Perfect Pitch (The Chameleon Effect Book 2)

by Alex Hayes

  Her strange behavior after we got back from graduation still baffles me. And the way she acted when she met Shri was plain weird. Like she was jealous. Which makes no sense. My friendships hold no bearing on my home life, and now I’m done with school, I’ll be moving out at the first opportunity.

  Ty’s survival is the only thing holding me back.

  If Gran were alive, none of this would matter. I’d be moving to Boston. With the trust fund, I could focus on school, on getting an engineering degree and building a career. Now my life is stuck in a holding pattern until Ty is old enough to fend for himself.

  My eyes fall on my brother, his thumbs pecking away at his phone screen. He’s too young and too smart to be treated like trash, to have his life stolen away because his parents aren’t worth shit.

  Gran, why’d you have to leave us?

  “Hey, Dean. You’re up.” Florence waves a spray bottle at me.

  I blink, smile at her and tap Ty’s leg.

  He looks up and pulls out an earbud. “What?”

  “Don’t move. And if anyone touches you, yell like you’re being murdered.”

  Ty rolls his eyes and plugs his earbud back in.

  I head to the barber’s chair and sit. “How’re you doing, Florence?”

  She’s an all-smiles platinum blonde. “Dean, it seems like forever since we last saw you.”

  “A few months.” I glance up at my sagging bangs. “As if you couldn’t tell.”

  She runs a comb through my hair. “How come your mom doesn’t cut this for you?”

  “She’s too busy with other stuff, I guess.” I glance at Florence in the mirror. “And she never cuts it right, anyhow.”

  Florence laughs. “Same as usual then?”

  “Maybe a little shorter in front.”

  The hairdresser spritzes my hair until it’s damp, then pulls scissors from a drawer. “Every time I cut your hair I think what a shame it is to cut off all that lovely color.”

  My lips twist. “Thanks… I guess.”

  She chuckles. “I know boys don’t care about such things. So tell me, how’s your mom doing? Haven’t heard from her in a long while, but it seemed like she took her mom’s passing real hard.”

  I guess it wasn’t Florence Mom was chatting to half the night. I’d half figured it was. She has so few friends.

  “Mom’s fine. Keeps herself busy.” What else can I say? The truth is out of the question. The whole drinking thing is a family skeleton that stays well and truly hidden in the back of the hall closet.

  “So what’s she doing with herself? She talked about taking beautician courses with the money her mom left her, maybe opening a nail salon or something.”

  Or something. “Yeah, maybe in the fall.” I’ve been covering up Mom’s drinking for so long the lies roll off my tongue.

  Florence nods. “And how about you? College bound?”

  I offer too broad a smile and nod. “Yeah.” One day, at least.

  “Where to?”

  As far away from Nowhere, Vermont as I can get. “I’m thinking Boston.” If I ever escape this place.

  The way Mom’s been acting lately makes me want out of here more than ever. Since I turned eighteen, she’s called me The Man of the House. A responsibility I don’t want.

  Since Dad left three years ago, I took on some of the fathering role, and I’m okay helping out my brother. But I won’t play parent to Mom too.

  Florence chitchats about all the people she’s known who moved out to the Boston area.

  Happily, I let her ramble until the buzz of the electric shears kills all conversation.

  Once Ty’s hair is shorn, we head out, after thanking Florence for charging us for only one cut. It’s not like Mom gave me money. And weirdly, something tells me Florence might have guessed as much. Maybe she’s figured out more than she’s letting on. She’s known Mom for years. Is it even possible to work with someone for that length of time without figuring out things don’t quite add up?

  Having no desire to head home, we wander the mall, hitting all the interesting shops first, then grab lunch in the food court. When we’re done, I take Ty to the sports shop near the mall entrance and buy him a new catcher’s mitt. He’s been getting blisters from his old one, now he’s outgrown it.

  “I wanna record my songs and post them on YouTube,” Ty announces as we head back to the car. “I mean, the ones I’ve made up.”

