All Eyes on Us, page 17
After a few minutes with Carter, his parents slip out to review insurance information with a hospital employee, and Carter and I are alone. I pull up a chair.
“You’re here.” His tone is flat.
“Of course I’m here. Did you think I wouldn’t come?”
Carter turns his head on the pillow and stares toward the window. Someone’s drawn the curtain shut, so it’s just a wall of fluttering beige and blue. He doesn’t answer. After a moment, he turns back to look at me, as if he’s surprised I haven’t disappeared.
“Aren’t you hot?” he finally asks.
I’m still stuffed into my puffy coat. I shake my head and wrap my arms around my stomach. Everything about tonight feels unsafe. Carter’s arm is in a cast, and the concussion is serious. He’s looking at me like he’s not sure I’m real. Or like he’s not sure he wants me to be.
“Thank god you’re okay,” I whisper. I try to look somewhere neutral, but my eyes keep landing on his injuries. This feels like a punishment—for doubting Carter, for believing Private, for flirting with David, even if it was all in my head. Only Carter’s the one being punished.
“Out for the season, but I’ll live.” His voice is tight. It hits me that he’s talking about lacrosse. Did you get back together with Rosalie? I want to ask. Do you love her? Do you love me?
“Do you remember the car?” I say out loud. “Anything about it?”
Carter shakes his head gingerly. “Not really. It came from behind, so I didn’t get a look. I remember headlights, low to the ground. So it probably wasn’t a truck or SUV. It knocked me into a snowbank. The doctors said I’m lucky ’cause it cushioned the impact when my head hit. But I don’t remember that. I remember the lights, and then I was here.”
I swallow and take a deep breath. Even if he has been lying to me, it’s impossible to be mad at him right now. “I was so scared when your dad called.”
“I’m gonna be fine.” Carter grins, too wide. “Ouch.”
I reach out and slip my hand into his. He squeezes it quickly, then lets his hand drop back limply on the bed. “Carter, something’s not right. Who drives like that by school?”
“It was really snowing, though. Probably just bad luck.”
I stare at my boyfriend in that hospital bed, and I just know. Nothing about this was luck. Someone knew Carter was out there walking. Someone hit him on purpose.
It’s not because of my doubts or guilty conscience, but it’s suddenly perfectly clear that this is happening because of me. Because I refused to do Private’s bidding. Scraps of the texts flash across my vision. Things are going to get real ugly if you don’t start listening to me. And that typewritten note that came with the flowers: Before January 24, you will break Carter Shaw’s heart. . . . End it—or I’ll end things my way.
Something cold and sharp twists deep in my gut. No matter how bad Carter messed up, he doesn’t deserve this. No one does. This has to end. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but before I can figure out what, a technician comes into the room. I stand up to get out of her way.
“Just checking vitals,” she says. “You’re fine.”
I lean back against the wall, and she turns to Carter. “How you feeling, honey?”
“Okay. Kind of like I got hit by a car.”
She smiles. “A comedian.”
“Do you know if they returned my stuff?” Carter asks.
The tech looks at him blankly.
“I had a backpack. Before I went into surgery, an officer said they’d give it back since there was nothing to enter into evidence.”
I scan the room. There’s a wheelie cart near the door; I can see Carter’s backpack stuffed into the bottom shelf. “Found it.”
While she finishes whatever she’s doing and makes a note on Carter’s chart, I walk over and grab the backpack. It’s unzipped all the way; the police obviously pawed through it thoroughly. Carter’s books and a white CVS bag are inside. The technician says she’ll be back in a couple hours, and I bring it over to the foot of Carter’s bed.
“What did you get at CVS?”
Carter draws his lower lip between his teeth. “I don’t remember. Gum? Everything right before the car hit me is a little foggy. Doctor said that’s normal with head trauma.”
I turn the bag upside down and the contents spill onto the bed. Two sticks of deodorant and a pack of cinnamon gum. I’m about to put it all back when something catches my eye. At the bottom of the backpack, half crushed beneath his history text, is a small teddy bear. I gasp.
“What?” Carter asks, straining to look.
“This bear. It’s the same one from my locker. Did this come from CVS?”
Carter frowns. “I don’t remember. Why would I buy that?”
“I don’t know!” I fish around for the receipt, but there isn’t one.
“Let me see your wallet.”
“Huh?”
“The receipt. It’s not here. Let me see your wallet.”
Carter motions with his chin toward the little bedside table. On it are a pitcher of ice water, a cup, his phone, and his wallet. I snatch it and rifle through. Just his usual cards, ID, some cash. Carter’s wallet is immaculate.
“Amanda, I don’t think I bought that bear.”
I turn it over, looking for a message from Private, something tucked into the ribbon around its neck. There’s nothing. But on the merchandise tag, there’s an orange price sticker from CVS. Clearance $5.00.
“I don’t think you did either.” I think about how some serial killers mark their victims or leave a token at the crime scene, and suddenly I’m freezing, despite my coat. Someone knew Carter was going to CVS. They put it in his bag, left it for me to find. Private wants me to know he was responsible for the hit-and-run.
