Chapter Twenty-three

Outside, the sky is still blue. Maggie and I do not belong in this sunny day. We are white as sheets as we make our way down the stairs that lead away from the front door. We pause at the street, looking a little lost.

“What now?” I ask. Our cab is long gone.

“Now, we g-get the hell out of here. We’ll walk back t-to the main road and call a cab.”

Overhead, a seagull cries happily. I feel my eyes welling up, my throat getting tight. “Is that going to happen to me?”

“No.” She turns back to me, finger up, looking angry. “D-don’t you go there. Not even for a second. D-do you hear me? Julien is sick, Chloe. Like really sick.”

“I know. I know that. But when she grabbed my hands, I remembered what she was talking about. Dr. Kirkpatrick was in that study group telling us how to breathe.”

“So what if she was? I mean, I know it’s creepy, and yes, you all t-turned into freaking robots—”

“So what if somehow that creepy stuff turned Julien into this? If I remember what they did, maybe I can help her. I have to remember, Mags.”

She settles a cool hand on my shoulder. “No, you don’t. Chloe, it’s schizophrenia, okay? That’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.”

I can’t believe this. I throw up my hands in disgust. “So that’s it. Julien is sick and somehow that means Dr. Kirkpatrick is innocent?”

“I d-didn’t say that. I’m just saying she didn’t have anything to d-do with this. And we shouldn’t either.”

I know she’s right. There isn’t a single logical explanation for anyone causing schizophrenia. But still, I can’t stop thinking about her flashes of sanity. Sometimes, the lunatic shutters cracked open, and I could see the completely normal girl trapped behind them.

“Let’s just get back,” Maggie says, interrupting my thoughts.

I nod, scrubbing at my eyes with the back of my hands. We’re just walking down the sidewalk when I hear a faint tapping from the house behind us. Maggie’s glancing around, so I know she’s heard it too. We search the scrubby yard and the palm tree, and then finally the house itself.

Julien.

She’s standing at one of the windows upstairs, making a motion with her arms.

“Is she drawing something?” I ask. “Why doesn’t she just open the window?”

“Maybe they won’t open,” Maggie says. “Maybe they think it’d be t-too risky.”

I ignore Maggie and shake my head. I try to look as confused as I can, hoping Julien will somehow manage to read my body language.

“Let’s j-just go.”

“No! She asked me to help, Mags.”

In the window, Julien tosses her hair. She’s frustrated, I think. And then she’s just gone. Maybe she sat down or walked away, but it doesn’t matter. The window is empty, and there is no saving happening here. Not today.

I turn back to the road, where Maggie’s already walking, but the tapping comes again. Julien, of course. She’s just watching us, palms pressed to the glass and a desperate look in her eyes. Like she’s waiting for me to do something.

“What d-does she want?” Maggie asks.

I sigh and push my hair behind my ears. “I don’t know. You were right. We should go.”

***

“I just don’t know what she meant with all that Wicked Witch stuff,” I say, doodling a cartoon of a stick figure on a broomstick on the paper place mat beneath my burger and fries.

Maggie picks at her own plate and frowns. “Maybe none of it really means anything. I don’t understand why you’re trying t-to make sense of it, Chlo.”

“Because she doesn’t make sense. Schizophrenia doesn’t come on like that. It comes on slowly, like over months or even years. It doesn’t just crop up at the end of one summer.” I push away my plate, my appetite lost. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s another reason they left.”

“Or maybe this is a d-dead end, like I said. Julien has problems, Chlo. And I don’t know that we need to be d-digging around in her messed-up family d-dynamics anymore.”

The rest of our train ride passes in silence. Maggie listens to her music, and I watch the skyline, one interesting building after the next slipping past my window. I try not to think of Adam. And fail miserably.

I want to call him. I mean, I really want to. But all I can think about is our last phone call. And his extracurricular visit to the local pharmacy.

What a mess.

I want to hear his side of the story. Because I know he’s not a bad guy. His room, those college applications, that freaking wall of architecture? That has to mean something.

But there’s another part of me that knows an explanation isn’t going to fix this. My parents already think I’m crazy. And now I’m going to date the criminal my mom sewed up in the emergency room? They’ll ship me off to a boarding school for troubled children.

God, I just wish it didn’t feel so right—so easy with him. If it could just be hard, I’d walk away. But it’s not hard. It’s as simple as my own damn instinct, and that means more than whatever stupid thing he did two years ago.

