Right Behind You

  “He said you have an interest in libraries. Maybe you’d like to be a librarian?”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said. I finally reached forward, took the knife. She flinched as my fingers touched hers, then recovered quickly.

  “I like libraries,” she said, moving to the side.

  I approached the chicken. Eyed the small, hollow cavity. With my left hand, I tentatively reached in. The inside felt slimy. I knew I was making a face. I couldn’t help it. Sure enough, my fingers connected with a wrapped package. I pulled it out, holding it uncertainly.

  “Ugh.”

  Sandra smiled again. Genuinely this time. She had a nice smile; it brightened her face.

  “You can use that to make chicken stock, if you’d like.”

  I gave her a look.

  “Maybe another time,” she agreed. She held open the lid on the kitchen trash. I dropped the chicken guts, innards, whatever, inside.

  “Does your son like college?”

  “Henry? He loves OSU. He’s studying computer engineering. They have an excellent program.”

  When she spoke of her son, Sandra’s face brightened even more. Mostly, my foster mom was a plain woman, not the kind you’d notice. But happy, talking about her son . . . I could see what Frank must’ve noticed all those years ago.

  “He’s a good student,” I said, a statement, not a question.

  “Definitely. Gets that from his father. Lord knows his classes are above my head. Okay, before we sear the chicken, we—you—are going to rub it down with spices. You can buy different mixes from the grocery store. Frank’s favorite is a cayenne maple, so that’s what I use.”

  She held up the plastic bottle of chicken rub. I took the hint, washed my hands in the sink. She shook out the spice mix on the chicken. Making another face, I started the rubbing process. I didn’t like the feel of raw chicken, the goose-pimply skin, the spots here and there of fresh blood.

  I didn’t do well with dead things. Unless, I guess, I was out of my mind with rage. Maybe I was secretly the Incredible Hulk. All mild-mannered until something set me off, and then . . .

  I remembered my baby sister’s scream.

  I would always remember Sharlah’s scream.

  “Um, the chicken is done now,” Sandra said.

  I looked down. I’d been rubbing the chicken so hard, some of the skin had torn off.

  “Now, the searing part,” Sandra said. “I prefer a cast-iron fryer. Maybe we can find you one at a garage sale. You need an old one, with years, if not decades, of seasoning. Never wash a cast-iron fryer. Letting it absorb the oils is the whole point. Instead, when you’re done cooking, you can remove any leftovers with a plastic scraper, then wipe it down with a damp towel.

  “Oh, and you want the frying pan to already be hot. That’s the trick for searing. Add two tablespoons of olive oil, then turn the burner to medium high. You can test the temperature by flicking the pan with a few beads of water. If the drops sizzle, then you’re ready.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Sandra paused, wet hand suspended over the frying pan. Water dripped down. It sizzled. “Doing what?”

  “This. Teaching me to cook. Giving me a home. Any of this. You already have a perfect son sent off to college. So what? You’re now taking in the world’s rejects?”

  Sandra didn’t say anything right away. She picked up the spice-rubbed chicken from the plastic cutting board, placed it in the frying pan, which immediately snapped and popped.

  “I always sear it breast-side down,” she murmured. “Same with baking. Allows the juices to flow into the breast meat, keeping it moist. Then for the last half, you flip it to finish browning the top. Here, you flip it.”

  She moved aside, handing me a pair of metal tongs. In the frying pan, the chicken was hissing away. Hot oil spit onto my hand. I didn’t flinch.

  I felt flat, detached. I’d asked the question, and in her nonanswer, I’d found exactly what I’d expected. Sandra didn’t want me. She was doing this to please Frank. I might as well have been one of his favorite meals, offered up for approval.

  “I know what it’s like to be alone,” she said abruptly.

  I turned the chicken, glanced at her out of the corner of my eye.

