Juliet’s words smack me in the face. You’re pretty confrontational.
“Rev.” My voice sounds like I’ve been chewing gravel. My eyes are locked on Alan. “Let me go.”
He doesn’t. “You’re still on probation.”
“I know,” I grit out. “I’m fine.”
“Grow up,” Alan snaps. “Your mother doesn’t need this. Not now.”
Somehow all the fight has drained out of me, and I twist free of Rev’s hold. I’m a heartbeat away from slamming through the double doors myself, and security be damned. Or maybe I’m a heartbeat away from curling up in a ball on the floor.
“Rev.” Kristin appears beside us, concerned eyes going between me and Alan. “What’s going on?”
“We don’t know,” Rev says. He’s glaring at Alan, too. “We can’t get anyone to tell us anything.”
Alan looks at Kristin, and he seems relieved to have another adult here to help with the delinquents. “Can you take them home? I’m going to spend the night with Abby.”
“Sure,” she says, glancing at me and Rev and then back at him. “Is everything all right?”
I fight very hard to hold still. There’s a security guard by the desk now, and while he hasn’t approached us, it’s pretty obvious he’s here to make sure no one gets rowdy. “I’m not going home until you tell me what’s going on, Alan.”
A nurse comes through the double doors behind him with an iPad in a thick case. “Mr. Bradford, we’re taking her upstairs now. An obstetrics nurse will meet you on the seventh floor—”
Kristin gasps. She puts a hand over her mouth. “Alan.”
Rev and I both look at her. I don’t know what that gasp means, but it’s something big. The floor drops out from beneath me. “What?” I demand. Now I can’t keep the fear out of my voice. “What’s an obstetrics nurse? Is it cancer?” My voice breaks. “Is she sick? Can I see her?”
“No, Declan. Honey.” Kristin takes my hand and pats it like I’m six years old. “Obstetrics is for pregnancy.” She doesn’t let go of my hand, but she turns to Alan. “Is Abby all right?”
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My hand goes slick in Kristin’s.
Pregnancy.
Alan is nodding. “She’s very dehydrated. They’ve put her on an IV. The baby is fine.”
The baby.
The baby.
My mother is going to have a baby.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
From: The Dark
To: Cemetery Girl
Date: Monday, October 7 10:22:44 PM
Subject: The whole story, part 2
Marriage laws are funny. If you want to get married, you can go down to the courthouse, sign a few papers, and be married in less than fifteen minutes.
If you want to get divorced, you have to wait a year. Even if your husband is in prison.
My father was sentenced to ten years, and some naive part of me actually thought that my mother was going to wait around for him. Like he’d get out of prison one day, we’d go out for a soda, and good ol’ Jim and Abby would pick up where they left off. As if he hadn’t killed my sister and put us all through hell.
To my knowledge, my mother has never visited my father in prison. I definitely haven’t. I asked to see him once, when the shock and numbness had worn off, and our lives were beginning to fall back into some kind of regularity. Mom looked like I’d said the filthiest, foulest thing that could ever come out of someone’s mouth. She looked like she wanted to slap me.
Then she said, “We are never seeing him again.”
And then she went into the kitchen and smoked a cigarette while standing over the sink.
I felt like I belonged in prison with him.
A year later, she started dating. I’d just started sophomore year, so I was a little oblivious at first. She didn’t go wild or anything. I really didn’t even know she was dating until she started bringing them home.
At first, this seemed like a great idea. After Kerry died, Mom was constantly in my face. Wanted to know where I was going, who I was with, what was going on with school. You can imagine how I reacted to this kind of treatment. A new boyfriend meant she could dote on someone else.
What came as a surprise was that my mother’s taste in men sucked.
After my dad turned out to be such a winner, I probably should have figured.
The first one didn’t last too long after he met me. Maybe he was fine with the idea of a stepchild in theory, or maybe he thought kids should be like dogs, locked in a crate when you didn’t want to deal with them. Either way, he didn’t like the fact that I wasn’t a trained poodle. He would come over for dinner, and he always seemed irritated that I dared to eat at the table.
Eventually, Mom picked up on it, and he was history.
The second lasted a little longer, but not by much. Only because he didn’t come to the house very often. He was super strict, super religious, and the way he watched me always made me nervous. My best friend wouldn’t come in the house when he was around. I don’t know what happened to break them up, but Mom was talking about him on the phone to a friend, and she called him a “near miss.”
Number three was gay, something I noticed when I first met him, but for some reason it took Mom a few weeks. Number four was secretly unemployed. It ended when he asked to borrow a credit card for a little while. Not because he asked—because she gave it to him, and he racked up seven thousand dollars in charges before leaving town.
You might be noticing a trend.
Number five was still married. Mom found out when she tried to surprise him at home and ran into his wife. She cried for days, telling me she felt like such a fool.
She kept bringing these men into our lives, and they were all wrong. Anyone could see that. Sometimes I wonder if there’s something broken in her head, the way she trusts people who are destined to disappoint her.
Then again, she trusted me, and look where it got us.
By the time she introduced me to number six, I was primed to hate them all.