I’ll have to worry about the fallout with my parents later. I have to call him.

As if on cue, my cell phone rings. I spring out of my seat and into the narrow aisle, waving at Maggie to let her know I’m stepping away. I answer it without even looking, positive it’s him.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Chloe. It’s Blake.”

“Oh.” I sound every bit as disappointed as I am. I try again, clearing my throat. “Oh, hey.”

It’s not much better, but I don’t care. I’m not ready for this call today. Or ever, really. I reach for the wall beside me, bracing myself as the train rocks over the tracks. I’m pretty sure he’ll hear the background noise, so I can’t just hang up.

“So how’ve you been?” he asks.

His tone seems casual enough, but I feel like tiny invisible bugs are crawling up and down my arms.

“Fine,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Is something wrong?”

He laughs a little. “No, nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking about you and thought I’d give you a call. Day before Thanksgiving and all.”

“Right,” I say, shaking my head a little. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Same to you. Though yours will probably be more interesting than mine since you’re spending it in San Diego of all places.”

My heart stops beating. I’m sure of it. My mouth drops open, but I can’t form a single word right now because I’m completely paralyzed.

“I’m sorry?” I finally manage, because I had to have misheard him. I’m paranoid or tired or something.

He laughs as if it’s all very funny. “Your mom told me when I called this morning. I asked if I could bring by a pie, and she told me you were in San Diego.”

No, she didn’t say that. She couldn’t have said that because she has no idea I’m in San Diego. According to my mother, I’m in the Ritz-Carlton in Los Angeles and we told Maggie’s mother that we were heading out to some botanical garden for the day. Not once, did the words San or Diego exit either of our mouths.

“So how’s the weather?” he asks.

“Warm,” I say, croaking it out despite my now-roiling stomach.

I will not throw up. I will not throw up or pass out, and I will not start screaming. My hand feels slick with sweat on my phone. Someone’s coming toward me in the narrow little corridor, so I have to get out of the way.

“Sounds great. I’ve never been lucky enough to spend Thanksgiving in California.”

I force a laugh, but it’s worse than the canned stuff they play on sitcoms. His is as flat and as stale as mine and all I can think is how? How does he know where I am?

“So what are you doing all the way down there?”

My self-preservation kicks in, and the lies come pouring out of me. “Oh, this and that. Checking out the bay. I’ll probably come back with a killer tan.”

He murmurs something agreeable, and it’s horrible and awkward and I can’t believe either of us are acting like this isn’t completely transparent.

“Well, I really should go,” I say. “We’re about to grab lunch.”

“Sure,” he says, and I know full well he doesn’t believe me. “Oh, and happy Thanksgiving, Chloe. You’ve got a lot to be grateful for this year, don’t you?”

“This year?”

“Well, everything is different for you now, isn’t it?”

There’s something to his tone I don’t like. Hell, there isn’t a thing about this phone call I do like, but this little preachy undertone grates me like a brick of cheese.

I guess he thinks last year was just too tragic. What with my second-rate social and academic rankings, I probably should have just stabbed myself with the wishbone and done the world a favor.

“Oh, I’m grateful all right,” I say. My voice is so sickly sweet, I could pass for a flight attendant. I keep it up, like poisoned honey, as we exchange our good-byes.

I stare at the screen on my phone for a long time after he disconnects. One of the attendants asks me to take my seat. I point at the restroom like a mute and stumble toward it on legs that feel like cooked noodles.

The bathroom is cramped and loud, and I know I can’t hide here the rest of the way back. But I can’t tell Maggie. Our lunch made it pretty clear what she thinks of my conspiracy theories.

I palm my phone, knowing who I want to call. I can’t push the idea out of my head.

It takes me two minutes to gather the courage. I half expect myself to dial the number and immediately hang up, but that’s never been my style. Once I dial, I press the phone to my ear and square my shoulders.

Adam’s phone rings to voice mail after four rings. I wait a minute and call back again. This time, it goes straight to voice mail. And I’m not too stupid to know what that means. Call rejected. Chloe rejected.

I think this must be what it feels like to be slapped.

I return to my seat feeling like there’s a gaping hole where my important parts should be. Mags looks up briefly, returning to her notes without noticing my expression or even asking where I’ve been.

It wouldn’t matter if she asks. She’d only think I was crazy if I tried to explain it.

And maybe I am. Maybe I’m every bit as lost as Julien now.