Autofocus (9 page)

“TREY! TREY!” Treena shouts, but I don't stop. I just pull her. There are feet coming down the stairs, more than two, and I don't have time to think of what that means.

Bennett runs ahead and shines the light on the door. He opens it up, and holds it open for Treena and me to run out. Then he shuts it behind him, and runs with us back out into the grass.

We keep running until we're out of the building, close to the car. I can't look back, I won't turn around. We'll hide out until Trey returns.

“Yooo-hooooo,” we hear, and then a loud chuckle. Treena stops, which makes me crash into her, and Bennett into me.

“Trey?” she asks, whipping her head back. We turn to look, and he's standing by the door, doubled over laughing. There's another guy with him, one I vaguely remember seeing at the floor party last night, and two girls.

I wrinkle my face in confusion until I get it. They did it. They did everything.

“You asshole,” Bennett yells out, and Treena goes running toward him. The leaving us behind, the laughing, it's all clicking into place. He tricked us. He did all of this to scare us.
It's a rite of passage
, he'd said.

And I hate him.

“Induction, bitches,” one of the girls yells.

“Yeah, everyone's gotta go through this,” Trey says. “Welcome to the club.”

If this is a club, I don't know if I want to be a part of it. Is this what college is like—a series of trials that you have to brave out until you can't anymore?

My body, calming down from panic mode, feels like it's going to collapse. My knees go weak, and I sit down in the grass, not caring what's inside it anymore. I don't know if I want to cry, throw up, or punch Trey. My head falls into my
hands as I gulp in breath after breath.

I can't believe he did this to us. What could possibly come over him, that he would think it was a good idea? I look up and catch Treena punch him angrily, and then fall into his arms, and he takes her and kisses her passionately in the shadow of a possibly haunted asylum. She forgives him so easily. Is that who she's turning into?

Bennett sits down next to me. “Are you okay?”

I look at him and he slowly puts his arm around my shoulders. I sink into his arms, feeling his body breathe in tune with mine.

“Did you know?” I whisper into him.

“If I did, do you think I would have gone along with it?” he answers.

I shake my head no, content that when the world is spinning and people are changing, he, at least, seems stable.

But why is Treena with Trey right now and not me? When did she stop being stable?

TUESDAY

That night I barely talk to Treena before we go to sleep. We say good night, and that's it. And as I lie in bed, all I keep thinking is that I want things to be the same. I want her to be the same, but she's not. She's someone who goes along with Trey's stupid ideas. She makes us do these crazy things that she herself would never do. Back at home, she was never the rule breaker; her parents would have punished her if she did anything remotely out of line. She, too, got the threat of being sent to India, but it was when her grade in math dropped to a B. She was always home five minutes prior to curfew, and that was when she
had
a curfew. Her parents didn't institute it until she started driving, which wasn't until last February, when she turned eighteen. I remember
when she rolled her eyes at a kid in our grade who was busted for breaking into the school and climbing onto the roof after hours.
Why do something so stupid?
she whispered to me during class.

And maybe that made her—and me—lame or boring, but we had fun in our own ways. We didn't need wild parties or drinking for that. It makes me wonder what I'll be like next year, when I'm left to my own devices without guidance or rules. Will I do a complete 180 in college, too, taking up everything that scared me before because I
can
with no one telling me no? Will I try to be someone else because it's a chance to start over?

Maybe it's easy to change completely if you haven't changed at all. Treena was always the same. She never took risks. So now, she's risking everything. Maybe challenging myself every now and then will stop me from becoming someone I don't even recognize. It'll make the jump less tempting. Maybe I just need to allow myself to try.

Like what I'm doing here—trying to find information on my mother, trying to figure out who I am. Maybe that's my risk. Maybe that's my big jump, while Treena's was redesigning herself. Maybe in taking this risk, this chance, I'll know who I'm meant to become.

I wonder what my mother was like in college. Was she more of a Treena with me, or Treena with Trey? Did she change completely once she started? Did she become someone new?

Will I, after all this?

The next morning we talk casually, Treena and I—I tell her which high schools I'm planning to visit, and she nods along. But this morning she doesn't offer again to come, saying something about studying, and I don't ask. I need some time to clear my head. I leave the dorm room on my own. Something's changed; something's off.

I go downstairs to the snack shop to grab something to eat. I walk to the muffin aisle and hear a familiar voice.

“Hungry?”

I look up and see Bennett holding a granola bar.

“I was until I saw how sad the muffin selection is,” I say, holding up a flat blueberry one.

“That's why I stick to this,” he says, holding up the bar. “There's a cafeteria a building over, if you want normal food. Like . . . eggs and stuff.”

