Uncertainty (Gravity series, 2)

THE GRAVITY SERIES

BOOK 2

~ UNCERTAINTY ~

Smashwords Edition by Abigail Boyd

Copyright ©2012 Abigail Boyd

http://abigailboyd.blogspot.com/

http://www.boydbooks.com

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the author, except for use in review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

WET GRASS DAMPENED the knees of my jeans, but I didn't stand. The spot above Jenna's grave had grown in, matching the rest of the graveyard's turf, with no sign that the soil had been turned over. I ran my hand over the etched letters on her tombstone.

Jenna Reed. Beloved daughter, cherished friend. You left us too soon.

In my mind, I could still see the somber faces—so many faces—of the funeral goers. The obscenely colorful bouquets of flowers tossed on top of her black coffin. The red ribbon tied around her casket wreath.

In the present, the unseasonably hot June sun beamed down, striking my shoulders around my tank top, making me too warm. A tear slid down my cheek and plummeted to the grass. The fact that I was complaining about the heat when I was alive felt like betrayal.

Why her? Why not you? Jenna's mother, Rachel, had shrieked at me after the casket had been lowered. The priest had barely finished with Jenna's last rites before Rachel stormed up to me. She shook me by the shoulders, almost knocking me to the hard November ground, the snow biting my ankles through my tights. Why not you? As simple as a coin toss.

At least that's what I thought she said. But her words made no sense.

The adults pulled her off me and dragged her into a weeping puddle, a child in the throes of a tantrum. Just ignore her, my parents told me. Just the words of a grieving parent. Not that easy to forget someone wishing you were dead, though.

I rummaged in my pocket and retrieved a lemonade bottle cap. It was the kind Jenna always drank, especially during the summer. Sunshine juice, she called it, then laughed at her cleverness, her mouth sticky with the stuff.

Every time I visited her, I always felt as though I should bring something, an offering. She'd had enough flowers for the entire graveyard. And I didn't want to give her something that would die.

So, I brought things that she would have appreciated. A picture of us as kids at the water park, fat bellies poking out of our bathing suits. A tube of lipgloss in her favorite shade. Last week it was the CD she'd been saving up to buy before she disappeared. The CD had vanished, too, but I didn't mind.

A small hand rested on my shoulder.

Are you ready to go? Theo Weaver asked quietly from behind me. She was the friend I'd made after Jenna, someone who I had expected to remain an acquaintance. Instead, she'd become my best friend. Not filling the hole Jenna had left, but carving out her own space instead.

As ready as I'll ever be. I boosted myself off the grassy ground and followed Theo towards her car.

We'd taken driver's training a few months ago and the Toyota Camry had been her sixteenth birthday gift. It came from both of her parents, despite their odd living situation of being in different houses on the same street. I hated being almost a year younger than everyone in my grade, but at least my friend had wheels.

Seven months had passed since Jenna's body was discovered, dredged out of Hush Lake by ice fishermen. We used to spend our summers there, sticking our toes in the gritty, muddy sand and catching turtles.

Now sometimes when I lay in bed, my stray thoughts imagined her: flesh rotting from her discolored bones, ice clinging to leftover strands of green hair. What was left of her face floated up to a black hole in the pristine ice.

Finding Jenna had given me no closure; in fact, it only opened up my disdain wider, into a chasm.

Is it weird that I come here? I asked Theo as we got into the Toyota.

It would be weird if you didn't, she said, sliding in behind the wheel. She'd chopped her gleaming, artificial red hair above her shoulders, accentuating her pixie look along with the glitter on her eyelids. She looked older to me and I finally understood what the adults gushed on about when they said I'd grown.

Ten minutes later we were sitting in the air-conditioned oasis of Dante's. It was Hell's only fast food restaurant; the zoning board wouldn't allow a McDonald's or Taco Bell within city limits. We picked a table by one of the large front windows overlooking the end of main street. The smells of bread baking and potatoes frying filled the dining area. Only a few other tables were occupied, so it was quiet.

I can't believe this year is finally over, Theo sighed, folding our order ticket into a tiny triangle. She flicked it like a football into the corner of my booth.

