“—mayo and extra pickles. I know, I know.”
It only took me six minutes to drive to Josh’s house. I hadn’t been there since the night of the party. It seemed different in the daylight—smaller. Josh’s truck was in the driveway, but the house seemed deserted. Maybe it was just the malaise of Creek View at noon, when the sun was at its most sadistic.
I got out of my car and headed up the concrete front walkway. The grass was brown, and the house sort of sagged in on itself, like a toothless old man. I knocked on the screen door, the sound echoing in the silence that had wrapped around me. I shaded my eyes and looked around the neighborhood, eerie in its emptiness. I half expected a tumbleweed to roll by. I pictured Afghanistan like this, but scarier and with mosques sounding out the call to prayer five times a day. Moon dust. A film over everything. Desolate.
I knocked again, and this time the door opened into a darkened living room. The girl standing in the doorway looked at me without saying anything, and I tried to smile, but she didn’t smile back. Her dirty blond hair hung in limp strands around her shoulders, and her skin was pale, like she never went outside. But there was a certain Mitchellness about her—those Van Gogh eyes and thin lips twisted into a smirk.
“Hey, Tara.”
She looked back at the living room for a second, probably checking the TV, bored with me already. It was annoying that a thirteen-year-old had the power to make me feel like an intruder. You’d think I was one of those people from the Evangelical church fifty miles away that came to Creek View a couple of times a year to save our miserable souls.
She turned back to me. “Blake’s not here.”
I could feel the blush smearing my cheeks. Damn. I wished I’d never said yes to Blake’s offer to give me a ride home that Friday before spring break. That yes was going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
“Actually, um, I’m looking for Josh. Is he home?”
She crossed her arms over the little halter top she was wearing and jutted her hip out to the side in an almost comical mean-girl pose. “Why?”
The sun was burning the back of my calves, where it shot across the covered front porch. I shifted my feet, wiped the sweat pooling on my upper lip. She still hadn’t opened the door to invite me in, but the cool air sneaked past her and teased me. Farther in, it sounded like there was a soap opera on TV, and I thought I could hear faint music—the heavy bass and reggae beats of Sublime—coming from deeper inside the house.
My eyes started to adjust to the dark room in front of me. Tara’s face was pinched, and her eyes were already jaded. Another Creek View kid bites the dust.
“Marge needs her keys, and Josh took them home by accident.”
Tara finally nodded and pushed open the screen door. “J’s in his room. End of the hall.”
I stepped inside. She was already on her way back to the TV.
“Thanks,” I called. She did a backward wave and then plopped onto a sunken couch.
I shut the door behind me and let my skin soak up the cool air while I looked around. The house was a mess: old newspapers piled on a battered sofa, cans of beer and soda on the tables. It smelled like old dinners and too-strong air freshener that didn’t do much to cover up the scent of pot. I passed a low bookshelf that had a cheap frame with a picture of Josh in his dress blues sitting next to a few chipped curios. There was just something about people in uniform: a quiet dignity about them that made you feel proud, even though it had nothing to do with you. Josh’s eyes were serious, and he wasn’t smiling, though there was a faint hint of one in the corners of his mouth. He looked so much older now. Josh must have gotten this taken right after he enlisted. He’d only been seventeen then. I wondered what he’d been thinking when they took that photo. It was the one the military would use if he died. He had to know how many guys were going home in coffins or wheelchairs. But he didn’t look afraid. Not one bit.
I felt that tidal pull again, dragging me closer and closer to the shore that was Josh. I wanted to know more. About him. The war. I had to make sense of this need that was pulsing through me.
I passed the bookshelf and went down the hallway, the music getting louder as I got to the end. Definitely Sublime. The door was ajar, but I knocked instead of just walking in, suddenly nervous.
“Mom, I said twenty minutes!” he yelled. “Jesus.”
“Um. Not Mom. Or Jesus.”
“What?” he said. Annoyed, strained.
I pushed open the door. Josh was doing push-ups in the middle of the room, shirtless, and his prosthesis was leaning against the bed. He was wearing the long athletic shorts he’d swum in that covered his stump completely. The muscles in his one calf were taut with the movement, and sweat dripped down his face. Push-ups with one leg looked about as much fun as push-ups with two legs. He glanced up as I walked in, his eyes widening. He stayed in the upward position for a second, just looking at me.
It was dumb, us staring at each other like this. I wanted to tell this tongue-tied, mush-of-a-girl Skylar to take a hike. So he had some muscles. Big freakin’ deal.
“Sorry. I’ll … Marge needs the keys,” I blurted out. “To the … I don’t know. The closet with the generator? So that’s why I’m here.”
Wow. Awesome, Sky. Way to go.
Josh lowered his knee and kind of sat back so that his leg was bent beneath him, the extra fabric from his stump pooling on the carpet. “Keys?”
“I guess she gave them to you yesterday?”
“Oh. Shit. I totally forgot about those. Uh … would you mind turning around for a sec, so I can deal with my gimpy leg?”
“Yeah, sure. Right.” I turned to face the half-closed door, feeling a little bit like I’d gotten put in the corner.
