I Know You Remember Page 8

  “Yeah. Okay.” I pull my shirt over my head and angle my body away as I shimmy out of my jeans. Then I finish my drink in one long gulp, and I climb in next to Tabitha. My glasses fog up almost immediately. I take them off, and the world goes blurry, and somehow that makes it more tolerable.

  “Ruth used to be friends with Zahra,” Tabitha says, gesturing toward me. “When they were kids.”

  The guy on the other side of me, blond with sculptural muscles across his shoulders, grins. “Little Zahra must have been cute.”

  “Yeah, uh. She was.” I don’t want to talk about “little Zahra” with these people, though. Little Zahra—who’d never been that little, who’d always had those long limbs—was mine. The world she inhabited, creative and playful and funny and strange, was gone. For all I know, it’s because one of these people destroyed it.

  I look around at them all. Tabitha’s eyes are closed, her hair pinned in a sloppy knot on top of her head. Her head lolls gently against the boy’s shoulder. He strokes her arm lightly.

  “Tabitha,” I say tentatively. “Are you okay?”

  She opens her eyes. “Lighten up, Ruthless. Everything’s trash. We might as well have a little fun.”

  The logic isn’t exactly sound. But I look around, at their light-suffused faces, at the glittering bottles on a side table, at the moon overhead. And I suddenly want to be with them. Like them. I want to be drunk, and lost, and confused, and not spiraling around in my own head like this is some kind of demented puzzle I could solve with the right pieces. So I grab a bottle of bourbon and tip it back in a long swig. The guys all hoot and crow, watching me, and I feel a weird triumphant rush.

  “Can’t argue with that,” I say.

  Tabitha laughs and reaches for the bottle. Soon we’re passing it around, and the amber liquid glitters and glitters and is gone, and someone’s going inside for another. I’m hyper-aware that the water hits right at the swimsuit line, that my breasts look like I’ve pushed them up out of the water for display. I keep trying to pull the suit up to cover them a little more. Then at some point, I forget to worry about it. And it’s such a goddamn relief.

  Every now and then my mind darts back to Zahra. I picture her face and it hits me all over again, sharp and sudden, that she’s missing. That she could be in danger right now. That we should be doing something. But what can we do? What can I do? Then the thought sinks back under the surface, and I take another swig from the bottle.

  The world is pleasantly warm, pleasantly soft. Overhead there’s a sharp white crescent of a moon angled in the sky like a weapon. I look up and the sky is so big and black, and it feels comforting. I’m vaguely aware that Tabitha and the boy are kissing now. Something brushes my leg and I giggle. It tickles. I jerk away. It persists, tracing up the outside of my thigh, and the boy whose hand it is grins at me through the steam.

  “I’m not . . .” Oh wow, I’m drunk. I edge away from him a little, pulling my suit up. “Sorry, I . . .”

  Just then I hear a shriek from Tabitha. My body jerks to attention. What’s wrong? Has someone hurt her? Has something happened?

  She’s on her feet, water sloshing around her. I follow where she’s looking. There’s a figure in the doorway, tall, cloaked in shadow. It moves toward us. My head hurts, trying to assemble all of these pieces into a whole—I remember too late my glasses are on the table—but then, then, for just a moment, he’s clear.

  His face, as familiar as a graphite line.

  It’s Ben.

  I jump to my feet. It’s a mistake. The heat, the alcohol—the world goes static gray and the sound goes underwater and I slide downward, downward, and then I can’t breathe at all.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WATER ROARS IN MY ears. My heart is a monstrous thing, beating its heavy rhythm throughout my body. I try to inhale, and my throat starts to convulse. And then someone’s got their arms under my shoulders, and they’re pulling hard.

  Air. First I’m just grateful to breathe it; then I’m shocked, almost angry, at how cold it is. My skin is bare and wet. I shudder and groan.

  “She’s okay. She’s okay,” says a girl’s voice.

  “Get back, give her some air. Can someone get a glass of water?”

  “Ruth. Ruth, how many fingers?”

