More Than We Can Tell Page 4

  “I didn’t mean anything, Cait. Really.”

  She’s staring at me like she’s trying to decide whether to push or to let it go.

  I don’t even know why I said that. My mouth needs to be reconnected to my brain. “It was stupid. I was trying to make a joke but I’m too tired to make it happen.”

  A tiny line has appeared between her eyebrows, but she sits back. “Okay.” She pauses, and the slowly growing wall between us gains a few more bricks.

  I had considered telling her about Nightmare, but the air between us is full of tension now. Cait wouldn’t understand anyway. The worst kind of troll she faces is someone who accuses her of copying makeup designs or calling her ugly. She has no problem shutting them down. She wouldn’t understand why I can’t do the same.

  Motion across the cafeteria catches my eye. That guy from behind the church is sitting at a table in the corner. He’s wearing a maroon hoodie today, the hood low enough to block his eyes from view. He’s got half a dozen plastic containers spread on the table in front of him. It looks like he’s sharing with another guy, someone with reddish-brown hair.

  I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen two guys share a lunch.

  Check that. I can count on one finger.

  It’s about the same number of times a guy has quoted the Bible to me.

  I pull a purple pen out of my bag and draw stripes across my fingernails, just to give my hands something to do while I stalk Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hooded. A girl joins the two boys in the back corner. She’s pretty, with long, shining dark hair and trim-fitting clothes. Preppy. Glossy. The type of girl I usually avoid, for the simple reason that they always look completely together, and I generally need a computer in front of me to communicate. I have no idea who she is.

  Then again, she’s sitting with the Grim Reaper, not sitting on the quad gossiping about him, so maybe she’s not all bad.

  “Why is it okay for you to draw on your nails, but it’s not okay for me to do it with real makeup?” says Cait.

  My hand stops. “You can do whatever you want with makeup,” I say tightly. “It was a stupid comment.”

  “Okay.”

  It doesn’t sound okay at all. I hesitate, wishing I could fix this. “I was watching that guy over there. Do you know who he is?”

  She twists on the bench to look. “Yeah,” she says. “He’s in my Sociology class. Why?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Rev Fletcher. Why?”

  I watch him eat from a container with a fork. A real metal fork. “Is he gay?”

  “Wait. Let me check.” She screws up her face. “Oops. Sorry. Telepathy is down again.”

  I can’t decide if she’s trying to lighten the mood or darken it. “Do you know what’s up with him and the hoodies?”

  She glances over her shoulder again. “No. Mrs. Van Eyck makes him take the hood down during class, though.”

  “Does he wear it every day?” I don’t know why I care, but it’s like I’ve found a source of information, and the download speed is pathetic.

  “Yes. Not the same one, though. He doesn’t smell or anything. He’s very quiet. Doesn’t say a lot.” She pauses. “Why are you interested in Rev Fletcher?”

  I don’t know. I can’t pin it down.

  Are you okay?

  No.

  He seems fine now. But also … not. Some small, hidden part of me wants to walk over there and ask him again.

  I can see it now. Hey, remember me? You scared me beside the church. Fed my dog some nuggets. Discussed existentialism?

  Sure.

  He has friends. He’s eating lunch. He doesn’t need me.

  But if he has friends, why was he hiding beside the church with that letter?

  “Emma?”

  “It was nothing,” I say to Cait. “I ran into him when I was walking the dog.”

  “Was it weird? I feel like he’d be weird outside of school.” She makes a face. “I mean, he’s weird inside of school—”

  “Not weird.” I pause. “Unusual.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “You wear a different face every day. You tell me.”

  She jerks back, and I wish I could suck the words back into my mouth. I didn’t mean the words as an insult—or maybe I did. I’m too tired to know.

  She shrugs her backpack over her shoulder. “I need to go change out some books before class. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  Before I can say anything, she slides through the crush of students.

  With a sigh, I gather my things and head to class myself.

