The She

  I thought of her blinking at the floor almost all morning when I had talked to Mr. Church and realized she was very good at shutting down, not letting her personal feelings seep out if she didn't want them to. And considering her life was so up in the air I really had no idea whether she was suicidal or fine or somewhere in between. I tried to force images from my head of her in a limo with some old dirtbag, but it was hard. I didn't know if she'd go back to Saint Elizabeth's and find some answers on her next move, or go out in the middle of the night and throw herself off the drawbridge into the freezing—

  I knocked. I could hear her moving around in there, so I opened the door two inches and said, "Um...," since I really wasn't sure what I wanted. She walked past the crack in the door and I could see she was in a tank top and flannel Abercrombies, so I pushed the door open all the way. She started brushing her hair upside down, looked at me sideways, and asked, "You come back to help pop my zits?"

  Humor. Good sign. "I don't think you have any. At least none of the mirror-splattering magnitude."

  "What would you know about hitting the mirror Barrett? God, you're lucky. You've got skin that came straight from the angels."

  I rubbed my cheeks, thinking of how I didn't like them, how they could stay flushed from cold or heat longer than anyone else's I knew.

  "I hit the mirror occasionally," I lied.

  "Liar. Check this out." She ran her finger over two little places, one on her cheek and one on her chin, that looked like she'd been stuck by a small pin. "I'm, like, besieged by these devils. I don't really think they're zits because they never hurt."

  I kind of flinched and swallowed. "Yeah, well, stuff like that always looks worse on yourself." I had noticed at times that Grey's skin was not always perfect, but somehow it didn't take away from the overall great effect.

  "Are you going to help me brush my teeth?"

  She wandered into the bathroom, turned on the light, and I sat on the edge of the bed, saying nothing. I heard water running, and she reappeared a few minutes later with toothpaste all over her face.

  She said around the toothbrush, "I got these bleeding gums, too. Really bad teeth. It hurts to brush them."

  Now that was a bold-faced lie. I sat there laughing quietly as she went back in the bathroom, and figured maybe she was okay if she was up for weird tricks to make me laugh, and I should turn in. She came out smelling of alcohol and mint and some sweet, fresh smell I still think of only as the Great Grey Shailey Smell. Her face was shiny. She stuck a finger up to her gums as she plopped down beside me, facing me.

  "Honest. I have the gums from hell."

  "Grey, your mouth is perfect," I argued. "Aside from what comes out of it every now and again."

  "Yeah, but these aren't my real teeth. They're all capped."

  She actually had me looking for a second as she flashed this Colgate perfection in my face.

  "Why are you trying to gross me out?"

  She flinched a little, like she was amazed at my insight. Then she wiggled down under the covers, flopped her head back on the pillow, and put her arms behind her head. She glanced sideways and said, "Sorry, I forgot to shave."

  "I'm not coming on to you, so you can cut it out."

  She bit on her lip to bury a smile. When she got it under control, she asked, "So, what do you want, Evan Barrett?"

  I want to make sure you're not going to sneak past me in the middle of the night and throw yourself off the drawbridge. I want to make sure you're okay. My eyes wandered around the room and landed back on her. I just shook my head.

  "You take your meds finally?"

  She looked at me for a long time. "No, doctor. Why? You worried about me?"

  "Yeah."

  "How come?"

  I didn't want to ask a lot of questions about where she was going in two weeks, stuff that would keep her awake. I think I would have sold my soul for one more chance to run my fingers through her hair lay a big kiss on her forehead, and promise that her life would get good again, and I would make sure of it if it was the last thing I did. But I could read her defensive mood, and a glint in her eyes had me burying mine in my fingers before she even started up again.

  "You know, up at Saint E's, if you don't take your medicine, they'll make you drop your drawers, and they'll give it the heave-ho up the exit door. You want to give it a try or something?"

  I fell onto the floor rubbing my eyes hard. "Grey, you are like a tarantula ... or whatever type of spider it is that spits poison."

  She rolled over on her side, looking down on me. "Don't be too offended. I only get poisonous to people I really, really like."