  I look blearily up at the circle of faces above me. “Glasses,” I croak.

  “What’d she say?”

  They all murmur at each other for a moment. Someone wraps a towel around my shoulders. Tabitha thrusts a glass of water into my hands.

  “Glasses,” I say again. “My glasses. I can’t see.”

  The world is still spinning wildly, but it comes into sharper focus when I feel someone slide my glasses onto my nose.

  And that’s when I realize I’m lying against Ben Peavy’s leg.

  I turn my head to the left, and I vomit.

  * * *

  —

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING here?”

  I’m lying somewhere cool and bright. My eyes are closed, but the insides of my lids glow from the light, and for a moment I see blood, smeared across the field of my vision. The voice is Tabitha’s, sloppy and slurring but indignant.

  “I’m here to get my stepsister.” That’s a different voice—familiar, but I can’t remember where I know it from. A girl’s voice. The world tilts around me, topsy-turvy.

  “Your sister? Wait. What?” I feel someone scuffling around next to me. “Ruthless. You didn’t tell me you had a sister.”

  “I don’t,” I mumble. I try to say something else, but my tongue gives up before it even starts.

  “Well, she’s here to get you,” Tabitha says.

  I force my eyes open. I’m lying on the floor in the front foyer. I don’t remember how I got down here, but my clothes are on over the wet swimsuit.

  Tabitha’s lying on the floor next to me. There’s a moment where the pose feels like one of those innocent moments of childhood, lying next to someone in the grass, hair spread out behind you so it tangles with that of your friend. Then she lets out a hard giggle.

  “Oh, man, we’re fucked up,” she slurs.

  Ingrid’s standing over both of us, her face unusually serious. She’s wearing pajama pants, printed all over with galloping horses, and a winter coat. She kneels down next to me. “They said you passed out?”

  “I just fainted,” I say. “I’m okay.”

  She looks over at Tabitha, who’s still in her swimsuit. I can hear music and voices from down the hall. It sounds like the party’s still raging.

  “Are you okay?” Ingrid asks Tabitha. Her voice is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, too. Like she’s a little angry she even has to ask.

  Tabitha gives a light, almost mocking laugh. “Don’t worry about me, Ingrid, I’m already burning in hell. A little intox . . . intox . . . intockation isn’t going to make much difference.”

  Ingrid doesn’t respond for a long moment. Then she takes off her coat and wraps it around Tabitha.

  “Nice jammies,” Tabitha says.

  “Thank you,” Ingrid says calmly. “Is there anyone else here who’s sober? Anyone who’s going to look out for you?”

  “I’m here.”

  We all look up to see Ben in the doorway, holding two more glasses of water.

  Ingrid gives him a weak little smile. “Hey, Ben. I’m sorry about Zahra. I hope we find her quickly.”

  His expression doesn’t change. “Thanks,” he says. “You’re this girl’s sister?”

  “Yes,” Ingrid says, just as I say, “Step.”

  “Do you need help getting to the car?” He moves like he’s going to help me up, but I quickly push myself up onto hands and knees.

  “No,” I say. “I think I’m okay.”

  It’s while I’m still down there that I see it.

  A dark stain across the leather o
f his shoe.

  Muddy red, like dried blood.

  Bile rises again in my throat, but I choke it back down. I stay there for a long time, bracing myself against the glossy wood floor. Then, slowly, I climb to my feet.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m ready.”

  “Bye, bitch,” Tabitha sings out.

  * * *

  —

  IN THE CAR I brace myself for a lecture. I’m sure I’m about to hear some scripture, about obeying your parents or about the evils of alcohol or whatever. But it doesn’t come.

  “Just let me know if you’re going to yarf,” she says. “I’ll pull over.”

  “Yarf?” I say. I giggle stupidly. “Okay, Ingrid.”

  We’re quiet for a few minutes. The clock on the dash says just after midnight. It surprises me—I don’t know where the time slipped.

  “So I guess you know Tabitha?” I say, glancing at her from the corner of my eyes.

  She sighs. “Yes, I know Tabitha. We’ve been in school together since third grade.”