  I’m the only junior in AP Computer Science. I’m also one of only three girls. I slept through Introduction to Coding last year, but it was a mandatory prerequisite. I could have taught the class. When Mr. Price noticed that I was doing homework for other classes while he was droning at the Smartboard, he offered extra credit if I designed something myself. I think he expected something pathetic and basic so he could pat me on the head and pretend he was challenging me. When he logged in to OtherLANDS, he choked on his coffee.

  Seriously. He almost sprayed me with it.

  This isn’t my first game. It’s my sixth. No one comes out of the gate with an online RPG. Well, no one I know. Not even Dad. He started teaching me to write code when I was seven years old, showing me Pong and telling me to see if I could re-create it. By the time I was ten, I was making basic two-dimensional games. By the time I was thirteen, I could handle 3-D graphics. OtherLANDS is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  Dad has never played. He doesn’t even know about it.

  He’s a senior programmer for Axis Gaming. His next release is supposed to integrate with mobile, allowing people to switch from desktop gaming to their phones seamlessly, going from battle missions to scouting missions. I’ve seen some screen shots, and it’s amazing.

  I can’t wait to show him OtherLANDS. But it has to be perfect first.

  Meaning, I can’t have characters disappearing into the side of a mountain.

  Mr. Price is typing some code into the overhead projector. All the computers have a screen protector to prevent cheating, so I can do whatever I want back here. I log in to my OtherLANDS server and get out a notebook to start “taking notes.”

  And there, waiting right on top, is this morning’s e-mail from Nightmare.

  My finger hovers over the Ban Player button.

  I do it. I click it.

  And then I delete his e-mail.

  It’s over. It’s done. He’s gone. He can’t bother me on here anymore. The relief is almost potent.

  He can bother me on 5Core, but that site is maintained by the county school system. I can report him to an admin on there if he sends harassing messages.

  I glance at the board. Mr. Price drones on, so I start sketching a map. I want to try to build an insect realm. I haven’t done anything that can fly yet, and I want a challenge. I could have swarms of bees, spiderwebs, stinging scorpions, butterflies that drop healing potions … Hmm.

  My computer flashes at me.

  A new message. My eyes lock on the sender, and I freeze.

  Friday, March 16 12:26 p.m.

  From: N1ghtmare2

  To: Azure M

  Nice try.

  You’ve just made this personal.

  SIX

  Rev

  Friday, March 16 5:37:56 p.m.

  FROM: Robert Ellis

  TO: Rev Fletcher

  SUBJECT: Silence

  I believe the quiet moments are the loudest.

  Your silence speaks volumes, Son.

  Two sentences, and guilt cramps my insides. My silence feels like a crime against everyone in my life.

  I haven’t answered my father.

  I haven’t told Geoff and Kristin.

  I haven’t told Declan.

  Tonight, I’m smothered by loud silence. We’re having dinner as a “family,” but no one is talkin
g. Kristin made breakfast foods: French toast and fried eggs, sausage gravy and bacon, roasted potatoes, and sliced fruit with whipped cream. Comfort food, because the house feels so uncomfortable. I shove food around my plate and keep my eyes on my place mat.

  Matthew sits on the other side of the table, doing the exact same thing.

  I was surprised to find him here when I got home. I thought for sure the knife thing would send him back into CPS’s clutches. When Kristin found us this morning, she sized up the situation, then put her hands on my shoulders and quietly told me to go get ready for school.

  I glance across the table. Matthew looks exhausted. The bruises along his face are darker, fully set now. Apparently, Bonnie, his social worker, came back to the house and they all had a long talk.

  I don’t know what they said, but whatever it was bought him another night here. He sure doesn’t look contrite. He doesn’t look aggressive either. Point in his favor? I have no idea.

  Geoff said Matthew promised to ask before leaving the house.

  So reassuring. Time for confetti.

