“I guess you’re right. What are my followers going to say? I’ve been promising them a shot for weeks now!”
“The four real people who follow you will understand. The twelve thousand porn bots? They’ll be upset.” The guy grins at her, seeming to revel in her misery. His cruelty isn’t a surprise if he really is an Outsider. Time proves over and over they’re all terrible people. No matter how attractive.
The girl smacks him in the arm, though her smile tells me that it’s more jest than violence. A prickling sensation runs up my neck. The gesture is too similar.
“He’s cute. You should totally ask him out.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
The redhead continues her tirade. “Not funny, smartass. If I can’t deliver, I may as well go ahead and shut it all down now.”
The guy folds his arms across his broad chest. “Jeez with the drama already. It’s not the end of the freaking world. Just do an image search, slap on a filter, and post that.”
I trudge toward the bank while they continue to bicker. It reminds me of us. On second thought, I don’t think we were ever that volatile. Most of our arguments fizzled out as quickly as they erupted. I’m not much for confrontation.
My jeans are stuck to my legs like glue, and every step is unpleasant. Just like that time you pushed me into Lake Lanier when I teased you about dying your hair. Fortunately, I packed some shorts. I can just let these dry in the sun before I have to get back on the trail.
I start rummaging through my bag, but I’m interrupted yet again.
“Excuse me?”
It’s the girl with the frizzy red hair. Up close, I notice the clusters of freckles that line her cheekbones and nose.
“Sorry, again for startling you.”
“It’s fine,” I wave it off.
“I’m Reese,” she says, extending her arm. “That’s Nick. We’re staying up at the Bluemount.”
A jumbled mess of bracelets around her wrist stares up at me. I take her hand.
“Tommy.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“Sure.” I nod, then resume my search.
Reese doesn’t walk away as I expect her too, just kind of hovers like an overly anxious housewife waiting on a package to arrive from amazon so she can hide it from her husband.
“Um, sexist thought alert?”
I think Rod’s starting to rub off on me. Once again, you’re not here to keep me in check.
“Is there something else?” I ask, finally pulling the wrinkled pair of shorts from the bowels of my backpack.
“Well, now that you mention it…” Reese shifts her weight from one pristine Timberland boot to the other. “I was wondering if maybe you’d be able to take a picture of us?”
My heart jumpstarts then slams into my ribs.
That’s not happening.
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you wouldn’t mind taking our picture.” She shrugs the bag off of her shoulder, unzipping the top. “This thing isn’t great for selfies and I didn’t bring my tripod.”
From her bag, she pulls out a Nikon. It’s a Z series, one of the new mirrorless models. Jesus, that thing costs more than Mom’s car. She attaches a lens on the end, holding it to her face. With a snap, the shutter closes and reopens.
“Nice camera,” I say, setting aside the shorts in my hand for a more private moment.
“Thanks!” Reese lowers it, peering over the top. She reaches back into her bag, then hands me a small card. “You should totes follow me! I’m on Insta, Pinterest, Tumblr, LinkedIn, you name it.”
I take the offering, turning it over to see a miniature Reese staring back at me with a smile that borders on deranged. The crazy radiates from it.
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to do that.”
“Suh-weet.” She grins, then snaps another photo. “Nick, would you get over here and stop being a creeper? We’re taking a picture!”
The guy—Nick, I’m guessing—pops his head out from behind a formation of rocks.
“Huh?”
“I said stop playing with dirt and come meet my new friend.”
Reese moves fast. If we’re already friends after ten minutes, then I don’t want to stick around to see where we are in an hour.
“I’m not playing with dirt.” He’s beside her in a flash, brandishing a cell phone and brilliant smile. “I was catching a Pokémon.”
“Like I said, stop playing with the dirt and for the love of Christ can you dial back the nerd? Next thing I know, you’ll be wanting to go shopping for suspenders and knee socks.”
“Pokémon is not nerdy,” Nick rebuts. “It’s a worldwide phenomenon.” He turns his fearless gaze onto me. “Back me up here, Whoever-You-Are.”
Reese looks back to me, eyebrow cocked.
I shrug, my heart ricocheting around my chest. “Pokémon is cool, I guess? I like… Charmander?”
“See?” Nick gestures aggressively in my direction. “Even he knows that Pokémon is awesome.” Then he winks at me and a sweat drop sizzles on my cheek.
Reese’s eyes roll as she pulls the red leather strap attached to the camera over her head. “You’re so full of shit. You can’t trust what any of these mountain hicks have to say.” She pauses, eyes wide as if she’s let slip a nasty secret. “No offense, of course.”
“None taken.”
Illiterate Outsider bitch.
“And now you’re insulting the poor guy,” Nick continues, fighting back a smile. “Just because he has an acceptable understanding of how amazing catching and battling your very own pocket monsters is. You should be ashamed of yourself, Reese. When we get back to the cabin, I’m putting you on doggie duty. Any of Trevor’s poops that you don’t scoop will make their way onto your pillow.”
“Ewww,” Reese lets out a whine. “You’re kidding.”
