Collateral Damage (11 page)

"Come on." She starts to climb.

"You know, I was just kidding about the whole seven minutes thing," I say as we reach the top.

Ice.

"Like I believe that. You just admitted you fantasize about my room."

I swallow back my surprise. This girl is ten times more brazen on her turf than she ever was at school. "Again, that's not what I meant."

She flips on the light switch and we're on an unfinished third floor. The room is huge. The whole house is huge. Daylight trickles through cracks in the walls; nails protrude from open ceilings. It smells like insulation and cardboard. And it's cold. Like we're standing outside in her yard cold.

And I realize: she has a secret passageway.

"Wow," I mumble, thoroughly impressed.

"I know. I love this place. I used to come up here all the time. It was like my own little hideout. I could read, study, stare out the window and think—whatever—and no one would bother me. No one even knew where I was. It would've been great for slumber parties, too, except none of my friends have ever wanted to sleep over."

"Why's that?" I ask.

Her shoulders lift, shrugging. "Creepy old house...you know."

"Is it haunted or something?" Because that
would be
cool—in a Poeish kind of way.

"If it is I don't know about it. I mean, I hear funny noises every now and then, but I've never seen anything strange. If it's haunted, whatever is haunting it doesn't seem to mind us being here."

I wander across the room, moving to a window. Jaden's been here—a nine-year-old Jaden with her pink beanbag chair, pink lamp, and a stack of old books.

So she
was
a "pink" kind of girl. At one time, at least.

"There's another set of stairs, so you can get here from the hallway," she continues. "My mom was going to turn this space into a bonus room or something. Something else that didn't get done. You can actually get in here from the roof. There's a huge oak tree just to the left. It takes you to the second story. There's a dormer over there, and you can climb right up. I used to do it all the time."

I peer through the dirty glass. She's right. I can see the oak tree, its low branches. "Aren't you the daredevil."

"Yeah, well, I haven't done it lately. Sarah and Daniel and the baby sleep on that side of the house, so.... Anyway, we should go."

Sarah and Daniel and the baby
....

Joshua. Her oldest brother and his family still live here.

She flips off the light and we descend the stairs in semi-darkness, feeling the walls with our hands.

"Not bad," I say, re-entering her bedroom. She closes the door behind us.

"Pretty cool, right? I bet my room's not so boring now, is it?"

"Nah. I like the whole thing anyway...you know, restoration houses."

She smiles, but it's a sad kind of smile. "This
isn't
a restoration."

"But I thought...."

"Come here." She flips the bathroom light on. "See that?" she asks, pointing to her sink. Her sink—it's missing a nozzle. Her sink has a pipe sticking out of the porcelain, and a little wrench perched on the edge. "If this house was a restoration...it would be restored. Meaning I wouldn't have to break my wrist every time I need cold water. The toilet is...ancient...the tub needs refinishing...."

She steps back into her bedroom and bounces on the wood floor. It creaks. "The floor needs bracing. Downstairs? The ceiling in the den is sagging in the corner...we can't get hot water in the kitchen sink...this house is a total problem. I mean, I don't think anything major has been done since 1960. I'm grateful there's electricity and indoor plumbing."

"But your dad is like, this huge construction guy," I say, not understanding.

She folds her arms across her chest and laughs—a quiet, humorless laugh. "New construction, yes. Or more importantly: Other People's New Construction. When it comes to ours? Forget it. The best part of the house is what you see when you drive by slowly and keep going. When you stop? No way. It's a huge mess."

A huge mess.

Perfect on the outside, all screwed up on the inside. I open my mouth to tell her...I don't know...
something
. But the words aren't there.

"I just feel kinda bad for my mom, you know?" she continues. "I mean, this was supposed to be her project. It's like we moved in, slapped a few coats of paint on the walls and outside and that was it. I know she had big plans for this place. She wanted to re-stain the floors. Update the kitchen. She always saw how much potential it had, and here we are years later and it's virtually unchanged." She stops here. Her cheeks flush and her eyebrows draw together, like she's confused about something. Embarrassed, maybe. I don't want her to feel embarrassed around me. She
shouldn't
feel embarrassed around me.

I know all about "huge messes" and "screwed up on the inside."

"I'm sorry," I reply. She glances at me, and our eyes meet. That sparkle—it's gone. And I feel a pang of something in my gut, something unfamiliar, part of me wanting to reach out and touch her—a gentle tap on the arm, an "It's okay." But her eyes tear from mine as quickly as they found them. She sucks in a huge breath. "Anyway," she says, voice lifting. "We should get to work. I hope you like Sun Chips. They're supposed to be better for you than regular potato chips." She tosses the bag on her bed and grabs a bottled water.

"They're fine. Good, actually."

