The Way It Hurts

  I lost all track of time, unsure how long I sat in that small, stinky room, or even how long it had been since the playground. There was a steady dull ache in my stomach that sharpened to knifepoint stabs every time I thought of that fucking asshole’s arm around Anna. I’d told them! And Kristen told them that they were scaring her, but they didn’t listen. They just kept coming and coming and coming—demanding I snap to their requests like a trained animal in a cage. Like they owned me.

  Jesus. Where was she? Had Kristen been able to protect her? Oh, God. Please.

  I stood and paced the cramped room, wishing I had my cell phone. I paced and cursed and tried to ignore the ball of pain in my gut, but it was all just blurring together, growing into some enormous beast that was about to claw—

  The door opened with a bone-jarring screech, and my mother ran in.

  “Elijah! Oh, God!” She crushed me in a hug I couldn’t return because…handcuffs.

  “Anna! Mom, I don’t know where she is.”

  “Dad’s got her, Eli. Dad’s got her.”

  My knees buckled, and I fell back to the chair, hollow and beaten. I blinked up at Mom for a few seconds, and then the dam burst. I buried my face in my cuffed hands and sobbed for minutes, hours, days—who the hell cared? I’d failed. I’d told my parents over and over again that I could take care of Anna, and I…oh God, I fucking lost her.

  When the sobs weakened and I became aware of Mom’s arms holding me, I managed to find my voice. “Is she okay? Did they hurt her? What about Kristen?”

  Mom lowered her eyes and twisted her fingers. “I don’t know how or where Kristen is. The police found Anna by herself almost by the main road, half out of her mind with fear, holding the note you’d tucked into her pocket. She must have fallen. She’d hurt her knee. They…well, they had to tranquilize her.” Her voice shook.

  Another knife pierced straight through my soul. I nodded. “I need to see her. Can we go now?”

  She shook her head. “No. They tell me you’re under arrest for assault. You’ll need to see the judge. We have to get you a lawyer.” Her brown eyes closed, and it hit me then how exhausted she looked.

  And then the true meaning of what she’d just said penetrated the haze of worry. “They? Who’s they, Mom?” I didn’t mean the they who put me under arrest. I meant the they who tranquilized my sister.

  Her eyes snapped open, but she couldn’t meet mine. She spread her hands and shook her head. “I know you didn’t want this, Eli—”

  “No.” I swallowed down the lump in my throat, sour and greasy.

  “I wish it could be different.”

  “No.” Slowly, rhythmically, I shook my head, hands on my gut where the sour lump settled like a stone.

  “I wish we didn’t have to—”

  “Mom, no!” I jumped to my feet. “She’s your daughter. How could you let him—”

  “Because she is my daughter!” Mom’s palm slapped the table. “You have no idea, Eli. I know you think you do, but you really have no idea how it kills us both to watch her withdraw deeper and deeper into her shell, to wonder what you did or ate or drank that did this to her. You have no idea how many hours we’ve laid awake wondering who’s going to take care of her when we get too old to do it ourselves. And you have no idea how much it rips our hearts open to know that she’s better off away from us.” Mom’s chin wobbled, and she pressed both hands to her mouth as tears fell down her face.

  I stared at her for a long time, wanting to hug her and promise everything would be fine, but also wanting to scream at the top of my lungs for putting Anna in a residence. The sour knot in my stomach put down roots, growing larger by the second. It was my fault. All of this. My fucking fault. We were there, right on the cusp of breaking out as musicians, every dream we ever had just inches from our grasp. I’d been recognized today. Recognized and begged for autographs and pictures. It was what I’d always wanted. Worked for. Planned for.

  And it was all for nothing.

  I sat on that sticky metal chair, rocking back and forth while my mother cried for her daughter—her heart—and then that whole sour knot of anxiety and guilt and shame rose up and out of me in a flood of vomit.

  24

  Kristen

  @xxMakeKrisScreamxx

  @kristencartwright Scream, bitch!

