Call It What You Want Read online

  For Mary Kate Castellani, who never lets me get away with anything

  Also by Brigid Kemmerer

  Letters to the Lost

  More Than We Can Tell

  * * *

  A Curse So Dark and Lonely

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One: Rob

  Chapter Two: Maegan

  Chapter Three: Rob

  Chapter Four: Maegan

  Chapter Five: Rob

  Chapter Six: Maegan

  Chapter Seven: Rob

  Chapter Eight: Maegan

  Chapter Nine: Rob

  Chapter Ten: Maegan

  Chapter Eleven: Rob

  Chapter Twelve: Maegan

  Chapter Thirteen: Rob

  Chapter Fourteen: Maegan

  Chapter Fifteen: Rob

  Chapter Sixteen: Maegan

  Chapter Seventeen: Rob

  Chapter Eighteen: Maegan

  Chapter Nineteen: Rob

  Chapter Twenty: Maegan

  Chapter Twenty-One: Rob

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Maegan

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Rob

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Maegan

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Rob

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Maegan

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Rob

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Maegan

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Rob

  Chapter Thirty: Maegan

  Chapter Thirty-One: Rob

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Maegan

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Rob

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Maegan

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Rob

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Maegan

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Rob

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Maegan

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Rob

  Chapter Forty: Maegan

  Chapter Forty-One: Rob

  Chapter Forty-Two: Maegan

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rob

  I eat breakfast with my father every morning.

  Well, I eat. He sits in his wheelchair and stares in whichever direction Mom has pointed him. If I’m lucky, all his drool stays in his mouth. If he’s lucky, the sunlight doesn’t fall across his eyes.

  Today, neither of us is very lucky.

  I’m blasting alternative rock, the volume turned as loud as I can tolerate. He hated this music when he had the cognitive ability to care. I have no idea whether he can hear it now.

  I like to imagine he can.

  “Rob!” Mom bellows from upstairs, where she’s getting ready for work. She never used to bellow.

  She never used to have a job before, either.

  It’s been a great year.

  “Rob!” she calls again.

  I stare across the table at Robert Lachlan Sr. and shove a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. “You think she’s talking to me or to you?”

  A drop of saliva forms a circular mark on his shirt.

  “What?” I yell back.

  “Turn that down, please!”

  “Okay.”

  I don’t.

  Until last spring, I never knew there was a right way and a wrong way to kill yourself. If you put a gun to your temple and pull the trigger, it’s possible to survive.

  It’s also possible to miss and blow half your face off, but luckily Dad didn’t do that. I’m not sure I could sit across the table from him if that had happened.

  It’s bad enough now. Especially knowing what he did before he tried to commit suicide. That’s worse than all of it.

  The suicide, I can kind of understand.

  Mom says it’s important for Dad to know I’m here. I’m not sure why. My presence isn’t going to magically reconnect the neurons that will let him walk and talk and interact again.

  If I could get my hands on a magic wand that would put him back together, I’d do it.

  That sounds altruistic. I’m not. I’m selfish.

  A year ago, we had everything.

  Now we have nothing.

  The living, breathing reason is sitting at the other end of the table.

  I get up and turn off the music. “I’m leaving!” I call.

  “Have a good day at school,” Mom calls back.

  Like that’ll happen.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Maegan

  My sister is throwing up in the bathroom. It’s awesome.

  I want to offer help, tissues or water or something, but I tried yesterday, and she snapped at me.

  Mom says it’s the hormones. Maybe she’s right, though Samantha has never been someone people would call nice. If she’s on your side, you’re her best friend. If she’s not, look out.

  When Samantha left for college, half the cops at Dad’s precinct threw her a party. It’s not often that blue-collar kids go to an Ivy League school—on a full lacrosse scholarship, no less.

  It’s not often they come back pregnant, either.

  There’s a small, dark part of me that’s glad I’m not the troublemaker, this time.

  Another part of me squashes the thought and shoves it away. That’s not fair to my sister. Unlike her, I’ve always been someone people call nice.

  Well, until last spring, when people started calling me cheater.

  The toilet flushes. Water runs. A minute later, Sam’s door closes quietly.

  Mom appears in my doorway. She’s in a bathrobe, a towel wound high on her head. Her voice is soft. “Dad says he can drive you to school, if you’re ready now.”

  “Almost.”

  “I’ll let him know.” She hesitates in the doorway. “Maegan … about your sister’s condition—”

  “You mean the baby?” I study my reflection in the mirror, wondering if the ponytail is a mistake. My fair skin looks pale and washed-out already. Besides, the first day of November has brought freezing temperatures, and my homeroom class has a cracked window.

  She eases into the room and closes the door. “Yes. The baby.”

  I wonder if Samantha had hoped to keep the pregnancy a secret, even from our parents. She was already planning to come home this weekend, so her appearance wasn’t unexpected. I just don’t think she’d planned on walking in the door, hugging Mom, and then throwing up on her feet.

  Even that might have been explainable, but then Sam burst into tears.

  Mom’s not an idiot.

