Spin A Novel

CHAPTER 15

This Means War





The next morning, I get a furious email from Bob with a link to the Amber Alert site. They managed to get some photos of Amber and Connor on the lawn passing the football back and forth with Henry. Apparently, one of the visitors took the photos with a cell phone and sold them to the highest bidder.

How come you didn’t tell me that they were back together? Bob writes. I can imagine the angry stab of his fingers against the keys. What am I paying you for?

Christ. What does this man want from me? Isn’t it enough that I have to expose the inner workings of my brain, deal with attempted suicides, and act as a spy?

Bob, sorry for not keeping you up-to-date. They’re definitely back together, but if you print what I’m about to tell you, it’ll blow my cover. Anyway, here’s what’s been going on . . .

I type a long description of their midnight reunion and their odd way of communicating in Esperanto. When I’m done, my fingers hurt, and I have a sharp pain between my eyes from staring at the vivid screen for so long. I also feel empty and guilty, but I’m getting used to those feelings.

Bob’s reply is almost instantaneous. Apology accepted. Keep up the good work.

I stick my tongue out at the screen and turn off the iTouch. Time for my punishment.

“Step Four: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. Do you feel ready to do that?” Saundra asks me on Day Seventeen: Admitting Our Faults and Forgiving Ourselves.

I bite my thumb, not liking the sounds of this. “You really don’t think that royal ‘we’ thing is weird at all?”

“Please stop deflecting, Katie.”

“Sorry. I’ve just been feeling . . . down since my friends left.”

I mean, how would you feel if the most interesting thing you’d done in the last eight years is drink enough for half your friends to believe you need to be in rehab?

“Why, do you think?”

I look at Saundra’s kind, expectant face, waiting for me to serve up an answer.

“Maybe it’s because I’m not sure any of this is working.”

“That any of what is working?”

My life. My head. My heart.

“This. Rehab. Therapy. Group. Nobody seems to be getting any better. Not The Producer or The Former Child Star, or anyone.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because they all still talk about drugs and alcohol like they’re describing a lover they wish they could get back.”

“What patients talk about in group isn’t the only measure of whether they’re getting better.”

“It’s the only thing I see.”

“Perhaps that’s your problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, besides Amber, you don’t seem to have connected with any of the other patients.”

I cross my arms across my chest. “I liked Amy.”

“Amy’s not here anymore.”

“But I don’t feel like I have anything in common with them.”

“You have your disease in common.”

“So, if I had cancer, I’d have to make friends with people on the cancer ward to get better?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“We all have to work together, Katie. You have to learn from your experiences, but also from other addicts. You have to learn to rely on others. And until you do, you’re always going to seek refuge in a bottle or a pill or a needle.”

“I don’t like needles.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I guess. I just don’t seem to manage it somehow.”

“You could start by learning their real names,” she says mildly.

Oh, touché.

“I’ll try.”

“Good. I think the inventory will help you.”

“But how can making a list of all of the worst things I’ve done make me feel better about myself?”

“I know it sounds counterintuitive, Katie, but writing them down is the first step to letting them go.”

Or the first step to a front-page headline.

“I hope so.”

After lunch, I get some paper and seek out a peaceful place to take my moral inventory. I decide to do it in the library. I seem to be the only person who spends any time there, and if all else fails, I can stare out the window at the view.

I take a seat on the comfy tan chenille couch that sits in the middle of the room and place my feet on the wood coffee table. I twirl my pen as I think about the pathetic state of me.

Can it really be as simple as Saundra says? Can I really just write the worst of me away? I’ll never know unless I try, so . . . these are the top five worst things about me in no particular order:

1. When I left home, I left more than Zack behind. I dropped every single one of my friends from high school except for Rory. And as much as I love her, I probably would’ve dropped Rory too if she hadn’t moved with me. I’ve always told myself it was because they were my proximity friends and we didn’t have much in common. But deep down I know the truth. I liked my high school friends. I had things in common with them, but I didn’t want to anymore. I dropped them as deliberately as I did the accent, big hair, and blue eyeliner that were the hallmarks of me in high school. I felt like they’d drag me down, and so I cut the cord.