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. “It’s okay, Anna. It’s okay. It’s time for ice cream, okay? Come with me.” I’d tugged Elijah’s sister away from the mob, but she was terrified. She kept pulling her hand free to run back to him. “In the car, Anna. In the car, so we can get Eli.”

  “Eli!” she kept shrieking.

  People were watching. Staring. Following. The car was still too far away. I tightened my grip on Anna’s hand and pulled her toward the lot.

  “Kristen! Hey, Kristen!”

  I whipped around, putting Anna behind me, and found four guys approaching us slowly, each wearing creepy grins, and a ripple of fear crawled up my spine.

  “Hey, Kristen! Can I ask you something?” One guy stepped forward. He was tall and thin and wore cargo shorts with flip-flops, and had a ball cap low on his face.

  My heart stopped.

  It was him.

  God in heaven, it was Paulie, from the grocery store.

  I stepped back and shook my head. “No. I have to get this girl home.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.” He pulled a phone from his pocket. “I just need you to say one thing. Paulie made me scream.” He slung an arm around me, pressed close, aimed the phone, and said, “Ready? One, two, three. Go.”

  I shoved him off and hurried to Anna. “Anna, come with Kristen. Remember the ding-dong song? We can sing in the car.”

  “Hey! Come on, I said it’ll only take a minute. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is I said no.”

  Paulie lost his grin and charged. He grabbed me and pulled my hair. “Scream!” he said and snapped a picture.

  I screamed. I also elbowed him in the gut, and when he dropped his phone, I smashed it under my foot. “I said no!” I told him again. When he opened his mouth to say something more disgusting, I kicked like a Rockette and got him in the teeth this time.

  Anna cried, “Eli!”

  I grabbed her hand again, but one of the guys had her. Anna, terrified beyond reason, bucked and twisted and slammed her head into the guy’s nose. He let her go with a stream of curses, and Anna took off running toward the parking lot. I followed her, praying the pissed off guys would not follow and try to hurt her. Hurt us.

  Where was Elijah? Was he really posing for pictures with those skanky girls? My God, this was a disaster. All we’d done was take a trip to the playground when—

  Oh no. This was my fault. I’d tweeted where we were.

  After I’d attacked Elijah for being reckless online, I’d drawn a map for a few thousand losers and hung a sign that said, “Come and get us!” I was cold and shivering despite the heat of the summer day. This was my fault. Entirely my fault. I’d rung the freakin’ dinner bell. I ran faster. “Anna! Anna!”

  A squeal of brakes paralyzed me. No.

  No, please.

  I forced myself to move, running past the parked cars to the playground’s entrance, where I found Anna sobbing and clutching the note Elijah had put in her pocket. “Eli! Eli!” Two cops were trying to handcuff her.

  “No! Leave her alone. She’s autistic!” I ran to the first cop. “Anna! It’s okay, Anna. They will help us find Eli.” I tried to touch her, to soothe her, but Anna was lost to her fear. “Officer, please! Help my boyfriend! He’s being attacked by a mob.” I waved toward the playground. The officer nodded and took off running, shouting into his radio.

  The remaining officer still wrestled with Anna, now in handcuffs and shrieking. “Where are her parents?” he asked me.

  My kne
es buckled, and I dropped to the ground. I handed over my phone and gave the cop the Hamiltons’ names.

  It didn’t take long…a few minutes, really. I looked up, and there was Elijah’s father.

  “Kristen! Kristen, what the hell happened?”

  I shook my head slowly. “Uh…a mob. A bunch of people wanted autographs and pictures and then got pissed off because Anna got scared. They started pushing and shoving and grabbing at us, and Eli told me to get Anna out of here.”

  Eli’s dad pressed his lips together and nodded. He turned back to the police officer and said something I couldn’t hear. The police officer nodded a few times, and then I heard him say to Mr. Hamilton, “We’ve got your daughter but she’s raging.”

  “She’s severely autistic. Please. Just take her to Avalon Home. They’re ready to admit her.”

