No Matter How Loud I Shout by Edward Humes Page A

just up a little too late. I’m fine.”
    The counselor nodded, studying the tall, thin, charming fifteen-year-old a moment. She had taken a special interest in Carla, ever since her normally excellent grades had begun to slip and her absences began to grow. They visited outside school and talked often on the phone. Carla had opened up to her for a time, revealing how troubled she was beneath her surface élan. She was especially upset about her mother’s recent remarriage, five years after Carla’s father died in a car wreck. Lately, though, the girl had been pulling back again, dodging the counselor. “We should talk,” the counselor said. “Call me later?”
    â€œSure,” Carla promised.
    But Carla knew she would not call. She could not tell her counselor the real reason she was so tired, how she had not cracked open the front door of her house that morning until just after dawn, the sun still low and weak over the Los Angeles Basin, its light devoid of warmth, barely piercing air the color of watery brown pudding. She had stuck her head in, the living room silent and empty, no sounds coming from the kitchen, her mother and stepfather already gone for the day to work. Good, she had thought—she wouldn’t have to hear the same old your life’s headed down the toilet, nice girls don’t stay out all hours speech from her mom. Carla knew her mother was beside herself over the suddenly late hours and disobedient behavior, assuming she was sleeping around. Carla did not correct this misimpression. That would mean having to explain what she really was doing.
    Upstairs, Carla had locked herself in the bathroom, showered, then stared into the mirror for a long time. She had been wanting to do this all night, a burning curiosity that had gripped her as soon as the hot edge of fear at what she had done had dulled. Would she—would anyone?—see a difference in her face? Would it be obvious to everyone what had happened? Carla thought about the Shakespeare her English class had read a few months earlier, a lot of stuff she didn’t understand, but that scene with Lady Macbeth, struggling in vain to wash the blood from her hands—that had stuck with her. She had even dreamt about it. Would it be the same now with her? Would it show in her eyes, her expression?
    She had leaned close, bending over the sink, the medicine chest mirror close enough to steam up with each breath. The same old face had stared back at her, the same long blond hair, the same high cheekbones and ski-jump nose, the smooth skin untouched by makeup—the features boys kepttelling her were so hot and that she couldn’t stand, because they got in the way of her being one of the guys. She had searched for signs of guilt, of fear, of evil—for imaginary blood that could not be scrubbed clean—but, to her immense relief, she saw no change. She had not felt guilty, not much, anyway. What she really felt, she had decided, was bursting with life, her secret coursing through her like jet fuel. At school, she concluded, they would have no clue. They would see what they wanted to see, a good kid, popular and polite, a girl who loved school, who liked to help: Carla James, honors student. They would see it because it was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
    â€œI’ll call you later,” Carla lied, looking straight into the counselor’s eyes, seeing genuine affection and concern there, and feeling a slight pang at her deceit. But at the same time, she felt relief, because Carla could see the counselor had no idea—she just thought Carla was tired. Her secret was safe. Before she walked through the door, excitement about the night ahead pushed conscience out of the way. She slung her pack over one shoulder, felt the comforting weight of the gun inside, and strode off the school grounds, returning to that new, separate life of hers, another night away from home, another