Violent Ends

I open my mouth. It’s so dry in there. Can’t speak.

  “You all right?”

  Someone behind my eyes pulls gray drapes over my vision. That’s it.

  8

  I’m alive, and I think it is spring.

  Spring begins in March, doesn’t it?

  It . . . is March, right? No. January, I think. It was January when—

  9

  Mourning doves pipe outside my window: who-whoooo, who-whoooo. I know they are mourning doves only because I specifically learned about them at a botanical garden on a field trip, and they had one of those listening stations where I could press a button and hear a bird’s call. I don’t remember the other birds.

  But that’s not where my window is supposed to be. My window is—

  I’m not in my room.

  I close my eyes. You’ve taken me somewhere. Taken me.

  “Baby? You awake?”

  It’s not your voice.

  It’s Mom.

  I open my eyes and turn my head and there she is, standing beside the bed and holding my right hand. Beyond her, I see a very wide door, open to a hall. A smell like rubbing alcohol invades my nose. Something sticks in my left hand.

  Hospital. I’m in a hospital.

  “Mom?”

  She touches my face. Tears pool in her eyes. “I’m here, Zach. I’m here.”

  “Are you drunk?” It occurs to me that I’m on some kind of medication, because while I recognize I’m in pain, I don’t actually feel it. Very odd. My back feels thick and bumpy, as if I’m lying on a series of racquetballs.

  “No, sweetheart. Not for a couple of years now. I tried to find you, but your dad kept moving and the courts would only do so much. . . . I’m so glad you’re here instead of . . .”

  Before she can finish, a man walks in. Not you. He wears dark dress pants and a blue button-up, no tie. There’re a gun and badge on his belt.

  “Hi, Zachary,” he says, coming to the foot of the bed. “I’m Detective Kiernan. How are you feeling?”

  “Hurt. Sleepy.”

  “Well, that’s fair. You’ve taken some damage to your liver, it sounds like. Nothing serious at the moment. Doctor said they want to keep you here for a while, see how the rest of your tests come out.”

  “Okay. Where is he?”

  “Who? You mean your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Stable now. And in custody. You’re safe. All right, Zachary? You’re safe. You need to know that.”

  I nod. My eyes start drooping like those old night-night dolls whose eyelids raise or lower depending on how you hold them.

  “Can you answer a few questions for me?” he says.

  “Okay. Um—”

  What happens is, I tell him everything. He doesn’t need to ask a question. I leave nothing out. I hear Kirby’s voice somewhere in my brain, hiding behind a corner, telling me to be brave and not hold back. Mom being here, holding my hand, clear-eyed and smelling of lavender instead of alcohol—that helps too. She breaks down sobbing less than a minute into everything I say.

  But I don’t. I don’t cry. Not one bit. I just tell the cop everything.

  He seems satisfied by the time I’m done. He talks half to me, half to Mom. “That’s all consistent. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  “I wanted to kill him.”

  Detective Kiernan frowns. “Ah . . . that’s the kind of thing you shouldn’t say to people, Zachary. All right? This looks to me like self-defense and that’s how I’m reporting it.”

  But I don’t care. I look at Mom. “If I’d had Kirby’s gun, I would have shot my dad. I would have. I wish I had, I wish I’d—”

  “Excuse me.”

  The detective’s voice is sharp. Louder now, suddenly.

  “Did you say ‘Kirby’s gun’? Kirby Matheson?”

  I face the cop again. “Yes. But it’s okay, he was just trying to help. Really. Please, I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

  My mother wails and almost smothers me, lying across my body, wracked with great sobs. The cop stares—glares?—down at me. Not nearly as friendly as two minutes ago.

  “You knew Kirby Matheson, and you saw him with a gun.”

  “Yes. A Gleek, or Gremlin, or . . . something with G. He was worried about me, and wanted me to be able to defend myself.”

  Mom won’t stop crying. I wish she would. Detective Kiernan won’t stop staring.

  “Okay,” he says finally, like a little sigh. “I’m going to send someone else in here to talk to you about that, all right? It’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “Please,” I say, as loud as I can, which isn’t very loud. The effort almost puts me back to sleep. “He’s a good guy. He was trying to do the right thing.”

