Luka, page 14
She catches it, then turns to her friend. “I think that sounds like fun.”
The medicine works.
It fixes everything.
Tess doesn’t fight in her sleep anymore. Tess doesn’t dream at all. Even so, I spend most nights on our beach, just in case she might show up.
The white-eyed men go away, too. Every now and then, I see or feel something. A flicker of light. An unexplained shadow. A drop in temperature. But Tess doesn’t react anymore. Tess doesn’t notice.
Most mysteriously of all, the entourage of mean girls disbands. The rumors stop. The harassment, too. Logically, I know this can’t have anything to do with the medicine. But the timing is uncanny.
Our group of three expands.
First, we’re joined by Serendipity, an artsy girl who has always lurked on the fringes of the popular crowd. After her comes Bobbi, and with Bobbi, Matt. Then Beamer, the kid who highlights his hair, and a few more after him. Including Jennalee, to my chagrin. Summer stays away. So does Jared.
Tess’s parents stop bickering. The tension in her house moves to mine. A constant cloud hovers over my mother, thanks to her friendship with Danika. Mrs. Burbanks has given Mom the impression that Summer is being bullied. I try telling her the truth—that Summer is the bully—but she refuses to hear it. So I stop trying.
Occasionally, I dream of Tess forging into battle. I don’t resist these dreams, but take full advantage—trying hard to do whatever it was I did when I blasted that white-eyed man away. Although it doesn’t seem like I will need the skill any longer, I’m determined to figure it out. So when the temperature plummets as I sit in a corner booth at a restaurant while my father peruses a wine list, I snap to attention.
At the bar, a skeletal figure with greasy hair hovers over a man’s shoulder as he chats with a young woman. I zero in with laser-like intensity, attempting to work up the same mixture of emotion I felt that day in the locker bay—a heated combination of rage and helplessness. I imagine rays of light hurling from my body, straight at the bar.
But nothing happens.
The man continues chatting.
The woman continues listening.
The skeletal figure continues hovering.
Dad orders his wine—the most expensive glass of Pinot Grigio on the list—and returns the menu to the server without a glance in her direction. As soon as she’s out of earshot, his attention fixes on me with an intensity that matches my own.
“Your mother is concerned,” he says.
“About what?”
“She says your entire friend group has changed.”
My friend group? I expel a short puff of air through my nose. “That isn’t true.”
“So your mother’s lying?”
“Mom’s in love with Summer Burbanks.”
Dad’s eyes flash. If there’s one thing he doesn’t tolerate, it’s disrespect. Not even an ounce. My tone carried several. He folds his hands on the table and studies me like an insect under a magnifying glass. “And who are you in love with, Luka?”
I stare back at him, unwilling to give anything away, though I suspect Mom’s told him plenty.
“You’ve been carpooling to school with the girl next door.” Dad’s eyes narrow. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“She’s a friend.” As much as I’d love for this to be a lie, I’ve gotten no impression from Tess that she wants to be more.
Our server returns.
My father leans back in his seat while she sets the glass of wine in front of him. He gives it a swirl. A sniff. Then takes a sip. We order our food—filet minion for him, steak kabobs for me—and Dad gives the server a dismissive wave that chases her away. “Your mother tells me you overheard a conversation we had awhile back. About a decision we made a long time ago.”
I take a drink of water.
“It was a decision that came with significant scrutiny.”
“I know,” I say, an audible stiffness to the words.
“Luka, I’m going to tell you something I haven’t even told your mother.” He swirls his wine again. Takes another sip. Then sets the glass aside and gives the vicinity a cursory scan. Our corner booth is quiet. Private. Still, he refolds his hands on the table and leans forward. “Several years ago, I was approached by an agency looking for information on specific mental health conditions.”
“An agency?”
“Run by the government.”
“What kind of mental health conditions?”
“They were tracking patients who experience delusions. Hallucinations. Patients who claim to have prophetic dreams.” His unrelenting stare bores into me, speaking volumes without saying a word. These are Tess’s symptoms. At least they were before she started taking medicine. “They offered me generous compensation should I report such patients. When I declined, you were brought into the equation.”
“Me?”
“Our family was flagged after your mother failed her first pregnancy screening.”
This, I already know. Failed screenings are always flagged. If a mother decides to go forward with the pregnancy, that child will not receive government support should he or she require extensive medical attention. Health insurance companies are exempt, too. “I thought you paid to have the flag removed.”
Dad grimaces. This is not something he told me directly. It was part of the conversation I overheard. On his list of things he doesn’t like, eavesdropping ranks right after disrespect and a son with abnormalities.
“Apparently, I didn’t pay enough. I was told that if I cooperated, you would be safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“You know how this world works, Luka.”
I think about Tess’s grandmother, locked in a mental facility. Is this what the agency meant—I’d be safe from a fate like hers? Or is something even more sinister at play? I imagine a government assassin, sent to hunt me down and finish the job my mother couldn’t. “Did you cooperate?”