  “Rev, honey, can you pass the sausage?” Kristin’s voice is falsely bright. This is her voice for when toddlers are defiantly smearing food—or worse—on the wall.

  Passing food requires me to look up, and I find Matthew watching me without really looking at me, the way he was last night.

  A familiar tension settles into my shoulders. I feel defensive and nothing has even happened yet.

  Geoff sits at the end of the table, studying both of us. He hasn’t said a word either. He doesn’t look happy.

  Kristin’s voice is still casual. “You haven’t said anything about school today, Rev.”

  “It was fine.” I shove a piece of French toast in my mouth so I don’t have to say more.

  “Declan didn’t want to join us tonight?”

  My best friend usually eats here on Fridays, a long-standing tradition from when he needed to avoid his stepfather. I force my throat to swallow. “He’s out with Juliet.”

  Again.

  Which is fine.

  “I spoke with Mr. Diviglio this afternoon. Matthew is going to start on Monday. I thought it would be nice if you could help him learn his way around.”

  Mr. Diviglio is the vice principal. The French toast turns to stone in my mouth and it hurts to swallow. Once I can speak, I lock my eyes on Matthew’s, almost forcing him to make eye contact. “If you get caught with a knife at school, you’ll be suspended.”

  “Rev,” Kristin says softly. Not quite chiding, but almost.

  “I’ve been to Hamilton before,” Matthew says, his eyes on his plate. “I know my way around.” A pause. “And the rules.”

  Geoff clears his throat. His voice is low and calm, easing some of the tension in the room. “Good. That should make things a bit easier, then.”

  His calm manner reminds me that a lot of the strain in the room is coming out of my own head. I need to back off. I shrug and stab at another piece of French toast. “He can ride to school with us. Declan won’t care.”

  Actually, Declan probably will care, and he won’t make a secret of it. I imagine my best friend finding Matthew in the hallway with a knife.

  Declan would put him through the wall.

  “Isn’t there a bus from here?” Matthew says. His eyes are still locked on his plate.

  The table is silent for a beat.

  “There is a bus,” says Kristin carefully. “But it’s a forty-minute trip. You’d have to be at the stop at six twenty.”

  He says nothing.

  I study him. I feel like I’ve screwed this up without even trying. “You don’t have to ride the bus. You can ride with us.”

  “Six twenty is fine.” He takes a slow bite of food and speaks quietly. “I can get up early.”

  His words sound deliberate and calculated, and I can’t figure out if that’s real or if it’s my own screwed-up mental process taking everything the wrong way.

  Your silence speaks volumes, Son.

  I shove my chair back from the table. “May I be excused?”

  Geoff and Kristin exchange a glance, and then she looks up at me. “You’ve hardly eaten.”

  “You packed me a big lunch.” I hesitate, not wanting to be a jerk. “Let me know when you’re done. I can clean up.”

  She leans over and rubs my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. You do what you need to do.”

  I throw on clothes to head to the gym, but at the last minute, I change my mind. I desperately need to get out of the house, but the thought of leaving turns my stress dial all the way to the right. I wish I could go to Declan’s. I wish I could tell him.

  At the same time, I don’t. I feel too exposed. Too raw.

  No. I feel ashamed.

  I think of the girl beside the church.

  You’re afraid.

  I’ve spent years learning how not to be afraid. And now, with a few short sentences, my father has sliced through all my defenses.

  I attack the heavy bag in the basement. I start with kicks, then punches, then hooks and knee strikes, before starting the whole cycle over again. At first, my rhythm is off, leaving me clumsy in a way I haven’t felt in ages. Eventually, my brain realizes I’m serious, and muscle memory takes over. I lose myself in the force of each movement.

  When I was young, when Geoff and Kristin were new foster parents and I was their first foster kid, I spent each night terrified my father would get me back and torture me for liking them even a little bit. Kristin would come into my room every night and read me a story while I stared at the ceiling and pretended not to listen. I had never been allowed books about magic or fantasy or anything that wasn’t based in religion, so I listened as she read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone and felt certain the devil was going to crawl through the floor and drag me straight to hell.

