Deadly Design (9780698173613) Page 17

  And Mr. Olson wants me to spend my evenings graphing math problems. Fuck that. “I didn’t do it,” I say, not disrespectfully, but honestly and with little emotion.

  “Why not?” He tries to match the calmness in my voice, but the vein that runs cockeyed down the center of his broad forehead is starting to protrude.

  “Let’s just say I had a few more important things to do.” Like having Jimmy teach me how to pick locks in case Dr. Bartholomew’s desk or filing cabinets are locked. And spending time with the people I care about because I might not have that much time left with them. But spending time with algebra? Hell no.

  “More important things to do. Like video games, I suppose. Or searching for your dad’s Playboy magazines?” The other students laugh.

  “My dad’s more of a National Geographic kind of guy. And I don’t play Xbox much these days. I prefer reality. So no, I wasn’t playing by myself or with myself.”

  Some students around me snicker again, and I hear a distinctive “Oh, shit!” from the back of the room.

  Mr. Olson puts his hand on his blossoming waist. He’s a big man. His chest is thick. He was a linebacker for the school in his glory days, but take away the practices and weightlifting and keep the eggs and bacon for breakfast, and you get a mammoth-sized math teacher.

  I do feel a little sorry for the guy. I mean, he and I are probably going to die from the same thing, but he doesn’t have to. He could put down the bucket of chicken and self-pity and go to the gym. He could get a different job if he hates this one so much. He could live a long life. He has a choice.

  “What do you plan on doing with your life, Mr. McAdams? Really? Are you going to live with Mommy and Daddy until the day you die because you don’t want to be bothered with learning anything?”

  I laugh, feeling the irony down to my bones. “Actually, Mr. Olson, that may be exactly what I do. How about you? You need to sit down? Your heart doing okay in there?”

  His cheeks turn red, and his chest heaves in and out with great effort. “You know,” he puffs, “I had a lot of respect for your brother. But don’t think that the world is going to give you a pass because he died.”

  I smile, even feel like I might tear up a little, but that feeling passes quickly. “You were at graduation, weren’t you?”

  He nods.

  “Well, as someone who respected and admired my brother, I’m sure you’ll appreciate this quote from his speech.” I give him the finger.

  “Would you like to go to the principal’s office?” he asks, the vein protruding even more, and I’m pretty sure I can see it pulsing with each beat of his heart.

  “I’ve been to the principal’s office a few times. It’s not very stimulating.”

  He slams the homework on his desk. “That was a rhetorical question, Mr. McAdams. I wasn’t actually asking you if you wanted to go to the principal’s office.”

  “Oh, sorry. I misunderstood.”

  He gestures toward the door, but my eyes stay fixed on his tense, forty-year-old face.

  “Do I need to call security?”

  “Rhetorical?” I ask, complete with a perplexed look on my face. “I mean, do you really need to call security just to deal with me?”

  His fingers curl in against his palms like he’s ready to punch something, or someone. He steps a few feet closer to me and stands, feet planted, between two rows of desks. “Do you think your brother would be proud of you right now? Don’t you care what he’d think?”

  Cool air has been rattling the metal vents, but suddenly the rattling and the hum of the air-conditioning system stops. Every person is still and silent. Waiting.

  “Well.” I throw my voice into the quiet. “He doesn’t think anything because he’s dead and cold and buried in the ground. And you know what?” I stand. My hands are shaking as I grip the edge of my desk and flip it over. “You might want to make that call to security after all.”

  35

  The sky is a thick, solid gray. I’ve always hated the brightness of the artificial turf on the football field, and now, with the dark clouds and the heavy drops of rain, it seems even brighter, even more fake. I’m in the doorway of the football locker room. Separate from the school itself, this is the place where players line up before running onto the field and tearing through the long banner the cheerleaders make for each home game.

  The season won’t officially start for a few more weeks, but in two hours, the football team will take to the field for practice. Last year, Connor would have been counting down the minutes of his trigonometry class or Spanish 4 or maybe forensics. He’d have been anxious to get on the field and start practicing with his team. He loved football. He loved the way the crowds in the bleachers would scream and stomp their feet to cheer him and the other players on. Now rain is pelting the long strips of metal seats. It’s running down the stairs and onto the artificial grass that doesn’t need rain to stay green.

  I like the sound of the rain hitting the metal roof of the small building that has only two rooms, one for each team. I like the way it collects in the gutters and falls to the ground in a steady stream just in front of where I stand. And I like the way the sound fills my head, leaving little room for thought. I’m tired of thinking, but I can’t stop doing it. Even when I’m sleeping, I dream about Dr. Sharp, about him and me sharing a coffin and how even in death I can’t rest, because he’s constantly coughing, constantly spraying my face and my white satin pillow with his blood.

  When I got sent to the principal’s office, she was nice enough to ask me which parent I wanted her to call. I told her to call Dad, even though he’d have to leave work and I knew my mom was at home, probably mopping spotless floors or dusting dust-free furniture. Mom’s kind of been on autopilot since James died a few weeks ago. She does things; she never stops doing things, and it doesn’t matter if they need to be done.

