These Things I’ve Done Page 2

  “Is there still hazing for freshmen?” Aubrey asked, pizza slice sagging in her hand. “Is that a real thing or just something that happens on TV?”

  Okay, she was being ridiculous. Ethan was only one grade below us. My brother, Tobias, was seven and I didn’t fuss over him nearly as much. Then again, Tobias and I had the type of parents who worried and cared and hugged. Aubrey and Ethan had the kind who chose work over fun and only paid attention when someone screwed up. Growing up with detached parents had forced Aubrey into the nurturer role, and Ethan into someone who needed nurturing.

  But we all had to grow up sometime.

  “Would you relax?” I glanced over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of buzzed dark hair and one pale, bony arm. Seconds later, the rest of Ethan followed, his gangly body emerging through a cluster of seniors. “See?” I said to Aubrey, jerking my chin toward him. “He hasn’t been stuffed into a Dumpster after all.”

  Aubrey’s eyes zeroed in on her brother’s face, which looked unusually red, even from here. As he drew closer and saw us watching him, the shade deepened to overripe tomato.

  “Where have you been?” Aubrey demanded as Ethan sat down across from her. “Are you okay? Do you need your inhaler?”

  “I’m fine.” His eyes—wide and dark brown like his sister’s—flicked toward me for a moment. His skin was slowly returning to its usual paleness, but his behavior still seemed off. “And so is my breathing.”

  Aubrey’s mother-hen face relaxed somewhat and she pushed the slice of pizza she’d bought him across the table. Ethan rolled his right shoulder as if working out a kink as he took a large bite.

  “What’s wrong with your shoulder?” I asked him.

  Aubrey glanced up quickly, concern flooding her features again.

  “Nothing,” he muttered through a mouthful of cheese.

  We stared at him, suspicious, until the tomato-red flush returned to his cheeks.

  “I hurt it,” he said, swallowing. “In gym.”

  Aubrey’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You didn’t have gym this morning.”

  He shrugged, the movement causing him to wince. “I’m fine,” he repeated, finishing off his lunch.

  Liar. I tilted around in my chair and looked at him. “Who was it?”

  Anger flashed in his eyes, and I knew I was on the right track. I noticed what went on in the halls of Hadfield High. Juniors were the most likely culprits, probably because sophomores were still low on the food chain and seniors had better things to do than torture freshmen. But even though the school year had barely begun, a few obnoxious juniors had already made cruelty into a sport. Mostly they were all talk, lobbing insults as you walked by, but sometimes—if they were extra bored or if one of them felt like showing off—they took things further. And Ethan—skinny, quiet Ethan—was perfect fodder for idiots like them.

  “Who was what?” Aubrey asked, her gaze bouncing between us.

  Ethan sighed and craned his neck toward the table by the window, where the junior jerks in question shoved food into their mouths like they’d never learned table manners. “The one in the red shirt who looks like he should’ve graduated five years ago.”

  I knew exactly who he meant. Wyatt Greer, king of obnoxious assholes. Last year, he’d tripped some kid in the auditorium, causing him to fall and break his nose.

  “He hurt you?” Aubrey’s coloring rose to rival Ethan’s. “What did he do?”

  Ethan turned back around, his left hand reaching up to massage his shoulder. “Punted me into a locker. By accident, of course. He even said he was sorry.”

  “Accident, my foot.”

  “Someone should slam Wyatt Greer into a locker,” I said, glaring over there as I sipped my cranberry juice. “See how he likes it.”

  “He’s like two hundred pounds,” Ethan pointed out. “He wouldn’t budge.”

  “True.” My gaze lowered to my orange plastic cafeteria tray. “It would probably work better if something slammed into him.”

  “Like a truck?” Aubrey said, huffing out a breath.

  “We’re not that lucky.” I removed the paper plate containing my leftover pizza crust and picked up the tray, testing its flexibility. It was pretty solid. Not easily breakable.

  Ethan caught on to what I was pondering, and his mouth curled into a tiny smile. “Dare ya.”