  Then again, Mom and Sam have always been close. Sam probably would have told her anyway. Just without the projectile vomiting. I reach for a colorful scarf. “What about it?”

  “Your sister doesn’t want anyone to know yet.” Mom wrings her hands. “She’s only ten weeks pregnant, so she’s trying … she’s trying to decide what to do.” A pause. I wonder if my mother can’t bring herself to say the word abortion. “I’m asking you to respect her wishes.”

  I pull on a denim jacket over my sweater. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Maegan, your sister deserves your compassion.”

  “Mom. No one talks to me. Who would I tell?”

  “Rachel?”

  My best friend. I hesitate.

  Mom’s eyes almost fall out of her head. “Maegan. Did you tell her already?”

  “No! No. Of course not.”

  “You know your father doesn’t want gossip.”

  That makes me pause. I don’t want to let Dad down. Well, I don’t want to let him down again. “I won’t say anything.”

  “Not to anyone, Maegan.” Her gaze turns steely. “I need to know we can count on you.”

  I flinch. Dad honks the horn out front.

  I grab my backpack. “I need to go.”

  “Be good!” she calls after me.

  She says it every time I leave the house.

  I used to say
, “I always am,” but that’s not true anymore.

  Instead, I say, “I’ll try,” and I let the door slam behind me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rob

  The front entrance to Eagle Forge High School is packed with students. Bodies everywhere. They crowd the concrete quad out in front of the doors, they shove their way through the narrow foyer, they slam lockers and fill every available space until the last possible minute. Once upon a time, I would stride across the parking lot and those bodies would part like the Red Sea. Everyone knew me. Everyone wanted to be me.

  Now? No one wants to be Rob Lachlan Jr.

  Not even me.

  I don’t go in through the front. That’s Connor Tunstall’s turf now. He’ll be leaning against the round concrete platform that holds the flagpole, telling a risqué story about whatever he did over the weekend. A Starbucks cup will be sitting next to him—a tall dirty chai—and it’s overcast, so sunglasses will be hanging from a button hole of his vintage bomber jacket. He’s got blond hair with a couple of random brown patches, as well as mismatched eyes: one blue, one brown. Around here, quirky looks could throw you to the bottom of the social pile or spit you out on top. His family’s got serious money, so you can guess where Connor ended up. He plays lacrosse—even has a private coach—so he’s built like someone you don’t want to mess with.

  God, I sound obsessed with him. I’m not.

  He used to be my best friend.

  Connor got the quad in the breakup, I guess. His dad got a legal settlement.

  My dad got a subpoena—and later, a self-delivered bullet to the frontal lobe.

  And here we are, eight months later.

  I park in the side lot and walk halfway around the school with the bitter November wind eating through my parka, then slink in through the back entrance by the library. It’s the very definition of “the long way,” because my first class is near the front, but I don’t mind the walk, and I certainly don’t mind the solitude.

  I have books to return anyway, so I peek through the windows along the wall. The librarian isn’t there, so I slip through the doors. We’re supposed to wait for someone to check the books in—some kind of accountability thing, I guess—but I always leave mine. I’d rather pay ten bucks for a paperback that goes missing than deal with Mr. London.

  The air pressure seems to change in the library, as if even the books demand a special kind of quiet. I stride silently across the carpet and slide two hardcovers onto the gray Formica counter, then turn to slip away.

  “Mr. Lachlan.”

  Damn.

  I stop. Turn. Mr. London is coming out of the storeroom behind the counter. He’s wiping his hands on a napkin, clearly still chewing whatever he was eating. He’s lean and wiry and pushing sixty. He’s wearing a black polo shirt with tiny colorful stitching along the edge of the sleeves, which doesn’t do his sallow skin any favors.

  “I’ll check those in for you,” he says, sliding the books toward his computer as if I weren’t halfway to the door.

  He doesn’t meet my eyes.

  I don’t try to meet his. I don’t actually know if his comment was a request for me to stay and wait while he pushes buttons on his keyboard or more of a dismissal, but in the span of time it takes me to think about it, I’ve already stood here too long.

  Now it’s awkward.

  He scans the bar codes on the back of each book. They’re high fantasy, and they hit the circulation desk with a thunk as he sets each one down. “What did you think of these?”

  What does he want, a recommendation? They were life changing. I stayed up all night reading.

  I actually did do that. My social life is nonexistent.

  But then I realize his question was automatic. Every time we interact, it’s as awkward for him as it is for me. He probably feels some kind of obligation to treat me with practiced courtesy, as if my family wouldn’t simply rob him of his life savings; we’d go after his job, too.

  I shrug and study a poster about Edgar Allan Poe. “They were fine.”

  “Just fine? Neal tore through them.”

  Neal is his husband. He’s a retired teacher from somewhere else in the county. Mr. London was supposed to retire last year, too, but they trusted my dad with their retirement accounts.

  Every cent was long gone before Dad got caught.

  I clear my throat. “I’ve got to get to first period.”

  That’s crap, and he knows it. The bell won’t ring for another twenty minutes.

