Beware That Girl (26 page)

They danced, drank, laughed and danced some more. And then it was 11:45. Olivia’s heart lurched. She’d be late.

But she didn’t want to leave. Olivia did not want to leave.

Yet she headed to the door like someone had yelled, “Fire!”

“Whoa, hot stuff! Wait!” yelled Matt, but he was held back by the crowd.

Kate was not. Using her elbows as weapons, she caught up to Olivia at the front lounge. “Hey, roomie! What’s up?”

She couldn’t explain, because it didn’t make sense. Olivia wanted to
stay.
She had never wanted to stay before. But she had to…

“I gotta go. Don’t ask. I’m taking a cab. I’ve arranged for Jackson to be here for you guys at two. He’ll wait if you want, but…don’t you wait up.”

“Olivia, don’t. Please. Please stay. You belong here with us, with
me.
That guy back there has got it for you bad. I know you want to stay.”

The look on Kate’s face almost stopped her. She seemed to know Olivia better than she knew herself.

But she couldn’t be late. There would be consequences.

“I need to. I mean, I
want
to. I have to go.” She couldn’t be late. She gave Kate a quick squeeze. “Love you lots. Have fun.”

“Olivia! Come on, talk to me!”

She could
not
be late.

Olivia jumped in the first waiting cab. When she got to Mark’s building, she ran up the three flights with her heart in her mouth. By the time she reached his loft, she was dead sober. She knocked on his door.

Olivia was late.

The DSM-5 weighs over four pounds. That’s a lot of mental disorders. I was relieved that Kruger wouldn’t let me use it outside her office. It would have thrown out my back lugging that baby around. I finally found where the whack-jobs on the DSM committee had stuck the details on sociopaths and psychopaths. They lumped them into a category called antisocial personality disorder (pages 659–63). Well, lock me up, but that just sounded wrong given how “social” sociopaths tend to be. Not only that, but the info wasn’t all that helpful. The Internet was better.

I was perched at my research station—in other words, Miss Shwepper’s desk—trolling through the mental health sites that Kruger had recommended. I got to one on “appealing sociopaths.” It said that people with this illness may seem charming since they’re often highly intelligent and can read people like a book.

Ha! Dear old dad ditched the charm, at least with us, within a couple of months of our arrival. He was less and less charming with each passing week. I knew something was building—the air was thick with it—but aside from being scared, I didn’t know what to do. I was supposed to be so smart, but I never knew what to do. It made me feel like I was full of holes.

We were in the kitchen, my father and I. You could cut the air with a scythe. Mom was at a training upgrade for dental hygiene. He hated it when she wasn’t home and he was. And God forgive me, so did I. On the one hand, I was freaked that he’d go after her when she was there. On the other, I was freaked that he’d go after me when she wasn’t. Lose-lose, in other words.

My father was chain-smoking and on his third Coca-Cola, no rye. But he was ruminating. Ruminating was trouble, drunk or sober. He’d suck everything out of the apartment except for my fear. He barely touched the dinner. Couldn’t really blame him—I was a lousy cook. He leaned back and studied me while I washed up.

“You got your smarts from me, you know.”

“Yes, sir.” No beats, no pauses allowed. I rinsed off the CorningWare and started loading the dishwasher, quietly. My father did not care for loud loading.

“We didn’t have fancy scholarships in my day. So I didn’t get a chance to run off to some whoop-de-do boarding school, like they’re giving you in Calgary next year. If I’d had half your chance, I wouldn’t be in this shithole. But you, you’re destined for better, cockroach. You are going places.”

I had to gather myself but not pause. “Yes, sir.” Rinse and repeat.

“I’m glad for you. Yes, I am. You’re going to make something of yourself. What does the old lady always say?”

“Keep your eye on the prize.”

“And what’s the prize again?”

“Yale, sir.”

There was a long pause, then he chuckled. “Every so often even that dishrag gets something right. You’ll do it, kid. No doubt, no sir. You’ve got all the best parts of me. You’re gonna make me proud.”

See? Every so often he’d throw you a curveball. Make you think that he gave a damn.

And I was deeply, deeply ashamed to admit just how much that meant to me. How much I craved it.

I heard the bottle cap being unscrewed and the glug, glug of the rye, followed by a splash of Coke. Here we go. We were in very dangerous territory. My father went from sweet to mean in a heartbeat. I heard him snort. Without turning, I knew that he was shaking his head.

“Shit for brains, that’s all you got from her.”

It was because of her that I was planning to turn down the scholarship. Neither of them would know until it was too late. My mom wouldn’t last a week without me. That I wouldn’t be going filled me with a rage that made me incoherent. Whenever I thought of it, as I did in that moment, my mouth filled with ashes.

I heard him get up, leave the room, open drawers in the living room and return to his throne in the kitchen. I was rinsing the knives and forks so hard I could have passed them to a surgeon.

“I wonder if your mother is doing that dentist she works for? I bet she is. I bet that’s where she is right now. Why else would he hire her? Isn’t that right?”

Say it, say it! The words crawled up my throat but got caught in the ashes. Too many beats.

“I said, isn’t that right, cockroach?”

My hand found the paring knife, gripped it.

“She’s not worth spit!”

The scholarship, the fear, the beatings—all surged into the hand gripping that knife. “You’re the one who’s not worth spit!”

