Fault Line

To those who have shared their stories with me, I am deeply humbled by your courage and deeply grateful for your trust.

And to Julio, who loves even the broken pieces of me.

Acknowledgments

This book came out of the Voices and Faces Project Survivor Testimonial Writing Workshop. I am so truly grateful to Anne Ream and R. Clifton Spargo for their guidance and support and for putting so much heart into this work. I wouldn’t be here without either of you. Also to all the survivors who have shared their stories with me in that workshop and over the years in hospital ERs or other places, thank you for your trust and for your truth.

I would also not be here without my incredible agent, Sarah LaPolla, who has talked me off more ledges than I can count. Seriously. And without Anica Mrose Rissi for taking a chance on a book that I thought would never be published. And without Liesa Abrams, who poured so much editing love over this book that it sparkled. And without Michael Strother, who wears all the hats. Thanks to Jessica Handelman for my gorgeous and fearless cover. I adore you, Team Pulse.

I have so much gratitude for my alpha readers, who read everything I write and tell me they love it: Rebecca (who first asked where the rest was!), Molly, Bergl, Jeannie, Paige, Bruce, and my Desir family. And equal gratitude for those who read what I write and tell me I need to fix it: Carrie, Stephanie, Katy, Amy, Jus, Rebekah, Matt, and Cindy. And to the community of writers and bloggers who have followed me on this journey and have lifted me up in so many ways: Thank you. I love my Dark Darlings. You all rock.

The publishing world is pretty small, and I feel like I’ve had a lot of guardian angels. To Heather Howland and Mandy ­Hubbard. Thanks. You both read this book when it wasn’t ready and told me what I needed to do to get it there. I’m grateful to Vicki, Suzy, JJ, and Helena, who tweet about whiskey, autumn, and darkness and still manage to make me laugh. And to the Fourteenery, who took me in and listened. A lot.

Also, huge love for my teen betas. You are who I write for. I love that you text me or FB message me back within minutes, no matter what time of day it is. I love that you tell me what things are called now. I love that you will let me interview you and will read my books even though some of you don’t really read. You remind me every day why I do this.

To awesome writers who have become incredible friends: Jolene, Jay, and Lucy. I couldn’t get through a week without any of you. I couldn’t get through three days without any of you. I’m glad I talked you into me.

And finally, a mountain of thanks and love to my family. To my mom, who has watched my kids and played hours of baseball in the backyard with them. To my dad and stepmom, who taught me about the challenges and opportunities that life has to offer. To my sister, who gave me my first YA book and who continues to call me even when I disappear into edits. To my kids, who make me laugh and make me glad that I’m alive every single day. And to Julio, who has always been my center line, my first, my last, my everything. I love you.

1

I thought Ani could be fixed. The pieces of her recemented so everything could be how it was. How we were. Until I saw her on her knees in front of Mr. Pinter, his fingers clenched around her ponytail. His face contorted and his head tipped back. He’d been in such a hurry, he hadn’t bothered to close all the blinds in his classroom. Or maybe he left the last one open on purpose.

She locked eyes with me as she stood, her hand wiping her mouth, but nothing registered on her face. She tightened the belt on her dark blue winter coat and brushed away the dust it’d picked up from the floor. She smoothed down her collar with steady hands and still held my gaze.

Disgust and anger and so much brokenness swirled together inside me, collecting in the pit of my stomach. I ­stumbled back a step. This was my Ani. My Ani as she was now.

She blinked twice and finally turned away to grab her faded green backpack from off one of the student desks. A haze of nothingness clung to her.

I stood shaking, my eyes adjusting their focus from the inside of the room to my own reflection in the window. The overlarge hat Ani had knitted me tilted too much to the side. I snatched it off and turned to the bushes behind me. Cold wind sliced across my face, but I didn’t feel it like I should have. I took one step and crumpled, as the image of Ani slammed back into my mind. Fingers pawing at the frozen ground, I puked until my stomach had nothing left. Until my insides mirrored Ani’s empty face.

