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"No. I think she's at football practice or something like that," she says, then blows on her nails as if she just painted them.
"Thanks. If you see her, tell her I stopped by."
I have no clue where to go next, until I drive by the police department across from Glenbrook Hospital.
I've never gone here before... willingly.
The lobby to the police station is small with pictures of the officers posted on the walls. Heroes, they call them. I wish I was a hero. Hell, I'm nobody.
That's not true, exactly. I'm the guy who gets in fights and killed my friend on the football field.
"Can I help you?" the receptionist asks me.
"Yeah, um..." I clear my throat. "Can I talk to Officer Stone?"
The guy who detained me after getting in that fight with Bonk comes to the lobby a minute later.
"Victor Salazar," he says. "I didn't expect to see you here."
I'll bet. I didn't either, I want to tell him.
"I need to talk to you." I look around at the other people here. "In private."
He nods, then leads me to the back. I know this place like the back of my hand and have even been in the interrogation room he's leading me to.
"You've done a good job of disappearing after the accident at Fremont High with Trey Matthews," he says as I settle into one of the chairs. "We've been looking for you, especially after Coach Dieter reported you missing."
"Coach Dieter reported me missing?"
He nods. "Yep. He's worried about your safety and well-being." He shrugs. "But you're not a minor anymore, Victor. You're eighteen, so basically if you want to drop out of sight and disappear, that's your prerogative."
"Wait, I'm confused." I shake my head. "You're not gonna interrogate me or arrest me?"
"For what?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
It's hard to say the words because there's a damn lump in my throat and I'm so fucking tense. "I killed my best friend."
"All reports, from the coaching staff to the players and medical staff, indicate it was an accident. Believe me, Victor, if we suspected you of foul play, the second you entered this facility you'd have been apprehended." Officer Stone leans back in his chair. "If you're having anxiety about Trey Matthew's death, there's a teen grief group over at the hospital across the way--"
"I'm good." I don't need a grief group.
"Victor, running away doesn't solve any problems. Wait here." He leaves me in the cold cement room and comes back a few minutes later. "This is the letter that Coach Dieter sent us after the accident."
It reads:
To Whom It May Concern:
I lost one of my players last week. Trey Matthews was an exemplary player, a smart kid with a bright future ahead of him. I have never lost a player in all my years as a coach, and it has been a tough road. Trey's spirit and intelligence will always be a part of this team no matter if he's with us physically or not.
I also lost another player last week: Victor Salazar. He was a young man with a fighting spirit I'd only seen in a few of my players over the years. He was like a lion, ready to pounce at the slightest movement of the opposing teammates. I had to constantly rein him in because of his innate instinct to protect his teammates. But the truth was I admired this young man. I wish I had the same passion when I was his age. He was a leader to this team, and without him, I'm afraid my players are lost. Victor disappeared the day of Trey Matthew's death, and a part of me left with my players.
Please don't stop searching for Victor Salazar. He's a part of Fremont High, a part of my team, and a part of my life.
Sincerely,
Coach Dieter,
Head football coach
Fremont High
"Victor, are you okay?"
I stare at the letter. I never expected anyone would write those words about me, especially Dieter, a hardass coach who shows no emotion.
"Yeah," I tell him, clearing the lump in my throat. "I'm good."
"Anything else I can help you with?"
I hand Dieter's note back to him. "No."
"Then you're free to go."
I'm about to walk out the front door of the police station when I hear Stone's voice call out, "Victor!"
I turn to him. "Yeah?"
He hands me a brochure. "It's on the teen grief program. You might want to check it out."
After he leaves, I stare at the brochure. Teens helping teens.
I shove the brochure in my back pocket and walk to the parking lot. I don't need to join a group of kids who just sit around feeling sorry for themselves.
But as I sit in my car and think about what my life has become, the truth hits me.
I do feel sorry for myself.
Fuck.
Chapter Fifty
MONIKA
I walk into the outpatient section of the hospital. The person at the reception desk points me in the direction of the teen grief support group.
I step into the small white-walled room. A dozen gray chairs are situated in a circle in the middle of the space. Two guys about my age are already sitting down. One has shoulder-length blond hair and is wearing some sort of band T-shirt and ripped jeans. The other boy has short red hair with freckles dotting his nose and arms. The only other person in the room is a girl. She's got short spiked hair and big gauges in her ears. I don't know if she's part of the group because all she's doing is standing by the window on the far side of the room, staring out at the parking lot.