  I can’t get Dad’s expression out of my head. He wasn’t angry or bewildered. He was sad. I’d rather he’d been angry. I wish he’d shaken his head in disappointment and told me that when we got home, I was really going to get it. I’d be grounded and the Smart car taken away and no more television or video games or going to see Cami. But you don’t punish the dying. You don’t ground those who are about to go in the ground. And he thinks I still have almost a year and a half left. How can I tell him and Mom that I don’t?

  Principal Wiggins explained what happened. Dad listened, nodding his head and not once looking at me with the outrage she was expecting. Then he asked me to step into the hallway for a moment while he talked to her in private. When the office door opened and I was invited back inside, she wasn’t looking at me with that “I’m disappointed in you” expression anymore. The woman who had been pissed at me a few minutes earlier, ready to refer me to both grief counseling and anger management, looked at me like she was . . . sorry. She promised not to share my “condition” with anyone else and changed my two-week suspension to three days. Dad went back to work. I told him that I would take my time getting home, since there were still a few hours of school, and it might be good to wait until he got there to tell Mom about my suspension.

  I wasn’t sure where to go. And then I found myself here. It’s not quite the same as visiting Connor’s grave, but it’s close.

  “There you are,” Cami shouts from beneath the overhang of the concession stand. She runs across the field, and by the time she reaches the locker rooms just past the end zone, rain clings to the curls in her hair, and her soaked T-shirt is pressed against her body.

  “Why aren’t you all wet?” she asks, once she’s safely beneath the overhang.

  “I was here before it started raining,” I say, watching her shiver. “Come on.”

  The door labeled HOME TEAM is locked, but Connor had a key to it. I try a few different keys on the key ring until one opens the door.

  I’m not sure what I’m expecting when I
go inside. I mean, this is the home of the Mighty Panthers, but it really looks like a giant, glorified bathroom. There are sinks along one wall. Above them is one oblong window with frosted glass. Toward the back of the room, there’s a dry-erase board and two rows of benches.

  “Give me your shirt,” I tell Cami. She hesitates, then sees the automatic hand dryers on the wall. She peels the T-shirt off. I mean to look away, but I don’t. I see the white skin of her belly leading to the thin skin-colored bra she’s wearing, and I can’t look away. I take off my own shirt, and still staring, hand it to her. Then I hold her shirt up to the dryer. “How’d you find me?” I ask.

  “Your dad called. He told me what happened. He’s worried about you, so I told him I’d try to find you. Even though your car is kind of little, it’s easy to spot in a pretty empty parking lot. And don’t worry. I already called and told him I found you.”

  “Thanks, but aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

  “I’m in class: Kyle McAdams 101.” She smiles, looking adorable in my blue striped T-shirt. “I was lucky to get in, actually. It’s considered advanced studies.”

  “Really,” I say, pushing the button on the dryer again and shivering just a little at my own bare torso. “I had no idea I was so complex.”

  Cami comes toward me, wraps her arms around my waist, and presses herself against my back so we can both benefit from the warmth of my shirt. Her hands are on my stomach. They feel amazing, driving everything from my mind except thoughts of her. She’s still shivering. She steps away, slips her hands behind her back and under the shirt. Then she reaches into one sleeve and pulls out one strap of her bra, then does the same thing on the other side, only this time, her entire bra comes out the sleeve of my T-shirt. It’s like the best magic trick I’ve ever seen.

  “It’s pretty wet,” she says, taking it to the other dryer and pushing the button.

  I watch her, and all I can think is how much I wish I hadn’t given her my shirt. Shit, I almost feel weak-kneed at the thought of her standing there, bare from the waist up, then I wonder if once her clothes are dry, she’ll be able to use the same trick to put her bra back on. I don’t think so. I could close my eyes. I should, but . . .

  Cami starts laughing.

  I push the button again and talk loudly over the noise. “What?”

  “The expression on your face. You look like Josh right before he unwraps his birthday presents.”

  My face is heating, and I’m not sure if it’s from the hot air blasting toward me or something else. “Are you implying that I want to unwrap you?”

  She lays her bra across the sink, comes toward me, and takes her semidry shirt out of my hands. Her hands go back around my waist. My fingers slip into the damp curls of her hair, and I kiss her harder than I mean to, but I can’t help it. She’s kissing me. She loves me. Even with everything she knows. Even though we might not last because I might not last, she hasn’t backed away. She’s never backed away. I kiss her harder. The iron taste of blood starts to mingle with the taste of her.

  Our lips part, and I stare into her face. I know it so well: the depth of her brown, almost black eyes, the subtle blush of her cheeks, the lips that aren’t long and thin, but small and full and perfectly arched.

  Cami’s fingers grip the hem of the shirt she’s wearing, and she begins to peel it away but hesitates. She’s breathing deeply, and I know her heart is pounding, just like mine is. She starts moving her hands upward again, but I catch them in mine.

  “Wait.” I pull the shirt down. “I love you. And I want you, but when we do it, if we do it, it won’t be in a place like this. I’d have to be the world’s biggest dick to take advantage of you in a locker room.”