  Those were my magic words. And also my nickname. The name Dara means “compassion,” but I preferred to believe it translated to daring. My mom claimed I was born fearless. I was the little kid who’d climbed to the highest branch in the tree, jumped off the diving board first, retrieved the lost baseballs from the scary old man’s yard when no one else was brave enough. I loved the thrill, the admiration in people’s eyes when I faced down something scary and won.

  I was Dare-ya Shepard, the girl who never backed away from a challenge.

  “Dara?” Aubrey called as I started in the direction of the junior jerks’ table, tray clutched in my hands. Intent on my goal, I ignored her.

  As luck would have it, the guys stood up as I approached, leaving their lunch mess on the table as they set off toward the exit. I positioned my tray in front of my stomach and held it tight, angling past groups of people until I was directly in Wyatt Greer’s path. He didn’t see me coming; he was snickering to the guy next to him, probably bragging about the skinny kid he’d pushed into a locker right before lunch. This fueled my anger even more, and I rammed my tray into Wyatt’s abdomen as hard as I could without injuring my own organs in the process. He grunted and doubled over.

  “Oops,” I said, slapping a hand to my chest. “I’m so sorry. Total accident.”

  He scowled at me, wheezing like Ethan did during a particularly bad asthma attack. “Watch where you’re going, stupid,” he growled. Such a charmer.

  One of Wyatt’s friends watched me curiously, a half smile on his lips. I’d seen him around last year. Justin Gates. Also a junior, and a really cute one too. Tall, blond hair, magnetic smile. Too bad he had such awful taste in friends.

  “Sorry again,” I said to Wyatt. “So clumsy of me.”

  Before Wyatt or any of his fellow cavemen could react, I turned and bolted back to the table, plastic tray still in hand. When I got there, Aubrey was shaking her head in disapproval and Ethan was laughing so hard, his eyes shimmered with tears.

  “That,” he said between spasms, “was awesome.”

  I grinned and sat down next to my best friend, flinging an arm over her shoulder. Her tiny body buckled under my exuberance. “Ethan dared me,” I said by way of an excuse.

  She shot me a dark look, then another at her brother, and ducked out from under my arm. “You’re impossible.”

  “That’s why you love me.”

  Ethan smiled timidly at me and was just about to say something when tall, blond Justin materialized beside our table. All three of us shut up and stared at him.

  “Hey,” he said, meeting my eyes. “Did my friend do something to offend you back there or what?”

  For a moment all I could do was gape at him, amazed that someone as hot as him was talking to me. “Yes,” I finally said. He seemed more curious than angry, so I figured it was okay to be honest.

  Justin smiled, showing off straight, white teeth, and I felt the impact of it all the way to my knees.

  “In that case, good job. Very impressive aim.”

  I smiled back, praying I didn’t have pizza gunk between my teeth. “I was shooting for lower, actually.”

  His laugh, full and pleasant sounding, was even better than his smile. “That bad, huh? Well, I apologize on his behalf. Wyatt can be kind of a douche.”

  “Kind of?” Aubrey said, and Justin turned to her, his smile growing. Aubrey’s cheeks went pink, making her pretty face look even more appealing.

  “Okay,” he said slowly, his eyes glued to hers. “He can be a complete douche.”

  “Much better.”

  They laughed, and Justin shifted a few inches closer to her. Suddenly i
t was like I didn’t exist. The two slices of pizza I’d eaten burned in my stomach, and I cursed myself for actually thinking for one second a boy would be interested in me when my best friend was smart and talented and pixielike and I was . . . well, the exact opposite of all that.

  Ethan watched his sister with a vaguely confused expression. He’d probably never seen her flirt; in Aubrey’s life, school came first, violin practice came second, and boys fell way down to the bottom of the list.

  “Aubrey McCrae.” Justin leaned over, hands spread on the table, and grinned. “I’ve seen you around. You’re like some sort of violin prodigy, aren’t you?”

  Aubrey flushed even harder and gathered her hair over her shoulder, unconsciously sectioning it off for a braid. She did that when she was nervous. “I just practice a lot.”

  “She’s a prodigy,” I said, poking her arm.