I smile and take Carter’s hand in mine. This time I hold it firm, don’t let him pull away. A million dollars says there will be a message from Private waiting for me at home. I look up, and Carter’s parents are back, waiting in the doorway for us to finish up. I shove the bear into my bag and lean over to kiss the top of his head.
“I should go.”
“Can you hand me my phone?” he asks. “I’ll be bored here without you.”
I grab it from the side table and hand it over. “I’ll see you soon,” I promise.
• • •
At home, our delivery from Taro sits in a soggy bag on the porch. I pull into the garage, then walk outside to retrieve it. Inside, I shove it into the trash and grab my phone from the dining room table. It’s almost completely dead, but I have a bunch of new messages. When I have it plugged into the charger in my room, I open them. Most of the texts are from Trina, but I have two new messages from Private. My hand trembles as I open the conversation.
It’s a group text, to both me and Rosalie, from 8:31.
You shouldn’t have ignored me. Now look what you made me do.
The second message is from 9:42.
You have 9 days until your boyfriend turns 18. You both have instructions, and they still stand. Ignore me again, and it will be much, much worse next time.
I close out of the conversation. In a few minutes, a new message comes through. This time, it’s from Rosalie.
20
ROSALIE
MONDAY, JANUARY 15
At Youth Ministry, the memory of last night sticks in my throat like a stone I can’t swallow down. When it’s my turn to share my affirmation of the profound word, I tap into old reserves—the ones I learned from Michael. Flip the switch, get numb. Another girl’s voice spills from my lips, professes how true healing can’t begin until we know we’re broken, how it’s through darkness that His way is revealed as pure light. Brother Masters praises my bravery and leads us in a hymn about Jesus, our strong tower. I raise my arms and sway along with Ivan Brophy and Beth Clark and Emily Masters and everyone else, but my mind is a million miles from God’s Grace.
I let this happen. When Carter came into my life, I thought I’d found my delivery from church offices and camp isolation rooms and my parents’ watchful eye. I should have known better than to believe in miracles. I spin the purity ring around and around on my finger.
When we’re all bundling up in our coats and scarves, Brother Masters pulls me aside. His hair, thick and blond like Emily’s, is creased up at a funny angle from his snow cap.
“I liked what you had to say today, Rosalie. It is through recognizing the darkness within us that we come to see His light.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, jamming my hands into my gloves.
“But you seem distracted,” he continues, and I know I’m not off the hook. As always, my performance was good, but not good enough. “When you focus on strengthening your relationship with Jesus, that’s when true progress happens. This summer, I’m leading a mission trip to a rural community in Kentucky. It’s a place a lot like Culver Ridge, and we have the special opportunity to bring our Fellowship ministry to the people there. I’ll be announcing the details in a few weeks, but I wanted to tell you now.” His look says this is a prize, a secret between us.
I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral.
“You’ll be eighteen by July?”
“I will,” I say hesitantly.
“I’d like you come, Rosalie. To assist me, as a Youth Ministry leader.” He clasps my hand in his, and I can feel the force of his grip even through my glove.
His offer should be an honor, but it feels like a threat. I promise to think about it, then duck outside before Ivan can shower me with stories about his day with Mission Driven.
On the ride home with Dad, the snow is really coming down, a rush of thick, wet flakes that have already piled up three feet deep on the sidewalks. We drive slow, and I tell him about Brother Masters’s mission trip. I talk as if I might actually go. As if I won’t have already moved out, won’t be living in Pittsburgh with Pau. More lies, but it’s worth it for this brief moment. Dad looks delighted. This might be one of the last times he looks at me that way.
• • •
When I’m finally in my room with the chair jammed under the doorknob, I change out of my church clothes and start packing my pen. It’s almost ten, and my nerves are shot. I just need to relax and crawl into bed. I crack the window and breathe the vapor in until my chest unlocks, a slow liquid warmth spreading from my lungs to the tips of my fingers and toes. Then, I lie on my bed, on top of the covers, and let myself float. Eventually, I turn my phone on and plug it into the charger. I haven’t checked it for hours; no screens at Youth Ministry.
My notifications light up immediately. I have a series of texts, a missed call from a local number, and an unheard voice mail. I press play.
“This is Meghan calling from Mercy Hospital in Logansville. I’m calling at the request of a patient here, Carter Shaw. Rosalie, Mr. Shaw was in a car accident this afternoon. He’s currently in surgery, but has asked that you get in touch with him as soon as possible.”
My heart jumps to my throat. I need Carter to be out of my life, but also, I need him to be okay. To live out a long and happy future with Amanda, as if I’d never meddled. A small voice inside my head says this accident was somehow my fault. I pushed him away, didn’t give him anything close to a real explanation. Maybe he did something dangerous, because of me.
I click over to my texts, and everything shifts into focus. Two new group messages from Private, claiming responsibility for something Amanda and I supposedly made him or her do. Carter in the hospital, Private’s promise that “it will be much, much worse next time.” This was no accident. I send a quick text to the other number on the chat.
Is this Amanda? What’s going on?
The reply comes right away.
Stay out of this. I’ll handle it.
Fine, great.
She doesn’t text back.
