Shackled Page 3

  I sat on my bed, staring cross-eyed at my peach-colored carpet. Would a cell phone have made any difference six years ago? I didn’t get one until I was thirteen. That day at the mall, who would I have called, really? And if Tara had had one, whoever grabbed her would’ve just taken her phone, of course.

  It’s not “whoever,” I thought. It’s that guy from the shop today. It’s him.

  Tension tied my shoulders taut. It was time.

  I took the white pillbox out of the coin pocket of my jeans and set it on my pillow. The light blue pillowcase needed washing. I crossed my right ankle over my left knee and rolled up my pant leg. Six-year-old posters from boy bands long since dead or turned into actors stared down and watched me. I ran a finger over the ladder of raised scars on my calf. Frets on a flesh guitar, half an inch apart. Counted them, over and over, one two three four five six seven eight, one two three four . . .

  I popped open the pillbox and took out my razor. Held it up to my eye. Beyond, out of focus, my pink walls looked smudged and dingy. Thought, Maybe I should paint them, as I checked the blade for blood. Clean, as always. I pulled my small travel bottle of rubbing alcohol out of my backpack. Poured a capful, dipped one tip of the blade into it. Poured the capful back into the bottle. Screwed it shut. Put it away. Held my breath—

  “Pelly!”

  Jeffrey knocked on my door. The kid’s polite, I’ll give him that. Mom just barges in. When she’s home.

  “What,” I snapped, rushing to put the blade back into my case and rolling down my pant leg. I didn’t want him to know.

  “Dad’s on the phone,” Jeffrey said through the flimsy wood. “He wants to know why you didn’t call him back.”

  “My battery was dead,” I said. “I didn’t know he called. I’ll call him later.”

  “But he’s on the phone now.”

  “Dude! Forget it, okay? I said I’ll call him back.”

  Jeffrey made a disapproving little noise, the same kind Mom makes. That didn’t help persuade me. I heard him mumbling to Dad as he went back down the hall. “Well, I don’t know what her big problem is . . .”

  I breathed out. That was close. I didn’t want Jeffrey to see me slice. I could never explain it. It would freak him out.

  What does that tell you? Dr. Carpenter’s voice asked in my head.

  “Shut up,” I whispered. I’d already given up my meds and visits to her office. I needed my smokes and blade to get through the damn day. I’d wait until Jeffrey went to bed tonight, though. Just to be safe.

  I turned my phone on while it was still charging, and found the voice mail icon shining at me. So Dad did call. Whatever.

  My dad’s an airplane pilot for a mail company. He must love his job a lot because he’s always flying. Or maybe he just didn’t like being home because he’d have to deal with me—

  Snap! Stop intrusive thought.

  My rubber band broke. Oh well. I had a drawerful. I saved every rubber band from our newspapers.

  I opened my laptop and logged on to my high school site. Even taking classes all online, I was falling behind again already. I rushed through three response posts in my history class without doing the reading. Every other high school was on winter holiday break—didn’t I get one too? No. I had to schedule one to have one. I hadn’t done that.

  My phone rang. Probably Dad. I checked the screen and saw that the number was local and that I didn’t have it assigned to anyone. Who—

  Then I remembered. I picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Penelope Wells?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Detective Larson, Phoenix Police Department.”

  “Yeah, hi,” I said, feeling like an idiot. “Thanks for calling.”

  “You bet,” Larson said, and I immediately remembered why I’d liked him. Or at least, not been totally afraid of him when I was ten. He had a great, deep voice that sounded like he was in control of everything around him. That had been really helpful when I was answering his questions back then.

  “Why don’t you run me through what happened this afternoon?” Larson went on. I imagined him flipping open a notebook.

  I took a deep breath to collect my thoughts, then replayed the entire scenario for him. He said “Uh-huh” and “Okay” a lot.

  “So what now?” I said when I’d finished. “Can you find the guy by his license plate or something?”

  “We’re taking a look,” Larson said, which could have meant anything. “What I’d like to do is have you come down to my office and check out some photos, see if you can identify the guy again.”

  “Okay. Right now would be hard . . .”

  “No, no, tomorrow is fine,” Larson said. “I’ll be here all day.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, Penelope,” he went on, “I’ll have some other pictures for you to look at. Some people find it a little difficult.”

  “Pictures of what?”

  “Of what Tara might look like today,” he said. “Age-enhanced photos.”

  Something dropped from my throat into my stomach.

  “Um. All right.” My voice sounded weird. Quiet.

  “I know it might be strange,” Larson said.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m sure it’ll . . . help.”

  “All right. We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Um, sir? Do you believe me?”

  “You mean, do I believe you saw Tara today?” Larson said. “I don’t disbelieve it. But Penelope, I have to tell you, these types of breaks are extremely rare, and even more rarely do they pan out.”

  “So you don’t believe me. Just say that.”

  I said it real bitchy, even though I didn’t exactly mean to. But Detective Larson didn’t sound mad when he replied. I probably didn’t rate high on his list of badasses.