2. Four months ago, I wrote something nasty about Greer in the men’s bathroom of our favorite bar. She’d pissed me off by swooping in on this guy I was flirting with. He’d seemed interested too, until she showed up with her auburn hair, porcelain skin, and enticing accent. He trailed off in mid-sentence as she sat down at our table, and it was like I didn’t exist anymore. She dated him for a week; I went home alone. But not before I used my left hand to write her phone number, email address, and some lewd phrase to imply she gave great blow jobs above the urinals with my lipstick. She got so many calls, texts, and emails, she had to change all her information. She doesn’t know who the perpetrator is, but I’ve heard what she wants to do to that person, and it ain’t pretty.

3. Three weeks after Rory and Dave started dating, I ran into him at a bar with his buddies and threw myself at him after downing two pitchers of watery beer. He fended me off, and neither of us ever told Rory. To this day, we’re awkward if we’re ever left alone together, even though I’ve apologized a gazillion times.

4. Half of my good friends think I’m a twenty-five-year-old grad student. Enough said.

5. I agreed to go to rehab to write an exposé of Amber Sheppard. Once again, enough said.

Christ, I want a drink. Just one little drink to quiet the noise in my head. And I know it’s pathetic, to be thinking about, to be missing, drinking when I’ve just written out a list of the worst things about myself, a list that’s supposed to be a step on my road to not drinking. But the more I tell myself that, the more I want a drink.

Just.

One.

Little.

Drink.

And now, instead of counting the days of sobriety, I count the days until I can leave here. Until I can do what I want, when I want. But I don’t know when I’m leaving because I don’t know when Amber’s leaving. Which brings me back to number five on my all-time shame list. Which makes me want to have a drink.

Just.

One.

Little.

Drink.

F*ck, f*ck, f*ck. I’m not sure what feels worse. Admitting the worst things about me, or admitting how badly I want a drink right now. And if I want a drink that badly, what the hell does that say about me? I have a feeling that the answer to that question is more truth than I can handle without One. Little. Drink.

Swish. A paper airplane flies past my ear and lands in my lap. I snap my head around and catch the retreating back of—was that Henry?

I pick up the airplane and unfold it. It reads: War games begin at 11:15 tonight in the game room. Be there, followed by a series of directions on how to avoid the staff patrols. From the looks of it, someone, I assume Henry, has spent quite a bit of time mapping out the staff’s movements.

Should I go? If we get caught, we’ll probably get kicked out, and then what?

Then you can have a drink.

Finally, a good idea.

I flatten the airplane on my knees. I’ll be there, I write, underlining it until the ink almost bleeds through the paper.

At 11:08 p.m., five minutes after Carol’s checked my room to make sure I’m all tucked in, I gingerly open my door as per Henry’s instructions. My pillows are under the covers, and I’m dressed in my best pajamas. My hair is brushed and I’m wearing makeup. (Just a little mascara and lip gloss, but still.) I chose the PJs because I figure if I get caught in the hall, I can attempt an “I was sleepwalking” defense. I put on the makeup because . . . well . . . one needs/wants to look one’s best before hanging out with one (OK, two) major movie stars, right?

Oh, come off it. You’re totally doing it for Henry.

OK, OK, but I shouldn’t be.

I scoot quietly to the end of my hall in my bare feet, hugging my flip-flops against my chest, and wait for two minutes before turning the corner to the hall that leads to the library and the game room. I arrive at 11:15 on the dot without having seen or heard anyone.

I rap, rap, rap on the door gently. Amber opens it and I scurry inside.

YJB and Henry are sitting at a green baize–covered table, both also in their pajamas (a pair of green hospital scrubs for Connor, gray cotton shorts and a white T-shirt for Henry). There’s a game board on the table I don’t recognize. The room is dimly lit by a lamp in the corner, and someone’s drawn the curtains across the ubiquitous French doors that lead outside.

Amber lays a towel along the bottom of the door. She’s wearing black leggings and a gauzy nightshirt. “Glad you could make it.”

“Hi, Kate,” Henry says, giving me a quick once over.

Makeup was definitely a good idea.

YJB nods in my direction. “Katie. Excellent.”

“So, what’s all this?” I ask, sitting next to Henry.

“It’s Risk,” Amber says. “Have you ever played?”

