With April came my tenth birthday, and in May Keith turned fourteen. School ended and we all watched Keith graduate from middle school. The small private academy we attended had its own high school right next door, so the transition was more symbolic than anything else. Just another beat in the dark rhythm of our family.
Summer vacation stretched before me. Ten weeks I planned to fill with tennis and the sweet rush of victory. I had no more qualms about playing again. The previous summer’s drama with Soren only added to my toolbox of mental strengths; I was scary. This fact filled me with a crawling sort of anticipation, both thrilling and repulsive. I’d run into Soren only once since breaking his jaw. This occurred during a spring clinic at my own club when he’d shown up with his coach. I took one look at the jittery hitch in his serve, the way he bit at his lower lip until it bled, the way he missed every single ball because he was so freaking nervous to run into me, and I promptly dropped my racket.
I marched right home, up to my room, and stayed there. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t sleep. My mind drifted, teased with morbid images I knew better than to tell anyone about. On the third day, when the sun rose to the sound of chickadees tapping at my window, my dark mood had miraculously vanished. My voice returned.
My killer instinct was back.
But my season of triumph wasn’t meant to be. The day after graduation, my parents broke the news: Keith and I were being shipped off, on a train, no less, to spend eight weeks in Concord, Massachusetts—home to Emerson, Thoreau, and my father’s parents. Siobhan was too young, so she would stay behind.
I was understandably anxious. My impression of my grandparents was blurry and undefined. I hardly knew them. Plus traveling was a huge deal; I was informed that one wasn’t allowed to eat or drink in my grandfather’s leather-trimmed Audi, much less barf in it. Tennis was another issue. The fall season was the most competitive, and if I didn’t play every day, I would be in no position to maintain my number one ranking. But my biggest concern was homesickness. I couldn’t imagine not sleeping in my own bed, with Pilot curled at my feet. I couldn’t imagine not being home with Siobhan, who made me feel brave because she so wasn’t. Keith understood, though. He’d gone last summer and went out of his way to tell me how much fun we were going to have.
“Why do I have to go?” I sniffled.
“Because Dad’ll be gone at that fellowship all summer in New York, and Mom … can’t.”
“Why not?” I asked, although even I knew our mother was prone to her own bouts of blackness, ones where she struggled to eat. Or get out of bed. Or open her eyes.
“She’ll have her hands full taking care of Siobhan,” Keith said.
“I can take care of myself!”
“You need to get out of here,” he said firmly. “We both do, okay? It’ll be good for us. A real adventure. Swimming, hiking … cousins.” Our cousins, we’d see them, too. They lived in nearby Lexington, three of them. All girls.
I appreciated Keith’s attitude but remained distraught. Still, there was nothing to be done about it, so on June 24, starved and drugged close to comatose, I boarded an Amtrak heading north with my brother.
From the platform, Siobhan waved and blew kisses at us as we pulled away.
I lifted my head and waved back.
chapter
nine
matter
Common trust. It’s the school’s one rule.
The only one necessary.
It’s the reason there are no locks on the dorm room doors.
It’s the reason there are no lockers for our crap.
It’s the reason we can borrow books from the library on our own.
It’s the reason I can enter the deserted biology lab on a Tuesday morning in October and not feel like a criminal.
I keep the lights off as I go in. The windows are huge, and plenty of sun leaks in to pool around the bookshelves that line the far wall. I pass the massive steel refrigerator that hums and shakes. It holds the fetal pigs from our most recent class, and I’m tempted to peek at mine. The AP section is small enough and the science budget is large enough that we don’t have to partner up, so I’ve got my very own piglet. It’s pink and black. I guess I should say she’s pink and black, since the first thing we did was record the gender. Then I opened the abdominal cavity, but I still haven’t finished with the mouth and neck or removed the heart, so that’ll have to happen tomorrow. Thank God for preservatives.
Ouch. Both knees crack as I squat to read the titles on the textbooks, but I quickly find what I’m looking for. Or at least I find the right kind of book, because none of them are going to give me the answers I need. Too much of me is a mystery. But maybe I’ll find the right questions to ask. Neuroscience. Biopsychology. Origin of the Species. There’s a book by Ludwig Wittgenstein, too. It’s called Philosophical Investigations. That doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with biology. But I’ve heard of the guy. I know I have.