Unfortunately, Mom was head over heels, as usual. He was a businessman, so a far cry from the dirty fingernails and blistered palms of a guy who works on cars all day. Number six actually got pedicures, if you can believe that. I mocked him to his face, hoping to speed along the inevitable breakup. Mom loved it, though. He took her to fancy dinners, wore shoes with a shine, and swept her off her feet.
He tried to win me over at first. He’d hit me in the shoulder and say something like, “Hey, pal, I’ve got skybox tickets to the O’s game tonight. I thought maybe you and I could check it out.”
Yeah, because everything about me screams “baseball fan.”
I turned him down. I always turned him down.
When that didn’t work, he tried to play the father figure. A teacher would call home, and he would try to deal with it. He’d accuse me of acting out, of deliberately hurting my mother to spite him. He started hating me. I could feel it.
Not like it mattered. It was only a matter of time before we’d learn the truth. Maybe this guy would turn out to be a meth addict. Whatever. I knew it wouldn’t last.
Unfortunately, it did. They got engaged. They set a date.
He asked me to be his best man. I refused.
He said, “Ungrateful punk. Figures.”
Figures.
I’m so angry now, remembering it. The disdain in his voice, the complete and total lack of regard. I’m glad the phone is autocorrecting because my fingers are all over the place. Ungrateful punk. Figures.
I was supposed to be grateful that yet another guy was swooping in to ruin my mother’s life? Apparently so. I didn’t fawn all over him like she did, so he wrote me off. He’d built that snapshot of me in his head, and that was it. That’s how he saw me. How he sees me.
After that, I couldn’t do anything right. I used to mow the lawn, but he started doing it while I was at school, and he’d do it in some stupid diamond p
attern that made her gush. He took out the trash without being asked, and she’d make comments about how nice it was to have a man around to take care of the house. Mom used to take me places, but now she goes everywhere with him. After the best man incident, I didn’t want to go anywhere with him—but they never asked anyway.
Sometimes I wish I had died in that car with Kerry. I think it would have been easier on my mother. She had a chance for a new start, but I was still around, getting in the way.
They got married last May.
I celebrated by trying to kill myself after the ceremony.
I didn’t succeed. Obviously.
But right now, after what I just found out about my mother, I wish I had.
I’m sitting in the dark, staring at his email. Five minutes ago, I was lying in the dark, waiting for sleep to steal my thoughts about Declan and Rev and what might be happening to them tonight, and then my phone lit up.
Now my heart is pounding and I’m wide awake.
The green dot still appears beside his name. He chatted with me once. Could I do the same?
CG: Do you want to talk about it?
I wait, but he doesn’t respond.
Adrenaline is still kicking along in my veins. I don’t know what to do.
“Come on,” I whisper.
I wish I had a way to call him. I wish I knew of another way to get in touch with him.
CG: I know you’re still online. Please let me know you’re OK.
Nothing.
CG: You’re really worrying me. We don’t have to talk, but please let me know you’re there.
You’re there. Because I can’t type, Please let me know you’re alive.
Nothing.
I glance at my clock. It’s half past ten, and Dad’s in bed, but I don’t know what else to do. I’ll have to wake him up.
I throw my blankets back, and the phone lights up.
TD: I’m here. Sorry. Was brushing my teeth.
CG: I want to punch you.
TD: ???
CG: I was really worried.
TD: I’m not having a good night.
CG: Do you want to talk about it?
TD: No.
Well. I don’t know what to do with that.
My phone lights up again.
TD: My mom is pregnant.
CG: I sense that “Congratulations” isn’t the right thing to say.
TD: She’s four months pregnant. They’ve known for four months and they haven’t told me.
CG: Maybe not that long. You can’t tell right away.
TD: Fine. But they didn’t find out today.
CG: Is she happy?
TD: I have no idea. I found out by accident. They weren’t even going to tell me.
CG: They would have had to tell you eventually.
TD: Is this supposed to be making me feel better?
CG: I’m sorry. I’ve had a weird night, too.
TD: Why? What’s going on with you?
CG: We don’t have to talk about me. I wanted to make sure you were okay.
TD: I’m fine. I don’t want to talk about it. Why was your night weird?
CG: I don’t know if I want to talk about it, either.
TD: Why not?
Because it feels odd to talk to him about Declan. Which is ridiculous. But at the same time, it’s not. It feels like talking to one crush about another, which seems to border a line of betrayal. At the same time, The Dark is anonymous, and I feel like he understands me in a way no one else has. It feels odd not to talk about Declan.
This whole thing is odd.
Odd and addictive. I bite at my lip and type slowly.
CG: Remember when I was telling you about Declan Murphy?
TD: Yes.
I hesitate, staring at the screen. I’d been thinking Rev could be The Dark, but when I met his parents, I realized that didn’t fit at all. But Declan . . .
My phone flashes.
TD: Are you still there?
CG: You never told me if you know Declan or not. I’m just now realizing you have a lot of similarities.
TD: What kind of similarities?
CG: You both have stepfathers that you don’t get along with. You know your way around a car, and so does he.
