Every Wild Heart Read online

  She remembered soaring toward a kaleidoscope of tree branches overhead; she remembered the light that had shined through the darkness.

  Lucas lifted the pen from the paper. Slowly, he pulled his eyes from his drawing and looked at Nic.

  She placed her hands on either side of his face, and then, surprised as much by his cool skin as by what she’d done, almost withdrew them. He stopped her, lifting his own hands to hold hers against his face. He watched her. He waited.

  Nic leaned forward and kissed him. It was her first kiss, there in the front seat of Angel Bully’s car. Her first kiss with this curious, angry, sad, gifted boy. Her first kiss, ever. She felt his hands in her hair, and then his tongue searching her mouth. Below her thumbs, below his skin, the hard press of his cheekbones.

  When they pulled away from each other, the air outside the car still sparkled with dust, as though somehow the dizziness she’d felt had stirred not just her, but everything.

  Chapter 13

  A couple of hours after dropping Nic off at school on Friday morning, I received a call from Karen Tyson, Kirke’s Head of School, and turned right back around.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” I said after she told me why she’d called me in. I sat across the desk from Karen in her office. With her fluffy gray hair, round face, and sweet smile, the woman was almost absurdly adorable. Part of my confusion lay in her delivery; in her upbeat, peppy way, she’d just rattled off a story about a car being stolen. The other part of my confusion was the simple fact that I could not shake the feeling that I was in trouble . . . and the prospect of being reprimanded made me defiant.

  Karen repeated her story: someone had driven a senior’s car out of the parking lot without his permission and left a toy car in its place. “I wouldn’t say any crime occurred—though of course, technically, it did,” she said with an incongruous wink. “But this was obviously a prank. Hunter found his car parked around the corner from the school, less than a mile away.”

  “And Hunter’s sense of humor? It never turned up?”

  The edges of Karen’s perpetual smile wobbled. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Nic doesn’t even know how to drive,” I said. “I don’t see how she could have had anything to do with this.”

  “I understand that. It seemed unlikely to me, too. Nic generally keeps her head down . . . in a wonderful way! But, the thing is”—Karen lowered her voice—“she was seen driving the car.”

  I stared at her. “No. That’s not possible.”

  “Julian Towne is sure that he saw her.”

  “Driving that boy’s car?”

  “Yes.”

  Julian Towne was Kirke’s dean of students. I’d met him several times. He didn’t strike me as the sort of person who would make up something like this. “What does Nic say?”

  “Well, that’s part of the problem . . . she won’t say anything at all.”

  I was speechless. If Nic wasn’t willing to say that she had not done this, I was pretty sure that it meant that she had done it. But why? Who was this Hunter kid? I’d never even heard her mention his name. And driving? She didn’t have a license! How did she manage to drive the car off school property? What if she’d been hurt again? I was itching to jump from the chair and scour the school until I found my daughter and got some answers, but Karen wasn’t through with me yet.

  “If she can’t offer an explanation, all I can do is consider the information that I’ve been given.” Karen held up her fingers, ticking them off as she spoke. “One: yesterday afternoon, Hunter Nolan’s keys were stolen from his locker and his black Jeep Wrangler was removed from the school property without his permission. Two: yesterday afternoon, Julian Towne saw Nic driving a black Jeep Wrangler down the school’s driveway.”

  She leaned back in her seat and pressed her fingertips together. “Luckily, Hunter’s parents don’t want to press charges, but Kirke can’t simply ignore something that happened on school grounds. Normally, an incident like this might warrant a suspension, but this car business seems out of character for Nic, and I know that she’s still recovering from a serious injury . . .” She trailed off and looked at me encouragingly, her gray bulb of hair moving along with her slight, prodding nod.

  I shot forward in my seat. “Yes! Yes, this is completely out of character for Nic. She’s been experiencing some behavioral changes since her accident last week. Her neurosurgeon told us that acting out isn’t entirely uncommon following a traumatic brain injury. But this is definitely not normal behavior for her. I hope you’ll offer some leniency, given the circumstances.”

