“Well, my car is in desperate need of a wash.”
We drive over to the car wash and I help Zach throw out his garbage, then lift up the magazines and DVDs so he can vacuum.
I can’t help it. I send Katy another text.
Suds. Water. Everything smells like wax. Best car wash of my life. Life is good.
It is not so far from the truth.
THE FUQ?!!!she texts back.
Zach and I erupt in laughter and keep working. He refuses to throw out his broken and therefore unwatchableMask of LifeDVD in case anything can be done to fix it. My body hums from feeling for the last three hours like it’s been struck by lightning, and I’m afraid to breathe too deeply, to make any sudden movements. I think that maybe this is what it’s like to feel wide awake.
When I get home, I send Katy another text, and I know before I send it that I’m going to get a response in all caps, though I don’t know when, and all I say is,So…there’s thisboy.
AFTER
January
He’s staring at me, forehead creased with a frown.
The boy from the bus.
Bentley Lake is windy today, the grass in the park around it covered with days-old snow. After a big storm like the one we had over the weekend, the snow stays for ages on the ground, except on roads and highways that have been salted and walkways that have been shoveled. Still, it’s one of the warmer days we’ve had in weeks, and people are strolling along the cleared paths around the park. And there he is, sitting on a bench, long legs outstretched, hands tucked into his jeans pockets. No coat or sweater or anything. He’s wearing the same black beanie he had on a few hours ago when he showed up outside the music-room window.
And then disappeared.
I tug on my own wool hat, self-conscious and cold, as I triple-check that I’m really seeing him.
I came here to figure out what to do with the fact that I’m going crazy. To decide who to go to since I can’t go to my parents. And then to clear my head and simply breathe fresh air for a few minutes.
But, of course, he couldn’t let me have that.
He followed me.
Or showed up here.
Or something.
I fix my eyes on him now as I march toward the bench, determined not to let him slip between my fingers again without some serious answers. I’m trying so hard not to blink—in case he vanishes—that my eyes sting a little by the time I reach him.
“Who the hell are you?” I hiss when I’m standing in front of him. I have so many questions that they come bursting right out of me. “What do you want? Why can’t anyone else see you? What happened on the bus that night?”
He blinks at me.
“What the hell is going on?”
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at me. I am ready to grab him by the shoulders and start shaking him.
“Hello?Answer me.”
“I don’t know.” He is still frowning, his gray eyes serious as he looks up at me. “I don’t even know my own name.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I ask, my voice rising. I take a threatening step forward till I’m leaning right over him. “I swear to God, if you don’t start talking—if you don’t tell me everything right now—I’m…I’m going to the police.”
Instead of calling my bluff—the fact thatI’dbe more likely to end up restrained than him, since he’s probably a symptom of my psychosis—he just says, “Addison, if I knew, I would tell you. I promise.”
I breathe deeply as I try to make sense of his words.