She seems pleased to hear this. "Good," she replies, all smile—like it never happened. The whole conversation—these confessions.... "So. Ethan and Mattie. What do we know about the suicide attempt?"

Just like that, it's over.

We sit down on her bed. I make myself comfortable, leaning against her pillow—her headboard. It smells like her—like her shampoo, or her perfume, maybe—like flowers. Roses. She sits across from me, Indian-style, and chews on the ends of her hair.

"They both wanted it," I remind her, flipping to a clean page in my notebook.

"They'd rather be dead together than alive without each other," she adds, letting her hair fall to her shoulder, scribbling the note.

"Zeena is still controlling Ethan, though. Because even as they're coming down the hill, he swerves when he sees her face."

"It's almost like she won't even let them die together in peace. She still has all the power."

"Actually, I was wondering what would've happened if he wouldn't have swerved," I muse. It would've changed the entire outcome of the story. Still a tragedy, but more like
Romeo and Juliet
. At least in dying together they could have found happiness in life after death.

If such a thing exists.

"You mean if they would've succeeded? Good point." She sits quietly for a moment, lost in thought. "You know what really bothered me, though?" she finally asks.

"What?"

"How fast Ethan was able to get up and move on with his life once he realized they didn't die. It was like...'Oh Mattie we didn't make it. I better go feed my horse.' I mean, what was
that
about?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I just assumed he resigned himself to the fact that since the suicide didn't work he and Mattie weren't meant to be together."

"In thirty seconds?" she asks, disbelieving. "I mean, a minute ago Ethan was gonna die if he couldn't have her, and, when he didn't, it was like...I don't know."

"Maybe he had a change of heart. Maybe his love for her was bigger than that. He wanted what was best for her, even if that meant her moving on without him."

She's watching me again. She's watching like she doesn't understand. Like I'm not supposed to say these things. I'm not allowed. And I know it's because of everything she's heard—the stories floating around about me. There's a reason she accused me of being a slacker the first time we spoke. I'm nothing like she expected. And I have to admit, part of me is glad. Because part of me
wants
this girl to know me. Not the me she sees at school—but the
real
me. I'm just not sure how to do that without ruining everything I've created for myself there. Still, I'd like to know what she's thinking, what she sees when she looks at me like this. I force a smile. "What?"

She shakes her head ever so slightly, eyes narrowing. But as she opens her mouth to respond, her cell phone vibrates—calling to her from across the room. She jumps off the bed, drawn to the sound, and picks it up from her desk. She frowns, examining the screen. I can't tell if it's a call or a text, but she doesn't answer either way.

"Or maybe he didn't really love her at all," she says, half to herself. "Maybe he loved the idea of her."

For a second it seems impossible we're still talking about Ethan and Mattie, but I'm pretty sure I know who's on the other end of that interruption.

Mr. Perfect has impeccable timing.

I don't believe in signs.

I'm
glad
I don't believe in signs.

*
    
*
    
*

I'm recopying my English notes later that evening, trying to organize them into coherency, when my phone buzzes on the couch beside me. I pick it up, check the screen, then the time.

Shit
.

"Callie?" I answer.

"Hey. Did you forget we had a phone date?" she teases.

"No, I didn't. I'm sorry. I was working on these notes and I lost track of time." I toss the papers aside, lean back, rub my eyes.

A basketball game is muted on TV; dinner dishes are pushed aside to make room for books. Tonight was a Hot Pockets night. Every night feels like a Hot Pockets night, lately.

"So how was today?" she asks.

"Today? Today was fine."

"Classes? Any tests I should be proud of you for passing?"

"No. No tests. Classes are fine."

"How about your big English project?"

I don't know how to answer this—how much information to provide. Do I tell her Jaden and I worked on it this afternoon? That I went to her house? That I sat on her bed and ate Sun Chips? Does it even matter? "Um, fine. It's coming along."

"Your partner hasn't driven you crazy, yet?" she teases.

"Crazy? No. We met this afternoon, actually," I confess, sitting up. "It hasn't been as bad as I thought it would be. I mean, we're probably further along than the rest of the class."

"See? I told you she'd practically do it for you."

"She's not doing the project for me," I say. "We're both contributing. Today we were talking about relationships. You know how sometimes you get so used to other people they become convenient? The guy in our story has been married to this woman he practically loathes for years—not that he would admit it, because he's the kind of guy who just sucks it up, but..."

"Did you get my message about my parents?" she interrupts.

"Your message?"

"I called this afternoon. I left a message."

A message? I didn't have any messages this afternoon.

"Anyway," she continues. "Mom and Dad want to throw us an engagement party next month."

"An engagement party?" Apparently my conversation skills have been reduced to dumbly repeating whatever Callie says.