Project 17 (22 page)

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LIZA

THE HOSPITAL
IS
keeping us captive. I honestly feel that way, as irrational as it sounds. With Chet and Mimi missing, it's just the four of us now. And nobody's really talking.

I grab Derik's hand as he leads me around the spot where the stairs collapsed. "Are you okay?" he asks.

I nod, pulling myself together, relieved somehow that we're doing the fight thing.

"It's this way," Tony says, using the map.

The hallway does look familiar. We're in the A wing, searching for Christine Belle's room, since that's obviously where Mimi and Chet sneaked off to.

We move slowly down the length of the hallway, our flashlight beams mingling together, crossing over one another, but then becoming one solid strip of light.

I look to the left, toward the room that I sneaked off to earlier--when I opened up the closet and found a rope tied

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into a noose, almost like a warning of the horrors yet to come.

Derik wraps his arm around me as we approach Christine's room. The door is open a crack. "Are you ready?" he asks.

I nod and take a step away from him, edging the door open just a little. I can see Mimi from here. She's sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth, Christine's doll cradled in her arms. And she's crying, whimpering like she can't get a grip--like I've never seen her before. I don't even think she notices us as we enter the room.

Nor do I think she cares.

Chet is with her, trying to be supportive. He sits behind her, patting her back, but I'm not sure she notices him either.

Derik locks eyes with him, wondering what to do. I look up for just a second, noticing how the headboard has been taken apart; the cover of one of the posts, about three inches in diameter, is ripped off completely--where Christine hid the doll.

The idea of it--of righting someone's past so far into the future, of helping someone's soul rest a little easier, maybe--gives me chills.

"We should go," Derik says.

Chet nods and helps Mimi up, taking her bag so that she can keep a firm grasp on the doll.

We leave, back down the hallway and down the stairwell, finally coming to the door that leads into

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the tunnel--the one that gets us out of this place.

"What are the odds that it won't be locked this time?" Derik asks, wrapping his hand around it.

"Pretty good," I whisper.

Derik turns the knob. And this time it works.

"Holy shit," Greta whispers.

She and Tony huddle together, as do Derik and I, and Chet and Mimi. We travel quickly, keeping a good pace until we reach the outlying building--the one we first entered.

Derik pauses at the door, afraid it won't open, maybe. Even though I know it will.

And it does. The outer door opens, too.

"Flashlights off," Derik orders, just before we step outside.

We click them off, in total darkness now, but it doesn't matter. Because we're finally out.

We may never be free of this place, but for now we're

out.

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ONE MONTH LATER

***

LIZA

April 22, 2007

Office of Undergraduate Admissions

Harvard University

86 Brattle Street

Cambridge, MA 02138

Dear Director of Admissions:

Please accept this as a formal letter of deferral for my fall 2007 admission. I would like to defer my admission until the spring semester, at which time I would like to pursue an academic course load consisting of my arts and science requirements, rather than concentrating in chemical and physical biology right from the start, as I had originally planned.

I would also like to take this opportunity to express my enthusiasm about attending Harvard,

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particularly as an undeclared major. Please be assured that this deferral does not in any way detract from my genuine interest in attending.

To be quite honest, since my initial application to your university, I have grown and learned a lot, really taking the opportunity to ask myself what it is I want to pursue, both academically and professionally.

For the first time in my life, I feel that I am making my own decisions, that life is throwing me a series of tests, and that I owe it to myself to complete these tests, to see what direction they're trying to point me in. I plan to take the fall semester to find out.

Many thanks in advance for your understanding, and for your faith in my academic abilities. I look forward to seeing you in the spring.

Sincerely,

Liza Miller

***

Dear Mom and Dad,

I know you don't understand the choices I'm making, but they are my choices I'm making but they are my choices. It's not Derrick's fault, so please stop blaming him. He's not the irresponsible person that you make

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him out to be. He's doing something important with his life, and he makes me happy. He's supportive. He listens to me. And he's always able to make me laugh.

Right now that's what I need. Actually, when I really stop and think about it, I'm not so sure how I lived without these things for so long.

I hope one day you'll understand.

Love Always

Liza

xoxoxoxox

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TWO MONTHS LATER

***

TONY
ASHLEY'S
THE REAL WORLD
AUDITION TAPE-PART I OF IV
STARRING

ASHLEY BARBOSA (the actress formally known as Greta)

DIRECTED BY

TONY CASSIS

ALSO STARRING

"RYAN SEACREST":
BILL DRISCOLL

PAPARAZZI:
JENNA MATHERS, DONNA TIMPECK, ALLAN FEINER, JEREMY BLOOM, DAN RAKOWSKI

A-LISTERS:
TIA LAMB, SUZANNE DOWNEY,

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JENTI WREN, CASEY RAMOND, JOHN ROMANOWICZ

PHOTOGRAPHERS:
JASON GARBER, HYACINTH BAILEY, ROGER MING

ASHLEY'S BODYGUARDS:
KEVIN KNEELAND, MARK GREICO

SUMMARY

ASHLEY WALKS "THE RED CARPET" ON OUR RE-CREATED VERSION OF OSCAR NIGHT.