  “Didn’t know you’d been writing your own songs, Tiger.” I shorten my pace to match his.

  “Yeah. Just recently. And I think they’re pretty good. Even made up lyrics to go with some of them.”

  I glance at him. “How come you’ve never played your tunes for me?”

  He shrugs. “Didn’t think you were interested.”

  I knock his shoulder with my elbow. “I’m always interested in your creations. Your art projects are way better than mine ever were.”

  “I don’t mean school stuff. I just figured you probably didn’t like my playing.”

  “You only play in your room, so I don’t get to hear it that well.”

  His lips twist, then he glances at me. “You could always come in.”

  “I could, but I respect your privacy. You’ve gotta tell me if you want me to come listen.”

  His shoulders lift in a shrug. “Mom doesn’t have a problem coming into my room.”

  All thoughts in my brain freeze. I try to sound casual. “Why does she come into your room?” Definitely not to get the laundry, because she never does it.

  Ty huffs. “To tell me not to make so much noise.”

  I nod.

  On the way home, Ty disappears into his phone, so I turn on the radio.

  After a plug for donations, a talk show host with a calming voice says, “We’re here today with Brandon Williams, author of the New York Times bestselling self-help series, To the Power of I, to talk about his newest book, Toxic Relationships.”

  I remember that same guy’s display at the local bookstore when I visited with Shri. After some polite banter, the host asks, “Who’s the target reader for your new book?”

  Brandon Williams’ relaxed baritone voice rolls out of the car speakers. “Anyone who answers the question, Are you trapped in a toxic relationship? with Yes, I think so, or Maybe. Anyone can become victim to unhealthy interactions with another person.”

  The host asks, “And how would you define unhealthy?”

  “Any relationship defined by controlling or manipulative behavior. A husband who makes his wife feel guilty for spending time with their kids, instead of doting on him. A lover who calls or texts excessively while his partner is at work. An adult who surrenders parenting responsibilities to her children.”

  The host chuckles. “So if your parents want you to do the laundry or wash the dishes, is that toxic?”

  Mr. Williams clears his throat. “Not necessarily. But if a parent expects his child to do the grocery shopping, cook family meals, clean the house… and do the laundry and wash the dishes, while that parent isn’t ill, handicapped, or working a seventy-hour workweek. Then, I would say the likelihood is strong that their relationship is toxic.”

  I switch off the radio and glance in the rearview mirror at Ty. He gazes at his phone screen, ears plugged and bobbing his head to a beat.

  Shit. Maybe I need to take a look at that book. Maybe I can do something about Mom. Fix this mess of a life we have at home. If I could get her to quit drinking, that would be a start. She’d likely go back to being a semi-functional parent. A nontoxic one. And I could go to college and move on with my life.

  I’m about to pull into the driveway when I notice another vehicle, a truck, parked next to Mom’s car, in my space. I roll the Subaru past the entrance and stop at the curb.

  Has Mom finally got a contractor in to do some work? About time, if she’s thinking of having the roof redone. Things could be looking up.

  I glance at my brother and smile. “Come on, Tiger. We need to break in your ne
w mitt.”

  The front door’s unlocked. We walk into the house, talking about baseball stats and the pitch velocities of our favorite players. Ty shuts the door, while I tolerate an enthusiastic licking from Pepper and try to guess where Mom would be talking to this contractor. The living room, about new carpets? Or the bathroom with the leaky shower faucet?

  I reach the living room door and stop short.

  Mom’s on the couch, making out with a guy. The urge to back down the hall, grab my brother and haul ass away from here almost overcomes me.

  Then I notice the color of the guy’s hair, or what’s left of it. Golden brown. Identical to my own. Dad.

  “What the fuck!” The words explode from my mouth like a gunshot.

  Mom and Dad jump apart.

  Mom’s shocked expression morphs into a self-satisfied smile. “Hi, Deanie. Look who’s home.”

  I advance into the room, staring at Dad. “Get. Out. Of. This. House,” I growl, low and menacing.