I don’t feel fine or great. I feel dead sober. I feel scared. I also feel like the worst person in the world. I open up a new message to Carter.
Are you okay? Someone from the hospital called.
Rosalie.
Hey.
I through you wear ignoring the wounded.
What? Sorry. Youth Ministry tonight.
Ripe, forgot. Typing with once hand. Can we FaceTime?
A fist of worry tightens inside my chest. This needs to be a clean break. I can’t get sucked back in. But Carter’s in the hospital, probably because of me—because I ignored Private’s demands. My pesky, worthless conscience says I owe him a few minutes on FaceTime.
When he answers the call, he’s a mess. Bandaged face, weird hospital lighting. He holds up his arm to show me the cast.
“You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“I think it was a car. But yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not really sure? I was walking by school. You may have noticed there’s a snowstorm.” He cracks a smile. “Ouch.”
“Out of control driver?”
“Yeah, drove up on the sidewalk. I don’t really remember, but a snowbank caught me. Broke my arm and cracked a couple ribs, but I’ll be fine.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry, Carter.” Because I did this to you. Because this is my fault. I force myself to smile.
“Rosalie, listen, I was thinking. About yesterday—”
“Carter, look—”
“No, let me finish. Remember that car? The one that almost hit me when you were on your bike, and I was in the other lane?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not a coincidence.” His voice is dead serious. Determination radiates through the bandages.
“You think it was the same driver?” But that was before I texted Private.
Carter shakes his head gently. “No, listen. Yesterday, I almost got into an accident, but you were there. You saved me. Today, you weren’t here.”
I suck in a quick breath, and he continues. “Don’t you see it, Rosalie? There’s a connection. It’s a sign we’re not supposed to be apart.” I start to shake my head back and forth, but he keeps talking. “It’s like yesterday, there was a shield around me, and today, that shield was gone.”
“Carter—” I start to say. He has it all wrong. He almost got into an accident yesterday because he was driving in the wrong lane.
“You believe in God, right, Rosalie?”
I stare at him on the screen, my mouth hanging open. He sounds like my parents, their believer’s addiction to the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Is Carter Shaw about to ask me if I’ve taken Jesus into my heart?
“Rosalie?” he asks again.
“Of course I do,” I say slowly. Despite everything the Fellowship has taken away from me, they can’t take away God. Even if I can’t picture what our relationship will look like once I leave the FOC behind.
Carter nods. “I’ve never been sure, until tonight. But this accident was a sign from God.”
“I don’t—”
“You don’t have to say anything right now. Just think about it. We’re supposed to be together, Rosalie. I love you so much. I really need you right now.”
For the second time in as many days, I can feel the air being squeezed out of my lungs. I’ve told so many lies, and now, this is my punishment.
I force myself to take in a shaky breath. “I think you need some rest. This must be really stressful.”
“Wish you were here,” he says. “I miss you.”
I give him a weak smile. “Take care, okay?”
Before he can say anything else, I end the video call. Carter could have been killed today. I slam my fist into my mattress with an unsatisfying thud. Here I am, still stuck in this mess. I have to unmask Private before we find out what’s next, but the one person who could help me hates my guts. A heart-to-heart with my family is out of the question, and because of the holiday weekend, I haven’t seen Pau since Friday. I am totally alone.
I get under the covers without brushing my teeth, then stare up at the ceiling and follow the lines where the paint has cracked. Just one of the many home repairs we never got around to making. If I look at it one way, it’s a network, a road map. Endless paths. But when I look again, it’s a just a broken web. My life on display, all the threads torn apart.
21
AMANDA
TUESDAY, JANUARY 16
In a rare display of parental empathy, my mother knocks on my door Tuesday morning to tell me she’s notified the school I’ll be staying home today. I can’t even believe she’s up. She says something about needing my rest after the stress of last night. I’ll take it. I fall back to sleep and when I wake again, it’s after eleven.
I check my phone. Adele wants to know where I am today. Graham says he’s driving Ben and Bronson to the hospital at lunch, if I want to come. I can’t deal with anyone right now, and most of all, I can’t face Carter again so soon. I text back saying I’m sick.
The last text is from Alexander, a sweet note asking how I’m feeling. I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the screen, then write:
Honestly? I’m scared.
And if I’m being really honest, fear is only the thick outer layer. Beneath that, I’m furious someone thinks this is part of a game I never asked to play. And sick to my stomach that Carter got hurt because I wouldn’t surrender to Private. And even deeper? I feel like I’m breaking. Because we aren’t happy, and we haven’t been for a long time. This isn’t really about Rosalie, much as I’d love to pin it all on her. This is about Carter and me, and I’m not sure there’s any way to fix us.
I don’t know what to say to Carter, where we go from here. But I’m not about to give some egomaniac with an anonymous number and an anger management problem the satisfaction of thinking he destroyed us. If we break up, it’ll be on my terms. And I’m not about to dump my boyfriend of over three years while he’s in the hospital. Which means I have a few days to think, figure out what I really want. And in the meantime, I’ve got to channel every ounce of anger and sadness and fear into exposing Private. It’s the only way to end this.