“I gave the appearance of cooperation. Then you started exhibiting some of those symptoms. I purchased the Edward Brooks Facility so I could maintain full control over your treatment. I’ve spent the last two years protecting you and others like you. I don’t agree with our country’s handling of mental illness, Luka. But do not mistake my sympathy for permission.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve put a great deal of care into keeping you safe. Don’t jeopardize that care because you’re infatuated with the wrong girl.”
Heat flushes up my neck. “Mom knows she goes to your facility, doesn’t she?”
“I don’t talk to your mother about patients at my facility.”
“What’s her problem with Tess, then?”
“I have no idea. Your mother has always been an intuitive person. Maybe she senses this girl isn’t good company.”
I swallow a sarcastic retort. According to my mother’s intuition, Summer is the epitome of virtue.
“Her disapproval has nothing to do with anything I’ve told her. But she has told me plenty. You’re spending a lot of time with this girl.”
“And?”
“And,” he says, his voice a rumble of warning. “I’d like you to tread more carefully.”
28
A Slight Fracture
Leela arranges a secret Santa for Christmas. I draw Serendipity. Beamer draws Tess. I ask if he wants to trade, but Beamer isn’t interested. So while he bombards her with gifts more reminiscent of Valentine’s Day, I slip a dream catcher into her locker.
We go to another party at Bobbi’s house, this time for New Year’s Eve. Tess drives with Leela and while I’m disappointed, I have to concede that this is probably wise, given the way my mother watches me like a hawk out the dining room window as I go. I look forward to midnight. But when the countdown arrives, Tess is nowhere in sight. The moment passes and my disappointment grows.
The next day, I ring in the new year at a restaurant with my parents. This time, there’s no conversation about pregnancy screenings or the girl next door. But there is my mother’s darkening cloud of tension and the appearance of another white-eyed man. I excuse myself to the bathroom. Maybe if I get closer, I’ll have a better shot of doing what I did in the locker bay. Nearness doesn’t help. I fail once again. And on the first day back to school after winter break, the easy rhythm Tess and I have settled into experiences a slight fracture.
It’s the end of the day.
Lotsam has given us the class period to work on our project. Tess and I sit at a round table in the library. I read from my thick book of world dictators as she drums her pencil against the table with an unmistakable edge of agitation.
“Hey, Tess?” I finally say, eyeing her pencil.
She stops and ducks her head apologetically. “Sorry.”
The corner of my mouth tips upward. I could care less about the tapping. “It’s not that.”
“What is it?” she asks.
“Something’s bothering you.” My mind wanders to Pete, who continues hanging out with Wren and Jess. The former returned to school with her head shaved almost entirely bald. All that remains is a thin strip down the center which she dyed neon pink.
Tess fiddles with her earlobe, then sets her elbows on the table and wraps her hand around the back of her neck. “Mrs. Meecher’s sub is making us all do family trees.”
Mrs. Meecher teaches English. Apparently, she’s taking an extended leave of absence. Nobody knows why. A sub named Mr. Rathbone has taken her place—a serious looking man with leathery skin. I’ve never seen him before in my life, an oddity at Thornsdale, where the same handful of subs have been used since my freshman year. Odder still is the fact that Rathbone didn’t assign that project in my class. “What does that have to do with English?”
“No idea.” Worry flits across her brow.
I know what she’s thinking. “Your grandmother.”
With a nod, she drops her pencil on the book in front of her and digs her fingers into her hair. Her knee bounces beneath the table.
I set my hand over it in an attempt to calm her, even though the feel of her leg beneath my palm has only ever been the opposite of calming. “Hey.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“You can write the bare minimum. Or you could make something up. This Rathbone guy won’t know the difference.”
“But I do. She’s out there, Luka.” Tess frowns. “Isn’t that weird? She’s out there and I’m not doing anything about it.”
“Have you had anymore dreams about her?”
“If I have, I don’t remember them. The medicine pretty much takes care of the dreams.”
I rub the hollow of my cheek, taking note of Summer loitering near the encyclopedias. I wish I had something reassuring to say. Yes, her grandmother is out there, but according to Dr. Roth, she’s being kept in one of the highest security facilities in the country. One that houses the most deranged and delusional of minds. One that doesn’t allow visitors. Which means there’s nothing Tess can do.
I take the book in front of her and flash her the kind of grin most girls apparently find distracting. Except, Tess has never been like most girls. If anything, she’s the one constantly distracting me. “How about this? We forget about your grandma and focus on our project instead. Surely mass murder will get our minds in the right spot.”
“This project is depressing.”
“Holocausts and genocides? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Hitler. Stalin. Hideki Tojo. Pol Pot. Cheery fellows if you ask me.”
A reluctant smile tugs at one corner of Tess’s mouth. “I guess in light of these guys, I shouldn’t really get this worked up over a silly family tree.”
“This is true.”
Her smile slides away. She takes a deep breath. “Do you still … see things?”
“Rarely.”
“And your dreams, about me?”
“Still there.”
“Do I …?”
I give my head a short but emphatic shake. “Only that one time.” My attention returns to the encyclopedias. “You know what I can’t stop thinking about?”
