“Spit it out,” he all but commands.
“When you put it that way.” I rattle off several suggestions and my reasonings.
Esau nods, his eyes flicking over my face. “See you around.” And then he lumbers away.
I stand in the middle of the hallway, shocked that he actually sought me out to ask my advice on something. Plus, it was weird that he asked about school before getting to the point. It’s not like he cares about my day. Why bother?
The warning bell clangs through the corridor, making me and everyone else lingering before their next class scurry toward their next period.
I slide into my seat in art class as the tardy bell is ringing. Mr. Baugh catches my eye from the front of the room and gives me a look.
“Sorry,” I mouth. I feel bad for being late because I like this class, and I like Mr. Baugh. He seems genuinely kind and interested in his students, unlike some of the other teachers. Besides, art class gives me an excuse to take more photos. In the past two weeks I’ve taken hundreds of new ones, so much that they’re clogging up the storage space on my phone.
At the front of the room, Mr. Baugh reminds us to keep up with our reading before telling us to split up into pairs to work on our semester projects.
Noah grins at me. “We still need to get together to work on our project.”
“How about Sunday? We could meet at the diner in town.”
He shakes his head. “I’m babysitting my younger sister and brother that day.”
A flare of frustration goes through me. Why is it so hard to find a time to get together to work on our project? And if I’m being honest, I’d like to get to know Noah better, too.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I used to babysit all the time. Little kids like me.”
Noah’s wide brown eyes study me. “You sure? They’re kind of a handful. I can’t promise you won’t end up dressed like a firefighting princess. Or holding a lizard.”
“I like lizards.”
He laughs at the hesitance in my voice. “Okay, Sunday it is. I’ll text you my address.”
I’m relieved, not only because Aunt Karen has made her displeasure at having random people in her space clear, but also because the idea of inviting friends over to the old house feels wrong somehow. How can I expect Noah to be at ease there when I never am? Worrying my lip, I wonder if the place will ever feel like a home, or if it will always feel like simply a place to hide.
Aunt Karen is gone on one of her mysterious long walks. She goes practically every evening after dinner, but she won’t say where. I feel kind of bad. Suddenly becoming a guardian when you were childless before has to take some adjusting. She needs some space; I get that.
Still can’t say I like it when she’s gone, though. The creaks and groans the old house makes creep me out. The drone of the AC sounds more like cultic chanting the more I focus on it. And the grove of eucalyptus trees out back? I shudder to think what could be hiding in there.
Which is why when the girls from drama club showed up, I was so on edge I slammed the door in their faces to a chorus of Hey and Aren’t you going to invite us in? I took a second to breathe before I opened it again.
Once I recover from my shock at being visited at Aunt Karen’s house, I slip out the front door. “What are you guys doing here?” I ask, crossing my arms, deciding that looks too aggressive, and uncrossing them again.
Fiona’s mouth pulls down. “Sorry, should we have texted first or?”
“My house is chaos—Mom’s having the kitchen remodeled,” Viv says.
“My mom doesn’t know how to butt out,” Marisa adds. “She thinks my friends are her friends, so it’s better if we don’t spend time there.”
“Last time we were at Marisa’s place her mom tried to watch Clueless with us, but she kept ranting about how awful their acting was,” Viv starts to grin and Marisa swats at her with a Shh. Viv is not put off. She mimics Marisa’s mom, clutching the fake black pearls she’s wearing and using a nasal voice. “Like, Oh my God, you know not to scrunch up your entire face when you fake cry, right?”
I turn to Fiona, waiting for her excuse. She gives a playful shrug. “I came to see your aunt Karen. She’s cool.”
Inside, a door slams.
“Is she home, by the way?” Fiona looks past me, her brown skin already glistening in the stale air. “Can we come in? It’s kind of stifling out here.” She takes a step toward the door, but I block her.
“No! Sorry. Aunt Karen doesn’t like having people over. I think it’s because she needs to detox after dealing with customers all day at the grocery store. Sorry, again.”