  The cop clears his throat, gives me a professional little nod, and walks very fast out of the room.

  “Mom? What’s going on?”

  “Zachary, Zach, thank God, I just, I can’t believe you’re here . . .”

  “Mom, what are you talking about? Mom?”

  I don’t know if she answers because it gets dark and I fall back to sleep.

  10

  When I wake up again, the mourning doves are gone. So is Mom. The wide door is closed. It’s quiet outside my window. A bush of some kind, with tiny pale green leaves, gently scrapes and taps against the glass. I must be on the first floor. It’s not a great view from here in my hospital bed, but it’s something. It’s the sun. It’s plants. Life.

  I can’t wait to see Kirby again. Thank him. I don’t think I could have gotten out if he hadn’t come over that night. I hope he’s not in too much trouble because of the gun.

  Plants around here have amazing recuperative properties. Bushes that look long dead can suddenly sprout to life with brilliant reds or yellows or greens. They are hardy things, living things that don’t give up easily.

  You have to be strong to live here.

  You have to be just a little immortal to survive.

  THE GREENEST GRASS

  I do what I do for one reason: because I love flying. The less I weigh, the higher I go. I love the feel of my shoe perfectly placed in someone’s palm, that little down-pull before I’m launched in the air. I love twisting, flipping, feeling my skirt twirl. Time seems to stop, and I’m perfectly weightless. I don’t like the catches so much, especially when they bruise. But the flying? Makes everything worth it.

  But the only way I get prime placement in every stunt is to eat less than everyone else, which means my entire life revolves around moments like this one. Somebody brought donuts to first period, and ugh. When the box hovers over my desk, I just wave a hand.

  “I’m allergic, but thanks.”

  “I got this box just for you, Lauren. No nuts. I remembered.”

  I take a deep breath, and the oily, sugary, fatty, disgustingly yummy scent squirms into my body, so unwelcome and yet so wanted. My stomach is hollow just like my smile, all bone and acid.

  “Oh, that’s so sweet!” I say, touching his hand for just a second. “But the last time I had a donut I almost died. I can’t take that chance, not with the game tomorrow. But really, that’s so nice of you to think of me!”

  “No, thank you. I mean, you’re welcome.” He stares at his hand with a goofy grin and steps to the side, holding out the box to Tyler Bower, who grabs three in a gorilla fist.

  “I’ll take Lauren’s and Elsa’s. You don’t want yours, right, babe?”

  On his other side, Elsa purses her lips and shakes her head. “A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips,” she says.

  We stick to our mantras, and that’s why we’re always at the top of the pyramid. It only took one politely formal letter home from Coach Castle about how my skirt button needed to be resewn, and I learned my lesson. It’s easier to say no to donuts than it is to go home and explain to my mom why I look puffy. For me, it’s the flying, but for her, looking good is a religion.

  Beside me, Tyler has already finished all three donut
s and is dusting flakes of sugar off his varsity jacket. Mrs. Johansen goes into something or other about Hamlet, and I tune out. I’m so hungry that I almost float away. I don’t remember anything she said.

  * * *

  After flying, my next favorite part is what happens between classes. At the door, Tyler drapes his arms over Elsa’s shoulder and mine, and he knows he has to be gentle or we’ll bruise like dropped apples. We smile and swing our hips to make our skirts flip up as we sashay down the hall. He high-fives the other guys on the team. Every boy looks at us with unstoppable hunger and yearning, and every single girl we pass is filled with jealousy and hope. This is what they all wish they were, where they want to be. They think I’m Tyra Banks in a Middleborough Muskrats cheerleading uniform, tall and fierce and flawless. And for just a moment, I believe it too.

  I flick my hair, and it swirls around me like a shampoo commercial, a perfect sheet of golden-brown silk. They don’t know it’s a weave—my mom pays extra to make sure. There was a picture of the three of us just like this in last year’s yearbook, and it’s a far cry from the pic of me in my sixth-grade yearbook: pudgy and shy with glasses and braces and frizzy hair, playing my nicked-up oboe between Kirby Matheson and Jenny Bernard like a nobody. That was before my mama married into money and everything changed.

