Counting Backwards (12 page)

“Nobody noticed?”

“My back was to the camera, and the safeties are only half watching most of the time.”

“It’s that easy?”

“No, but I’ve had practice.”

“Does that happen a lot?” I ask. “The fighting?” I remember how expertly he delivered that punch, with such calm and control, almost machinelike. And his face afterward was so vacant—it’s an image I’d like to forget.

“It used to happen more. That’s why Victor came to me. He knew guys wouldn’t mess with him if they had to go through me. I used to like it, too, made me feel like a badass. Now I just feel like a thug.”

“It doesn’t seem fair to you.”

“I could quit.”

“Why don’t you?”

“There’s a lot of perks to the job. And we’re providing a service. It just breaks down when we don’t give people what they want.”

They have to say no sometimes. Would A.J. say no to me?

“How does Victor get all that stuff?”

“He’s got this friend from back home. He sends us care packages. Most of the stuff is legal—candy and whatever else—but for the rest, he’s good at hiding the things that need to be hidden.”

“Like keys?”

He clears his throat, and I feel a new tension in the air. “Some things don’t go through Victor.”

However they work it out is up to them, but I figure I better get to where I’m going, which is the mold in my pocket. No sense in saving it for later.

“A.J., I wanted to see you—I mean I wanted to make sure you’re okay. But there’s another reason.”

“I’m listening.”

“I need you to make me a key.”

There’s a long pause, and I wonder what he’s thinking. I don’t want him to feel like he’s being used, but he’s the only one I trust to do this for me.

“A key to what?” he finally asks.

“A Ford Bronco.”

“The shop car.”

“One of them.”

He sighs deeply and I hold my breath, waiting.

“How are you going to get past the gate?”

The gate, the guard, and the fence. Three obstacles I have yet to figure out. But I will.

“I don’t know, but in the meantime, I need to be ready. I need that key.”

“Can’t you stay a little longer? See if this place grows on you. See if I grow on you.”

I smile in the dark. I like him, I really do, but I like my freedom more, and just thinking about my next therapy session makes me feel jittery and scattered.

“I can’t stay, A.J. I wish I could, for you and Margo, but I’m done here.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You got it on you? The mold?”

I reach into my pocket and pull out the plastic container, find his open hand in the dark, and place it there. The springs in the couch groan as he rises, followed by a squeaking noise. One dim light flickers on above us, a naked bulb he must have loosened that first night. The light shines down on his buzzed hair and casts a shadow over his eyes. He opens the case and tilts it toward the light, studying my work.

“It looks good,” he says after a minute. He sounds disappointed.

“So, you’ll do it?”

He snaps the case shut and jams it deep into the pocket of his drawstring pants.

“No.”

I stand up slowly, thinking maybe I misheard him, but then why is he shaking his head?

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not going to help you run away.”

“Then why is
my
mold in
your
pocket?”

“I wouldn’t be a friend if I let you do this.”

“Then give it back.” I hold out my hand. I’ll take it to Victor. He’s a businessman, and I’ve got money to spend.

“No,” he says. My anger bubbles up from deep within. Like lava, it pours through me and rushes up to my skin, making my nerves sing with heat. I take a moment to choose my next words carefully.

“A.J., you’re not being a friend by stealing my mold—the mold
you
taught me how to make. Just give it back and I won’t bother you with it again.”

“No,” he repeats, like some parrot who can only say one word—
no, no, no.
I reach for his pocket, and his hand clamps down on my wrist.

“I’m sorry, Taylor.”

His apology only angers me more. I jerk my hand away. “Looks like you’re still a thug after all.”

His eyes harden. His anger is directed at me for the first time, but I don’t care. I want my mold back. “I guess that’s all I’m good for,” he says.

With the force of all my weight, I shove him in the chest, trying to knock him off balance. But he barely moves, just rocks on his heels and jams both his hands deep into his pockets, then stands there like a stubborn mule.

“Give it back!” I yell, not caring who hears us.

“Give it a little longer, Taylor. Just a few more weeks.”

I slow my breathing and don the mask, cold and unfeeling. I stare at him in the dim lighting, ignoring his silent pleas for me to understand. He’s trying to control me. Just like my father. They’re both trying to trap me and make me over into something—
someone
—else, because I’m not good enough the way I am.

