The Dollhouse Asylum (22 page)

“So I decided to drive to the pharmacy myself, because it’s not like Dad would. Everything’s sort of a blur after that,” Marc mumbles, “but a few things I remember just fine. I remember Dad jumped in the car, and I tried pushing him out, so he punched me and I floored the gas.”

No, no
.

“We fishtailed our way through our neighborhood. I was mad at him. I just wanted him to leave. I remember thinking, ‘If I drive fast enough, the car will separate and I’ll be free.’”

Marc
.

“When we got to the Target pharmacy, I knew I was supposed to slow down, but my reflexes were off, and I turned several seconds after I should have. There was this group of people—a mom, an elderly lady, and I remember someone small, a little kid.”

No
.

“But I missed them—”

Oh, thank God!

“—and I remember congratulating myself, but then I yanked the steering wheel left and plowed straight into this stop sign cemented into the ground.”

My blood runs cold.

“At first, I thought it was awesome—I mean, I nailed the car like that and I wasn’t even hurt. Sure, the windshield was blown to bits, but it was really cool. But then I remembered my dad, looked over, and the stop sign was stuck in his head—” he sucks in a breath and my heart’s pounding in my ears. What’s he saying? That’s not what he’s saying. I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t offer a breath.

I try to make sense of what he’s just said. He killed his dad? No, there must be more to this story, so I don’t say anything, squeeze my legs harder into my chest.

“Afterwards, the state asked to see me,” Marc’s saying, and I’m backpedaling because it can’t be true. His dad can’t be dead because of him. “Teo took me to court,” he continues, “and, well, you know how my brother can be with people. Instead of me getting locked up, he got me community service.”

Nothing’s making sense anymore. Good people don’t make things happen like this. He was a victim. He was missing his mom. He took charge of his own insulin supply and—no. No, no, no. Everything’s hurting. My shoulders and heart feel heavy. When Marc talks to me, it’s like his words are echoing, not coming together like they should in order to make sense.

When he says “seventy hours,” and “a new man,” I’m left wondering how he could ever be that. Because killing your father turns you into nothing. Nothing but sorrow and pain and numb. So he must be telling it wrong. His dad
forced
him to drive that car while drunk, and Marcus really did succeed in pushing him out of their car before he left.

But then Marcus is laughing, which sounds much more like someone’s just kneed him in the groin. He’s telling me drunk drivers shouldn’t get second chances, that some days he wonders why someone didn’t serve him with lethal injection instead. He tells me he’s the reason his father is dead.

The echoes come faster, like someone’s stuck me in a tomb; I’m on a Ferris wheel, but the words are moving too fast. He’s the reason, he’s the reason his father is dead.

Eventually the echoes slow, die down. Marcus has stopped talking, stares at the tree root again.

With his low voice rasping, he finally says, “So really, Teo and me are the same.”

I’m in that tomb, trying to make sense of all the sounds. I never knew my father, thought that was bad enough, but to be the reason why he’s dead? I’m glad I’m already on the ground.

I let my legs break loose from my clutch; they’re asleep, all tingly like sand’s shaking around from inside. I don’t know what to say; I feel like there should be words coming out of my mouth, but what he said is true. He killed someone. I’ve tried to understand, but there’s no way I can imagine what that feels like, to know the car
you
drove ended up becoming the vehicle for someone’s death. My lips eventually move. “You were a minor.”

Marcus walks around the tree toward me, eyes locking on mine as soon as he comes around. “One more screw-up and I’d be in juvie,” he says, eyes more dead than flat. It’s all beginning to make sense. That one math meet, where he recited the
Pease porridge hot
rhyme, was so odd, so misplaced, it must have been around the same time as his dad’s death.

His dad.

No wonder Marcus has a hard time facing reality and reverts to clowning around.

“But you’re living your life differently.” I try keeping my eyes on his, but it’s hard because my voice sounds wobbly and not really like my own. But it’s the truth—he hasn’t pulled an extravagant stunt at the math meets since junior year.

Marcus crashes down on the ground, leaning against the knobby tree.

“Trying. Not really succeeding.” He picks up a rock and chucks it at the fence, which zaps it before it drops. Okay. Maybe that wasn’t a rock since it zapped. “It’s been a hard year.” Of course it has. He lost his dad.

