Part 33 (1/2)
”You're a freaking broken record, Addy Hanlon,” she says.
”If you're so sure you know everything,” I say, squinting my eyes tight, trying to figure my way into her, ”why haven't you gone already?”
”I'm still collecting the final pieces,” she says. I swear I can hear her tongue churning in her mouth like a vampire. ”I'm working on my deployments and flanking maneuvers.”
I picture her, on the other end of the phone, plucking her marked lobe, the crescent scar, but then I realize it's me, fingers gnarled around my own ear.
”Beth, I have to ask you something,” I say, my tone gliding elsewhere.
”I'm waiting,” she says.
”Beth,” I say. Without even planning on it, my voice slips into something from our past, the Addy who needs things from Beth-her skinny stretch jeans, the ephedra tea you have to mail order, the questions for the chem exam, someone to tell her what to do to make it all bearable.
The voice, it's not an act, it isn't, it never was, and it's like a message to her, to both of us, to remember things, because she needs to remember too. I need to make her step back and see.
”Beth, I could get in trouble here,” I say. ”I helped her. Can you give me one more day? Just one more day to see what I can find out. To see if you're right.”
”You mean one more day for her to save her own skin.”
”One more day, Beth,” I say. ”Wait until Tuesday. Monday's the game. Tomorrow you're Top Girl.”
There's a pause.
”One more day, Beth,” I say, softly. ”For me.”
There's another pause and its quiet feels dangerous.
”Sure,” she says. ”You take your day.”
29
SUNDAY: ONE DAY TO FINAL GAME
She's given me one day and I have no plan for it, no idea. one day and I have no plan for it, no idea.
All the voices from recent days, all the threats and calamity, and I can't think my way through any of it, least of all those words from Coach: I was there, Addy, but I didn't do anything. I was with him, but I found him too. I was there, Addy, but I didn't do anything. I was with him, but I found him too.
It's all true.
Everything is.
Crawling under the covers Sunday morning, three a.m., I take more codeine-dosed Tylenol, and the dreams that come are muddled and grotesque.
Finally twisting myself into a trembling sleep, I dream of Will.
He comes to me, his arm outstretched, palm closed. When he opens it, it's filled with shark teeth, the kind they show you in science cla.s.s.
”Those are Beth's,” I say, and he smiles, his mouth black as a hole.
”No,” he says, ”they're yours.”
When I wake up, there's a newfound energy in me that boosts me from bed, that feels like the day before a Big Game. That feels powerful. It's the day of readying.
Standing in front of the mirror, toothbrush frothing, I feel certain things will happen and this time maybe I will be ready for them.
I try to find a way to reach PFC Tibbs. I think he might share more with me, reveal something, as Prine did. But I can't find a number for him, and there's no answer at the regional Guard office, so I have no way to reach him without Beth.
I drive to the police station, park in the back. Wait for an hour, door-watching.
I think about going inside, but I'm afraid the detectives will see me.
I was there, but I didn't do anything. I was with him, but I found him too. It's all true.
Beth or Coach, who do I believe when one never tells the truth and one gives me nothing but riddles?
Something about it reminds me of pre-calc. Permutations and combinations. Consider any situation in which there are exactly two possibilities:Succeed or Fail. Yes or No. In or Out. Boy or Girl. Consider any situation in which there are exactly two possibilities:Succeed or Fail. Yes or No. In or Out. Boy or Girl.
Left or right. You're the Left Base, you know your only job is to strut that left side of the pyramid, hold that weight and keep your girl up. You're the Left Base, you know your only job is to strut that left side of the pyramid, hold that weight and keep your girl up.
But am I on the right side, or the left?
Watching the back door of the police station, I ponder a third way. I imagine going inside, telling them everything, letting them sort it all out.
But it's not the soldier heart in me.
I'm just about to start my car when my phone rings.
I don't recognize the number, but I answer.
”Addy?” A man says.
”Yes?”
”This is Mr. French,” he says. ”Matt French.”
I turn off my car.