CG: Thank you.
TD: It’s okay to succeed at something your mother did. Even in a different way.
Those words hit me so hard that I fall back on the pillow. My chest aches with pressure. I want to cry. I am crying.
You’re okay.
I sniff and hold myself together.
CG: It’s okay to be mad that your mom is pregnant.
TD: I’m not mad. I’m . . . extraneous.
CG: You’re not extraneous.
TD: I am. She took this douchebag’s name when she married him. Now there’s nothing linking me to her, and only something linking me to a man stuck in prison.
CG: There’s no name linking me to my mother, either, but I’m still connected to her. I feel it every day.
He doesn’t say anything to that. I wait for a while, until the suspense is killing me.
CG: Did I say the wrong thing?
TD: No.
CG: Are you okay?
TD: I don’t know.
CG: Does she know how you feel?
TD: My mother?
CG: Yes.
TD: No.
CG: Maybe you should tell her.
TD: I don’t think so.
CG: Take it from someone who can’t tell her mother anything anymore. You should tell her everything you can.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
From: Cemetery Girl
To: The Dark
Date: Tuesday, October 8 06:22:23 AM
Subject: Mothers
My mom was always on assignment, so we never had much opportunity for “girl talk.” My best friend is very close to her mother, and they talk all the time. I envy that.
Mom and I could have talked by email, and sometimes we did, but when I was young and learning to write, she encouraged me to send her letters. I did, and she would write back. When I was nine years old, getting a letter with a bunch of foreign stamps would be the highlight of my week. I did a project in fifth grade where I tried to collect stamps from as many countries as possible just because I already had two dozen in my desk at home.
Even after I had an email account and a phone, the letter writing stuck. I started writing several times a week. I told her everything.
Now I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone.
This is so hard to type, I’m tempted to delete this whole email.
In my letters, sometimes I lied.
I know you won’t get the full effect, but I deleted and retyped that line seven times.
Now eight.
I am forcing myself to keep going.
I lied to my mother.
Her letters were full of these grand adventures. She’d tell me about warlords or peace treaties or ballistic missiles or brushes with death. Nothing in her letters was false—she had the photographs to prove it. “Ian is sending me to Malaysia this week,” she’d say. Or, “I’m going to be another few days in Iran. Ian wants me to see if I can get some shots of the protesters.”
Ian is her editor, and sometimes I’d be tempted to write back and ask if Ian could assign her to spend a few weeks at home.
So I’d lie. I’d tell her that a photograph of mine was up for an award from the city council. Or I’d tell her I’d written a piece for the school paper that launched an investigation of some sort. Anything to get her attention.
She’d say the right things, but I could read between the lines.
It was all meaningless.
It’s even more meaningless now, looking back. They weren’t even interesting lies.
I wish I’d just told her the truth.
I wish I’d told her in real time, instead of in written letters that would take weeks to arrive.
I wish I’d told her how I felt, and how much I missed her, and how her being home, just a little bit, would have meant more to me than all the Pulitzer Prizes in the world.
I think that’s why I wrote her so many letters after she died.
I’d give anything to tell her one true thing, any true thing, right now.
So. Talk to your mother. Tell her how you feel.
Report back.
I wish I could. Mom was still in the hospital when I left for school.
I had to spend the night at Rev’s. Not like it was a hardship, but I’m seventeen years old. I could have spent the night alone. I don’t need to crash on his couch because no one trusts me to stay away from the matches.
Then again, considering my mental state when we left the hospital, maybe staying with Rev was a good thing.
Sleep kept its distance last night, for various reasons.
Texting with Juliet—worth it.
Plotting with a sleepy Rev about how I want to disconnect Alan’s fuel line—worth it.
Listening to Babydoll scream at 4 a.m.—not worth it.
Worrying about how my mother is re-creating a family without me—not worth it.
I’m practically crawling between classes this morning.
When I get to English, Mrs. Hillard is taking papers from students as they walk through the door. I didn’t do the class assignment, because I wasn’t there to get it—but I didn’t look at the other poem she gave me in the conference room, either.
I move past without looking at her and drop into my seat.
“Declan,” she says, “what did you think of ‘Invictus’?”
I don’t need this hassle. I don’t need it.
I stab my pencil at my notebook. “I didn’t read it.”
Students continue filing past her, and she keeps taking their papers, but her eyes are locked on me.
“Why not?”
Because I’m extraneous. I don’t need to be here.
I can’t say that. I can’t say any of it.
I look down at my notebook and begin doodling a line in the margin. The motion is casual, but tension begins coiling in my belly, and I know it’s only a matter of time before it snaps, sending me careening into the hall, leaving rage in my wake.
She slaps a blank Post-it onto my notebook, and I jump. I didn’t see her walk over.
“Tell me why,” she says.
I pick up my pencil, but I stop with the point against the paper.
I can’t tell her. I could barely tell Juliet, and that was without being stared at in the middle of a crowded classroom.
