Damage Done (5 page)

“You don’t have to do that,” I said as I climbed out.

“It’s almost dark,” he said. “And you were already almost killed by a crazy driver today.”

I snorted as we entered the store. “And you had nothing to do with that.”

He paused in the doorway. “As if,” he said, sounding greatly affronted. “I’m a great driver.”

“Either come in or stay out!” someone called from inside the store. “You’re letting out all the cold air!”

I shot a nasty look at the clerk, who shot one right back, and rolled my eyes at Michael. “Of course you are,” I said, and stepped into the store. Michael followed me in, and the door eased closed behind him.

He had said he needed to pick some stuff up, but he trailed me to the freezer. “Don’t you have to go get stuff?”

“No,” he said. “I just wanted to come in with you.”

“Oh,” I said. Tenderness swept over me, as soft and warm as the Southern California sun. “What’s your favorite flavor?”

“What?”

I gestured to the shelves and shelves of ice cream. “Your favorite flavor,” I said. “What is it?”

He scanned the shelves. “Chocolate,” he said decisively.

“Chocolate? Just plain chocolate?” I said. “How boring.” His face tensed, so I added quickly, “Kidding. Just kidding. Chocolate is my favorite, too.” It wasn’t.

I stepped up to the register to pay. “Two spoons,” I told the cashier. He didn’t deserve a
please.
He’d yelled at us. “And a plastic bag.”

“Two spoons?” Michael said.

I strode purposefully out the automatic doors and braced myself against the front of his car, sliding back across the warm hood with a squeak of flesh on metal. I threw a spoon at him. He caught it. I popped open the ice cream and patted the space beside me.

“Sit down and eat.”

He did, and we ate in silence, our faces glowing in the harsh glare of the store’s lights, and the chocolate melting over the plastic spoon’s sharp edges tasted so sweet it made my molars ache.

Re: Ryan Vann, age 10

Ryan Vann presents as a ten-year-old white male in the fifth grade at Elkton Elementary School. He lives in a single-family home with his father, a real estate lawyer; his mother, a part-time computer science instructor at the local community college; and his twin sister, Julia. The client maintains an especially close relationship with his sister.

Ryan was sent to me by his parents, who first referred to something they called a “little incident.” When pushed, they admitted that Ryan had killed and mutilated his sister’s dog. At this point, the mother had to leave the room to vomit, and the sister burst into tears. The client betrayed no affect; he did, however, put his arm around his sister as if to comfort her. The father admitted that there had been other “incidents”: a neighbor’s cat, a few squirrels, several mice.

The family then left to sit in the waiting room while I spoke with Ryan alone. We sat in silence for a few minutes, staring at each other. I felt almost as if the boy was sizing me up. “Ryan,” I said, “did you kill your sister’s dog?”

The client stared at me and did not speak for another few minutes. “Yes,” he finally said. “And the cat. And the squirrels. And the mice. I killed all of them.”

Hearing something like this in a child’s high voice is unsettling, to say the least, but I kept my composure. As police psychologists must. Though I wouldn’t know, as they didn’t accept me into their behavior analysis program. “And how did that make you feel?”

His eyes were as flat as his affect. “Good,” he said. “I liked it.”

A chill ran down my spine. “Did you show any of your friends?” I asked.

“No,” he said, and paused. “I did it all by myself.”

“Your sister, Julia, saw the dog, though. Isn’t that correct?”

“I wasn’t lying,” Ryan said. He blinked at me slowly, lazily. “I didn’t show her. And she’s my sister, not my friend.”

A hollow had opened in the pit of my stomach, but I must admit I did feel a bit excited. Not by what the boy was describing, obviously—by the thought of helping him. Though I hadn’t spoken with him and his family long, he seemed to be presenting with conduct disorder, the precursor to antisocial personality disorder, or sociopathy. Here I have the opportunity to treat someone who might otherwise grow up to be a murderer. To make a difference.

The most effective course of treatment, I feel, will be Multisystemic Therapy (MST), and I will speak to the family and teachers about management techniques they can integrate into the client’s daily life. I will also recommend that he continue therapy with me so that I can best track his progress.

I will make a difference.

The next morning, I threw open Alane’s passenger-side door, tossed my books into the well, and slammed the door behind me with a sense of great purpose. “I spent last night eating ice cream with Michael Silverman outside the 7-Eleven,” I announced.

“Good morning to you, too,” Alane said.

“He’d skipped out on Crazy Elliot’s, so it was good we didn’t go,” I said. “We talked about nothing for, like, an hour and I got to stare at his legs. It was wonderful.”

“Babies wonderful?” she said gravely.

“You know no one can replace you in my heart,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said. “Now tell me everything.”

I told her almost everything: my walk to the store, Michael nearly running me down, all the highlights of our conversation. I didn’t tell her about Spence, or about my fake ex-boyfriend. She was too close, somehow. I couldn’t stand the thought of her judging me.

I tensed as we pulled into the parking lot, fully expecting to see Spence lurking behind one of the rows of cars or hunched inside the truck next to us, but he was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t surprising, really; we were on time today, so the lot was packed with chattering kids. Spence could’ve been two rows over, and I would never have seen him.