  Karen nodded, satisfied, her smile reinstated. “I’m going to give Nic in-school detention for two weeks.” She lowered her voice again. “Basically, it’s study hall instead of free period. Not the end of the world, but the kids do seem to hate giving up their free time.”

  “Fine by me. Thank you for your understanding. Believe me, Nic and I will be having a long chat about all of this.”

  “Good.” Karen pressed her lips together, thinking. “Let me ask you something. These behavioral changes that the neurosurgeon mentioned . . . they wouldn’t put her at risk of being a danger to herself, would they? Or others?”

  Well, let’s see, I thought. She has no idea how to drive and yet yesterday she apparently spent the afternoon joyriding in a stolen car.

  I flashed Karen a smile. “I don’t think so.”

  This was somehow all she needed to hear. Maybe it was a liability thing. Or maybe she was allowing special privileges to Kirke’s most famous parent. I had no idea.

  She stood and walked me to the door. “This isn’t the time or place, but I can’t resist telling you that I was a huge fan of your show.”

  “Oh? ‘Was’?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure your current show is great, too—it’s certainly a big success, isn’t it?—but I have to admit it’s not quite my thing. I was really a fan of your old show.”

  “Love Songs After Dark?”

  Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “No. No, I don’t think that’s what it was called. It was the show you hosted as an undergraduate at Reed. I was the dean of residential life at the school at the time. I don’t think our paths ever crossed, but I can tell you that I stayed up late way too many nights listening to your show.” She leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially. “I still listen to Hole every night before bed. Their music relaxes me. Courtney Love! What a sparkplug!”

  I laughed. Who could have guessed that jolly, gray-haired Mrs. Tyson had grunge in her heart?

  “I haven’t met a fan of that show—or a fan of Courtney Love, for that matter—in a very long time.”

  Karen winked. “Oh, we’re out there.” At the door, she hesitated for a moment, and then asked if Nic had a boyfriend.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered, surprised.

  “I only ask because there was a boy in the car with her. Julian didn’t have a good view of him, so we’re not sure who he is. And, as I mentioned, Nic won’t tell us anything. It doesn’t seem fair that she’ll get detention and the other student won’t, but unless Nic tells us his name, we don’t have a choice in the matter.”

  I tried not to smile too broadly at the news that my daughter refused to snitch on a friend. So far, this was the only piece of the story that made any sense to me at all.

  I FOUND NIC in the cafeteria, a large room with gleaming wood floors and arched windows and terrible acoustics. The air roiled with the hormones of all of those teenagers. I spotted Nic sitting at a table with her friend Lila. She saw me then, too. I was glad that I wouldn’t have to cross the cafeteria and draw attention to her. She said something to Lila and walked toward me. I could tell by the slope of her shoulders that she knew why I was there.

  “Let’s talk,” I said. We walked out of the school and sat on a bench by the front entrance. Nic tucked her long hair behind her ears. In the sunlight, her pale skin was as luminous as a pearl. Her beauty made my heart contract. I wondered about the boy
in the car.

  “I hear you can drive,” I began, lifting an eyebrow.

  “It’s—it’s a long story,” she said.

  “Am I going to like it?”

  “I don’t know.” Despite how talkative she’d been lately, she seemed unsure how to begin.

  “Did you steal a car from the school parking lot?”

  “No! But I did . . . move a car.”

  “Oh, Nic. Why?”

  She slowly found her words. She told me about Hunter Nolan, a senior boy who bullied the meekest of the freshman boys, humiliating them and stealing their homework. “He never does anything so big that the teachers notice,” she said. “But half of my class is terrified of him. It’s not fair.”

  “He sounds awful,” I said. I could see where this was going. Nic had always had a strong sense of fairness; I’d just never seen her act on her views in this way before. Was this one of those impulses that her brain was no longer able to control?