  “Not a fan, huh?” I say.

  “Not so much. She used to call me ‘thunder thighs.’ Among other things.” She gives a little shrug. “She’s kind of a . . . you know, a B-I-T-C-H.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she spells out the last word.

  “Yeah, I can see that.” I look out the window at the world sliding past. The street lights are all blinking rhythmically, the way they do after midnight. Everything’s dark and silent.

  “Your dad told me why you didn’t drive me home,” she says. “I’m sorry. Zahra’s a really nice person. I didn’t realize you guys were friends.”

  I barely hear anything but what she said about Zahra. “She’s nice?” My voice sounds young and stupid, but I don’t care. It’s the first time someone has described Zahra in a way I recognize.

  She glances at me, then looks back out the windshield.

  “I mean, I don’t know her very well. She’s in Key Club with me. She’s one of the only people there who seems like she really cares, instead of just using it to pad her college applications.” She plays with a lock of hair, twisting it around one finger. “We did a service project at the domestic abuse shelter last year and she was the only person besides me that showed up every single weekend.”

  I rest my forehead against the cool passenger-side window. Outside, we’re approaching the western edge of Russian Jack, which rises up from the road in a bristling black hump. Kindness and service projects are good, but they don’t bring Zahra any further into focus for me.

  “Anyway. Why didn’t you answer any of my texts?” Ingrid asks. “Or your dad’s?”

  I frown a little. “Oh, I was . . . I was in the hot tub. I didn’t have my phone on me.”

  “Well, you’re in for it tomorrow,” she says. “I tried to cover for you. But he was pretty mad when you didn’t get home by curfew.”

  That brings a knee-jerk scowl to my face. “Oh, like he has any right to judge me.”

  She looks at me with wide blue eyes.

  “Ruthie, your best friend is missing. He was scared something happened to you, too.”

  I hadn’t thought of it like that. I twist the edge of my shirt between my hands, chewing on the corner of my lip.

  Then I look back at Ingrid, her fingers curled tight around the wheel. She’s blinking a little too quickly. She looks freaked out.

  “You don’t have your license,” I say, suddenly remembering.

  She sets her jaw. “Yeah. Well, as long as I don’t have to parallel park, we should be okay.”

  “You broke the rules to come for me.” I don’t know why, but there’s something about it that strikes me as urgent to make clear. Scripture-quoting, clean-mouthed Ingrid sneaking out to steal our car. For me.

  “Of course I did,” she says, genuinely surprised that I’m surprised. And I don’t know how to tell her all the things I’m thinking—that I’d written her off, that I’d assumed there was no way we’d be friends, that I don’t actually know if I want to be a part of this family, that I don’t understand religion or faith or any of it.

  And I also don’t know how to tell her that no one has ever come for me before—much less illegally and in pajamas and on a school night.

  So instead, I just close my eyes, and tilt my head against the window.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  INGRID’S RIGHT. AT THE breakfast table I’m treated to an awkward lecture on the curfew. “I know this is . . . a new situation, for both of us,” Dad says, spreading jam on his toast. “But I expect you home by ten on a school night.”

  I nod mutely, hoping the smile I’ve pasted on my face does a good enough job of hiding my misery. My skull feels like it’s hanging in splinters, jabbing into my brain every time I move.

  He looks significantly across the table. “I’m sorry about your friend, Ruthie. Let us know if there’s any way we can help.”

  You can stop talking, I think. Immediately. And turn down the lights. But I just give a little nod. “Thanks,” I whisper.

  It’s a relief to step outside into the biting cold. The chill feels good against my clammy skin. I get why people drink now. It’d felt good to forget for a little while, to turn off my brain. Here in the hard sober light of day I feel trapped in my own thoughts, like they’re a spiderweb holding me tight. I tug one strand, trying to untangle myself, but there are five others attached to it. All of them about Zahra.

  Ingrid hands me a bottle of ibuprofen without a word. I pop two, then climb into the driver’s seat. “Good thing I didn’t yarf on the passenger side,” I say weakly.