“No, it's okay,” I say, getting the sad muffin. “I want to get on the road.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I was wondering if you were still going.”

“Why wouldn't I be?” I ask, and it comes out harsher than it should. But last night reminded me that I'm here with a purpose, not just to fit in. I don't need to fit in here. I have home to worry about.

“I dunno,” he says, shrugging. “My offer still stands, if you'd like some company.”

I look at him and see him as part of this new life Treena has, one that's far away from the one we had together. And,
yeah, okay, he's cute and nice, but he's also a distraction for why
I'm
here. I don't want him taking this away from me. But still, he offered, so I ask, “Why are you so interested in my mother's story? I mean, not to be mean, but . . . I'm curious. I'm a stranger, really. Why would you want to help me?”

He musses up his hair, then says, “My mom's a social worker, so I've seen this before, you know? Not the whole searching-for-mother thing, but the adoption life. I guess . . . I've always seen the before, like, the getting adopted part, but never the after, like, what happens later.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “That's cool. I mean, that your mom's a social worker, and that you're interested.”

“I'm also just a really nice guy,” he says with a grin.

“Uh-huh.” I smile back.

“Scout's honor. I got a badge in niceness.”

“They don't give badges in niceness,” I say.

“How do you know? Were you a Boy Scout?”

I look at him and shake my head. “You're stubborn, aren't you?”

“Annoyingly so,” he agrees. “Come on, we can bike there. I'm sure you could borrow Treena's. I bike a lot around here.” He sits down to tie his sneakers. “It's easier than driving. No traffic in the bike lanes.”

“You sure a car isn't a better idea?”

“Nah, I like to live on the wild side,” he says with a smile. “Well, the non–haunted house wild side. Speaking of, did you have nightmares last night?”

“Not really,” I lie. I dreamt of dark rooms and shadows and dripping blood.

“I dreamt Trey was a murderer, living a double life in the asylum. I've kind of avoided him since.”

“No,” I say, laughing.

“True story,” he says guiltily. “Come on, let's go ask Treena.” He gets up and makes his way to the door.

“I—” I start, heart catching up with my mind. I don't really want to ask her for a favor right now, after everything.

“Yeah?” he asks, turning around to me. And it's the way he's looking at me—full of questions and excitement and a pinch of sugary granola bar—I don't want to say no.

“She should be in her room,” I say, and he nods. We go back upstairs, and I knock and then enter.

“Hey, Treena?” I say once inside. She's at her desk, book open.

She turns around and looks surprised. “What's up? I thought you left?”

“About to,” I say. “It turns out the school is nearby, so Bennett thought we'd bike there . . .” I start.

“Oh, you can borrow mine. It's downstairs. You know which one is mine, yeah?” she asks Bennett, and he nods.

“Yep. Purple one with the ‘I Heart Trey' sticker on it.”

“It does not have that!” she shrieks, seemingly back to normal.

“Kidding, kidding,” he says.

She shakes her head and throws me the bike key. “I should be home around three today, so see you then!” she says to me, and I wave and say good-bye.

It's as if nothing happened. We've never fought before, really, so is this how we move forward? Pretend it never happened and go on with our day?

“Woo-hoo! Biking!” Bennett says as we get back into the hallway.

“What's with you and biking?” I ask, curious.

“I love it. There's something cathartic about being so exposed while traveling.”

“Why not get a motorcycle?” I ask.

“I'd
love
to. But can't really afford one right now. So, bike it is.”

“Bike it is,” I repeat, kind of paying attention, and kind of figuring out how I'm doing this—going to a school that might have been hers. It might not have been, too, but I don't want to think that. I want to stay positive. I want to believe that each step I'm taking is getting me closer and closer to her past. Because if I find her school, I may be able to find out so much more about her. I'll be able to see a place that was a part of her.

Yes, it might be a dead end, but then I'll try the next school. And the next. I'm going to try as many as I can; it's my last hope right now.

I zone back in and he's still talking about biking. “It's the effort that I like. The putting one foot in front of the other
and pushing on. It's awesome.”

“I guess so,” I concede. “I haven't biked in years.”

“Why not?”

“No time, I guess? I liked it as a kid, but, I don't know, once I got busier I just forgot about it.”

“You can always pick it back up again,” he says, pushing the button for the elevator. It comes right away, and we get on. The flyer from the party is still up.

“I don't know . . . I still don't have much time.”

“School?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And photography projects, and thinking about college, and figuring out if I should get a job for the summer so I can afford those colleges . . .”

