Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me, even though I wish they did. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this tale. Any original characters, however, do belong to me.
AN: I wrote Yin and Yang about a year, maybe even two years ago, and I hoped that would be the last I thought of it, but one of the reviews stuck out in my mind and refused to disappear. It made me realise that as a reader, you had only seen the story from Jeff's perspective. So, I typed the entire story up… and I somehow managed to lose the document for about a year. A virus scan managed to find it, and the rest is history.
This is the rest of the tale from another point of view, and is a sort of sequel/prequel to Yin and Yang. Also, some of the subject matter is delicate and may upset/offend some readers. I've tried to keep it as ambiguous and low-key as possible, but if it does offend/upset you, I apologise. Anyway, enough of me waffling on...
The Secret Keeper
It's been a long journey to this point. A long, tiresome, journey. Looking back on it, however, you realise you wouldn't change a thing. You glance at the red-haired girl sitting beside you, the one you're about to spill all to, in trepidation. She says she knows the story, but you wonder if she'll ever truly understand.
For you, your part of the tale is ending. With it comes a sense of relief, and you wish to God that you could start from the end. But, like any novel, in order to understand the end, you need to revisit the beginning.
You swing your uninjured leg against the brick wall you're perched upon and grab your girlfriend's hand, open your mouth and let the words waterfall out, leading you where they may.
There's something different about her. She's quiet and subdued; a mere shadow of the person she used to be. You worry about the sudden personality transplant. Surely a person can't change so drastically over a few weeks?
You observe her throughout the day, mentally noting how she slides along the walls of the hallway, almost as though she wishes she were invisible. To her, it seems that the uneven pattern on the linoleum floor is the most interesting thing invented since cheese toasties.
Your stomach grumbles at the thought of food and the bell rings in synchronisation, indicating the beginning of lunch. Opening your locker door with your identification card, you internally salivate at the thought of the slice of apple pie your grandma has packed for you.
Who wouldn't salivate at that?
You pull out the slightly squashed slice of pie, slam your locker door shut in only the way a teenager can, and stroll towards the cafeteria, bag slung carelessly across one shoulder.
She sits by herself, limp hair hanging over her eyes like a curtain shielding her from the rest of the world.
It doesn't work on you. It never has, you recall, especially when Gordon and Alan were going through the pull-the-blanket-over-my-head-so-Scott-can't-see-me stage. You can see straight through the façade. Always can, always will.
You sink into the vacant chair next to her.
Something inside of you twinges as you finally see her close up. Her face is twisted in pain, worry or annoyance. Being a guy who isn't in touch with his emotions too much, you have no way of telling which one it is. Either way, she's upset. Even you can see that. For some unknown reason, that spurs you into doing something you have never done before.
"Want some?" you ask, tone artificially light as you offer her a fork and the pie. You have no idea why you are doing this, but the intention of sharing spreads a warm, fuzzy feeling through your body.
She declines, shakes her head and scoots away from you. You wonder what you have done to offend her.
Maybe she doesn't like the smell of cinnamon?
Yeah, that must be it. She doesn't like the smell of cinnamon and Grams always layers the pie with an inch thick layer of the spice.
Even so, you find yourself asking, "What's wrong?"
For the first time in weeks, she looks at you. She physically peers through the veil of hair and holds eye contact for more than two seconds.
She swallows, pushing past the lump that seems to have formed in her throat, and tries to speak, but no words come out. She looks like a goldfish drowning in air.
Finally, she stammers, "Not… not here."
You get the hint and finish your pie in companionable silence.
A few moments after you swallow your last mouthful, she grabs you on the shoulder. Her fingernails dig into your flesh, like talons digging into bark. Again, you wonder what you've done to get that reaction from her.
You follow her out of the cafeteria and into a secluded spot. It takes a while, but you manage to get her to warm up to you. What she tells you chills you right to the core. You've heard of things like this happening, but you never thought it would happen to one of your friends. You have a burning urge to find out who did this to her and deck him one, but she won't tell you. You eventually coax it out of her.
She asks for your help. She's putting you on the spot. She may even be testing you, seeing whether she really is or isn't your friend. You feel that you need to play your cards right in this situation.
What do you say?
Yes. Of course you'll help her out. You're her friend. That's what friends do, right?
She smiles at you, truly and utterly grateful. Now you come to think of it, it's the first real smile you've seen from her in weeks. You know you've made the right choice here.