A woman who looks like she's in her thirties walks in the room. She's got a warm smile on her face, and she's carrying a bunch of papers.
"I'm glad we have a nice turnout," she says as she takes a seat and sets her stuff on the empty chair next to her. All I can think is that if this woman thinks four participants is a nice turnout she's got to be the most optimistic person on the planet.
The woman motions for me to sit on one of the chairs. "Welcome to the teen grief support group, everyone." She checks her watch. "Looks like it's time to start. How about we all introduce ourselves and go from there. Sound good?"
Nobody answers.
"I'll start," she says, not fazed by the unenthusiastic crowd. "My name is Wendy Kane, and I run the teen grief group here at the hospital. I have two kids, two dogs, and one husband."
I think she expects to get a chuckle for the "one husband" remark, but all she gets is blank stares.
"I'll go next," the boy with the band shirt says. He flips back his hair and juts out his chin as if he feels the need to act tough. "My name's Brian. Yeah, that's about it."
Brian sits back in his chair, ending his introduction.
"I'm, um, Perry," the redheaded boy says nervously. "I'm, um, here because my dad kinda committed suicide six months ago."
"Kinda?" Brian challenges him. "How does someone kinda commit suicide?"
"You don't just kinda do it," Perry says. "I... I... I meant he did it."
"Exactly." Brian seems content he challenged the poor guy.
"Leave him alone," I say as I glare at Brian.
Wendy claps twice, getting our attention. "Let's just continue introductions, shall we?" Wendy looks at the girl by the window. "Hailey, would you like to introduce yourself?"
"You just did," Hailey says, still staring out the window.
"We'd love to have you join us in our circle. Would you like to come sit down?" Wendy asks.
"No."
Wendy turns to me with a hopeful expression on her face. "What about you? Would you like to introduce yourself?"
"I'm Monika," I tell her. And then, because it's obvious she wants me to share more, I add, "My ex-boyfriend died." I don't add that Vic doesn't want to be a part of my life anymore. What's the use in saying that? That's not why I'm here. I'm here to talk about my grief for losing someone I love. The problem is that I also lost Vic, and it's killing me inside. "My parents thought I should come, so that's why I'm here."
"So go home," Brian says with a sneer.
Perry, who'd been totally focused on the grou
nd, picks his head up. "I think we're all here because our parents make us come, not because we actually want to be here."
Brian stretches his legs out and crosses his arms on his chest. "Nobody makes me do shit. Not my parents, not anyone."
A loud snort comes from Hailey, who's still at the window. "Yeah, right."
"You don't know me," Brian tells her.
Wendy takes a piece of paper out of her arsenal of supplies. "I have a game for all of us to play."
"I'm not playing a game," Hailey mumbles. "Count me out."
"What kind of game?" Perry asks tentatively.
Wendy shifts in her chair excitedly, even though I'm sure she's feeling anything but excited with this unenthusiastic crew. "It's kind of a fill-in-the-blank game." When nobody answers she continues. "Monika, you can start." She reads off a piece of paper: "Monika, fill in the blank. When I'm sad I..."
"Like to be alone," I tell Wendy.
"That's pathetic," Brian chimes in.
"No answer is wrong, Brian," Wendy tells him.
The rest of the time is pretty much the same. I feel bad for Wendy, but she doesn't seem fazed by the lack of interest from the rest of us.
After the hour is over, I'm about to get up from my chair when someone walks through the door.
I suck in a breath.
It's Vic, wearing jeans and a T-shirt as if he just came from working at the auto body.
"Hey," he says, his eyes completely fixed on me.
"Hello. Are you here for the grief group?" Wendy asks.
He looks at the other people in the group. "I guess so."
"Well you're a little late, buddy," Brian says as he taps his watch. "It's over."
I see Vic tense up when Brian calls him "buddy," but he doesn't say anything.
"Don't forget that we'll meet again next week," Wendy is sure to point out. "Do you need a brochure on the program? It details all the benefits of sharing grief with your peers."
"I already got one," Vic says.
I have no clue why he's here, but I don't question him. He can be here if he wants. I'll just ignore him.
I follow the other teens out the door, stepping right past Vic on my way out.
"Can we talk?" he asks as he follows me.
I hold my chin up high. "I really don't have anything to say to you."
"Don't walk away."
"Why not, Vic? You did."
"Well I'm not anymore."