Mrs. Hillard doesn’t move.
I wish she’d leave me alone. Like a stupid poem is going to make a bit of difference in my life.
She still hasn’t said a word, but I can feel her waiting. Hell, at this point, the whole class is waiting.
She asked me to give her a chance. What would this cost me?
I scribble quickly, fold it in half, and hand it to her.
Panic grips me for an instant because I didn’t consider that she might read it out loud.
But she doesn’t. She reads what I wrote—My mom was in the hospital last night—and taps her fingers on my notebook. “I understand. Thank you. We’re going to move on to a new poem in class, but I think I’d like for you to complete last night’s assignment independently, if that’s all right with you.”
The coil of tension unspools a little, leaving me off balance. I have to clear my throat. “Sure.”
“Good,” she says. Then she moves away and calls the class to order.
I pull the photocopied sheet out of my bag. “Invictus.” It’s a little crumpled around the edges, but I can still read the poem.
I heave a sigh. I can come up with two paragraphs, easy. At least it’s short.
Ten minutes later, I’ve read it three times.
I feel like I can’t stop reading it. The words feel as though they were written just for me. One line in particular keeps drawing my eye.
“Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody but unbowed.”
In other words, life has a solid right hook, but it’s not going to take me down.
The final lines are what really get me, though.
??
?I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”
I can’t remember the last time I felt like the master of my own fate.
Yes, I do. Last May, when I got behind the wheel of Dad’s truck. When that bottle of whiskey burned a path down my throat.
I have never really cared about an assignment before, but all of a sudden, I need to write.
I dig in my bag and find a pen. I start writing, and it’s like writing to Juliet. Thoughts pour out of me.
I end up with a lot more than two paragraphs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
From: The Dark
To: Cemetery Girl
Date: Tuesday, October 8 11:42:44 AM
Subject: RE: Mothers
I think your relationship with your mother is a lot different from mine.
But I’ll think about it.
I read his email on the way to lunch, and it’s so short that I’m not sure what the vibe is here. Is he pissed? Genuinely contemplative? Frustrated? Closed off?
I wonder how much I can tell Rowan about this. I need another girl’s analysis.
My phone pings, and it’s her.
RF: Need to skip lunch. Meeting with teacher for Hon French project. You OK?
Well, there goes that. I text back that I’m fine.
Lunch is grilled cheese, green beans, and Tater Tots. I can already feel my pores clogging, but I didn’t bring anything, and the alternative is ice cream on a stick.
I head toward the back of the cafeteria, intending to go outside to sit on the quad and obsess over The Dark’s emails, but I spot Rev and Declan sitting at a table in the corner. Well, I assume it’s Rev. It could be some other broad-shouldered guy in a hoodie, but I doubt it.
The remaining six feet of table is empty.
The last words Declan said to me are still stinging my ears.
Do what you want, Juliet. I don’t care.
I walk over, smack my tray down, and drop onto the bench beside Rev, across from Declan.
“Hey, Juliet,” says Declan, his voice as dry as ever. “Why don’t you join us.”
“I will. Thanks.” I study the array of food between them. There must be ten separate plastic boxes, each packed with a different type of food. The offerings run the gamut from sliced fruit to rolled deli meat. “What is all this?”
“Mom’s obsession,” says Rev. He plucks a raspberry from one of the boxes, then nudges it toward me. “Help yourself.”
I spy tomato and mozzarella. “Is that a caprese salad?”
Rev nods and slides it over. “She always packs enough to feed an army.”
I pour a little onto my plate, and Rev shakes his head. “Have it all.”
I move the grilled cheese and dump out the whole box, very aware of Declan’s presence. He hasn’t said anything since I sat down, but his shadowed eyes track every move I make. He looks tired.
I spear a tomato. “How’s your mom?”
He twists a water bottle on the table in front of him. “She’s coming home this afternoon.”
“So it was just dehydration?”
“That’s what they’re telling me.”
I’m not sure what to make of that, so I glance up. Just like last night, I try to realign what I know of The Dark with what I know of Declan Murphy, and not all of it fits. He meets my gaze and holds it. I can’t decipher his expression, some mix of challenge, frustration, and intrigue.
I have no idea what my own face looks like, but my pulse quickens, just enough.
I have to clear my throat. “So you’ll get to see her when you get home.”
“Maybe. I have community service on Tuesday nights.”
I still can’t figure out his mood, but it’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about his mother. “What’s that like? Do you make license plates or something?”
“No.” He looks like the question bothers him, but he doesn’t want to let it show. “I ride a lawn mower. Sometimes, if I’m really good, they let me carry a WeedWacker.”
“How long do you have to do it?”
He snorts. “For . . . ever.”
“Ninety hours,” says Rev.
“It would have been a hundred,” says Declan, “but I got credit for time served.”
“I don’t know what that—”
“Maybe I should put you in touch with my probation officer,” he says pointedly. “He can answer all your questions.”
