The Perfect Plan Read online

  “Jesus, Liam. Chill out.”

  I turned on Carter. It felt like my eyes were on fire.

  “If you’re so upset,” he said, “go get your brother. He’ll—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Carter!”

  I swung the stick. I didn’t think it would hit him. I thought he was farther away. But the edge caught him just below the knee. The wood vibrated in my hand. And then I saw the blood blossom on his freckled skin. It reminded me of that day with Drew when I hurt his knee, which made me even more angry.

  For a second, he said nothing. Neither did I. I just stared at him and he stared at the stick. Then, as if in super slow motion, Carter looked down at his leg. He saw the blood. And he started to scream.

  I hung my head. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to.”

  Carter just kept crying and crying. Everything took on a red tint. I felt like my body might suddenly burst inside out. For a second, I felt this burning urge to hit him again. Hit him over and over again, really, just to make the crying stop.

  Carter turned and ran home. I sat back down in the exact same spot where I had been standing. My head throbbed, and to be honest, I wanted to cry. But I was silent, and I sat there for a long time.

  “Liam.”

  I knew right away it was Drew. I turned and saw him silhouetted by the sun.

  “Mom’s looking for you,” he said.

  “Leave me alone,” I shouted, my voice sounding shrill and weak.

  He just stood there, staring at me. That same overwhelming feeling washed over me, like my head had suddenly filled to capacity with some sticky, thick liquid.

  Drew turned slowly and walked away. And I was left to wonder how long he had been standing there.

  * * *

  —

  MY MOTHER MET me in the foyer when I finally made it home. I’d left my rage in the woods. My mother, however, felt differently. Her cheeks were as red as fresh blood and her eyes looked sunken and dark. She held her new cordless phone in her hand. For some reason, I noticed one of her perfectly manicured nails had chipped.

  That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Her hands were shaking. Her entire body was. And her eyes were wide, almost panicked.

  “What did you do?” she whispered.

  I couldn’t answer right away. It was like this energy was radiating out of her. Burning me. Making me feel like I wanted to tear out of my own skin. She looked around, like she might run away if she could.

  “I didn’t mean to. I just . . .”

  I started to cry. It just happened. I couldn’t stop it. I kept apologizing, over and over again, while I sputtered and sniffled.

  “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

  For a second, I thought she was going to hug me. Instead, though, she brushed past. All I could do was watch as she rose up the stairs and disappeared into her room. I followed eventually, but her door was closed. Feeling lost, and strangely alone for the first time in my life, I went into my room, closing the door as quietly as I could behind me.

  I heard the phone ring, and not long after that, the door to the garage opened. That meant my father was home. I grabbed a book off the table beside my bed, flipping through it as he stormed up the stairs. My door didn’t swing open. He didn’t appear on the threshold with eyes red with anger. Nor did he stand with hands on his hips, disappointment in his eyes.

  Instead, the door opened slowly. He stepped into the room, moving closer and closer to me, inch by agonizing inch. He was tall, at least four inches above six feet, and he was broad like a man who farmed or mined coal. But he wore a perfectly crisp white shirt with brown slacks and brown shining shoes. His round glasses barely circled his flat, dark eyes, just like Drew’s. His black hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place.

  He didn’t stop until his chest almost touched mine. Softly, he cupped my chin and tilted my head up so I had to look at him. My entire body felt like it belonged to someone else. Or like it didn’t belong to anyone. All of me, all that I could feel, hid inside my skull, shaking and lighter than air.

  He smiled. His thin lips barely moving. His eyes not changing at all.

  “Are you that stupid?” he asked quietly.

  “No,” I said. Somehow, that tiny word crackled into pieces as it came out of my mouth.

  He laughed harshly. “You must be. You listen to me and understand. This is my neighborhood. I work hard so we can live here. And I’m not going to have the mothers telling stories about my son. Do you understand that?”

  “I—”

  “Shut up and get your shoes on. You’re going to march your ass down to that boy’s house and apologize.”

  “Okay,” I whispered. For a second, I thought that would be it. That it would end. And I’d be okay. But I was wrong.

  “And when you get back, we’ll see how tough you really are.”

  6

  I drive the twenty minutes into Wilmington. The clock in the dash says it is 5:34 A.M. I am early, but that’s okay. Cutting it close would be dangerous. I have to make sure nothing goes wrong today. I have to be careful and perfect, about everything. I keep repeating that in my mind until I park my truck behind the squat brick building off Clayton Street. When I get out, I open the back door and reach under the front seat. Even in the dark, I find the roll of duct tape without any problem. I jam that into the pocket of my army jacket. Slipping the hood of my gray sweatshirt up over my head, I look at the pavement as I make my way around the building and onto Pennsylvania Avenue, heading east. It’s a good ten blocks or so, but it’s quiet and a cold wind whips across the river and through the city. It smells like snow, but it is too early in the year.

  Most of the city seems to be sleeping. As I pass houses, the occasional light comes on. I picture someone, maybe a young mom preparing a bottle or someone’s grandfather measuring out coffee with a stainless steel scoop. I want to stop and step into their world. Not as myself, though. I want to become one of them. I want to step into their reality, own their life. Wake up at home and pad down the stairs while my family sleeps peacefully above my head. They wouldn’t have to be with me. I wouldn’t have to see them. But I’d know they were there.