  “My father . . . He was not a nice person. And I don’t mean in a ‘my father didn’t love me’ sort of way. I mean professionally. He worked for bad people, doing bad things. He liked it. So much, he rose up through the ranks. Bought a bigger house, fancier cars. Which in turn meant he needed to do worse and worse things to keep the money coming. A man like that, steeped in violence . . . He didn’t exactly come home and turn it off. I might understand better than you think about what you went through when you were a child, Telly. We might even be more alike than you realize.”

  I didn’t say anything. She was right; I hadn’t thought a woman like her would understand anything about my life. I guess we were both in for surprises today.

  “When I was sixteen,” she said now, “I left home. I thought any place had to be better than where I was at.” Sandra looked at me. “I wasn’t entirely right, but I wasn’t entirely wrong either. For a bit . . . my life drifted. If there was a poor decision, I made it. If there was a bad situation, I found it. But then, I met Frank. He . . . he loved me. He accepted me. Even the select stories I told of my father—not a lot, mind you, but some details—he accepted those, too. For the first time, I saw myself through the eyes of a good man. And I found hope.”

  The chicken was starting to blacken. I was no expert, but I took that as a hint to turn off the burner. Sandra moved toward the roasting pan, placed it on the counter next to the stove. I set the chicken inside, breast-side down as instructed.

  Oven was already heated up. She opened the door. I stuck the pan in.

  “My father is a bad person,” she said flatly. “I don’t talk to him. Since the day I left home, I severed all ties and never looked back.”

  “He let you go?” I asked, because it seemed to me a guy that evil might not accept his own daughter’s just walking away.

  “Let’s just say I took steps to give him some incentive on that subject.”

  “Okay,” I said at last, as she clearly wasn’t going to elaborate.

  “My point is,” she said after another moment, “he’s the exception, not the rule. You can do bad things and still be a good person.” Sandra wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, handed it to me.

  “I killed my parents. I trashed school property. I have a criminal record. I think that’s more bad things than good-person material.”

  “But you’re not happy about it. You feel remorse. You are trying harder.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I did feel bad. I was trying to do some of the things my probation officer recommended. I just . . . I still got into fights. I still lost my temper.

  “If there’s good inside me,” I said finally, “why does it feel like the bad is always winning?”

  “Maybe you just need someone to take a chance on you.”

  “You and Frank will save me?”

  Sandra’s brown eyes were serious. “We don’t mind helping, but you have to save yourself. That’s how real life works, Telly.”

  “Are you gonna kick me out?” I had to ask the question; it had been preying on me for months. “I’ll turn eighteen and that’s it? No more lessons? Just . . . shove out the baby bird, hope he can fly?”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No!”

  “It’s okay. The future can be scary. Alone is scary.”

  “I don’t mind being alone. Alone is good. Alone is safe. For everyone.”

  “Frank found your sister.”

  “What?”

  “He looked her up, located her foster parents. You’re not alone, Telly. You have family. Me, Frank, and your sister.”
r />   “Does she know? Did he talk to Sharlah about me?” My voice was harsh. I didn’t mean it, but I did. Sandra took a small step back.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” she said softly. “The first contact, that’s up to you.”

  “I don’t have a future.”

  “Sure you do. Everyone—”

  “I don’t! Likes libraries. What the hell is that anyway? Some kind of bad dating line? I’m failing high school, meaning I’m never getting into any college. No engineering degree for me. No anything. I’m going to turn eighteen and just . . . join loserville. Maybe I can be a drunk like my mom, or a junkie like my dad.”

  “You don’t do drugs, Telly. We’ve read your file. You don’t touch the stuff, probably because of what you saw with your parents.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know enough.”

  “No you—”

  She left. Whirled around on one foot, stomped out of the kitchen. I stared after her, fists still clenched at my sides, feeling even more confused. And angry. So, so angry. At . . . everyone, everything.