“What?”
“The way I fought off that guy when he came at you.” I pull up the memory and examine it for the millionth time. “I’ve been trying to do it again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anytime I see something unusual. Like the other night when I was out to eat with my parents. There was a guy there—the same kind of guy, at least. You know, with the eyes. He was standing by this table. I got up to go to the bathroom and tried to do whatever I did in the locker bay.”
“Did it work?”
“Nothing happened. Nothing ever does.”
Tess stares.
My attention drops to her lips. We’re sitting close. So much so, I can make out each individual eyelash, each freckle across the bridge of her nose. If I were to lean in a couple more inches …
“Am I interrupting something?” Matt pulls out a chair at our table with a smirk, impervious to my immediate aggravation.
“You know,” Matt continues, “you two should be a little more subtle. Summer’s practically in tears over there.”
“What are you doing here, Matt?” I ask.
“Bothering you, apparently. By all means, carry on.” With his eyebrows lifted, he stands and saunters away.
As much as I’d like to carry on, the opportunity has passed. Tess resumes her pencil tapping, blushing as she looks down at her book.
29
The Fight
“Is that girl going to your father’s facility?” My mother hurls her question before the door has time to slam shut behind her—so bold and to-the-point, I’m caught off guard.
“Dad told you?”
Her pupils expand.
I immediately realize my verbal snafu. No, Dad didn’t tell her. She didn’t barge into the house and ask from a place of enraged certainty, but from concerned anxiety. One that I inadvertently confirmed.
Her face slowly drains of color as the Pop-tart I dropped in the toaster pops and the news anchor on the kitchen television reports a drive-by shooting. “So it’s true?”
“Mom.” I keep my voice low. Placating.
“I can’t believe this.” Her nostrils flare as she sets her hand on the counter and shakes her head. “I thought Danika had to be mistaken.”
“Danika?”
“Summer told her mother she overhead you talking with that girl about someone named Dr. Roth.”
The way Mom keeps referring to Tess as that girl sets my teeth on edge. But I’m too distracted to say anything. Tess and I didn’t talk about Dr. Roth in the library yesterday. The last time we mentioned his name in public was in the library over a month ago, the same day Tess started taking medicine. All the way back in late November. Why would Summer mention this to her mother now? I picture her lurking near the encyclopedias. Matt’s interruption. His warning to be more subtle. Summer nearly in tears.
“Danika is well acquainted with the doctors in the area. She’d never heard that name before. She looked him up and discovered he works at the Edward Brooks Facility. Needless to say, she had a lot of questions for me after our yoga class just now.”
Her voice trembles with outrage. It pinches her expression. Stiffens her posture. She’s ready for a fight. One that will end with her tears. I don’t have the energy for them. So I snag my backpack from the table and leave the Pop-tart in the toaster. I’ve lost my appetite.
Mom grabs my elbow. “You cannot associate with people who go to your father’s facility, Luka.”
“I went to my father’s facility.”
“After hours.”
Right.
Our family’s shameful secret.
I huff. Then take a steady breath and reach deep for some patience. My mother is scared. She’s concerned. Of course she is. After my father’s cryptic warning over dinner, can I really blame her? “If Mrs. Burbanks asks anymore questions, tell her Summer misunderstood. Tell her the two of us were talking about Dr. Roth because he works for Dad.”
“I don’t want you to drive her to school anymore. She has a car. She can drive herself.”
And just like that, my patience snaps. I pull my arm free, toss my backpack over my shoulder, and march outside where I kick a loose rock off my walkway. It sails into the yard and disappears in the grass. When I look up, Tess is already outside. She waits by my car, eyes wide, no doubt surprised by the bout of frustration she just witnessed.
“Hey.” I shove my hands into my pockets.
“Hey,” she says back.
I glance over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of my mother spying through our front window. The second she sees me looking, she ducks from view. I open Tess’s door, eager to get out of here before Mom can come outside and repeat any of the words she vomited in our kitchen.
“Is everything okay between you and your mom?” Tess asks as I slide behind the wheel.
“She likes to worry.” Especially these days. I click my seatbelt into the buckle.
“About?”
Me.
My mental health.
Who I’m spending time with.
The opinions of others.
Namely, Danika Burbanks.
A knot pulls tight in my chest. If Summer told her mother about Dr. Roth, does that mean she told our classmates, too?
“She doesn’t like me,” Tess says.
It’s not a question but a statement of fact. One that has my knuckles whitening as I grip the steering wheel. I’m not sure what bothers me more—my mother’s disapproval of Tess, who is kind and brave, or her approval of Summer, who is vindictive and cowardly. I pull through the gates of Forest Grove. “She knows you go to the Edward Brooks Facility.”
“Does she forget that you went there first?”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m her son.”
As soon as the words are out, I know they’re the wrong ones. Tess crosses her arms tight and scowls. We spend the drive drenched in stony silence. I’m so preoccupied with my mother and the very real fact that she’s most likely on the phone with my father that I don’t even try making amends with Tess. By the time we walk into school, her aggravation has doubled in size.