The rest of the day rolls by quickly. You spend your free periods in the library, trying to finish of your homework because you know you won't have a chance to do it tonight. You also try to seek out John or Virgil. Either brother will do, but you'd prefer to deal with John. Virgil and you are going through… through…
A trying patch. We'll sort it out, one day.
You bump into neither, until the final bell rings, indicating the end of the school day. Virgil casually saunters up to you at your locker, backpack slung over his left shoulder, hair unnecessarily windswept, polo-shirt collar popped up. You recognize the signs and heroically try to choke back your laughter – he's trying to impress a girl. Or he already has. You aren't too sure.
"Whaddaya think? Cool, or sub-zero?"
Clearly Virgil's in one of those quirky moods. It has its price.
"Never mind," he continues, without waiting for an answer. "We need to get home ASAP. Got a date I gotta get ready for. Move it, move it, move it! And, I'll need your car."
You can't help it. The bubble of laughter that built up inside you bursts and you collapse into hysterics. "Nice one," you rejoin, as soon as you can draw breath. "What planet are you living on? What makes you think I'll let you drive a car? My car, of all cars that can be driven? Nah, get real."
"Scott, I'm being serious. I don't need a piece of paper to tell me I can drive. It's hit the gas and steer; how hard can it be?"
You sober up. "I'm serious too. You don't have a license and you don't know how to drive a shift stick. There is no way in hell I'll let you behind the wheel without those two criteria's being filled. Besides, having a car isn't the only way to dig girls. Granted, they do make the job easier, but they're not the deal breaker." You pointedly ignore the impetuous pout Virgil sends your way. "By the way, you and John have got to pick Alan and Gordon up from middle school and then take the bus home."
Virgil is unhappy. He crosses his arms over his chest and whines out the most irritating word known to mankind. "Why?"
"Because I said so."
As the eldest Tracy, you know this answer will be sufficient.
Note to self – being the eldest has particular perks.
Virgil glowers at you, curses and then quietly mutters, "You suck."
Scratch what I just said.
You shrug. You don't have time to deal with this anymore. "Well, get used to me being a sucky brother. I can guarantee you'll feel that way more often now."
Virgil flounces off in a huff.
You shake your head at his retreating back. You are pretty sure you weren't as difficult as he is when you were fifteen. At least, you hope you weren't. Actually, you know you weren't – you had too much responsibility to shoulder. Slamming your locker door closed, you fiddle with your keys as you head out to your Dodge Charger.
"Ready to go?" you ask, slinging an arm over your friend's shoulder.
She draws in a deep, shaky breath. "I guess." There's a pause. "Scott?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For everything."
You nod, acknowledging her and get into your car and drive away.
It's been ages, and you still can't quite believe that you're sitting in your car outside a Planned Parenthood Centre, several miles away from home. You never thought you'd come here when you'd be an adult, let alone at seventeen.
Everything, you realise, has changed after today's lunchtime revelation.
And that realisation scares you slightly.
It's taking too long. You itch to jump out of the car and find out why, but you manage to restrain yourself. You drift off into your own little world, humming absentmindedly to the radio.
The car door opens and closes with a dull thud. You can feel the tension radiating from her.
"You did what you had to do," you say gently. "You did what you had to do."
She shakes her head and sobs into her hands. "I couldn't. I couldn't go through with it. Did I make the right choice?"
You consider your words carefully. One slip of the tongue and everything will go south.
"You made the choice that felt right to you," you reply eventually. "It's getting late. I think we should head back now."
On that note, you check for any hidden patrol cars, perform an illegal u-turn and drive away.
A month, or two, has passed since that day and it's ice-hockey season again. You're exhilarated at the prospect of a new season, but something makes you feel uneasy. You mentally scroll through the names of your team mates. One name causes alarm bells to peal in your head.
Matthew Johnston.
You've never really liked the guy, but knowing what you know, your dislike increases tenfold. It shows on the ice. Your coach isn't happy about it and she calls both of you up on it. At the time, both of you pretend that nothing was wrong.
Later, after your match, he accosts you.
"What the hell's your problem?" he roars, shoving you into a wall. "I'm a team member, just like you. You treat me with respect!"
You shoot him a look. This person doesn't deserve any respect. "I know what you did to her."
He pulls a face. "How is this any of your business?"
You ignore him. You've come to realise you're good at ignoring people. "I know you took advantage of her. I know. I may not be able to get her to report you to the police, but I can guarantee that you won't be able to do that to anyone else."
Johnston takes a menacing step forward. He has six inches on your height, and is twice your weight, but you stand your ground.
"You interfere," he threatens, jabbing a stubby finger into your chest, "and you will live to regret it."