  Justin glanced at me like he’d forgotten I was there and immediately returned his gaze to Aubrey. “Well, prodigy, I guess I’ll see you around,” he said, gifting her with another luminescent smile as he backed away.

  Aubrey gave him a tiny wave and loosened her hair, arranging it over her blazing face. Ethan and I exchanged raised-eyebrow looks.

  “Thanks for introducing us,” he said, reaching for his backpack.

  She smiled in a dazed sort of way, like someone who’d just been given fantastic news but hadn’t had time to process it yet. “Sorry. I was kind of . . . stunned.”

  Clearly, or else she might have realized that Justin had noticed me first. But it was hard to stay bitter when she looked so damn giddy. I nudged her with my elbow and leaned in to whisper, “He’s cute.”

  “I know,” she whispered back, then caught Ethan’s eye as he stood up to leave. “Try to avoid the hallway where the juniors hang out, okay, Eth?” she said to him in her normal big-sister voice.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  He slung his backpack over his good shoulder and left without another word. Aubrey watched him go, mother-hen face back in position.

  “See?” I said. “He’s old enough to take care of his own problems now.”

  “Says the girl who assaulted Wyatt Greer with a cafeteria tray.”

  “I had no choice, remember?” I grabbed the tray in question and piled all the lunch trash on it. “Ethan dared me.”

  three

  Senior Year

  MY PARENTS WORK WAY MORE THAN THEY USED to. My mother is an accounts payable clerk for a car rental company and does extra accounting jobs on the side. My father is a roofer and does extra construction jobs on the side. These side jobs started shortly after I landed in therapy for anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder. The matching dark circles they’re both sporting these days are for me, because they’re doing what’s necessary to make sure I’m okay.

  Mom took an extra day off yesterday, but she’s back to working at the office this morning. It’s raining, hard, so Dad offers to drop Tobias and me off at school on his way to one of his leaky roof repair jobs.

  “When are you going to get your license?” my father asks me once we’re on the road.

  I shrug. I could’ve learned to drive last year while I was staying with Aunt Lydia and Uncle Jared—they even offered to enroll me in driver’s ed—but every time I pictured it, me controlling a vehicle while people crossed in front of me and strolled down the sidewalk beside me, my heart would start galloping. What if I hit one of them? What if I killed one of them?

  It’s not worth the risk.

  “Soon,” I say.

  Dad nods and focuses on the rain-slicked road. I study him for a moment, take in the increasing thinness of his wavy brown hair and the new lines around his mouth. Has he lost weight? Mom has. So have I.

  Tobias says something in the backseat, but his words are drowned out by the sudden roaring in my ears as Dad turns the truck onto Fulham Road.

  I close my eyes as the memories flood in, vivid and strong:

  The sickly-sweet smell of garbage baking in the sun.

  The small pink foot with the blue-painted nails that looked so out of place against the filthy curb.

  The bright red blood, seeping across the hot asphalt.

  So much blood.

  “Dara, honey. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.”

  I open my eyes and see my father’s ashen face. We’re parked on the side of the road, windshield wipers working overtime against the downpour. The spot where Aubrey took her last breath is several yards behind us. I can’t see it anymore. I can’t smell it anymore. All that’s in my nose is the scent of the coconut air freshener hanging off the mirror and my father’s aftershave.

  “I’m okay,” I say, and I’m surprised my voice still sounds like my voice. I glance back at Tobias. He’s pale as the white fabric of his T-shirt. “I’m okay,” I tell him.

  “You couldn’t breathe,” he says in a small voice. “We got scared.”

  My father’s hand trembles as he shifts the truck into drive and merges back into traffic. “I can take you back home, if you want,” he says.

  “No.” I run my hand over my face and it comes back damp. Sweat or tears or both, I have no idea. “I need to go to school. I’ll be fine.”

  He looks at me, uncertain. I take a deep breath to prove my lungs work, and force my body to remain still. Dad sighs and drives me the rest of the way in silence.

  “Check your phone at lunch,” he says as I get out of the truck. “I’m sure your mother will be texting you.”

