Modern Monsters (Entangled Teen) (3 page)

“All right, Vic. Please begin.”

“What…what am I supposed to say?”

“Start from the beginning of your night.” Carter isn’t writing anything down, but she’s watching me with such intensity that I want to climb under the table and hide. “Be as specific as possible. Times, names, places. Anything that will help paint us a clear picture.”

A clear picture. Okay. I wet my lips nervously and start with Brett and me leaving school. I recall us eating at the diner, the time we arrived at the party. Every detail I can remember, I reiterate, from the couple I saw arguing to the purple flowers on the bushes Callie threw up on.

When I arrive at the part about putting Callie to bed, Sherrigan stops writing notes and leans forward. He speaks almost amiably, like I’m his son or nephew. “Callie’s a good-looking girl, isn’t she, Vic?”

I pause. “Uh. Sure? Sh-she’s pretty.” When she was busy throwing up everywhere, I can’t say I was paying much attention.

“Good-looking girl like that, especially when she’s been drinking… Sometimes they forget themselves and start hanging all over guys.” He shakes his head. “It’d make sense, you know. She was drunk, you thought she wanted it…”

Deflection
: a police technique of providing moral justification for the suspect to have committed a crime.

He’s empathizing with me, as though he would have done exactly what they’re accusing me of doing. All he wants is to get me to admit to having sex with Callie and everything would fall into place for them from there.

I wring my hands together tightly in my lap. These people are not my friends. These people think I’m guilty…or maybe they don’t even care if I’m really guilty and they just want someone to pin this on. All of my anxiety, all of my upset, has shaped itself into anger. I don’t want to talk to Sherrigan and Carter anymore.

The detectives keep me for two hours total, asking the same questions over and over, making me repeat parts of my story to throw me off. I can’t imagine what’s going through their heads right now, but I’m envisioning a flashing neon
Guilty
sign. I don’t even know what’s going through my head right now or how to process all this. Am I going to jail? Can they prosecute me without physical evidence? I should have watched more
Law & Order
.

It’s nearly 2:00 a.m. by the time I’m given permission to leave. In retrospect, I think I could have ended the interview at any time, but I kept hoping…I don’t know. That I would say something that would magically get them to believe me.

In the end, I guess it doesn’t matter.

Mom doesn’t ask how it went. She remains silent and expressionless the entire drive home. I’m desperate to ask her what I should do, how I should handle this, but Mom has never been the best at advice.

When we get home, I trail behind her with my shoulders hunched forward and a need to say something. I can’t just go to bed and act like this never happened. Mom shuts and locks the front door behind us. I take a deep breath as she turns to walk away. It takes everything I have to make my voice work. “I’m s-sorry, Mom. About the party. I p-promise I wasn’t drinking.”

She goes still, turns, and slaps me across the face.

Hard.

The sting radiates down into my jaw. I recoil, hand to my cheek. What just happened?

“How dare you,” Mom whispers, her voice trembling with rage she’s obviously been biting back all night. “How dare you. That poor girl…”

My mouth opens. The words won’t come out. “I…I…”

But it’s no use. My normally mousy, quiet mother isn’t interested in whatever I have to say. “
GO!
Go on! I can’t look at you, you’re disgusting!” And it’s all I can do to scurry out of the entryway and retreat to my room.

I don’t understand. I don’t. I… What did I do?
Why
? I’ve never been in serious trouble. I’ve never hurt anyone. I know I’m not the world’s best son, but what have I ever done to make my own mother think I would lay my hands on another person against her will? I wanted to protect Callie. I certainly never meant to leave her open for someone else to hurt her.

I sink to the edge of my bed, breathing fast, clutching my knees. Thoughts running a mile a minute. Even from across the house, Mom’s sobs reach my ears from the kitchen.

I need to leave.

The only place I can think to go is Brett’s. Of course, I have to wait for Mom to head up to her room so I can sneak out the back door, grab my bike from the side of the house, and get out of here before she notices. Will she be angry that I took off? Undoubtedly. But at this point I don’t care. I don’t think it matters.

Brett’s place is two miles away. Even though it’s cooled down in the late (early?) hour, I’m dripping sweat by the time I roll my bike into his driveway. I breathlessly make my way around to the side of his house, phone to my ear to call him. It takes a few rings but his irritated, sleepy voice finally answers. “What the hell?”

“Let me in.”

