Out of My Mind Read online

  J.D. lunged across the room and yanked opened the cabinet below the sink where dad kept his booze, right next to the drain cleaner. It was well stocked with a fifth of Jack, Southern Comfort and Jameson’s. The old man knew it was here. He was just looking to pick a fight.

  “Dad, over here,” J.D. said to distract him from his weapons search.

  Dad turned slowly, studying a bronze bear figurine clenched in his hand. J.D. recognized that bear. Mom had bought it on a family vacation to Idaho. Hell.

  “This…was hers,” Dad’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t she take it?”

  “Dad, your booze is over here, see?” J.D. pointed to the cabinet.

  With a scary-as-shit glow in his eyes, Dad glanced up and eyed the liquor. He shuffled toward J.D.

  The old man was fat and soft, a few inches shorter than J.D.’s six feet, with a lot less muscle. J.D. could take him, but didn’t. He couldn’t risk his dad pressing charges and getting J.D. locked up. He couldn’t protect his brother from jail.

  “You were hiding my liquor?” he accused.

  Before J.D. could respond, his dad shoved the bear into J.D.’s stomach. He fell to his knees, gasping from the pain. The bear dropped to the floor with a CLUNK.

  Dad grabbed the fifth of Jack, yanked off the cap and glared at J.D. “You’re just like her, you lying sack of shit.”

  Every muscle in J.D.’s body tensed. The old man wasn’t done.

  The kitchen phone rang. His dad took a few gulps of booze and glared at J.D. The phone continued to ring.

  “Answer it!” Dad ordered.

  Wincing, J.D. stood and crossed the kitchen, fully expecting his dad to smash the bottle against the back of J.D.’s head.

  No, he’d never waste good booze like that.

  J.D. slipped the receiver off the cradle. “Hello?”

  “You didn’t answer your cell,” Detective Ryan accused.

  “Sorry.” I was trying to keep my dad from killing his sons.

  “You need to answer.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Don’t turn your back on me,” Dad shouted.

  J.D. covered the mouthpiece, turned and braced for a crack across the face. Instead, the old man was focused on sucking down his whisky.

  “Dad, quiet, it’s Detective Ryan.” J.D. hoped that would shut him up.

  “Is he finally going to lock you up?” Dad said.

  J.D. put up his index finger.

  “Don’t you flip me off, boy.”

  “We need to talk about your community service,” Detective Ryan said. “I’ve made it my responsibility to make sure you fulfill your court-ordered obligations.”

  “I’m goin’ upstairs.” Dad shoved J.D. into the counter as he passed.

  J.D.’s eyes watered against the pain. His ribs couldn’t take much more.

  “I’ll be stopping by randomly to check on you,” Detective Ryan said.

  “Yes sir.” J.D. gasped. The ribs hurt the most. He was pretty sure the old man knew that.

  “Damn it, Pratt. You’re smoking weed again, aren’t you?” Detective Ryan accused.

  “No sir,” J.D. said, better this time.

  “Be ready to pee in a cup.”

  “Yes sir.”

  CLICK.

  With one arm clutched against his ribcage, J.D. went to the pantry and tapped on the door. “Billy?”

  “Is it safe?” his muffled voice answered.

  “Yeah.”

  The pantry door cracked open and Billy poked his head into the kitchen. With his red hair and freckles Billy looked young for a junior. He was tall and thin from Cross Country, basketball, and any other sport that kept him running.

  “He’s upstairs.” J.D. motioned Billy out of the closet.

  Billy shoved the door open and stepped out. His skin was flushed, his green eyes wide as he scanned the kitchen.

  Wielding a switchblade.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” J.D. put out his hand. “Give it to me.”

  “No.” Billy pointed the knife at J.D. The kid hadn’t come down from the adrenaline rush.

  “If you’re caught with that at school you’ll be suspended.” “I need it to defend myself,” Billy argued.

  “I took care of him.”

  “But you won’t always be here, will you?”

  Of course not. Everyone expected J.D. to end up in prison by the age of 21.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” J.D. said.