  I consider asking him not to tell her what happened, but I know even if he doesn’t tell, Tobias will. So I just nod and shut the door.

  As soon as I get inside, I head directly to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall.

  Clearly I’m not ready to face Fulham Road. It’s been fifteen months since Aubrey was killed, but being there made me feel like it just happened yesterday. Am I ever going to be able to drive or walk there again without crying and hyperventilating? Baby steps, Dara, my therapist liked to remind me during every session. Be patient with yourself. Grief is a process.

  What about guilt? I wanted to ask. Is that a process too? But the words never came. Next Monday after school, I’m starting back up with my old therapist, the guy I saw before going to stay with my aunt and uncle last year. Continuing with my weekly therapy was the one condition my parents had when they found out I wanted to come home. Maybe I’ll ask Dr. Lemke about guilt.

  I flush the toilet for no reason at all and exit the stall. Chloe Stockton stands at a sink, brushing her hair. We’ve never been close friends, but we were assignment partners a couple of times in sophomore biology and got along well. She’s one of the nicest girls in our grade.

  “Hi,” I say, turning on the tap. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I see the expression of dawning horror some people get when they look at me now. Oh my God, it’s her. This look was all over the place yesterday, on students, teachers . . . even the damn janitor side-eyed me as he passed by with his mop. By lunchtime, the entire school knew I was back.

  Or so I assume. I still haven’t seen Ethan. Maybe his parents ordered him to stay away from me. That wouldn’t surprise me; I’m pretty sure they still hate my guts. Or maybe he’s avoiding me all on his own because he hates me just as much. Last week, my parents sat me down and told me it would probably be best if I gave the McCraes some space for now. Seeing me again after all this time might bring everything back to the surface, Mom said, and they’ll need time to process it.

  “Um, hi,” Chloe mumbles, quickly stuffing her brush in her purse. She turns and leaves before I can say anything else.

  I take deep breaths as I dry my hands. It’s fine, I tell myself. I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided to come back. Of course people aren’t going to act delighted to see me. Of course they’re going to stare and whisper and avoid me when they don’t know what to say. I expected this.

  I don’t want to be treated like nothing happened. I don’t want to forget.

&n
bsp; First-bell rings as I’m leaving the bathroom. I glance around to see if Chloe is nearby, whispering to friends about how she’d just run into that freak Dara Shepard in the bathroom, but all I see are strangers. Young kids, mostly. This year’s new freshmen, hanging out near their lockers. No one notices me as I walk down the hall toward the stairs. My locker and my first class are both on the second floor.

  My brain is still foggy from the flashback in Dad’s truck, so it takes me a few moments to realize I’m approaching the music room. I wait for the heart-pounding, head-roaring, can’t-breathe feeling I get whenever I’m confronted with an Aubrey memory, but all I feel is a slight tingling in my stomach. Maybe because the music room is a good memory.

  By the time I met Aubrey, in sixth grade, she’d already been playing violin for seven years. It was a no-brainer that she’d play in our middle school orchestra. Even back then she was all business, with ramrod straight posture and a serious face that rarely curved into a smile. I knew we’d be friends about a week into the school year, when I accidentally poked Gavin Kilroy in the back of the head with my cello bow and Aubrey burst into uncharacteristic giggles. From then on, I made it my personal mission to bring some laughter into her life. Even if her talent did intimidate me at times.

  Our orchestra teacher, Ms. Valdez, lit up like a sparkler the first time she heard Aubrey perform. I was much less impressive on the cello, but that was okay because we had Aubrey. Then, a year later, we had Ethan, who also played the violin ridiculously well. By the time they both got to high school, they were known as the orchestra’s two majorly talented stars.

  I wasn’t a star. I gave up the cello at the end of freshman year and joined the volleyball team instead. Aubrey was disappointed.

  The music room door is locked, but when I peer really close through the small window, I can make out a few music stands and chairs. Aubrey sits in one of them, back perfectly straight as her bow juts through the air. Long, curly hair shields her face, but I know her eyes are closed, her face calm and dreamy.

  I can see it so clearly.

  “Is it true?”