The girl shakes her head. “It’s fine. We should have texted. We’ll go.”
“No! Please don’t. Do you want some lemonade?”
“Absolutely we do,” Viv says, quoting a character from The Office.
“Nice one, Jim,” Fiona says, thumbing at Viv.
“I think it would have been really fun to play Angela. She’s so catty all the time. I could really get into that,” Marisa says.
I don’t know how this happened, me standing on the front porch discussing an old sitcom with friends from my new school, but here I am. The word reverberates through my brain. I have friends. At my new school. A small smile flits over my lips.
“So, lemonade?” Viv prompts.
I start, promising to bring it right out. In the kitchen, I remember that Aunt Karen doesn’t cook, so there aren’t any lemons. Or sugar, aside from the sugar replacement stuff she uses in her morning coffee. She must not sleep well, because she doesn’t speak until she’s had at least two cups of the pitch black tar she brews.
Ha! I’m in luck.
There’s a can of lemonade concentrate in the freezer. It’s crusted over with freezer burn, but it should be fine.
By the time I step out on to the porch with a pitcher and four glasses, all three of my friends look like they’ve been in a sauna—they’re panting with the heat and dripping sweat. They pretty much have, it’s so ungodly hot out here.
“You know, let’s go in the house, okay?”
“Oh thank god,” Marisa says, fanning herself with her hand.
“You sure your aunt won’t mind?” Fiona asks, taking a glass from me and slamming back the lemonade before pouring another.
“It’s fine. Let’s sit in the living room.” It comes out too loud. Embarrassment makes my ears heat. But the relief of being in the air conditioned room overpowers it. We plop down on the old leather couches, scratched here and there, and drink our lemonade.
“BRB,” Viv says. “The restroom is?”
“Down the hall, first door on the right.” Once again, too loud. I slurp down lemonade, hoping it’ll make my pits stop sweating.
“Can I get some more ice?” Fiona asks, peering into her glass where the last shards of it are rapidly dissipating.
I shoot out of my seat. “I’ll get you some.”
“I’ll help.” Marisa is at my heels all the way into the kitchen.
Opening the freezer, I use a plastic cup to scoop the ice. The fridge is so old it doesn’t have a dispenser in the door.
Marisa tries to whisper into my ear, making me jump sky high.
“Sorry,” I stammer. “What was that?”
“I need help,” Marisa says, barely above a whisper. “With the play. I have to get my lines memorized. If I don’t…”
“I, um. What do you normally do to memorize your lines?”
Marisa shakes her head. “This is my first big role. Last year I played a tree.”
My mouth drops open. “Your…” I swallow. Try again past the cotton in my throat. “Your largest role before now was as a tree?” It all makes sense. The nervous fidgeting when members of the crew watch the actors practice. The flubbing of lines. The frantic help-me stare she kept throwing my way at our last meeting. She was anxious because this is all new for her.
The girl nods, eyes on mine. “Now you’re getting it.”
“But I
thought you…”
“Look, I just, I have to get it right, okay?”
“I know there are techniques you can use to…”
The front door opens and shuts.
“Oh, hello. Fiona was it?” Aunt Karen’s voice sounds friendly on the surface, but I know better.
Bolting from the kitchen, I rush into the front of the house. “We were just hanging out here in the living room. See? Lemonade.”
Aunt Karen looks from Marisa, who clearly was just in the kitchen with me, to Viv, who picks this moment to come back from the bathroom. The simmering annoyance behind the woman’s eyes makes me gulp down more cloyingly sweet lemonade.
She shakes it off, her hand moving from the small of her back. There’s a lump under her shirt like she stuffed something down the back of her waistband. Some of that expensive chocolate she eats when she thinks I’m not looking, perhaps? Not wanting to think about sweaty chocolate any more than never, I shove the thought away.
