Sister Pact (9 page)

I'm sitting at my desk trying to concentrate, but I just can't do it. I close my English lit book and pick up my phone. 6:45. It vibrates in my hand. I almost drop it.

Nick.

Sophie texted me a few minutes ago. She wants to go for a walk.

I smile.
She doesn't have opposable thumbs. How did she text?

Her cute little nose?

This time I laugh out loud.
I guess if she took the time to text you, she must really want to meet up. Ten minutes?

Deal.

My phone goes in my pocket, and I walk into my bathroom to check my look. Not too bad, definitely less strung-out than before. I'm glad. Nick shouldn't see me all rehab-ready.

I'm walking out of my room when I hear a tapping behind me. Max. He used to climb in my window before we had cells—or other people to date. I rush to open it for him.

“Hi, beautiful.”

“You haven't done this in a long time.”

“I have to talk to you.”

I move out of the way, letting him climb into my room, even though his words freeze me, remind me of last spring. “What's up?”

“Can I talk to you? I—”

“I'm going to meet Nick. I'm late.”

The muscles in Max's jaw tighten. “Please.”

He sits on my bed. I join him, knowing I probably shouldn't. Max puts his hand on my thigh, making me self-conscious. Where is Mom? How long until I'm supposed to meet Nick? And more importantly, what does Max want?

“I know I've blown it with you.”

I shake my head. Why is he doing this? Why now?

“I know I have.”

I hold his stare so he can tell I mean what I say. “We're fine, Max.”

He looks down at his hands, and I sigh. The cocoa butter he uses to heal his swimmer's skin relaxes me. I love that smell.

“Allie,” he starts. “I wish… I wish…” He looks up at me; the misery in his eyes makes me want to end whatever pain he's feeling. “I can't stop thinking about you.”

“Max, please…”

“You know how I feel about you, right?” He puts his hand on my face, and I cover his with my own. He puts his lips on mine. My heart races. He kisses me. Soft. Sweet. Sincere. I kiss him back. Of course I do, but then I remember how it ended with Max and me last time. And I wonder what this whole play is about now. I pull away, winded, confused. He looks me in the eyes, and I swear I see tears. My gut clenches. There's no reason for Max to be crying.

“I've done some things I wish I could take back.”

Is he talking about last spring?

“I was so worried about you. I still am. I need to know, was the pact because of me? Was that why you were going to do it?” Max asks.

I actually thought he wanted to be with me. This is just his guilt talking. My face heats. I can't look at him. “No. It wasn't you.”

His fingers trace my cheek. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“It wasn't you.”

His eyes plead with me, and that makes me feel powerful, like all I have to do is find something he needs so I can give it to him. “What's really going on now, Max?” I ask. “What are you trying to tell me?”

The silence spreads between us. He takes my hand. “You remember Terry's party?” he asks.

“Don't,” I say. “Tell me why you're here now. What's going on?”

He inches closer until his hand is on my thigh, and I can barely breathe. “It was ridiculously hot that day,” he continues.

He leans in until I feel his breath on my neck. “Max…don't. I mean it.”

“Someone started a water balloon fight.”

I try not to give in to the pull of Max. Of the story of us. But it's hard, especially when he's doing this. “You mean
you
started it.”

He gives me a lecherous smile. “Because I wanted to see you wet.”

I smile back even though I know it's not the truth. I remember. He wanted to see Kelly Starks wet. He was chasing her then.

He reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “And then Billy Sullivan came after you, remember?”

“You nailed him with a shaving cream bomb. My hero.” I laugh even though I don't want to.

“And…”

“And he chased you. You were caught; you had nowhere to go.” I take over the story, not caring that Max has won. “So you flipped over the fence like it was nothing.”

“And…” Max whispers, his face so close to mine now I can smell the gum he's chewing.

“And I knew I had to meet you,” I finish.

“I know I haven't always been who you want me to be. But that doesn't mean I don't love you. I do. You know I do. You've always been mine, Allie. No matter what happened before or happens now. It's always been you.”

I'm outside my body, yelling at myself to be happy. These are the words I've been dying to hear. And now he's saying them. But the thing is, I know it hasn't always been me. Most times, it's been other girls. The fun ones. The ones he didn't care about like he cared about me. Supposedly. But the ones he chose over me. Every single time.

“Please, Allie. Don't you want to try?”

I let my fingers trace his cheek, his stubble rough under my touch, making this moment feel so real. I understand what he means. He is mine. I am his. In the most important ways. I know that's insane. I know I'm being stupid and gullible and just plain weak, but I can't help it when it comes to Max. Then I remember—those are the same words he used last spring. Right before he left me.

He leans in like he's about to kiss me, then stops. “Text him.” Max puts his hand in my pocket and pulls out my phone. “Or I'll do it.”

