Paranoid(59)

She looked at him and he lifted a shoulder again. He got it; she was saying he was a slacker.

Turning away from the monitor, she leaned across the desk. “You know, Dylan, you have tremendous potential.”

Yeah, yeah, he’d heard it all before.

“In fact, Mr. Tallarico has requested you to be his TA in computer science next year. That’s a spot usually reserved for a senior.” She paused, waiting for a reaction, but he just slouched in his chair. “So why the disparity?” she asked, though he thought it was a rhetorical question. She really didn’t expect him to answer and he didn’t. Leaning back she asked, “How’re things going here, at school?”

“Okay.”

“No problem with friends, other than with Mr. Schmidt?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“What about at home?”

“What?”

“You live with your mother.” Not a question.

So here it was. The big D word. His parents were divorced. Which wasn’t a big deal; lots of his friends’ parents had split up.

“Most of the time, yeah.” He looked up and held her gaze.

“But you see your dad.” Another too-kind smile.

“Oh, yeah.”

She frowned a little. “Everything okay at home?”

“Yeah.” He said it with a little more enthusiasm. What was she getting at? He added, “We’re good. Real good.”

She waited a few seconds, then pushed herself to standing. “Okay, then, but just so you know, you can always talk to me or Miss Lindley.”

The school psychologist? Oh, geez. “Don’t need to,” he said, feeling his back muscles tighten.

“Fine. Just as long as you know. Now, maybe you can help us sort out the mess with the security cameras. As I understand it, the problem lies in storage of the data on the computer. Mr. Tallarico has already started looking at it.”

Oh. So he wasn’t on his own. No surprise. But too bad. He would love to have some time alone with the school security system.

As Mrs. Walsh rounded the corner of her desk he noticed for the first time the newspaper folded neatly near her in-basket. Suddenly he understood.

She’d read the article about his uncle being murdered, about his mom being charged. Just like Tori Suzuki. Great. Of course, the vice principal would think it messed him up. That’s why she brought up the school psychologist.

As if that was ever going to happen.

No friggin’ way.



Patient: “I lied. I lied to everyone.”

Therapist: “That night?”

Patient: “Yes. And now. I’m lying to them now. To my friends. To Luke.”

Therapist: “Tell me.”

Patient, worried: “I’ve never told anyone. I’ve tried, but I couldn’t. I can’t. I still can’t.”

Therapist: “Let’s go back. To that night in the processing plant.”

Patient: “I don’t want to.”

Therapist: “It’s your decision.”

Patient, voice tremulous: “Okay. I will.” A pause. The patient visibly shudders. “I’m here, now. In the cannery. It’s dark; so . . . dark. I think I smell fish . . . no, just the river. Wet. Dank.” The patient concentrates, eyebrows knitting. “People are here but I can’t see them, just hear them. Lots of them. Guns going off. And firecrackers. Someone’s laughing. But I’m scared. Luke! I need to find Luke. Before it’s too late.”

Therapist: “Too late for what?”

Patient: “Before someone else finds out!”

Therapist: “Finds out what?”

Patient, frustrated, voice cracking: “About my lies. To him. To my parents. To my friends. To everyone. But mainly . . . mainly to him.”

Therapist: “Where are you, in the building?”

Patient: “I’m walking, my gun in my hand, but it’s dark. So dark. I can’t see. People are running. People are laughing. I hear someone climbing the ladder, the rungs ringing, and then . . . and then . . . I shoot.”

Therapist: “And then what?”

Patient, agitated, eyes wide, nearly frantic: “And then Luke falls! He’s been hit! There’s blood everywhere. Oh my God! He can’t die. He can’t! I need to talk to him, I need to explain . . . I have to save him!”

Therapist: “And can you?”

Patient, in a panic: “No! There’s too much blood. Luke! Luke!”

Therapist: “Let’s come back now.”

Patient, determined: “No! I can’t leave him. I won’t!”

Therapist: “It’s time. You’re returning.”

Patient: “No, Luke, please, please.”

Therapist, taking control: “You’re surfacing.”

Patient: “Luke, oh, God, Luke. Forgive me!”

Therapist, more firmly: “You are leaving the cannery and Luke. For now.” The therapist hides frustration and keeps a steady voice. “On my count.”

Patient, taking short breaths, nearly hyperventilating: “But—”

Therapist, rock steady: “Three. And you’re leaving the building, going away from the riverfront and Luke, and leaving the past behind.”

Patient, still frantic: “I don’t know. I could save him—”