Breaking Glass (14 page)

I decide I’m going to conserve this bottle to make it last. Exercise some of my old self-control. If I clear out the stash upstairs, Dad will get wise.

Pain nips at the stump, signaling the coming deluge. I pop three Vicodin, fill the old Civil War canteen with my ration, then stow the still-f bottle between the daybed and the wall.

Even before my first heated sip, I’m strangely elated. I’ve claimed a part of Susannah that will always be mine. A part she never shared with Ryan. And even crazier, I’m almost convinced that the power of my need to be with her will bring her to back to me.

After downing a fifth, I ease myself into Dad’s recliner and stare into the lit candle burning on the desk. I’ve scrapped the tacky old ritual for one of my own. I’ve written the words on an index card so I don’t screw it up.

Flying high on vodka and Vicodin, about to call a girl back from the dead, I know one thing for sure—I’ve lost more than a leg. I’ve lost my mind. I really am batshit, cow-jumped-over-the-moon crazy.

But I’m so far over the edge I don’t even care. I close my eyes and recite from memory. “Susannah. It’s Jeremy. You said if I really believed that love is the glue that binds the universe together, I can bring you back.”

Gathering courage, I stare deeply into the candle. I close my eyes and imagine her face beside mine, the warmth of her breath on my lips. I can taste them. Vanilla with a tang of lemon.

My voice catches. “Things have changed since you’ve gone. I’m changed, too, Suze. I’m, let’s say—different than you remember me.”

I stop, too self-conscious to be talking to myself. But I have to believe, or it won’t work.

Headlights shine in the driveway. I fumble to snuff the candle and flick on the desk light, hoping Dad won’t notice the weird lighting effects or the candle smell. I lie back, my head lolling in a convincing imitation of sleep.

“Good evening!” he booms from the doorway.

I open my eyes and stretch as if he’s just woken me. He’s holding a pizza box and smells like winter, his gray hair dusted with snow.

“Whoops. I dozed off and forgot to call for delivery.”

“No problem,” Dad says cheerily. “I called Bono’s and asked if you’d ordered yet. When they told me you hadn’t, I decided to come home and eat with you. But I have to go back. It’s going to be a late one for me.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Big case?”

Dad nods. “I have two depositions tomorrow. And I’m researching precedents in other counties. I’ve got to do it all myself, with Cassie out on maternity.”

I yawn. “It’s okay. I’m pretty sleepy. Chaz practically murdered me this morning. The guy’s a bully.”

Dad chuckles and sets the pizza box down. “No one ever promised physical therapy was going to be a rose garden. But it will be worth it when you get fitted with that high-tech leg. You’ll be jumping around, just like before.”

I sigh. I don’t know what made me think he’d bring up what else happened this morning. “And running my old five-minute mile, too?”

Dad’s smile tightens a notch. “I simply meant to imply that you’ll be able to walk reasonably well, Jeremy. Which is definitely a plus. How much more you’ll be able to do beyond that is entirely up to you.”

“Right, Dad,” I say. Pushing myself upright, I hop over to the desk. Dad scowls as I misgauge my last leap and almost crash-land on the pizza box.

We eat at his desk while Dad drones on about Pritchard and Sons vs. Hudson Acres, the new shopping plaza that is suing its builder for damages over a collapsed roof last winter. It’s been all over the local papers. I try to feign interest, but my gaze drifts to the half-spent candle I’ve camouflaged amid my shelf full of running trophies. I fidget, bouncing my single leg with nervous energy. It can’t be too soon until he goes back to the office.

I catch Dad staring intently as I chew the last bit of crust. “Hungry, are you? Getting the old appetite back?”

“Maybe,” I say, still chewing.

“What happened this morning with Marisa? She said you seemed ill.”

I swallow and stare back. “Is that all she said?”

He lets out a breath and blinks quickly. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

He wipes his mouth deliberately with a napkin and carefully gathers the paper plates and containers into the box. I watch his hands. They’re long-fingered and oddly delicate for a grown man.