  “He is, Mom! He really is. And he always parks his car in the same spot—the best one in the lot. The spots aren’t assigned, but he thinks he owns the school. Nobody ever challenges him on it.” She took a breath. “So I found his keys and—”

  Here, I interrupted. “You ‘found’ his keys?”

  She bit her lip. “I found his keys . . . in his backpack . . . in his locker.”

  “Nic.”

  “I know. I know! But, Mom, moving Hunter’s car is like a drop in the bucket compared to what he’s done to some of the nicest guys at Kirke. And all I did was park it around the corner. There’s not a scratch on it. He probably thought it was stolen for an hour at most before one of his minions spotted it.”

  “And the Matchbox car?”

  She shrugged, catching her lip between her teeth to stop her smile. “That was just for fun.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Should I have reprimanded her? Yes. But I’d never been great with discipline. If I’d had a kid who needed a lot of rules and regulations, maybe I would have had to change my parenting style over the years. But I’d rarely needed to take on the uncomfortable mantle of authority with Nic.

  “Mrs. Tyson is giving you in-school detention for two weeks,” I told her. “It’s during your free period.”

  “Okay.”

  I knew she wouldn’t mind the punishment. Her sense of fairness applied to herself as much as anyone else.

  “Listen, Nic. All I ask is that next time—if there must be a next time for this sort of behavior—you steer clear of committing actual crimes. I would miss you too much if you went to juvie.”

  She rested her head on my shoulder. I felt for the millionth time that it was not possible to love anyone more than I loved this girl. We looked out at Kirke’s green playing fields. The sky was cloudless. I pressed the moment into my memory, hoping it would remain there forever.

  “So, what happened this morning?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. “Did this Hunter kid park in his usual spot?”

  “No. Another senior took the spot.” She didn’t lift her head to look at me, but I heard the pride in her voice.

  “Well, hallelujah. Someone knew to dump salt on the kid’s wound. If I had to guess, I’d say that’s probably the real reason he reported the whole thing to Mrs. Tyson this morning.” I looked down at Nic’s glossy dark hair. “Would this other senior by any chance be the boy who Mr. Towne saw in Hunter’s car with you?”

  She sat up then. The sun caught the flecks of gold in her green eyes. “Maybe.”

  “Who is he?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I suppose he taught you how to drive.”

  She still didn’t answer.

  “Nic,” I said, “an older guy isn’t—”

  “There’s no reason for him to be in trouble, too,” Nic interrupted. “The whole thing was my idea.”

  My daughter, the ringleader. I worried for her sweet, young, brave heart, wishing I could protect it from the wounds that lay ahead. I didn’t really mind what she’d done with that bully’s car because what harm had she done other than to a young man’s swollen ego? But . . . what if this were just the start? What if her brain could no longer tell the difference between a good idea and a bad idea? How could I both support my daughter and protect her? I didn’t want to take anything away from her, and certainly not the thing that she loved the most, but given the circumstances, what choice did I have?

  “The thing is, Nic, you can see how this kind of thing doesn’t exactly make me excited about the prospect of you riding again, can’t you?”

  “No! What do you mean? Taking Hunter’s car had nothing to do with riding.”

  “It seems like you’re acting on your instincts, and you’re not necessarily thinking about all of the consequences of those actions. You were trying to teach this kid a lesson, but you were also, technically, stealing a car . . . there could have been serious consequences for that action that you were lucky to avoid. You could have gotten into much more trouble—or worse, been hurt. What if the next time you make a questionable decision, you’re on top of a horse?” I reached for my daughter’s hand, but she pulled away, her cheeks pink with rage.

  “So you don’t trust me! That’s why you won’t let me ride!”

  “It’s not that simple, Nic. The accident—”

  “Mom,” she said, interrupting me. “I remember it now! Riding Tru into the woods.”