I grab for my cell, which he is holding out of my reach. “Tell Mr. Baseball you're mine.”

It hits me like a punch to the heart. That's what this is really about. “Are you kidding me?” I try to catch my breath. I stand. Turn to face him. “You don't want me until someone else does?”

He staggers toward me. “You're mine. Tell him you're mine and always will be.”

I'm so disgusted by him. “Yours when you're not drunk? Yours in the light of day? Yours all the time, not just for a day or a week or a month until you get all claustrophobic and want someone new?”

“No. That's wrong. I was worried I would hurt you.” He makes a motion with his hands. “I'm not a good boyfriend. I know that. Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I'd take back all of it if I could? Everything I've done? Don't you think I know I shouldn't have pushed you?”

“More like you shouldn't have replaced me the minute I wasn't ready.”

Max licks his lips. Shakes his head. “I was scared. I knew I'd hurt you.”

“Then why did you start to begin with?”

“I couldn't help it. I loved you. Love you.”

“You have no idea what that word means. You are a player and you always will be.”

“Not with you, Allie.”

“No. Because this time I'm the one who's walking away.”

I grab my phone and head for the stairs, not caring that Mom's in the kitchen, overhearing this dramatic little scene play out.
Max doesn't want me. Max doesn't want me.
I repeat that horrible chorus in my head till I know—even if I don't believe—that I'm being stupid. Max doesn't want me. He just wants Nick not to have me.

“Sophie!” I make it all the way downstairs and grab her leash and sweater.

“Come on, Allie…” Max holds his arms out to me.

Sophie comes, her nails making a clicking sound on the floor as she trots to me. I bend down and put her sweater and leash on.

“One day, we're going to be together for real. One day when we're through with all the other people, when we're ready to just be together, we will.”

I burst out the door and leave Max standing there with his “one days” and his stupid, horrible, mean plays. Leah told me I was starstruck when it came to him, that I needed to grow up. She'd be happy to see that I'm finally on board.

The day is gray, like my mood, and I'm glad. I walk into Mr. Kispert's room, the headache on the edge of my temples. Migraines used to just happen for me. Now they are a promise tucked into the back of my eyes, feeding on the sadness and the anger, taking over my head like an invading army.

I grab two Excedrin and a bottle of water from my backpack. Maybe this will be enough to hold the headache off for real. Piper is already staring at her easel. Nick's is prepped and ready for him. Mine is empty. I wonder if Mr. Kispert just ran out of time or if he's finally getting the message.

Today is a block day, some stupid freshman and sophomore school-wide testing makes us all go to half our classes but stay for double the time. Block days in art usually mean a crap ton of creating. I better get started. The supply closet door is closed but not locked. Mr. Kispert walks in the room, just as I turn the handle.

“Wait.” He holds up his hand. “I've got something special for you.”

His words create pebbles of worry inside my stomach. Nick follows on his heels, two large canvas grocery bags in his hands.

Mr. Kispert drags a table next to my empty easel. He nods at Nick, who pours the contents of one of the bags into a messy pile. Rocks. Twigs. Shells. Pine cones. Leaves. Nick smiles at me like the hero he thinks he is. He sweeps the debris off the other side of the table. On that side, he pours nail polish bottles, lipsticks, crayons, markers, Post-it notes, those plastic Easter eggs, and candy of all different shapes and sizes and colors.

I cross my arms so I will take up less space. All that's missing are the cough medicine bottles and the pills. I'm glad no one understands what these colors really mean to me. It's like Mr. Kispert mined the world for every scrap of my guilt, like he somehow knew these were the colors that are responsible for my dangerous choices, then filled the table in front of me with the evidence. And now he wants me to paint. Excellent.

“I've been thinking, Allie.” Mr. Kispert stands back, hands shoved in his pockets, jingling his keys. “Maybe we need to look at 2-D versus 3-D.” He winks at me. “Today could be a play day for you.”

Piper and Nick don't need one of Mr. Kispert's art interventions. I'm the only one with a table. But I also can't help but see the art here. I step forward. I reach for the shells and the rocks and the leaves first. Then I look at the candy and the polish and the lipsticks. It's all here, staring at me, and I know this is really about which I choose: real or fake. Paper or plastic. I open a bag of Skittles and let the candy pour out. I stare at them and know they represent Max, Leah, me. That night.

I open the root beer candies and the Nerds and the M&M's. I gather and group and arrange, and when I feel like I have a good enough idea of what I'm doing, I see that Mr. Kispert has already loaded my easel and started a palette for me. I take the brush and start to paint the colors. Candy as splatter pattern. Leah's. Feelings as sugar or pills or stupid drinks in the blender. Dresses and expectations. And at the center of it all, Max.