Brett pauses. Sighs. He hangs up but a moment later, the back door is unlocking and sliding open and he’s poking his head out with a frown. “Jesus Christ, man—”

“The p-police were… They…” There it goes again. My ability to speak.

He rubs at his eyes, still trying to wake up. “The
what
? Dude, calm down. Get in here.”

I slip inside and follow Brett up to his room. Brett’s house has always felt more like home to me than my own. His parents are good people, and his mother in particular has always treated me like an affectionate mother would. Maybe that’s part of the reason my mom hates her.

In his room, Brett flicks on the bedside lamp while I shut the door and stand there helplessly, not even sure where to begin. In typical concerned Brett fashion, he sits me on the edge of his bed, hands on my shoulders, and stares at me intently. “Deep breaths, Vic. Take your time.”

Sometimes that’s all I need: a reminder that the world isn’t going to implode if I take a few extra moments to formulate each word as I speak. I close my eyes and take the instructed deep breaths…

I tell Brett about the police. About Callie. I tell him about Mom, too, because I don’t know if maybe I’m the one overreacting and her response was legitimate. Brett listens and nods, his frown deepening as I speak. When I’m done relaying this information, I’m sapped of all my energy. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. Frankly, I’m still waiting to wake up.

Brett sinks into his desk chair and leans back. He slides off his glasses and rubs at his eyes with a sigh, like the story took a lot out of him, too. There’s something nostalgic about seeing him in his glasses; he only ever wears contacts to school anymore. “Damn…”

“N-no kidding.”

“Man, look… Whatever happened, we’ll work it out, okay? You know Dad and I will have your back.”

Brett’s dad is a defense attorney, but I don’t want things to go that far where his services are needed. The idea of getting up in front of a courtroom… For that matter, the idea of poor Callie having to get up there and explain what happened to her…I can’t imagine it. I don’t know her well, but what little I do know made me think of her as a pretty, nice, smart girl.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. I hurt all over.

“I’m sure the cops will be questioning everyone,” Brett says gently. “I won’t tell them anything if they come here.”

I stop breathing for a moment. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Well, yeah, I know. I just meant—”

“Meant what?” I raise my head to stare at him. “D-don’t you believe me?”

Brett holds up his hands. “Dude. Yes. Of course I do.” He laughs. “I don’t think you’d know what to do with a girl.”

There have been many times during our friendship where I’ve wanted to punch Brett. This is one of those times. He must be able to tell by the scowl on my face because he’s quick to backpedal.

“Sorry. I don’t really know what to say to all this, but I believe you. Just last year I watched you crying over a dead cat on the side of the road. You wouldn’t hurt a fly, Vic, and anyone with any brains is going to tell the cops that.”

I relax. If there’s anyone I want to believe me, it’s my best friend. Brett may have changed a lot over the years, but in times where I’ve needed him—
really
needed him—he’s never let me down. Not once. He was there at the hospital when I had my appendix removed two years ago. He was there on my sixteenth birthday when Mom had to work and I would have otherwise been home alone with the flu. He was there to defend me when kids made fun of my stutter. He was even the one who got me started on word definitions; he noticed I had a knack for memorizing the words I was helping him study, so he bought me a dictionary and ever since I periodically teach myself a random new word.

Even now, when he’s got plenty of friends and acquaintances and doesn’t need me around, he’s kept me by his side. I’m still the guy he sits with at lunch and calls with news and questions before anyone else.

Brett pats my back. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? Stay for a few nights, if you need to. At least until your mom chills out. Maybe my mom can talk to her.”

“I d-don’t think that’ll help.” I sigh heavily. Mom thinks Mrs. Mason is a lazy good-for-nothing (her words, not mine) because she’s a stay-at-home mother, and she assumes all of Mr. Mason’s clients are serial killers and rapists. Although given how she reacted to these accusations, maybe she thinks I
need
a defense lawyer.

God, the look on her face keeps popping back into my head and making my chest hurt. Maybe running away from my problems for tonight will be okay.

Chapter Three

T
he guest bed in Brett’s house is more comfortable than my own bed. Too bad it doesn’t really help me fall asleep. My brain is moving too fast, still running over the same questions again and again. Wondering. Worrying. Mom doesn’t call. I text to let her know that I’m at Brett’s, but she doesn’t write back.

