The Evolution of Mara Dyer (7 page)

I breathed in the damp air, one hand still on the door handle as the wind shook a few stubborn raindrops from the trees. Someone might be out there—
Jude
might be out there, but my parents were inside. There was nothing he could do.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said to no one. The breeze carried my words away as it raised the hair on my skin. He might be alive but I wouldn’t spend
my
life in terror of him. I refused. If fear was what he wanted from me, I would make sure he didn’t get it.

A mosquito hummed by my ear. I dodged it, and stepped into something wet.

Something soft.

I backed up toward the house, fumbling for the outdoor lights. They flickered on.

I gagged.

The still body of a gray cat lay inches from where I’d been
standing, its flesh torn open, its fur streaked with red. My feet were soaked in blood.

I covered my mouth to trap my rising scream.

Because I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t make a sound. If I did, my parents would come running. They would ask what happened. They would see the cat. They would see me.

They would want to know what I was doing outside.

I heard my mother’s voice in my mind.

“She was paranoid. Suspicious.”

That’s what my parents would think of me if I told them someone was out there. That I was paranoid. Suspicious. Sick. They would be worried, and if I wanted to stay home, stay free, I couldn’t afford that.

So I turned off the lights and ducked back inside. I left a trail of bloody footprints in the hall. I grabbed toilet paper from my brothers’ bathroom and rubbed at the blood staining my feet until I was clean. Then I cleaned up the floor. Checked all of the locks on all of the doors. Just in case.

And then, finally, I escaped to my room.

Only then did I realize I was shaking. I looked down at my feet. I could still feel the soft, wet, dead fur—

I rushed into my bathroom and threw up.

My hair was pasted to the back of my neck and my clothes were damp against my skin. I slid down to the floor and hugged my knees to my chest, the tile cool beneath me. I let my eyes drift closed.

Maybe the cat was killed by an animal. Another cat. A raccoon, maybe.

That was possible. More than possible; it was
likely
.

So I brushed my teeth. Washed my face. Forced myself to get into bed. Told myself that everything was fine until I actually found myself starting to believe it.

Until I woke up the next morning and looked in the mirror.

Two words were written there, scrawled in blood:

FOR CLAIRE

The room tilted. I heaved into the sink.

And then I cried.

Jude knew what happened that night. That I was the one who brought the asylum down. That I was the one who killed Claire. That was why he was here.

I wanted to scream for my parents. To show them the cat, the message—proof that Jude really was alive and that he was here.

But it wasn’t proof enough. My hands trembled but I steadied myself against the sink and blinked hard. I willed myself to ignore the panic scratching at the surface, threatening to shatter my carefully constructed lies. I forced my feet to move. I checked the windows in my bedroom and checked the rest of the house too. All of the doors were locked.

From the inside.

I squeezed my eyes shut. If I showed them the message, they might think I wrote it myself.

They might think I killed the cat myself, I realized with horror. They would sooner believe
that
than they would believe that Jude was alive.

The thought stole the last bit of hope from my heart. Jude was in my
bedroom
. He left a dead animal outside my house and a bloody message on my mirror, and I couldn’t tell my parents. I couldn’t tell them anything or I’d be caged in a mental hospital while Jude taunted me through the bars.

Without Noah, I would be truly, completely alone in this.

My father might be right. If I lost Noah, I might just lose my mind.

11

I
WAS JACKED UP ON ADRENALINE THAT GRAY MORNING
and couldn’t stop moving, afraid that if I did, I’d crack. I washed away the blood on my mirror. I forced myself to eat breakfast, to smile at my parents as they got ready to drive me to the program. The air was oppressive; it had poured again overnight. Before we left, I checked outside to see if I left any footprints on the patio, leading from the cat back to the house.

The cat was gone.

The car seemed to contract around me and even though I managed to stay engaged in their conversation, I couldn’t remember what my parents said. Nausea gnawed on the
remains of whatever was left in my stomach and I was drenched in sweat.

