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“No, I haven’t. ” Bold-faced lie. I step closer to the rug and flutter my hands in a downward movement to indicate she should stay where she is. “It’s a fluke. Probably my period. ”
The conflict of whether to overanalyze my health or to stay where she feels a connection with Colleen wages war on her face. What I dread the most happens. Mom decides she can’t choose and wants both. She extends her hand to me and I notice that her long fingernails are a freshly painted pink. I kick off my shoes, accept her hand and join her on the rug. Does Mom know she still holds the blanket she brought Colleen home from the hospital in?
Mom surveys the room. Porcelain dolls perfectly dressed in ruffles and lace line several shelves. The only indication that Colleen made it anywhere near thirteen is the ancient Discman with headphones resting on the bedside table alongside of her diary and a book opened to the last page Colleen read.
“I dreamed of her last night. ” Mom squeezes my hand. “She was calling to me and no matter how hard I tried, I could never find her. ”
But I’m here. Right beside you. Look at me. See me. I exert pressure back. The gesture does nothing to rip her away from the nightmare imprisoning her mind.
“I always wonder if Colleen’s death was a punishment for my past sins,” she says.
My muscles tense with edginess, the same feeling as if I’m teetering on a ledge. Mom behaves like this sometimes. Her body here, but her mind far-off. She says things that make me unable to breathe. Mom’s hand tightens around mine and I suddenly feel claustrophobic.
“I made mistakes,” she says. “When I was younger. Before I met your father. Colleen was such a good girl. So good. . . ”
Look at me, Mom. I’m your daughter and I’m right here. “Mom?”
She blinks and turns her head, the glow of life back in her blue eyes. I suck in a relieved breath. Mom tucks my hair over my shoulder. “You’re such a good girl, too. ”
My eyes shut. I’m not. I defied curfew, drag raced and now owe five thousand dollars to a guy my mother would faint at the sight of. I’m in danger, I’m putting Isaiah in danger and I’m risking my mother’s—my family’s—happiness because I am not a good girl. I’m exactly who Gavin described: I’m selfish.
“Mom. . . ” A lump forms in my throat. “Dad told me about the amazing opportunity to help with the Leukemia Foundation. I. . . I want to speak on Colleen’s behalf. ”
My mother’s face explodes into a smile. Her blue eyes glitter like light dancing on the ocean. She abandons the blanket and hugs me. Reactions like this from Mom are, in theory, what I live for, but I can’t enjoy it. Being in Colleen’s room, understanding what I just agreed to, it’s like I’ve agreed to a death sentence and I’ve become numb.
Chapter 25
Isaiah
I PACE OUTSIDE THE SHOP, feeling restless, a little wild.
Eric.
Rachel.
Five thousand dollars.
I slide my hand over the tiger tattooed over my right biceps. Eric’s not the first predator I’ve been up against.
I went to the zoo once in elementary school on a field trip. Being the smallest kid in the class, I never saw much other than the back of someone’s head. The zoo had built a towering three-story glass house over the tiger’s habitat. Everyone else in class ran to the top to watch the tiger cub playing with a ball in the roughage. I stayed where I knew I belonged: on the bottom.
I leaned against the glass to stare at the worn mud tracks. This was where the tiger no one was interested in would wander. A raggedy thing, his skin hung from his body, his coat was devoid of any shine, his ear half-chewed-off—he was a pathetic creature. A rescued animal, my teacher had said, that would die in the wild.
From out of nowhere, the old tiger pounced from the right, slammed both massive paws against the glass and roared. My heart tripped out of my chest; my body shook from head to toe, but I never moved and I never stopped making eye contact. The tiger paced in front of me, its head whipping with every turn, never letting me out of his turbulent gaze.
I knew in that moment, without a doubt, that I no longer wanted to be the smallest in my class, the smallest in my group home. I yearned to be this badass tiger that no one messed with. My teacher, like all adults, was dead wrong: this tiger would have ruled the wild.
I don’t rule the streets. That title can belong to someone else, but no one messes with me. Eric knows this, and he’s spent years trying to place me under his thumb. I won’t allow that to happen, and I won’t allow him to hurt Rachel.
In order to protect her, I have a plan to set in motion. A plan that hinges on the following yes. I take a deep breath and enter the shop.
The heaters in the old garage are so jacked up that it may be warmer outside. With no car on the lift and none in the parking lot, Tom, the owner of the auto shop that employs me, is short on work and long on stories. He and the full-time auto mechanic, Mack, sit in his cramped office and laugh over a shared bottle of whiskey.
“Isaiah. ” Tom grabs his cane as if he’s going to stand. Everything in the shop is old, out-of-date and paid off. Since he makes only enough to pay Mack and, occasionally, me, Tom’s sole reason for keeping the place open is that his wife died a few years ago and he hates to be alone. “How was the first week back at school?”
“Fine. ” I wonder if he’s aware that this is Saturday morning and that when I saw him yesterday I had told him the news. His mind drifts more in the past than it does the present. “Eastwick is going to let me intern on Tuesday and Thursdays at Pro Performance. ”
“You told me that,” he murmurs.
