Made You Up

  We all filed out past her.

  I stopped outside the doorway and looked back in. June held Miles tightly, rocking back and forth. I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear him laughing and crying and saying something muffled by June’s shirt. A moment later, a smartly dressed woman walked past us into the room. I waited in the doorway long enough to hear her reassure them that everything would be better, then ducked out into the hall.

  The triplets went down to get food while every else headed to the waiting room. I went with them; my parents were around somewhere, and I wanted to tell them what was going on.

  I didn’t even have to leave the floor to find them. They sat in a small, secluded little waiting room, alone except for my doctor and the Gravedigger. Their voices were strained and hard. Anxiety settled in my stomach. They hadn’t seen me coming down the hallway, so I pressed my back to the wall and crept closer, positioning myself around the corner.

  “I don’t think we have any other option at this point.” That was the Gravedigger, talking like she had any say in what happened to me.

  “How could she have known that it was falling?” Mom asked. “Unless . . . ?”

  “But they said the principal loosened the supports,” Dad said. “He was trying to drop it on that girl. Lexi didn’t have anything to do with it—she was just reacting.”

  “Still.” Damn you, Gravedigger. Shut up. Shut the fuck up. “This incident can’t have done her any good. She’s unstable. I’ve noticed her getting worse all year.”

  “But we’ve seen her, too,” Dad pushed. “Good things have happened, too. She’s coping. She has friends. A boyfriend, even. I wouldn’t feel right, taking that away from her.”

  “I think Leann may have a point, David,” my mother said.

  The Gravedigger jumped back in again. “In my professional opinion, this is a critical time, and she needs to be in a safe, monitored place where she can regain control. I don’t mean to restrict her, and I’m glad she’s added to her support structure. But that doesn’t change the facts.”

  I couldn’t listen to any more. I made my way back to my room, where the lawyer had left but Miles and June were still smiling and laughing.

  “Alex, dear, there you are!” June motioned to me. “Come and sit over here for a while; we have so much to talk about!”

  “I’m feeling a little tired. I think I’m going to sleep for a while,” I said.

  “You get all the rest you need.” June smiled warmly. “There will be plenty of time to talk afterward.”

  I pulled myself into the bed and yanked the sheets up, my face and side burning with pain I wondered how much time I would actually have.

  Because as much as I hated it, and hated this, and hated her, the Gravedigger was right.

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  Chapter Sixty

  I woke up once in the middle of the night. Bloody Miles stood at the end of the bed, blue eyes wide and piercing, blood oozing from his freckles. Holding his hand was a girl with blood-red hair and a million cuts on the side of her face, her eyes as wide as his. They stood there for a long time, staring at me. Neither of them said a word, but they both smiled with bloodstained teeth.

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  Chapter Sixty-one

  I woke later. It was still night. Miles was writing in his notebook. He looked over when I rolled onto my back and sat up.

  “Feeling any better?” he asked, smiling.

  “No, not really.”

  He closed his notebook and set it in his lap. “Come here.”

  I tottered to the edge of his bed, pulled my legs up next to his, and leaned my head back against his shoulder. His arm wound around me.

  The world was hollow. What had been the point of this year? Senior year, all the college applications . . . would it have been better just to go straight to the hospital after Hillpark? I was the one who said no. I said I could do it; I said I had it under control. The only thing my parents could be accused of was trusting me too much.

  Miles waited patiently, pretending to be interested in brushing my hair back.

  “My parents are sending me to Crimson—to that hospital. I heard them talking about it.”

  “But you’re old enough—they can’t decide that for you,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

  Then the tears came, spilling out before I could catch them, stinging my face on their way down. “I don’t,” I said. “But I think I need to. I can’t tell the difference by myself. Not anymore.”

  I didn’t know if he understood anything I said through my blubbering, but his arm tightened around me and he kissed the side of my forehead. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to persuade me otherwise.

  He’d escaped the tank. I didn’t know if I ever would.

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  Chapter Sixty-two

  Later, when I’d calmed down, Miles leaned over the side of the bed and grabbed his backpack. He unzipped it and took out a few things.

  “Can I look in your notebook?” I asked.

  He quirked his eyebrow. “What for?”

  “Just because.”

  He handed it over. Most of this notebook was in German, but there were still bits and pieces in English. June’s name was scattered through the pages.

  “Why’d you keep your mom’s maiden name?” I asked.

  “How’d you know?”

  “When Tucker and I were looking up Scarlet in the library, June was mentioned in an article. She was the valedictorian.”

  “Oh. Yeah. We switched to her name when we went to Germany.”

  “Ah.” He didn’t need to give more explanation than that. I flipped through a few more pages of his notebook and said, “I have a confession—I’ve read this.”

  “What? When?”

  “Um . . . when Erwin died and you gave me a ride home. You went in the building to turn in those papers, and I peeked.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, but he didn’t swipe the notebook away from me. I shrugged. Pain spiked my collarbone.

