We Told Six Lies(43)

I turn in the direction of my house and start running. I run all the way there. Three point two miles—Coach Miller told me when he dropped me off that day. Three point two miles with sweat dripping down my back and down my face. My backpack slaps against my spine the whole way.

Thwomp, thwomp, thwomp, thwomp.

I run faster when I see Holt’s truck in the driveway. I somehow knew he’d be here. It’s Friday. He always comes on Fridays, if he comes at all.

I throw my backpack on the couch and power toward his room, shoving the door open. He’s standing with his back to me, slipping something inside a shipping envelope. When I realize what it is, my entire body trembles.

He turns around. He’s got my notebook safely inside that envelope. He’s a few stamps shy of sliding it in a mail drop.

I wince against the knowledge of what this means.

First the police.

Then Nixon.

Then my dad.

Then Coach.

Now my brother.

They all suspect me.

I punch my brother in the stomach, and he doubles over.

“Stand up,” I say between clenched teeth.

“I wasn’t going to send it,” he groans.

I scoff. “Liar. You have it in your hand right now, you asshole. What? Were you going to send it to the police?”

He straightens slowly, one hand over his stomach, the other still clutching the package. He pulls in two steadying breaths and says, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” I repeat.

Holt opens his mouth like he’s going to add something. Closes it. He hesitates too long.

I shove him, and he falls back onto the bed. He gets to his feet quickly, though. Quicker than I thought he could move.

“Fine. I was thinking about sending it. And you know why? Because it’s weird,” Holt says. “Your girlfriend takes off, leaves a note, and you keep this notebook with all these suspects.”

“I told you why. And you”—I point at him—“you acted like you understood.”

“I told you to stop obsessing, that’s what I said.”

“Why are you always here?” I ask suddenly. “You think I need you here?” I study him. “Yeah, you do. You think I need you here. Arrogant prick.”

He glares at me. “Yeah, I do think you need me, asshole. That’s why I’m here instead of having fun with my friends. That’s why I’m here instead of going to class like my scholarship requires me to. You’re my brother. I love you, damn it.”

His words gut me. Fill me with guilt. But I’m too angry and too afraid for guilt.

I hit him.

A shot across the jaw that cracks his head backward and sends him flying across the room. He smashes into his old desk and hits his head on the side of his bed. I expect him to stay down. But I’m wrong.

Holt goes for my legs.

He knocks my knees out from under me, and I drop to the floor. Before I can push myself up, Holt gets in one shot. He hits me in the ear, and all around the world, bells toll, sending vibrations through my brain.

I lunge at Holt, and we roll across the ground. He punches me in the shoulder, and I pop him in the nose. Blood drips to the carpet, and I know the stain will never come out.

I hit him again and again and again until I register my mom screaming my name. A light switches on in the recesses of my mind.

“Stop, Cobain,” she screams. “Stop!”

She grabs my shoulders and shakes me. Looks down at Holt and reaches for him. And even though I know I’m covered in scratches, too, she only turns her angry glare on me. “What happened here?”

I look at Holt. “Why don’t you ask him?”

She glances at Holt and then back at me. “I’m asking you.”

“I’m fucking out of here,” Holt says, scrambling to his feet and wiping the blood from his face. “Way to be home for the one moment you aren’t needed,” he snarls at Mom.

“Holt,” I yell as he stalks out of my room, because it’s starting to hit me what I just did. He’s my brother. My brother.

Mom ignores him and grabs me. “Why aren’t you at school? Why are you fighting your brother? What is wrong with you?”

I shake my head. Softly at first, and then harder and harder. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know.”

My voice breaks, and I have to stop talking. My mom holds on to my arms for a moment longer as I shake.

Please don’t leave me.

Please don’t leave me.

Tears slip down my cheeks, and I want to destroy what’s left of this room. I hate that I can cry at all. I want to drain every drop of moisture from my body and shrivel to dust just to ensure no one ever sees that I am capable of feeling pain.

My mother looks at me with sympathy so deep I can taste it in the back of my throat. Then she releases me, shakes her head, and says, “I have to go. I forgot my phone, but they’re waiting on me. A new kid came in overnight, and I—

“Mom,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Mom, please.”

She stops and stares at me for a moment that feels like it could change everything. A moment I didn’t realize I needed until it stood between the two of us, holding my hand and holding hers. My mom looks at me for a second longer, and then her eyes flick from mine to the bedroom. “Clean this place up, okay? And get back to school. We’ll talk about this when I get home.”