  "Now, why would you want to do that?" I could actually see some affection in her gaze that I really had no clue what to do with.

  "Actually, I'm more of a barracuda than a spider. I chew my victims up and spit out their bones. I get too much pleasure out of ruining guys. It's horrible. I'm working on a remedy. But it's going to take a while. Seriously. I like you, Evan Barrett. Maybe I even ... like you a whole lot. Therefore, in deference to you, I suggest you stay as far away from me as is humanly possible right now."

  I sat up, thinking this was all bullshit, or even if it wasn't, it also wasn't the real issue. I would just say it, and deal with the results later.

  "If you're up for destroying your love interests, maybe it's because some of your experiences have been completely putrid."

  She stared at the ceiling again. "You have no idea."

  "I probably know more than you think."

  "God Almighty, tell me I'm dreaming this." She muttered it with closed eyes, and after a moment of silence, she opened them again. "I was wondering how long I'd have before Chandra got real drunk and real chatty. Damn. I've got to find all new friends. Or better ... I've got to start from scratch. Do you believe in reincarnation?"

  "Absolutely not." I was so looking for a suicide remark from her that her question brought me to my knees. I knelt over her with my hands in the air because I didn't know where to put them. She looked from one hand to the other warily, reminding me that she was in a bed, in her pajamas, which was probably too vulnerable a position for her liking. So I left them in the air thinking of Miguel, and of Mrs. Ashaad telling me he had been abused by an uncle: "He won't know a good touch from a bad touch, so just don't touch him." I hadn't, at all, until he finally started hugging me when I left him, about the third month I was seeing him on a weekly basis.

  But Miguel was a little kid. This was a girl who had passed through me and come back out again at my parents' memorial at sea. This girl had wiped spit or snot or whatever off my face a couple of times, had seen me seasick and life sick. She was stronger than Miguel. I hoped.

  "Grey, I'm taking your hand, okay? This left one. Just for a minute." It was actually my left and her right. I realized it as she cracked a stupid grin, but let me slowly lace my fingers through hers. My other hand stayed in the air. "I don't want you doing anything stupid. You are not alone. I can handle your problems. I've basically raised myself. All right?"

  She looked at me for a long time, and I thought maybe she was going through a little meltdown. Her fingers gripped down on my hand until we had a white knuckle sandwich going on between us. Her eyes turned shiny, filling up, and her head seemed to push back further into the pillow. Then she leaned up on one elbow, got her huge gray eyes within six inches of mine.

  "It's not my problems that are the problem, Barrett. It's me that's the problem. Do you know what I did to those guys? I charged each of them a thousand dollars. I got them halfway there and said, 'If you don't want me to destroy your favorite body part, it'll be another five hundred.' Three times I walked off with fifteen hundred bucks. I'll be going to a masseuse twice a week until I'm twenty-one. So why do I give a shit?"

  She reached an arm around my neck, pulled with all those athletic muscles, and just dropped me into her face. The most horrifying part of this kiss was how my thoughts went from She's trying to bite the hell out of my mouth t
o She's not trying to. It was kind of like the way we all kissed in our stairwell adventures way back in fifth grade, feeling little else but stupid, and looking even stupider A stray thought flipped through my head about how she'd always toed the line, flirted her brains out, drove guys crazy, but I really hadn't seen her go out with anybody—except for maybe a night. It's easy to get out of kissing someone if you only go out with them once, and I wondered if any of those old dirtbags had even bothered with that part.

  I wiggled out of her strong arm, shook out my throbbing fingers, and she flipped around and faced the wall. I think my friends have it wrong when they say I have nerves of steel, because in certain really deadly situations my adrenaline is lighting me up like an electric chair Her words truly had completely horrified me, and she left me gulping for air just like she'd intended. I do think most guys would have made a mad dash for fresh air and I wonder if they would have realized her lack of romantic experience.

  Something told me if I came back with the type of remark she was used to making, it would take some of the steam out of her.

  "If you find somebody interested in teaching you how to kiss, you'd probably make a lot more money than that."