“Jeremy. I’m not very good at this stuff, but, uh—but Pat Morgan called and told me that Ryan thinks you’re extremely depressed. Maybe even suicidal. He has a good doctor who specializes in teen depression.”

I roll my eyes. “Jeez.”

He stares at me, expression grave. “Is it that bad? Has it
always
been this bad?”

I heave a deep sigh. “I’m fine, Dad. Totally fine. I’ll deal. I’ve gotten through stuff before.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what’s best for you. It’s hard for me to open up about these things.”

I look away. And realize I can’t really blame him. It isn’t any easier for me to talk about how I feel.

“I’m good, Dad. Really good.”

His gaze is still on me. “If you ever feel, you know, that
way
, promise you won’t—you know—do anything
drastic
.”

I thump my fist on the table.
There is such a thing as too little too late
. I want to say it, but I don’t. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not
Mom
.” I stand and realize that my crutches are nowhere around. I’m stranded, left clinging to the table like a sailor to the mast.

“For God’s sake, Jeremy.
Please
spare me your drama.” Dad rolls the wheelchair over and I plop heavily into it. Parking me in front of the TV screen, he sighs heavily and says, “I brought home some good DVDs. History Channel stuff. Or better yet, just get some rest. Chaz will be back in the morning, but I won’t schedule Marisa again for the same day.”

After he leaves, I revisit Susannah’s Death Book. I root around in the book and discover something I hadn’t noticed before. The last third of the book is a dummy, the pages glued together into a solid mass. There’s a compartment cut into the paper and sealed with a cardboard lid with a loop of ribbon for a handle. Carefully, I pry it open. Inside is a curl of dark bronze hair and a clunky class ring inside a small plastic packet. It’s the ring Ryan gave to Susannah last spring.

I clutch the objects, close the book and the laptop, then relight the match. This time, I’m determined to focus harder.

To believe I can call the spirit of a dead girl into my father’s study.

There won’t be any script this time. Because there won’t be any words.

C H A P T E R
t h i r t e e n

Then

In the fall of our sophomore year, Susannah moved out of her mother’s house and in with the Morgans. They gave her a room of her own on the opposite side of the house from Ryan. On sleepless nights, I pictured him slipping naked under her sheets while his parents looked away with a wink and a nod. The knowledge of what he’d done behind her back burned in my gut like a poison seed. But it had grown thick roots, and to dig it up now meant destroying the healthy flesh around it.

I couldn’t hurt Susannah when she was so happy.

Or maybe I couldn’t stand the idea of implicating myself in his crimes.

Shortly after the move, I glimpsed Trudy Durban’s face behind the wheel of her car on one of my daily runs. I had no idea how she was taking the recent turn of events and wasn’t sure I cared. According to Susannah, her mother was getting loopier and loopier by the day.

I asked my Dad if he knew why Susannah had moved in with the Morgans; as usual, his answer was a shrug.

I had my own theories. What better way to get back at her mother than chumming around with the Morgans?

Not long after Susannah moved out, Trudy had studded her lawn with an army of folk art crosses and, a day or two before Halloween, left town for an extended period.

Susannah was happier than I’d ever seen her. Despite the upheaval, her dark golden skin seemed lit from within. Her hair bounced as she walked. And I found it harder and harder to breathe when I was near her. Harder to act like everything was okay with Ryan and me.

But, with the help of my good friend vodka and my steely resolve, I kept my mask in place. I’d played my part well. Or maybe I just liked suffering.

I never told anyone about my obsessive infatuation, but friends were getting suspicious about my inactivity on the dating scene. There was always an eager girl waiting, but I couldn’t do it. I’d just be using her, and that wasn’t fair.

Susannah and I didn’t have art class together anymore, because, mercifully, I was finished with it. Wallace took pity on me and gave me a C. Susannah had moved on to a more advanced unit. But we had Honors English together, a subject I was much better in. We were, at least, on equal footing there.