I lifted myself on wobbly legs and realized for the first time since I’d met her, I was never going to be able to save my girlfriend.

Six months earlier

It was stupid to hang out in the mostly deserted parking lot of the 7-Eleven. The cops always showed up and sent us away, threatening us with charges of loitering. But Kevin wanted a cherry Slurpee and none of us wanted to get home before curfew. I sat on the bright yellow parking bumper block, tossing pennies at a Dr Pepper bottle I’d set up and listening to the guys argue about where to buy beer without getting carded. The pennies jingled in my hand as I launched another one at the Dr Pepper. Plink.

Nah, man, that chick got fired last week for not carding.We can’t go to the KwikMart.

Plink.

That blows. That girl was a guarantee. Should we try the grocery store, then?

Plink.

Hell no, they’ve got video cameras at that place. And all those frickin’ ‘We Card Because We Care’ posters on the walls. We gotta go somewhere small.

Plink. Saturday nights sucked. The conversations never changed.

A faded blue minivan rattled into the parking slot next to my Dr Pepper setup, and a leggy girl opened the passenger door and slid out. Too-loud zydeco music poured from the van as she leaned in to grab her wallet. Her dark blond hair was pulled into a knot on top of her head. She had on a black clingy tank top and jeans with too many holes in them. I stopped tossing pennies and slowly checked her out. Pink toes in flip-flops, curvy hips, too-skinny waist.

Your hair makes you look like an asshole, she said as soon as my eyes reached her chest.

Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink. Pennies dropped beside me. I ran my hand through the tight curls of the Mohawk I’d been sporting since the beginning of summer. She followed my movement and smirked.

Your mouth makes you sound like a bitch, I answered.

Huh. Decent comeback. She placed her hand on her hip and looked me over like she was assessing a car. I wanted to throw my shoulders back and puff out my chest, but I knew the guys would never let me hear the end of it. So I dropped my hands to my sides and let her look. Her gaze locked on the fly of my jeans.

Whoa. Ballsy girl. I probably would’ve blushed if the guys weren’t watching me. Instead, I dropped my knees open and her gaze quickly shifted to the side. Ha. Thought so.

Do you live here? Her focus returned to my face.

At the 7-Eleven? I asked.

She turned to the guys, who’d obviously forgotten their beer-finding mission to watch me fumble through a conversation with the hot girl none of us had ever seen before.

They shook their heads and grinned at me. Ass munches. They loved to give me shit when it came to the opposite sex.

Do you live here? she asked me again.

Yeah, I finally answered.

Well, now so do I. I’m Annika, she said, and grabbed a hoodie out of the open door of the van.

I didn’t stand up. I should have, but that sort of thing would’ve sent a definite message to the guys and I wasn’t up for spending the rest of my night getting crap from them.

Ben . . . but most of my friends call me Beez.

She tapped her finger against her lips and looked me up and down again. Of course they do. I’ll see you around . . . Ben.

She slipped her hoodie on and sauntered into the 7-Eleven like she had no idea five guys were checking out her ass. She looked back when she opened the door and gave me a little wink.

Beezus, Kevin said, smacking me on the shoulder, looks like you’ve found yourself a little hottie.

I gathered up my pennies and tried to hide the red on my cheeks. Kevin dropped to the space on the parking bumper next to me.

Plink.

I don’t know about that. I don’t normally go for girls who call me an asshole the first time I meet them.

Kevin laughed and snatched one of the pennies from me. Dude, you totally do.

Plink.

2

You’re gonna be late. Banana bread French toast is downstairs waiting for you, my mom called from the bottom of the stairs. The high ceilings in our front hallway made her voice echo and I winced again at the bigness of our house. We’d relocated to the nicer part of town after my dad got some major work promotion. Our old house was fine, but painting and redecorating projects made Mom happy.

Banana bread French toast? Seriously? I can’t believe you’re still doing this. It was cute when we were five. It’s sort of ridiculous now, I answered, making my way past our wall of family photos and down the stairs two at a time. My feet barely touched each hardwood step before I hopped to the next one. I may have been a little psyched about the possibility of seeing Annika again. Eight days of hopeful drives through town and made-up errands to the 7-Eleven had me frustrated and wound up.

