Authors: Susan Vaught
“Of course you didn’t,” she says, forceful and definite. “That’s why I brought the lawyer—so nobody tries to run over you just because they think you’re an easy target. You wait. If the agents lean on Derrick even a little bit, his mother will hire three lawyers.”
I can’t stop staring at Dad and now I’m wanting to cry and I’m kind of wishing he was possessed by mean trees because maybe that would be better than realizing he thinks I might have done something awful to somebody else—and not just any somebody else, but
Sunshine
, for God’s sake.
“Dad,” I try again, ignoring the shouting and bellowing and moaning in my head. “How could you think I’d do anything like that?”
“I know you’d never hurt her on purpose,” he says, trying to get closer to me, but I back a step away from him.
“On purpose? I’d never do it
at all
.” I want him to hear me. I want him to agree with me. He
has
to agree with me. I can’t have my own father thinking like an alphabet voice.
He doesn’t agree with me.
My insides start a whole new kind of ache. I keep looking at him, waiting for a crack or a change or a shiver, for the moment he says he’s sorry, that he knows I’m not that kind of guy.
Nothing. He’s giving me nothing.
My chest crushes toward my heart, and I wonder if I’m going to die, because if my own father thinks I could hurt people, then who am I, really?
What
am I?
Freak freak freak freak FREAK freak FREAK FREAK freakfreakfreakfreakfreak…
The colonel’s face goes red along the cheekbones and she glares at the back of Dad’s head like I’m glaring at the front of it. “Johnson,” she says, using Dad’s whole first name, which is never a good thing. “You can’t be serious.”
Dad turns to her. “Not now. This isn’t the time to have this discussion, Lisa.”
“We shouldn’t be having this discussion at all, ever!” Her bright brown eyes flash at him. “I can’t believe you could—that for one second you could consider—”
She stops and I’m breathing hard and I realize some of the people around us have pulled back and folks are staring and three seconds later Mr. Watson’s coming toward us with that all-is-well somber calm-down expression he uses when people fight in class. It’s hard to take him seriously with his clothes all rumpled and his hair poking in every direction, but both of my parents go zombie quiet except for quick grunts of frustration.
“How are you tonight, Jason?” Mr. Watson asks in his most mellow voice.
Fine
, I want to say because it’s automatic, but it’s not fine because Sunshine’s gone and there’s some lawyer flogging the FBI for information and my father thinks I’m a freak for real.
I keep my mouth shut. He’s almost doing the stand-too-close thing to me, but not quite. Not enough that anyone would notice.
He’s just doing his job.
“Jason’s stressed,” Dad says. “And it’s past time for his medication.”
“I’m not taking it tonight.” I look to the side of him, because I really don’t want to see his evil-tree face or his evil-tree eyes.
He thinks I could have hurt Sunshine.
Because you did, you pathetic waste of skin. You hurt her and you know it. You hurt everyone. Pain, pain, rain, rain, pain is all a game. I don’t remember the last time I played a game.
“You most certainly
are
taking your meds.” Dad glances at his watch, and the colonel—though her face is so different right now, it’s more Mom than military—doesn’t argue with him. Her I can look at. Her I can talk to, at least for right now.
To the colonel—to Mom—I say, “No. If I take my pills, I’ll sleep for eight straight hours. Maybe ten. I won’t be able to help find Sunshine.”
Mom doesn’t answer. Dad frowns, and Mr. Watson frowns with him. They can’t exactly hold me and stuff pills down my throat, but I guess they could drag me to the hospital and force some doc to give me a shot in the butt. That’s happened before, but only when I was already locked up in the freak house.
My right hip stings at the memory, and I remember how the dead-thick feeling spread out from the needle, down my leg and up my back until it beat on my brain
and I dropped away into nothing darkness for hours, maybe days, I never can remember those times very clearly, but no way am I turning dead-thick now.
My fists clench, but I make myself relax and my fingers uncurl. My heart’s beating too hard and I’m mad because it’s not fair that I’m even having to argue this, that at my age I don’t have any more choices or any more freedom than this. A guy should at least get to decide when going nuts is worth the risk.