I don't know what I'm going to do with myself all summer, I admitted as I bounced the ice cubes in my pop with a straw.

What do you mean? We'll spend it together.

You're busy with the mural, though, I said. I don't want to interrupt that.

Only until the end of June. Then we'll have two whole months to ourselves.

Theo had been showing her art at my father's gallery, Erasmus, for a while now. Her sketches had generally been well-received, and she'd even sold a few, which helped put new tires on her worn car.

Her latest project was a mural, which had been Hugh's idea. A challenge, he'd called it. Stepping outside of her comfort zone. He'd already set a date for the unveiling and taken out ads in the local paper.

But no pressure, Theo had said sarcastically when he'd first told her about the ads. I knew she hadn't gotten very far, pushing herself to be perfect. One thing Theo treated with the utmost seriousness was her art.

How's it coming along, anyway? I asked. You haven't updated me lately.

Our order was called and I went to pick it up. I had the feeling the interruption was buying Theo time. When I came back and distributed our trays, Theo made herself busy dipping fries in a cup of barbeque sauce.

As far as the mural, it's... She paused, deep in thought. It's just difficult. I thought I'd be up for a new challenge, but my mind goes blank whenever I pick up a paintbrush. I'm just not as able to translate what I see in my head into paints as I am with pencil.

Maybe you're trying too hard, I offered. Take a step back from the easel for a couple of days.

Maybe, Theo agreed begrudgingly. She had ordered a cheeseburger with extra bacon, and was struggling to smush it enough to fit into her mouth. It's all I've been thinking about lately.

You can't let Alex be an art widow, I teased, referencing her unlikely boyfriend. I had been shocked last year when they started dating. Alex was a preppy, sarcastic class clown and Theo was lovably weird with shy tendencies, but they'd been going strong since then. Alex was her first boyfriend and they seemed to be crazy about each other.

All I've been thinking about is the trial, I said. I should take my own advice.

That's a wee bit more important, Theo said, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

It doesn't help that they keep pushing the date back, I said, sighing. My food didn't seem to have much flavor, the texture grainy. Warwick's lawyer is requesting extensions, and he put in a not guilty plea. I've given the police department all the information I know. I just don't want to have to go up on the witness stand and relive it all over again.

It'll be okay, I promise. At least you have time to prepare. And they'll put him away for a long time, I'm sure. That's the best way you can help her now. She patted my hand sympathetically, lips formed into a small, sad smile.

I'm just worried about making sure my story's straight. It's all so weird, I said, pushing the food tray away. I've never felt so responsible for anything in my life.

Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of blue caught my attention. I twisted my head to peer out the window. My heart lurched in a hard, shocked beat. A little girl in a blue raincoat was standing in the middle of the street—the same girl who had appeared to me last year and didn't stop coming until I discovered her body in the school basement, wrapped in a dirty sleeping bag.

I jerked my body off of the leather seat with a squeak, my eyes still fixed on the girl outside. She seemed to be staring back, watching me with rapt attention.

What's wrong? Theo asked.

I turned towards her. There's someone— I began.

A brown van obstructed my view as it drove past. When it was gone, I saw that it wasn't Alyssa Chapman after all. Instead, I saw a totally different, older girl, who just happened to be wearing a blue coat. She took off running down the sidewalk, laughing with her friend whom I hadn't noticed before.

Never mind, I said, sliding back down. My nerves were frazzled and what little appetite I'd had destroyed. It wasn't who I thought it was.

###

On Monday of the last week before summer vacation, Theo and I were walking to class at Hawthorne High. We'd just finished lunch and were engaged in a discussion about how our finals so far had gone. Two more remained, which for me meant Honors history and painting and drawing. My skill in the latter subject hadn't improved, despite a year in Theo's mom's class.

If you don't stop being so hard on yourself, I'm going to stick a paintbrush up your nose, Theo said.

I'd probably be able to paint better that way, I said, making Theo giggle. And ditto to you, Miss Perfectionist.

Theo glanced ahead of us and her bright face instantly fell. Her vivid green eyes widened and she slowed her pace. I followed the line of her gaze. The popular crowd was strutting towards us. They always stuck together, like models in a trendy catalog. Ready to annihilate the unfashionable and unimportant.

