More Than We Can Tell Page 3

  Once we got an infant who was four days old—the youngest baby I’ve ever held. Her mother had a seizure during childbirth, and died a day later. We kept the baby for six months while the grandparents battled in court over who would get custody. We saw her first smile, fed her the first spoonful of baby food.

  Kristin cried for days after she was taken away.

  She always cries after they’re taken away. Even when it’s only twenty-four hours.

  Then she wraps her arms around my shoulders and says they’re so lucky they get to keep me forever.

  That’s never made me uncomfortable until this very moment, when I realize what a monumental secret I’m keeping from them.

  My father’s letter burns a red-hot brand into my brain.

  I hope you’ll make me proud.

  I can’t tell them.

  A police car sits in front of my house when I turn the corner. That’s not uncommon, especially with an emergency placement. I come through the front door, expecting to hear a baby or toddler crying, but the house is oddly quiet. Maybe it’s a really little baby, asleep in a carrier.

  Low voices speak down the hall, by Geoff and Kristin’s bedroom. I begin to climb the stairs.

  Geoff appears from the hallway. “Rev,” he says quietly. “Come downstairs. Let’s talk.”

  I hesitate, and our confrontation over the Pyrex bowl flashes to the forefront of my mind. My father’s letter is hot in my pocket. “I don’t—I’m sorry I yelled.”

  “It’s all right.” He comes down the steps and claps me on the shoulder gently. “You’re allowed to be a teenager. Are you okay?”

  No. “Yes.”

  “Come on downstairs. I need to talk to you.”

  He heads into the lower level, but I hesitate on the landing, staring down at him. Suddenly I’m seven, staring down another flight of stairs, not knowing what I’ll face at the bottom.

  “Rev?”

  I blink and I’m me again. “Sorry.”

  I still haven’t heard a baby cry upstairs—and it has to be a baby, because toddlers make an insane amount of noise. Geoff sits on the couch and gestures for me to do the same.

  He looks like he wants to have a talk.

  “I’ll save you some time,” I say. “I know what sex is.”

  He smiles. “You’re funny.” A pause. “Bonnie called earlier. They needed a spot for an emergency placement.”

  Bonnie is a social worker. She’s close friends with Kristin. “Mom texted me. I saw the police car.”

  “His name is Matthew.”

  “Okay.” I’m waiting for him to drop the hammer, because bringing a new kid into the house isn’t a sit-down-and-talk-about-it event. I’m used to it. I usually like it.

  “Matthew is fourteen.”

  I freeze. “Oh.”

  I’m not sure how to react. They’ve never taken in a teenager before. The oldest kid we’ve ever had was nine, and he stayed for one night after his father fell down some basement stairs and his grandmother couldn’t catch a plane into Baltimore until the morning. I turn the idea over in my head and imagine I should be glad I won’t need to change any diapers.

  I’m not opposed to an older kid living here. At least I don’t think I am. Part of what I love about Geoff and Kristin is how they welcome everyone.

  But as soon as the thought enters my head, doubt crowds in with it. Another teenager will mean someone with questions and judgments about our family. About me. I felt it the instant that girl beside the church realized who I was. Everyone at school knows who I am, even if it’s only distantly. It’s hard to hide your freak status when you wear long-sleeved hooded sweatshirts in the dead heat of summer. It’s harder to hide that you’re adopted when you’re white, and your parents are black.

  Not that I’ve ever wanted to hide it. But people talk.

  “Matthew has been in four foster homes over the last year,” says Geoff. “He started a fight this afternoon, and the family called the cops. No one pressed charges, but they don’t want him living there anymore.”

  Four foster homes over the last year? I’m not sure what to say to that.

  “What happens if he doesn’t stay here?” I say.

  Geoff hesitates. “He’d go to Cheltenham. He’s already got two strikes with group homes.”

  The juvenile detention facility. “Wow,” I say softly.