Brett must have told his parents what’s going on, because the next morning they’re both extremely quiet. They probably don’t know what to say. Before we leave, Mrs. Mason gives me a five-dollar bill for lunch and pecks me on the cheek, telling me to try to have a good day.

These are things my mom hasn’t done for me in years. When I was little, she was better about it. She’d pick me up and hug me, kiss me, tell me how everyone said I looked just like her, with her same big blue eyes and long lashes. She’d tell me she loved me. I don’t really know when that changed. Sometime around middle school, I guess.

Brett fills the car with his usual banter and easy conversation on our way to school. I wish I could feel any level of comfort, and I know he’s trying to keep things on a light note for my sake. It’s appreciated, but it isn’t helpful.

We part ways for the first half of the day and I try not to think that every time someone looks at me, they’re aware of what’s going on. That the cops visited the house of every student and told them what happened to Callie, and that I’m responsible for it.
Paranoia
: a mental condition characterized by delusions of persecution. That’s all it is. People aren’t talking about Callie or me. Nobody knows.

Except—

I remember the girl getting stuff out of Callie’s locker. One of her friends, obviously, so maybe she knows something. If I could get a message back to Callie through her friend, maybe…

I ditch Brett at lunch in favor of going to Callie’s locker. I don’t know the girl I saw, and asking around seems like looking for trouble. So I wait. Hoping I’ll at least spot her coming down the hall when lunch ends. The first bell goes off. The hallway fills with students as they head to class. I stay where I am.

Second bell.

And there she is.

I push away from Callie’s locker as I spot the girl weaving through the crowd. I attempt a “Hey!” but, given the number of people, I don’t blame her for not turning around.

She rounds a corner. Instead of going into a classroom, she walks out the double doors leading to the quad, maybe heading for the library or the gym. I jog to catch up, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Hey—”

The next thing I know, the sky is above me and I’m hitting the ground as my legs are knocked out from under me. I see stars. In broad daylight.
Concussion:
minor brain injury that may occur when one’s head strikes an object. Ow.

The girl’s face comes into view as I’m blinking the white from my vision. “You following me, jackass?” she snarls. “I know who you are. You’ve got some fucking nerve.”

I push myself up to sit, scooting back on the concrete to avoid getting struck again in the event she lashes out. “N-no—I mean, y-yes. I j-just wanted—”

“Wanted to what? I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“I…I saw you at Callie’s l-locker…”

“If I had my way, they would have thrown your sorry ass in jail already. You realize they’re getting a restraining order against you.”

“I—”

“Better not let me see you in the parking lot, ’cause you’d better believe I’ll mow you down.”

“
I didn’t touch her!
”

The heat of my voice startles me. I’m not a yeller. I keep quiet, under the radar. But those words felt like they were going to burst out of my ribs if I didn’t say them. Callie’s friend is watching me with a smoldering glare.

“Right. She just made it up, then.”

“N-no. I didn’t say…say that.” Once I’m sure she isn’t going to use some weird karate move to put me on the ground again, I pick myself up. “I’m just saying it w-wasn’t m-me.”

She squints, looking me over. Studying me. I’d feel less exposed lying naked on a silver tray in biology being sliced open in the name of science. “Why were you following me?”

Why was I? What, exactly, did I want to ask? What did I want to say? I rub the back of my neck, ducking my head. “I wanted to s-see if you could deliver a m-message.”

“Uh-huh. What kind of message?”

“T-tell her…I d-didn’t do it. I swear on my life. And…” The guilt. It comes out of nowhere and slides its slivers into my lungs, making my chest tight. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

She folds her arms, gaze steely. “Sorry for
what
?”

“For not keeping her safe.” That’s what it comes down to. No, I didn’t rape Callie Wheeler, but I feel like it was my fault it happened. The number of things I could have—should have—done to prevent it seems staggering. The weight of my guilt makes it hard to breathe. Brett was right: I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve never made fun of anyone. I’ve never gotten into a fight. Even the idea of hitting someone makes me unhappy.

Callie’s friend lets her arms drop to her sides. She huffs out a breath. Miraculously, she doesn’t sound quite as furious as she did before. Just wary. “Yeah. Whatever.” Then she’s turning her back on me and storming off in the direction of the library. I watch her go. The sway of her hips is mesmerizing.

Or maybe that’s the concussion talking.

Brett laughs his ass off when I tell him. “You got laid out by a girl? Nice.”