Henry Rhodes, my long-ago, faraway boyfriend, commanded the center. Next to him was his (I threw up in my mouth a little every time I thought about it) girlfriend, Lainey Ford. Lainey was the reigning princess of Hawthorne. Together they were like the most expensive, flashy float in a parade.

Neither of them had spoken to me since they got together, not that I was ever buddy-buddy with Lainey. But not a word from Henry, even after Jenna had been found. Not even to say, I'm sorry your friend is dead. I didn't really expect them to be decent human beings; I'd seen too much firsthand evidence to the contrary.

I froze, unable to move, about to be swept away by a tidal wave. For the briefest moment, Henry's brown eyes met mine. I saw nothing there, no light. The eyes of a stranger in a face I had once loved. His dull gaze darted away.

Every day I expected seeing him to stir less emotion. But it had only lessened to a certain point; my emotions still went haywire when I knew he was near. At least I didn't feel like I was going to catch on fire anymore from my blushing cheeks.

He elicited a mix of embarrassment and regret in me, and I resented him for it. I hated another person having such a strong effect on me.

Theo wrapped her hand around my arm and steered me out of the way, around the wolf pack. They didn't so much as glance at us, caught up in their own unimportant conversations, pushing lesser kids out of the way by the very power of their reputations.

Let's pretend they don't exist today, Theo whispered.

It'll be easier when we don't have to see them every day, I grumbled.

It would also be easier if Henry and I didn't have so many classes together. I had to pretend I didn't sense him in the back row during history and English, and he and Lainey sat together in painting and drawing, two rows in front of me. I had to bow my head in the final class the entire hour. Watching them make goo-goo eyes at each other held no interest for me.

Theo and I bid each other farewell, and I went to history for my final. I still got creeped out in Mr. Warwick's old classroom, as if his crimes had been committed there on the floor, instead of in the basement.

A longtime friend of my family's, Warwick kidnapped three girls and later murdered them. Henry and I, following a hunch, had found him trying to dispose of two of the bodies in the pool equipment room. That led to a standoff between Warwick, Henry, and me. Warwick had pointed a loaded gun at both of us.

I still couldn't smell chlorine without retching. The scent had been heavy in the pool room, seeping out of chemical buckets that stacked the shelves. I'd never be able to swim in a pool again.

Warwick had been replaced by a long-term substitute who was his polar opposite, an ex-military man who barked his lectures. Despite this, I could still see Warwick roosting on the edge of his desk, embellishing stories. A few times I imagined blood seeping from beneath the desk, then chided myself for being so gruesome.

Some nights a reoccurring nightmare haunted me. Warwick would be deep in a lecture about Native Americans and the horrifying Trail of Tears. He reached behind his desk and grasped something. That casual motion filled me with confusing dread. Then, slowly, he dragged the body of a girl out. Never breaking the cadence of his speech, he lay her splayed out across his lap, her lifeless gaze directed nowhere. He stroked her hair as he kept speaking.

That's when I'd realize the girl had my face, and I was alone at my desk in the classroom. He never took his eyes off me, even as his fingers wove through my twin's stringy, dead locks.

Needless to say, it wasn't a class I looked forward to anymore, even in the daytime. I was happy when our military sub slapped the final packet in front of me. It meant I would never have to come into this room again.

###

When I stopped seeing visions, I didn't know what to expect. The little girls' bodies were discovered, then Jenna's, and a door slammed down on the supernatural world I'd been peering into. I was left with nothing but a heap of unanswered questions.

At the time, it had all seemed so real. Seeing wraiths and hearing things that had no natural explanation. Now the whole experience had fractured into distant, hollow memories. I shakily settled on the entire series of events being a product of my stressed out mind. Wishful thinking.

I had decided after Jenna was found that I no longer wanted to see ghosts. My hasty wish had apparently been granted.

It didn't help that I had been on medication since the week after Jenna's funeral. The school kept insisting I see a therapist, so Claire dragged me to exactly one appointment with a pricey psychiatrist in a private office.