  I wrapped my arms around my middle, struggling to hold myself together as the police officer climbed behind the wheel and drove off. Mr. Hamilton followed right behind him in his own car, leaving me to explain to Elijah just how seriously deep I’d fucked up the one thing he’d asked me to do.

  • • •

  I couldn’t do it.

  I could not look Elijah in the eye and see that look of total fury again, especially after what I’d caused to happen.

  I was a coward…no better than those faceless, nameless thousands online, clinging to their little fictions and fantasies.

  So I ran.

  I wasn’t at all sure how I got there, but I stopped at Etta’s rehabilitation center, lungs wheezing and nose dripping. I couldn’t escape into fiction and fantasy, and I knew that. But I needed to find a way to fix this, and if such a way existed, Etta would know it.

  I stumbled into her room, sweating and still crying. She stared blankly at the TV bolted to the ceiling above her bed, tuned to some dumb-ass judge deciding who was right—the owner of a hair salon or the client who claimed the bright purple hair on her head was the fault of the salon who’d only cut her hair, not colored it.

  “Etta,” I said softly.

  She turned her head toward the sound of my voice, hair flat and lacking its usual perfection, and when her eyes found mine, she smiled—an upward twitch of one side of her mouth. And then she took in my appearance.

  Oh, I could imagine the things she was saying to herself.

  Appearance was critical in Etta’s eyes.

  And I began to cry all over again because—just for a second, I forgot that Etta had her own problems and couldn’t manage mine. She needed to get better. She needed to heal.

  “Do you want me to leave so you can finish watching…your show?” I sniffled.

  She tried to say something, but it came out garbled. I heard one word clearly.

  “Off.”

  Thank God, because seriously, did anyone actually care who won this case? I aimed the remote at the TV, and it went dark. We stared at each other for a long moment, and I couldn’t help but sneer at her flat hair and hospital-issued gown and bare face. Suddenly, I was furious with her.

  “This is ridiculous, Etta! You know that, right? Okay, you’ve had a stroke. But you’re not just anybody. You’re you. Henrietta Cartwright!” I imitated her perfected delivery, right down to regal hand wave and cadence. “Are you seriously going to just lie there and fade to black without some kind of swan song?”

  Blue eyes watched me pace her small room, but there were no more garbled words. They weren’t clear words, but they were pissed words. “I’m not amused,” she said.

  Good, I was just getting started.

  “You’re not dead.” My voice cracked on that final word. “The doctors said you’re going to be fine. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and move.”

  Blue eyes flared indignantly at that.

  “You could get up out of that bed, you know.”

  The eyes shut.

  “Yes, I know what you’re thinking. I can hear you, Etta. ‘Kristen, darling, I know you mean well, but I’ve had a stroke, for God’s sake, and I’m paralyzed.’ And I know this is scary and painful and frustrating for you, I do, really. But it won’t beat you, because you’re Etta and there’s literally nothing you can’t do.”

  The lips twitched up again.

  “Besides, you’re not paralyzed. You’re weak. And that means you can become strong again. It’ll take some work, Etta. It’ll be hard. But you can do it. You know how I know you can do it?”

  One of her eyebrows twitched, and I almost cried because I knew she was trying to lift it in one of her trademark arches.

  “Because you’re Henrietta Cartwright. Nothing is ever too hard for you.”

  And I am not ready to say good-bye.

  I moved to her side and wrapped myself around her in a gentle hug. She raised one hand and patted me awkwardly. When I pulled away, I saw tears in her eyes.

  “Okay. First things first.” I powered the bed controls so she could sit up higher. Then I searched the bag on the table beside the bed that Mom had packed for her and found her brush and comb. Gently, I brushed the fine white hair until it gleamed, using the comb to lightly tease the roots just the way she liked it. I stepped back, eyed her critically, and nodded. “There. Now you look more like you. Want to see?” I grabbed the hand mirror and showed her.

  Etta angled her head from side to side, tried to smile, and then pushed the mirror aside with a whimper.

  Did she hurt?