You roll those cerulean blue eyes of yours in a bored manner. "I'm so scared," you rejoin sarcastically. "Look, I'm shaking in my skates."
Johnston glares hard at you and skulks away. Watching his retreating back, an ominous feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. You can't help but feel like you've made a mistake in provoking a potentially venomous snake.
News of the altercation manages to leak its way into mainstream gossip at school. Like a game of 'Down-the-Line', the message becomes twisted and garbled. You hear snippets of it, but none of it makes sense as you know how things really went down. You know for a fact Matt Johnston didn't beat you to a bloody pulp. You know you didn't break Johnston's nose. You know the truth.
One little piece of information piques your interest. It's the allegations of impending fatherhood. Apparently, you're the father.
Time for some damage control.
You hunt for her, she hunts for you. You both need to think about your next step. You both need some sort of contingency plan. You close the door behind you after locating her and dragging her into a vacant classroom.
"What've you said?"
"Nothing. You?"
"Nothing. What're we going to do? I didn't want anyone finding out about this."
"I know," you sigh wearily, coming to a decision in your mind. It's not one that makes you happy. "If someone asks you if it's true, just say yes. It's probably better that way."
"But what about your girlfriend? I don't think she'll be too happy if I say it's true."
"I don't think she'll be too happy if I tell her it's a lie," you laugh humourlessly. "I'll deal with it."
"I'm sorry, Scott. I never meant for this to happen. I didn't think things would end up this way. If you don't want to help me anymore, I'll understand."
You didn't think events would unravel and unfold as they have. And in a way, you're sorry too. Not for what you are doing, but for everything you know you'll miss out on.
True to your word, you deal with the loose ends in your life. It's a quick break-up with your girlfriend, and probably the most painful one you've experienced to date, because you really like the girl. You feel a dead weight form in your chest as you watch her walk away from you, tears forming in her eyes, red hair shielding her face from you. In that moment, you wish you could call her back to you, wrap her in a hug and tell her everything, from the lie you're following through with right down to the fact that you still want to be with her.
But you can't.
Trapped between a rock and a hard place.
For the next few days, you act like a bear with a sore head, struggling to accept that for the next seven months, you will lose your conscience. You are, and will be, forced to live a lie.
To date, it's been four months since that particular lunchtime discussion. The rumours and accusations have reduced from a verbal onslaught to the occasional dribble. School has been somewhat trying. There are those who disapprove of you supposedly getting a girl pregnant, and they avoid you like you have the plague. There are those that stare at you and think, better him than me, the womanizing bastard. They want nothing to do with you. And, lastly, there are the people who treat you just the same, regardless of what you appear to have done.
In these four months, you've made many enemies.
In these four months, you've learnt who your true friends are.
Your family life has also taken a slide downhill. Your tenuous relationship with Virgil has been pushed to the brink of disaster and John clearly disapproves of what he believes to be your actions. You can't even tell your family the truth and that kills you on the inside.
You shake your head, trying not to dwell on the various problems in your life. You've got an ice-hockey match. Your head needs to be in The Zone.
Before you can head out onto the ice, your coach commands a locker check. You grumble about the slight delay under your breath, but you comply. You have nothing to hide.
Or so you think.
It's a thorough check, and towards the back of your locker, your coach pulls out a small white package. You've never seen it before, but your protests are ignored. But why should anyone believe you, given your past?
You've been instantly booted off the team and you are required to visit the principle's office. As you leave the locker room, you swear you can see a smirk emanating from Matthew Johnston.
He said he'd get you, and he got you good.
The bastard. If I could just get my hands on him…
The principle does not take a light view on the allegations laid against you.
"But I've never seen it before!" you reiterate, blood boiling with anger. "I don't do drugs. I'll pee in a cup and you can test it! I do not do drugs!"
The principle stares at you. And he stares some more. It unnerves you.
Your gut clenches in anticipation.
He opens his mouth, and begins to talk. You listen, and can't believe what he's saying.
You nod, accepting his decision, and are then promptly dismissed.
It's inevitable, but news eventually reaches the ears of your esteemed father. You're in for it now. It's no surprise to you when he's waiting at the dining room table once you come home.
Great. Just what I need. A father-son interrogation.
It's been one of those days. Virgil and you have gotten into another fight. This time, it's over something that is so ridiculous, you don't even want to think about it.
It comes to a head at snack-time, right in front of your father. With a few choice words, Virgil manages to crawl under your skin and irritate you like a poison-ivy rash. You charge at him, emotions, mainly anger and frustration, rushing unbridled through your veins. You can't believe you lost control like that.
