Chapter Three-Reni
My eyes won't open, but I can smell where I am.
Bodily fluid masked by soap. Bandages and plastic. Latex, latex, latex.
And the sounds. All sorts of hospitalish sounds. The beep-beep of a monitor to my right. The echo of a cart rumbling down a hall to my left. The shrill of an under-achieving air conditioner overhead.
I concentrate on my sense of touch. I'm disgusted to feel socks on my feet. No wonder I'm so hot. I could really use the draft of a wispy hospital gown, but I'm covered up with a blanket or sheet or both. I'm all clammy and suffocating and sore.
I've got to get these socks off.
Moving around disturbs more than just my monitor. I hear George grunt, hear him shift his weight on something vinyl. "Glad you could rejoin the rest of civilized society," he whispers.
We must be alone. George's voice sounds tender and warm. When we're in the company of others, he feels an obligation to be more stern. To show a strong hand because of all that I've done.
"Sorry," I tell him. My stomach feels like I accidentally swallowed a razor blade. I groan.
George chuckles. I love when he chuckles. "She really did a number on you. Do you wish I'd left you in juvie? This never happened to you in juvie. Better security there, I think."
Ha. Real juvie is worse than this troubled-teen high school he has me enrolled in now. I suppose that's the point though. Real jvuie is full of girls even meaner than any Leahs or Lolas and they all picked on girls who don't really deserve to be there. And then there was me. Quiet me, whose reasons for not making eye contact had nothing to do with fear. I don't remember much about juvie except how I felt when I was there. Like I had to concentrate very hard to stay human. To stop myself from being what got me there in the first place.
But it was like hatred and violence and threat floated in the air, and you could either breathe it in or die. There were plenty of times when I should have died than do what I did. I still don't remember any of it, what the guards said I did. All I remember is waking up in the infirmary, feeling dizzy and sore and ashamed.
Just like now. Did I hurt Leah?
The vomit erupts before I can stop it. The force is so strong that one of my eyes opens and I get a blurry image of George jumping to his feet from the visitor chair, irate and surprised. His expression is so horrified that if I weren't puking, I might laugh. I hear wet chunks splatter on the floor and I wonder if any of them ventured onto George's court shoes.
For a criminal defense attorney, he's got a weak stomach. But I guess looking at pictures of grotesque things—and showing them to a jury—isn't quite as bad as seeing them up close and personal. Or smelling them. I hear George's court shoes take him out of the room, between bouts of vomiting. I didn't mean to run him off. It's nice to see George on occasions other than mealtimes. Well, maybe not on these kinds of occasions.
I hear a new stride come in. The padded feet of a nurse. "Oh my goodness, that's a lot of throw up," she says, and for a second I think it's Margaret, my foster mom. In the next second, I remember Margaret is dead and I realize why everything smells and sounds so familiar here. Why I will never forget these smells and sounds, not in a hundred thousand years. This is the hospital where Margaret died. Where she spent the last moments of her life trying to make sure I was going to be okay after the cancer won. The realization almost knocks the wind out of me.
"I'm sorry," I gurgle.
The nurse hands me some paper towels and pours water from the Styrofoam pitcher into a cup on the rollaway table next to my bed. "Here, swish it around. Use this." She hands me a small kidney-shaped bowl. I never could figure out what these were for. Spitting, I guess. While I swish and spit, I watch her clean the floor with the skill of someone experienced in messes like these. When she's done, even the air smells clean, sanitized. Institutional.
I hear George outside the door on his cellphone. He's trying to keep his voice down, which is why I perk up. I should have known better. "I don't know what else to do with her," I hear him say quietly. "She was so close to Margaret, but I can't handle this. Trouble just finds her." A pause, then, "What other foster home? I don't believe anyone else could handle it either. Margaret was special. Look, I've got to go. We'll talk soon."
I close my eyes. George can't handle me anymore. He's thinking about sending me to another foster home. Somewhere that isn't Margaret's house. I deserve that. I cost him Gavin. He was close to Gavin.
The nurse mistakes my sigh for a different kind of agony.
"How is your pain?" she says, washing her hands at the sink. "You can have more meds if you need them."
"It's not bad." And it isn't. I'm getting less and less impressed with Leah and her faux beating. "How long have I been here?"
The nurse tilts her head. Her dark curly ponytail looks like a chinchilla lounging on her shoulder. "Not bad? You've got bruised ribs and a slight concussion. The ambulance brought you in this morning from school. You don't remember?"
Okay, maybe I'm a little impressed. "Sort of. What about the other girl? Leah?"
She shakes her head and grabs the bottom of my IV bag. Examining it, she says, "Maybe they took her to a different hospital. I heard you two didn't get along."
"Stop fishing for information," George calls from the door. "Or I'll have your job."
The nurse whirls on him. "I'm just making sure—"
"Out. Now." He cocks his head toward the door, attorney-style. It's an impressive transformation to see. George, who resembles a graying teddy bear, turn into a tiger in rapid-point-two seconds. But he's just protecting me. It's what he does.
Which makes the fact that he doesn't want me anymore hurt even worse.
