Free The Eighth Guardian by Meredith McCardle Page A

to, I don’t know—Utah? But I bet I’m in one of those brownstones on Beacon Street, probably one of the few that hasn’t been converted to condos or apartments. This place must have cost a pretty penny.
    It’s good to know where I am, to have a handle on my location in case I want or need to escape. And I know Boston. I could disappear here in a second. Of course, not with this tracker in my arm.
    I look down at my right forearm. There’s a puffy lump just below my elbow. I touch it, then immediately wish I hadn’t as pain spirals down the entire right side of my body. Dear God. There’s a tracker in my arm. For the rest of my life, someone is going to know my location at every second of the day. I plunge my head under the water and let my mind wander to Abe as I come up.
    Maybe I should put him out of my mind. Maybe that would make this easier. Let me focus. But I can’t. Abe is a part of me, just as I’m a part of him.
    Abe and I got off to a bit of a rocky start. We met the first day of freshman year, in the auditorium. Classes were pretty standard fare—we were all put in the same math, government, computer, and science classes, and we’d already been to Practical Studies (which is just a fancy word for a class that teaches you how to spy on people, shoot sniper rifles, and dismantle bombs); but when it came to combat training, we got to choose. I’d scanned the options and picked Krav Maga. I’d never heard of it, but the subtitle of “Israeli hand-to-hand combat” sold me. The Israelis are pretty badass.
    After I’d circled my selection, I’d leaned over to the guy next me, who happened to be Abe, and seen that he’d circled karate.
    “Karate?” I’d laughed. “What are you, seven? Going to work on your orange belt?”
    Abe had stood and stormed off, clearly upset; and then his roommate, Paul Andress, had taken his place.
    “Way to be an asshole,” Paul had said. “He’s a second-degree black belt already, and his sensei just died.”
    I’d swallowed a lump in my throat, but then Paul put the icing on his cake. “His grandmother was his sensei.”
    So yeah, my first interaction with Abe was to make fun of his dead grandmother. That’s one for the scrapbook.
    I apologized the next day, and Abe forgave me because he’s the most wonderful person in the world. And that was that. Abe and I became an “us.” I went home with him for holidays. His family opened their arms and invited me in. They became my family because my real family is the definition of dysfunctional.
    I shake my head, like my brain is some sort of Etch A Sketch, like it will rid the image of my mom that’s flooding my mind. But there she is. And right behind her is the guilt.
    My mom was a pretty crap mother by any standard, but for some reason I’m the one who feels guilty. As if it’s my fault. I breathe and squeeze my eyes shut. Here we go. Anger, bitterness.
    Anger because “not sacrificing her art” is more important than getting better for me. Bitterness because I’ve known proper lithium dosage levels since I was seven. Anger because all the good memories from my childhood have faded away into fuzzy nothingness, to the point where now I can’t remember if they really happened or if my mind invented them as a coping mechanism. Bitterness because while most kids my age were memorizing multiplication tables, I was taking it upon myself to scour the Internet and learn the brand names for drugs such as valproate, lamotrigine, and fluoxetine.
    And mostly anger because my mom refuses to get off the damned roller coaster. Because every time I get my hopes up and think my mom will finally stick to a treatment plan, she calls it quits in less than two weeks.
    I ball up my hands into fists, then grab both edges of the tub and stand. Abe. Think about Abe. He’s waiting for me. And I’ll find a way back to him. Somehow.
    There are fresh towels hanging on the bar. Big, fluffy, white towels that smell like fabric softener.