“But, and I’m really sorry to say this, but your dad wasn’t even a nice guy,” I find myself saying, remembering a few comments he’s made about his dad, and knowing Teo is who he is because of who raised him.

“Doesn’t matter.” Marcus grits his teeth, his face hardening like stone. Stone, because it’s easier to grow hard than feel the guilt and hurt.

Sometimes, when I feel guilty about something, my stomach curls—I have a hard time falling asleep. To think of the nights Marcus has lain awake, fighting the way that his stomach must curl. Guilt is a heavy, hollowing thing. It’s simultaneously the most intangible and most corporeal emotion. Impossible to express, yet so full of weight.

Unsteadily, I find my feet, make my way over to Marcus, and plunk myself right down beside him on the moss and grass. But he doesn’t so much as look up, and I wait for his response, for him to say something, but he doesn’t and I know that he can’t. I would be feeling the same way if I’d been the one to take my dad’s life.

So, gingerly, I reach over and take Marc’s hand, and because there’s not a single serious thing I could say, or
not
say, I do what I swore I would never do.

I squeeze his hand.

It’s corny. I’m halfway wishing I hadn’t done it, but it’s not like I can wipe Marc’s memory, so I have to own the move. My hand feels warm and sweaty—yet calm—inside of his.

Calm. Huh. Such a foreign emotion. I’ve spent the last year panicked, lovesick, and deluding myself.

Marcus stares at our hands, and I suddenly want to hide again in that tomb.

Slipping my hand from Marcus’s, I scratch the back of my neck. Not because it itches, but because it gives my hand something to do.

Marcus clears his throat. “Did you just squeeze my hand?”

My face pounds like a fever, and I know that can’t be good, because it only feels that way when it blotches candy-apple red. I hate how I wear my emotions on my sleeve.

But Marcus doesn’t seem to mind that I’m blushing, because a tremor of a smile ripples on the side of his mouth. It’s not a look of relief, or even acceptance, but it’s something of an acknowledgement, and that just may be a start. The entire time I’ve known him,
he’s
been the one to buoy me up. Perhaps I can be the anchor for a change.

I change topics, because I can feel the awkward silence pouring from us both, I say, “So, you still want to leave?”

His gaze shifts and his eyes harden, but a speck of light remains. “Oh, yeah.”

But I must be sure that we’re both on the same page. “You’re completely on board with this,” I repeat. I’d understand if he had issues leaving his brother. Okay, I don’t think that will be a problem at all.

Marcus frowns, staring again at the fence. “Well, I’d feel a lot better if I could get my hands on that vaccine.”

“Okay.” I glance at the fence, too. “While you’re searching for the remote, I’ll look in Teo’s coat.” Crap. So much for not admitting that out loud.

“Are you
crazy
?” Marcus asks, jumping to his feet. “Don’t even think about trying that, Cheyenne. You’ve seen how my brother reacts to things he doesn’t expect.”

Yes, I’ve seen it, but I’m hoping I’ll be the exception for once. Teo does have a thing for me. But Marc’s hard gaze is searching me, so I nod. “Yeah, okay.” We’ll see.

Finding my way back to my feet, I try to envision us all at Izzy’s and how we’ll know the right time to leave, but then the worst scenario of all strikes me. “What if we can’t find the vaccine in time?”

Marcus shrugs, but that shrug is more like a war cry, because those blue eyes are so bright. “To hell with it,” he says, smiling. “I’ll get infected and take a giant bite out of my brother’s head.”

I hiccup inside, not sure what to think. I don’t want Teo to see a grisly end. He’s the one person on the planet who cherishes me. I rub the ring on my hand, remembering how he wrote, “For Persephone. My only.” At the same time, I know Marcus is right. We do need to put Teo’s life behind our own, because Teo’s mood swings shouldn’t determine who gets to live.

Seven couples crowd into Izzy’s living room, shocked by the inside of her house. While the others certainly celebrate their couples’ themes, this one tops all the rest; I’ve never seen a river inside a house.

“Look at that,” one of the Doublemint boys says, “there’s even a little boat.”

The famous Lady of Shalott painting greets visitors in the hall. While her actual story isn’t directly related to Tristan’s and Isolde’s, the painting is the perfect link between the two tales—a boat ride in the water is central to both stories, and both involve death.