  She laughed. She didn't turn around, but held up a hand, which I realized she wanted me to skin. I skinned it and thumped back on the floor staring and staring at the ceiling until my heart calmed. I watched her back every now and again, wondering how in hell much therapy it would take to make her hearty mind, and body work like a normal person's. And I didn't know what I could do for her, and it was a very helpless feeling.

  I hadn't heard her breathing change, so I sat up, trying to keep my voice from quaking.

  "I'm going to sleep. I'm closing your door but I'm a light sleeper. If I hear this door open, you'd better show up at my doon You get any ideas of taking a little walk over the side of the drawbridge or anything, you will never get past me. So forget it, right now."

  She finally sniffed, and it was full of tears. I rolled my eyes guiltily, thinking we could have filled up the Atlantic Ocean, between me today and her tonight.

  "That's nice, Evan. Really nice. You almost make me want to play vulnerable, just so somebody else could be tough for a while. But I just can't afford it right now. So listen to me ... Listen up." She turned over without jerking around too hard, and I could see a resolve in her eyes, despite the flood. "I spent a lot of time talking about suicide up at Saint E's. I've had doctors and nurses in my face every hour reminding me that if I did something stupid like that, I would be letting grown perverts win over innocent kids. At Saint E's, they're making me feel like I stand for something, something that's bigger than me. I feel important. For once. Though the truth probably is..."—she forced out a laugh as she hiccupped—"I simply have enough killer bitch in my system to be stubborn on those evil bastards, and maybe other girls wouldn't have it in them. That's all. I don't want to be a hero for others. I don't want to turn in my dad. I don't want my name in the newspaper for setting an example, or any of the other stuff they're trying to talk me into at Saint E's. I just, um ... I don't want to let those perverts win. I promise you, I will not take myself out over this mess. I don't know what I'm going to do yet, but I won't do that. Do you believe me?"

  "Grey, you are not a killer bitch. Stop saying that."

  Her face grew blurry, because my own eyes were filling. I wanted to tell her she was amazing and a hero no matter what, but it was just the kind of remark that she didn't like to hear that would have brought out her raunchy side, and I didn't want to be the cause of it.

  "Do you believe me?" she repeated. "Because if I ever forgot myself and thought I wanted to do it, I would remember not to do that to you. Call it a romantic gesture. At my speed."

  A laugh spilled out of me from somewhere. "Okay."

  "Good. Because, yeah, I lied. I finally had to take my meds. And I really need to sleep now. And you really need some sleep." I felt her fingers on the side of my face. They were still shaking, but they were there. "Get out of here, Barrett. You look ... kind of ugly, for once. Go sleep it off, 'cause I can't stand looking at ugly people first thing in the morning."

  I got up hazily and walked out.

  NINETEEN

  I trudged down the hall after homeroom, half trying to remember what my first class was on Monday, half realizing Grey Shailey's name had just come out of somebody's mouth in front of me. My eyes were too heavy to look up, but I saw two slender shiny bars of metal disappearing into a sock and snow boot.

  "Anyway, she says to me, 'I was really mean to you a couple of days last year. And at any rate, I'm sorry.' I didn't want to laugh or anything, but I almost did ... just because I was stunned. It was like waking up in some alternate universe, where everyone you run into is their coeternal opposite."

  "I hope you did laugh. Either she was on something or she had an ulterior motive." The girl to the left of Soundra shuddered. "Does she want to go skiing with your family over Christmas or something?"

  I flinched, remembering Grey's outburst about amputees going skiing: "Does it cost less to buy your skis if you only have to buy one?" She might feel ready to turn over a new leaf, but Grey had a long way to go before she'd be able to bite her poison tongue through a ski trip. I looked up. Soundra was walking between Amy Fontaine and Georgia Kraus.

  Amy had asked the question, and now Georgia kicked in. "I think she must have heard my mom's theory somewhere along the line called the 'popularity principle.' You ever hear this?"

  "No." Soundra snickered. "I don't think I've ever had the need."