  I stared at her. “You do? When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday. It all came back to me.” She took a deep breath. “At school on the day of the accident, I met this guy and when I tried to talk to him . . . it was horrible, Mom. I was stuttering and I couldn’t stop. I started crying and then I ran away from him and I hid in the bushes.”

  “Oh, Nic,” I said. I put my arm around her but she didn’t seem particularly upset. Her voice was full of emotion but there were no tears brimming in her eyes. “You remembered all of that yesterday?”

  “No, I remembered that part already, but now I remember that it’s why I went out into the woods. At least I think that’s why. I don’t think I even really knew why I was doing it when I did it. I knew I should listen to Denny and stay safe, but I was just sick to death of being me.”

  I swallowed. “Sweetheart, were you trying to hurt yourself?”

  She looked at me and shook her head. “No. But I was so embarrassed and so mad and frustrated. I needed to do something. And I guess maybe there was some part of me that thought that if I got hurt doing it, that would be okay. It would be worth it. Because I just had to do something big. I needed to.” She closed her eyes for a beat of time and then opened them again. “I don’t know if I can describe it any better than that.”

  I felt like a weight had been placed on my chest, and it was hard to breathe. All that time, I hadn’t realized how trapped she felt within her own anxieties. That she would be pushed to do something so dangerous just to prove her worth to herself, or worse, to some guy—

  “I’m sure you did plenty of dumb stuff when you were a kid, too, right?” Nic asked, interrupting my thoughts. She looked at me hopefully.

  “Oh, well . . .”

  Now it was my turn to close my eyes and take a breath.

  Jumped off a bridge into a rushing river (the shockingly cold water . . . that delicious intake of breath when I broke free of the surface). Allowed a boy who had been drinking to drive me home (the car’s headlights swinging across the divider line and back again . . . the relief when I stepped out of the car, safely home). Swallowed a pill that a strange girl in a club gave me (and danced all night . . . and lived to tell the tale). Ran away from home to spend a weekend with the guitarist of a local band that I loved (had lots of very fun sex . . . and returned home with good stories for my friends).

  I did not do any of those dangerous things because I wanted to die. I did them because I wanted to live.

  “A few,” I said to Nic.

  She grabbed my hands. “Let me ride, Mom. Please. I reme
mber the accident now. I’m better!”

  I sighed. “Let’s talk with Dr. Feldman about it at your appointment next week. If he says it’s okay, then . . . maybe.”

  Nic yelped and gave me a quick hug. “Thanks, Mom! I better get back to school! See you later!”

  “I said ‘maybe,’ Nic!” I called, but she was already slipping through the front door of the school.

  I stood from the bench and looked around, blinking. Why did I feel like I’d just been hit by a Nic-shaped bus?

  As I walked back to my car, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

  Where’s Roy? the text message read. The number that sent it wasn’t listed in my contacts.

  I looked over my shoulder at the school. Three girls now sat on a bench near the one on which Nic and I had sat. They looked away as soon as they saw that I’d noticed them; one stifled a giggle. Another one hushed her. They were harmless; just some teenagers excited to recognize me—I would have been the same way at their age, studiously pretending not to care.

  I looked past them toward the school building. Its windows were opaque in the sunlight.

  Among the few other cars parked along the circular driveway, I now noticed that a woman sat in the driver’s seat of a silver Mercedes. My breath caught in my chest at the sight of her thick, dark hair. Jenny Long’s hair, underneath her rotating assortment of wigs, had been thick and dark like that. The woman was looking down (at her phone?) and her hair hung around her face, blocking her profile from my view. I jogged toward the car, but as I did the car suddenly started and drove away, turning at such an angle that I could catch only a quick glimpse of a New York license plate.

  I told myself that there were many women with thick, dark hair, that it was far-fetched to believe that Jenny Long would be driving a Mercedes with New York plates.

  I called Roy. “Are you okay?” I asked him, still staring in the direction the car had driven.

  “Sure,” he said. “Just meeting a friend for lunch before I head down to pick up Nic after school. Why? What’s wrong?”