Nick laughs, “Of course. Please, like you’d ever pick up dog shit. It’s kind of hilarious to picture, actually.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means, Princess. Now calm your tits and come help me look for a Geodude. I’ve only got one more day with you.” He looks back, blinding me with a quick but obscenely white smile. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother,” I lie.
“But he was going to take our picture,” Reese tells Nick. “Isn’t that right?”
“Reese,” Nick says under his breath. Hm. Smart and cute. He must have picked up on the eat-shit vibes I’ve been throwing their way.
“Well, I’m going to take my pants off now. So…” I hold up the pair of shorts to drive home the implication.
“Oh!” Color floods Reese’s cheeks and she scuttles along behind Nick. Then she calls over her shoulder, “Well, see you around then!”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I mutter.
Once they’ve disappeared over the cascade, I peel off my jeans.
Good riddance.
Reese leaves tomorrow. I’m trying not to think about it, to be honest. Instead, I’m walking the streets of Hester in search of something—anything—to occupy my time here.
What I really want is to go back to the cabin and finish perfecting my buttercream frosting recipe, but no, Mom said I couldn’t pack my piping kit or my mixer, so there goes that plan.
The shops are all packed with tourists. People from the city, just like me, lured to the mountains with promises of relaxation and rejuvenation. I wonder how many of them are this close to snapping and taking out their whole family. Judging by the twitch in that guy’s eye, I’d say he’s not far.
By lunch time, I’ve walked the entire town. The only place I haven’t been is the little coffee shop that Reese told me about, a place called Claudine’s. The sign on the door reads “Help Wanted,” just as I was told, but someone has penciled in parentheses, “Not needed.”
Well that makes no sense at all. I lean into the window, cupping my hands around my eyes to peer inside. A boy with dar
k hair stands at the register. He fidgets in place, profile turned in conversation with someone I can’t see.
He looks familiar. He’s also kind of adorable. Maybe it’s a sign?
“Looking for a sign?”
I jump, shuffling my feet to keep from falling over. A woman with cherry-red hair cocks a well-drawn eyebrow at me.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you were looking at my sign.” The woman braces herself against a bedazzled cane to lean in and get a look at me. The smell of her perfume is dizzying.
“Oh. Uh. No. Not really. I just thought I recognized someone inside is all.”
The woman doesn’t respond, just stares at me with big gray-blue eyes.
Oh god, I hope she’s not dead.
“Anyways…” I take a step back from the intense, possibly deceased person. “I’ll be—”
“How would you like a job for the summer?”
“Wait, are you serious?”
“Sure am. Need someone to start tomorrow. What do you say?”
I look back through the window to the boy at the counter. He smiles at whoever I can’t see and something pulls at my stomach.
“What time tomorrow?” I ask, turning back to the woman.
She grins and extends a veiny hand. “Let’s say eight o’clock. Welcome to Claudine’s.”
June 10th, 2018
I’ve been thinking about what you said, that time Mom took us to the water park. I was freaking the fuck out because you dragged me to the top of the Spine Crusher, and our turn was coming up. I tried to chicken out, to take my ridiculously shaped inner tube and GTFO. But you stopped me. Do you remember how?
Of course you do. You’re dead, not stupid.
You took my hand. You said, “I’ll go first. And if you get scared, just know I’ll be waiting at the end for you.”
Are you still waiting for me? At the end?
Sorry to be a downer. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. 10:45pm
Message Failed. Number not in service. 10:45pm
Tom’s diner is busy for the first time in months—a byproduct of the Outsider invasion—and Mom looks like she’s about ready to pull her hair out, which would totally bite since it’s just coming back in. Instead, she slaps a plate of eggs down and forces a smile.
I saddle up to my stool at the end of the counter. Now there’s no placard or anything marking my claim—that hasn’t changed—but everyone avoids it because they know it’s mine. Or more realistically, it’s the fact that it wobbles like a son of a bitch.
I chuckle.
“Still laughing at my first—and only—attempt to sit on your dumb stool?”
“Hey, Tommy,” Brenda greets me from the kitchen window, her round face fitting just perfect enough that she looks like a gargantuan hairless baby. I wave back. She’s never too busy to talk to me. It’s something I’ve always loved about her. You were always more interested in the plate of bacon she’d sneak out to us.
“How’s it going?” I ask Brenda in a hushed tone. Mom jabs buttons on the register with such intensity that she’ll probably punch straight through.
“Could always be worse,” Brenda replies, then gives me a smile. “We could be out of bacon.”
“A bacon shortage is nothing to make light of,” I reprimand her. “Bacon is the last thread of hope holding this country together right now.”
“What about diplomacy?” Brenda quips.
“Fuck diplomacy. I’d rather have bacon.”
“Jesus Christ, is that how I raised you to speak, young man?”
Shit. Caught with a four-letter word in my mouth. Mom’s throwing me what’s supposed to be a glare from hell. But she’s exhausted so there’s little heat behind it.
“Hey, Mom.”
The weak anger melts from her face as she trudges over to the counter, reaching to take my hand. “Thank God you’re here,” she whispers, cutting a glance at a table by the door. “I need a reminder as to why I’m killing myself in this cesspool. The bitch on forty-five is about to earn a Chef Special, if you catch my drift.”