“Agent Mercer says the first twenty-four hours are the most important,” I remind Mom, more desperate by the second. “Nine of those hours are already gone. That leaves fifteen hours—less now—to find Sunshine, and I’m not sleeping through any of them.”
Mom opens her mouth, but Dad jumps in with, “Taking your medication isn’t open for negotiation.”
“I’m not negotiating.” Don’t be obnoxious. Don’t look at him. He’s possessed by evil trees. No, stop it, there are no evil trees. “My best friend in the world is missing. The medicines work by blood level. I’ve missed days before, by accident, and that time on vacation. One day—even two—it won’t make that much difference.”
Dad goes quiet, frowning worse, and now his cheeks look as red as Mom’s. She clears her throat, and I hold my breath, wondering if she’s going to agree or disagree but she really doesn’t do either because what she says is, “That’s dangerous thinking, Jason.”
And what I hear is,
she’s hearing me
, and I relax the
tiniest bit inside until Mr. Watson comes out with, “We’ve gone over this in class, Jason. When you have an illness that’s under control, the most important thing is not underestimating it and getting lax with treatment.”
“I’m not getting lax with anything.” Somehow I didn’t yell that. “I’m not taking fuzzy pills and letting Sunshine down. The second we find her, I’ll take whatever pills you want. I’ll take whatever pills anybody wants.”
And Mom and Mr. Watson and Dad all look like they’re going to say something but they don’t get the chance because Agent Mercer comes striding into the room with Captain Evans right behind him. Four other agents follow, and they fan out toward Roland Harks and Linden Green, toward Drip and his mom and brothers, toward a room off to the side and when the door opens, I see Eli Patton inside. He gets to his feet as the agent goes in, but the door shuts. Then the last agent starts moving volunteers outside like cattle through a chute, fast and away, away from the people the other agents are approaching—like me.
Agent Mercer stops in front of me, and he glances from me to Mr. Watson and even gives Dad a quick brush with those cold gray eyes that seem suddenly twice as icy as the last time I saw them.
“We’ve recovered some clothing from Sunshine’s room,” he says, and waits, like he wants to see if any of us have anything to say.
All I can think is, of course they recovered clothing
from Sunshine’s room. She’s a girl. She has a great big closet full of lots and lots and lots of clothes, but he’s acting like something is wrong with these clothes and—
I have to tell you something and she’s got her locket tight in her fist and she’s got tears in her eyes and I want to lift my thumbs and wipe the tears away and when I do she lets me and then she’s got her face against my chest crying and I hold her and I want her to stop stop stop crying and the clouds are coming and the stabbing knife pain is coming but I have to remember even if I promised I need to remember but it hurts it hurts so much and I don’t know how to help her until she tells me what she wants and I still don’t know how to do it but I’ll try and I’ll do my best because it’s Sunshine and I’d do anything for her even give up all my own books and games and movies I’d do anything for her even die I’d do anything for her even this and she’s wearing jeans and a gray lace shirt with hints of yellow that make her black hair and black eyes look even darker and her pale, pale skin even lighter and I have to think she’s beautiful she’s so beautiful she’s always been beautiful and
—Knives stab into my brain and my ears have to be bleeding and I’m breathing hard and the black clouds spin like tiny tornadoes in my eyes and
“… DNA sample,” Agent Mercer’s saying, and the words don’t sink in but then the knives go away and only my temples ache and the clouds stop spinning and I catch
my breath and I think about crime shows and how if the police find anything with skin or body fluids on it test it and get DNA from it, especially when they want to see if the bad guy left some little part of himself behind at the scene of the crime, some little something that’ll send him to prison forever, and my alphabet voices start screaming about prison and the rest of my mind starts screaming about the clothes and what they found on the clothes and what it might mean and whether or not it was the lacy gray-and-yellow shirt and jeans Sunshine was wearing the last time we were alone and from across the room where Eli’s behind the door I hear a big bang and clatter like a table getting pitched against a wall and then I hear Drip’s mom yelling about people being crazy and why are they even asking her boys something like this and Drip trying to tell her it’s okay and he’ll do it and Linden Green’s father bellowing no f-ing way and how he’s getting an attorney and Roland’s mom is saying something like that and Captain Evans is mentioning it’s a reasonable request and cooperation would be viewed positively but none of that goes all the way in my brain because what does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean—
And Mr. Watson moves.