“Sorry about yelling at you,” he said. “My mom’s been on my case all morning about some crap she needs cleaned out of the garage.”
“It’s not like you were expecting me.”
“Yeah, well…” There was the sound of some shuffling, then, “Oh, hey, you know what I ran across last night?”
“Do you mean ran literally or figuratively?”
“Ha-ha,” he said.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“Guess you’re keeping me on my toes,” he said.
“All five of them.”
Josh laughed. “I walked right into that one—er, limped.”
I kept my eyes on the wall, smiling to myself. I heard the sound of a spray bottle, shuffling of fabric, then a kind of vacuumized click.
“Found some old letters from you. The ones you sent when I was over there.”
The music suddenly turned off.
“Yeah?”
I’d only sent a few. Mostly when Marge suggested I should. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. It was just that Josh and I hadn’t been super close. And I’d had no idea what to talk about, so I’d ended up sending him clips of the Sunday comics or a collage. He’d always write back, short little messages about the weather and the food and stuff like that. I kept every letter. Why?
“You can turn around now.”
He was standing by the desk, and he held a paper out to me. “This was my favorite.”
I took it, smiling a little at the familiar collage. I’d cut all these cool street art photos from different art magazines and glued them onto one thick piece of paper, then I’d folded it up and written The Skylar Evans Gallery—Admission: Free.
“Got it the day we came back from a long-ass patrol. It had been like extreme camping. We’d been away from the FOB for, like, five days or something. Following these crazy hajjis—er, Afghanis—all around this one little area, runnin’ and gunnin’. And I was in such a bad mood ’cause we’d lost a couple guys, and I was just tired and had all this gear that needed to be cleaned for inspection. And then I opened your letter. Made my day.”
I handed it back to him, my face hot. “The other Marines must have been like, who is this freak that sends art projects?”
He shook his head. “Yo
u’d be surprised at the kinds of mail some of the guys got.” He chuckled to himself, like he was remembering something.
“What?”
“Let’s just say some of the wives and girlfriends got creative.”
My stomach flipped a little. “Oh.”
He pointed to a tiny hole at the top of the paper. “I had it up near my bed for a while.”
I brushed my fingers across the collage, touching Away. Touching the not-Creek-View-ness of it. “I hoped you’d be into it. I was thinking, like, if I were there, what would I want to see? Chris told me you’d probably prefer Penthouse, but I took a chance.”
“Blake had that covered.” Josh laughed at the face I made. “I’m glad you sent me your art. Gonna be worth a lot of money someday.”
I rolled my eyes. Blushed. “We’ll see.”
He walked over to the bed and pulled a shirt over his head that said MARINES in big red and gold letters, standard Josh attire.
“What’s up with you and that Chris dude, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, are you together or…?”
“Chris? God, no.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“What?” I said.
“Just hard to believe you guys didn’t hook up or whatever.”
“Josh, contrary to what you might think, two people of the opposite sex can be friends without wanting to jump each other’s bones.”
He grunted.
I didn’t want to think about why he was so curious. Didn’t want to acknowledge the fizzy feeling buzzing through me.
“What’s an FOB?” I asked.
“Huh? Oh. Forward operating base. It’s like a remote outpost. Not the easiest assignment, but you see a lot of action.”
“That’s a good thing?”
He shrugged. “At least you know there’s a point to you.”
My eyes caught the crane I’d made out of a napkin that day at the diner. It was sitting on his nightstand.
“You kept it,” I said. Goofy happy.
He looked over at the crane. Smiled at me. “Yeah.”
I pointed to the photos tacked to the wall above his desk. “These your guys?”
“Yep. This one’s of us around this time last year,” he said, pointing to a photograph of himself with three other guys, all of them decked out in body armor and helmets. They held their guns so casually by their sides, as if they were shopping bags.
Behind them was a dusty field with huge mountains towering beyond it. Afghanistan. So weird, thinking about Josh living in another country. My heart beat a little faster as I got closer to the thing that had changed him. If I could figure out what made him tick, maybe the allure would wear off. Then I could go back to thinking he was an attractive dumbass who would never in a million years keep me up at night.
“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the guy Josh was standing next to. Their arms were around each other, and they looked like they were both mid-laugh.
“My buddy Nick.”
He picked up a keychain lying on his nightstand and held it up for me. I opened my hand, and he dropped Marge’s keys into it.
“So why didn’t you come in today?” I asked.
He put on his watch, keeping his eyes lowered. “Wasn’t up for it.”
There were dark circles under his eyes and a couple of empty beer bottles on the floor by his bed, but I decided it wasn’t my business. He’d have to come up with something better for Marge next time he saw her, though.
I needed a safe topic. Felt like everything I said just brought up the reason he had those bottles by his bed in the first place. I picked up the dog-eared paperback beside his alarm clock. Slaughterhouse-Five.
“This any good? I keep meaning to read it, but it seems like such a boy book.”
“Yeah. It’s amazing.”
I handed it to him, and he hesitated for a second, like he wanted to take it back, but then he shook his head. “Read it. Just—don’t lose it. It … belonged to a friend of mine.”