“I don’t think so.”

“These are the rules,” Henry says, explaining the game. The board is a map of the world divided into territories. Each player has a number of armies they can use to control a territory. The ultimate goal is to control the world, which is achieved by waging war against the other players.

“More armies doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll win. But it increases your chances.”

“Can you take prisoners of war?”

“Nope. An army is either alive or it’s dead.”

“Harsh.”

“You’ll get the hang of it as we go along. I’ll help you in the beginning.”

Connor pulls a pack of smokes out of his pocket. “You most certainly will not. It’s every man for himself.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Amber says as Connor flicks his lighter under the end of his cigarette.

“Cut the mother hen crap, Amber.”

“I just don’t want to get caught, baby.”

He scoffs. “Since when have you cared about getting caught?”

“How about we just open a window, OK?” Henry says, rising to crack open one of the barred windows.

“Well, then, can I have one?” Amber asks.

Connor tosses her the pack. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“I want to be pink.”

Henry hands me the red army, takes the blue for himself, and gives the black to Connor. We roll for position, and stake our initial claims around the world. Henry gently corrects my early mistakes, much to Connor’s disgust, but stops giving me hints when I win a skirmish with him for Quebec.

As our armies slowly cover the map, the room fills with cigarette smoke and I almost feel like I’m at a bar back in the days when you could smoke in bars, except for the obvious lack of drink, of course. I reach for one of Connor’s cigarettes to stave off a craving for a nice cold . . . anything, really. I’m not feeling that picky.

“I wonder who’s going to rehab next?” Connor says, apropos of nothing. “It always happens in threes.”

“That’s celebrity deaths, moron,” Henry replies, rolling a six and defeating Connor’s army for control of Australia.

My turn comes and I decide to make a play for Asia. It goes badly.

“Rookie mistake,” Henry says, his eyes twinkling as I go down to him in defeat. “But aggressive. I like it.”

Connor hunches over the board gleefully. “ ‘You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is: Never get involved in a land war in Asia . . . ’ ”

“ ‘But only slightly less well known is this: Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!’ ” I complete the line from The Princess Bride.

“I love that movie,” Amber says.

Connor cocks his head back and blows smoke rings. “Everyone loves that movie.”

“Con-nor, why are you always so mean to me?”

“Your turn, Amber,” Henry says.

Amber rolls the dice, trying not to look upset. I wonder (not for the first time) what she sees in Connor. He’s cute, of course—he’s gorgeous. But Amber’s right. He is mean to her.

I decide to let her win the part of South America I control. She’s beyond thrilled when she plunks her pink army down where my red one used to be.

There’s a loud noise in the hall and we all look up from the board, startled. Henry stands up quickly and snaps off the lamp in the corner. He pulls open the curtain so we can see by the light of the half moon.

“What should we do?” Amber whispers.

“Shh!”

Henry walks to the door and pulls the towel up off the floor. He presses his ear to the wood. His face contracts with concentration, and he motions to me to come to him. I walk as lightly as I can and stand next to him.

“Someone’s talking, but I can’t hear what they’re saying,” he whispers. “Can you?”

I put my ear to the door. I can hear the rumble of voices, a man and a woman by the sound of it. I strain harder.

“Amber . . . not in . . . bed . . .” says the female voice.

“Smoke . . . games . . .” replies the man.

Oh crap.

“They know Amber’s not in bed, and they’re coming this way.”

Connor springs into action. “Amber, try to clear the smoke. OK, let me think. We’ll stay here, but you two need to get.”

Amber picks up the towel and begins waving it vigorously.

“Connor, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Henry says.

“We’ll be all right. But she’ll get kicked out if she’s caught.” He points at me and gives Henry a meaningful look.

“Henry, he’s right,” I say. “Amber’s been able to get away with all kinds of things that I never would . . .”

There’s another noise in the hall, closer this time.

I grab Henry’s arm. “Let’s go, Henry.”

A frustrated noise escapes his throat, and we move together toward the French doors. I try the door but it’s locked. Henry pulls his wallet from his pocket and slides a credit card between the door and the frame. He wiggles it in an experienced way and the lock gives.

“Quickly!”

He pulls me outside and along the building so we’re a few feet away from the door. I’m sweating with fear and the cool breeze sends a chill down my spine.

