Todd Strasser - Blood on my hands

Mia got up stiffly and started in David’s direction. Halfway there she shot an uncertain glance back at Katherine, who flicked her wrist as if shooing her forward.

The boys quieted as Mia approached, taking timid steps, as if she were making her way across a pond covered by thinning ice. Finally she stopped in front of David, who, with dipping eyebrows and one side of his mouth turned up, looked both skeptical and amused. The boys around them were silent. Mia reached up and “slapped” David’s face. It was barely more than a tap. Then, her face much redder than his, she scurried back toward us.

David looked in our direction, his eyes not on Mia but on Katherine. He shoved his fists in his pockets, nodded slightly, and smirked, as if he understood precisely why she had sent a minion to deliver the faux blow. Katherine nodded back, then turned to the table just as Mia sat down, still red-faced and breathing hard.

“You call that a slap?” Katherine said, then ignored Mia for the rest of lunch.

“How does she do it? I mean, manage to instill so much fear?”

“By being judgmental and having a wicked tongue. It’s a lethal combination.”

“Only if people care.”

“Some do; some don’t.”

“I’d so like to put her in her place.”

“Ha! See?”

“See what?”

“You wouldn’t say that if you didn’t care.”

Sunday 12:15 A.M.

THE POLICE OFFICER will leave. My mother will shut the door and press her back against it to keep her from collapsing to the floor. She will be devastated-in the first moments of being ravaged by emotional turmoil. But of all the possible emotions, the one she will not feel is shock. At this point, there’s nothing left that can surprise her.

In the playhouse the air is musty and smells like dry wood. I can’t help thinking of the children who have played in here. Little girls serving pretend meals to dolls seated around the table. Boys kneeling at the windows, firing toy guns at imaginary attackers. But here in the dark now, there is nothing pretend or imaginary. It’s all horribly real.

My cell phone vibrates. With trembling fingers I pull it out of my pocket. It’s Mom.

“Are the police there?” I ask.

“They just left.” Her voice is high and anxious. “A murder? My God, Cal, what’s going on?”

My heart heaves and my eyes become watery. As frightened as I am, I feel even worse for her. After everything she’s been through. Sebastian and Dad. And now this? It’s as if her family is slowly being destroyed before her eyes.

Tears spill out and roll down my cheeks. “I didn’t do it,” I manage to croak. “I only found her after she’d been stabbed.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m…” I hesitate, knowing how she’ll react. “Hiding.”

“What? Why?” Predictably, her voice rises even higher. “Go to the police. Tell them you didn’t kill her.”

I can’t bring myself to explain about my picking up the knife and the photos they took. Or about the troubles between Katherine and me that I never told Mom about. “They won’t believe me.” I sniff miserably, feeling another wave of emotion rising inside me. “I can’t explain now. Just… check under the umbrella.”

“What?”

“You’ll figure it out. I have to go. Don’t call back.”

I snap the phone shut.

Almost instantly it rings again.

It’s my mother, of course.

But instead of answering, I burst into sobs.

My brother, Sebastian, is four years older than me. As far back as I can remember, Dad wanted him to be a professional athlete. While some sons obediently tried to live up to their fathers’ wishes, Sebastian stubbornly refused. It got so bad they even went to a psychologist, who said that the best thing Dad could do was back off and let Sebastian be.

But Dad could no more back off than Sebastian could be obedient. They were polar forces, feeding off each other’s determination. From the start there was violence. As Sebastian grew older, spankings by hand gave way to spankings by paddle, which gave way to slaps, punches, then all-out fistfights. Mom and I were stunned into silence by the poisonous brutality between them. People at school noticed Sebastian’s bruises. Social services got involved. A few times the police were called. Neighbors gossiped. Rumors spread. People around town began to avoid us. Mom sank inward and became depressed and withdrawn.

I ran.

Sunday 12:25 A.M.

I TAKE DEEP breaths, dry my eyes, and try to think about what I have to do next. The phone vibrates. It’s my mother again. But she can’t help. Most of the time she’s so overwhelmed she can barely take care of Dad.

There’s only one other person I’m certain will believe me. But the last time we spoke, I broke his heart. I could blame Katherine for that. But she didn’t make that phone call; I did.

“I think we should make some that look like boobs,” Katherine said one afternoon last February when we were at Dakota’s house making cookies for the Spirit Day bake sale. Dakota, then the student council vice president, was planning to run for president in senior year.

The rest of us giggled. Katherine, who came off as so proper, could always make us laugh when she said something outrageous.

“Well, I mean, the idea is to sell a lot of cookies, right?” Katherine said.

“The boys would love it,” I said.

“Some of the girls, too,” said Jodie, who was mixing dough with Dakota in the big white KitchenAid mixer.

“I’m sure Mr. Carter would be thrilled,” said Dakota.

“Mean old man,” Katherine muttered.

“No way,” Dakota said. “He gave Seth Phillips and I a-”

“Seth Phillips and me ,” Katherine quickly corrected her.

Dakota rolled her eyes. “He gave Seth Phillips and me permission to skip gym when we needed to work on PACE.”

PACE was the performing arts program at our school.

“And he made a special arrangement so that Slade could get out of school early and help his dad,” I added.

“Ah, Slade.” Katherine looked at her watch. “Gee, Callie, it’s been almost fifteen minutes since you brought him up. By the way, has he heard from Harvard or Yale?”

It was hard to know sometimes whether she was being serious or just kidding around. She knew he wasn’t going to college. At the counter, Dakota and Jodie were silent. I could feel the mood shift from one of gaiety and laughter to something else. This, too, happened often.

“He’s going into the National Guard,” I said. “And when he gets back from training, he’ll work in his dad’s business.”

“Construction?” Katherine said with a disapproving wrinkle of her nose. This wasn’t the first time she’d been critical of Slade, and I really didn’t like it. It felt like she was putting me in the position of having to decide between them. At first, when she’d invited me into her crowd, it had all been fun and laughs. I’d come to relish times like this, when I was included here in Dakota’s kitchen with Katherine’s closest friends, knowing that Mia and the other far-end-of-the-table girls would have died to be in my place. But along with that growing familiarity came a feeling of vulnerability: I had become an unprotected target should Katherine decide to hurl her pointed opinions in my direction.

I looked down at the cookie sheet and busied myself pressing green sugar letters into the dough, spelling out “Go Tigers,” “Win,” and “Tiger Pride!” Not only did Slade work with his father in construction but they’d also helped renovate that very kitchen.

I remembered Slade telling me that it was the biggest kitchen he’d ever seen. It seemed like it had acres of dark green marble countertops, punctuated by dual sinks, brushed-steel appliances, and a large iron ring suspended from the ceiling with a dozen pots and pans hanging from it. Slade had said it had been one of those jobs for which money wasn’t an issue. The Jenkinses had wanted everything to be perfect.