I willed myself to hold it together as my mother wrestled with snarls of traffic, and by the time she pulled into a nondescript strip mall in South Miami, I succeeded. The three of us headed toward a storefront sandwiched between a Weight Watchers and a Petco, and my mother squeezed my arm in what I assumed was meant to be a reassuring gesture. As long as they thought I was nothing worse than nervous, I’d be okay.

A man who looked oddly like Santa Claus was waiting for us just inside the door. “Marcus Dyer?” he said to my father as we stepped in.

Dad nodded. “Sam Robins?

The man gave a wan smile and extended his arm, stretching the fabric of his red polo shirt tight across his belly. “Welcome to Horizons,” he said cheerfully. Then he spoke to me. “I’m the admissions counselor. How was I-95?”

“Not too bad,” my mother said. She looked past the man and into the space behind him. “Is Dr. Kells here?”

“Oh, she’ll be along for the intake evaluation,” he said with a smile. “I’m just here to get you all acquainted. Come on in.” He waved us inside.

The interior was much brighter than I expected, and modern, from what I could see of it. Horizons was all white walls and sleek furniture, dotted with a few calming pops of blue-hued abstract art. And even though I couldn’t see
much of it from where we stood, I could tell it was huge. It might’ve been a gym in its former life.

Mr. Robins pointed out several walled-off areas and named them as we passed: the common room, the art studio, the music studio, the dining room, et cetera. He seemed proud of the fact that it mirrored the structure of their inpatient place, complete with a little meditative Zen garden in the center. Something about “familiarity” and “consistency” but I didn’t pay much attention because I didn’t care. I was already counting down the seconds until I could see Noah, until I could tell him what happened. What I found.

What Jude had left.

But the adults looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something. So I said the first thing that came to mind.

“Where is everyone?” I hadn’t seen any other teenagers since we walked in.

“They’re in Group,” Mr. Robins said. “You probably didn’t get much of a chance to read over our materials, did you?”

Between my involuntary commitment and finding the mutilated cat? “No.”

“Well, it’s not a problem, not a problem at all. We’ll get you up to speed in no time. Just follow me, and I’ll get you all set up.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re a psychologist, Dr. Dyer?”

“Yes,” she said as we followed him down the strangely claustrophobic hall. The ceiling yawned over us, but the spaces we walked through felt tight.

“What’s your specialty?”

“I work with couples, mostly.”

“That’s wonderful!” He skipped right over asking my father the same question. I imagined he already knew—anyone who watched the news probably did.

Mr. Robins finally ushered my parents into an office in the back, which clearly wasn’t his. A stack of papers towered precariously on the glass desk.

He indicated a bench just outside the door. “All right, Mara, you can have a seat out here while I talk some things over with your parents, okay?” He winked.

If I hadn’t been freaked out, I would have rolled my eyes at the condescension. Maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with him much, after today. A girl could hope.

The door to the office closed with my parents inside then, and I sat on the horribly uncomfortable plank of wood across from it. There wasn’t much to see, and I found myself idly staring at the ductwork in the exposed ceiling when something soft hit me in the shoulder, then bounced to the floor.

I flinched—it was that sort of morning—but it was just a crumbled piece of paper. I opened it to find a crudely drawn picture of an owl, with a speech bubble that said:

!!!

I whipped around.

“Well, schmear my bagel, if it isn’t Mara Dyer.”

12

J
AMIE
.

Minus the dreadlocks and taller, but definitely, unmistakably Jamie. I smiled so widely my face hurt; I jumped up to hug him but he raised his hands defensively before I could.

“Can’t touch this.”

“Don’t be an ass,” I said, still beaming.

Jamie’s expression mimicked mine, though he appeared to be trying not to show it. “I’m serious. They’re strict about that,” he said, giving me a once-over.

I did the same. Without his long hair, Jamie’s cheekbones seemed higher, his face more angular. Older. His jeans were
uncharacteristically well-fitted and his T-shirt clung to his frame. On his shirt was an image of what appeared to be ancient Greek men linking arms in a row and kicking their legs like Rockettes. He was so strange.

