April Henry - The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die

Ty pushes open the door. “Hey, James. I hope you’re decent!”

I freeze on the threshold. He didn’t say anything about living with someone else. But before I can decide what to do, a guy stands up from the couch where he was stretched out watching TV. His straight hair is dyed black and bleached blond on the tips. He pushes it back from where it hangs over one eye, then bends down and gets the clicker to turn off the TV. James is wearing skinny jeans and a tan T-shirt with a silk-screened brown bear standing on its hind legs, arms raised. He looks a few years older than me, but he’s about my height and probably skinnier.

“James, this is Katie. She needs a place to sleep tonight, so I said she could crash here, and I’d take the couch.”

“Hey.” James gives me a nod, and then exchanges a wordless look with Ty.

Just when I want to run back out the door, a little ball of fur explodes around the corner, yapping. Ty scoops it up. “Hey, Spot. Did you miss me?”

“Spot?” I echo. The dog is solid black. I hold out my hand, and Spot licks the back of it.

“Just think of him as one big spot,” Ty says. He sets Spot down. The dog puts his paws on my knee and starts sniffing my pant leg. I wonder if he smells the blood. I see James noticing the stains, too, although he pretends not to when I catch him staring.

“I’ll heat up some food for you,” Ty says and turns right to go into a kitchen with a breakfast nook. The three chairs at the table don’t match. I wonder how comfortable the old couch—which is brown and bears only a passing resemblance to leather—will be to sleep on.

“Where’d you meet Ty?” James asks, perching on one of the arms.

“At McDonald’s.” It seems like a good idea to leave out the part where I pulled a gun on him.

“Do your parents know where you are, Katie?” James raises one eyebrow.

I realize he thinks I’m a runaway. Well, I am, but not like he thinks.

“I’m not sure.” My eyes sting. I guess those people in the photo are my parents, but I don’t know anything about them. Maybe they really are the kind of parents a girl would run away from. But I don’t think so. I wonder where they think I am.

I wonder if they’re alive.

James’s expression betrays nothing if he sees how my eyes are shining. “Do you need a phone to call them?” He pulls a cell phone from his pocket and offers it to me. “It might be good to let them know where you are.”

“That’s okay.” I wave it off. “Right now, there’s not a way for me to get hold of them.” His offering the phone makes me think of Brenner’s phone. I pull it out and look at the display. The battery’s at less than 10 percent. A dead man’s phone. And it’s almost dead itself. I push the power button until it goes black, then notice James watching me.

From the kitchen, a microwave bings. We both turn at the sound. “Who wants gumbo?” Ty calls out.

“I do,” I say, and James echoes me. Remembering the garbage can, I ask Ty if it’s okay to wash my hands in the kitchen sink first.

The three of us end up sitting in those mismatched chairs. It’s nothing like the food I ate at McDonald’s. Compared to it, the food at McDonald’s isn’t even really food. The gumbo has bell peppers, okra, sausage, chicken, and tomatoes, all of it served over rice.

“This tastes fantastic,” I say, sopping up some of the spicy brown sauce with a crusty roll.

Ty shrugs, looking pleased. “It’s just leftovers.”

“Then I want to eat leftovers the rest of my life.” I concentrate on eating while the two of them talk about their day. I figure out that James cuts hair at a salon, and Ty goes to school before he works at McDonald’s.

“Like college?” I ask.

“Like high school. I’m a senior.” Ty’s tone doesn’t invite any questions. For example, why someone still in high school is living in an apartment. And with James, who seems to be gay.

So is Ty gay? I think of how he caught his breath when he helped me into the garbage can. I don’t think so.

It’s hard enough trying to figure out stuff about me, let alone other people. And thinking just makes me tired. I start yawning and can’t stop.

“Let me show you where you can sleep,” Ty says.

James tips me a wink. “Quick, before she puts her head down on the table.”

At the end of a short hall are two bedrooms. Through one half-open door, I see a tangle of clothes on the floor. But the room Ty goes into is as neat as if no one lives there. There are only a few clothes hanging in the closet. The bed is a mattress on the floor with mismatched sheets and a couple of blankets. Next to it is a stack of library books. The chest of drawers is made of gray plastic.

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” he says, hot color climbing his cheeks. He roots around in the chest of drawers—everything inside is neatly folded, which makes it clear just how little there is—and comes up with an oversized green nylon football shirt. “You could sleep in this, if you want.” Ty’s face gets even redder. “You’ll probably want to shower first. I don’t have an extra toothbrush, but I guess you could just use your finger and some toothpaste. Oh, and I’ll put a clean towel on the counter for you. Do you need anything else?”

I need so much I can’t even name it. But Ty has given me what I need most. A feeling of safety, if only for a little while. “No. Thanks. I really appreciate you helping me out.”

Even with the bathroom door locked, it’s hard to take off my clothes. I already feel vulnerable. It’s only in the warm shower that I finally relax a little. My body is marked with bruises and scrapes, all of them new looking, and only a few that I remember getting.

After I dry myself off, I put toothpaste on my index finger and rub it back and forth across my teeth, avoiding the loose tooth. I rinse out my mouth, then look at the girl in the mirror. Her eyes are frightened. What kind of girl am I, that someone would do these things to me?

When I go back into the hall, I hear Ty and James talking in low voices. I can’t make out the words, just the tone, but I know what they’re talking about.

Who—or whom—they’re talking about.

The tan carpet muffles my footsteps as I edge closer. There’s a flapping noise as someone shakes out a blanket.

“You’ve never brought a girl home before,” James says. “And now when you do, you sleep on the couch?”

“It’s not like that,” Ty says. “She’s in trouble.”

“Trouble.” James makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “That’s just what we need. What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know exactly.” Ty hesitates and then says in a rush, “She doesn’t remember who she is.”

“Are you saying she’s got, like, amnesia? Why didn’t you take her to the cops or at least a hospital? What if she hit her head or had a stroke or something? Look, this isn’t like the stray cat you kept feeding in the parking lot last year until someone ran over it. Or that baby bird you put in the shoebox. Those were only animals, and look how things turned out for them.”

“What about Spot? He’s doing okay.”

“Spot’s great,” James says. “I love Spot, but this is a person. She needs to be checked out by a real medical professional. Not somebody who’s taking an online class about how to be an EMT.”

“Her pupils are the same size and track normally.” For a second, Ty sounds older. “Her expressions are symmetrical, and she’s not slurring her words.”

James isn’t mollified. “That’s an expensive sweater she’s wearing. Nobody just threw her out on the street. Whoever she is, she must have a family. She belongs with them. You can bet somebody’s looking for her. And they might not like that you kept her.”