I catch the glint of his silver chain. His keys are important to him. The chain is thin, weak. I sigh deeply and look at him, letting him think that maybe I’m giving up. Then, when his shoulders relax, I grab for his keys with both hands and yank as hard as I can. My adrenaline fuels my strength, and the chain breaks as he stumbles back. Then I’m sprinting to the darkroom door, barreling down the basement, up the stairs, and onto the third floor. I fall through the doorway and see Charlotte farther down, standing in the middle of the hallway like she’s seen a ghost. The ghost is me.

I run into my room and search A.J.’s keys frantically to see if any of them looks like a car key. None. I throw them against
the air vent—metal scratching metal—and pound the bed with my fists.

I don’t care if Sandra catches me. I don’t care if A.J. is furious at me for stealing his keys. All I care about is getting out. And now, thanks to him, I’ve lost my best chance of escape.

The next morning I pull my desk over the air vent so A.J. can’t hear into my room. On walkover I don’t even glance in the boys’ direction. In the hall I keep my tunnel vision, heading straight to my classes without lingering. I make it all the way through lunch without seeing him.

But in the pen, Margo reminds me.

“Only five days till the dance, Taylor. Is A.J. going to ask you, or do I need to break his legs?”

I think back to last night. I doubt he’d ask me to go with him, and there’s even less of a chance I’d say yes. I glance across the pen to where he’s standing. He sees me and raises one hand as if signaling a truce, but I’m not giving in. I want my mold. I want that key.

“Maybe he
can’t
ask you,” Margo says, clearly misinterpreting our exchange. “I mean, he doesn’t talk, right? Maybe
you
should ask
him
.”

“That’s not my style,” I tell her, because I don’t want to have to explain it. “Besides, I’d rather go alone.”

“You won’t be alone, T, you’ll be with me and Vic.” She
frowns. “I really thought he was going to ask you. A.J.’s such a mystery to me. I can never decide if I like him or not.”

I laugh darkly. “Me neither.”

That afternoon during automotive, Dominic uncovers the problem with the Bronco. One of the spark plugs was bad. Such a simple mistake, so easily fixed. But I never get another opportunity to be alone with the keys, and besides, I don’t have gum for another mold. I silently curse A.J. all throughout class. At the end of it, Dominic asks if I want to go with him to the dance. I tell him I’d love to.

In therapy later that day, I sit across from Dr. Deb and act like I can’t speak. I feel her frustration with me rising, but I won’t be here much longer, so why waste her time or mine?

That evening Tracy makes me move my desk away from the air vent, and when I do, I hear him playing his guitar, which is even worse than talking to him, because I love music and especially his—all the dark, haunting melodies and awkward silences. I wonder if he knows I’m listening.

As the next few days pass and I’m no closer to getting out, I feel more and more desperate and out of sorts. By the Saturday of the Harvest Ball, I’m considering something drastic.

I sit on Margo’s bed and watch her go through her final stages of preparation for the dance. We’ve been at it since early that morning—pedicures, manicures, facials. Margo
asked to borrow scissors and trimmed my hair for me. I finally shaved my legs, which took
forever
. I did it with only half a heart, not even bothering with my knees.

Margo looks stunning in her burgundy gown. Her hair is a golden crown on top of her head, and her shoulder blades look like birds’ wings, ready to take flight.

“How’s this color?” she asks me, puckering her lips to model a splash of crimson across her porcelain face.

“Very dramatic.”

She stares at her reflection, practicing the appropriate smile for when she’s crowned Autumn Queen. She’s been at it all day. “Too big,” she says. “Too much teeth. That one’s kind of bitchy. I like it.” She glances over at me. “T, you’re not even wearing mascara. Get over here.”

I slouch over to her vanity and she fusses over my face, bossing me around as to how to contort my eyes and mouth. I try to be a good subject, but I’m really not into this sort of thing. When she’s done, she turns me toward the mirror.

“Voilà.”