TD: Way to crack the case, Sherlock. Half the guys in our school have stepfathers they don’t get along with, and there are at least sixty kids in the senior class alone who take some variety of auto shop.
CG: You share an attitude, too, I see.
TD: Quit beating around the bush. Do you want me to tell you who I am?
I stop breathing. Do I?
I try to reexamine every interaction with Declan through this new lens. None of it fits cleanly. It’s all square pegs and round holes. He showed up after Homecoming, so maybe that works out—but why wouldn’t he admit who he was? Why keep up this charade?
And The Dark knows how difficult photography is for me. Tonight, in Rev’s basement, Declan seemed genuinely shocked when I told him that taking the yearbook picture affected me, too. The Dark has never mentioned any trouble with the law or probation or any kind of community service, but I know Declan is court ordered to do something after what he did last spring. I don’t even know all the details of his case, I realize, not any more than what he told me in the car. And I’ve never heard Declan mention a sister—and Rev hasn’t, either. There’s enough pain in The Dark’s words that I know she weighs heavily on his heart.
Then again, I don’t think I’ve mentioned my mother to Declan.
All that aside, do I want to know who The Dark is?
If he’s Declan Murphy, is that a good thing? I can’t even lie to myself about the flickers of attraction in Rev’s basement earlier—and then the flickers of anger and irritation and exasperation and worry.
I can still hear the rasp in his voice. You’re all right.
I put my head down on my pillow. Oh, if this is Declan Murphy, what would that mean? My heart flutters wildly, and I don’t even bother to tamp it down.
Then another thought tamps it down for me.
If this isn’t Declan Murphy, what would that mean?
My phone lights up.
TD: I sense a hesitation.
I giggle. It’s been almost five minutes since the last message.
CG: You must be psychic. We could probably ditch the phones.
TD: I actually thought maybe you’d fallen asleep.
CG: Still here.
TD: You didn’t answer my question.
CG: I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to know who you are.
TD: Fair enough.
CG: Do you want to talk about your mom?
TD: No.
CG: Do you want me to let you go to sleep?
TD: No.
CG: Do you want to keep talking?
TD: Yes.
I smile and blush and nestle down under my blankets.
He sends another message.
TD: Tell me about your night with Declan Murphy.
I hesitate. Am I talking about Declan to Declan?
My head hurts. I type.
CG: There’s not much to tell. Mr. Gerardi asked me to shoot the Fall Festival last week, so I did. One of the pictures captured Declan and his friend on one side of the shot and some cheerleaders doing a routine on the other side.
TD: Go on.
CG: Mr. Gerardi wants to use it as the cover of the yearbook. I told Declan and his friend, Rev, and Declan flipped out.
TD: Why?
CG: I don’t know. He got in my face and said he didn’t want a memory of this year.
TD: He sounds like a real prick. I’m wondering if I should be offended that you think I’m him.
CG: Sometimes he is a real prick. But I didn’t take it well, either.
TD: Because of your mother.
CG: Yeah.
TD: Don’t you think she’d be proud, that a picture you took would be on the cover of the yearbook?
CG: No. She’d be proud if I took a pictur
e of the Baltimore riots that ended up in Time or something. She said photography was a way to show what the world is really like.
TD: Yeah, but in snapshots, right?
CG: Yes . . . ?
TD: A snapshot is one moment. When I was looking up your mother’s photographs, I clicked around and looked at some other stuff. I found one from the Vietnam War, where a man is shooting a prisoner in the head. Do you know it?
CG: Yes. It’s a famous photograph.
TD: Which man is the bad guy?
I blink and sit up again. I know exactly what picture he’s talking about because it’s fairly graphic. A man’s death is captured in the image. I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know the history surrounding the shot, just that it was pivotal in turning public opinion against the Vietnam War. I’ve always assumed the “bad guy” was the man with the gun, because—well, because he was killing someone else. But I don’t know anything beyond that moment in time.
CG: I’ve always thought the man with the gun, but now I’m not so sure.
TD: The man with the gun was the chief of police. He was executing the other guy for killing more than thirty people in the street, some of them children.
CG: I don’t even know what to say. I feel like I should have known that.
TD: Don’t feel too bad. I’m reading from Wikipedia right now.
CG: I don’t understand what any of this has to do with a stupid photo in a yearbook.
TD: I mean a photo is just that: a moment in time. We don’t know what’s really going on with the people in the picture. And we don’t know what’s going on with the photographer. What makes it important is what we bring to the photo: our assumption of who is the bad guy and who is the good guy. What makes it important is how we feel when we look at it. And a photograph doesn’t have to be about riots or death or famine or children at play in a war zone to make an impact.
CG: So you’re saying it shouldn’t bother me that it’s going to be on the yearbook.
TD: Yes.
CG: Okay, then.
TD: And I’m saying you should be proud of it.
CG: You haven’t even seen it.
TD: Send it to me.
CG: I can’t. It’s at school.
TD: Well, it has to be pretty good if they chose your photo over making all the seniors stand in lines to spell out the school initials.