He could have come to that party. Some of the swimmers were there. He could have saved me from the blush-pink puddle that spilled from between my legs after I was with Jason because I had to grow up. He could have been the one with me, but he was somewhere else, with someone else. And now, after all the pills and the paint and the stupid, stupid choices, I have nothing left but gray feelings for him. So I paint those too. I paint the blue and the ice and the cold, and I hope that will bring the numb I really need. Like when I went into the cold water with Leah at the Cape. I paint prison gray and ash white and end it with a touch of black.

Mr. Kispert sees me cleaning up and takes that as an invitation to check on my painting. I glance at him from the sink. He's nodding. The knots in my stomach soften. He puts his hand on his face and looks at it from another angle. More nods. I can't help but smile as the water washes away the colors I just chose.

Piper holds her brushes in the water with mine. She leans against me, her tiny frame adding weight to my recently built fortress, the one I built with my brushes to protect myself from Max and all the bad. “Really great work today.”

I close my eyes and think about the picture I just painted. For once, I agree that I've accomplished something. I just hope my new-found strength can stand up to the real world, when I actually have to see Max. That it doesn't get washed away like makeup after a good cry. Or a castle made of sand.

• • •

Everyone is excited about the pep rally. I get it. But I'm not part of that crowd anymore. Mr. Hicks is standing in the hallway. He calls me to him. “You don't have to go, Allie. Nobody expects you to.” He looks straight at me, like he gets me.

“I'll be sitting with friends,” I offer.

“Well, in case you change your mind, here's an excuse slip.” He hands me a pass with my name already on it. “And I'd like you to come see me on Monday. Let's look at your classes and see how you're doing. Okay?”

“Sure,” I say even though I have no intentions of going to see him. I slip the pass into my pocket and push out into the packed hallways with my head down so low, I almost don't see Max walk by, his arm draped around Tracy Summers's shoulders.

Max leans into Tracy and whispers something in her ear. She laughs. Pain flows through my blood. Max looks at me—just a quick glance—then he looks away. Max is mad. No question. But it's not like he has a right. He did this to us. He did. I'm just the one left behind on our battlefield, checking for survivors.

My cell vibrates, and for the five seconds it takes to pull it out and see who is calling, I let myself believe it's Max asking me to forgive him. But when I look at the phone, I've got a missed call from Nick. I steady myself and slow my heart. I try not to get annoyed. It's not Nick's fault he's not Max. Nick texts.

Sit with me?

I blink back disappointment tears, pissed at myself for letting this happen. I have to be stronger than this. I have to stop being so weak. So I type back, glad it's easy to fake peppy in a text.
Sure

I think about the bottle of Delsym still stashed in my backpack promising a little Numb. It's not like I left it in there on purpose, but it's there, and maybe I can get through the pep rally with a dose of liquid anesthesia.

I start walking down the hall, counting the steps till I can get to my bunker—thirty steps, twenty-five, twenty, eighteen. At ten, I look up and see John Strickland coming straight for me. Two of his boys are walking with him but stop as he makes contact.

“Hey, Allie.” He grabs my arm.

My heart speeds. I shove my hands in my pockets, try to get a little smaller. Without asking, he puts something in the top pocket of my jean jacket.

“Don't thank me. Least I could do. You look like you could use a little pick-me-up.”

I look down, my face painted humiliation red. And then he's gone before I can say anything back. I put my hand over the lump in my pocket, shamed and curious at the same time.

Five more steps and I'm in the bathroom. I pull his stash out of my pocket and spill the contents into my hand like the candy on the art table. Pills. Four. Two small white ones with an M stamped on them and two small green ones. And a note:
Green gets you loose. White wakes you up. Take one of each
. Now I definitely feel like Alice in Wonderland. Should I take them?

I wonder if Piper uses John Strickland's pills, if Leah did. He said I could use a pick-me-up. John Strickland should know. It's kind of his job.

I stare in the mirror. Do I want to do this? Do I trust him?
No.
The answer is no. I shove the bag back into my pocket and leave the bathroom. I walk to my locker, trying hard to avoid the chaos in the halls, as what's left of the student body empties out into the courtyard. I put my books away and look at myself in the makeup mirror. John Strickland was right. I do look worn down.

My eyes go to all the pictures Emery and Max taped to the inside of my locker before school started. There are tons of Emery and me, and Max and me, and Leah and me. My fingers trace the one of Leah and me on the Cape when we were twelve and ten—a happy Cape memory. Before Mom and Dad waged their war full-time. Because the thing is, I do remember when they only had sporadic skirmishes.