After the move into the Morgans’ house, Celia Morgan had taken Susannah shopping at the pricey designer stores on Fifth Avenue. After her spree, she started showing up in school in a hybrid blend of designer stuff mixed with her thrift store finds. She’d take old men’s jackets that she’d covered with poems and drawings, and pair them with Manolo Blahnik boots. “Dumpster chic,” Susannah called it. I called it the “killing me with a thousand tiny wounds” look.

On Halloween day, the track team had trounced one of our chief rivals in an off-season regional competition. I’d beaten my own record in the 1500 meters by ten seconds and we’d come home with a thousand-dollar prize that would go for new uniforms for the spring season. I was crowned a school hero.

That night, there was a haunted mansion and a series of celebratory parties. The track stars of Riverton and their friends were in a frisky mood. I didn’t bother with a costume. I just stayed in my sweaty track uniform and so did the rest of the victorious team. Of course, nobody saw me stop at home for a sip or two, in celebration of my triumph.

I had to take precautions to numb the agony I knew I’d face when I beheld Susannah in her Halloween costume.

It was worse than I’d imagined. At Bart Raven’s party, Ryan, still in his uniform like the rest of us, had his mouth fused to Susannah’s. I looked away. Swallowing down the nausea welling in my throat, I mingled crazily, trading quips, getting ribbed for not drinking the spiked punch that sloshed around in everyone’s plastic cups.

There was no way to avoid her. Sword in her hand, wearing a silver bikini top, a flimsy gauze skirt which rode well below her jeweled navel, platform heels, and tiny feathered wings, Susannah informed me with a drunken giggle that she was dressed as an avenging angel.

Then, without warning, she threw herself at me, her vanilla scent mixed with sweat and alcohol. My heart slapped like a dying fish as I fought not to give in to my screaming libido. Fought to save her dignity. She was drunk and I wouldn’t take advantage of that.

People watched as Susannah stroked my face and cooed in my ear.

“I was keeping this just for you. I let it age a little, like a fine wine.”

“What?” I asked, in a state of mild shock.

She planted a kiss on my jaw. “That, you boob. You asked me to keep it for you. Mmmmm. Your skin is so soft. Don’t you shave yet, little boy?”

“Y-yeah,” I lied. At fifteen, my chin was still as creamy smooth as a baby butt.

“Well, that’s some razor you have,” she laughed. “I could use one like that for my legs.”

I told myself I should wriggle out from under her. Get away while I could. There was something hard in her eyes. Something I didn’t recognize.

I didn’t get the chance.

“What the fuck are you doing, Jeremy?”

Ryan pulled her off me and swung her so hard she tripped, twisting an ankle in her platform shoes.

But she laughed, got to her feet, and limped off.

Ryan yanked me to my feet. His face was red. “Lay off her, Jeremy. You think I don’t know? You think I can’t tell you’d fuck her the first chance you got?”

“What gives you the right to care what I think or do? The fact that you’ve been a perfect boyfriend?”

He pushed me hard back onto the couch. Murderous rage swirled in my veins. I leapt to my feet and swung. Ryan ducked, rebounded, and clipped me on the jaw. Hard. And down I went.

A few of our buddies pulled us apart and forced us to cool our hot heads. They gave me ice for my swelling chin and spent a lot of energy working to calm me down.

After the party finally thinned, Ryan approached me, tears in his eyes, and plopped onto the couch next to me.

“You had every right to sock me. I’m a first class a-hole.”

I rubbed my throbbing jaw. “No argument there.”

“I don’t know why you put up with me,” he said.

“History. Habit.”

He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “I love you like a brother. But I love Susannah, too. Dude, we can’t let a girl come between us.”

His blue eyes glowed with sincerity. When Ryan got serious, it was hard not to be touched by his earnestness. I believed him, then. I really did.

“I know you care about her, and it’s okay,” he said. “You’re the best friend a guy could ever have. You’d never do anything with her.”