He looked at the book like it was precious, the kind of thing you keep in a glass case. Belonged. Past tense. I wanted to know why he’d give something like that to me.
“You sure? ’Cause I never lend books. I’m sort of a Nazi about it if someone gets even a smudge on the cover.”
“Well, this one’s been to war and back, so I think it can handle you.”
I held the book against my chest. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, sure.”
The dude was a total mystery. I couldn’t picture him sitting anywhere and just reading a book, yet here I was, borrowing one from him. I looked around the room, searching for clues. There wasn’t much to see. It was practically empty. It looked totally different than it had just before he got home, when I was hanging out with Blake over spring break. I remember he’d wanted to grab a couple of Josh’s CDs, so we’d gone into the room. Then, there had been posters on the walls of cars and girls—typical Mitchell fare. Now the walls were bare, except for a few postcards and photos tacked to the wall and a pile of neatly folded clothes in one corner, a stack of weights in another.
“So you planning on decorating anytime soon?”
“Maybe.” He gestured to the door. “You want a beer or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
“Right—you’re good like that.” He brushed the air with quotes on good, and I narrowed my eyes, hackles up. I was getting sick of everyone pointing out that I was “good.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just … you never screw up, do you?”
“Like how? You mean I don’t get arrested for egging people’s houses?”
That was a Josh Mitchell stunt, circa his sophomore year.
He snorted. “Don’t get pissy.”
“I’m not getting pissy.”
Except that I was totally getting pissy.
“Sky. All I’m saying is, you know, you’re wound a bit tight.”
“Is that a euphemism for virgin?”
He held up his hands. “Whoa. I wasn’t going there.” He arched an eyebrow. “But if you’re up for it—”
“Ugh. Thank you,” I snapped.
“For what?”
“Reminding me why you’re such a dumbass.”
It annoyed me that I felt so disappointed. No. I wasn’t feeling disappointment. That new emptiness in me was relief. Because maybe, if he’d kept surprising me, I would have made a huge mistake. I mean, there were times in the middle of the night when … it was just good to have a reminder. I’d figured it out: the Mitchell boys, they brought out the desperate in me.
chapter ten
Josh grinned, like me calling him a dumbass was some kind of compliment.
“Hey, that’s progress,” he said.
“What?”
“That you need reminding that I’m a dumbass.”
I grunted and glanced at the door. “Whatever. I’m on the clock, so…”
He gestured toward the hall. “After you.”
I rolled my eyes at his attempt to be a gentleman, and he sort of sighed-laughed. I started out just as the door across the hall opened. His mother stood in the doorway, frowning. Her hair was in a long braid, and she wore a tiny, faded cotton sundress and a pair of flip-flops. She was super thin and had a slightly distracted air; rumor had it she was addicted to pain pills. Seeing her in front of me now, I didn’t doubt it. I wasn’t surprised that she was home in the middle of the afternoon. Blake had told me she helped their dad with paperwork for his business, but that she spent most of her time in her room, complaining about her back.
“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Mitchell. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m—”
“Skylar.” She nodded. “I know.”
I’d only talked to her a few times, when Josh was still in high school and she’d come by the motel, looking for him. She leaned against the doorway, and her eyes strayed down to Josh’s leg. She sighed, staring at the metal. I felt Josh stiff
en.
“You going to rehab today?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Then why aren’t you at the Paradise?”
“He’s off today,” I said, surprised at the lie. Josh looked at me out of the corner of his eye, but I ignored him. “I just came by to pick up Marge’s keys.”
“Huh.” She looked at Josh. “Don’t screw up that job,” she said. “It’ll be damn hard to find another one.”
Her words felt like a punch to the stomach, and it wasn’t even me she was belittling. Josh brushed past her and motioned for me to follow him.
“You gonna clean out that stuff?” she called after him.
“Yes.” Josh didn’t look back at her, but I didn’t need to see his face to know how pissed he was. He’d practically spit out the word.
Tara was gone and the TV off, but I could hear Katy Perry’s “California Gurls” playing from inside a room to my right.
Josh’s mom pounded on Tara’s door. “Tara. I’m going over to the garage. Don’t let your pothead friends burn down my house.”
A muffled “whatever” and then the front door slammed. As soon as his mother was gone, it felt a bit easier to breathe.
I followed Josh into the kitchen, trying to picture him living in this dismal house. With all the shut doors and dark corners, I got the sense that the Mitchells didn’t spend a lot of quality family time together. Maybe all those years when Josh was running around town, acting like an idiot, he was just trying to find a way to escape. Maybe that was what all of us were doing, in our different ways.
“Why’d you tell my mom I was off?” he asked.
“She seemed like she was sort of, I don’t know—”
“Riding my ass?”
“Well. Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink and an empty box of Entenmann’s doughnuts sat in the middle of the kitchen table. The stove was splattered with stains—old pasta sauce and who knew what else. The whole kitchen smelled like grease and burned toast. After two years in the military, Josh must have been going crazy, stuck in that house. As if he’d read my mind, he looked at the box of doughnuts and threw it into a nearly overflowing trash can, cursing under his breath.
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