  “Bonnie doesn’t think he’ll be a problem,” Geoff continues. “And you know Kristin would open the door to every child in the county. But I want to make sure you’re okay with it.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Geoff leans in. “Are you sure?”

  I have no idea. My emotions are scattered in a million different directions. I’m not sure about any of them.

  “He can stay.” My voice is rough.

  “Rev. I need you to be honest with me.”

  He’s talking about Matthew, not the letter hidden in my pocket, but the words make me flinch.

  I need to speak to cover it up, because I can see Geoff’s expression shift in response. “It’s fine,” I say quickly. I have to clear my throat. “It’ll be different, but it’ll be okay.”

  Then I look up. “Where’s he going to sleep?” The spare room is made up for younger children. There’s a toddler bed and a crib, with a dresser, a changing table, and a rocking chair. The color scheme is peach and white, with alphabet letters stenciled along the ceiling. Aside from the rocking chair, there’s not a single piece of furniture in that room that would support a teenager.

  Geoff sighs. “That’s part two of why I needed to talk to you.”

  This is not my first time sharing a room. Declan spends the night all the time. Geoff and Kristin put the futon in here specifically for him. Geoff said it’s only until Saturday, when he can buy a full-size bed, but by law, Matthew needs a bed, so here he is.

  It’s after midnight. He’s not sleeping.

  Neither am I.

  He’s smaller than I expected, though he’s got some muscle. Geoff said Matthew started a fight, but he clearly wasn’t the one to finish it. The entire left side of his face is a mess, swelling and bruises running from temple to jaw. His cheek split and bled at some point, and flecks of dried blood cling to his face where it was probably too painful to scrub. His movements are stiff and careful. I wonder who he fought with.

  I’ll probably wonder for a while. He’s said exactly two words to me.

  “Hey” when Kristin introduced us.

  “Okay” when I told him where he could put his things, which he carried in a white kitchen trash bag.

  And that’s it. He brushed his teeth and climbed into bed. Fully clothed. Jeans and everything.

  I’m not in a position to judge. I’m wearing long sleeves and sweatpants.

  After Geoff’s description, I expected … something else. Belligerence. Anger. Defiance. Some swagger.

  Matthew is quiet, but watchful. He’s watching me now, peripherally, though his eyes are focused on the ceiling. Tension has settled over the room like a too-heavy blanket.

  “Go to sleep,” I say quietly. “I’m not going to mess with you.”

  He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

  My phone pings. Declan.

  Dec: How’s your new roommate?

  I texted him earlier to let him know what was going on, but I never answered his first text about what was wrong. Now it sits above our more recent messages, a giant elephant in the room. On the screen. Whatever.

  I stick to the matter at hand.

  Rev: Quiet

  Dec: What’s his name?

  Rev: Matthew

  Dec: Is he going to school with us tomorrow?

  That’s a good question. I always ride to school with Declan. I’ll have to ask Kristin.

  “Are we locked in?” Matthew’s voice is rough and low.

  I look over. He’s finally broken his staring match with the ceiling.

  I don’t understand his question. “Locked in?” />
  “In the bedroom.” His eyes flick to the closed door. “Are we locked in here at night?”

  It takes me a second to work through what he’s implying. I set my phone down. “No.”

  “Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?”

  “Yes.” I try not to let my voice show what an unusual question this is, but also that I’m just answering his question, not giving permission. It’s a lot to demand from a three-letter word.

  While he’s gone, I look back at my phone.

  Rev: He just asked if mom and dad lock us in the bedroom at night.

  Dec: wtf

  Exactly.

  I bite at the edge of my lip and study our text messages. Maybe I’m imagining a distance between us, but I hate hiding something from him. It’s hard enough to hide from Geoff and Kristin.

  But now that I’ve kept this monumental secret, I’m not sure how to unravel it.

  While I’m deliberating, I realize that Matthew has been gone for a while. I haven’t heard water run or a toilet flush.

