The door is budging a little, so I bang my hip into it a little harder. It was her grandparents’ stupid idea, not mine, to bring her to their castle for the weekend. Of course, they crashed at 9:30 and are half-deaf.
Surely she wouldn’t jump because of that Frida Kahlo remark I made at dinner. Her grandmother had given me a dirty look. I mean, it was her grandfather who brought it up.
He was telling Tessie about how Frida Kahlo had painted in bed after the terrible bus accident when she was eighteen that left her frozen in a body cast. Frida’s mother made this special easel for her bed. So Tessie’s grandfather asked her if she’d like him to make something like it for her. He was trying to inspire her, but it seems to me the lesson there is that a random bus accident screwed up Frida Kahlo pretty much for life, just like Tessie’s going to be. And all I said was that it was a good thing Kahlo killed herself because she was literally painting herself to death. I thought it was funny. Like, how many Frida Kahlo faces can the world take?
The door suddenly gives way, and I stumble onto the terrace. She’s sitting on the ledge with her back to me, wearing her grandfather’s extra-large white Hanes T-shirt, looking like Casper the Friendly Ghost. She forgot her nightgown on our little overnight trip, so she borrowed the shirt out of her grandfather’s drawer.
There are much better ways to kill yourself, I am thinking. And I wouldn’t wear that.
Maybe I should let her jump. It just pops in my head.
If she did, she’d probably just end up in a wheelchair because she’s just that lucky. Or unlucky. It’s such a freaky line. All this hard work to bring her back to life when I’m pretty sure she wishes she’d gone to sleep in that grave and never woken up.
I’m really, really pissed off tonight. More than usual. I’m crying. I’m not sure how long I can keep this up. All those stories in the newspaper, and yet the ugly, real story is never told.
She’s still playing the stupid flute. It makes me want to jump.
“Please get off the ledge,” I choke out. “Please.”
Tessa, present day
1:54 A.M.
I reach into the package and tug out a plastic bag.
A shirt is inside.
Crusted with blood.
I recognize it.
Lydia, age 17
10 WEEKS BEFORE THE TRIAL
I could draw twenty smiley faces in my calendar today.
My mom just brought us freezing cans of Coke with straws, and Chips Ahoy on a plate. She said it was good to hear us laughing so much again. I locked the door after that. It was Tessie’s idea to draw these fake pictures for her new doctor, a big shocker, because it’s more like the kind of thing I would come up with. Tessie was never a big liar but I’ve never had a problem if it’s a means to an end. She told me she’s not ready to let this new doctor peer into her soul. The soul thing was just her mimicking the doctor she got stuck with right before this one. That idiot told her she could cure her blindness if she jumped off the high dive and opened her eyes underwater. I’ve never seen Tessie’s dad so mad as when I told him. He might as well be suggesting she kill herself!
Tessie’s wearing these white nerdy pajamas with lace that her Aunt Hilda gave her. If she could see, she wouldn’t be caught dead in them. But she can’t, and it’s kind of sweet. They make her look all innocent, like the world isn’t ending.
“Do you have the black marker?” Tessie’s asking.
“Yes.” I perfect a grimace on a flower and hand it over.
For once, I’m not embarrassed to draw in the same room as Tessie. She had to go blind for that to happen. Everything she draws is always so perfect. I like this picture. I definitely draw better when Tessie’s no competition.
Still, I’m thinking this picture’s a little literal. A field of monster flowers. A girl cowering. It needs drama.
I add another girl right on top of the other one. Scratch in some red. Are the girls fighting to the death? Is one killing the other? Are the poor little flowers actually just worried and trying to make it stop?
Ha-ha. Let him wonder.
Tessa, present day
2:03 A.M.
My eyes are glued to the brown stain on the pink shirt. My shirt. She borrowed it from me a very long time ago and never returned it.
It’s a lot of blood.
Not for the first time, I’m numbly contemplating the idea of Lydia, murdered.
Lydia was fond of ketchup, I remind myself. Of corn syrup and red dye, manipulation and guessing games.
There’s something else in the package.
A college-ruled notebook. I recognize it, too. There used to be a whole box of them.
A date is scribbled on the front of this one. And a name.
The L curls up on the end, like a cat’s tail. I’d seen her write that L a hundred times.
My hand hovers between the notebook and my cell phone.
Deciding how to play.
Lydia, age 17
3 WEEKS BEFORE THE TRIAL
“I’m Lydia Frances Bell,” I introduce myself, wishing I hadn’t added the Frances. Or used the Lydia, which I never felt was my true name. I’m more of an Audriana or Violetta or Dahlia. I should have given him a fake name. Tessie would say it was stupid to introduce myself to him in the first place. She’d be mad. I told her I was just going to sit in her doctor’s class one time to observe and not even raise my hand. I’ve come twice since then. Tessie is driving me freaking crazy. Last night, she nearly tore my head off when I made myself a peanut butter sandwich and brought it to her room. I mean, get over it. It’s a sandwich.
Today is the first time I signed up for his office hours. I feel as fully prepared as I can be. I’ve researched everything I can about him. I’ve read his lecture series From Marilyn Monroe to Eva Braun: History’s Most Powerful Bimbos. I devoured the case study of that girl who survived being buried alive by her stepdad, which got everyone all into him being Tessie’s therapist when his name appeared on the list of candidates. He’s been a visiting professor at three Ivy League schools. He never teaches anything with 101 in the title. I couldn’t find much personal, so that was a bummer, and nothing about his missing daughter, but I’m sure he’s a private man and is totally devoted to his life’s work.
“I’m so glad you dropped by, Lydia,” he’s saying. “I’ve seen you sitting in the front row.” His smile is a draught of sunshine. He makes me think in Keats.
I lay down my copious notes on his last lecture, about the dark triad of personality, so he can see right away what a good student I am. He asks me whether I agree with Machiavelli that we are not helpless at the hands of bad luck. It was apparently a rhetorical question, because he’s still talking. I love the sound of his voice rolling over all those four-syllable words. I feel like he is having sex with my brain.
I have ten brilliant questions all set to impress him, and I haven’t asked a single one.
He has rolled his chair over from behind the desk. His knee is pressing against my leg in this delicious pleasure-pain thing. I can barely think with his knee on mine and yet he acts like it’s not even there.