Your father banishes you to your room and you eventually comply. It's safer for everyone that way. There's only one thing that can calm you down now. You crack open the books and start on your homework, just forgetting your troubles for a while. Turning on your mini-disc player, you stuff the earphones in your ears and immerse yourself in maths. Maths, along with Chemistry and Physics, is your favourite subject. Unlike humans, there is only one right answer in the end.
Unknown to you, your father steps over your threshold, even though you've closed the door, violating your privacy. He announces his presence with the most clichéd line you've been unfortunate enough to hear.
"Scott, we need to talk."
"Fire away." You refuse to look at him, refuse to tear yourself away from your work. Working is the easiest way to suppress your emotions. You're becoming rather good at it. After all, you learnt from the master, who is, incidentally, standing in your door.
"Put the pen down and look at me."
Felling rebellious, and knowing it would irritate the hell out of your dad, you ignore him.
"Scott-"
You know you've pushed his buttons because he's using his warning tone. This conversation is not going to work in your favour now.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
You regret your decision, but you close your books. He sits on the edge of your unmade bed and taps the space next to him. You place yourself near him, but far away as well.
"You know you were wrong in what you did."
You shrug.
Doesn't matter now, does it? What's done is done.
"It doesn't matter how much Virgil provokes you, you do not resort to physical violence." A pause. "Do you understand?"
You remain silent. You're well within your rights to do that.
"It's a yes or no question."
He waits, clearly expecting a response from you. You deliberate, wondering if you should talk about what's really been going on or if you should just fire off the answer he wants to hear. You choose the less emotionally draining one.
"Yes, Dad."
"I know he was also in the wrong. But I cannot, and I will not tolerate physical fighting in this household. You are all old enough to know better."
He lowers his tone before starting up again. "Why, Scotty? He's much smaller than you. You could have hurt him."
He won't get a reply. You already established that. "Once we're done here, I want you to go downstairs and apologise to Virgil. Can you do that?"
Apologise? Yes.
Explain your behaviour over the past couple of months? Not so much.
Deep down, you know Virgil will expect an apology and an explanation towards your hostile manner.
Your father takes your silence as assent and approves. "Good man."
You spring off the bed, glad you've been given a reason to leave. Your hopes are dashed as he calls you back. You know what he's going to move onto. You are determined to stop him in his tracks.
"Before you even start, Dad, I don't do drugs."
And it's true. You left that part of your life behind a long time ago. Even so, you recognise the fact that your father needs some reassurances.
"If you don't do drugs," he challenges, "why is your brother under the impression that you do?"
You shrug. You wonder if Virgil even knows what someone looks like when they're stoned. You made sure he didn't, back in the day. You would always come home a few hours after the drugs had cleared your system.
Never before.
"Is it a rumour going around school?"
Your insides squirm. You're swimming way too close to the truth for comfort. You evade his question with a question of your own.
"Can I go now?"
"No. Get back here."
Damn!
"Scott," his voice has morphed from stern to pleading. It gives you a perverse feeling of pleasure knowing you are one of the select few who can reduce him to that. Also, the fact that you're standing, looking down on him, adds to the feeling. But he still has the upper hand.
"Are you in trouble?"
More than you could ever imagine.
"You are," he continues, "aren't you?"
You swallow painfully. You don't think you can hold up this ridiculous charade anymore. It's time, you decide, to come clean.
Tell the truth and be damned. Don't tell the truth and be damned.
"Yes," you agree. "Now can I go, please?"
Your father shakes his head. "Tell me what happened."
You loathe doing this, but you know you have to. You raise your hand to your mouth and begin to mumble. Your father rips your hand away from your mouth, and for the first time in a long time, he makes the time to listen to your problems, absorbing them like a sponge would absorb a water spillage.
Blinking rapidly, he repeats everything you've just said. Typically, he misses your point about taking a drug test by peeing in a cup.
Reading his expressions, you can tell your father disapproves of your choices. Although, in retrospect, it wasn't so much a choice as it was a bribe in order for your silence. Either way, you copped a light punishment, so you won't complain.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Hurt is evident in your father's voice.
Good question.
You have an, in your mind, equally good answer. "You were busy. You're always busy."
The words rock him to the core and he takes that into consideration.
You don't like where this conversation is headed. It's turning into an Oprah-style touchy-feely emotional segment.
Oh, man, we're not gonna have to hug, are we? Do not want!
You move away but he beckons you back. You contemplate disobeying him, but something warns you not to.