Aunt Karen makes small talk for a few minutes before ushering the girls to the door. They leave, full of lemonade and probably wondering why my guardian is so overprotective. Aunt Karen twists the lock on the door and turns, hitting me between the eyes with a look so cold I wish I had a sweater.
“Megan,” she asks, “what did I say about visitors?”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Aunt Karen’s expression softens. She takes a couple steps closer. “I asked the sheriff about that blue car you’ve been seeing.”
“You did? What did he say?”
Her frown tells me everything I need to know before she even speaks. “It was a dead end. The owner died a year ago, and nobody has registered as its new owner.”
“So what you’re saying is it’s a stolen car, and anyone could be driving it.”
She puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Just, follow my rules, okay? And you’ll be fine. I’ll keep you safe.”
I don’t have a choice but to believe her.
Chapter 9
Day 108, Wednesday
Noah’s house is a small blue bungalow set back from the road in a stand of gnarled oak trees. The dairy and its sea of monochrome bovines is right next door. The smell is intense, even inside Aunt Karen’s car with the windows rolled up.
“Let me know when you need me to come get you,” she says, her eyes drooping to my backpack before settling on my face. “You have everything?”
I assure her that I do before sliding out of the car. “I’ll text you.”
The gravel spreads over the ground as Aunt Karen pulls away, leaving me alone on the long drive. With a deep breath, I start toward the house, the rough stones jagged under the soles of my sandals.
An unearthly squawk makes me jump and whirl around.
There’s a black-and-white striped chicken standing a few feet away, its dark beady eyes locked on me. Luminescent green feathers plume out behind the bird.
I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a chicken in person, and this one is kind of pretty. I hunch over to get a better look.
It lunges toward me with a bird-like war cry.
With a screech, I take off for the house, hoping that I’m faster than the foul fowl hot on my tail.
“Ouch!” I yell when the demon bird’s sharp beak makes contact with my heel. “Noah! Help.” My eyes slide between the bungalow’s white front door and a large oak tree with a horizontal branch just low enough for me to grab.
The demon bird squawks, making another jab at my heel.
Cutting off the gravel path and dropping my backpack into the dirt, I leap onto the lowest branch of a sprawling oak tree and pray chickens can’t fly. They can’t, right?
The spawn of bird satan ruffles its feathers in the sunlight as it stalks around the trunk of the tree. Cocking its head like a velociraptor, it looks up at me. The bird clicks its beak together and pecks at the ground. I don’t know where chickens are on the animal intelligence scale, but I’d swear this thing is pretending to forage so I’ll climb down from the long, rugged branch where I’m perched.
Fat chance, bird.
The chicken flaps its wings and leaves the ground, swooping just underneath my dangling feet.
Eep! Thankful I’m wearing long shorts instead of a dress, I move to a crouch.
The bird makes another attempt and goes back to fake foraging. Evil, wily creature.
Taking a peek at my heel, I hiss under my breath. It’s bleeding from a small hole where the freaking aggressive bird bit me. I look to the house twenty feet away. Back down at the bird. Should I make a break for it?
The front door opens and Noah steps out. He’s got a bright purple feather boa around his neck, and his wavy black hair is tousled over his forehead. It’s almost enough to make me chuckle despite my current situation.
Noah’s mouth drops open when he catches sight of me huddled in a tree like a trapped raccoon. “Megan? Crap. Napoleon! You stupid rooster.” Jogging over to the base of the trunk, Noah shoos the bird who I swear glares at me before trotting around the side of the house. If I didn’t believe birds were somehow related to dinosaurs, I do now.
“Here, let me help you down.” Noah’s hands land lightly on my waist, and I jump down from the branch. “I’m so sorry about that. I was going to come out and warn you about our guard rooster, but my sister got me invested in building a blanket fort and… You’re bleeding! God, Megan, I’m so sorry. What a disaster.”
“It’s okay. Thanks for the hand down.”