  “Go ahead,” he says. “These are in.”

  I bolt like I’m guilty of a crime. I can feel his eyes on my back as I go.

  I wonder if it would be better if I had a reputation for hating my father. If I hadn’t spent school holidays interning in his office. If he hadn’t shown up for every lacrosse game, throwing his arm across my shoulders to crow about his boy’s skills on the field.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t hate him. And afterward, I heard every whisper.

  Did Rob know? He had to know.

  I didn’t know.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Maegan

  Dad drops me off in his police cruiser, as usual. I wish he’d do it around back, where kids won’t see me climb out of the black-and-white sedan, but he thinks people won’t mess with his little girl if they know her dad’s a cop.

  He’s right. No one messes with me. No one really talks to me.

  It has nothing to do with the fact that he’s a cop.

  It has everything to do with the fact that I got caught cheating on the SAT last year—and a hundred kids’ scores were invalidated.

  Dad reaches over to give my shoulder a squeeze. “Have a good day now, sweetheart.” His voice is deep and rumbly. A good cop voice. “Text me if you need someone to pick you up, okay?”

  “Okay.” I lean over to kiss his cheek as his radio starts squawking codes. He smells like soap and menthol. “Love you, Daddy.” But he’s already reaching for his radio.

  Then I’m out in the cold, and his cruiser is pulling away.

  The first bell doesn’t ring for another fifteen minutes, and it’s cold as crap on the quad, but the concrete is still crowded with students who have no desire to start their school day early. Most of them are debasing themselves to Connor Tunstall, who’s leaning against the flag stand, talking about some party over the weekend.

  “Seriously,” he’s saying. “They couldn’t even get the keg down the stairs between the two of them. I ended up carrying it myself.”

  “All by yourself?” his groupies chorus, fluttering around him. “Can you pick me up? I bet you can’t pick me and Sarah up at the same time.”

  He grins at them. “Come here. Let’s see.”

  Ugh. I would have no time for a guy like that. He and Rob Lachlan used to run the school, until Rob’s dad got caught embezzling from his clients and tried to blow his head off. Now Connor’s the only one sitting on the throne. I have no idea what happened to Rob. He’s like a ghost now, flickering from class to class. We have AP Calculus together or I wouldn’t know he went to school at all.

  My best friend, Rachel, peels herself away from the fringe of the crowd and attaches herself to my side. She waits for me every morning, even though I’ve told her she doesn’t have to. Most of the drama died down before school let out last year.

  Back then, I could barely walk across the quad without getting spit on. You don’t invalidate a hundred kids’ SAT scores without a few repercussions.

  Rachel is one of the few people who stuck by me after I got in trouble. It’s hard to be part of the brainiac crowd when everyone thinks you cheated your way in. Rachel and I have been friends practically since birth, so I know she’ll always have my back.

  She links her arm through mine, though she’s really too tall for it to be comfortable. Her dad’s this hulking, blond, Nordic-looking cop, while her mom is a tiny, round, second-generation Mexican. So Rachel has light brown skin and curly dark hair, combined with a stocky build and broa
d shoulders, and a height that tops five foot eleven. She’s taller than most of the guys in the junior class and prettier than most of the girls.

  “Do you think Connor Tunstall stands in front of a mirror flexing every morning?” she says.

  “Are you kidding? He probably takes a daily selfie.”

  She giggles and pulls at the front door. “How’s Sam feeling?”

  My heart freezes in my chest. Mom’s warning is an echo in my head. “What?”

  “You said she was sick Friday night.”

  Right. I did say that. Rachel and I were supposed to go to the movies, but then Sam walked in the door and threw up. “Oh. Yeah. She’s fine. Food poisoning.”

  It sounds like I’m lying. I don’t know if it’s from being a cop’s daughter or what, but I’m a terrible liar. That’s why I folded when they accused me of cheating last April. Rachel’s going to call me on it, and I’m going to dump the truth on her feet.

  But she doesn’t call me on it. She doesn’t even give me a funny look, just accepts it at face value and tows me toward her locker.

  Somehow that’s worse.

  Her boyfriend, Drew, is waiting when we get there. He’s tall, with deep brown skin and eyes, and he’s built like a linebacker, which makes sense since he plays football. His parents own an upscale restaurant at the edge of town, and they expect Drew to work most evenings, so between that and football, his grades sometimes pay the price.

  I’ve known Drew since grade school, but he and Rachel have only been going out since midsummer, when he drunk dialed her to profess his love. I can think of more romantic overtures, but she didn’t seem to mind. I personally think he’s a little abrasive, but he’s good to Rachel. She’s been such a good friend to me that I want to be able to return the favor.

  He grabs Rachel by the waist and gives her a sloppy kiss.

  I sigh. Rachel giggles.

  I can probably be a good friend without watching an exchange of fluids. “I need to get to math,” I say breezily, turning away.

  “Eyes on your own paper, okay?” Drew calls behind me. Then he cracks up.

  Rachel hushes him, but it’s too late.