  “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  Yeah, like the day Dad came at Billy with a fireplace poker and Billy took off in the car.

  As Billy folded his knife and shoved it into his pocket, a crash echoed from the second floor.

  “God damn it!” the old man’s voice echoed through the ceiling.

  Billy nervously glanced up. Angry footsteps rattled the kitchen ceiling. Dad was headed for the stairs.

  “Get out of here,” J.D. said. “He’ll be passed out in a few hours.”

  “Damn you, good for nothing sons of that bitch!” Dad howled.

  “What about you?” Fear clouded Billy’s eyes.

  “Just go.” J.D. shoved Billy’s backpack at him and pushed him out the back door.

  Chapter Four

  I spent almost an entire day prepping for the first day of school, laying out the right clothes, going through scrapbooks, and writing down names of kids I know and how I know them. Although I remember a lot of stuff, at times I’m confused, unsure which memories are real and which ones are fantasies created by my scarred brain.

  Remembering isn’t my only problem.

  This morning I looked at our cat and called her a truck. What was that about? Hello random brain derailment.

  If I do stuff like that in front of my friends I’m screwed. Mom made a joke out of it, but I saw the worry in her eyes.

  Luckily I found a small notebook that fits perfectly into the back pocket of my jeans. The first thing that goes in there is my dorky drawing of Peanut, my cat, with the letters “CAT” printed beside it. It’s a start.

  Afraid I’ll forget something crucial when I go out in public, I compose a “Don’t Leave Bedroom Without” list:

  1) Put on make-up

  2) Wear choker

  3) IPhone

  4) Backpack

  I’ll add more as I go.

  I decide to wear Yoga pants instead of my beloved sweats. Don’t want to draw negative attention to myself. I slips on one of the bright tanks the girls picked out for me, but grab an Evergreen High hoodie just in case. I can never seem to get warm since the accident. The doctors say it’s because of the meds. I just know I’m cold.

  I stick my Wolves cheer pin on my shirt for solidarity and all that, even if I won’t be performing with them.

  Not today, but soon.

  The drive through Mickey D’s is interesting. I guess I can’t decide what to order fast enough so Taylor does the honors. She gets me coffee and a breakfast sandwich. The coffee tastes bitter and hurts my tongue. I wonder if she’s testing me by ordering something she knows I dislike.

  No, friends don’t do stuff like that. It’s more likely my taste buds have flaked out along with my brain cells.

  I scribble in my notebook.

  Old normal: loved coffee.

  New normal: hate coffee.

  By the time we get to school everyone is heading for first period classes. I go to the office and Mrs. Anderson gives me a revised class schedule.

  I scan my class list, fighting the urge to shred it into tiny strips. From AP track to classes for dummies, yep, that’s me.

  Mom said I could move up as I recover. Not easy to move up mid-year, I argued, but my folks, teachers and doctors don’t want me pushing it and hurting my fragile brain.

  “Catherine, you look great!” A cute Asian girl breezes up to me.

  “Thanks.”

  I draw a blank on her name. Completely. Crap.

  “Like how they repainted the C Wing?” she ask
s.

  “Yeah, it looks great.” I hadn’t gotten that far.

  “Guess they had an explosion in the Chem lab over the summer. Are you in Goodman’s Physics class?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Let’s see.” She glances at my schedule and smiles. A fake smile.

  I should know. I’ve got that one down.

  “Let’s see yours.” I grab her schedule and see AP next to most of her classes. I also catch her name: Clarisse.

  “You’ve got Rimmer for Lit. He’s great,” she says.

  I hand her back her schedule.

  “Hey, I finally got on cheer this year. I’m so excited!” Clarisse squeaks, her voice jumping two octaves.

  “Congratulations.” My voice is tight, but I smile to cover my emotions.

  I’m temporarily inactive, opening up a spot for Clarisse. Lucky girl.

  “Are you excited about any of your classes?” I ask. Since she’s sticking with me, I assume we know each pretty well.