I sink down in the passenger’s seat of the car, trying not to mope. “D-don’t be a dick.”

“Sorry, sorry. What did she look like?”

“Uh… Dark brownish-reddish hair, I guess? Soft-looking…” I space out for a second. She had a really nice mouth. Like, ridiculously nice. It was probably her most defining feature.

“Nice hips? Curves in all the right places?”

My brows draw together. “Yeah. Now that you mention it…”

Brett nods. “That sounds like Autumn.”

“Autumn?”

“Autumn Dixon, I think. She’s Callie’s best friend. I had a calculus class with her once. She’s a firecracker, man, let me tell you.”

“I noticed.” It was…kind of hot. Nerve-racking, but hot. Probably not the sort of thing I should be thinking about given that Autumn threatened to run me over with her car and I’ve been accused of raping her best friend.

Brett glances at me once, twice, three times. “You don’t have a thing for this girl, do you?”

I look out the window to avoid letting Brett see how my mouth twists funny and my face gets red. “I d-don’t even know her.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t think she’s hot.”

“Sh-shut up.”

“Hey, I’m just making an observation. If you want me to put in a good word for you…”

“Sure. That’ll go over great,” I mutter.

Brett laughs again. I let the conversation drop. He’s done this any time I’ve shown interest in a girl…which I have. Plenty. Girls are these fascinating creatures. Beautiful in all shapes, sizes, colors. He teases me for not having a “type.” How can I possibly have a type when they’re all so intriguing? Girls who read. Girls who play sports. Girls who draw, paint, dance, cheerlead, wrestle, sing. I’ve yet to meet a female who wasn’t good at something while I sit here uselessly and have an anxiety attack at the thought of trying to talk to them.

Well, at least I got through that awkward introduction phase with Autumn. Not so sure I left a good impression.

We don’t drive directly to Brett’s place. He pulls up outside my house because I’ve already worn the same clothes two days in a row and I’m too tall for any of his things to fit me. I brace myself before opening the car door with a sigh.

Brett, to my relief, gets out with me. At least I know Mom won’t yell in front of him. I think. I hope. I let us in the front door and she appears in the living room, drying her hands on a dish towel and staring holes into the back of my head as I inch down the hall toward my room.

Brett says, “Hey, Ms. Howard!” and Mom grants him the ghost of a smile.

In my room, I grab a spare gym bag from the closet and begin shoving whatever I can fit inside. Clothes, hairbrush, toothbrush. Anything I think I’ll need in the next week or two, because I don’t plan on having to slink back into my own house like a fugitive every other day. Brett watches from the doorway. When I go to step past him, he puts a hand to my chest and raises his eyebrows.

“You should talk to your mom.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t know. Just talk to her. Maybe she panicked or something and she’s calmed down now.”

I wasn’t getting that vibe from her. Sighing, I push the bag into Brett’s arms and go off to find Mom in the kitchen where she’s assembling something to bake. She bakes when she’s anxious or stressed. I came home once after she’d gone in for a job interview to find three pies, a peach cobbler, and two dozen cookies. At least she’s good at it.

“Mom?” I stop in the adjoined dining room, keeping the kitchen table between us.

Her back is to me and I see the stiffening of her shoulders. She slides a hand back through her messy curls before turning to face me. “What?”

I’m having a hard time even looking at her face. She slapped me the last time I saw her. My mother has never, ever believed in that sort of thing; she never spanked me growing up, never even laid a hand on me aggressively. “I d-didn’t do it, you know. I promise I didn’t.”

Mom leans back against the counter and rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

“Why won’t you b-believe me?”

“I don’t know what to believe right now, Victor,” Mom says tiredly.

“Okay.” This is not the answer I wanted. My emotions are warring for dominance: confusion versus anger versus hurt. “I’m gonna s-stay with Brett until you figure it out.”

Mom doesn’t argue. No protests, no questions, no nothing. As usual. She only nods once and turns away, back to her baking, letting out a suffering sigh. I’m not a violent person, but I have the strongest urge to flip a chair just to disrupt the stagnant tension in the room. As frustrating as Mom can be, she’s never acted like this before, and I’m at a loss for what to say, what to do. Normally, I would know how to appease her annoyance or her anger. This time…

All I can think is this: if my own mother doesn’t believe me, what hope do I have that the police—and Callie—will?