  Because I had failed and messed up and all these years later I still heard my baby sister’s scream and no matter what Frank and Sandra said, I didn’t know where to go from here. I couldn’t see this future everyone else was so sure of. I just saw the past. Opening up cans of cold Chef Boyardee for dinner. Praying my mom wouldn’t be too messed up or my dad too violent. Hoping Sharlah, at least, would be okay.

  Until the night I hurt her myself.

  Some things, there aren’t enough Cheerios in the world to make right again. Just ask Bruce Banner.

  Sandra was back. Holding a baseball bat.

  My eyes widened. She thrust it into my hands.

  “Here you go. You’re a bad person? That’s what you think? Then have at it. Look me in the eye and take a big swing. Frank’s not here. He can’t protect me. Just you and me. Do it.”

  “What?”

  “I have some jewelry. Not much. My wedding band, of course, a necklace from Frank celebrating our tenth anniversary. Oh, and there’s some cash in the freezer. Look for the tinfoil packet beneath the frozen peas. After beating me to death, you can help yourself to my jewelry, the cash, and the guns, of course. There’s good money in guns. Has Frank told you the combination to the gun safe yet? Because I will.”

  She rattled off numbers. I remained holding the baseball bat, staring at her.

  “All right. What are you waiting for? Time to get busy.”

  I didn’t move.

  “Are you not angry enough yet? Is that it? You have to be furious? Because I can help you get mad. You have plenty to be angry about. A father who didn’t love you. A mother who didn’t protect you. Having to be the man of the house when you were what, five years old? Having to get your own self up every morning, dressed and fed. Then there’s your sister. She must’ve pissed you off, too. All that crying, screaming, wailing. Didn’t she know you were doing the best you could? Didn’t she realize she already had it twenty times better than you? After all, no one ever took care of you. Walked you to the library, fed you breakfast, washed your favorite clothes.”

  “I loved her.”

  “She was a whiny kid. Totally oblivious to how hard you were working, how bad things really were. That burden was on you. Five, six, seven years old and already totally alone in the world.”

  “She smiled at me. Even when she was a baby. She’d look at me and smile.”

  “You were alone! Responsible for everything. And scared. All the time. What would your father do next? How much would it hurt?”

  I couldn’t speak, couldn’t say a word.

  “The world is not your friend. It’s given you nothing, taken everything. Even your sister. After everything you did for her, where is she now?”

  “I broke her arm.”

  “You saved her life! And she didn’t even visit you in the hospital. Not a single phone call, thank-you, ‘Hey, big brother, how are you doing?’ What kind of sister treats her brother that way? She’s your only family left, and this is what you get.”

  My hands trembled on the bat. Suddenly, I was angry. Furious. Because I did miss my little sister. I had done my best. And then . . . it was as if I’d never existed at all. She left, just like that. All these years later, not so much as a backward glance.

  I had loved her.

  It still hadn’t been enough.

  “Do it,” Sandra whispered. Her eyes were bright, nearly feverish. I barely recognized her now. “I’m your sister. I’m your mother. I’m every person who ever let you down. Now lift that bat, and get it over with!”

  But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I simply stood there. Staring at my foster mom. Taking it.

  A minute passed. Another.

  The kitchen was so quiet. Scary quiet.

  Then . . .

  Sandra smiled. Her shoulders came down and, very gently, she reached out and took the bat from my shaking hands.

  “I knew you wouldn’t do it,” she said softly. “I know bad, and you’re not a bad person, Telly. I know, even if you don’t, that you would never hurt Frank and me. I just hope you realize that for yourself. Before time runs out for us all.”

  Chapter 20

  I CAN’T THINK. Can’t wait. Just move.

  Quincy and Rainie are back in intense conversation, this time in his office. I can hear their voices, pitched low, as they peer at something on his computer.

  “Just gonna take Luka out to pee,” I call over my shoulder. “I know, I know, don’t leave the front yard.”

  And I don’t. I let Luka do his business while I walk through the side door to the garage, find my bike, and roll it out. I park it out of sight. Whole thing takes less than two minutes.