She bristles past him without another word. George grins at me. I love it when he grins. "I love doing that," he drawls, all but swaggering back to the visitor's chair. A feisty teddy bear with cocky undertones.
I cross my arms at him, trying to seem disapproving. The nurse was nice, after all. "Leah?" I say.
He knows what I'm asking. "Don't worry, you didn't touch her. Oh, she tried to say you did. But she didn't have any defensive wounds. Made sure the cops saw that. Cops see what they want to see sometimes, you know? Especially with you. Got to do their job for them on occasion."
I didn't touch Leah. Relieved, I plop back against the pillow and let out a gust of air. Which hurts.
George notices me wince. "Sucks, doesn't it? Not to be able to fight back?"
"No."
"Liar. Nobody likes to get their ass kicked."
"I deserve it."
"Reni, you have to forgive yourself for things—"
I hold up my hand. "Don't."
His brow furrows in a hurt look. "I'm your father. I care about you." Oh, my twisting gut. I don't want to have this talk, not now that I overheard him in the hall. Besides, I'm not going to forgive myself. I need to be shut away in a mental institution. But attorney that he is, George won't allow that to happen. I think all these years defending criminals have made him soft toward them.
He laughs then, to break up the awkward in the air. "I wanted to make sure you knew what to say to the cops. Turns out, you can tell them the truth this time, since you didn't lose it. Oh, and our favorite social worker will probably stop by, too. Tell her what happened. And tell her we have movie night every Thursday. That I make your favorite dinner on those nights."
It hurts that he's still making an effort, but I play along. "Which is?"
George cooking anything for me is laughable—I do all the cooking, and he only shows up half the time—but somehow he's got Ms. Birch, the freshly graduated social worker assigned to my "case", convinced he's a chef. Truth is, George corners the market on BS—but his attraction to Ms. Birch is very real.
He shrugs and stands up. "I don't know. Spaghetti. Tell her spaghetti." He sighs. "Are you sure juvie isn't better? You never got hurt like this at juvie. You never would have been unattended for so long. I could file a motion. You don't have to see that girl again."
I shake my head. Out of context, this discussion would be hilarious. My foster dad asking if juvie wouldn't be more comfortable for me than a 'regular' school. In context, it's pathetic. He doesn't want me, for one, and for two, he knows how I feel about juvie. That I'd do just about anything to stay on the tame side of that fence.
Because it means staying on the tame side of my fence.
I shake my head again. He pushes me away, then straightens out his suit and adjusts his tie, like some kind of mobster. He walks toward the door.
At the threshold, George turns back to me. "I think you should go to school tomorrow. For appearances. Don't let them know they've won." Sincere words of a defense attorney.
Then he's gone.
* * *
The last bell rings. I'm packed and ready to go, but I wait for everyone else to shuffle out of the classroom first. The theme of the day has been Bump Into Reni—payback for getting lovable Leah arrested. It's not like I pressed charges against her. George thought it would display goodwill to the courts—and my probation officer—if I let bygones be bygones. But if someone else elbows my ribs, I can't guarantee any new bygones. My control is slipping.
Pain has a way of doing that.
I wait in my desk and study the bulletin boards on the walls, the calendar written on the dry-erase board, the frayed carpet seam beneath a bookshelf. So many things to look at and nothing to see. It reminds me of my bedroom at home, full of things like frilly lamps and polka-dot bedding and glittery picture frames and other teenager-y accents George bought to make it look more "normal". To make it look like the bedroom of someone who lives life, instead of the lair of someone who might plot to take it. So far, the only person in Tinytown, Nebraska who buys into the princess motif is Ms. Birch. Social workers should really be more observant.
The substitute teacher clears her throat, startling me. She says, "I've got to pick up my kids. Are you ready to leave?" She says it kindly though, like she knows I'm stalling and why.
I nod. "Sorry."
"That's quite all right, Ms. O'Malley."
I didn't realize she knew my name. I don't remember hers, providing I even paid attention when she introduced herself to the class. But really, it's not so special that she knows who I am. Probably everyone here does because of the whole Lola thing. And the Leah thing yesterday.
I sigh. "Have a good day," I tell her, wishing I did know her name. Gritting my teeth, I pick up my back pack and head out the door.
I make my way to the back parking lot behind the field house. Hardly anyone else parks there because it's so far away from either of the school entrances, a factor that makes it prime real estate to me. No one wants to walk that far, even to harass the town villain. I usually shortcut across the football field we share with the real high school in the afternoons. To shave distance, yes, but mostly because of the feeling I get when I'm in the belly button of the stadium. The size, the emptiness, the echo of past games, and the promise of new ones. It all makes me feel insignificant. Small and forgettable, even after all I've done. I'd trade infamous for insignificant any day of the week.
But today, I waited—stalled—too long. Junior varsity is already practicing, already watering the grass with sweat. I'll have to walk on the sidewalk that curves around the top of the bleachers. Which isn't so bad, considering how my ribs might feel if I had to walk up the stadium steps.
Still, the sidewalk takes a long time. My books seem to weigh more today. And something's going on with my lungs. Maybe one of them is punctured. Nothing wrong with hoping. Out of breath, I round the corner of the field house. And stop.