  That didn’t happen. Obviously.

  By the second month, she had moved on to Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and I stopped staring at the ceiling. I laughed at something. She moved her chair closer to the bed so I could see the chapter illustrations.

  I barely remember the story.

  But I remember when she closed the book, I burst into tears.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  She didn’t need clarification. She knew what I meant.

  It was one of the few times I’ve ever heard her voice turn to steel. “You are never going back.”

  Your silence speaks volumes, Son.

  My throat tightens, and my eyes suddenly blur. His words work against me in both directions. I’m not just avoiding him. I’m avoiding Geoff and Kristin. I’m avoiding my best friend.

  I slam my fist into the bag, and my arm shakes with fatigue. I draw back, panting, and shove hair out of my eyes. Geoff and Kristin are talking upstairs, their voices a low murmur.

  I drop onto the weight bench, strip off my gloves, and drain half my water bottle without thinking about it. The cold almost burns, both amazing and terrible. The cool quiet of the lower level presses in around me.

  And then, like a switch flips in my brain, I’m aware I’m not alone. Maybe the air shifts or a shadow moves, but the atmosphere changes.

  I take another sip of water, my focus razor sharp. It has to be Matthew.

  I can’t hear him breathing, but he’s here somewhere. I’m not afraid of him. Not exactly. Intellectually, I know he’s not much of a threat to me.

  But a darker, primal part of my brain does not like anything resembling a threat. Especially not now, with memories of my father clawing their way to the surface.

  “Come out,” I say, my voice low and leaving no room for argument.

  Everything goes more still somehow. More silent.

  “Come out,” I say again.

  Nothing.

  My heart rate has gone up a notch, a hammer inside a cage. A fresh line of sweat crawls down the center of my chest. The longer h
e stays in the shadows, the less I like it.

  I stand up, turning full circle, because this kind of anxiety won’t let me sit. “You do not want to sneak up on me.”

  Silence.

  Your silence speaks volumes.

  Maybe it’s not Matthew at all. My father has this address. My father knows how to find me.

  Fear is a quick and deadly vise grip on my chest. I can’t speak. I can’t move.

  It’s not my father. It can’t be my father.

  It can’t be.

  It can’t be.

  My fingernails dig trenches in my palms. The room shrinks by half. I’m trapped.

  I bolt from the basement. My feet don’t feel the stairs. I grab a hoodie from the rack by the door and fling the front door wide. The cool night air feels like a wall. I tear through it.

  The moon hangs high above, the stars swinging in arcs. Breath can barely squeeze into my lungs.

  “Rev!”

  Kristin’s voice behind me.

  I turn and look at her. She stands on the front steps. She seems a mile away.

  She can’t come after me. I don’t know what I’ll do if someone comes after me right now.

  “I need some air.” I sound like I’ve run a marathon. I yank the hoodie over my head and thrust my hands into the sleeves.

  “Wait,” she says. “Dad will walk with you.”

  “No.” I grit the word out. “No. I need to go.”

  “Do you have your phone?”

  Maybe. Who knows. We could be on Mars right now and I wouldn’t be aware of it.

  But the question is so normal that it throws a deflating dart into my panic attack. I can take a breath. I can slap my pocket. I can answer. “Yeah.”

  “Text me if you’re going to be longer than an hour.”

  The air turns colder. My body turns hotter. “Okay.” My voice almost breaks. “Okay.”

  She glances behind her, then looks back at me. “Dad says he needs a walk, too. Why don’t you wait a second? He’s getting his shoes.”

  If she keeps talking to me I’m going to pass out. Or start crying.

  Or put my hand through a car window.

  “I’m going for a run, okay?”

  I don’t wait for a response. I turn on my heel and sprint down the street.