These Gentle Wounds (2 page)

Three

“Allen, what the hell happened to you last night?” Walker shouts at me across the crowded hall. I know I'm going to need to do damage control with the team; missing practice is an automatic game suspension. I was just hoping not to have to do it right now.

I lean against a row of lockers and close my eyes while I let him catch up.

“Nothing,” I say after he reaches me. “Nothing happened. Sorry.” It's a total lie, but Walker is only smart on the ice.

I open my eyes and watch him try to figure out what he wants to say.

“Don't let him get the upper hand. The team needs you more than we need that douche.”

It takes me a second to realize that he thinks I left because of Cody. “You're right,” I say, playing along. “Sorry.”

He slaps my shoulder with the back of his hand. “Dude. Seriously. You're going to be invincible next year. Just watch.”

I nod. Next year. Maybe everything really will be different then. Cody will have graduated. No one else will care much about me spazzing out because I'm going to be starting goalie on a champion hockey team. Or maybe the spins and everything will have stopped by then and I won't have a reason to keep trying to hide in the shadows. Maybe next year I'll be normal.

“Gordie?” Walker stares at me and the pity starts to seep back into his expression.

“Invincible,” I parrot back, needing to escape. “Yeah. Sure.”

I push off the lockers and head down the hall.

Mr. Brooks is blocking the doorway to his classroom, his back to me. But that isn't what stops me cold. What does that is a flash of short dark hair so raven-black it's almost blue. It seems to fill up the hall.

I half-close my eyes and keep walking, hoping I can slip in unnoticed. Instead, Mr. Brooks stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Gordie. Just who I wanted to see.” He smiles. “Sarah is joining our class today and since the two of you know each other, I hope you won't mind taking her under your wing and getting her up to speed on the assignments.”

I narrow my eyes and stare at her incredibly sincere face. She doesn't look like someone who's just stretched the truth so far it's about to snap.

“We don't really … ” I begin, but the hand on my shoulder tightens.

Unlike Sarah, Mr. Brooks really does know everything about me. I used to talk to him all the time when he taught at the middle school, and for a while he was the only one who didn't treat me like I was nuts. I kind of owe him.

“Yeah. Sure,” I say, giving in just as the bell rings. Mr. Brooks ushers us in and I manage to hiss at Sarah, “Why did you … ” before she walks off without answering to take the only open seat, a few rows away from me.

Mr. Brooks starts talking about
Moby Dick
, which I read a couple of years ago. That's just as well, because the chance of me being able to pay attention to class is exactly zero. Instead, I have to fight the urge to keep twisting around to look at Sarah. Her eyes are as dark as her hair, which falls straight down to just the tips of her ears like one of those 1960s models on the old album covers that Kevin's dad has hanging in the den, and it's as shiny as newly laid ice. Her smile is really wide, and it makes her eyes light up.

I don't want to care, but my fingers tap a rhythm on my jeans as I stare at the clock. This is a double period, with a
break in the middle that can't come quickly enough. I'm
already halfway out of my seat when the bell rings and everyone pushes to leave.

In the hall, I call her name, trying to give my voice that air of nonchalance most kids seem to have perfected by high school, but the word kind of knots around my tongue.

“Me? Are you actually talking to me?” she asks with something resembling a smile.

“Yeah, but … ” She shouldn't be the one asking the questions. Besides, I could probably come up with a pretty long list of reasons why I wouldn't normally start a conversation with a girl outside English class. Why I never have before.

“Why are you so quiet, Gordie Allen?”

I press back against the wall to keep from walking away and get to my real point. “Why did you tell Mr. Brooks that we knew each other?”

“Wishful thinking?” She laughs. When I don't laugh back, she shrugs. “It isn't totally untrue. I mean, you recognized me from last summer, right?”

I want to explain to her that knowing that someone is taking pictures isn't the same as actually
knowing
them, but I have a feeling it won't matter to her.

“Look, yesterday. I mean … can I see your photos?” I ask. My stomach rolls over as I remember her saying something about “the cutest athletes at Maple Grove.” Now I'm pretty sure that I imagined the whole conversation, but if I could see the photos …

Control it,
Kevin would tell me.
Just because you think you need something doesn't mean you do.

Easy for him to say. Not like he's so great about taking his own advice.

Sarah smirks, holding in a smile. “I didn't bring my camera.”

I'm not sure how she can do this to me. My thumb twitches a million times. I don't know why I'm so bugged about it, but she's making me crazy.

“If you want to go get it, I could tell Mr. Brooks you'll be right back.” I realize, as I say it, that it's ridiculous. I mean, however desperate I sound, it isn't even half of what I'm feeling. But if I was going for nonchalance, I've just fallen flat on my face.

“I meant I left it at home,” she says, and my stomach sinks. Kids are streaming back into class like rivers going into dams and I have to hold on to the wall to avoid being swept away with them.