I spun around.

And I would have killed him. I swear to God.

Except that he held his drink in his left hand and a gun in his right. A gun.

He laughed and laughed when I dropped the knife. “You got my fire too, I’ll give you that, cockroach.” He took a sip and let out a satisfied burp. “Now, either you set up for a proper beating or…you can lick my feet.”

We stared at each other. I did not move.

My father took his finger off the trigger guard.

He must have been a handsome man once.

I knelt down and took off his shoes.

—

There were tears on Kruger’s DSM-5. A handkerchief appeared out of nowhere. Mark Redkin pulled up a chair near but not against Shwepper’s desk.

“Momentary truce, okay?”

My stomach seized. Was there anyone else in the office?

“Wipe your face before you start blotting the pages. Don’t worry about it. Lots of people have cried trying to understand that stupid book.” His handsome face was etched with concern. His voice was gentle, warm.

“I-I needed…I just have to, uh…”

He sighed, then got up, shut the book and turned off the computer. “I’m thinking that’s enough for one day. Things bubble up, memories burn, you can’t see straight. It’s an order, Kate. Go home, get some air, have dinner, watch a reality show, regroup.”

“But…”

“Go on.” He shook his head. Did he look sad? “I promise, we’ll live to fight another day.
You’ll
live to fight another day. Go. That’s enough for you for now.”

See? It was almost as if he gave a damn.

That’s how you get twisted by them.

It wasn’t until I was slobber-greeted by Bruce that it dawned on me. Of course he knew. Mark Redkin knew about all of it.

But still, in the knowing, he was so completely there. He got it.

He’s in your head, Katie. Get him out. Stay cold, stay sharp.

I ran a bath before dinner, talking to myself the whole time. I learned a lot from my old man—what to do, what not to do, how to duck, how to lie. My old man was a walking, talking master class. But in the end, the main thing I learned—the best thing—was never to bring a knife to a gunfight.

The water ran freely over her calves. Hot. When the bathtub threatened to overflow, Olivia pulled the plug to release some. She did not turn off the taps while doing so. After a while, she stopped replugging the tub and just let the water flow and drain at the same time. It was a metaphor, she thought, but didn’t know exactly for what.

“Olivia?”

She dunked her head. The voice was very far away.

“Did you hand in your physics lab? I can do the poem synopsis for you when I get back, but you’re on your own with the physics thing.”

Olivia had already had one extension on the lab and one in AP Calculus that Kate didn’t know about. Then there was that stupid exit thesis. He said he would help.

Help.

She dunked once again and then proceeded to get out of the tub. Slowly, because Olivia got dizzy if she moved too fast. Sometimes. She wound a towel around her head and began to pat herself dry. As she did so, she could feel his whispers against her skin and she smiled.

She massaged in the cinnamon-scented body oil with great care. He liked the cinnamon the best. That done, she wrapped herself in a snowy white towel, dry-swallowed a pill and headed back into her bedroom.

A knock. “Are you decent? Sorry, I just want to check that you want…” Kate walked in.

“S’okay.” Olivia shrugged and padded over to her closet. He liked her in dresses and only in dresses. She hadn’t bought anything new in quite some time. The spring lines had been out in the stores for weeks. Olivia remembered thinking how much fun she’d have taking Kate to all her favorite haunts. She also remembered how flat-out happy Matt was to see her at the Spice Room. She once had a bit of a crush on Matt. A long, long time ago.

“I’m going to bring back some fusion Indo-Vietnamese from this new place that Johnny raves about. Do you think you’ll be back for dinner? Bruce and I will wait.”

“Where is he, our fearless protector?”

“Anka took him for a walk and then she’ll head out.” Kate hadn’t moved from the doorway and Olivia hadn’t stopped staring into her closet.

“So Indo-Vietnamese?”

Maybe the purple cashmere dress. He hadn’t seen that one yet. “Sure, sounds good, especially if
Johnny
says so.”

Kate stepped over to the bed and tossed a throw pillow at her.

“Ooooh, a little touchy on the topic of Johnny, are we?” Olivia picked up the pillow, tossed it and then another one back at her friend. For a heartbeat, they were
them
again. But in the toss, Olivia’s towel had loosened.

The pillows landed at Kate’s feet. Kate didn’t retrieve them for another throw. She looked stricken. “Olivia, my God.”

Olivia turned to the mirror. There were the bruises, the tiny scars—dozens of them. Some were pink, some red; some looked silver in this light. Her body was his canvas, he said. She hadn’t looked in weeks. She had skillfully avoided
seeing.
Now, Olivia couldn’t stop. Kate sucked in air but didn’t speak. The bruises were dramatic. They bloomed and faded in different hues. A couple were fresh and reddish, while most looked like faded rainbows. But it wasn’t the bruises—they would disappear. It was the scars that shredded her, all those scars…ugly, ugly scars.

Tears pooled in her eyes.

“Olivia…Jesus.”

She readjusted the towel and turned to her friend.

“I love him, Kate.”

Kate took a step toward her and then stopped. “No, Olivia. No, you don’t.” She took another step, paused. “Mark drew you in, understood things no one could understand about you, and now…” Kate seemed to be weighing each word, parsing it against another blowup. “Now, he’s using that to hold you, to play you. He’s twisting you. Some part of you knows it. You’re stronger than this, I promise.”