  "My mom says that kids' popularity never lasts. And whoever was most popular last year turns into a burned-out old windbag next year. And she says you're always most popular right before your burnout ignites. So if you ever feel really popular look out. Your windbag stage is right around the corner."

  "So ... Grey Shailey was really popular as a junior and now she's making a last-ditch effort to stay out of her windbag zone by finally being nice to people?" Amy cackled.

  "Wait a minute," Soundra cut in. "This was a minor miracle here. Don't let's mock. It sort of reminded me of that girl with the blood disease six years ago who went to the pool at Lourdes. Remember her? Supposedly she came back well again? Maybe Grey Shailey went to the pool at Lourdes or something and came back human."

  Soundra kept grinning while thinking of other weird cures. "Maybe she's been touched by an angel! Maybe she went to California and walked across hot coals with those middle-of-the-night TV people. Shut up! I believe in weird stuff like that."

  "You do not," Georgia said.

  "Try lying in the snow for forty-eight hours, watching frostbite crawl slowly up your broken leg and wondering if someone will hear you holler before your leg isn't the only thing you'll lose. You would believe in weird things, too."

  They shut up. I had a brief thought of Edwin Church in a POW camp.

  "Actually? I stayed on the phone with her for half an hour. We shot the bull about this or that, and actually had some laughs. Truly, I can see why she's so popular. She's very funny and so ... not afraid of people. She only said one mean thing the whole time. And I'm not really sure it was even mean. It didn't make sense to me."

  "What was it?" Georgia asked.

  "Well, the girl can really ski, you know? We're talking Olympic potential here, if she would take something seriously besides train-wrecking her GPA. So I told her 'Feel free to come up to our chalet and spend a weekend with us.' She was still laughing about the last thing we said, and then out comes, 'Don't make me puke.' Why would my asking her to come skiing make her want to puke?"

  I felt my eyes rolling into my head and made a quick U-turn, and I bumped into people and walls and stuff until I was knocking on Mrs. Ashaad's door, She was on the phone, as usual, but beckoned me in. I flopped in the same chair I had sat in six days ago—back when I was some naive person. The whole time she was talking about how to get the press to cover our cheerleader competition, she stared dead
at me. So I couldn't change my mind and leave again. I didn't really know why I'd come.

  Finally she hung up. "So did you go see Grey?"

  I don't think I said anything.

  "Because you look sleepless."

  I rested my neck on the top of the chair back and decided on, "She got a weekend pass. I just spent Friday and Saturday with her."

  She groaned. "Evan, if you would put as much into your grades as you put into your KHK projects, we might actually have a shot at getting you into a decent school. Did she talk to you about her family?"

  I felt my eyebrows shooting up as I drummed two fingers on my leg.

  "I take it she did. Listen, if you feel uncomfortable about anything she may have told you, I want you to know..." She sucked in breath with an O-shaped mouth, and let it out again, more relaxed. "I want you to know, this is new territory for me, too. I think we have a case of child abuse here, the likes of which I could not have fathomed before last week. At least, not in my school."

  I stopped drumming. For a second. I drummed two fingers, then four.

  "The problem is, I didn't hear it from Grey. I heard it from somebody else, but I believe that source is reliable."

  I let my mind spin different webs, any of which would fit. Did Chandra tell somebody else when she was partying? Or did she tell Mrs. Ashaad, fully sober; her brain cells finally having boiled over? Did Grey confirm just enough to make Mrs. Ashaad start dialing phone numbers? Picking at students' heads like she was so good at?

  "What are you going to do?" I asked her.

  "I can't do anything. Not until Grey confesses either to me or to a person who is willing to sign a family services report. I asked her about it flat out, up at Saint Elizabeth's this morning, and all she did was laugh at me. So I can't do anything."

  I took the hint loud and clear and let my eyes roll back up to the ceiling. "Mrs. Ashaad, the problems are a little worse than you're imagining. According to Grey, her father is a dangerous guy. I would so love to take him off the street. Problem is, I've got a brother whom you know and like. A brother who already lost two parents. I'm not sure I want one of Mr. Shailey's hit men chasing me around Philadelphia," I blathered.