  Tyler sweeps us down the hall at a swagger, just slow enough so that everyone has to stop and stare. He’s so well trained that he even knows which bathroom we prefer to use in between first and second period.

  “I’ll be right here, ladies.” By which he means he’ll keep the teachers and other girls from interrupting us.

  Mia’s already at the middle mirror, as if that actually means something. I head for the last stall and try to pull something up, but I’m empty and just make myself cough.

  “You okay, Lore?” Mia’s white Keds line up outside my stall. It’s a worry and a dare, all at once.

  I fling the door open just to watch her step back to avoid getting hit. “I’m awesome.”

  “Must be that darn tree nut allergy again. Always making you gag.”

  I smile and nod, sweet as pie. “Must be.”

  “As long as you don’t pass out during practice again.” Her shoulder lifts in a shrug. “I worry about you. We all do.”

  She wants to be head cheerleader so bad she once switched out my chocolate protein powder with vanilla almond. I couldn’t prove she did it, but I knew. The entire week I was in the hospital, she took my place on top of the pyramid, got to do all the best stunts. I use a bigger lock on my locker now and pretend she’s my second-best friend.

  “My only worry is that my winter formal dress has to be taken in again,” I say, walking to the mirror. “My mom’s taking me back to the tailor today.” And I say this because I know her winter formal dress is a size three. If she gains any weight, Mia will be back on the bottom of the pyramid instead of right under my foot. Coach can’t officially weigh us, but she watches like a hawk. There’s no worse punishment than standing on the ground.

  “We’re going to have the best time,” Elsa says, joining me at the mirrors while Mia inspects her peeling nails behind us. “I love that they got a white limo to match all our dresses. You’re a shoo-in for Snow Queen, Lore. I mean it.”

  Behind us, Mia snorts, but I know well enough that the only way to respond is to shrug and look down. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, it could be any of us.”

  “But it won’t be,” Mia says. “It’ll be you. It’s always you. You’re always perfect.”

  “You kind of are,” Elsa says.

  I give a little shrug and curl my hair around my finger. “Yeah, I guess I am.” But they don’t know what it costs me. They don’t know it’s my only choice.

  * * *

  Second period is a bore. I used to get good grades, but the less I eat, the less I can concentrate. I’m so polished that numbers and letters won’t stick anymore. But I’m the head cheerleader and my mom is terrifying, so I get Cs that become As as if by magic. I look out the window and watch the drizzle fall, light and transparent, just like me.

  * * *

  Third period is group work, and I smile and nod while my group argues.

  “What do you think, Lauren?” asks the kid with thick glasses.

  I beam at him. “Let’s just do what’ll get an A.”

  “Ryan says we should do a conversation in a restaurant, and I think we should do a protest,” the other kid says. “Like they’re having in Mexico City. It’s more exciting. Topical.” They both stare at me, waiting.

  I know them, but I don’t know them. Before ninth grade, I knew everybody, knew their histories and where they sat on the bus and who was cool and who wasn’t. But now I don’t waste energy caring. There’s the cheerleading squad, the football players, and the basketball and soccer teams, if you’re desperate. And everyone else is nobody.

  What are we studying again? I look down at my pristine book. Spanish.

  “Let’s do a restaurant,” I say. “We can pretend we’re eating.”

  The first kid cackles in triumph; the other one looks embarrassed and angry. But what could they expect? I never protest anything, and I’m great at pretending to eat.

  * * *

  All day long, I look forward to lunch. Or, more accurately, the walk to the cafeteria. I used to dream of this moment back in middle school. I pack up my stuff slowly, giving all the other kids in fourth-period physics time to get out the door. By the time I’m primped and standing, Tyler and Elsa are waiting by the lockers. Tyler’s arm is back over my shoulders, and we’re parading in slow motion down the hall. Mia joins us from calculus, her ink-black hair in bouncing pigtails and her lips a flat cherry red. Patrick and Chung flank us at the next hallway. Kelli and Calli step from the bathroom in unison, their freshly brushed hair in flawless red ponytails. Javier rounds the corner with his arms over Bella and Mary-Catherine, while Kelso and Nate stomp behind them like bouncers. At each intersection, we pick up more of our clique until we reach the cafeteria doorway with half the football team, half the cheerleaders, and every single eye in the caf staring at us like we’re royalty.