The bell dings, and the doors open on the ground floor. We take the hallway out to the exit. “Hey,” he says, to a guy passing. When we get outside, the light hits us and it's kind of blinding. “So Osceola's not far; we'll be there in about thirty minutes. . . .”

“Thanks for coming with me,” I say. “But . . . would you mind if I go inside the school alone?”

“I can work with that.”

I follow him as he walks around the corner to the bikes.

“You don't mind? It's not that I don't trust you, it's that . . .”

“No, no, I get it.” He shrugs. “But hey, there's this awesome place nearby for lunch, so I'm forcing you to go there after, cool?” He gives me a smile and continues to the bike
rack where a bright purple bike (sans “I Heart Trey” sticker) is waiting for me.

“Deal,” I say.

Bike riding isn't bad. In fact, it's just as fun as I remember. Each press of the pedals equals another few feet behind me. My legs propel me on, and I feel the burn in every motion. It's so much better than walking or driving. Bennett was right.

I look over at Bennett and see him in a trance, concentrating purely on the road ahead of us. We're biking side by side along a small street where cars aren't passing us frequently. He's smiling as the wind hits his face, eyes focused and ready. He turns to look at me, I'm sure feeling my gaze, and I blush from him catching me staring.

“Fun, right?” he yells over the quiet wind between us.

“Yeah!” I yell back. He nods, then looks ahead of us.

We're not five minutes away from campus when I see a school across the street.

“Hey, that's not it, right?” I ask.

Bennett stops so I do, too. “No, that's a charter school. But, huh . . .”

“What?” I ask.

He scratches his head, then angles his bike to cross the street. “It has all grades, so technically she could have gone here.”

“Wait, really?” I ask, nerves hitting me all at once. I
wasn't prepared to find this so quickly; I thought we still had time.

“I don't know, might as well ask?” he says. “Want to give it a go?”

“Sure,” I find myself answering absentmindedly. “Why not?”

We bike across the street and pull up to a giant white-stone building that kind of looks like a prison—bars on all the windows, a closed, institutional feel. “What kind of school did you say this was again?” I ask nervously.

“A charter school. Fancy private school. Kind of . . . um . . . depressing-looking, though. Right?”

“Definitely,” I agree. I keep nodding until I realize that it's my turn to go in. That I should start moving and walking and asking questions. But instead, I admit, “I'm nervous.”

“You can do it, grasshopper,” Bennett says.

I nod again, looking at the structure. “Here goes nothing,” I say, heart pounding in my chest as I run up the stairs leading into the building. With no time to prepare, I might as well go.

Inside it looks similar to my high school and not nearly as imposing. Just an empty corridor and hallways full of classes and lockers. I head to the left, where there's an administration sign.

Inside the room, a student is sitting at the desk. I mean, I assume it's a student; he looks about as old as I am, with short blond hair and intense glasses.

“Hey,” I say. “Do you work here?”

“Assistant,” he answers, still typing. “What's up?”

He's like half professional, half not, and I don't know which angle to go with. I don't think sympathy will work, so instead I just say, “I was wondering if you could tell me if someone went to this school seventeen years ago.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I'm trying to figure out where my mother went to high school. She's not alive, so I can't ask her.”

At that he perks up and stares at me. “You don't go here?”

“No,” I answer honestly, sticking to my gut reaction.

He rubs his chin, thinking, then raises his eyebrows in a way that makes him look evil. “I have access to the database of students,” he says in a low whisper. “I've always wanted to use it.”

“Now is a good time,” I say, encouraging him.

He looks at me for a calculated second, then looks back down at the computer. His fingers fly across the keyboard, and he asks, “What is—um, was—her name?”

“Claire Fullman,” I say, heart beating in excitement. This is it—he's actually doing this for me.

“Hmmm,” he says, then, “Nope, doesn't look like she went here.”

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. “Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “Okay. Thanks for looking, anyway.” This is only the first school. We have a ton of
other ones to try. I have to remind myself instead of surrendering to the thought of another letdown.

“No problem,” he says, adding, “What are you doing tonight?”

“Huh?” I ask.

“I need someone to go with me to this
thing
tonight. This school function thing.”

My mouth drops in surprise. “But you don't even know me.”

“Yeah, I know. But you can't be worse than the girls here.” He says it looking down, and it makes me think that he doesn't have it easy here. That he's more like me and Treena back home. That he might get picked on and pushed around, which is why he's here, hiding in the administration office.

I don't know what to say—it's not like I want to go out with him or anything, but I don't want to hurt his feelings. “College is better than high school. You have a chance to start over, and become a new version of yourself.” I don't know if I believe it yet, but Treena's words seem to fit the situation perfectly.