"Word has it you got a girl pregnant."
Oh boy. This is going to be embarrassing. It was bad enough when I was twelve, watching you stutter and stumble your way through the most awkward two hours of my life.
"How did it happen?"
You have to suppress your snort of laughter. In your head, you can hear a Classic-Gordon-Tracy response. Without censoring your mouth, you let the answer tumble out.
"Dad, you have five sons, and you're telling me you don't know how it happened?"
You leave him suitably gob smacked.
"Again," he regains his composure, "is this true?"
You tilt your head to the side. "For the purpose of this discussion, yes."
For the purpose of this discussion.
"And how do you feel about this?"
For the millionth time, you shrug. "I dunno. Haven't really thought about it, I guess."
It is the wrong thing to say. Apparently, Jeff Tracy does not want to hear those words. He explodes like a pyroclastic volcano.
"Well, you'd better start thinking about it, boy! How are you going to support them? Are you dropping out of school?"
"No!" You are scandalised at the thought. You have plans for your life and nothing, absolutely nothing will get in the way of you fulfilling them. "I'll figure something out! We both will."
"Scott, you are not ready to be a dad! You're seventeen, for crying out loud! You can't even marry her and raise the child together!"
Like you and Mom were when I was born, right?
Your heartbeat stills, just for a moment. Even though you haven't gotten a girl pregnant, even though you are not approaching fatherhood, none of it matters. For one of the most liberated men in the nation, your father sure has some old fashioned notions. In that moment, you see him in a different light. You don't view him as a philanthropist, or even your fair but firm father.
You view him as a hypocrite.
"Pot calling the kettle," you reply with dry sarcasm, quirking your eyebrow. You leave a stunned Jeff Tracy in your room as you scour the house, looking for Virgil.
Like a typical teenager, you stay up late into the night. After glancing at the clock mounted on the wall, you decide to catch at least three hours worth of sleep. Grinning inwardly, you're kind of glad your father converted his old office into a room for you. John would have flayed you alive if you had kept him up until two in the morning.
Reaching over for the light switch, you place your finger over the button, ready to flick it. For some reason unknown to you, you decide to check your phone. There are no messages or missed calls.
No emergencies tonight.
With a sigh, you roll over onto your back and close your eyes, basking in the tranquillity of silence. It takes a few moments, but your brain registers that the tranquil silence is not so silent after all. There is a soft, but constant, thud against your window. With a groan, you stumble out of bed and open the window, ducking to miss the stone that is thrown towards your head.
"What are you doing here?" you ask, feeling kind of stupid. "It's two in the morning."
"Dad came home from his series of business meetings today. He found out and kicked me out. Scott," she stifles a sob, "Scott, I don't know where else to go."
Well, you promised you'd help her four months ago. You haven't been raised to turn your back on a promise.
You tell her to stay where she is, whisk across the kitchen to the back door and invite her in. Quickly, you lead her back to your bedroom.
"I'll take the floor," you mutter against her protests as you set things up.
"Scott, get up here," she orders, crawling under the covers. "I've already been taken advantage of, and the result of that has gotten us into this predicament. I think sharing a bed with me is the least of our problems."
She has a valid point, and truthfully, you do want to sleep under a thick coverlid instead of a bundle of blankets. It's coming towards winter and the nights are cold. You crawl between the crisp sheets, roll onto your side and face the wall. There is a niggling thought at the back of your mind, but you can't for the life of you remember what it is. With a soft sigh, you close your eyes, telling yourself that if it was really that important, you would remember it shortly.
A shrill, high pitched scream rouses you from your sleeping state. Blinking, disoriented, you open you eyes, twist in horror and collapse out of bed.
Oh shit. The proverbial has hit the fan.
This is what you were desperately trying to remember last night. Your sweet, dear, beloved grandma had decided earlier on in the week that she would come to your place for a whole day on Friday to try and take the pressure of family life off your shoulders.
Surveying the scene from your somewhat messy bedroom floor, you realise what the scenario looks like to your grandmother. You glance at your temporary roommate, who is being heavily scrutinised by your grandmother. The silence is nothing if not a little awkward.
"This isn't what it looks like," you begin, rising from the floor, wincing. It feels like you've fractured both your kneecaps.
"Well, explain, Scott Carpenter Tracy, what do you think it looks like?" your grandmother retorts, tone carefully controlled, yet icy at the same time. You're really in it now.
"Like we… she and I…" you trail off, realising you are not doing yourself any favours. "Nothing happened!" you establish firmly, feeling flustered and frustrated. Only your grandmother can send you into such a tailspin with a few short words.
