by Amy Waeschle
Jessie felt her stomach growl. “Okay.”
Stef stepped onto his board and Jessie followed.
It was dark when Jessie let herself into her house. She braced herself for a lecture about checking in, or tears of relief that she was okay.
She dropped her coat on the dining room floor and continued to the refrigerator.
“Jessie?” her mom called out from her room.
Jessie grabbed sandwich fixings and went to work at the counter.
“You and Cam have fun?” her mom asked.
Jessie’s mouth dropped open. Her mom thought she’d been with Cam all day? She slapped two slices of ham on the bread. Her mom had no idea she’d been gone—in Seattle no less! Jessie shoved the knife down through the block of cheese and the slice ended up too thick. Jessie made another slice but it broke off halfway through and the knife skittered to the floor. Jessie jumped back, shaking out her wrist.
“Everything okay out there?” her mom’s voice called out.
“Fine,” she groaned. She put the knife in the sink and slammed her sandwich together. Zach would have cared. Zach would have known. But her mom had messed it up again and he was gone. Grabbing her sandwich, she turned to go and saw her mother leaning against the doorway, watching her.
“What?” Jessie growled.
Her mom held out the newspaper. “Do you know about this?” she said.
Jessie felt the air leave her lungs. The top story showed a picture of the boathouse, engulfed in flames.
Chapter 17
Jessie
Jessie stood in the cold kitchen waiting for her frozen toaster waffle to pop. She had dreamed about living with Zach at the new house. Stef had been there too. They had skated her own private half-pipe together—his tiger eyes glinting in the sunshine. She thought about him coming back from Seattle to take care of his mom.
The night before, the picture of the fire in the paper had made her heart stop. Jessie had held the newspaper, willing her fingers to stop shaking, feeling her mom’s eyes on her. She studied the image, taking in the leaping flames and the silhouettes of the firefighters.
“I remember hearing the sirens,” her mom said. “But I had no idea it was a fire.”
“Me neither,” Jessie replied slowly, keeping her eyes on the newspaper. “Was Zach there?” she’d asked, an impulse she couldn’t stop.
Her mom shifted her feet. Jessie heard her sigh. “I don’t know.”
A half pot of coffee sat steaming on the hotplate; her mom was likely drinking her second cup, her eyes locked on her laptop screen, trolling for signs of Evan.
Jessie’s waffle popped and she burned her fingers plucking it from the toaster. She buttered it and coated the top with cinnamon-sugar then ate a few bites. Then she grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee. Just like she’d seen her mom and Zach do a thousand times. It was hot and the mug felt good in her chilled fingers. She took it and the rest of her waffle to the couch.
Inside the cup’s rim, the coffee smelled rich and earthy. After dipping her finger in the liquid, she put a drop on her tongue.
“Ullg,” she said. Bitter. Mug in hand, she returned to the kitchen, poured in some milk. Tasted it again. Still bitter. She reached into the cabinet for the honey.
She wondered if Stef drank coffee. She imagined him at a diner in some faraway town ordering breakfast: a big plate of eggs with a side of buttermilk pancakes and a mini-pitcher of syrup. Would he drive off in a car? Take the bus to a job somewhere?
Her mother entered the kitchen, startling her. She was dressed in black yoga pants, an oversized flannel, and a pair of mukluk-type slippers. “I thought you didn’t like coffee,” she said, refilling her cup.
Jessie finished stirring the honey and put the spoon in the sink. “Maybe I do now.” She tasted her coffee again. Better, but nothing like it smelled. She put the mug in the sink and floated away.
“What are you up to today?” her mom asked.
“Wax prep at Cam’s, remember?” Hadn’t she been getting ready for Wax Museum for weeks? Why couldn’t her mom remember stuff like that? Plus she had promised to help Cam with his math like usual.
“Oh, right.” Her mom stood in the middle of the kitchen, one foot ready to return to her desk and The Search. “Is this egg supposed to do something other than sit here?” her mom asked, eyeing the tiny box on the dining room table they never used.