I nod along. “I can imagine.”
“Ma’am?” A patron interrupts, holding their chipped coffee mug in the air as if their lack of coffee were a national emergency.
“Pot’s on the counter.” Mom points to the burner sitting across the diner.
The guy mutters something under his breath.
“Where’s Dot?” I ask, leaning over to see if the other server might be hiding among the bus pans and crusty ketchup bottles.
Mom glowers then grabs a serving tray and plops it down before she starts to arrange the plates from the window. “She’s abandoned me. The flu, or rabies, or some other equally ridiculous excuse. Like it’s my problem you’re bleeding out of your eyes. If we’re going to compare medical oddities, you should see my feet at the end of a twelve-hour shift! They could gag a maggot.”
That’s Mom. Tactful as ever. The gentleman and his wife who have just sat at the counter a few seats down get up without a word, exiting back through the door. Mom doesn’t notice, and I’m not about to point it out.
“Smart move. No telling what your mother will be capable of in a few minutes.”
“All that to say,” Mom continues, heaving the tray onto her shoulder. “I’m going to be late tonight. Sorry, honey.”
See what she does? She’s still trying to take care of me, even while killing herself day and night. How many times do I have to tell her that I’m capable of handling the basic functions of survival?
She’d listen to you. She always did.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “I’ll fend for myself. Maybe forage for berries or something. I’ve watched enough movies that I can improvise.”
“That’s my boy. Feel free to keep the car, I won’t be needing it.” With a wink, she swirls back out to the dining room, hollering orders as she slings the plates down.
“You want something to eat?” Brenda asks from her kitchen/prison.
“Nah.” I shake my head, managing to slide off my stool without dying. “Maybe I’ll catch a movie or something.”
“I hear they finally popped a fresh batch of popcorn at the theater,” Brenda tells me. “The last one lasted a month and a half.”
“On second thought,” I straddle the stool again. “Maybe a snack before I go?”
“I’ve got just the thing. Grilled doughnut with bacon.”
My mouth waters.
“Brenda, I think I’m in love with you.”
“Get in line.”
Mom wasn’t home when I returned from my screening of Plant Man 2: Leaf to Fight Another Date. She still wasn’t home when I finally fell asleep in front of the TV half past one. And she was already gone when my alarm sounded this morning, jolting me hard enough that my face had a very intimate moment with the carpet.
I check for her car as I descend the metal stairs to the parking lot, absent-mindedly picking at the patches of peeling paint. It’s gone too, which is a comfort in that she was able to get out the door this morning.
The walk to Claudine’s from the apartment isn’t terrible. We used to do it all the time. The morning is absolute perfection—that fleeting moment before the heat seeps into your bones and makes you question your sanity—so I really don’t mind the commute. It gives me a chance to get reacquainted with the best parts of Hester.
Hester’s been home my entire life. Dad grew up here. His parents owned the diner that Mom works at now. She says she’s only there because we need the money—which is probably true—but I think it’s more about holding onto a part of Dad.
Even though it’s changed ownership three times in the past ten years and Mom’s actually got a real job again, she can’t seem to find it in her to leave.
Now I think of it, Tom’s is the only thing in town that hasn’t really changed since the Outsider invasion began. All the other shops could afford to upgrade their aesthetics, maybe even expand their offerings. Even old man Jim p
ut a new gas pump in that takes credit cards. But Tom’s looks the same as it did when it opened fifty years ago. Timeless, Mom calls it. Disgusting is the word that comes to my mind. I’d bet there’s grease puddles older than I am around that joint.
“Morning, Tommy!”
I wave back to Mrs. Sullivan who’s watering the potted plants outside of her shop. The windows are filled with knick-knacks. I guess I never told you about her. I never told you about a lot of things. The list gets longer each day.
Mrs. Sullivan was my third-grade teacher before she retired. I remember the soft, fluffy texture of her hand in mine as she would walk me down the hallways on days when I couldn’t sit still, or the classroom felt too suffocating.
We would talk about all the adventures I planned to take when I was older, and she would always tell me stories about the places she’d visited when she was young and carefree, and her husband was still alive.
That’s why I’d ask you those questions, on lazy days at Claudine’s. Where you wanted to go after graduation. What you thought your life would look like. I’d layer meticulous plans together, and you’d blow them up with your spontaneous impulses.
And now I’m stuck working my last summer before college in a coffee shop and Mrs. Sullivan is selling overpriced hand-carved Pomeranian sculptures to tourists.
Some adventure, huh?
I reach Claudine’s, pulling on the heavy glass door and reveling in the cool air.
“You’re late.”
My good mood is soured by Mel’s expression. Then again, maybe that’s just her face.
“It’s five til, how is that late?”
“Because I beat you here. Get here before me, and I won’t have to write you up.”
I reach into the front pocket of my apron, pulling out a slip of paper, “Like you wrote me up Saturday for not sorting the nickels chronologically by mint year?” I unfold the note, holding it up for her. “It’s just a stick figure with ‘Not Tina is lame’ written above it and your signature.”
Ghosting You Page 4