She glowers at you, shoots a look that clearly conveys I will deal with you in three minutes downstairs, and flurries away.
"I should probably go," your roommate murmurs, twisting the sheets in her hands. You nod in agreement and traipse downstairs.
For a diminutive woman, your grandmother sure knows how to pack a punch when she yells at you. After five minutes, you tune out, looking suitably chastised.
"Well, young man, do you have anything to say for yourself?"
You shake yourself out of the mental fog you are in.
"I simply cannot believe you would pull something as disgraceful and disrespectful as this! I thought I raised you better!" Grandma shakes her head, tendrils of hair framing her face. "Your mother would have been so disappointed in you, Scott."
Your head dips and your chest tightens at the mention of your mother. It's been several years, but it still hurts when you think of her. You've never wanted her to be disappointed in you. That was not your intention. Something inside of you snaps, and you decide to set your grandmother straight. Unlike the interrogation with your father, you confess everything. There are no secrets. You reveal all to your grandmother. It is somewhat cathartic, finally sharing the burden of the reality of your life with another person.
When you look at her, you search her eyes. She has no disapproval in her eyes, but you can tell she's not exactly thrilled with what you've done.
"Please don't look at me like that, Grams," you sigh. "I was doing what I thought was right."
"I know you were," she agrees. "And I'm proud of you for doing what you thought was right. I'm disappointed that you felt you couldn't trust me enough to inform me of the circumstances."
"I'm sorry, Grams. Really, I am."
"I'm relieved to hear you are not making me a young great-grandmother as well," she says, a small smile playing across her lips.
"You and me both. I sure as hell ain't ready for that," you laugh, feeling as though a giant weight has been lifted from your shoulders. She smiles, delighted to hear you laugh for the first time in a long time and places breakfast – toast and strawberry jam – in your mouth.
"Off to school, Scotty. And you invite her back tonight for dinner, young man. She can stay with us, in the guest room, until she sorts things out with her parents."
"Fanks. For e'ryfing," you slur out, transferring the toast from your mouth to your hand while dashing out the back door for the school bus.
Another three months pass, with little to no event. She hasn't managed to reconcile with her parents, but you, thankfully, have managed to patch things up with Virgil. Sure, there are still the occasional outbursts, after all, you're both in the throes of adolescence, but they are never on the same scale that they used to be on.
You tap impatiently on the steering wheel as you drive John, Virgil and your houseguest back from the latest ice-hockey game. In the shotgun seat beside you, she fidgets and grimaces.
"Everything okay?" you ask, sparing a cursory glance in her direction.
Her nose wrinkles and she nods. You divert your attention back to the road. The light has just changed, and you're the first car off the rank at the intersection. You push your foot down, accelerating smoothly away over the intersection. Out of the corner of your eye, you register a car speeding towards your door. You register the movement a fraction of a second too late. You can't slow down fast enough to let the other car pass, and vice versa. You speed up, and the situation could turn worse. You swerve, but there's no point. You know a crash is imminent. Knowing that there is nothing left to do, you brace yourself for the impact.
It hurts like a bitch when you come around. You knew there would be pain, after all, it's rare for a person to walk away from two steel cars mangled together without injury, but you didn't anticipate this much pain. You feel blood track slowly down the side of your left leg. You can smell the crash too, but you can't hear or see much. There's too much smoke obscuring your vision, meaning there has to be a fire somewhere. Your ears still ring with the sound of squealing tyres and then the sound of the resulting crash. There's the distinct odour of smelted metal. Plastic melts into a gooey puddle on the tarmac. The tinge of alcohol permeates the air. The smell of singed flesh worries you. And the blood, have you mentioned the metallic smell of blood? You think you can just about taste it too.
There's a pain in your chest. Like a tight knot, it restricts your breathing. You draw in a shallow breath, gasping at the pain you feel.
"Where's John? Is he okay?" Fear fills you, and that fear is worse than the pain. You're the one responsible for your brothers. If anything happened to John, you know you'd never forgive yourself.
It's Virgil who alleviates your fears. "He's gone to get some help. They've both gone. It's just you and me here."
You groan as your head pounds with this new information. Your eyelids droop, and you have no intention of preventing that from happening. You're more than happy to slip back into La-La land.
The last thing you see are golden flames dancing outside the chassis of your car.
The last thing you smell is leaking gas.