  For a second, it’s almost possible. I think that if I opened my mouth and screamed as loud as possible, I could swallow these strangers whole, take over their lives like nothing ever happened. But the feeling is gone as quickly as it comes. So I just lower my head to the wind and walk.

  The sound of my work boots against the sidewalk echoes until a series of cars pass, early risers heading to their office jobs. I follow them until, still blocks away, I see the yellow glow from the windows at the back of the YMCA. I am close. And it will happen this morning.

  I know she’s inside. I have taken this exact walk over half a dozen times now. I can picture her car in the same spot in the lot across the street. Glancing at my watch, I know, for sure, that I have seventeen minutes until she comes out. She is a creature of habit. Someone should have warned her against that.

  * * *

  —

  LAUREN BRANCH WALKS across the street, right on time. I am watching from the darker corner of the lot, under a small overhang by the back wall. I recognize her gait immediately, long before I can see her face. Her head rises with each step, sending the tight dark ponytail bouncing up and down. Her chin is lifted, proud, and her eyes are open. She walks like a woman who has conquered some elusive greatness, the kind of thing that only she knows. Yet that walk tells the world that it should hang on, because soon, it will all be clear, and everyone will nod and say they should have seen her coming.

  She swings a lanyard in her right hand. It whips in a tighter and tighter circle, the nylon strap wrapping around her finger until her keys slap against her hand. Then she reverses the direction, unraveling the lanyard until it reaches its apex and begins a never-ending cycle back to her finger. Someone shoul
d have told her not to do that, either.

  I move when she is about five spaces from her Jetta. As I get closer and closer, I hear a soft tune. With another step, I can make out the words. She is singing softly, some new Taylor Swift song, one I heard while sitting in my ex-girlfriend’s car right before we broke up. She is off-key and her voice rolls into a fading croak.

  Something about this hurts. I see this woman, Lauren Branch, as if time rolls suddenly backwards. Maybe she is walking to her car after a long day of high school. She will go home, do her homework, Snapchat with her friends. Her mom will hassle her about dinner or cleaning a bedroom. I picture her having a family, being a part of something loving and good. Maybe she could live in one of those houses I passed. Maybe we could, together.

  The idea tears at me, pushing me back. I reach up and pull my hair, then press in on my eyes. Nothing helps. But it’s too late for second thoughts. Everything counts on me doing this right.

  I feel like my thoughts should be loud enough for her to hear me. I feel like she will spin around, look me in the eyes, and everything will be ruined. Instead, she continues to bounce along, singing and twirling that damn cord. Over and over. With no clue at all. I hate her for that.

  I am maybe four paces away when she stops at the back of her car. As she has every morning, she lets her keys land in her hand and she pops the trunk. It swings open and, so predictably, her keys drop from her palm and fall through the air until they stop with a jerk at the end of the lanyard that dangles from the tip of a single finger.

  Two paces away and she swings her gym bag into the trunk. Her voice rises, reaching the chorus of the song, and for the first time I notice she is still wearing earbuds. No wonder she never turned. No wonder she had no idea I stood directly behind her, lifting my left hand, palm out to the arch of her back.

  I have practiced this over and over again. I know it has to be quick, like a snap. My grasp has to be clean and tight. I need to push her away from me instead of pulling her toward me. Over and over again I have done it, so much that I think I could do it in my sleep. There is no turning back now. I look at my watch. It is now 6:27 A.M. I commit.

  The nylon feels warm as it laces between my middle and index fingers. Like snapping a towel, I send a jerk forward. I feel the lanyard slip from her finger and the strap goes limp against my thumb.

  Her head turns. I see her eyes; they widen. As predicted, she flinches away from me, shifting her weight toward the car. Without hesitating, my right hand moves with all my considerable weight behind it. My palm presses her green athletic shirt into the small of her back near her hip. I grunt and the force of my push combined with her own inertia buckles her legs. She teeters, off-balance. That’s when my other arm curls up, cupping her left leg. I lift it, her foot rising from the asphalt, and I forcefully bend her at the waist. She tries to stop me, to flex the muscles of her back, but it is too late. And I am too strong. She folds in on herself and I push downward.

  Lauren’s weight does the rest for me. She flips over the ridge of the trunk. It is surprisingly large. She fits in without any problem at all, even alongside her gym bag. I stare down at her and our eyes meet. Somehow her glasses have stayed on. One earbud has come loose, though, and wraps loosely around her neck. At the same time, I pull the roll of tape out of my jacket pocket.

  “What the hell, Liam! I—”

  That’s all she gets out before I slap a strip across her lips. I see the panic then. The fear she must feel. But it means nothing. I slam the trunk closed just as her foot shoots outward. The kick vibrates up the bone of my forearm. I hear a muffled scream of pain just as I force the trunk down until the latch clicks shut.

  When I throw open the driver’s-side door and slip in, I hear more thumps. I glance at my watch again as my other hand shuts the door: 6:29 A.M. Two minutes.