  Dad slides a few inches across the couch, away from Mom. “Well, hi to you too, son.”

  The gravelly sound of his voice makes me want to choke him until there’s nothing left of his larynx but a twist of crumpled vocal cords, useless and forever silenced.

  Mom jumps to her feet, blocking the path between me and my dick of a father. “Honey, calm down. I invited him here.”

  I turn flint eyes on her. “Why?”

  “Because…” her voice turns soft, but the condescension is all too clear. “What else am I going to do? You’ll be leaving soon, and I can’t manage a job and Ty on my own. You know that. All those hours. Working seven days a week.”

  I grit my teeth. “You don’t have a job, Mom. All you do is sit around and drink.”

  She slinks toward me. “But I will.” Her voice is bitter. “As your grandmother gave the lion’s share of her money to you boys, my pittance isn’t going to last long.”

  “Not if you spend it all on gin,” I snarl.

  Her back stiffens. “What I spend my money on is my business!”

  I curl my fingers into fists. “What you should be spending that money on is getting help.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m saying. With Ty being special needs, I—”

  “Ty is not special needs! He’s an intelligent kid who needs something better than a wino for a mother and a deadbeat dad.”

  The front door slams behind me. Shit. Ty must have heard all that.

  Dad bolts to his feet, like I’ve finally crossed the line by insulting him.

  At one time, he towered over me, intimidated me. Not anymore. His average height doesn’t make the grade, nor do the extra pounds he’s packing.

  I never wanted to play football—baseball was my thing—but Dad pushed and prodded, and all that pestering and pressuring came around and bit him in the ass. Because, between working out and football training, I gained enough strength and muscle to stand up to his plumber’s crack and beer belly.

  Mom rises to her full, if moderate height, almost a foot shorter than me. “You take that back, Dean Matthew Whittier! You will not talk to me or your father like that.”

  I laugh. “Seriously, Mom. You can’t demand respect. Quit drinking and get him the hell out of here, and then, maybe you’ll earn what you’re looking for.”

  I stalk out of the living room, back into the hall. Ty and Pepper are gone, and so is the dog leash. I check Ty’s room to be sure he isn’t hiding out. He’s not, and I can’t stick around any longer, because once my pent-up fury wanes, so will my resolve. And Mom’ll win, like she always does.

  Once outside the house, I look around for my brother. No sign, so I cruise the nearby streets searching for him and Pepper. They must have headed to the park trails.

  Giving up on the search, I drive into town and wander the mall without aim for several hours, my thoughts a thick fog that refuses to resolve into anything helpful.

  By the time I get home, it’s dark outside. The front porch lights don’t come on automatically when I approach, sending Mom’s You’re not welcome! message loud and clear.

  If it weren’t for Ty, I wouldn’t have come back at all.

  No light shining under his door. After a soft tap, I push it open. The luminous numbers on his alarm clock offer enough of a glow to make out his blond head on the pillow and Pepper curled up in a tight ball on the bed at his feet.

  The room is immaculate. The silver vacuum cleaner sits, just visible, in the corner of the room, like a butler ready to suck the dog hair off the bed the moment it’s unoccupied, and a row of sticky rollers lines the window sill like waiting cleaning staff.

  “Sorry, Tiger,” I whisper, and close the door.

  11

  Cadi

  “What are the chances the Evatenon will track down the crystal tree?” I say, more to myself than Idris, as we walk through the darkness down the wooded trail that starts at the Thorny Rose and ends near the hidden lake.

  The question has been weighing on my mind ever since Mr. Scrim assigned me the task of protecting the otherworldly plant. I frown to myself. Or would the ar’n bala be considered a creature? It’s sentient, after all.

  The path weaves between stately pines and mountain spruce, leading to the pristine swimming hole. I’ve hiked this trail many times, in daylight and darkness, human form and Livran, and even through rain and snow. It’s a journey and destination I love because I share it solely with Idris.

  He finishes humming a few bars of music, then says, “Microscopic. But Mr. Scrim said we must practice using our abilities, because we’re gonna have to face those four-eyed four-armed maniacs sooner or later.”