  I walk with Luka back to the house, trying to ignore the fact that my heart is thundering in my chest and my T-shirt is glued to my body and I feel both too hot and too cold. As if I’m going to vomit, or maybe just burst out of my own skin.

  I can’t encounter Rainie and Quincy when I return to the house. They’ll take one look at me and know.

  I pause on the front porch. Then I throw my arms around my dog. I hold him as tightly as I’ve ever held anything. I don’t cry, because my throat is too thick and there are some emotions . . . Crying would be too simple and not tell Luka near enough about how I really feel.

  Then I steady myself.

  I’m a pro, I remind myself. I’ve lost enough, left enough. If any kid can do this, it’s me.

  I stand, peer all around. I try to feel eyes on me, some sense of my brother. If this were the movies, I could use the force or something like that. But I don’t feel anything. The air is simply too hot, too still. Luka won’t even look at the woods.

  I take that as a hint and lead my dog back into the blessed coolness of the house.

  —

  IN THE KITCHEN, I pour myself a glass of lemonade, making plenty of noise. Nothing to worry about here. I know Quincy and Rainie well enough by now. They can be buried in a book, lost in thought in front of the TV, enraptured in each other’s eyes, and if I so much as contemplate evil, they both know it.

  Profilers. No wonder the state sent me here.

  So no bad thoughts. Instead, fresh water for Luka. Giant bowl. With ice cubes. His favorite.

  Hydration is very important in these temperatures. I down my lemonade, stuffing my pockets with some energy bars here, almonds there. Thankfully, no one is that hungry in this kind of heat, because there’s only so much I can carry. I drink a full glass of water after the lemonade, feeling overfull and sloshy from so much liquid, but I know I’ll be grateful later. Then I find an apple for me, a chew bone for Luka, and head for my bedroom.

  Just a girl grabbing snacks for her and her dog.

  Rainie and Quincy are still at the computer. For a second, walki
ng past, I think I see a photo of a man in camo, on the ground, blood staining his uniform. Then Rainie shifts slightly, blocking the monitor from view.

  “If you don’t talk louder,” I call out over my shoulder, “how am I supposed to eavesdrop from my bedroom?”

  They don’t reply, but I can practically feel the twin eye rolls behind me.

  In my room, I plug my iPod into my speaker system, randomly select a playlist, then crank the volume. I’ve been known to disappear into my room, especially when there’s something I don’t want to talk about. They’ll let me be for a bit, given they have their own “adult only” matters to consider. Crime scenes. Travel plans.

  But Rainie will knock on the door sooner versus later. She doesn’t like it when I shut myself up for too long. Plus there’s the matter of our evening flight, Project Keep the Foster Daughter Safe.

  I can’t wait. I can’t think. I gotta move.

  Snacks in the backpack. I have two leftover water bottles in my swim bag. Not nearly enough, given the triple digits, but probably as much as I can carry. I crawl beneath my desk. In an envelope taped to the underside of the pencil drawer, I have my own stash of hidden money. Because foster kids do things like that. Hoard. Secret away. We can’t help ourselves. Which makes me wonder what kind of things my brother might have stockpiled, leading up to the days before he did what he did.

  He took my picture.

  He spotted me. Followed me.

  Never said a word.

  Just waited five days, then exploded his rage upon the world.

  Do I even know this boy? Eight years later, did he look at me and see boxes of cereal and trips to the library? Or did he just remember that last night? Our father chasing us around and around, face red, eyes bulging, bloody knife dripping.

  Me, handing Telly the baseball bat.

  Both of us staring at our mother, as she moaned from the floor, regaining consciousness.

  And I dare myself, for just one moment, to consider the thought that scares me the most: that this is all my fault.

  That if my brother is a monster, then I’m the one who set him down that path.

  Money. Two hundred and forty-two dollars. I split it into piles. Some in the backpack. Some in my shorts’ pockets. Some in my left sock. You never know.