“Gordie?” There's something about her saying my name that sounds nice. I can't put my finger on it, but I'm surprised to find how much I like hearing it come out of her mouth.

And then she says it again. I look up, surprised to feel a rush of hot blood to my cheeks.

“You need to move out of the way. We have to go back in,” she says.

Without thinking, I do what she says. She walks past me into the room, followed by the other kids who were log-jammed behind her. I stand there with my mouth hanging open, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

I have no idea how I'm going to be able to stand being in class for a whole second hour listening to Mr. Brooks ramble on about Melville. I drum my fingers on the desk and say a prayer under my breath, hoping there will be a pop quiz or some sort of in-class assignment, something I actually have to think about, something to take my mind off of her.

Instead, what happens is this: we're splitting into groups. I cringe as I listen to Mr. Brooks explain that each group is expected to present a retelling of
Moby Dick
in some creative way that doesn't involve writing it down. I can't help but position myself five people away from Sarah, figuring that we're going to count off. I'm right. Still, it freaks me out that I'm doing this. I mean, what difference does it really make if I'm working on this stupid assignment with Sarah? But even though I can't explain it, I know that I want to. I have to.

And so our group is the two of us, Andrew, and Scott. I listen as they start throwing ideas around. Andrew says, “Puppets,” which is horrible. Scott says, “A poem in iambic pentameter,” which is just as bad. Before I even think the idea through, I toss out, “Photographs.”

This gets Sarah's attention, and she whips her head around to look at me as Andrew asks, “Photographs?”

I try to pull the idea together quickly so I don't sound like a total wacko. “We can take photos of ideas hidden in the book. And since Sarah's a photographer”—I pause when I see the expression of pure shock on her face—“we'll have an edge.”

I realize, as I say it, that it's probably the longest sentence I've ever uttered in class. My hand shakes as I rub the back of my neck, so I jam it under my leg.

Andrew and Scott nod in unison and we all turn to look at Sarah, who blushes. I have to look away because looking at her is making me feel warm and cold all at once, like I have a fever or the flu.

“Yeah, sure,” she says to the group. I can tell she's happier than she's letting on. “Thanks,” she mouths directly to me, and it makes me feel even more feverish.

We start discussing our plans. I offer to take notes because it will give my hands something to do. I write down everyone's ideas in neat little columns. Andrew is going to the aquarium to photograph the whales. Scott is going to handle the “river as a place of transition” shots. There's no chance in hell of me doing that.

Which leaves me and Sarah.

Some really, really freaky urge makes me volunteer to do something on prophesy and harbingers of doom. It would be funny if it wasn't a subject I already knew too much about. I'm the poster child for things that can go wrong.

Sarah says she's going to tackle the bigger issues, all the “blasphemy” and “insurmountable tasks” stuff.

By the time we sort all of that out, the bell rings. I'm buzzing hard from what I've just done (initiated this), from what it might mean (spending time with Sarah, who all of a sudden I want to spend time with), and from trying to figure out what comes next (no idea).

I don't even know that she's standing next to my desk until I finish packing up my backpack and almost walk into her.

“I'm impressed,” she says.

I feel a smile dance across my lips and then stop it in its tracks. I don't want to let her get to me like this. But at the same time, I do. And that confuses the hell out of me.

“Why?” I keep my head ducked down and fiddle with the buckle on my bag, hoping she can't see my face.

“That was a really good idea you had. I didn't think that would be your kind of thing.”

I know it's a good idea. That part doesn't surprise me. And I knew she'd think it was one too, which is why I brought it up to begin with. But I can't overlook the subtext—that she'd even bother to wonder whether it was my kind of thing or not.

I don't know what to say. Any words that come to my mind float right out as soon as they get there. “I don't have a camera,” I blurt out.

Sarah has a funny look on her face, like she's trying to figure something out. Like she's trying to figure
me
out, and it makes me feel really jumpy.

“So why did you suggest a photography project?”

This whole conversation is reminding me why I avoid having them.

“I … ” The words are getting stuck again and I'm having problems thinking straight. My bag is packed and I don't know what to do with my hands so I shove them into my pockets.

She watches me for a second and then reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. All I can focus on is her touch. Everything else flies out of my head. So I just shrug.

She smiles, and I wonder if her fingertips are burning the same way my arm is.

“It's okay,” she says. “You can use my camera, but I'll need to go with you. It was a gift from my brother and he'd kill me if I let it out of my sight.”

A million objections race through my mind at once. I don't know if I can spend time with her outside of school. I mean, school is broken into all of these neat little boxes of time: class, break, class. And so on. All regimented and ordered. And class isn't exactly social. I can sit and do whatever. But just hanging out with her? I'm not sure if I know how to do that. What would we talk about? What if she realizes that I'm really fucked up? What if I start spinning?