  I drive out of the parking lot. No one is close enough to hear Lauren. No one gives me a second look. I’m gone before she even knows what has happened.

  7

  The banging continues. It echoes through the car, endless and savage. I planned everything in advance. Just not that. I never thought someone could have the strength, the stamina. My fingers grip the wheel, trying to crush the vibrations out of my body.

  “Shut up!” I scream.

  The banging just gets louder. Could she kick open the trunk? Should I have taped her legs down?

  “Shut up!”

  I jam my finger down on the power button for the radio and scroll through the options until I find the metal station I have preset in my truck. A Metallica song comes on, a remake of an old classic. I crank up the volume. The bass rattles the windows. The screaming lyrics irradiate my thoughts, mutating them into something more primal.

  The pounding continues. I have to turn off the radio; it only makes it worse. Instead, I focus on the yellow lines and the lightening of the eastern skyline. Day is coming. Faster than I want it to.

  Bangbangbang

  At first, I picture her in the trunk, her Nike running shoes slamming against the interior of the car. As I weave through the traffic on the interstate, though, something changes. The banging sharpens.

  Bangbangbang

  As I listen, a cold sweat slides down my face. It burns my eyes. I try to wipe it away and slip out of my lane and across a rumble strip.

  “Shit,” I hiss.

  Bangbangbang

  The sound seems to change again. Sharpen, like knuckles on a door.

  Knockknockknock

  Almost like she wants me to let her in, instead of let her out.

  * * *

  —

  KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK

  The knock on my bedroom door was firm but not overly loud. My door didn’t open right after it. Instead, I had time to get up off my bed and walk across my room. I felt sick to my stomach as my hand reached out for the handle. I remember thinking how strangely polite the whole thing was, considering.

  I opened the door and Drew was standing in the hallway. He was not smiling, not exactly, but he seemed to bounce on his toes as he spoke.

  “Dad wants us in the basement,” he said.

  “I don’t—”

  “Okay,” he said, too quickly. “I’ll go tell him.”

  “No,” I shouted. Then more softly. “No.”

  That’s when my brother definitely smiled. It was timeless in that I have seen that same expression on his face dozens of times. And it always takes me back to that moment, the way half of his mouth rose but his eyes remained the same. Just like Dad’s.

  I followed him down the stairs and around to the cellar door.

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked.

  Drew laughed. “In her room.”

  When I took the first step down, I reached for the railing. Wet with sweat, my hand slipped on the polished wood and I stumbled.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Drew muttered in front of me.

  The light above the stairs was off but the glow from our father’s work area was enough to see Drew’s hockey stuff, which littered the floor like wreckage. Carelessly, Drew bent and picked up one of his sticks as we passed. He took a swipe at a tennis ball, sending it into the goal by the closet.

  “Goal,” he said.

  When he dropped the stick to the poured concrete floor, the sound rattled me and I startled. My father’s voice followed the jolt like thunder.

  “Get in here.”

  Drew’s pace quickened. So did mine. We walked into his workroom, my brother’s head up. Mine down, staring at the red-painted floor.

  Our father sat on a high stool beside his workbench building an intricate model of a World War II battleship. The harsh smell of paint and glue hung thickly in the air, stinging my eyes. At first, he acted as if we weren’t there. When I glanced up, I saw him hunched over his work, small tools moving deftly in large hands. When he finally turned to look at u
s, he pulled off his glasses. Using a perfectly clean black cloth, he breathed on the lenses and cleaned them while we stood there watching him. When he was done, he put his glasses on and cleared his throat.

  “Drew, turn on the lights out there,” he said, carelessly gesturing to the main room of the basement. “And clean up that mess of yours.”

  “Yes, sir,” Drew said.

  When Drew left my father’s room, I felt a shiver run through my body. I felt alone and raw, as if the air down there was burning my skin like acid. My father cleared his throat again. I knew I had to look at him. I knew that was what he expected. But I couldn’t get my head to move. I couldn’t stop staring at the blood-red floor.

  “How’d it feel?” he asked.

  I tried to ask him what he meant, but I couldn’t get the words out.

  “Look at me,” he snapped.

  That was enough. The cut to his voice broke whatever it was that had me paralyzed. My head shot up and my eyes met his, struggling to hold his gaze for more than the shortest of seconds. It felt like he sliced right through me, opened me up and left me naked and unprotected.

  “I asked you a question,” he said.

  “What?”

  He laughed, a bitterly judgmental sound. “How did it feel apologizing to that boy?”

  “Good,” I said, whispering.

  “Don’t lie to me,” he snapped.

  “I—”

  “I said, don’t lie to me.”

  He rose from his chair. He moved to me. I looked up at him only because I didn’t want him to touch me.

  “I hate him,” I said.

  I don’t know where those words came from. I don’t think I meant them. Or if I did, I didn’t know it. But they hung there between our eyes.

  He smiled, just like Drew. “I don’t care.”

  My eyes shook in their sockets. I blinked over and over again, forcing myself, fighting with everything I had to keep looking at him. I felt dizzy, disembodied.