Other times, she loved the place. It was beautiful, a perfect setting to read, or practice her guitar (Theresa wanted to be a pediatrician, a travel writer or, in the best of all worlds, Sharon Isbin, the famous classical guitarist).
She was here, not in school, at the moment because of an unplanned trip she and her aunt and uncle were going to be taking.
Oh, Tare, we'll have fun. Roger's got this thing he has to do in Manhattan, a speech, or research, I don't really know. Wasn't paying attention. He was going on and on. You know your uncle. But won't it be great, getting away, just on a whim? An adventure.
Which was why her aunt had taken her out of school at 10:00 A.M. on Monday. Only, hello, they hadn't left yet, which was a little odd. Her aunt explaining there were some "logistical difficulties. You know what I mean?"
Theresa was eighth in her class of 257 students at Vallejo Springs High. She said, "Yes, I do. You mean 'logistic.' "
But what the girl didn't understand was, since they were still not on a fucking airplane to New York, why couldn't she stay in school until the "difficulties" were taken care of?
Her aunt had pointed out, "Besides, it's study week. So study."
Which didn't mean study; what it meant was no TV.
And meant no hanging with Sunny or Travis or Kaitlin.
And meant not going to the big literacy benefit formal in Tiburon that her uncle's company was a sponsor of (she'd even bought a new dress).
Of course, it was all bullshit. There was no trip to New York, there were no difficulties, logistic, logistical or otherwise. It was just an excuse to keep her in the green prison.
And why the lies?
Because the man who'd killed her parents and her brother and sister had escaped from prison. Which her aunt actually seemed to believe she could keep secret from Theresa.
Like, please . . . The news was the first thing you saw on Yahoo's home page. And everybody in California was talking about it on MySpace and Facebook. (Her aunt had disabled the family's wireless router somehow, but Theresa had simply piggybacked through a neighbor's unsecured system.)
The girl tossed the book on the planks of the swing and rocked back and forth, as she pulled the scrunchi out of her hair and rebound her ponytail.
Theresa was certainly grateful for what her aunt had done for her over the years and gave the woman a lot of credit, she really did. After those terrible days in Carmel eight years ago her aunt had taken charge of the girl everybody called the Sleeping Doll. Theresa found herself adopted, relocated, renamed (Theresa Bolling; could be worse) and plopped down on the chairs of dozens of therapists, all of whom were clever and sympathetic and who plotted out "routes to psychological wellness by exploring the grieving process and being particularly mindful of the value of transference with parental figures in the treatment."
Some shrinks helped, some didn't. But the most important factor--time--worked its patient magic and Theresa became someone other than the Sleeping Doll, survivor of a childhood tragedy. She was a student, friend, occasional girlfriend, veterinary assistant, not bad sprinter in the fifty-and the hundred-yard dash, guitarist who could play Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer" and do the diminished chord run up the neck without a single squeak on the strings.
Now, though, a setback. The killer was out of jail, true. But that wasn't the real problem. No, it was the way her aunt was handling everything. It was like reversing the clock, sending her back in time, six, seven, oh, God, eight years. Theresa felt as if she were the Sleeping Doll once again, all the gains erased.
Honey, honey, wake up, don't be afraid. I'm a policewoman. See this badge? Why don't you get your clothes and go into your bathroom and get changed.
Her aunt was now panicked, edgy, paranoid. It was like in that HBO series she'd watched when she was over at Bradley's last year. About a prison. If something bad happened, the guards would lock down the place.
Theresa, the Sleeping Doll, was in lockdown. Stuck here in Hogwarts, in Middle Earth . . . in Oz . . .
The green prison.
Hey, that's sweet, she thought bitterly: Daniel Pell is out of prison and I'm stuck inside one.
Theresa picked up the poetry book again, thinking of her English test. She read two more lines.
Borrrring.
Theresa then noticed, through the chain-link fence at the end of the property, a car ease past, braking quickly, it seemed, as the driver looked through the bushes her way. A moment's hesitation and then the car continued on.
Theresa planted her feet and the swinging stopped.
The car could belong to anyone. Neighbors, one of the kids on break from school. . . . She wasn't worried--not too much. Of course, with her aunt's media blackout, she had no idea if Daniel Pell had been rearrested or was last seen heading for Napa. But that was crazy. Thanks to her aunt she was practically in the witness protection program. How could he possibly find her?
Still, she'd go sneak a look at the computer, see what was going on.
A faint twist in her stomach.