Oh. I put down my fork. “I’m sorry.”
He frowns and pushes his food away. “No, I’m sorry.” He rubs at his eyes. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep. I’m being a dick. You can ask.”
I stab a cube of mozzarella cheese and wonder how honest he’ll be in the middle of the cafeteria. “Did they put you in jail?”
“Yes.”
“Was it scary?”
“No.” He pauses, then takes a drink from his water bottle. He shakes his head, and his voice is low and raspy. “Yes. Especially once I sobered up and realized no one was bothering to get me out.”
Beside me, Rev goes rigid, but he doesn’t say anything. He silently picks raisins out of a container, each movement very deliberate.
I look back at Declan. “How long were you there?”
“Two nights. I had to wait for a bail hearing. They were going to charge me as an adult.”
My eyebrows go way up. “Your mom left you there?”
“Yes.” He gives a little shrug. “Maybe Alan made her. I don’t know, and I’m not sure which would make me feel better: that she made the choice to leave me there or that she let someone else make it for her.”
I don’t have anything to say to that.
Declan’s intense eyes are still trained on me. “So you can see why I don’t want a permanent memory of this year.”
He’s referring to the photograph. “I’ll tell Mr. Gerardi that you don’t want it on the cover.”
“Don’t pin it all on me,” Declan says. “You don’t want it there any more than I do.”
“No,” I agree. “I don’t.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“I want it there,” says Rev.
We both look at him.
“What?” he says. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him sound irritated. “I don’t get a say?” He stands and flings the containers into his neoprene lunch sack, including one Declan was eating from.
Declan straightens, looking nonplussed. “Rev?”
Rev looks like he wants to flip the table. “No one bothered to get you out?”
“What?”
“Do you even hear yourself sometimes?” Rev leans down. “I would have gotten you out. Kristin would have. Geoff. But you don’t get to sit in a jail cell feeling sorry for yourself, calling no one, and then act like a martyr.”
Declan’s hands tighten on the edge of the table. “What is your problem?”
“You made the choices that put you there,” Rev says. “Stop acting like such a damn victim. You want to hate the whole year? Fine. But May twenty-fifth was one day. There are three hundred sixty-four other ones.”
He turns to storm away from the table.
Declan looks like thunder. “I’m the victim?” he calls. “Who’s the one hiding in sweatshirts when it’s eighty degrees outside?”
Rev doesn’t stop. Declan glares but doesn’t go after him. His breathing is quick.
I’m frozen in place, my heart tripping along. My brain is stuck three sentences back.
It takes me a moment to get my voice to work, and when it does, it’s a hoarse whisper. “What’s May twenty-fifth?”
That pulls Declan’s attention back to me. “Juliet—”
“What’s May twenty-fifth?” I demand.
I don’t think I’m that loud, but we’ve already drawn the eyes of the surrounding students, and the hush spreads.
Declan swallows. “The day I wrecked my father’s truck.”
“The day you got drunk? The day you black
ed out and crashed into a building?” I’m screaming, yet I can’t catch my breath. “The day you barely remember?”
He doesn’t say anything. I feel like my chest is caving in. The room starts spinning.
A hand catches my arm. “Juliet. Juliet.” A familiar male voice is speaking to me, but my vision has tunneled to nothing.
May 25.
The day my mother was killed in a hit-and-run crash.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
From: Cemetery Girl
To: The Dark
Date: Tuesday, October 8 03:21:53 PM
Subject: I need to know
Are you Declan Murphy?
If you are, I don’t know if I can ever talk to you again.
I’m going to lose my mind.
She must have sent me the email as soon as school let out, because the final bell rings at 3:20.
She must have driven straight to the cemetery, too. She’s sitting in front of her mother’s gravestone, writing something longhand.
I know this because I’m watching her do it.
She can’t see me. I’m not standing out in the open. I’m not that brave. No, I’m by the equipment shed, lurking in the shadows like a complete and total stalker. Melonhead is puttering around in there, and he hasn’t seen me yet, either.
I don’t know what she did for the rest of the school day, but I know what I did: I sat in the back of each class and replayed that night in my head. The wedding. The whiskey.
The impact. The cops.
I was only in the car for fifteen minutes. That’s documented. I left the wedding at 8:01 p.m., and I plowed into the pillars of the office building at 8:16 p.m.
Fifteen minutes.
That doesn’t seem like enough time to destroy someone else’s life along with my own.
The cops aren’t stupid, right? They would have put two and two together, right?
I knew the date. I knew it. That’s how this started! I read the letter sitting on the woman’s gravestone.
I keep thinking about those paths and wonder if ours—mine and her mother’s—were set to intersect that perfectly. To collide that perfectly.
This makes me no better than my father. This makes me worse than my father.
Why didn’t I succeed? My path was supposed to end. That was the whole reason I got in the truck after all. It’d worked for Kerry. It should have worked for me.