  I slide the phone into my pocket and pad barefoot out of the room. The bathroom door is open, the lights off. Geoff and Kristin’s bedroom door is closed. The entire house is dark.

  Silence swells around me. I head down the hallway, to the kitchen.

  Then I spot him, down on the landing, staring at the door—which is locked with a double-cylinder dead bolt. You need a key to open it from the inside.

  I stop at the top of the staircase. “We are locked in the house,” I whisper.

  He whirls and flattens his back against the door. There’s a knife in his hand.

  My brain does a double take.

  There’s a knife. In his hand.

  It’s a paring knife from the kitchen block—but it’s still a knife.

  We have never had a toddler go for a weapon.

  This has been the longest day. I almost say so, but then I look at his face and realize his day has been longer. I got a letter. He got a busted face.

  I have no idea what to do. Yell for Geoff and Kristin? Would they send him to juvie? Do I cut him some slack, or do I end this right here?

  I consider how I found him. He was taking the knife and going out the front door. He wasn’t coming after me. He wasn’t going after anyone in the house.

  In another minute he probably would have tried for the back door—which slides and locks with a simple latch—and he would have been gone.

  I drop to sit on the top step. “I told you I’m not going to mess with you.” The words are meant to reassure him, but I’m also reminding myself. I could mess with him. I could mess with him a lot more than whoever messed with his face.

  These thoughts link me with my father, and I force them out of my head.

  “Put the knife down and go back to bed and we can pretend this didn’t happen.”

  Matthew stares up at me and says nothing. His chest rises and falls quickly.

  I don’t move. I can be patient.

  Apparently, so can he.

  Ten minutes pass. Twenty. I lean my head against the wall. His breathing has slowed, but he hasn’t changed his grip on the knife.

  Thirty minutes. He slides down against the door until he’s sitting on the welcome mat. I raise my eyebrows, but he holds my gaze and keeps the knife in his hand.

  Fine.

  An hour passes. The silence has turned heavy. Against my will, my eyes begin to drift closed.

  His must, too.

  Because that’s exactly how Kristin finds us, sound asleep, at six o’clock the next morning.

  FIVE

  Emma

  Friday, March 16 3:28 a.m.

  From: N1ghtmare

  To: Azure M

  Don’t make me find you, bitch.

  And a good morning to him, too.

  I don’t delete this one. I don’t ban him yet either. No banning before coffee.

  Mom is in the kitchen when I go downstairs. She’s standing at the counter, eating a breakfast of fruit and cottage cheese. It’s barely six thirty, but she’s already showered and dressed for work. She runs five miles every morning, too. The very picture of discipline.

  “You look tired,” she says to me.

  I debate whether that’s worse than some rando on the Internet calling me a bitch.

  I shrug and find a mug. “Tell that to the county school system. I don’t make the schedule.”

  “How late were you up?”

  Until two. I ran missions with Ethan until my eyes went blurry. Cait joined us after her mom was in bed and there was no one to guard the family computer. We started on OtherLANDS and then moved over to Battle Guilds when he asked if we wanted to do something new. It’s not a game I play often, because it was built by a competitor of Dad’s company, but I wasn’t turning down an invitation. That’s never happened before. Usually guys sign off to go play with someone else.

  I shrug and pull the creamer out of the refrigerator. “I don’t remember. I was reading.”

  “I’ve told you before that I don’t like you drinking coffee, Emma.”

  I’ve ignored her before, too. I dump a quarter of a cup of sugar into my mug. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Her lips purse. “I know your father stays up until all hours of the night, but he doesn’t need to be in class at seven thirty.”

  “That’s because he’s lucky.”

  “That’s because he’s an adult.” She pauses. “Or at least he pretends to be—”

  “Mom.” I glare at her. She knows I don’t like the sniping.

  “I know you’re enjoying the computers and the games, but I hope you’re aware what a competitive field—”

  “Because you slid right into medicine?” I sip at my coffee and head for the stairs. “I forgot how easy it was for you to get into Columbia.”