“Shh,” Henry says. “Your teeth are chattering.”

I clench my jaw shut. Henry wraps his arms around me, pressing my face into his chest. He rests his chin on my head and places his hands loosely on my waist. I can smell his expensive, spicy aftershave and the same soap I’ve been using.

“Quiet on the set!” Connor hisses loudly.

The door to the game room opens. Someone flicks the light switch, and light falls out the French doors, illuminating the ground next to us.

“Amber, Connor, what are you two doing out of bed?” Carol says.

“F*ck,” Henry says so quietly I can barely hear him. “Come on, Amber.”

“I’m sorry,” Amber says in her best The Girl Next Door voice. “I was having some really bad cravings, and I needed a cigarette. I thought it was better to smoke in here than in my room.”

“Mmm . . . and what about you, Connor?”

“What can I say,” he drawls. “Great minds think alike.”

I can imagine Connor’s charismatic smile spreading across his face.

“We had some things we needed to talk about,” Amber says. “I asked him to meet me.”

“You know that’s not allowed, Amber.”

“Please don’t tell on us.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to report this. And you’ve both lost your outside privileges for two days.”

“Car-ol . . .”

“Enough, Amber. Get back to bed immediately.”

They shuffle away from the door, and for a moment, I think we might be safe.

“Carol, someone tripped the alarm,” a man says.

Uh-oh.

“Amber, Connor, did you go outside?”

“I opened the French door,” Amber says faintly. “To let the smoke out.”

“John, can you make sure these two get back to their rooms? I’ll take care of it.”

Henry grinds his teeth together into the top of my head. “We are so f*cked,” he whispers.

I can hear Carol walk across the room. Henry pulls me deeper into the shadows, closer to his chest.

“However . . . ?” Carol mutters, then shuts the door firmly. We both start at the sound of the lock clicking shut. Her retreating footsteps echo faintly. The light snaps shut and we’re left in darkness.

We stand there for what feels like a very long time, breathing in and out, waiting. My breathing falls into a rhythm with Henry’s. We breathe well together.

“So, what do we do now?” I say eventually.

“I’m guessing they’ve put the alarm back on, so it looks like we’re stuck out here until morning.”

Shit, I was afraid of that.

He loosens his arms and I step away from him. I hug myself to keep out the cold.

A sweater seems like a better idea than makeup at this juncture.

“We can’t stay out here that long.”

He gives me a reassuring smile. “’Course we can.” He shows me the face of his watch. The glow-in-the-dark dial says it’s 2:12. “It’ll be light in a couple of hours.”

“But what if someone sees us?”

“We should probably go to the woods. There’ll be less chance of us getting caught there.”

“Right, good point.”

I follow him away from the building, my flip-flops slapping softly. It’s extremely dark under the trees and it’s difficult to pick out the path. I’ve always found woods at night particularly creepy. Every crackle sounds like the pad of a hungry bear. I try to raise my feet high as I step like my dad taught me when I was little, but I trip and stub my toe on a large root.

Henry catches me before I hit the path and sets me right, his strong hands holding my forearms tightly.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He releases me. “Maybe we should stop here. I doubt anyone will find us.”

And if they do, at least I’ll be able to tell Bob I got kicked out in pursuit of his two favorite targets.

Henry sits on the ground against a large rock. His white legs and arms are the most visible thing about him, and I notice that he’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt.

“Are you cold?”

“A little. Will you sit here?”

I can’t see where he’s indicating, but I know what he means. It seems like a bad idea, but what other options do we have? Hypothermia or huddling together for warmth. The choice seems obvious.

I sit down in front of him and scoot backward. He bends his legs so his feet are flat on the ground, making a little cage around me. We’re both shivering.

He slips his arms around my waist. I lean my head against his chest. I can hear his heart thudding.

“So, is tonight making your career-change decision any easier?”

He sighs. “Tonight is just one of the many things in my life that isn’t quite right.”

“What? Cuddling in the woods with a strange girl you met in rehab while trying to avoid detection isn’t what you wanted to do when you grew up?”

“Cuddling in the woods, yes. Hiding from the authorities in rehab, no.”

One out of two ain’t bad.