Blood on My Hands

CHAPTER 6

Sunday 12:34 A.M.

CAN I BRING myself to call Slade now, after what I did to him? And I did it in the worst possible way and at the worst possible time. He was at National Guard training camp, far from home, his friends, and family. Farther away than he’d ever gone alone.
For the first two months he’d been allowed only one three-minute phone call—to tell his dad he’d made it to the training camp safely. After that, he was allowed to speak to me once a week. He’d confide about how lonely and miserable he was, about how scared he was of being called up for active duty and sent overseas, and about how much he regretted signing up for the guard in the first place. These were things he never could have admitted to anyone else. But he could say them to me, because he trusted me. At least, until I betrayed him.
Pangs of regret surge through me, but they’re nothing new. I’ve been feeling them ever since we broke up. Slade’s been home from Guard training for nearly a week. I’ve seen his pickup at the new town center. He’s working there with his father to get everything ready for the opening celebration. I’ve been so tempted to call and tell him how sorry I am. But how would I answer when he asked the inevitable question: why did I do it?
How could I tell him? How can I face him?
He’d be completely entitled to tell me to go to hell. After all, that was basically what I did when he was alone and needy.
And yet I don’t think he will. He’s a better person than that.
I call. As it rings, I feel myself growing tense and my heart revving up. Then that strange mixture of disappointment and relief when I get his answering message. I swallow and begin: “Slade, please call me. It’s urgent, a matter of life and death. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise, but something terrible’s happened. I know you probably hate me and never want to hear from me again, but you’re the only person I can trust. Please call me as soon as you can!”
I close the phone and wait for my heart to slow. But my emotions are a hurricane of yearning, regret, need, and fear. Just hearing his voice on the message brings fresh tears to my eyes.
Slade doesn’t call back. It seems like at least half an hour has passed, but when I check the time, it’s only been ten minutes. He could be at the movies, at a party, anywhere. And with anyone. Even now, in the middle of all this, that’s the thought I hate most.
I call again, leave another message. I imagine him listening to the first message and thinking I can drop dead. He owes me nothing. But maybe the second message will make him reconsider.
I wait in the dark. Seconds feel like minutes, and minutes feel like forever. It’s agony to imagine him listening to my messages and being unmoved. But what did I think would happen? Did I think he’d come back from Guard training brokenhearted and sit by the phone every night waiting for me to call and say I’d made a mistake and I was sorry?
In your dreams, Callie Carson.
I know it makes no sense to keep calling and leaving messages, but I can’t help myself. I call again, knowing there’s probably nothing I can do or say to change his mind, but feeling like I have to try anyway.
“Slade, please, I …” There’s a catch in my throat as tears well up in my eyes. I’ve cried so much tonight that they’re raw and sore. “I’m so sorry to put this on you, really I am. I know I was awful to you. But you don’t know how much I regret what I did. I mean, even before this … this horrible thing that happened tonight. I was sorry, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to tell you I’d made a terrible mistake. I felt like I’d already hurt you so bad that it wouldn’t be fair. But I … I …”
What I want to say is that I still love him, but it’s too much all at once. Some protective instinct deep inside won’t allow me to reveal that much or leave myself that vulnerable, even if it’s been all I’ve felt for weeks and has nothing to do with what happened tonight.
I’ve always loved him.
I close the phone. Three messages is enough. Salty tears sting my raw cheeks.
“Here’s to rapid metabolisms,” Jodie toasted one afternoon in late March when she, Zelda, Katherine, and I were in the city. She raised her s’more cupcake and we joined in.
“Rue the day these go straight to our thighs,” Zelda declared.
“Hear! Hear!” Katherine chimed in. It was one of those periods when she and Dakota weren’t speaking. We never knew why the two of them ran so hot and cold. But they were like the weather: all you had to do was wait and everything would change.
Before Katherine, I’d never gone to the city without an adult, but now we went practically every other weekend, and always to some special place she knew about. That day we were in the Magnolia Bakery.
“What say ye, sweet Callie?” Katherine asked.
“This is definitely the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” I said, licking the creamy icing off a cupcake called a Hummingbird.
“Easy to say for someone who’s probably only had Hostess Twinkies,” Katherine quipped. The smiles fell off the other girls’ faces as they waited to see if I’d rise to the dig or let it pass. I decided to take the middle road.
“We can’t all be gourmands, like you,” I said with a somewhat forced smile.
“You mean ‘gourmet,’ ” she replied with a dismissive roll of her eyes. “A gourmand is an indiscriminant eater.”
“Ooh, look who remembers all that vocabulary we learned for our SATs,” Jodie teased in a way that I suspected was meant to defuse the situation.
“I am so happy that’s over with,” Zelda groaned, and turned to me. “So what are your plans for after high school, Callie?”
I assumed she’d meant the question in a genuine way, to change the subject. But unfortunately it was one I’d been trying to avoid. I hoped I’d go to Fairchester Community College, which I hoped we’d be able to afford with the help of financial aid. I was a pretty good student and had been a pretty good cross-country runner, but didn’t excel at either enough to deserve any kind of scholarship. But the prevailing attitude in Katherine’s crowd was that community college was for losers. So I answered her question with “I don’t know.”
“I wish I could be like that,” Jodie said with a wistful sigh.
“Like what?” I asked uncertainly.
“Just not having to worry,” she said. “I mean, about the future.”
I was about to argue that I did have to worry about the future, but then I caught myself. She was right. I wasn’t that worried about the future. I was too caught up in the present—busy thinking about Slade’s recent announcement that he’d signed up for the Army National Guard and would leave on May 21 for three months of training, and wondering whether my mother could cope with taking care of my father, and whether there was still a way to appeal the judge’s decision that had put my brother in prison for eight to fifteen years.
“You know, maybe if you were with the right kind of guy …,” Katherine said, then pretended to catch herself. “I mean, maybe if you were with a different kind of guy … Someone more goal oriented.”
“Slade is goal oriented,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” Katherine said, dabbing some white cream filling off her lip with a napkin. “Construction.”
“Drywall,” I said. “It’s what’s in most houses and buildings unless they’re really old. Slade and his dad install it.”
“Manual labor,” Katherine said with a snarky and superior little smile. It was one of those moments when another girl might have backed down and pretended to ignore the insult. But I resented the insinuation.
“It’s honest work,” I said, jutting my chin forward.
Katherine’s eyes sharpened, and she leaned toward me, as if accepting the challenge. “No one said it wasn’t.”
For a moment we stared at each other as if it were a contest. Katherine was right. No one had said that what Slade and his father did wasn’t honest work, but she’d made it obvious that she thought it was the sort of honest work only a moron would do.
“I’m just curious,” I said. “What does your father do?”
A pall swept over our table. Zelda stared down at her caramelmeringue cupcake, and Jodie suddenly seemed fascinated by the pedestrians passing. Katherine gazed at me, appearing unruffled, although I thought I detected a tic under her left eye.
“He’s”—she hesitated, then continued—“between jobs.”
I was just about to ask her how long her father had been unemployed when Zelda suddenly said, “Katherine’s family is in real estate.”
There was nothing wrong with being unemployed. It happened to lots of people. But it certainly didn’t put Katherine in a position from which she could look down on people who were at least doing something, even if it did involve—God forbid—manual labor.