I remember the story pretty well. Tristan was sent in a boat to pick up Isolde and transport her for her marriage to his uncle. That boat ride was the beginning of something great. Tristan and Isolde fell madly in love, but Tristan’s uncle, King Mark, ensured their romance would never last. Of course, the story ended tragically rather than happily ever after.

But that doesn’t mean that’s what will happen with Tristan and Izzy, and with the preparations I’m sure she’s made, she’ll be okay. While all of the stories seem to be centered around death, Teo has shown we can earn the vaccine, first with Romeo and Juliet, then me. So really, the killing part isn’t an eventuality, but a risk. And the bright look on Izzy’s face tells me she’s certain her preparations will pull her through. I believe it. With the miniature canal running through the room and the little wooden boat, Izzy’s living room makes the perfect setting.

Remembering the sparring session Tristan and Izzy practiced this morning, I ask Izzy as she passes by me, “When’s the sword fight?”

She pauses by me in my usual spot in front of the curving stairs. “Later!” Izzy whispers, handing me a milky-white drink. “We thought we’d mix and mingle with our love potions first!” She pops a piece of gum.

Love potions. Izzy is brilliant. Isolde made a love potion for Tristan. I never would have thought to do that. Sipping the drink, I feel the tangy liquid coat my tongue. Pineapple and coconut. It’s good. But I need to know whether or not they found props for the sword fight or if they’ll pantomime everything. “Did you find any swords?” I ask as I take another sip.

Izzy pops her gum again. “We have one, but for the other, we found something that should work.” She brings her finger and thumb up to her mouth and pretends to zip her lips, and I have to laugh. She practically bounces as she walks across the room toward Eloise and Abe, who are munching on their snacks by the snack counter. She’s got a handle on everything.

Scanning the room for Marcus, I find him whispering with Cleo on the far side of the room. This time, instead of chaise lounges or benches, Cleo has him cornered on a futon pushed up against the wall.
Hussy
. Almost as if he’s connected to my every move, Marcus looks toward me and smiles, like he’s remembering our time together in the woods. There’s something warm and comforting in his eyes, but it’s much too fleeting, because he quickly glances away.

I focus on my drink, pushing all thoughts of Marcus away. I need to plot how to get to Ramus’s and Bee’s bodies, and how to search Teo’s coat. Marcus needs to find a moment to leave to search for insulin, the vaccine, and a remote. But for now, I’m trapped. Teo’s chatting with Jonas by the front door. I’m stuck slurping up my drink, the ice tempering my throat. Maybe Jonas grabbed Teo to discuss a breach in the fence. That would be nice. Then, we could all slip through. Of course, if it was a breach, I bet it wouldn’t even exist long enough for Teo to know. Jonas seemed like the type who took action before it was required. Even with a breach, we’d be in the same place we are now.

“You polished that off pretty quick,” Marcus says, suddenly standing by my side. I glance up, somewhat startled to find him on “my” side of the room. I lean back casually, letting the wrought-iron rails of the staircase dig into my back, blushing as I remember our two “almost” kisses. But, despite what one would think, wrought iron rails aren’t all that comfortable, so I lean forward.

Desperately hoping I don’t look like an idiot, I try slurping another sip of my drink but end up only sucking up air. Nice. Why am I only smooth when Teo’s around?

“Here, have mine.” Marcus offers his glass.

“Oh, no,” I laugh his chivalry away. “That would make me a glutton.”

“I don’t think that would necessarily be a bad thing,” Marcus says, locking his eyes on mine, which makes the stupid way I’m standing suddenly feel wobbly, so I straighten my legs.

For some reason, I’m staring at Marc’s eyes again. Not the color, but the shape—how they’re open and honest, not needing to be clever or right.

Cleo, ever on the warpath, follows Marcus from across the room. I watch her rock-hard calves flex as she steps over the moat; there’s not a hint of fat or anything. And I think it’s time to bury myself alive, because I’ve just caught myself checking Cleo out.

“Why, Number Eight,” she says, eyeing Marcus and me, “you just go from one Richardson brother to the other.” Wow, Cleo’s just full of laughs.

I give her a laugh of my own. “At least I don’t sit on their laps.”
Slut
. I have to bite my lip, because I really want to add that last part, but I don’t want Marc to think less of me. For some reason Cleo is his friend, and while I’ll never get it—except that maybe he’s in love with her curves—I decide to let my little line stand by itself and stare Cleo down until she squirms.