  “I’ve got Goodman for Physics. He’s a riot.” Clarisse and I wander into the commons. Kids rush to make it to class before the final bell rings. The echoed chatter of hundreds of teenagers bounces off the inside of my head. Good thing I’ve got a bottle of Ibuprofen stashed in my backpack.

  “You’re coming to practice, right?” Clarisse asks.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” My voice sounds foreign to me, unnatural. I’m totally faking it, trying to act enthusiastic when I really want to scream.

  My spot. She’s got my friggin’ spot on Cheer.

  “Awesome,” Clarisse says. “I can use some pointers from a veteran like you. See you later.” She smiles and bounces off.

  I stare at her as she’s swallowed up by the swarm of students.

  A veteran? Ugh.

  I want to die.

  Been there already, stared death in the face. I chose to live, to fight my way back.

  I’m still fighting.

  First I have to prove to everyone I can master the basic classes so they’ll put me back in AP where I belong.

  The next bell rings and I find myself standing alone in the commons. I have Lit first period in C202. I glance up, but don’t see any signs for classrooms. Damn. If they made any changes over the summer, even a fresh coat of paint, it could completely throw me off.

  I’m screwed. Nothing looks familiar.

  Except J.D. Pratt. He’s walking towards me with that smug look on his face. He’s wearing a black band T-shirt, jeans and skateboard shoes, and his brown hair flops across his forehead partially covering his eyes.

  He looks confident and aloof.

  I’m jealous as hell. I could use a hit of confidence right about now.

  “Hey,” he calls out to me.

  He has got to be kidding.

  I turn and practically sprint in the opposite direction. I spot the C wing. Room 202 is on the second floor, right? I climb the stairs and pause on the landing. J.D. hesitates below, studying his schedule.

  Then he glances at me, smiles, and heads up the stairs in my direction.

  I race to the second floor, my feet pounding in sync with my heartbeat. What is wrong with me? Am I afraid he’s going to hurt me again? No, there’s nothing more he can do to me. He’s already stripped me of a functioning brain. My dignity.

  My life.

  Still, I’m nauseated by thought of being near him. It reminds me of what I was before and how broken I am now.

  I rush into the second floor hallway and look both ways. Panic floods my chest. I’m lost in my own school.

  I head left, walk faster, and sense he’s behind me. Now he’s stalking me? Why, to taunt me some more like yesterday when he said I was partially responsible for my accident? I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until…

  I catch myself. I can’t afford to lose it and make a scene at school, not if I want to slide back into my “old normal” life. I’ve worked so hard to convince everyone I’m okay.

  But when I see J.D. Pratt, resentment and rage whips through my chest and my self-control quickly unravels. I reach for my moonstone choker in the hopes that touching the milky white stone will help me stay grounded.

  I spot Room 202 and relief courses through me. I head into class and kids greet me as I walk between the rows of desks. They say the usual stuff like how glad they are that I’m okay and how great I look. Yeah, right. One guy asks what it’s like being in a coma. His girlfriend pokes him and he apologizes.

  I offer my rehearsed smile, but don’t keep eye contact with any one kid for too long. Can’t risk being pulled into a HULU. Talk about unnatural disaster.

  I sit in the back, take a deep breath and keep the winning smile on my face as if to say: “It’s me! I’m back!”

  As I sit there listening to the pre-class chatter, my panic subsides. I’m safe.

  Then the door swings open and J.D. Pratt struts in. There’s only one empty desk left in class and it’s next to me. My heart pounds in my chest. What now? I open my notebook and pretend I’m absorbed in my schedule. Not exactly a lie since I might forget it five minutes from now.

  J.D. heads down my row and flops down next to me. Anger floods my cheeks. I can’t stand being anywhere near him. I won’t make it through the next five minutes much less an entire class period.

  I jump up and march to the teacher’s desk. “Mr. Rimmer?”

  “Yes, Catherine?”

  “Could you…”

  What? Make J.D. Pratt disappear? Rewind my life?

  “What’s wrong, Catherine?” he asks with a concerned frown.

  I happen to know he has three daughters. I’ll make that work for me.