  She just smiles.

  I still haven’t had a chance to talk to a counselor about my schedule, but I’ve decided to keep yearbook anyway. It’s a chance to stick close to Zahra’s friends, to Zahra herself, if she comes home safe.

  But Merrill High has a rotating class schedule, so I don’t have yearbook this morning. Instead I make my way through biology and English and economics. The mood is subdued. I feel like I keep hearing Zahra’s name from all sides, but when I turn to look for who’s talking I can’t ever find the source.

  By lunch, I’m starting to feel better. The roiling nausea has stabilized, but I’m still not very hungry. Ingrid and I head to the cafeteria after fourth period, and I buy an orange juice and turn to find a seat. But before I can move, my eyes lock with someone else’s.

  It’s the boy from yesterday, the one that stared at me while I was at my locker. He’s sitting alone, a crumpled lunch sack in front of him. His pants are frayed at the hems, pooling across the top of his worn-out work boots. He’s got his hoodie sleeves pulled down over his wrists.

  I glance around to make sure it’s me he’s looking at.

  “Hey, hang on just a second,” I tell Ingrid. “I’ve got to talk to someone.”

  I walk purposefully through the cafeteria and sit down across from the boy. He looks startled by that, green eyes going narrow.

  “What do you want, Ruthie?” he asks.

  I blink. Then I look him over again. I notice that his eyes are oddly swollen, almost purple. He’s either exhausted or sick. “Do I know you?”

  His mouth falls open. Then he gives a short bark of laughter.

  “For real?” He scans my face, then shakes his head. “You really don’t remember me.”

  “Sorry,” I say. I search for something familiar in his eyes, in the curve of his mouth. “I’ve been gone a long time, and . . .”

  “I used to live down the street from you. At Walker Court,” he says.

  “Oh!” I force a smile, even though I’m still drawing a blank. “Okay. What was your name again?”

  “Seb,” he says. “Seb Collins.”

  “Oh, yeah! Didn’t you live in the trailer with the . . . the blue trim?” I ask. I’m improvising wildly
and he seems to know it.

  “No,” he says shortly.

  A memory springs up, one I didn’t know I had. Walking home from the bus toward the end of eighth grade, my guitar in hand. A small, hunched-looking boy walking a few paces behind me. We always got off at the same stop, and we never said a word to each other, but our trailers were close together.

  Then one day, I heard his voice, creaky in the midst of dropping. “Can I look at your guitar?”

  I remember pulling it out on my front steps and handing it to him. I remember how he inexpertly brushed his hands over the frets. He had a bruise over one eye.

  “I got one at a garage sale but it’s missing its strings,” he said. “Once I fix it up I’m going to learn how to play.”

  It was just a week or two after we left my dad, and I was a robot girl, a wind-up doll, going through the motions. I didn’t know how to talk to people. So I don’t remember what I said to him then. Was it something noncommittal, like neat, cool, nice? Something friendly, inviting? I’ve got some extra strings, let me get them for you? Or, You should come over when you fix it up, I’ll show you what I know? Or something haughty and dismissive? Good luck with that. It’s actually not as easy as it looks.

  I don’t remember. I feel like it could have been any one.

  Now, I examine Seb’s face, trying to see some hint of that little boy in his features. I don’t even know for sure if it’s him. But something in his hard green eyes makes me think I’m right.

  “Do you still live in Walker Court?” I ask, my attention going sharp. I suddenly realize—if he does, he could know Zahra.

  But he recoils a little, his lips curling in a grimace.

  “Nope,” he says flatly. He picks up his lunch sack. “Not since ninth grade.” He stands up. “Any other questions, or can I go eat my lunch in peace?”

  “In peace? Wait a minute, you’re the one . . .” I sputter. But he’s already walking away. On his way out the door he throws his lunch bag violently into the trash.

  I sit motionless, watching after him. Was that all just about a guitar? Or is there something else, something I don’t remember? It occurs to me that I’ve only ever seen the guy alone. Maybe he’s just . . . pissed at the world.