If he was even here. If he was even real.

The beginning of the day passed quickly, and I walked to Spanish even more quickly, each breath heavy with anticipation. Michael and I arrived at the same time; he bowed in the doorway, sweeping me through. “After you,
señorita,
” he said.

“Gracias, señor,”
I said, feigning shyness. He smiled.
“¿Cómo estás?”

“Bien,”
he said, and then, as we sat down at our side-by-side desks, in English, “I had fun last night.”

I didn’t have to feign my blush. “I did, too.”

“Are you feeling any better?”

“I haven’t seen him since, so yeah,” I said.
Just being next to you makes me feel better,
I didn’t say. “Chocolate heals all wounds.”

He laughed. “What are you doing after school today?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “What are
you
doing after school today?”

“Swim practice, then I’m actually going to Crazy Elliot’s,” he said. “If you’re there, I could buy you a coffee.”

“I hate coffee,” I said. “Hot chocolate, on the other hand…”

Before he could respond, our teacher clapped his hands for silence.
“Silencio, por favor,”
he said. Despite what he claimed was fluency, I had a hard time taking Señor Goldfarb’s expertise seriously. He might have studied for a college semester or two in Barcelona, but the man had a Brooklyn accent. “That means you, Señorita Black.”

Michael scrunched up his face at me, a fair imitation of Señor Goldfarb’s permanent lemon-lips. I snorted with laughter. “Señorita Black,” Señor Goldfarb said, his voice flashing warning lights.
“¡Silencio!”

I waited for him to look away, then turned back to Michael.
Hot chocolate or bust,
I mouthed.

The rest of the day crawled by. Band practice finally rolled around, which was the only part of the day that moved at its normal speed. I just closed my eyes and let the notes flowing from the bell of my clarinet join the tide of the saxes and flutes and oboes and sweep me away.

As usual, I met Alane outside the chorus room. “Guess where we’re going right now,” I said in greeting.

“Home?” she said hopefully. “I have mountains of homework to climb.”

“That’s what experienced Sherpa tour guides are for,” I said. “No. Today we’re going to Crazy Elliot’s so Michael Silverman can buy me a hot chocolate.”

“I have homework,” she said. “Can you get a ride with Ella? I think she’s going.”

I forced my lower lip into a pout. “But I want you there,” I said. “Ella is a terrible wingwoman.”

She hoisted her backpack higher on her shoulders. “Ella’s never winged for you,” she said, but she looked pleased. “You’ll be fine without me. If you miss me, just stare at Michael’s legs and you’ll feel better.”

I rested my head on her shoulder. “Please? I won’t have any fun without you.”

She sighed. “Fine,” she said. “If you insist.”

Inside, I smiled.

Crazy Elliot’s was owned by a woman named Alicia. Her ex-husband’s name was Elliot. Put the pieces together yourself.

Whatever its origin story, Crazy Elliot’s was the central gathering place of Sunny Vale High School. It was a fifteen-minute walk off campus for the freshmen and sophomores who couldn’t drive, and a five-minute ride for the rest of us. The inside was big and homey, scattered with squashy armchairs in assorted clashing patterns and little round tables, and a bar wound around the inside wall, though obviously the place didn’t serve alcohol. It did, however, serve pretty much everything else: coffee, tea, cupcakes, hamburgers, protein shakes. Everybody went there to see and be seen.

Alane took a spot right in front, her tires squealing on the pavement as her pickup shuddered to a halt. I clenched my jaw, worrying, as always, that today would be the day it just gave up and collapsed into a pile of gears and rust.

“I look okay?” I asked.

I could feel the tickle of her eyes take me in from bottom to top. I’d changed from my T-shirt and jeans (now stuffed in Alane’s backseat) to one of the flowered dresses she kept in her car for emergencies such as these. It was a bit big on me and hung around my waist, but I’d corrected the worst of it with a strategically tied ribbon. “You look perfect,” she said.

Easing myself out of the truck, I swore I heard the soles of my flip-flops sizzle as they touched the pavement. Outside smelled like tar, and my heart did a funny sort of flutter for a second as I thought of garbage bags and boxes and disappearing. I was done disappearing, though.

“Come on,” Alane said. “I have to lock up.”

Nobody would steal that truck if you paid them, but I bit my tongue.

As soon as we pushed open the double doors, an explosion of sound blasted us in the face: people shouting food orders, the buzz and whirr of assorted fancy coffee machines, the low roar of thirty to fifty people talking at once. The booths and couches and even the bar were all packed, with kids sitting on one another’s laps for space, and backpacks and books were piled on every available surface. Light streamed through skylights every few feet in the ceiling, which kept the crowded room from inching over the line into claustrophobic.

I grabbed Alane’s hand, soft and sweaty, and trailed behind her as she expertly weaved her way through the crowd. She raised her hand and shouted when she saw Ella, who had taken over a circle of chairs and was snarling—quite literally baring her teeth—at anyone who tried to take one. Fortunately the baristas were quick today, and it didn’t take long for me to get my hot chocolate with caramel sauce and whipped cream, so sugary it made my teeth rot just looking at it. We made it over to Ella and claimed our places before she actually bit somebody.