The appointment had been scheduled for the first week of December, the ground powdered with untrodden snow. We walked into the lobby of the mental health center between two leafy potted palms flanking the doors. A black runner leading to the registration desk was covered with ground-in rock salt.

Claire clutched her purse to her ribcage the entire time. It wouldn't have surprised me if she'd scheduled the appointment under a pseudonym. After checking in, we sat in the waiting area, beneath a giant flatscreen TV that advertised different mood-altering drugs.

To Claire, mental illness had always been a sign of weakness, a silent shame that one should keep to themselves. She would have rather swept Jenna away, like all the dirt in the house she eradicated.

Her face read shame beneath layers of carefully applied foundation and wrinkle filler. She looked as though she'd like nothing better than to leave me there, abandon me as a lost cause. I just felt guilty—after all, it was my broken brain that made her feel that way.

The doctor's name sounded Norwegian and I mangled it when I tried to pronounce it. In my head, I referred to her as Dr. N. A pouf of gray-blonde hair sprouted from her scalp, and doll-sized glasses perched atop her nasal bridge. She assessed me coolly after I'd taken a seat next to Claire. I wondered what exactly Dr. N saw, what conclusions and assumptions she'd already drawn in the minute since we'd occupied her office.

How about you start by sharing how you feel right now? Dr. N asked me after I'd answered her polite inquiries about school and home with fine and fine.

I don't feel anything, I said bluntly. Not entirely true. But I couldn't pick out one specific feeling from the vast soup that my emotions had become.

Just tell her, Claire insisted, still clutching her purse like a shield. That's why we're here.

She patted my hand, a gesture that belonged to someone else's mom.

I am telling her.

This is a safe place, Ariel, Dr. N interjected.

I crossed my arms over my chest. I didn't feel safe. I felt ganged up on, like a kid dead center in a circle of bullies throwing rocks.

The cramped office smelled of menthol and the strong, almost sour bowl of potpourri on her desk. Puzzle boxes and coloring books, looking somehow ominous among the medical textbooks, were crammed in a row of oak bookcases.

Claire stared at me expectantly with bloodshot eyes. She sighed as though my inability to crack open like an egg disappointed her. She was full of heavy sighs now, erupting like gasps of steam letting the pressure off of a volcano.

Let's try this instead, Ariel, Dr. N said gently. Her speech was accompanied by constant hand gestures. Describe the chain of events that brought you here. Your mom says you like reading. So, tell me a story, Ariel.

If she says my name one more time, I'm gonna scream. Dr. N leaned back in her overstuffed, wing-back chair and waited for me to speak.

I focused on the ceiling and tried to gather my thoughts. The plaster was smudged with yellow stains. I wondered if Dr. N smoked behind closed doors, maybe hid an ashtray out on the window ledge. I wanted her to be flawed.

My best friend Jenna was murdered, I began, taking care to keep my voice steady. I swallowed the marble-hard lump in my throat. My teacher is the one that killed her. He almost shot me, too.

Dr. N's expression didn't change. I wondered if she actually heard what I was saying. She had mastered the dispassionate response.

And the boy I had a...thing for used me and dumped me for his rich girlfriend, who is also my enemy. I stared at the ceiling again. Definitely nicotine stains, concentrated above her wing-back chair. If you can have mortal enemies as a sophomore.

Both Dr. N and Claire mimicked my former silence. Talking about what I had experienced made me feel intensely raw and vulnerable, and I wanted to stuff all the words back into the secret place where I stored unpleasant thoughts.

So, my life sucks. If I can be so blunt. Bitterness soaked my voice. But I'm still going. I did not miss a day of school, other than when said enemy broke my nose. I've kept my grades up, so I don't know why Claire is complaining. And being here is not going to help me.

Both women shied away from me, as though I was too messed up to look at. Claire sniffled as though holding back tears. She never cried. The fact that she might start then deeply disturbed me.

Can I go now? I asked quietly.

Ariel! Claire barked. I jumped, guilt cutting me down to size. "What's wrong with you? The doctor is trying to help you. You need help. We all do."

She ran her hand through her hair, which was starting to come undone from her careful up-do. Another sigh erupted from within her. Another burst of steam.