If you thought waking up was a bitch last time, this time waking up is a bitch on heat. Everything hurts, right down to your pinky toe. Your eyelids slide open and you bite back your scream of agony as it feels like the skin is being stripped off your lids with a rusty nail. The only thing you see is white cross-hatched stitching. Briefly, you wonder if you've gone blind.
"Scott?"
The voice sounds deep and gravelly and just a few million decibels too loud for your ears.
Ah, crap. Have I've died and gone to hell? Why else would doctors be here?
You groan and attempt to burrow your head under the pillows, even though that sends wave after wave of pain firing through your neurones.
"It's okay," another voice – a female voice you recognise – says, squeezing your hand.
It's confirmation enough; you really have died and gone to hell. After all, why else would your ex-girlfriend – the one you severed ties with when the entire debacle began – be here with you?
"Fa," you struggle to enquire about your brothers, but it requires too much effort. It requires too much brain power to form the word family and let it roll off your tongue.
"Your family's okay," your ex-girlfriend reassures you. "Virgil's being treated for minor burns, and John's being treated for shock. He practically collapsed in my arms after screaming for help at the shop where I work. You were the one that got the worst of it, from what I saw."
"They were both in better shape than you," the gravelly voice agrees. "Now, Scott, I need you to pay attention for short while. Can you do that?"
If it means you'll leave me to rot in peace, sure.
"Alright. Scott, you've sustained serious burns to over 20% of your body. We've applied some healing gel and covered them with gauzes to prevent any infection from making you sicker. With any luck, there should be minimal to no scarring. We're concerned that the intensity of the fire that took place may have caused some damage to your corneas. We believe that this is temporary, and your sight will be unaffected, but we've bandaged them up, just in case. A shard of metal had pierced through muscles in your leg, but once again, there has been no permanent damaged caused. Finally, you have a mild concussion, but after what you've been through, that's to be expected."
Most of this just flies over your head. The doctor could have just spoken in Gobbeldegook, as you haven't really understood a word, and to be quite frank, at this point, you really don't care.
"We'll keep you in here for some observations. If your recovery progresses well, I don't see why we need to keep you in here for more than four days."
There's silence for a few moments, only punctuated as the doctor draws a curtain around you. Without any noise, you think you've been left alone. Unable to see anything, the waves of panic course through your veins once again.
"She told me everything, Scott."
The voice startles you and your brain takes a few moments before it kicks into gear. Inside, you cringe, waiting for the verbal tongue lashing.
"Why didn't you tell me, Scott? I mean, I know it wasn't your place to say a word, but don't you think I would have liked something more than what you gave me? If you told me, I would have been able to deal with it. Maybe not in the beginning, but we still could have had something."
What did you give her as a reason to break up?
Oh, yes, something along the lines of a complicated matter that you didn't want her getting involved in. The irony of your current predicament hits you hard. If you had the inclination, or the energy, you would have laughed at the cards fate had cut you.
Why didn't you tell her the truth?
For you, the answer is simple enough. It's been a mantra, a constant reminder that you were doing what you thought was best for everyone associated with you.
Because I care about you too much to willingly hurt you.
Because high school is hard enough without being subject to rumours that never really die.
Because you have a smile, a special smile that's reserved for just me, and I never wanted to lose that smile. I didn't want to forget the way your fingers intertwined with mine when I held your hand. And damn, but you smell of vanilla and cinnamon pie – my favourite foods in the world.
Because I have memories of you that I didn't want you to take away from me.
Because I wanted you to have me with no attachments or conditions. The same way I wanted you without feeling guilty over my actions.
Because in the month and a half that we did date, I think I started to fall in love with you.
No, scratch that. I know I did.
Your brain scrambles to string these into a semi coherent sentence, and from drawing strength from energy reserves you didn't know you possessed, you prepare to blurt everything out.
You're out of time. The curtain has been drawn back with a swoosh – you can definitely hear this – and your family, bar John and Virgil and your father, clamour by the foot of your bed. Alan grabs onto one toe, regardless of the amount of pain it causes you. Stupidly, you squeeze your eyes shut against the pain, and then belatedly realise that no one can see your tears. They're hidden behind the eye bandages.
Your grandmother takes your other hand into hers. "Oh, Scotty, what have you done to yourself?"
Your ex-girlfriend leans down to your ear, ready to say goodbye now that your family is here. Her hair, vibrant red, tickles your face, and through the wrappings around your skin, you can smell the scent of cinnamon and vanilla. In an instant, you feel marginally better.
"I'll be back to visit you later, if you want me to."
Yes! Please. You have no idea how badly I want to talk to you.
"And, Scott," she whispers this softly into your ears. "If you're still interested, I'm still available."