Jessie realized that the coat she’d left on the floor was now hanging on the back of a dining room chair. A sudden surge of hope filled her: had Zach come home last night? Maybe he was sleeping late. She rushed to the window and pulled back the curtain. But Zach’s truck wasn’t there.
“Need anything else at Costco?” her mom asked from behind her.
Jessie sighed. She was the one who made the Costco list that was adhered to the side of the fridge with a magnet. She had already written down Honey Bunches of Oats and peanut butter crackers, her things, plus the toilet paper and eggs, and the tortillas Zach used in his famous burritos. Jessie grabbed her coat and shrugged into it. The buttons up the front felt tight. She grimaced.
“Are you coming tonight?” Jessie asked.
Her mom gave her a blank look.
“To Cam’s?” Jessie reminded, annoyed. Cam’s mom always invited them to Sunday dinner.
“Maybe,” her mom said, her smile slipping.
Jessie slid the egg baby carefully into her backpack, then slung it over her shoulder. She picked up Stef’s helmet and reached for the door.
“What happened to your helmet?” her mom said.
Jessie’s breath ballooned into her throat. “I traded with Cam,” she managed, keeping her back to the kitchen.
“Oh,” her mom said. “Call me if you need a ride later,” she added after a terrifying pause.
Jessie imagined waiting for her at the curb in the dark until finally realizing she wasn’t coming and setting off on her own. Jessie stepped through the screen and let the door swing shut behind her.
Jessie left her board and Stef’s helmet on Cam’s wide porch then stepped inside the house. Greta, Cam’s mom, was at the stove stirring something cinnamon-y.
“Hi hon,” she called out to Jessie.
Jessie lowered her pack by the table, stripped out of her coat, and removed the egg baby, the crib looking worse for wear after the journey. She set it on the table, then stepped into the kitchen, noticing the applesauce in a big blue pot. She figured Cam’s dad was at baseball with Nate like usual. Cam’s oldest brother had a car so he was hardly ever around.
May, in her high chair at the other end of the kitchen, squealed when she saw Jessie.
Jessie grinned. “Having a snack, May-May?” she said, crouching down to her level. May had the same crystal-blue eyes as Cam, and Greta’s white-blonde hair. May’s chubby legs kicked and she gurgled. A fat hand reached for a softened chunk of apple that had been placed on her tray. May stuffed the chunk in her mouth.
“She got another tooth!” Jessie said to Greta.
Greta smiled softly into the pot she was stirring.
May reached for Jessie and she looked to Greta for permission.
“Go ahead,” Greta said, handing her a moistened cloth.
Jessie cleaned May’s face then unfastened her bib and tray and picked her up. May immediately grabbed a lock of Jessie’s hair and yanked.
Jessie laughed and unclenched May’s fist. May laid her head against Jessie’s neck and sighed. Jessie stroked the back of her silky head and talked to her in the voice that only came out when they were together. Then Greta was whisking May away.
“Naptime,” Greta sang out.
Cam stood in the kitchen doorway, his eyes flat and hostile.
“Hey,” Jessie said, her arms missing May’s soft weight. She grabbed her pack and the egg and followed Cam to his room.
He shut the door behind them. “It was you, wasn’t it?” His whisper had an edge to it that made her stomach clench. “That fire Friday night!” Cam his
sed.
Jessie looked around Cam’s room, at the sketches of drone planes on his desk, the posters of every type of stealth plane ever made, the models he’d built, the spaceship quilt his mom had made when he was little. “I didn’t do it . . . ” she stammered.
“Bull shibby.”
Jessie lowered to the edge of Cam’s bed. “Really! You have to believe me!” Jessie said. Then she saw Cam’s eyes, and slumped into her knees, the egg cradled in her lap. She fussed with the paper, trying to flatten a crease in the bedding. “Okay. I was there,” she admitted. “It just sort of happened. One minute we were bombing Sixth and the next he was mixing this stuff together and . . . ” She peeked at Cam’s face.
“See? I told you he was trouble.”
“It wasn’t like that!” Jessie thought about the homeless shelter where the woman had known Stef’s name. “You weren’t there.”