EXT. KODAK THEATRE-NIGHT

A thick red carpet lines the sidewalks. Floral arrangements decorate the area. A-LISTERS take time to pose for PHOTOGRAPHERS. Cameras FLASH as people mill around, schmoozing and getting interviewed. Giant lifesize OSCARS stand in the background.

PULL BACK to reveal a black stretch limo as it pulls up to the curb. ASHLEY BARBOSA, 17, emerges from the car. PAPARAZZI and photographers swarm, but the velvet-covered roping keeps them at bay, as do Ashley's two hulky BODYGUARDS.

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ASHLEY stops a moment to pose for the photographers. She shows off her gown, a strapless peach-colored satin number that all but reaches the ground. Just her Jimmy Choo heels peep out from the bottom.

"RYAN SEACREST," 30-something, steps forward from a throng of onlookers to interview.

ASHLEY, Meanwhile, cameras continue to FLASH. Paparazzi eavesdrop on their conversation, taking notes.

RYAN

Hi, Ashley. You look gorgeous tonight. Can you tell us who you're wearing?

ASHLEY

Thanks, Ryan. This is a Vera Wang original.

RYAN

Gorgeous. And how are you feeling tonight? I loved
Project 17,
by the way. How does it feel to be a part of the first Best Documentary Short nominee to be shot for under a hundred dollars?

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ASHLEY

It feels amazing, Ryan. I'm really excited about it. Really happy about the nomination.

RYAN

And you changed your name.

ASHLEY

Right. I can still be a Greta Garbo fan without trying to clone myself into her. A good lesson to learn.

RYAN

Any other lessons for aspiring actors?

ASHLEY

Yes, acting isn't about the thinking; it's all about the feeling. Each role is unique. And each character needs to emerge from within. Period.

RYAN

Well, great. Great advice. And we can see the fruits of that advice right here, with the film's nomination.

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ASHLEY

That's right, Ryan.

RYAN

So what can your fans expect from you next?

ASHLEY

I'll he starring in another indie. It's about an overly emotional drama queen at an arts high school. We start production this summer. It's being filmed by Tony Cassis, an up-and-coming Boston-based filmmaker.

RYAN

I don't think I've heard of him.

ASHLEY

Well don't worry, because you will. Not only is Tony amazingly talented, but he's also quite sexy.

RYAN

I take it, the two of you are pretty close.

ASHLEY

(grinning) You could say that.

(speaking to camera)

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Hi, "babycakes. I love you.

(Ashley "blows the camera a kiss.)

RYAN

Good luck tonight, Ashley. We look forward to seeing more of you.

ASHLEY

Thanks, Ryan.

CUT TO:

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THREE MONTHS LATER

***

MIMI

June 1, 10:22 PM, rainy night

Our visit to the Danvers State feels like it just happened yesterday. I know that sounds clichéd, but clichés aside, I can't seem to shake the place-can't seem to get it out of my bones.

The post-traumatic stress stuff still lingers. I'm having trouble sleeping, and I still jump at every little noise in the house-from the toaster oven bell to the creaking of floorboards.

I don't know if the sedatives Dr. Maylor gave me are helping, but at least I haven't woken up in the middle of the night this week screaming Christine's name.

My parents are pretty worried, though. My mom continues to blame herself for my PTSD. The other night I heard her talking to my dad, saying that if only she had been more open with

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me about my grandmother, if only she and my uncle had made different choices back then, maybe I wouldn't have felt the need to go to Danvers in the first place.

But my trip to the hospital was never about making anyone feel guilty. And I have no idea why this whole post-traumatic thing even happened. al I can guess is that maybe I wasn't as prepared as I originally thought.

Or maybe that place just makes people crazy.

Regardless, Dr. Maylor say I'm good to go back to school in another week (just in time for finals). He also thinks that all this journaling is actually helping me make progress in my therapy.

Little does he know, however, that keeping this journal only makes me remember Christine more.

Her journal still sits in a duffel bag in the back of my closet, along with Christy, her doll. Dr. Maylor says that one day-sometime when I'm completely healed-I should go back and look at that stuff, just to prove to myself that I'm stronger than that place and those memories. But for now I can't imagine when that time will ever come.

Chet seems to be the only one who understands that. I've grown so much closer to him. He's been visiting me more often lately, usually at night, right after my tutoring sessions.

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He keeps me updated on all his dad drama, which helps me focus on something besides shrink-speak and schoolwork and talking about what it is I'm supposedly feeling all the time.

He and his older brother got together last week to confront their dad, and apparently the old man has agreed to get some help for his drinking. It's all still very fresh, so I have no idea what will happen.

All I know for sure is that I love having Chet around.

Last night he came over with a pint of my favorite pistachio ice cream. We ended up camping out on my bed, eating our way to the bottom of the container, and laughing at stupid stuff-like our trig teacher's green polyester suits and Ms. Pimbull's obsession with the Chia pet. The poor woman ahs at least eleven of them in the art room, and she calls them her kids.

I was laughing so hard I could barely even swallow my ice cream. And then Chet dug his spoon back into the container and scooped up the very last bit. He held it at my lips, waiting for me to relax-his face all serious, just staring at my mouth. After a couple seconds, he slipped the spoonful over my lips. And then he kissed me, his mouth folding over mine in pure creamy goodness. My heart beat fast and my skin tingled over, like snowflakes swirling all around me.