position. At this distance, it's impossible to see his expression, but I imagine it's troubled. I can also now imagine him with a cigarette, like a detective in an old movie, trying to decide if he should help or run from the messed-up dame.

Run.

That's what I should say. Return the favor. But I don't.

“Foote,” I call out. “Like a rabbit's foot, right?”

His chin lifts and then falls again in a quick nod. “Right.”

I can remember now, him holding me, cradled in his lap, as I slowly learned how to breathe again. He talked to me quietly, and I couldn't understand the words then, just the tone and the calm. It soothed me. But it's coming back to me now, in bits and pieces. “My uncle found me, and called me Foote, like a rabbit's foot, 'cause he thought I was lucky. And for years I believed that was true. When I got older, though, I found a quote from some guy that summed up the lucky thing pretty perfectly for me. It went like this: ‘Depend on the rabbit's foot if you will, but remember it didn't work for the rabbit.'”

I don't totally understand what he was trying to tell me, but the memory is enough for me to make a decision.

“I'm going to the reformatory tomorrow. I need to see it. I need to . . .” I almost say that I need to figure out a way to break in, to find out whether Piper is in there or not, but it is too ridiculous. “I haven't been there in years. It's a horrible place, and you should avoid it whenever possible.” I take a deep breath, and then add in a rush, “Wanna come with?”

Foote doesn't hesitate. “I'll meet you here at ten sharp.” He points to the blacktop at his feet. I wonder if he intends to continue standing there until tomorrow morning. It occurs to me then that maybe he is the messed-up one, and that I should be the one running away. Of course, I don't.

“Tomorrow. Ten,” I confirm, and then I pivot and slowly walk away, already certain that we'll both be here again even if we shouldn't be.

WE GO TOGETHER

Seven Years Ago

I WATCHED OUT THE FRONT WINDOW AS YOUR BIKE
glided down the driveway and into the street, plastic buckets dangling from each of your handlebars. You did not look back.

Almost immediately, regret choked my throat. You had left me behind. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was—I was constantly forgetting that just because I couldn't be without you, you didn't necessarily feel the same way about me.

I raced out the front door, not bothering to grab my coat even though there was a wicked bite in the air. Chance came running out behind me, as attached to me as I was to you.

I'd been an idiot to think I could talk you out of this. When I told you it was crazy, I hadn't meant it as a compliment. But you took it that way.

It was not a fourth year, but I was afraid regardless that this would be the year you broke. You talked about the reformatory more than ever lately. Sometimes at night I'd find you staring out your window at it. You told me you could hear it calling your name.

Eventually you'd let me pull you away from the window. Then I would remind you that a Gardner had never done time at the reformatory. Not Daddy. No, of course not Daddy. They'd wanted to send him away, but every time they'd come for him, he'd given them that smile and they'd ended up shaking his hand instead, telling him he was going to be a hell of a man. That was why his was the longest fourth-year event on record. It had gone on for three weeks, and by the time it was over, thirteen of his peers had died for him. He'd had the whole high school competing to be his favorite person. It had started small. Baking cookies. Serenading him at night. Doing his homework for him. But then it built. A girl shaved her head. A boy one-upped her with a tattoo across his entire chest. And then a third girl went one better and chopped off her little finger. That was when things got bloody. Kids would lay on train tracks, jump off buildings, and drink poison—all to prove their love. It had ended when a boy set himself on fire and then ran toward Daddy, wanting to give him one last hug.

All of this raced through my head as I hopped onto my bike and took off down the street in pursuit.

I couldn't help wondering how far I'd go to prove my love to you. Leaning over my handlebars, I spun the pedals as fast as they'd go, determined to catch you. Chance yipped with excitement as he kept pace beside me. My bike pitched sideways as I took the corner too fast, and I had to drag my foot along the asphalt to keep from falling. Moving again, I pumped harder . . . only to hear laughter behind me. I slammed on the brakes and my whole body lurched, wanting to continue hurtling forward. Getting my feet on the ground, I twisted to see your bike parked against a tree and you lounging in the grass beside it, a half-eaten bright-red apple in your hand.

“What's the hurry?” you said.

Slowly, I pedaled my bike back toward you. A hot lump of tears waited in my throat, and I swallowed past it, determined not to cry, uncertain why I even wanted to. I should have been happy. You didn't leave me behind.

“Why'd you stop? Tired already?” I jutted out my chin, trying to strike the same casually confident tone that always came so easily to you. Instead I sounded petulant and whiny. As if channeling my mood, Chance whined too.

You cocked your head, considering me for a moment. Then, chucking your apple aside, you took several slow, measured steps until you were standing directly in front of me. Gently you reached out and smoothed my wild hair down and tucked it behind my ears. “What's wrong, Pollywog?”

Your pet name, paired with the tender tone of voice, was too much for me. The tears spilled down my cheeks as I wailed, “You knew I'd come!”

“Hey, stop that.” Your words were harsh, but you said them softly while your fingers ran along the tracks of my tears, wiping them away. With a gulp and a shuddering sigh, I managed to keep the next sob at bay.

“That's better.” Taking my hands, you pulled me from my bike and led me to the shady spot of grass where you'd been sitting. We sat cross-legged across from each other.

“Pollywog, I knew you'd come because you and I are like that. You go where I go. I go where you go. The two of us, we're more than just sisters. More than just friends. The two of us . . .” You held out your right hand, with your fingers spread and the palm facing me. I pressed my own palm against yours so that our fingers lined up. “See that? We're one and the same.”

“One and the same.” I repeated the words whisper soft, then peered past our connected hands to watch you between the space of our fingers. You stared right back at me, unblinking, completely open. Except I knew there were secrets there. I would never listen to them, any more than you would put a thought into my head. Still, sometimes it was tempting, to know there was something I wasn't being told; it made me wonder whether everything was just a lie. “Would you have followed me?”

“If you had asked me to go to the reformatory and dig under the fence and fill our buckets with the dirt to bring home and sprinkle into our food? Honestly, if it hadn't been my idea, I would have said no at first too. But I would've gone. If you got on the train and rode out of town, I'd follow you there too. All the way to Waikiki or the Grand Canyon if I had to.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling less than comforted. I didn't understand why you had to bring the rest of the world into it. Instead of letting it go, I added, “But I would never leave Gardnerville. Not ever.”

“Never say never,” you answered with a mysterious smile. Then with one of those quicksilver changes of mood, you yelled, “Race you to the hill.”

Moments later we were on our bikes, with the wind whipping through our hair as we sped down the streets. Chance raced between us, getting as close to our wheels as he could without getting caught beneath them.

You thought that was the end of that conversation, Piper. But later that night and many other times—I thought about it. Never say never. That's what you said. It was almost like you didn't understand that here in this town, we are the Gardner sisters, we have strange powers, and we are one and the same. But anywhere else we'd just be two girls, no different from any others, with nothing to connect us but blood.