“Earth to Gordie.”

“Yeah. Sure. Great,” I say, although really I'm terrified and my stomach is turning into jelly.

“Good. I have to get to Chem,” she says, and I'm suddenly aware that the kids in the next class are streaming into the room and I'm in major danger of being late to French. She rips a piece of paper out of her notebook, writes on it quickly, and then thrusts it into my hand.

“Here's my number. I'm not going to be in school tomorrow and Friday because my mom … ” She rolls her eyes. “Never mind. Just call me and we can figure out when would be good.”

Then she turns and walks away. I'm left with too many questions, just staring at the alien piece of paper in my hand and at the empty space where she'd been.

Four

Kevin is in detention. On its own that's nothing new. But just like I hadn't had a spin in a while before the other night, he hasn't picked a fight with anyone, or mouthed off to a teacher, or whatever it was he did this time, in a while. It's kind of hard to believe that these two things have nothing to do with each other, and it sucks that I'm the one left feeling guilty because he decided to do something stupid.

Besides, I really need to talk to him about this crazy girl.

With him at school and Jim at work as usual, I have the house to myself and no one to yell at me for missing tonight's hockey game. Even though I got a game suspension for missing practice, I'm supposed to be there. But there's no way I'm just going to sit and twitch on the bench.

I flip through the mail for lack of anything better to do. I'm not looking for anything in particular. Half of it is for Kevin anyhow. College catalogs. As a sophomore, I have another year before I have to worry about things like college. Another year before I have to figure what to do with my life. And honestly, I'm really in no hurry.

I have an urge to dump the catalogs, with their shiny covers and fake smiling people, straight into the trash. I know that won't keep Kevin from leaving. I know he needs to get out and do his own thing. But it doesn't mean I have to like it. It doesn't mean that just the thought of him leaving doesn't make my damned hand start up again.

I bury the catalogs under a cooking magazine filled with recipes for things I'd never eat and take them all upstairs to
the bedroom we share. When I dump the pile on Kevin's
bed, a stiff, formal envelope falls out of the stack. It's for Jim, and I wouldn't normally give it a second glance except for the return address:
Child and Family Services.

Usually they don't write. Once or twice a year, someone shows up and asks me questions off a sheet while all of us stare at the door and wait for them to leave.

I hold the letter up to the light, but they've used one of those stupid security envelopes so I can't see anything. I put it down on Kevin's bed and try to walk away, but that twisting feeling in my stomach starts, and I have to turn back and grab it to keep my head from starting to pound too.

Screw Kevin and his “learn to control it” crap.

Downstairs, I fill Jim's old copper teapot with water and hold my breath as I watch, waiting, waiting, waiting for the water to boil. Then, once it's really going, I hold the envelope over the steam and open it.

I'm wired, excited even though I know whatever's in the letter is going to suck. The page shakes in my hand as I scan the words saying that my father—the one who disappeared five years ago, the one who made my mom do it—is petitioning to see me.

It feels like there's an electric eel in my brain trying to get out. My right hand is totally out of control, and the walls of the kitchen feel uncomfortably close. Everything is too bright. I rub my eyes and try to breathe, but I can hear myself gasping like the air has been sucked out of the room. This can't be happening.

This can't. This can't. This can't.

Before I know it, I'm stumbling upstairs and into my bedroom closet, panting, with my head in my hands. Time slows down. The universe spins around me. I let it. Hours pass. Years.

It doesn't matter how long it's been since I've needed to do this. It doesn't matter that it isn't something I can control.

Freak.

Freak.

Freak.

I replay the day—That Day—over and over in my head. I used to think I did it to see if there was anything I could have done differently. Some way I could have saved Mom or the kids.

But really, I know that isn't the reason.

Replaying That Day is like watching a familiar movie. I know how it starts. I know how it ends. And I know every single second in between. And fucked up as it is, there's something comforting about that.

I'm ten, Kayla is three, and the twins, Sophie and Jason, aren't even a year old. Kevin is twelve. But he's at his dad's. At Jim's.

When Mom opens the door to wake me, I jerk up like someone's fired a shot into the room. She doesn't ask why I'm sleeping on the floor.

Mom had good days where she'd wake us up in costume, as a princess. Or a fairy. Or a cat with whiskers and a tail. She'd make us sandwiches shaped like hearts or stars. But when it wasn't a good day, she was sad, stuck in a place that meant Kevin would need to feed us, and one of us would need to skip school to watch the kids. But Kevin isn't here, and I know this is a bad day. The worst.

I get dressed in my blue shirt because it's dress-up day at school and they're taking photos and I haven't given up hope that I'll make it there. I'm just buttoning up when the smell of food meets me halfway down the stairs and surprises me. I didn't think Mom was okay enough to make breakfast, even though it's only oatmeal.

“Feed the kids
,
” she says.