  God, I hoped not, but I had no idea. I wished she could talk. Inspiration struck. I rummaged through my bag and pulled out my iPad, then swiped and tapped until I found a communication board app.

  “Okay, Dad told me you pretty much have the stroke board mastered.” I showed her the screen, and her eyebrows lifted again. “Talk to me.” I had absolutely no idea what kind of damage the stroke did to her ability to understand language but figured there was no harm in trying. I held the tablet steady while she tapped the letters at the bottom of the board.

  S

  O

  N

  G

  “What song?” I frowned when she pointed at me. What song did she want to hear? “‘Fever’?” I asked with an eye roll.

  She slapped my hand and tapped more letters. I waited patiently and fell into the chair beside her bed and laughed until my sides ached. She’d tapped out: “Don’t be coy, darling.”

  Oh, yeah. Etta was still here. Now I had to find a way to tell her what had happened.

  What I’d caused to happen.

  My laughter suddenly changed back to tears. She squeezed my hand weakly, but it was enough to pry me out of my self-pity. She lifted her hand and circled it slowly, and I knew she wanted to hear the whole story. I wiped the tears from my cheeks, took a deep breath, and told her all of it—how the online “Kris Versus Eli” hashtag had taken on a life of its own, with people betting on us, told her about the trolls making fun of us, told her about the new shows that we’d booked because of all the buzz, told her about the threats I’d been trying to ignore, and finally, I told her about the mob that attacked us.

  “I can’t do it, Etta. I can’t face him again, and I damn well can’t sing with his band anymore,” I finally finished. “He did this…all of this so his parents wouldn’t have to put Anna in a place like this.” I waved my hands around her room. I closed my eyes, shivering, remembering Anna’s screams when the crowd had closed in around us.

  She was so quiet, I wondered if she’d fallen asleep. I glanced at her and found her staring at me, eyes full of reproach.

  I sighed theatrically. “Oh, Etta! You don’t understand!” Ignoring her next eyebrow climb, I hurried to explain. “It’s my fault. I never should have tweeted where we were. I’d just yelled at Elijah for being stupid about the online accounts and then did something even worse. A mob of people just swarmed us like we were some…some door-buster sale on Black Friday.” br />
  She extended her hand to the iPad. I moved it within reach, holding it up for her so she could swipe at the screen until she found an app. She swiped, and I laughed halfheartedly.

  “Instagram, Etta?” My mouth fell open and stayed that way when I saw the posts she was following. Shirtless men, men in kilts, men in chaps, men in uniform, men out of uniform. “Man candy? Oh my God, you look at porn?”

  A distinct snort left her lips as she scrolled by all the muscles until she came to my name.

  I pressed both hands to my open mouth when I saw images of me singing with Ride Out, videos of jams and concerts, snaps of me greeting a fan here and there. Most of them had been posted from Elijah’s own account, but a lot were from other people—random strangers who legitimately liked us.

  Whoa.

  She watched me look at all the pictures and then tapped some letters on the communication app: See it?

  “See what?”

  She rolled her eyes in frustration and tried to sit up straighter. I rushed to adjust the bed, but she grabbed my hand and pressed it against my chest. I shook my head. “I don’t understand, Etta.”

  She waved her hand under her eyes and then pointed to her drooping smile. She shut her eyes, defeated, and my heart ached for her. How this must be torturing her. Trapped in a bed, unable to move your own body without help, unable to speak, unable to simply be who you were.

  After a moment, she took up the iPad again, tapping letters. It took her nearly three full minutes, and it clearly exhausted her, because when she was done, she let the tablet slide down on the bed next to her. I took it and read the message.

  You looked happy. Don’t give that up.

  • • •

  Days passed with no word from Elijah. He probably despised me for what had happened.

  I hadn’t been able to sleep. Most nights, I’d toss in my bed, worried for Etta. Tonight was no different. But if I were to be honest, Etta wasn’t the only reason I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t get those pictures on Instagram out of my mind. I didn’t use Instagram. I spent most of my time on Facebook, Twitter, the Beat, and Tumblr.