  Cami dons a look of confusion. “Did you say that you are the world’s biggest dick or that you have the world’s biggest dick?”

  I laugh. I can’t help it, and that’s what I love about her—one of the many things I love about her. She’s always trying to make me feel better. No matter what. I tightly grip her arms and shake her gently to make sure she’s looking at me and knows that I’m serious.

  “Camille,” I start, “I love you. I am in love with you.”

  She takes my face in her hands. “I love you, but don’t call me Camille. I hate being called Camille.”

  Moments.

  I don’t think it is the number of years a person lives that matters, but the number of moments they experience and how those moments come together to form who you are, or were, and what your life meant. This is a moment. Standing in the stadium locker room, the rain pounding against the metal roof. With Cami’s hands pressed against my cheeks and her eyes smiling and weeping at the same time, because she loves me.

  I kiss her. The taste of fear and love and optimism is intoxicating, and I wish I could drink this moment, this kiss, into my body somehow and taste it forever.

  It’s too intense, and Cami steps away. She takes her nearly dry shirt and turns around. I watch as she pulls my shirt off, and without putting her damp bra back on, pulls her shirt over her body. Then she turns around.

  “It’s probably good that we didn’t make love in here. If we did it on the floor, instead of athlete’s foot, we might have gotten athlete’s ass.”

  I grimace in disgust, but laugh. “Whatever happens, I just don’t want you to have any regrets.”

  “You never answered my question.”

  “What question?”

  “Are you the world’s biggest dick, or do you have the world’s biggest dick?” She’s smiling, blushing.

  “Well.” I kiss the underside of her wrist. “Both would be true, actually. I mean, I am genetically enhanced.”

  36

  “You remember the plan?” Jimmy asks.

  “Yeah, but I still don’t like it.”

  We’re parked at the veterans’ hospital. It’s a mammoth brick building. The east and west wings are three stories high, while the center is four with a white steeple rising from its center.

  “Well, tough shit, kid. Matt and I went over and over it, and with her office being in a secured area, this is the best way to get you in.”

  “But what about you?” I’m okay with the part of the plan where Matt has an actual appointment with the doctor, thus assuring that she stays out of her office for a while. But I’m not comfortable with Jimmy’s part in this. Not comfortable at all.

  “Did you know I wanted to be a teacher?”

  “Yeah, Cami told me.”

  “Uncle Sam was supposed to put me through college. I was going to be a good teacher. I was going to make kids feel capable, you know?”

  He looks at me, and in his deep brown eyes, I see the spirit of a dead dream floating around. Lost.

  “Instead of an education, I got a fucked-up brain. I worked so hard just to learn how to turn letters around in my head so I could read them, and now by the time I get to the end of a paragraph, I can’t remember what the first part was about.” His face, covered with thick stubble, smiles. “But I can do this. I can help you. And, hey, a few days of Klonopin and cartoons won’t be so bad. Won’t be the first time.”

  “What if they—”

  “Give me a lobotomy and a dose of electroconvulsive shock therapy? Nah. I’ll just act crazy for a little while. Once I turn all normal again, they’ll hold me for observation, give me a few dozen pills, then save Uncle Sam a buck by sending me on my merry manic way.”

  I’m not comforted. Jimmy’s normal isn’t exactly normal. “Why are you doing this?” I ask, genuinely. “Something could happen to you. You might not get out as easily as you think.”

  Jimmy looks at me with clear eyes. “How much time do you have left?”

  “At most, maybe three and a half months.”

  He nods. “You join the military, they send you to a place like Iraq or Afghanistan, and you don’t know how long you’re g
onna live. You hope you’ll go home, hope you’ll see your family again, but the truth is, you could get shot waiting in the damn chow line. Nobody knows how much time they have, but your best chance to survive is to depend on your buddies. We watch out for each other. We have each other’s backs. And you’re my buddy.”

  Jimmy slaps me on the arm, then squeezes it, and my chest swells with emotion.

  “Okay,” Jimmy says, opening the car door. “Time to get my crazy on.”

  We go through the massive doors leading to massive hallways. The place is old. I don’t know how old, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some World War I veterans once hobbled down these halls on crutches or were pushed down them in wheelchairs after losing their sight to mustard gas. The place is cold and creepy.

  I can almost see clean-cut World War II ghosts eyeing the bearded, tattooed Vietnam ghosts. I can see ghostly nurses mopping up ghostly blood and vomit and other bodily fluids from the tile floors. It’s eighty degrees outside, and while the air conditioner seems to be working quite well, I have to wonder if the numerous ghosts passing through the halls add to the frigid feel of the air.

  And this is where Jimmy is willing to spend the next few days—if all goes well.

  We walk down one hallway, turn left, and walk down another. Jimmy knows right where to go, and we end up in front of a brick wall where there is a door labeled RESTRICTED: PSYCHIATRIC WARD. The door is made of thick glass. Next to it, halfway up the wall, is a large window that slides open.

  “You ready?” Jimmy whispers, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be ready for. I’ve never seen someone having a psychotic breakdown, but Jimmy’s about to demonstrate.