  “Emma. Emma, come back here.”

  I’m already halfway up the stairs. “I need to take a shower.”

  I’m grateful for the fan and the rattle of water against the bathtub. I turn the water as hot as I can tolerate and step into the steam. It burns my scalp.

  Don’t make me find you, bitch.

  My eyes burn, and I turn my face to the stream of water. I hate that there are people like him. I hate it.

  Dad has a female coworker who gets a lot worse. Death threats. Rape threats. It’s rampant in the industry. I need to learn to deal with it now if I want to make a career out of this.

  But still. The words have set up shop in my brain, a constant thrum of warning. Don’t make me find you.

  I remind myself that he’s probably thirteen and bored.

  The doorknob clicks. “Emma. I want to talk to you—”

  “Mom! Oh my god, I’m in the shower!”

  “You do realize there’s a curtain. And I’m your mother. And a doctor. I have seen—”

  “Mom!”

  “Emma.” She sounds closer. “I don’t have a problem with the computers or the coding. I hope you know that. But I worry that your father’s habits may have given you an unfair expectation—”

  “Mom.” I pull the curtain around my face and look out at her. She’s sitting on the closed toilet. The steam has already curled the tendrils of hair that escaped her ponytail. “Dad works just as many hours as you do. I know it’s not all fun and games.”

  “I just want to make sure that you realize that creative endeavors are always more complicated. We would be having the same conversation if you wanted to be an artist … or a writer … or an actress …” Her voice trails off, and she sounds more displeased with each progressive career.

  Shampoo finds my eyes, and I duck back into the shower. “Wow, thanks for the pep talk about following my dreams.”

  “Dreams won’t pay a mortgage, Emma. I just want to be sure you’re thinking objectively about this. You’re a junior in high school.”

  “Mom, I’m pretty sure knowing how to write code will help me find a job.”

  “I know it will. Playing games until two a.m. and scraping th
rough the day won’t.”

  I can’t say much to that. She makes me feel like such a slacker.

  Combined with the e-mail I received this morning, the burn in my eyes returns.

  “Is your homework done?” she asks.

  “Of course.” My voice almost breaks, and I hope the shower is enough to cover it up.

  “Emma?” She sounds surprised. “Are you upset?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She begins to pull the shower curtain to the side.

  I grab it and yank it shut. “Mom! Are you kidding me right now?”

  “I just wanted to make sure—”

  “Would you get out of here? I need to finish getting ready for school.”

  For a long moment, she says nothing.

  During that moment, I think of all the things I want to say to her.

  Do you know I wrote my own game? I wrote the whole thing. And people actually play it. Hundreds of people. I did that. I DID THAT.

  I’m terrified she’d find the whole thing a waste of time.

  And then she’d make me delete it so I could focus on something “more productive.”

  “Emma,” she says quietly.

  I push the water off my face. “Mom, it’s fine. I’m fine. Go to work. I’m sure you have patients to see.”

  I hold my breath, and in that moment, I’m torn between hoping she’ll stay and hoping she’ll leave.

  I don’t know why. It’s ridiculous. She has so much contempt for everything I love.

  Then the door clicks, and it doesn’t matter. She did exactly what I asked.

  “Why don’t they sell coffee at lunch?” says Cait. She’s paying the price for our two a.m. gaming, too. We’re all but slumped on the lunch table. Even her makeup seems lackluster this morning: glitter eyeliner is about as daring as she got.

  “Because they’re sadists.” I poke at a slice of pizza on my tray. “Want to ditch next period and walk to Dunkin’ Donuts?”

  “If I got caught cutting class, my makeup would be in the Dumpster, and Mom would sell my camera.”

  “And what a tragedy that would be.”

  She startles a little, and I realize what I’ve said. I wince. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

  Her expression is frozen in this space between hurt and confused. “What did you mean?”