“Thank God. What’s next, someone’s house?”
“No! I would never—”
A soft knock on the door startled them both. Cam’s mom poked her head in. “Do you two worker bees need a snack?”
Jessie couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Sure,” Cam said.
“Okay, be right back,” Greta said, and disappeared.
“What if you get caught?” Cam hissed after Greta had closed the door. “This is bad, Jess.” He took a step closer. “The dumpster was one thing. But someone’s boathouse?” The look he gave her was pure fear. “You could go to jail.” His voice shook.
“Me?” she said, her voice sounding meek. “But I didn’t do anything,” she protested.
He pointed a finger at her. “But you were there. You didn’t try to stop him, did you?”
Jessie felt the anger rise up her cheeks. “How could I? I didn’t even know what he was doing!”
“You’ve got to stop,” Cam said in a stern voice. “Before someone gets hurt.”
NINETEEN
Jessie
“No, not like that!” Jessie said. “You can’t skip any steps.”
“Ugh! It doesn’t matter!” Cam protested.
“If this was a plane you wouldda just left off a wing.”
“But it’s not a plane. It’s just a stupid math problem!” His face was getting blotchy the way it did when he was really mad.
“Fine,” Jessie huffed. She went back to copying her Joan of Arc poster into ink, carefully tracing over the pencil letters with the smooth, thick pen. At Wax, the poster would be read by what Miss Klein called “the museum patrons” but everyone knew that would just be parents. Because students were not permitted to speak for the entire exhibit, the poster needed to express everything she wanted to share. Jessie would wear her blue tunic, which Greta had offered to sew after Jessie’s disastrous attempt. Also, she would wear her mom’s turtleneck and the motorcycle boots, borrowed from Evan’s closet, plus her fierce expression of a warrior.
“You just misspelled government,” Cam said.
“I did not.”
Cam pointed to the word she had just inked. “Gov-ern-ment.”
“Grr.” Jessie studied the poster. Ruined. “Got any whiteout?”
“You can’t put whiteout on your Wax poster!”
“Well, I can’t leave it there!”
Cam shrugged. “You’ll just have to start over.”
“I’m not starting over!”
Greta knocked then poked her head in, holding something blue. “It’s done,” she said, offering the finished tunic. Jessie’s eyes opened wide. The tunic was just like she pictured, with fringe on the bottom and a detailed coat of arms sewn on the chest. She took the tunic and realized that the coat of arms was made of thick paper, carefully drawn and colored in rich pen strokes. Greta had stitched it, but the work was Cam’s.
Jessie looked at Cam, hoping he could see her gratitude.
“Let’s see it on you,” Greta said. “I may need to adjust the sides.”
Jessie held the garment, considering if she should take off her hoodie first. But that meant revealing what was underneath. The moment began to feel awkward. Quickly she pulled her hoodie up and over her head. It fell in a pile at her feet and she quickly slipped the tunic on.
Greta helped her pull it down in the back.
Thankfully it wasn’t too tight in the front. Jessie brandished an imaginary sword. “I am not a witch! And you are a filthy traitor!” she boomed.
“Very nice,” Greta said, retreating to the door. “I can’t wait to see you both on your big night.”
Cam had that same funny look on his face like the time in her kitchen, but when she caught his eye, he quickly looked away.
A sinking feeling tugged on her, like an anchor tossed into the deep. Had he been looking at her chest? Not you, too, she begged silently.
Jessie carefully slid off the tunic and put her hoodie back on. She folded the tunic, keeping the coat of arms flat, and placed it neatly next to her.
Cam’s mom whisked the extra place setting away but not before Jessie noticed. Jessie remembered when her mom used to come, how she and Greta would talk in the kitchen. And laugh. Usually about something having to do with her or Cam. Back then Jessie couldn’t stand it but now, her longing for those times again gave her a stomach ache.
Jessie poked at her food. Steam from Greta’s cooking clung to the windows and made the room warm. Jessie was sweating inside her hoodie.