  “Well, obviously I didn’t want you to know that I looked. You didn’t exactly seem like the most forgiving person.” I flipped through a few more pages. “What are these German parts?”

  “Journal entries,” he said. “I didn’t want other people to read them.”

  “Well, good job,” I said. “I did see my name a few times in that other notebook, though.”

  “Ah, yeah,” he said, laughing again. “Yeah, I was a little upset on the first day of school. I didn’t think you were the right person. It was stupid, but I guess I didn’t think it was you at first because you didn’t act at all like I’d imagined you would.”

  “Hah, sorry. I thought that about you, too.”

  I turned to the last pages.

  What you loved as a child, you will love forever.

  “I think you’re an improvement on my imagination,” I said, flipping back through the pages.

  “You, too,” he said. “My imagination—well, what little imagination I have—doesn’t quite live up to the real thing.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “The real thing is much better.”

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  Chapter Sixty-three

  I got to come back one more time. Maybe they thought I’d gotten all the crazy out of my system for now. Maybe they pitied me. Maybe I actually had more sway than I thought, since I’d agreed to go to Woodlands. Whatever the reason, they
let me into the school for graduation.

  There were a few stipulations, of course. The first: I wasn’t allowed into the ceremony, but I got to stand by the auditorium doors and watch. The second: I had to have a pair of Woodlands orderlies (read: thugs in scrubs) flanking me at all times. Sure, they were driving me up to Woodlands as soon as the ceremony was over, but did they have to look so menacing while they did it? The third was the worst: Because of the McCoy ordeal and the school board looking to avoid any further mishaps, I wasn’t allowed out of the car without wrist restraints. At least they’d agreed to let me wear a sweatshirt to partially cover up the cuffs. The only reason I was going to the damn hospital was because I’d decided to—you’d think they’d be a little more lenient.

  By the time we reached the auditorium, everyone else was already seated. Parents and other relatives took up the right and left sides of the auditorium stage. I noticed June because of the golden halo in her sandy hair. My classmates sat in the middle section. They all wore East Shoal graduation green.

  The stage was bathed in bright light. It was Mr. Gunthrie who filled Mr. McCoy’s vacated principal’s seat; his gray suit made him look like a golem. I could definitely believe Mr. Gunthrie was animated by magic.

  Next to him were the four senior student officers, most of them fidgeting. Tucker sat next to the class treasurer, glasses flashing in the light, wringing his speech mercilessly between his hands.

  Miles was there, the valedictorian’s golden cord slung over his shoulders. His hands were clasped in his lap, his eyes focused somewhere around the edge of the stage.

  Mr. Gunthrie started the ceremony with his usual thunderous yell. The lights dimmed until I could no longer distinguish individual people in the auditorium.

  The class president stood and gave his speech. The vice president said a few short words, the band played the school song, and then Mr. Gunthrie began announcing names. The honors students went up first. I had to grind my teeth to keep from laughing when Miles shook Mr. Gunthrie’s hand—even from where I stood, I could see the Cheshire cat grin that spread across Miles’s face, and the stony frown Mr. Gunthrie gave him in return.

  When my name should have been called, I rocked forward onto the balls of my feet, my insides aching. I’d worked so hard for that diploma . . . .

  One of the orderlies grabbed my sweatshirt hood and gently tugged me back. I grunted, sitting back on my heels, and stood still while the rest of my classmates graduated. Evan and Ian pretended to get their diplomas mixed up, then tried to shake Mr. Gunthrie’s hand at the same time. Theo looked like she was ready to go and pull the both of them offstage. Art made Mr. Gunthrie look like a large pebble when they stood next to each other. Then everyone took their seats except for Mr. Gunthrie.

  “Before we end the ceremony, there are a few more parting words. The first are from your salutatorian, Tucker Beaumont.” A round of lukewarm applause ran through the theater. Tucker, face red, moved to stand at the podium.

  I felt a rush of pride. Mr. Soggy Potato Salad, who’d decided to break into McCoy’s house, jumped into the brawl at Finnegan’s, and helped bring Miles home. Who’d forgiven me for everything I’d done, and then some. I didn’t know if I deserved a friend like him, but I was glad I had him.

  He spent a moment adjusting the microphone and smoothing his twisted speech, then he cleared his throat and looked around at everyone.

  “I guess I’ll start with a bit of a cliché,” he said. “We made it!” The auditorium erupted with shouts of excitement and victory.

  Tucker smiled. “Okay, now that that’s out of the way—I think we can all safely say that this was the craziest year of school any of us has ever experienced.” He glanced back at Miles, who only quirked an eyebrow. “Even if you weren’t there every moment, you heard about it. You were still a part of it. You survived it. And really, if you can survive pythons coming out of the woodwork, you can survive almost anything.”

  Laughter. Tucker repositioned his glasses and took a deep breath.

  “People say teenagers think they’re immortal, and I agree with that. But I think there’s a difference between thinking you’re immortal and knowing you can survive. Thinking you’re immortal leads to arrogance, thinking you deserve the best. Surviving means having the worst thrown at you and being able to continue on despite that. It means striving for what you want most, even when it seems out of your reach, even when everything is working against you.