Once my hot chocolate had cooled enough for me to take a casual sip, I turned to look for the boys’ swim team. I didn’t have to look far. They’d taken over a bunch of chairs nearby. Michael sat maybe ten feet away in an armchair directly beneath a heavenly ray of light. Of course. The sunlight draped over him and turned his blond curls gold, the pale hairs coating his upper lip to glitter. You could chisel his biceps out of marble. He glanced over at me and blinked, then his lips turned up in a smile as he looked me up and down. My cheeks went pleasantly hot as I lifted my hand in a wave. I wasn’t getting up, though. He could come to me.

“Lucy? Hey, Lucy.” Alane waved her hand in front of my face. “Ella said hi.”

I blinked and turned back to Ella, whose half-lidded eyes, strong under her black pixie cut, suggested she’d been imbibing something other than coffee or cinnamon buns. Looking at her made me feel almost as if a fog had lifted from my vision. “Hi, Ella.”

She blinked back. Her lips twitched. “Michael, huh?”

I blushed. “Am I that obvious?” I squeezed Alane’s hand, silently thanking her for bringing me here. She squeezed back, saying
You’re welcome
better than any words ever could. “He promised to buy me a hot chocolate. Another one. When he’s done gossiping like a little old lady, that is.”

“Ah,” Ella said. The smile that flashed onto her face came too quickly, looked almost plastic. “Want me to call him over? We’ve been friends since we were little. He lives right down the street from me.”

I didn’t want to look desperate, and besides, I got the feeling she hadn’t been entirely sincere. Maybe she had a crush on him herself. Poor her. I certainly wasn’t going to step aside. “No,” I said. “I’m happy with just looking, for now.”

To illustrate my point, I looked again. Michael was smiling wide. I couldn’t help but smile back. From the corner of my eye, I saw Ella’s smile falter. Michael’s smile stretched even wider, and I tingled from the crown of my head to the tips of my fingers.

But he wasn’t the only person staring at me. My smile dropped from my face and landed with a sick thud on the floor between my feet. Over Michael’s shoulder I saw a trendy pair of glasses (man attached) dressed in a rumpled suit enter Crazy Elliot’s and fix his eyes on me. Spence.

I glanced down at my feet, convinced—hoping—I was imagining it, then looked back up. He was still there. Still staring. Worms wriggled in my stomach.

I nudged Alane. “Does that guy look like he’s staring at me?”
Does he exist?
I didn’t say.

She glanced over and shrugged. “He just looks like he’s looking around,” she said, and winked. “Maybe he is staring at you. You do look awfully stunning in my dress.”

My breath froze in my throat, and I gradually became aware my entire body was shaking so hard my chair was practically vibrating. It
was
Spence. For some reason Spence was following me, and now he was here, staring at me. Any minute he could scream “Julia Vann is in this very room!” and someone would recognize my name, and then the reporters would be back, and Michael would avert his eyes every time I came near, and Alane would never talk to me again. Best friends and boyfriends? Didn’t fare well around me.

Spence had to be trying to get me alone. Otherwise he would’ve approached me in the parking lot or caught up to me on the side of the road. Each time he’d fled once he saw I was with someone else.

Well, if he wanted me alone, he’d get me alone. He’d get me telling him to get the hell away from me and my new life.

I swallowed hard and balanced my drink on my armrest. Despite all the hot chocolate I’d downed, my mouth was dry and dusty. “You guys, I’ll be right back. I have to pee.” I stood and, naturally, knocked over my drink. Alane gasped, but I barely felt the heat soaking my dress, the swamp of hot chocolate squishing between my toes.

“Lucy, I’ll come with you. Help you clean up.” She stood, too, but I shook my head. All my attention was focused on Spence.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” She looked skeptical, so I raised my eyebrows. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

Alane sat back down with a thump. “Fine, whatever.”

I’d have to apologize for that later, but I didn’t care. I was too busy trying to look casual and unconcerned as I walked across the coffee shop.

Or, to be more accurate, shoved my way across the coffee shop. People pressed against me from all sides, and backpacks littered the floor like land mines. I shouldered through them, using my blessedly sharp elbows and long legs to their full advantage; my throat was too dry to shout out an “Excuse me” or a “Coming through.” Scowls glanced off me, and muttered curses zipped right past my ears. I could not possibly have cared less.

Spence’s eyes were darting back and forth at the growing buzz and commotion. He clearly hadn’t expected me to charge right for him. Good. Spence began to back toward the door, his eyes on me, but I was gaining on him. I was thirty feet away…twenty feet away….

A guy loomed before me, scowling, coffee dripping down the front of his T-shirt. “Haven’t you ever heard of manners?” he said.

I must have been the source of that spilled coffee. “Sorry,” I said breathlessly, trying to do a half-twirl, half-skip around him, but he moved to block me. “Dude, seriously, I’ll buy you a new cup. I have to get out or”—inspiration struck—“I’m going to puke.”