  “I hope you’re right,” he said. “I really want you to be. And I’m going to follow up on this as far as I can. If that was Tara you saw, then we’ll get her back. If it wasn’t . . . well, you never know.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No no, don’t be sorry. You saw something suspicious and you called us. That’s all that matters. You did the right thing.”

  “What about her parents? Are you telling them?”

  His hesitation told me all I needed to know. But he finally said, “Maybe not just yet. We’ll see where your information takes us.”

  “Okay,” I said again. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you, Penelope.”

  Detective Larson hung up, and I turned my phone back off. No one was going to call me, except maybe Dad again. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to him, anyway.

  Nor was I in the mood to deal with Mom when she came home from work. But I had to get dinner ready. It was one of my chores. Mom and Dad had agreed that since I wasn’t spending time coming and going to school, then I should help out more around the house. Well, that, and that being a nutjob didn’t excuse me from pitching in. I didn’t mind too much. I kind of found it helpful sometimes. Distracting.

  Mom came slouching into the condo like usual. She dropped her bag onto the floor with a dramatic sigh.

  “How was work,” she said, by rote, as she passed the kitchen.

  “Awful,” I called back.

  I didn’t hear a response, just Jeffrey shouting “hi” to her and Mom groaning “hi” back.

  Swell.

  Mom sells real estate, and the past year or so, she’s been working a lot more. And that’s my fault. When I said I partly went off meds and stopped seeing Dr. Carpenter because I wanted to go back to school someday . . . well, this is the other part.

  Mom and Dad don’t know that I heard them talking about it. About how much the sessions with Dr. Carpenter were costing. About the meds. That Dad’s insurance for me had stopped. With Dad
traveling so much and Mom working so much, they hadn’t noticed yet that I wasn’t seeing Dr. Carpenter anymore. I’d explain it to them when they figured it out. Until then, it was my job to get better. Or if not better . . . under control. A little blood, some cigarettes, and a red-raw wrist were cheaper therapy, I figured.

  I started making dinner. About the only thing I knew how to make was pasta, unless cereal counts as “cooking.” I suppose there are two ingredients, so that’s something.

  Good thing, too, because that’s what Jeffrey decided he wanted for dinner. “Frosted Flakes,” he said, sliding into his chair at the table.

  “Dude, you can’t have Frosted Flakes for dinner,” I said as I went through the work of preparing pasta sauce. This included opening the jar.

  “Tough shit,” Jeffrey said. “I want Frosted Flakes.”

  “That’s a real pretty mouth you got there,” I told him, and got out the cereal. He wanted sugar, let him eat sugar. I wasn’t his mom.

  Speaking of whom, she made her first appearance in public just as I was getting out the milk.

  “You can’t have cereal,” she said automatically.

  “See?” I said to Jeffrey.

  “Why not?” he wanted to know. “There’s wheat. Milk. Corn. That’s healthy.”

  Mom turned to me, pleading. I stared back. “He’s your kid.”

  “You’re my kid too.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d noticed.”

  Mom grabbed the back of a kitchen chair. “Jesus God Almighty,” she said. “What crawled into your asshole today, Penelope? Today being so unique compared to other days, of course.”

  I looked at the floor. Want to talk about cutting? Mom’s voice was sharper than my blade.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, sighing. “That was rude. I’ve had a long day. What’s the matter?”

  “She’s a psycho is the matter,” Jeffrey muttered.

  “Out,” Mom said right away. “Ten minutes.”

  “Uhhh!” Jeffrey groaned, but carried himself into his room. It wasn’t a time-out, that wouldn’t work. It was just a Get Jeffrey Out of Our Hair–out. He could play games, listen to music, whatever. He just couldn’t come out of his room. It was about as strict as Mom and Dad got.

  “Well?” Mom asked me after Jeffrey was gone.

  “So, you get to say ‘asshole,’ and Jeffrey can call me—”

  “Yes,” Mom said with a tired grin. It didn’t stick. “He shouldn’t call you that.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but I’m not sure Mom heard.

  “So now what’s going on with you?” Mom asked.

  I hadn’t lifted my eyes. “I need a ride tomorrow.”

  “To work?” Mom asked, putting the cereal away. “What’s wrong with walking?”

  “Not work,” I said. “I have to go to the . . . the, um . . .”

  And I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t reopen that wound any more than it already was. No, I’d have to call out sick to the Hole, or come in late, or something. Maybe I’d agreed too quickly to go to Larson’s office. The police station was nowhere near my comfort zone.

  Mom kept her eyes on me. Tired, wrinkled eyes. A crease down the middle of her forehead you could stick a nickel in. I think sometimes it would’ve been easier on them if it’d been me instead of Tara.

  “To the what?” Mom asked.

  I shook my head. I’d call a cab. “Never mind. Not important.”

  For one second, for just one heartbeat, it looked like she was actually going to ask me again. Pursue. Inquire. Invest. She hadn’t done that in a while, not since I got the job at the Hole. When I told her about it, Mom had been excited, believing—as I had at the time—that it was the first step toward a normal life. But four months had passed. No sign of normal on the horizon.

  The moment with Mom evaporated quickly.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d finish making dinner for your brother,” she said, and walked down the hall to her room.