I stare at my reflection in the murky mirror—full, pouty lips, smoky eyes, flushed cheeks, naked throat. But it’s not my face, it’s
hers
. My mother. All dolled up for a night on the town, putting on a fake face to the world. The longer I look, the worse I feel, like I’m trapped in a car that’s headed for a brick wall. Her face, her body, her weaknesses, her addictions . . .

“I can’t do this,” I say to the woman in the mirror.

I get up and walk down to the second-floor bathroom, turn the faucet on high, the hottest water I can handle, and smear it around my face. I get a puddle of liquid soap in my hands and scrub until my skin is red and raw.

“Taylor, I’m so sorry,” Margo says, beside herself. “I really thought you’d like it.”

I shake my head. I can’t speak. The soap is making my eyes water. I’m sure of it, because seriously, this is the stupidest thing to be crying about. I grab some scratchy paper towels and dry my face. I glance down at my dress, at the huge water mark staining the front of it.

“Damn.”

“Come here,” Margo says, and pulls me over to the dryer. She punches the metal button and I stand under it, letting the hot air fan my face and dry her dress while I focus on the dingy puke-green tile. She comes back a minute later with some makeup remover and fixes my face while I punch the metal button again and again. The dress is dry, and when the air cuts off, I know I’m going to have to say something.

“Taylor, are you all right?”

“I just had . . . a moment where . . .” I take a deep breath and rub the knot in my chest. “I looked so much like my mother.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding surprised. She studies me for a
moment. “Well, few of us are blessed with flawless complexions such as yours, so if you want to go au naturel, that’s fine by me.”

I nod, grateful that she’s not going to push me any further. “Thanks, Margo, for . . . understanding.”

“You’re okay, though, right? You’re still coming?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

The safety calls us to line up, and I take a couple of deep breaths and put on a happy face. Victor waves to us, and next to him Dominic waits for me. His black hair is done up with spikes, and he looks like a rock star in a black dress shirt and tie. With my matching black dress, it looks as if we planned it. Then I realize Margo probably did plan it. In any case, we look good together. And even though it’s petty, a part of me wishes A.J. were here to see it.

“
Mon ange
,” Victor says, taking Margo’s hand and twirling her for his benefit. He compliments her gown, her makeup, her hair. As I stand there watching the two of them, I feel a little sentimental. It must be nice to have someone who adores and accepts you, despite your imperfections.

“Hey, good-lookin’,” Dominic says, and gives me a brotherly peck on the cheek. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re all babed out.”

“Thanks,” I say, grateful he wasn’t around fifteen minutes ago when I had my little meltdown.

I reach down to lift the hem of my dress so it won’t get dirty on our walk across the lawn, when I see A.J. across the lobby, staring at me without even trying to hide it. I remind myself we’re at war—that he’s the enemy—and shift my eyes away. I think of his keys, stashed in the secret pocket of my duffel bag, completely useless to both of us. I hope he’s missing them.

“Ready?” Dominic asks, offering me his arm.

“Let’s go.”

We make our way along the paved pathway, passing through a tunnel of safeties. The safety who tackled me on the lawn points me out to the others like,
Watch out for that one
. Margo was right about the heightened security, but it’s dark, and there are so many of us that they can’t possibly keep track of everyone all the time.

Dominic chats with Margo and Victor while I scan the staff parking lot. If I could sneak away from the dance, climb into one of those SUVs, and curl up in the back hatch, maybe I can stow away when the staff leaves for the night. But I’ve left my money in my room. I’ll have to think up a reason for a safety to take me back up.

“Taylor.” Margo snaps and grabs my arm—the girl is a mind reader. She pulls me into the gym and doesn’t let go until the door has been shut behind us.

I scope out the inside—safeties at every exit and more
patrolling the gym and the hallway to the bathrooms. They must have hired extra staff, because I’ve never seen so many of them before. The dance committee has done a nice job. There’s a huge black screen with an orange light behind it, to look like a harvest moon. They’ve scattered fallen leaves all over the floor and used pinecones and glowing jack-o’-lanterns as table centerpieces. I’ve never been to a school dance before, but it’s nice seeing everyone dressed up. The lights are dim and the music’s loud. Dominic brings me punch and then leads me out to the dance floor. He has good rhythm, and we dance with Margo and Victor in a larger group. Before long I realize with some surprise that I’m actually having a good time.