“Sort of.” I did. I remembered running, then pain, then the light closing off around me like I was being smashed between pages of a book.
“They said . . . they weren’t sure if you were going to wake up.” A sob escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Where is Miles? Is he okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, honey, he’s fine.”
“Is he here?”
“Not right now, no.”
I had to figure out where he was. I had to make sure he was safe. “How long was I asleep?”
“Three days.”
“Mom.” I said it mostly from surprise. The tears were spilling down her face.
“I was so scared,” she said. “When your dad told me you went to school, I wanted to bring you home, but he said you’d be okay. . . .”
“This wasn’t his fault.”
“I know it wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t my fault either.”
“I know, I know.” She wiped her eyes with the collar of her shirt. “I don’t blame you; of course I don’t blame you. I just want to keep you safe, and I . . . I don’t think I know how to do that anymore.”
Carefully, making sure nothing hurt too badly, I propped myself up on my elbows. She took the hint and put her arms around me, hugging me to her.
Why had she waited so long to tell me about Charlie? Was it because she couldn’t bring herself to think about it? Or because I was happier when Charlie was around?
And was this why she wanted me to go to the mental hospital? Not to get me out of her hair, but to save me from myself, because she couldn’t do it anymore?
“I bought you . . . some Yoo-hoos. . . .” she said when she finally pulled away, sniffing. “I put them in the fridge, because I know you like them cold. . . .”
And I thought she poisoned my food.
So apparently crying did hurt. My tears stung. I felt the pulse in my head as my face heated up.
“Love you, Mom,” I said.
She leaned over and kissed my forehead.
Chapter Fifty-four
The next day, while Mom went for lunch, I got an unexpected visitor.
Celia. She stood at the edge of the room, looking a little more like her old self—blond hair, too-short skirt, layer of makeup topped by a coat of strawberry-colored lip gloss.
“You know,” I began, finishing off a drink of water from my sippy cup, “everyone says history repeats itself, but I did not expect it to be so literal.”
Her jaw tightened, her hands fisting in the hem of her shirt. Tough crowd. She stood there, staring, like I was going to whip a couple of throwing knives out from under the covers and use her for target practice.
Finally, she said, “How did you know?”
“I’m crazy, didn’t you hear?” I said. “The real question is, why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Celia shrugged. “I . . . I don’t know. I didn’t think anyone would care. They’d say I was just trying to get attention. Or that it was my fault. Or . . . I don’t know.”
She suddenly looked very, very old. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of the way people look at me and the things they say. And I’m tired of trying to deal with it on my own.”
“So don’t,” I said. “You’re allowed to ask for help.”
“Why doesn’t anyone tell us that?”
“Because . . . maybe no one told them.”
“Do you think I’m a bad person?” Celia asked quietly.
“No,” I replied. “I don’t think you’re crazy, either.”
She smiled.
It wasn’t until a few hours later that the nurse came in and said, “We’re all so surprised you haven’t had any visitors yet!”
Chapter Fifty-five
The club visited later, when Mom and the nurse were in the room so I knew they were real. They brought candy and flowers and history textbooks. You know, things they thought would cheer me up. They sat around the bed for most of the day, recounting with great detail and enthusiasm how heroic I looked knocking Miles out of the way right before the scoreboard hit him, and how everyone in the gym freaked out, and how I was still all over the news.
Apparently, Miles hadn’t been McCoy’s target at all. The scoreboard was meant for Celia. She had moved out of the way because she thought I was attacking her. McCoy, enraged, had tried to strangle Miles and had been dragged off by Mr. Gunthrie. A weight lifted off my chest. McCoy had slipped up. The threat was gone.
“But you’re never going to believe why he tried to drop a scoreboard on her,” said Evan.
“You know how McCoy is always calling Celia to his office?” said Ian.
“Apparently McCoy was obsessed with Celia’s mom,” Theo said, cutting to the chase. “And she got crushed under that thing years ago. Since he couldn’t have her, he settled for Celia, but Celia wasn’t . . . living up to his standards, or something. So finally he decided he’d immortalize her by dropping the same scoreboard on her that killed her mom. The cops found all sorts of incriminating stuff in his house. Journals and plans and, like, videos. Of Celia. When they got to the school after McCoy tried to strangle her, Celia told them everything, right in front of all of us. It was horrible.”
“It was so weird,” Evan added. “It was going on for two years, and nobody knew. Why wouldn’t you tell someone about that?”
“Maybe she didn’t think she could,” I said.
Theo nodded. “I believe it. I talked to Stacey and Brittney after the awards—apparently Celia’s dad got remarried a few years ago, and Celia’s stepmother was planning on kicking her out of the house as soon as she graduated, and her dad was on board. Stacey and Brittney said Celia hardly ever told them anything, and they were her only friends.”
“She has a stepmother?” I said.
“I’ve seen her a few times,” Theo replied. “Short, brown hair, looks like she should be really nice, but I’m not totally surprised to know that she isn’t.”
Was this why Tucker and Miles hadn’t questioned me all year when I said I’d seen Celia and McCoy speaking to Celia’s mother? Because they thought I was talking about her stepmother? How many more hallucinations had gotten past me because of miscommunication?
“How did no one suspect McCoy before this?” I asked.
“’Ee ’as been voted number one principal in the township three times,” Jetta said. “And ’is office was spotless.”