At the exact same time we both asked: “What are you doing here?”

“Ladies first,” Jamie said with a little bow.

I looked up at the ceiling as I thought about what to say. “PTSD,” I decided finally. “A few hallucinations here and there. Nothing to write home about. You?”

“Oh, my parents were persuaded that it would be a wise preemptive measure to send me here before I shot up a school.” He dropped onto the bench.

My mouth fell open. “You’re not serious.”

“Unfortunately, I am. Our best Croydian friends made sure that’s what the all-knowing adults would think when they planted that knife in my backpack.”

Anna and Aiden, those assholes. At least I’d no longer have to see them on a daily basis. Lucky me.

Lucky them.

I sat back down on the bench and Jamie went on. “Unable to comprehend the idea that my earlier threat to give Aiden Ebola was made in jest,” he said, “I was considered a two-time offender and was therefore labeled ‘at risk’ by the guidance department, those ultimate arbiters of wisdom. They in turn scrawled that all over my record.” His mocking tone changed, then. “Words have
power. And I may be privileged and have a higher IQ than any of our former teachers, but when people look at me? They see a black, male teenager. And there is nothing quite as frightening to some folks as an angry young black man.” He popped a piece of gum into his mouth. “So. Here I am.”

I offered a small smile. “At least we’re together?”

He grinned. “So it seems.”

My eyes rested on his shorn head. “What happened to your hair?”

“Ah.” He ran a hand over it. “Once overanxious parents are told that their child is ‘at-risk’, they decide that all ‘at-risk’ attributes have to go. Good-bye, long hair. Good-bye, rebellious music. Good-bye, delightfully violent video games.” He exaggerated a lip quiver. “Basically, I’m allowed to play chess and listen to smooth jazz. That is my life now.”

I shook my head. “I hate people.”

He nudged me with his elbow. “That’s why we’re friends.” Jamie blew a small turquoise bubble and then sucked it back into his mouth. “I actually saw Anna last week when my mom dragged me to Whole Foods. She didn’t even recognize me.”

“Did you say anything to her?”

“I politely suggested she drive off a cliff.”

I grinned. I felt lighter just being with him, and I was so glad to not have to endure this ridiculousness alone. I was about to tell him so when the office door opened in front of us and Mr. Robins peered out.

He looked back and forth between Jamie and me. “We’re ready for you, Mara.”

Jamie stood. “And I’m going to be late for electroshock therapy!” Then he faced me and said with a wink, “See you ’round, Mara Dyer.” He saluted Mr. Robins, turned on his heel, and left.

I bit my lip to keep from smiling and entered the office appropriately somber.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Robins said, closing the door behind me.

I slid into an uncomfortable plastic chair next to my parents and waited to hear the proclamation of my sentence.

“I just want to explain a few things and then we’ll have you sign some paperwork.”

“Okay . . .”

“The Horizons Outpatient Program, or HOP, as I like to call it, is part of an overall behavioral evaluation that your parents are enrolling you in. You will be expected to be here five days a week, from nine a.m. until three p.m. without fail, barring an excused absence accompanied by a doctor’s note. Your success here will depend entirely on your participation in your activities and in group therapy, and—”

“And academics?” I wasn’t a Daniel-level student, no, but there had never been a future for me that didn’t include college. I didn’t like thinking about how my adventures in psychotherapy would affect it.

“You’ll be completing coursework under the guidance of
tutors, but the emphasis at Horizons, Mara, is not on academic achievement but on
personal
achievement.”

Can’t wait.

“As I was saying, your participation is integral to your success. After a period of two weeks, there will be a reassessment to determine whether this is the right place for you, or whether it would be prudent to move you to our residential treatment facility.”

So this was a test, then. To see whether I could make it here in the real world without any . . . problems. I looked up at my parents’ hopeful faces as the word
residential
echoed in my mind.

It was a test I needed to pass.

13

W
HEN
M
R
. R
OBINS FINISHED HIS LECTURE
, he held out a pen.