Sudden.
Fast.
He shoves me hard against Dad and we bang forward into Mom and Agent Mercer and Captain Evans.
I’m falling. I can’t stop myself. Hitting mopped tile with my knees and palms and jarring so hard my teeth seem to crack and my vision shivers but I can still see him.
I can see Mr. Watson charging toward the VFW’s front door.
My mouth hurts. My wrists burn and my knees throb and I’m somebody else as I shoot off the floor and charge forward, running faster than I think I can, than I ever have, and I slam into Mr. Watson before he can burst into the night and get away because if he’s running then he’s bad and he’s done something and maybe he hurt Sunshine and—
And I taste copper and salt and fingers dig into my ankles and of course it’s not me taking Mr. Watson to the ground.
It’s agents in suits and three police officers and Dad’s got hold of me. “Don’t, Jason. Be still, Jason.”
I wriggle for a second, wanting to get up and somehow jump on Mr. Watson and make a difference. Why is
it never me who makes a difference? I pull out of Dad’s grip because I want to do something—and I don’t want him touching me.
“Why did the teacher run?” Mom’s asking nobody, because nobody’s listening to her and everybody’s staring at Mr. Watson, who’s howling and kicking and about to get himself Tasered or shot or at least punched in the face by the men trying to get him under control.
Somebody else mutters, “A room full of officers and agents and he’s dumb enough to try a stunt like that?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Mr. Watson shrieks. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me!”
My alphabet voices echo him like satanic parrots and for a few seconds I can’t hear anything but that and for another few seconds I almost feel sorry for Mr. Watson but then Dad’s pulling me up and we’re standing and I’m shaking and there really is blood in my mouth and my tongue hurts.
Mom sees me wiping red trickles on the back of my hand and produces a handkerchief from her fatigue pocket. “Got all your teeth?” she asks in a low voice, and when I nod, she doesn’t make a big deal out of it. She does have her good points, like not going ape over little stuff… and not thinking I’m a homicidal maniac like Dad maybe does.
That hurts too much. Can’t think about that. I’m running out of space to store stuff I don’t want to think about.
“Mr. Watson’s weird,” I tell Mom. “I’ve told you that before, lots of times.”
“You have, but I thought—” And she stops, and she sounds guilty. I know why. Because nobody ever listens—not even our moms. All our opinions and instincts get ignored because everybody figures it’s just a taste of our crazy.
“He’s the kind of guy who’d think he could make it,” I add, because he is. Mr. Watson definitely preaches beating the odds and staying optimistic and it doesn’t surprise me that he thought he could run out of a room packed with law enforcement guys and actually make it. What surprises me is that he ran in the first place.
I mean, weird’s weird, but running from the police? That barrels out of weird and does a boar’s rush toward seriously creepy. And stupid.
Why did he run?
For once, even my alphabet voices don’t have an opinion.
Drip and his mom seem to materialize beside Dad, and Drip’s mom asks, “What in God’s name is this all about?”
“Got me,” Dad says as the officers wrestle Mr. Watson to his feet and shove him away from the front entrance, toward some of the little rooms on the other side of the VFW hall.
That’s when the door nearest me opens, and I see Eli Patton pop to the center of the doorway and grab the frame long enough for
PAIN
and
HOPE
to flash the room
from his fingers. His mug-shot face twists as he watches what’s going on with Mr. Watson, and his bristle hair seems to stick up double. I wait for his big ears to turn the color of bad apples like they always do when he’s seriously pissed, but they don’t, which strikes me as wrong, but it doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter what’s really happening with Mr. Watson, it only matters what Eli
thinks
is happening.
He’s gonna kill you. He’s gonna kill all of you if you don’t kill him first.
PAIN
and
HOPE. PAIN
and
HOPE.
Run run RUN run Freak RUN and don’t ever stop.
The agent in the room with Eli is trying to talk to him. He’s reaching for Eli—bad idea, don’t do it, don’t—