I glare at her tired eyes, which stare at me, unblinking. But I dish out the oatmeal. I always do what I'm told.

The kids eat and then settle down quickly, strangely quiet.

Mom is everywhere, all at once. She makes sure they've eaten everything and urges me to eat as well, even though she knows that food in the morning makes me feel sick.

She stands over me with a bottle of orange juice. Her voice is odd, harsh. “I'm going to watch until you finish this.”

I know better than to argue. I guzzle some down, the acid forming a lump in my stomach. When she turns around, I spill the rest down the drain.

She tells me to get the kids into the car. I'm pissed at Kevin for leaving me to do this on my own and pissed at Mom for a million different things.

“Are you taking me to school?” I ask.

She doesn't answer. In fact, she doesn't say anything until …

She takes back roads, but I don't know which ones. I'm too tired and angry to notice.

She stops the car.

She looks at the kids in the backseat and then at me.

She puts her hand on my head and starts her prayers. Then she drives us straight into the water.

A part of me knows I'm sitting in the closet like a dumb little kid. If I stretch my left hand a bit, I can feel my winter boots and the bottom of a hockey stick. My shirts drape down on metal hangers that clank together as I move. Goose bumps form on my arms. I can feel my right hand clenched around a cheap plastic pen.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

My thumb hits it over and over, echoing each frantic beat of my heart.

Mom is in front of me, making oatmeal and insisting that I drink the orange juice.

The car smells of leather and animal crackers. On top of that there's the air freshener that's meant to smell like cherries. The kids breathe, quiet, in the back. Then they cry, drowned out by the poetry of Mom's prayers.

The car goes into the water and I'm staring at that eagle overhead, pushing out the window,
grasping for the sky. I'm cold, wet, sure that if I reach up to touch my hair, it will be soaked with river water. I can smell that horrible scent of fish, and seaweed, and dead things.

“Ice? What is it?” Kevin's voice circles through the dark like a rope to pull me out.

He's called me “Ice” as long as I can remember. Mom said it was my first word. No surprise—my father was only interested in me because he wanted a kid who could play hockey and finish what he'd started and fucked up.

But Kevin wasn't in the water. He wasn't … it takes me a minute to realize he's real and in front of me.

I hold out my hand with the letter clenched in it and watch my brother's face as he starts to read.

“
That son of a … ” Kevin stops himself and holds out his free hand to help me up. I force myself to take it. After the closet, the room is too bright for my eyes and Kevin closes the curtains while I throw myself onto his bed and press my back against the cool, hard wall.

“Don't worry,” he says, like that's a realistic option. “We'll talk to my dad when he gets home. This”—he looks down at the letter and I can see his jaw tense—“is not going to happen.”

I want to believe him. Kevin is great at sorting shit out, but at the same time, this is official stuff. Government stuff. I don't think even he can take care of it.

He moves the stack of catalogs over without looking at them and sits down, then picks my arm up and dangles it like it's a piece off a mannequin and not something attached to me. “Man, Ice, I thought you'd stopped doing that. At least stick to ruining your own clothes.”

The gray fleece is Kevin's, really, but since I do the laundry in the house, I get dibs. I run my fingers over the bottom of the sleeve, which is frayed and wet. Half of the time I don't even know I've been chewing on something and anyway, I can't control what happens during a spin.

I grab my arm back and dry the shirt off on my jeans. I can feel my heart beating, the blood pounding in my ears so loud it's all I can focus on.

Kevin knocks me on the leg. “You aren't breaking our pact, are you?”

The pact came after That Day, and the spinning, and everything else. The pact was that Kevin would always look out for me. And that I would trust him to. I'd only have to tell him about Cody being a dick at practice and Kevin would go after him. He'll fight anyone and anything to keep me safe.

He doesn't know that I'm the one he should be beating the crap out of. And I can't tell him, because I can't handle him hating me.

So I shrug while he picks up a catalog and absentmindedly rifles through it, trying to look like I haven't just freaked out. I pretend I'm outlining a paper for school and make a list in my head of the things I know.

I know that my mom did it all to get back at my father for The Night Before.

I know that afterward, he didn't want us. Me, I mean. Because I was the only one left. Kevin wasn't even his kid, so Jim got stuck with me too.

I know that having one of your parents try to kill you and the other one not want you wrecks something inside.

And I know that even though all they really did was annoy me, I should have tried harder to save the kids.

Once everyone agreed I should try to go back to school, my hand would start spasming when I was stressed, or tired, or thinking about the wrong things, and I needed to keep moving all the time. Then the spins started. Sometimes they spun me back to That Day, sometimes just to some stupid memory that's locked in my screwed-up head.

I don't know if there was something in the water, or if I inherited something from Mom, or if it's my punishment for being so bad and selfish.

Perhaps all I really know is that I wasn't like this before.

And I am now.