Good Girl, Bad Girl(13)

“Papa was a rolling stone. Wherever he laid his hat was his home. And when he died, all he left us was alone.”

“The Temptations.”

“It’s a good song.”

“You’re not taking me seriously.”

“You’ve asked me this stuff before.”

“And you haven’t answered.”

“Recognize the pattern?”

Leaning back in my chair, I rub the instep of one foot with the arch of the other. I’m not wearing shoes or socks—preferring bare feet because I like to feel the ground beneath me. My electronic tracker looks like a manacle minus the ball and chain. I tested it once. I made it as far as the parking area before the alarms started sounding.

“I want what’s best for you,” says Guthrie, giving me his hangdog look.

“Then let me go.”

“Answer my questions.”

Isn’t my silence loud enough? I think. Don’t tell me that my silence doesn’t have a sound. I can hear it, loud and clear, screaming between my words.

Guthrie sighs and scratches at a razor burn on his neck, lowering his eyes to look at my file. He’s going bald in a neat round dome on top of his skull. Does it happen to all men? I wonder. I quickly draw up a mental list. Alfie and Dylan from the kitchens have full heads of hair. Paddy the gardener is a little bald, and Reno, one of the counselors, shaves and oils his head, so it’s hard to tell. Terry Boland had hair, which fell out after he’d been dead a few weeks, which isn’t the same. Some do, some don’t, is my guess.

Guthrie has been talking to me. He lectures more than talks. His voice is so boring he should make meditation tapes. “Soporific” is my word for the day. Every morning I choose a new one from the dictionary and try to put it into a sentence. Certain words stick in my mind, like “peripatetic” and “serendipitous,” because they sound so musical. Others I’ve forgotten already.

When my mind wanders the walls seem to drop away, and the streets and houses and cities disappear, until I find myself lying in the shade of a tree, smelling the grass and turned earth and wood smoke. Nearby, my mother is moving between the rows, filling a wicker basket with raspberries and red currants. I don’t know if this is a real memory or if someone has planted it in my mind to make me believe that I had a childhood, but I can remember the soft golden light and the buzz of bumblebees in the hedgerows and the coarseness of the grass. I remember my mother’s dark hair, which curled over her shoulder as she worked.

Guthrie’s voice intrudes. “What would you do if you could leave?”

“Get a job. Find somewhere to live.”

“I could help make that happen.”

“Good.”

“We could process the paperwork today—all I need is a few details.” He clicks the top of a pen. “Firstly. Your date of birth, and your real name, and where you were born.”

I sigh as though I’m dealing with a moron.

Guthrie continues. “How do we know you’re eighteen?”

“You’ve checked my teeth and my wrist bones. You’ve taken X-rays and measurements.”

“Those tests have a margin for error.”

“I’m in the margin.”

“How did you meet Terry Boland?”

“We met in the springtime at a rock-and-roll show.”

“Is that another song lyric?”

“Might be.”

“Did he kidnap you?”

I sigh and toy with the cord of my track pants, twirling it between my fingertips. There’s no point getting annoyed or acting the way I feel, which is bored shitless, because I’ll get another red card.

“Can I have a drink of water?” I ask.

“No.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“Not until you answer the question. I’m trying to help you, Evie, but we have to meet each other halfway.”

Halfway to where? People always say that when they have no idea of the distances involved. I could come from another planet. I could come from another time in history. But they want to meet me halfway.

I am happy with who I am. I have pieced myself together from the half-broken things. I have learned how to hide, how to run, how to keep safe, despite never knowing a time when my blood didn’t run cold at the sound of footsteps stopping outside my door or the sound of someone breathing on the opposite side of a wall.

I know the jittery, crawling sensation that ripples down my spine whenever I feel the weight of eyes on me. Searching my face. Trying to recognize me. And no matter how many times I step into doorways or look over my shoulder or yell, “I know you’re there,” the street is always empty. No footsteps. No shadows. No eyes.

“I understand your pain,” says Guthrie. “I know how it separates you from a normal life, from what’s true and real.”

How does anyone know what’s true or real? Things we once accepted as facts are now accepted as being wrong. The earth is not flat, smoking isn’t good for us, Pluto isn’t a planet, witches weren’t burnt at the stake in Salem, and humans have more than five senses. Everything has a half-life—even facts.

Guthrie rocks back in his chair and looks at me impatiently. He begins quoting from my file—which he seems to know by heart—the foster homes, my escapes and arrests, the alcohol and drug abuse.