  “And then, after you’ve survived, you get over it. And you live.”

  Tucker took another deep breath and leaned against the podium, looking around at everyone. He smiled.

  “We’re survivors. So now let’s live.”

  The auditorium erupted again and Tucker could barely hide his grin as he walked back to his seat, twirling his silver salutatorian tassels. I couldn’t help but smile, too. Survivors. What better word for people who made it out of this place alive?

  Mr. Gunthrie waited for the applause and cheering to die down, and then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, your valedictorian, Miles Richter.”

  The sudden silence in the auditorium was even more pronounced because of the deafening noise that had preceded it. No one clapped. I couldn’t tell if it was because they were scared, angry, or surprised.

  Miles stood and looked around much like Tucker had, but he didn’t fidget while he did it. His fingers rapped against the wooden top of the podium. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Mr. Gunthrie cleared his throat loudly, but Miles was silent.

  Then Miles looked toward where I stood in the doorway. He smiled.

  “I know that most of you don’t want to hear anything I have to say,” he began. “And I know the rest of you really do. And I also know that these two things mean that all of you are listening attentively. That’s exactly what I want.

  “James Baldwin said, ‘The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.’” Miles sighed and swept the graduation cap off his head. He glared at it for a moment, then threw it to the side of the stage. Behind him, Mr. Gunthrie’s face turned a mottled hue of purple.

  “I always thought those things looked ridiculous,” Miles grumbled into the microphone. A few hesitant chuckles came from the crowd, like they weren’t sure if he was joking or not. Then he said, “For a long time, I had nothing to lose. I was that dangerous creation. I know most of you probably think I’m a jerk”—he glanced at me again—”and you’re right, I am. Not the kind that vandalizes cars and kills pets, but I am an arrogant, pretentious jerk. I do think I’m better than all of you, because I’m smarter. I’m smarter and I’m more determined to do what I set out to do.

  I wasn’t sure what guidelines Miles had been given for his speech, but if the shade of Mr. Gunthrie’s face was anything to go by, he had wildly ignored them.

  “I used to think all of that, anyway,” he continued. “I still do, kind of. I’m learning to . . . not to change, because in all honesty I like the way I am. Not what I do, but who I am. No, I’m learning to . . . keep it bottled up? Displace it? Control my frustration? Whatever it is, it’s working. I don’t feel like that dangerous creation anymore. I no longer have any motivation to do the things I did here.

  “For anyone I’ve wronged—I’m sorry. Whatever I did and for whatever reason I did it, I’m sorry. Meine Mutter”—I pictured Cliff squirming in his seat—“always taught me that apologizing is the polite thing to do.”

  I could imagine the radiant smile stretching across June’s face.

  “I want to say a few more things. The first is to our wonderful salutatorian.” He turned and addressed Tucker. “I didn’t mean what I said to you. You were my best friend, and I screwed that up. You deserved better.

  “The second is to the East Shoal High School Recreational Athletics Support Club. I think if it hadn’t been for you, I would have killed myself a long time ago.”

  We were probably the only ones who realized how serious he was.

  “The third is to all of
you. I used to be scared of you all. It’s true. I used to care what you thought and I used to care that you might try to hurt me. Well, not anymore. So, to the latter, see how far you get in a fistfight. And to the former, try this on for size—I am in love with Alexandra Ridgemont, and I don’t care what you think about it.”

  He looked up at me again, and the world solidified under my feet.

  “I feel like there’s something else, but I can’t quite remember. . . .” His fingers tapped against the podium. He shrugged and began to walk back to his seat . . . then he clapped his hands together with an “Oh, right!” and whipped back around, yanking the microphone to his face in time to say, “Fickt euch!”

  From somewhere in the middle of the sea of students, Jetta’s hands shot into the air and she cried out a triumphant, “Mein Chef!”

  I couldn’t tell why everyone else began cheering—the realization that what Miles had said was probably very vulgar?—but their voices shook the floor.

  Mr. Gunthrie stood, perhaps to haul Miles off the stage, but Miles slipped away at the last second and made his way down the aisle. My orderlies pulled me back, into the hallway. I heard the auditorium doors swing open again, but we were outside, standing in the crisp night air, before Miles caught up with us.

  “Wait!”

  “I just want to talk to him!” I said, glancing over my shoulder at Miles. “Please. I won’t try anything.”

  The orderlies looked at each other, then at me. “Two minutes,” one of them said. “We have to leave before everyone else gets out here.”

  “Fine. Got it.”

  They let go of my arms. I turned and jogged the short distance back to Miles.

  “I didn’t think they’d let you come back,” he said.

  “I’m very persuasive.”

  He laughed, but the sound was hollow. “I’ve taught you well.”

  “Are you kidding? If I did things the way you do them, I would’ve been locked up a long time ago.”

  Miles didn’t say anything to that, but reached up to touch my face—the raw, still mutilated side of my face. I grabbed his hand.