Cam’s dad and Nate gave a play-by-play of the baseball game. May squeaked and cooed from her high chair. Cam and his oldest brother Johnny bickered about cars, which one was the fastest, the most expensive, what kind Johnny should get when he earned enough.
“Tell us about math at the high school, Jessie,” Greta asked her.
Jessie’s already hot face bloomed with heat. “Uh, it’s okay.”
“It’s pretty exciting,” Greta said, her eyes twinkling. May made baby monkey kissing sounds with her lower lip. Greta laughed. “May thinks so too.”
“Who’s your teacher?” Johnny asked.
“Darnell.”
“Ooh, he’s hard.” Johnny shoveled a bite of pork chop loaded with applesauce into his mouth. “But he cracks these jokes sometimes when he’s up at the board lecturing.” Johnny gave a snort. “Too bad you didn’t get Mrs. Shay. She’s a creampuff. And kind of hot.” He gulped his milk. “For a teacher I mean.”
“Johnny,” Greta warned.
Johnny frowned. “What? I’m just sayin’.”
Cam’s dad scowled at Johnny then turned his eyes to Cam and Jessie. “How’s Wax Museum coming?”
Cam and Jessie did not reply.
“Cam and I found some good stuff on Reginald Denny in Seattle,” Cam’s dad said. “Did you know that Marylin Monroe worked in his factory? And get this.” Cam’s dad pointed his fork at her. “She was discovered when an army photographer taking pictures of the OQ Radioplane noticed her.”
Jessie mashed a chunk of apple with her fork. “Wow,” she said.
Cam squirmed next to him. “Denny was a stunt pilot, too.”
“I’ll bet he and Marilyn did some stunts,” Johnny muttered.
“That’s enough,” said Cam’s dad.
Johnny scraped the last bite into his mouth and stood up with his plate. “Gotta run.” He made long strides into the kitchen. “Thanks, Ma,” he called out as his plate clanked against the sink. Jessie heard keys jingling then the door closing followed by the purr of an engine.
“Well,” Greta said, taking a spoon away from May’s tight grip. “We all are excited to see you on your big night. Will Zach be there?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Jessie said, keeping her eyes on her plate.
Chapter 18
Zach
Zach picked up where he left off with the siding, and once going, the work became almost like a meditation: measure, cut, attach. Section by section, the back of the house slowly transformed.
The sound of gravel crunching in his driveway pulled Zach from his work. He stepped around
the corner to see a car rolling to a stop next to his truck. Mike Brewer climbed out.
“Mornin’,” Mike said, shielding his eyes with his hand as he spotted Zach. He was wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt, sneakers.
“There’s an extra hammer right there,” Zach teased, pointing to the tool box resting on the main deck beam.
Mike humored him with a smile, but then his face turned stoic. “Got something for you on Evan.”
They’ve found him, Zach thought, bracing himself. He carefully set down his tools then met Mike in the driveway.
“They pulled a kid into custody last night.” Mike hooked one hand on his hip. “Evan’s name came up.”
“How?”
Mike’s broad chest expanded with a slow breath. “They were at that fancy detox place together.”
“Garrett?”
Mike’s face flashed with surprise. “How the fuck did you know his name?”
“I found out that Evan may have gone after Garrett when he relapsed. Nobody seems to know where he went.”
“Back to the good life, that’s where,” Mike huffed.
Zach crossed his arms. “Does he know where Evan is?”
Brewer eyed Zach. “The detectives aren’t exactly working that angle. But I put in a word, maybe they’ll be able to get him to reveal if Evan’s back on the streets.”
“If he’s talking about Evan, isn’t that likely?”
Mike took a slow look around, as if thinking. “You never can tell with them. They’ll say whatever they think’s gonna get them to their next fix.”
“What’s he in for?”
“Possession.” Mike gave a grimace. “It’s worse, actually. We think he’s dealing for a local thug we’ve been working to shut down. Remember that domestic last week?”
Zach nodded.
“That guy,” Mike said simply.
Zach remembered the man’s long arms being cuffed inside the trailer that should have been condemned. “You took him in, though. It didn’t stick?”