When I meet his eyes, I’m surprised to see a tinge of pink in his cheeks. Is Noah blushing? He seems to realize that his hands are still on my waist, because he pulls away and scratches the back of his neck. “Let’s get you inside before Napoleon remembers he likes the taste of human flesh, okay?”
I force a laugh, but I’m wary of the demon bird until we’re safely inside.
Noah was not exaggerating about the blanket fort he and his siblings have made. The entire front room of the house is a canopy of blankets upheld by dining chairs, a floor lamp, and lots and lots of wooden clothespins. One snaps and flies through the air as a little girl crawls out the nearest flap in the fort and looks up at me with open curiosity.
“Anza, this is my friend Megan. Megan, my sister Esperanza. Anza for short.”
The little girl grins, showcasing a gap where her two front teeth should be. “Are you here to see our fort?”
A little boy crawls out of the flap, takes a peek at me, and scuttles back under the blankets.
“That’s Matteo,” Noah explains. “He’s shy around new people.”
“Come on. Let me show you our fort. It’s the biggest one we’ve ever made. Noah helped, but Mattie and I did most of it.”
“You did? That’s impressive.”
The little girl nods, still grinning, but Noah begs off, telling her we have homework to do. He leads me around the giant patchwork of blankets to the dining table, which is missing all but one chair and a long bench. Noah gestures for me to take the chair before folding himself on to the bench. It’s so tall, the boy’s long legs barely fit under the table. When I try to get him to switch, he waves me off. “I’m used to it,” he says with a small smile.
We’ve just pulled our class notes out when Esperanza approaches us, towing her younger brother behind her. “We’re hungry,” she says. “Can you make us quesadillas? With just cheese. No tomatoes.”
Matteo whispers in Esperanza’s ear loud enough that I can hear he doesn’t want beans in his either.
I stifle a laugh.
Noah sighs, pulling his gaze toward mine. “You don’t mind, do you? Want one?”
“Go ahead. Kids have to eat, right?” Esperanza returns the warm look I send her way. Matteo is hiding behind her, and she’s just tall enough that it works.
Noah excuses himself to work on quesadillas while Esperanza climbs onto the bench and grabs one of the coloring books Noah pushed to the far end of the table when we set up shop. Pulling a bin of markers toward he
r, she goes to work on a rainbow unicorn, showing me her progress after each color.
I look around for Matteo, but he must have disappeared into the blanket fort again.
“Did you know that my brother and I are raising a pig?” Esperanza says with a giddy grin.
“You what?”
“Her name is Piglet, and once she’s big and fat we’re going to sell her and buy a car just for us.”
A whine comes from somewhere under the blankets. Noah catches my eye from where he’s standing at the stove, a knowing smile playing over his features.
Esperanza leans closer to me. “Mattie wants to buy new video games, but I think a car would be better.”
“A car would be pretty awesome. I don’t even have a car.”
The little girl’s eyes widen and she dives under the blanket fort, loudly informing her brother of my lack of vehicle. Esperanza is sweet, and I’m betting Matteo is too.
I scroll through the images on my phone, trying to decide which one to post. I’ve been posting most days, and it feels great to put my work out there again. The likes and comments don’t hurt either. I’ve reconnected with a couple of girls I used to do photo challenges with, too.
“How’d you get that big white scar on your face?”
Noah’s jaw drops in horror at Anza’s bald-faced question.
“Were you born with it? I was born with a strawberry mark on my arm. See?”
I look down at the little girl’s arm where she’s pointing to a mark that really does look like a strawberry.
“Anza! You don’t ask people rude questions like that,” Noah scolds. “Sorry about that. Six-year-olds, you know?” It would be easier to shrug off if Noah wasn’t scanning my face with intent eyes, the question clearly visible there. How did you get that scar?
I don’t want to talk about this. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I blurt.
Noah tells me where it is, and I hurry away from Anza. Don’t follow me, don’t follow me, don’t follow me.
Don't Look Behind You (Don't Look Series Book 1) Page 5