It's fine, Claire, Dr. N said, raising a lined palm. Claire pinched her lips together, creases forming around her mouth that leached her lipstick.

I don't like to talk about myself, I said. It's not like I'm unburdening my mind or however it's supposed to feel. I just feel like I'm betraying myself.

Dr. N readjusted the world's smallest glasses. A prescription pad had appeared in her hands.

Ariel, you've been through more in this past year than most people experience in ten, she said. I think you need a little help. There's no shame in that, like your mom was saying. I'm going to write a prescription for a benzodiazepine. It's a safe medication that will lessen your stress and help you cope.

The prescription tore off with a loud, stark rip. She handed it to Claire, whose head was bobbing like a dashboard ornament on a bumpy road. I still couldn't shake the paranoid feeling that they were conspiring against me.

And then maybe after you adjust, we can work on why you feel like so much of an outsider, Dr. N said.

But there was no after. We never went back to the mental health center. Claire always came up with a justifiable excuse. She updated Dr. N via phone progress reports, speaking in melodramatic tones and using phrases like solid recovery. That's how my pills kept magically getting refilled.

The matter had been dealt with. And all of these months later, in her mind, things were just fine.

###

Autopilot was my way of getting through home life, not much different than at school. When I came home from my finals, I helped Hugh prepare dinner. After we'd eaten, the TV on to make up for lack of conversation, I cleaned up the dishes.

Ten minutes later, I was standing in the downstairs bathroom with one of the little white benzo pills in my palm. The exhaust fan buzzed noisily in the ceiling.

I hated the way the meds made me feel, like half of my brain was asleep. Unbeknownst to Claire, I'd been slowly lowering the dosage each week for the last few months, from three pills at the start to the half pill I took daily now.

Slowly, I'd begun to come out of the walking slumber I'd been living in. It was like popping a bubble around my head: colors were brighter than I remembered them, sounds sharper. And the feelings that I had forgotten how to feel came rushing back, sometimes too fast for comfort.

The sparkling, commercial-clean mirror reflected my face back at me. Deep shadows aged my hazel eyes, the black hair I'd kept up on dying a disheveled, shapeless mass. Blue veins crisscrossed beneath my translucent skin. Not my prettiest look.

Tipping my palm towards the toilet, I tried to pretend I wasn't doing it on purpose. The tiny tablet plopped on the water and dissolved. I met my eyes in the mirror, my reflection a silent accomplice.

Oops, I whispered.

I picked up the orange prescription bottle and, before I could change my mind, shook out the remaining pills. Flushing them away, I capped the bottle and slid it into my pajama pocket. I clicked the light off, shut the bathroom door, and waited for my body chemistry to realize something was amiss.

CHAPTER 2

MY SLEEP THAT night was plagued by shifting, restless dreams. When I woke up in the morning, my neck was stiff, like I'd slept on a mattress stuffed with rocks. I had to drag my tired body through school.

Classes were just a formality now that we were done with finals. Still, we had to go through the motions. God forbid they not squeeze every ounce out of us they could, even though it meant crossword puzzles and movies all day.

An office attendant appeared at the door during English. Ms. Fellows, the teacher, didn't stand or acknowledge her, too busy playing mahjong on her computer.

Ariel Donovan! the attendant shouted across the room. My head jerked up and I blushed instinctively. She seemed irritated, clutching a stack of manila folders with a sense of urgency. I need Ariel to come down to the office!

I winced. What now?

Ariel, go, Ms. Fellows commanded, only briefly glancing up.

Leaving my books behind, I stood and followed the attendant. On the way out the door, I glanced back. Henry's head was lowered above paperclips he was bending on his desk. But he was watching me. His cautious eyes peered through the dark sheet of his hair.

I didn't have time to assess why Henry would pay me the slightest attention. The attendant was already halfway down the hall and I rushed to catch up. She was a short, nondescript woman in a bright red vest. Her heels clicked steadily on the tile, like the nails of a rodent, as I followed her.

Let's go, she said, sounding more like she was talking to herself than to me.

The last time I'd been taken down to the office was when I'd found out about Jenna's death. I wasn't thrilled by the prospect of returning. Even