And with those words, you wonder if you're really dead.
If I am really dead, have I really gone to hell?
It doesn't feel like it, if the endorphins that are flooding your body are anything to go by. If anything, her words could pick you up and float you all the way to heaven.
By your third day in hospital, you begin feeling restless. Eye examinations have determined that your eyes would be able to handle small amounts of dim light and have unwound the mummy wrapping from your eyes.
So far, all you can make out is the several shades of grey that seem to decorate the room, and the slightly darker outline of the visitors that have poured in by the bucket load to see you. Most of them are of the female variety – you are quite the ladies' man – but there are two girls you want to see, and they haven't been in to see you.
Girl number one is your ex-girlfriend. She hasn't come back to see you and there's so much you want to say to her. Hey, if you play your cards right, she could go from being an ex to being your proper girlfriend.
Girl number two is the one you've been helping out for the past seven months. At the very least, you want to make sure she – and the kid – are okay.
You sit there, idle, enjoying the stillness in the midst of a storm, just for a few moments.
The curtain moves, and girl number two is wheeled in.
"How are you?" you ask, manners kicking in. Your brain is feeling less lethargic than it did three days ago, and the fact that your painkiller strength has been reduced has only helped matters.
She shrugs, non-committal.
"The baby's dead," she adds, bluntly, emotionlessly.
You hold your tongue.
"I didn't want it anyway. I couldn't abort it, but I couldn't live with it either. The plan was to place it up for adoption with someone that could love it the way I wouldn't have been able to."
You hear the news, hear the way it's being told, and something inside of you breaks. You're not quite sure what it is, but you don't like it.
It can't be my heart breaking, can it? I mean, the kid wasn't biologically mine, anyway.
Deep down, you know why. Even though there is no biological link to the dead baby and you, for the past seven months, you've played a charade in getting other people to believe that it was yours. The attachment, though not biological, had been formed.
"I'm glad it's over," she continues in the same monotone voice.
Once more, you hold your tongue, knowing it will never truly be over.
In a town this small, with members who have good memories and hold long grudges, this will never be a dog that lies, let alone a sleeping dog that lies.
She somehow manages to read your thoughts. "My cousin's invited me to live out west with her. I just want to go somewhere where none of this will be known. I'm saying yes, and I'm leaving as soon as I'm discharged."
You still hold your tongue, but only because words have failed you at this moment. You actually don't know what to say.
"Don't say anything," she smiles, bittersweet. "It may not have meant to end this way, but at least it's coming to an end, right?"
You nod, dumbfounded.
To your surprise, she leans over in her wheelchair and places a quick kiss on your cheek.
"I'm sorry for all the trouble I've given you over the past seven months."
You shrug it off.
"You have been an amazing tower of support for me, and I don't know how I would have coped without you."
Tell me something I don't know.
"You're a good guy, Scott, and don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise."
With those words, she wheels herself out of the room. You look at her as she wheels towards the lifts, knowing that this is the last time you'll see her.
Almost a week after the accident, you are finally discharged. The concussion has cleared itself up, your eyesight is nearly back to normal, and the gel has done its job. Your skin has regenerated and renewed itself faster and there is almost no scarring visible. The only flipside is that your leg is still too unstable to walk on, and you have to hobble around on a pair of crutches.
Even so, I can't wait to get home.
Dad had told you that your car had been written off, and that it would have been cheaper to buy a new used-car than repair your old one. You pointed out a couple that tickled your fancy on the way home from the hospital.
The car pulls up into the driveway, and Dad hops out of the driver's seat, pulling your crutches out from the backseat and handing them to you. He nods at the red haired girl sitting on the porch as he hands you your designer walking sticks, looks at the expression that is plastered onto your face, and decides to give you a few moments alone together.
You hobble over to her, stand by her side, drink in her appearance. You press a quick, but tender, kiss on her lips.
"Yep," you pretend to consider, "I'm still interested."
She grins and pulls you in for another quick kiss. "I'm still available."
"Not anymore," you grin back.
She stares at you for a bit. "Tell me about it. I mean, I know how everything went down, but tell me your version."
She holds out her hand, an open invitation for you. You accept, lead her to the low brick wall on the far side of the farm house and hoist your body up onto the wall, despite the pain. She sits beside you, ready and waiting. You open your mouth and let the verbal waterfall begin.
As you talk, you notice your shadows lengthen, and then merge into one. You glance at her, and then down at your hands, clasped together with hers.
Perhaps, you muse to yourself, it's a sign of things to come.