  “J.D. Pratt. I’d rather not be sitting near him.” I intentionally tear up. Didn’t know I could do that on cue.

  “He should probably sit up front, anyway,” Mr. Rimmer says.

  I glance at Rimmer, who offers a smile, more of pity than anything else. Whatever. If that’s what it takes to get rid of Pratt, I’ll take it.

  “Mr. Pratt, switch seats with Mr. Hoffman please,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I head back to my seat.

  J.D. stares at me as I walk down the aisle. He doesn’t move. I sit down and study my silver ring, a Celtic knot design. I need to focus on something so I can block out the creep sitting next to me.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see J.D. turn to face me.

  My heart jumps into my throat. Is he going to try talking to me again?

  He’s a cruel, evil boy, Taylor said yesterday after she confronted him and was verbally thrashed.

  “Move, Pratt.” Greg Hoffman is standing beside my desk effectively blocking my view.

  At least I think he is. I make the mistake of glancing to my right. J.D. levels me with those angry turquoise eyes. If I keep looking at them I’m most definitely going to regret it.

  “Move, jerk.” I turn away in time to avoid a HULU.

  Thank God. A Pratt HULU would no doubt involve setting fires or shooting rabbits with a BB gun. I’ll pass on that, thank-you-very-much.

  I focus on the weave design of my ring. Where did I get it again? I think it was a gift.

  I hear a scuffling sound then, “Enough!” Mr. Rimmer orders from the front. “Pratt, up here. Now.”

  A few seconds pass.

  “You okay?” Greg asks me as he slides into his seat.

  I venture a glance. He’s blond, blue-eyed and handsome. There’s something comforting about Greg Hoffman. He’s a leader, a confident guy who’s definitely in charge. It’s obvious why I liked him, but is he still interested in me? A brain damaged whack job?

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Good, well…” He focuses on his notebook, shifts in his seat. He seems nervous. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  I chuckle. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “You still have the headaches?”

  “Sometimes. How did you know?”

  “Your mom told me when I visited you in the ho
spital.”

  “You…visited me?”

  “More than once.” He smiles.

  Oh, my God. He is totally interested or he wouldn’t have come to the hospital. Awesome! One of my three goals is within reach. He’s so going to ask me out.

  “Turn to page twelve,” Mr. Rimmer says.

  Greg shoots me a smile and opens his book.

  Things are definitely getting back to normal. Yes!

  * * *

  It figures Rimmer would put J.D. up front where everyone could stare at him. J.D. fisted his hand trying to ignore their whispers.

  He almost killed her. He should be in jail. Can you believe they let him back in school?

  Right. He was the sonofabitch that almost killed their prom queen.

  Bullshit. She didn’t look that bad, not as bad as when he sneaked into her hospital room in the middle of the night.

  He had to. He’d hoped that on some level, even in a coma, she’d hear his apology. He’d barely gotten it out when her old man caught him and hurled J.D. across the room. The guy would have beaten him bloody if security hadn’t showed up.

  J.D. noticed Bryce Sommers motion a thumb’s up to Greg “the dick” Hoffman. J.D. glanced over his shoulder. Greg was doing his I’m-such-a-caring-guy act on Princess Catherine. And she was buying it.

  Yeah, everything was back to normal. For them.

  Catherine smiled and scribbled something in her notebook. They say brain injuries change a person. Not so in her case. She was still her conceited, self-absorbed self.

  The perfect match for Hoffman.

  J.D. saw right through the prick, the kind of guy everyone thinks will be a CEO of a major company, and ten years later they’re surprised to be reading about the cops digging up dead bodies in his back yard.

  Greg and the Princess deserved each other.

  “Mr. Pratt? What’s so interesting in the back?” Mr. Rimmer is hovering over J.D.’s desk.

  Everyone stopped talking and stared at J.D. like he was standing there in nothing but his boxers.

  “Sorry,” J.D. said.

  He wasn’t sorry. He was pissed. At so many things, starting with how the entitled, like Greg and the Princess, always got their way and with little effort.