  “I wish I had her hair.”

  “I heard her winter formal dress cost a thousand dollars. Her stepdad’s, like, a bajillionaire.”

  “She’s going with Javier. He’s so hot.”

  “I would give every piece of tech I own for three minutes with her lips.”

  I smile and remember to thank my mom for the new lip gloss. It’s working. It means they don’t notice my crumbling teeth.

  * * *

  The guys head to the lunch line as the girls sit down at our empty table. Everyone knows their place, and I take my seat in the middle, tucking my skirt under my butt so I won’t have to feel the plastic chair against the backs of my thighs. I’m always cold, even with leg warmers and my cheerleading jacket. Elsa is on my left, Mia is across from me, and the other girls surround us, chattering. But the three of us are silent as we unfold our brown bags and inspect what the others have brought. I have a Diet Coke, celery, mustard, carrots, a hard-boiled egg, and a tin of tuna. Mia has a bento box of sushi made with brown rice. Elsa has tonic water, a low-calorie protein bar, and the unthinkable: a chocolate bar.

  “Suicide?” Mia says, gently prying a piece of raw fish from its log of rice and placing it carefully on her little pink tongue.

  “You’re not eating that. Right, Elsa?” I say, because I have to.

  The rest of the table goes silent and stares, waiting. No one will say it, but Elsa . . . She’s not being as careful as she should be lately. Mia’s dress is a three, but Elsa’s is a five.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’ll get rid of it. But . . . I guess my dad’s worried about me. He keeps trying to take me out to fast-food places.”

  Mia snorts. “That’s not suicide. It’s sabotage.”

  “I can handle this,” I say. I turn to the table behind us and tap the closest kid on the shoulder. “Hey. Want some chocola
te?” I hold out Elsa’s bar and give him my sweetest smile.

  The kid looks at me nervously, licks his lips. It’s Kirby Matheson. Nice guy, kinda quiet, used to sit next to me in band in middle school. We were friends back then, and we were conversational partners in Spanish when I used to pay attention in class. He was pretty funny, once you got past the shyness. I guess if I’m going to be giving anybody candy in public, it might as well be him.

  This weird, bemused smile passes over his face. “Uh. Okay. Sure. Why?”

  “No reason. Elsa doesn’t want it.”

  “Did you do something to it?”

  I shake my head and laugh. “Kirby, come on. What am I going to do to a chocolate bar? It’s just a gift, okay?”

  He takes it like I’m handing him a bomb. “It’s just that you don’t talk to me anymore. You don’t talk to anybody.”

  “I’m talking to you now. Enjoy.”

  I turn back to my table. “See, Elsa? It’s gone.”

  Someone taps on my shoulder, and I spin. “What?”

  Kirby’s face is bright red. “I just forgot to thank you. So . . . thanks, Lauren.”

  A shadow looms over me. Javier. “What did that guy say to you?” He drops his tray with a bang. “Is he bothering you, Lore?”

  I glance at Kirby, and he’s all hunched over as the entire caf whispers about how he’s about to get his ass kicked.

  “It’s fine. He’s an old friend. I gave him a chocolate bar. No big deal.”

  Javier shakes his head, narrows his eyes. He’s the biggest, hottest guy in school, my date and my boyfriend, supposedly; whatever that means. We don’t talk much. It’s mostly macking and watching him shoot people in Call of Duty. But he doesn’t ask me tough questions, and he’s gentle and sweet after, so I guess it’s as good as any relationship. But I do know one thing: when he’s getting ready for a game, you don’t mess with him. He didn’t get that huge by being nice and taking vitamins.

  He grabs Kirby by the shoulder, his fingers digging dents into Kirby’s black T-shirt. “Look, you little turd. You don’t talk to her. You get it?”