  And I’d appreciate a back rub and fresh pack of Camels, but you don’t hear me complaining. I didn’t say that, of course. Mom knew I smoked, but pretended not to as long as I made an effort to pretend like I didn’t.

  I gave my rubber band a couple of snaps before turning back to dinner. Or what passed for dinner. Frosted Flakes sounded pretty good right then.

  “Pelly?” Jeffrey said from behind me.

  I screwed the lid back on the pasta sauce and put it in the fridge. “What.”

  “Why does she talk like that?”

  “Like what.”

  “All bitchy.”

  I came very close to laughing. “Because, dude. I taught her well.”

  “You’re not bitchy.”

  I came very close to crying. “Thanks.”

  “Pelly?”

  “What.”

  “Why do you hate me?”

  The bowl slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor. It may as well have been my spine. “What? I don’t hate you.”

  Jeffrey shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “I just—”

  With those two extra words, I’d said too much. I could see the question in Jeffrey’s eyes. You just what? And I didn’t have an answer. Not one I could explain to a ten-year-old.

  I left the broken dish on the floor and went to my room, closing the door behind me. I heard Jeffrey getting out the broom and dustpan—to clean up my mess—while I turned my phone on again. No new messages.

  I happened to see David’s text from earlier in the day. Decided I wouldn’t have to spend so much money on a cab if I was willing to deal with a little potential awkwardness, and if it wasn’t bitchy of me to even ask.

  So I sent a text to David. Could you maybe give me a ride to the police station tomorrow before work? I will pay for gas.

  It took him fifteen minutes to reply. Probably he was thinking it over as opposed to not getting the text right away. But then again, I didn’t know what he did outside of work. School, I guess, but what else? And school was out for break anyway.

  Maybe, he finally wrote. What time?

  Any time that works for you, I wrote back.

  Another ten minutes went by. Maybe he was talking it over with his girlfriend. If he had one. Did he?

  Noon okay? he wrote at last. Don’t worry about gas.

  That’s great thank you very much I appreciate it, I wrote.

  I really needed to be nicer to him.

  FIVE

  David thought Jeffrey was hysterical. Just what I needed. He was even nice enough to agree to drop Jeffrey off at a friend’s house, which is where Jeffrey usually spent his days during school breaks. David and Jeffrey liked the same video games, of course, and compared notes all the way to this kid Liam’s house.

  “Are you picking me up, too?” Jeffrey asked excitedly as he climbed out of David’s rust-encrusted red Chevy pickup. The Chevy sounded like it had a lawn mower engine under the hood. Or maybe a Weedwacker.

  David looked at me. I shrugged. “It’s your car.”

  “Totally,” David said right away. “We’ll see you later this afternoon, man.”

  Jeffrey’s face lit up with pride. No longer merely little guy, or dude, or little bro. He was Man. Like the big kids. Plus David said it with such ease and casualness, like he really was talking to one of his best friends or something.

  Liam was the only ten-year-old I’d ever seen with a Mohawk. I shouted “hi” to him through the window. I owed Liam a lot. Not that he knew that. Me and Mom had brought Jeffrey to Liam’s birthday party a while back, and watching all those kids . . . it made me realize it’d been six years since I’d had a real party of any kind, or even been to one. That night I started forming what would eventually become the Hole in the Wall Plan of Salvation and Normalcy.

  Not the kind o
f thing I could or wanted to explain to a ten-year-old.

  David waited until Liam opened the front door and let Jeffrey in before pulling away from the sidewalk.

  “You’re real lucky,” I said as I watched my brother go into Liam’s.

  “What makes you say that? Not that I disagree.”

  “I don’t know. Just that . . . nothing.”

  What I didn’t say was, You’re lucky you can just be cool with my brother like that. I’ve never had it and never will.

  God. I was jealous of David. How did that happen?

  I felt him looking at me, studying. I kept my face aimed at the window. Watching Phoenix go by. We headed toward downtown.

  We both let a few minutes pass in silence before David said, “So what’s going to happen today?”

  “At the police station?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not sure. Looking at photos, I think. Of the guy. And age-enhanced pictures of Tara.”

  David must’ve heard something in my voice that I didn’t mean to let out, because his tone dropped. “You were really good friends.”

  I managed a strained nod, nothing else. And snapped my rubber band.

  “I hope they find her,” David said a minute later.

  Nod. Snap.

  I’m not sure myself whether I meant for my silence to be a hint. David took it as one and didn’t say anything else until we pulled up to the police department. Once we did, somehow the truth of how I’d been acting toward him seeped in. Guilt made my stomach burn.

  “Thanks for driving me, David,” I said as he pulled into a parking space.

  I hated myself for the fact that he looked surprised. “It’s no problem,” he said. “Of course, I’ll be wanting something in return.”

  “Um. Okay. Like what?”

  “You like Will Ferrell?”

  “The actor?”

  “No, the dictator-of-Uganda Will Ferrell. Yes, the actor.”

  “Um. I guess.”

  “Does he make you laugh?”

  “I don’t know.”