Leah.
She leans against my car—towers over it really—and crosses her arms. For an ex-cheerleader, she has an evil smile. How can people not notice that? Isn't having a friendly smile a prerequisite for being a cheerleader?
Of course to me, Leah is opposite of the cheerleader type. She's tall and muscular, but in a brawny, masculine way, not in the dainty, lithe, feminine package you'd expect to be carrying pompoms and a positive attitude. Sometimes I think she became a cheerleader just to prove that she's a girl.
But this place is small-town backwards in other ways, too. For instance, Leah's practically a hero here after what she did to me yesterday. She bullied the bully. That's how everyone sees it. And apparently, she's not done.
With any luck, she'll finish it today. I start toward her again, almost smiling. What a relief it would be if she could find enough gumption to see it through this time. What a relief it would be to know that I've been paid back for what I've done. It would be over then. My pace picks up.
But that's when I see the tires on my little beat-up car. Margaret's little beat-up car. They've been slashed. The driver's side window is shattered into pieces at her feet. Margaret's window.
I stop. Dropping my backpack to the ground, I clench my fists against the anger broiling my stomach.
It's happening.
We're all alone and it's happening. I'm losing what little control I had after today's parade of elbows on my ribs. Against my will, the familiar fingers of black nothingness wriggle into my vision, as if trying to grasp my consciousness. As if trying to steal me away. Trying to let what's inside come out.
No one is here to help Leah. No one is here to stop me. What I become.
No, no, no.
I look at the glass shards under her feet and I want want want to let go. To make her pay for that and for the tires and for my ribs. But I can't let go. Not now. Not ever. Because I owe her more than she could ever owe me, and the debt is already more than I can handle.
All at once, I'm saved.
A black SUV swerves into the parking lot, throwing tiny rocks everywhere. The familiarity is enough to pull me from my trance; I'd already seen this vehicle once today. It was parked in Leah's reserved spot in the front student parking lot this morning. I'd wondered if her parents bought her a new car for kicking my ass yesterday.
That's it. Concentrate on the vehicle. Anything but Leah.
Tinted windows. Chrome rims. Paint glistening in the sun. It looks like a government vehicle out of a cheesy alien-attack movie.
The fingers of nothingness start to retreat from my vision.
The driver is a male. The passenger is a male. Both muscular builds.
My heart rate slows.
Probably a couple of Leah's friends, here to help with the job. Good girl, to call on back up. Smart girl, to know she needs it.
I am in control.
The SUV skids to a halt a few feet from where Leah stands at my car. A dark haired boy jumps out of the passenger side. The intent on his face is all wrong. He is not her friend. I try not to see what else it there, but it's very clear to me. He's going to take her. Grab her.
Leah, though, seems shocked when he does exactly that.
How she could she not read his body language? He didn't just roll up and jump out for chit chat. Yes, he looks like a boy. But he reads like the alphabet. Everyone does. No one is surprising, not really. They show you signs in so many ways. You just have to watch closely enough.
Once Leah actually notices what's happening, she knees him in the groin. Or, at least, in the groin area. The boy doesn't let go. In fact, he gets a better hold on her. He's got the advantage of his body weight, and large biceps that can easily subdue her. She's got him in height, and flexibility.
"Help!" she screams. I guess height and flexibility are no match for surprise.
I don't realize I've moved until I'm within arms' reach of them both. He glances at me with warning, and I can tell by his expression that he's already sized me up and found me non-threatening. After all, I'm smaller than them both. Even his body failed to tense at my presence. Which is good.
I throw myself at him.
He shoves Leah away, but not in time to fully turn on me. It's difficult to size up speed, I guess.
"What the—" he growls, but I push his face into the asphalt, so he doesn't get to finish cussing. I pull his arms behind his back—his arms are the biggest threat to me since they're longer than mine—and I sit on them while he bucks beneath me. He's all bone and skin though, so I center my weight and hold tight. Bits of glass from the shattered window cut into my knees, and probably his cheek, but I can't help that. There's no way I'm letting him up.
I hear shuffling behind me and turn to see another dark-haired boy walking back to the SUV with Leah thrown over his shoulder like a sack of soccer balls. This boy's face looks a little like the other boy slithering beneath me, but that's where the resemblance stops. He's got about six inches of height on the first boy, and muscle stretches his black shirt and pants to max capacity. Leah wriggles like a hooked worm, but it doesn't disturb the big boy's balance or the confidence in his stride—of course, it helps that she's already bound and tied. How did he do that already?
Through her gag, she screams again.
"Shut up," the big guy says. He opens the back hatch of the vehicle and throws her in like luggage. Slamming it shut, he turns toward me, alternating his glare between me and the boy writhing under me. "Really, Wade?" he says.
His dark eyes lock with mine and with them he tells me to stop what I'm doing. To let his companion go. I refuse his request with a slight shake of my head. "An exchange," I tell him. "Him for her."
He rakes his gaze over me in obvious assessment. I can tell by his expression what he's decided. There will be no exchange. And I'm the next target. The anger in my stomach reignites. When he takes a step forward, powerful and graceful, everything goes black.
And I am not in control.