I close my eyes. Maybe Mr. Hicks is right. Maybe I shouldn't put myself through this. Maybe I should go to the art room and paint. I pull the bag out of my pocket and push the pills around. Maybe I should take just one? I remember how it felt when I first took Mom's Xanax. At first it was okay. And it did sort of help. One part of a pill can't hurt. I could use a little life in me. I bite the white one in half and swallow it without a drink.

Voices build up in my brain, accusing me of being stupid and weak and out of control. I push the heel of my hand into my eye socket and pray they stop. I've done it now. Worrying about it won't help any. I'm wondering when I'll feel the effects of my new friend's little white pill and almost jump out of my skin when I see Leah leaning against the locker behind me. She's wearing her dance team uniform, the blue one with the silver wave outlined in sequins.

“I used to love pep rallies,” she says.

I look around at the empty halls and whisper to her, “What are you doing here? You can't be here.”

“You think you can handle John Strickland without my help?” She laughs. “Hardly.”

Boundaries. I need them. I turn my back to her. She moves into the mirror so that when I lean in, her image rises before me. I face her. “Why are you here? Really?”

“I'm here to help you, of course.”

“Help me what?”

My cell vibrates
. Where r u?

“Help you figure this out.”

“Nick's waiting. I gotta go,” I say.

“Go ahead. I'll catch up.” Leah's like Dad. You can never win.

I slam my locker closed and walk away, texting Nick as I go, but I have to lean against another bank of lockers, because all of a sudden, the hallway feels like it's tipped.
On my way
, I text.

“You brought me back for a reason.” Leah appears next to me as I walk-jog to catch up. “I'm pretty sure it wasn't to watch you make stupid mistakes, was it?”

I wave her off. My heart is beating jackrabbit fast, and I can't tell if it's because of that little white pill or that my sister's ghost won't behave.

I see Nick ahead of me, a sea of people separating us. My eyes feel a little out of sync with the rest of me, like they're moving faster than I am.

Nick tries to maneuver through the crowd and gets swept in the wrong direction, making me think about how he's mixed. Is he more jock than artist? Or more artist than jock? And more importantly, can I trust him?

“Stop thinking. You always overthink things,” Leah says. “Just have fun. You're allowed to have fun, you know?”

Am I allowed to have fun? Aren't I supposed to be dead too?

Leah shakes her head. “You never wanted to, remember? You said you didn't.”

“You coming?” Nick's appeared by my side. He reaches for my hand. I jog a little to catch up, trying to stop thinking so much. I try to just enjoy being with Nick. But it's hard because whatever is in this little white pill is making me feel like all I want to do is think.

“Hey, Allie.” Cassie Lindberg smiles, her arm around Billy Crandall's waist. Shortstop Billy. Hotshot. Pretty boy. Cassie's long, tri-dyed curls fall around her face, her eyes huge. I nod.

“Come on, the team's sitting here.” Nick drags me up the stands.

Great. Now I'm sitting with the team. That means we're high school official.

I try to slow him down so maybe the feeling part of my brain can catch up, but he's on a mission. He's going to take me higher—higher than this pill.

We climb past the soccer team. The swimmers are next. Max looks at me, a tight expression on his face. No Tracy for the moment and no seat saved for her. My heart warms. Maybe I was wrong about him. Then Tracy climbs past Nick and me, and Max scoots over for her. For
her
. I wrap my arm around Nick, glad to have some cover. I don't feel anything—but smug. And powerful. Like Leah.

The cheerleaders start shooting shirts into the crowd. One sails over our heads. Pat Mendez pushes forward, knocking Matthew Cronan and Billy Whitehead out of the way to get one. The senior football players stand at the top of the bleachers, waiting to rain down on us.

The announcer calls, “Sean Cunningham, running back, all-county three years, most yards rushing in Prince William County, all-state last two years.” The crowd erupts.

Leah's Sean. I swallow hard. Leah reappears in time to shoot a death stare at him.

I think about the last time I saw him with Leah. At the party. Leah was crying. Sean was pissed. Six hours before she killed herself, she and Sean were fighting.

“It had nothing to do with it,” Leah says. “He was a jerk but not worth dying over.”

“Dave Wilson, three years' all-state offensive lineman,” the faceless voice continues.

Sean and Dave rumble down the steps, making them shake. The announcer calls out the next name and launches Scott Horseman. I realize Jason comes after him. I look up, and sure enough, he's standing there, huge head and square shoulders. I shudder. What was I thinking sleeping with him?

“You were thinking you should get it over with. You closed your eyes and picked,” Leah says.

I was thinking if I were the kind of girl who did, Max would want me, pick me. Nick pulls me higher. I feel like I'm flying. Or falling. It seems like we've been climbing forever. My heart races. The walls close in. I can't breathe. Maybe I was wrong to trust baseball player Nick. What sport you play says a lot about you—like which pill you take or which bottle you drink.