I have nothing to show for the days since the accident and I’m beginning to feel the constant nothingness like an ulcer drilling a hole through the lining of my gut.
“Well…” I jump at the voice and then at the warm body occupying the back corner of my room. “Have you figured it out yet?” Matt sits in his wheelchair, eerily still, as always.
I wait for several heartbeats, my knuckles boring into my chest as the organ underneath drums, drums, drums furiously. “Christ, Matt, you scared me half to death.”
The sun pours through the window, turning my brother into a silhouette. “We wouldn’t want that, now, would we? Not the golden goose, the holder of the magical ticket to Wonderland.”
Matt likes to make odd references, allusions to books that he listens to—hundreds of them—in his ample spare time. Often the literary connections are mismatched. Sometimes they aren’t. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell.
I glare at him, keeping the bed between the two of us. “Have I figured what out?” I ask, in no mood for his riddles, but my mind flits back to the oak tree and its tall branches and the tough sandy dirt barely hiding underneath the grass there.
With Matt, every question doubles as a test. I already feel as though I’m failing, but it’s important not to step on any land mines, especially the kind that will leave you without a foot or a hand.
I tuck my hands deep into my armpits. I seriously wish I’d thought to put on a bra.
More proof of how much has changed. I remember when Matt and I used to come down for tea in the morning and drink it out on the beach, both of us with hair still a mess, teeth not brushed. But now I hardly ever see Matt unless I’m fully dressed for the day. He feels too much like a stranger and I have the sense of needing to put on my armor before dealing with him.
I take a step closer, just so the light shifts and I can see him clearly. The toes of his socks are stretched out and they hang awkwardly down past the wheelchair stirrups. A pang of guilt knocks me in the stomach as I think about how I’d left him hungry in the kitchen. I bet Mom’s angry.
“The hunt,” he says, matter-of-factly.
My attention snaps into focus. “What are you talking about?”
His grin is wolfish. “Okay, so you do know about it at least. I wasn’t sure. I don’t know if you’re aware, but your good looks have made you painfully slow. Mentally.”
I grit my teeth. Be quiet. Don’t engage. That’s what he wants. “But—” I say, thickly, not doing myself any favors in terms of refuting Matt’s point.
He cocks his head and his dull-brown hair obscures his eyebrows. “But—but—but—” he mimics. “How do I know about the hunt? Lake, really. What kind of big brother would I be not to involve myself intimately in the love life of my little sister?”
I narrow my eyes. “The kind that I’ve been living with for the last five years?”
“I’m hurt.”
“Spare me.”
I feel sorry for Matt. Of course I do. But it’s hard to have a relationship with someone who wants me to be as miserable as he is. Does he not remember the dozens of times that I tried to forge a new relationship with him? Does he not recall when I bought us tickets to see a marathon of all the Tolkien movies? Or the time when I bought us that high-tech version of Trivial Pursuit, even though I’m terrible at trivia? He wanted nothing to do with me. Nothing.
And I moved on because I had to move on, and we got on with the inevitable business of not liking each other.
But now here we are. Speaking. Sort of. My head feels swollen. Maybe it’s a belated side effect of the accident. I’ve heard of whiplash pain not revealing itself until days or even weeks after a car wreck.
But I fight the sensation and instead give in to his game out of sheer necessity. “Yes. I know about the scavenger hunt. And I know what’s at the end of it. What I don’t know is how to get there.”
“Then I imagine it’s going to be hard to get very far without the first clue.”
“Yeah, thanks, I’ve figured that much out too.” I sound peevish and hate that I’ve so obviously allowed him to get under my skin. Again. God, it could be so different between us. If only he’d tell me how sorry he was that I’ve just lost my two best friends. If only he told me what I did to make him hate me. But the truth is I’m not sure what’s on the other side of those “if onlys” anymore. Maybe nothing. “Why are you so interested anyway?” I say, wishing he’d get the hell out of my room and leave me alone like he has been for the past five years. “You don’t even care that they’re dead.”
Matt adjusts the angle of his chair using the straw-like contraption. The motion casts his face in shadow again. Dark screen. Unreadable. “Au contraire,” Matt says flatly. As a byproduct of having nothing to do, Matt has listened to the complete sets of Rosetta Stone for Spanish, French, German, and rudimentary Japanese. “It’s practically the only thing I care about right now.” At this, I soften. My eyes search his for signs of my big brother. “Your friends dying went and screwed everything up. More specifically it screwed you up. And that is something I care about immensely.”
I notice that he doesn’t say someone and my temper flares so white and hot that I can’t speak.
“Honestly, teenagers, cars, it’s so obvious I’m practically kicking myself—” He pauses. “Notice I did say practically—for not anticipating this sort of disaster in the first place.”
“I’m glad this is all so amusing to you.” I’ve heard enough. My keys are on my nightstand and I cross the room to get them. We’re done here.
“Wait,” Matt snaps with a sharpness that feels as though he’s bitten me. “I can help.”
“Can? Will? From you those are two different things.” My hand closes around the mini surfboard I use for a keychain.
“I can tell you the first clue.”
I freeze and turn slowly to him. “What did you say?”
“I know it.”
“How?”
“Because I found it.”
“How?” I repeat more loudly and slowly, as if he can’t understand English.
“Because I was here when your dopey boyfriend showed up to hide it in your room and swore me to secrecy. Good secret keeping, huh?” He winks.
I scan the room. The clue. It’s been in here. Here. All along. “Where is it, then?”
I snatch up the corner of my bedding and tear it from the mattress. I shake the blankets and look for something to tumble out. But nothing does. I search around for the next thing to tear apart.
“It’s gone,” he says. “I destroyed it.”
“You what?”
“I destroyed it.”