Mom squeezed my cheek when I reached her and I ducked out of the way. She reached out to pat the top of my head, her only acknowledgment of the twenty minutes I’d spent in the bathroom with a razor.

Thanks for indulging me. This will be your last year, you know. She gave me the weepy mom eyes and I snorted.

My brother, Michael, was already sitting at the table, leafing through a gamer magazine. His curly hair was uncombed and he had toothpaste on his shirt. I flicked his ear.

I’ll give you a ride to school, shrimp, but you’re on your own afterward. I’ve got to grab some food before swim club.

S’okay, my brother mumbled. I’ve got youth orchestra anyways.

I eyed the black case at Michael’s feet. It sort of sucked he wasn’t good at any sports. I worried how he was going to manage next year. It’s not a big deal playing clarinet in the fifth grade, but that shit’ll get you crucified in junior high. A large faded book of Classics for the Clarinet stuck out of his unzipped backpack.

Michael followed my eyes to the book. He shrugged. I’m competing for first chair.

How many people are you going up against?

Michael grinned. Two, but I’m pretty sure I’ll get it.

I nodded and dropped into the chair next to him. Michael was a really good musician. Part of me hoped he’d stick with it in spite of the beating he’d likely take for it.

I can pick you up after school, sweetie, Mom said, ­ruffling Michael’s hair. He didn’t flinch. I gave my mom maybe two more years of hair ruffling before he started to duck away from her too.

She turned toward the counter and started to dish food onto a plate.

So, Ben, are you excited about your senior year? She placed a giant stack of French toast in front of me.

Mom. Really? We’re not going to have this conversation, are we? I poured half the bottle of syrup on my French toast and forked it into quarters.

Oh, come on, she said, setting a large glass of milk next to me. Humor me. What’s your main goal for the year?

A quick image of Annika’s long legs flashed in my mind. I grinned but kept my thoughts to myself. Mom probably wouldn’t appreciate me sharing that goal. I took a large bite, barely chewing before swallowing the lump of gooey sweetness. Banana bread French toast. The most brilliant food blending since chocolate-covered pretzels.

I gulped down half the glass of milk, then answered, My main goal? Scholarship, Mom. You know that. I want to swim for Iowa.

Don’t worry, you’ll get it, my brother said through a mouthful of French toast. He made a strange humming noise when he ate. I shook my head. This kid was never going to get a girlfriend.

Thanks for the vote of confidence, shrimp. I glanced at the clock. Now, hurry up, we need to roll so we’re not late. I hate finding parking on the first day of school.

I wolfed down the rest of my breakfast in two bites and stuck my tongue out to lick the plate. Mom snatched it away before I could clean it off completely.

Home on time, Ben, she said, pointing to my face, then the napkin next to me. Your dad wants to do a celebratory first-day-of-school dinner at the Marion Street Grill.

Oh, Jesus, he’s leaving work early? I glanced at the napkin and then rubbed syrup off my chin with my sleeve.

Yes. Mom squinted. In a quick move, she grabbed the napkin and dipped it in Michael’s water, dabbing at the sides of my mouth. I pushed her hand away and stood up.

You guys need to stop reading all those parenting books. All this ‘quality time’ isn’t good for us. It’s giving us a very distorted view of the ‘average American family’ and you know we’ll just have unrealistic expectations about our future wives and ultimately end up as divorced alcoholics who spend thousands of dollars in therapy because our parents created an ‘unattainable ideal,’ I said, employing mom air quotes as much as I could. Michael snorted. The two of us were merciless with air quotes, but Mom still wouldn’t give them up.

She also constantly played how to raise healthy kids and maintain your relationship type audiobooks in her car. I’d forgotten my iPod enough to be able to recite most of them by heart.

Ben, Mom answered in a chipper voice, "that’s more words than you’ve said to