  A prickle runs down my spine. “Hopefully not all of them at the same time.”

  “Yeah, let’s hope. That warrior dude who followed us through the wormhole was tough enough for us to deal with on his own.” Idris rubs his neck, no doubt remembering being choked by the monstrous blue maniac. “Mind you, dealing with his overloading mega-weapon freaked me out more.”

  “You were amazing. Even Marek was impressed,” I admit.

  Idris laughs. “Yeah, well, it’s lucky I was in Livran form when that guy attacked me. I wouldn’t have stood a chance against him as a human.”

  “Even so, you were half his size.”

  “And had you backing me up. We beat him together.”

  I grip his fingers. “Then we’d better be together the next time we run into one of them.”

  “We will, and we’ll be even better at using our abilities after this trip.”

  “In the dead of night,” I murmur.

  He chuckles. “Safer that way. We don’t need an audience.”

  My thoughts drift to Shri and Dean, eye witnesses to me using my abilities to save Papa months ago. I certainly know what it feels like to get burned. “Shri arrives on Tuesday.”

  Idris pulls at my hand, slowing me down. “So I finally get to meet her.”

  “Yeah. Finally.” Unfortunately, she’s not the only one coming.

  “Whatcha not telling me, babe?”

  I chew on my lip, hating this inability to keep my feelings from him. “I guess Dean’s bringing her.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I try to pick up my pace, but Idris slows me down again. “So I’ll get to meet him too.”

  “Not if I can help it,” I mutter.

  He pulls me up short. “You mean you’re planning to hide him from me?”

  No, the other way around. I’m hiding you from him! “He’s giving Shri a ride out here, not staying. I work till closing on Tuesday. Dean’ll be long gone by the time I get home.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t meet him.”

  He has got to be kidding me.

  “Seriously? Why do you want to meet him in the first place?”

  He chuckles, darkly. “Always smart to size up the competition.”

  “Idris, he is not competition,” I growl.

  “That’s what you keep telling me, but that’s not what I’m pic
king up in here.” He pats where his crystal is embedded.

  “So what are you picking up?” I ask, because I sure as heck can’t interpret how I feel at the idea of running into Dean.

  His hands drop to his sides. “Confusion. Nervousness. Curiosity… Anticipation.”

  Ugh. I drop my eyes to the ground, unable to meet his gaze, even though I can scarcely see him in the dark, anyway. “So what do all those things mean?”

  “That you still like him, of course,” he grinds out.

  “But I don’t.” I shake my head. “I mean, I don’t know what I feel about him. I told you that already.”

  “Well, it seems pretty clear to me. You’re still interested.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “But interested in what? I have you in my life. I don’t need anyone else.”

  He sighs. “Are you sure about that, Cadi?”

  I hesitate. “The only thing I’m sure about is that I wish things would go back to the way they were, before Dean’s name came up.”

  “Okay, okay.” Idris finds my hands in the darkness and pulls them to his chest. “Maybe it’s better you do catch up with him, so you can figure out how you really feel once and for all.”

  “You have to know I love you,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.

  He pulls me closer. “Yeah. I can feel it.” His forehead bumps against mine. “Stronger than anything else.”

  I sense the echo of his feelings, and I’m relieved.

  “Let’s go play on the water.” He loops an arm across my shoulders and draws me along the trail.

  “On the water?” I say, clinging tightly against him.

  Before Idris can answer me, a buzzing comes from his back pocket. He pulls out his phone and studies the screen. “Dad,” he murmurs, reading the text.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “He’s set up a meeting for me with a record label exec in NYC,” he answers.

  I sense the nervousness tripping through him. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  Another buzz. He types back, then says, “The meeting’s on Tuesday, but Dad wants to leave tomorrow. He says if things go well, we may have to stick around for the rest of the week.”

  “Well, I’ll miss you, but this is what you’ve always wanted, right?” I don’t understand the anxiety building in him, but it comes across loud and clear.