by Angel Lawson
I have no idea what I’m looking at, but I can tell the artwork is good, great even, and I see an unreadable, scribbled signature at the bottom.
I feel like I’ve stepped into bizarre world. A small counter splits what used to probably be an old living or dining room—a door leads to the kitchen, where I hear rushing water and the sound of clanking pots.
“Be out in a second!” a man calls, followed by an even louder clang as a pot or pan or something falls to the ground. “Goddammit.”
I feel bad all of a sudden for being here. For interrupting this person’s morning. Except, don’t they want customers? He wants me here, right? That’s why he’s open, or at least I try to convince myself that going into a coffee shop wasn’t the worst decision I’d ever made. I finger my money and eye the chalkboard on the wall, shifting on my feet anxiously, wondering if I should just leave.
Another slam ricochets through the shop and I take a step back, ready to bolt, but before I get up the courage, footsteps cross the kitchen.
“Sorry about that.” The guy comes through the door, wiping his hands on his apron. “What can I get…” his eyes connect with mine. Familiar. Gray. “You?”
There’s a silver hoop in his lip and a tattoo down his forearm, but what I recognize is the tight set of his jaw and the flash in his gray eyes.
One of the boys from the museum.
“I’ll uh,” I glance at him, incredulous that I’ve crossed paths with him again. He raises his eyebrows impatiently, waiting for my order. I repeat my grandmother’s odd order, “I’ll have a Sam’s Special and a uh,” I skim the board, unable to discern the names with the drink. Crowley’s Cocoa? Salt Gun Caramel? “Whatever is closest to a mocha, please.” My eyes land on a basket, something called Moose’s Muffins, on the counter. These are next to a glass-domed covered plate with a sign titled ‘Cakeholes.’
Cakehole. Where have I heard that before?
“I’ll take a muffin.”
“Sure.”
Heat rushes up my neck; nerves from being around someone my own age, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already making my coffee, his back to me. I stare at the lean lines of his shoulders, the way his shirt fits snug across the expanse. His hair is long on top, curly, but the back is neat and tidy.
He looks back at me but I glance away, terrified of being noticed. Did he notice me? Did he remember? I feel like he did, but what did it matter? A million trivial thoughts run through my mind as he makes my coffee and the door opens and two more customers came in, chatting over the music.
Finished, he slides my coffee across the counter top and I say, “My grandmother told me to have it put on her tab.”
“Your grandmother?” His eyebrow raises in question.
“Leele—uh, Lee,” I use her common name, “from the Vine Lodge.”
“Oh, Ms. Nye is your grandmother?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s cool.” I nod, not knowing what else to say. I start to leave. “Don’t forget your muffin.”
“Oh, right.” I smile tightly. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” he says, handing it to me. His fingers touch my palm and warmth jolts through me. My eyes meet his for a beat and he sucks on the lip ring before he glances over my shoulder at the customer behind me.
“What can I get for you?” he says, effectively dismissing me.
I grab my cup and my muffin and slink out the door, taking care not to let it slam, so I can vanish like a ghost.
My heart races all the way back to the lodge, the weirdly named moose muffin warm in my hand, and it doesn’t start to ease until I’m safe behind closed doors.
5
It’s harder watching my mother leave than I expected. I love her. I do. She’s sacrificed a lot for me, which is part of the problem. That sacrifice created my own guilt, which made me feel awful, and it triggers my anxiety and it sends me spiraling and then she gets worried and we go around and around and around in a never-ending cycle of isolation, fear, and guilt.
“I think it will be good for her,” Leelee says, not realizing I can hear them. They’re talking on the porch. “Fresh air, friendly people. There’s no pressure up here.”
“I remember.”
“It will be a slow reentry. This time next year, she’ll be ready for something bigger. If not, she can always stay.”
There’s a pause, and I peek through the lace curtain covering the door window. I see the shine in my mother’s eyes. She’s going to cry. I hate it when she cries. “I never meant for this to happen. I thought I was keeping her safe, but really I was just holding her back.”
My mother’s confession surprises me. She always acts so confident. Her decisions seem sure and true. I fight against her but I always trust her. She’s usually right, and removing me from school, keeping me close…it seemed right at the time. But now, I watch her wipe tears from under her eyes as she second guesses herself. She looks young and old at the same time. It’s confusing.
“Star, you did the best that you could under the circumstances. No one will ever blame you for taking care of your child. And from what I’ve seen, there’s nothing wrong with her. She needed time to heal and now that she has, she can start living again.”
The second and third Starlee Nyes hug in the front yard. I listen as my mother says, “Thank you, Mama. Just keep an eye on her. She’s never had a lot of friends. Boys were mean—then the school…She doesn’t always make good decisions.”
“You never let her have the chance to fail, Star.”
“Because when I did…” She swallows back the argument. I know she’s thinking about me and Sara and how it quickly got out of control. She blames herself. Which is dumb. That one was all on me.
“I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry.” Leelee’s voice carries a familiar firmness. I know where my mother gets hers from. “You go back and take care of yourself. You need a break, too. I can tell.”
I feel like a stalker watching them like this, so I jiggle the doorknob, making a lot of noise as I walk out of the house. The two Starlees watch me, faces arranged carefully. From there, the scene ends quickly. I give my mother hugs and promises about schoolwork and helping Leelee with the lodge. I assure her I’ll be safe, no wandering off alone. There’s a strange mixture of relief and sadness combined as her little car heads back the way we came—this time going to the coast to catch a plane back home.
“Work calls,” Leelee says, heading down the path to the main office. She glances back to see me still standing there, looking in the direction of the vanished car. “You coming?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling a weight lifted off my shoulders. “I’m coming.”
The next few days fall into a routine. With limited internet and no real friends to engage with, even online, I go to bed early, my body still adjusting to the time change. I wake before dawn, slip on my shoes and hoodie and climb the metal trash can to get a better view of the sunrise before the little town starts moving. Each day, the sunrise is breathtaking and I find it a little easier to breathe.
I haven’t seen the person on the roof again, but I do catch on to a flurry of activity at the Wayward Sun. The coffee shop itself does a lot of business. A woman named Sierra has been at the counter every morning since the first one, although I’ve seen the boy with the angry face in the kitchen a few times.
“So what’s going on with that place?” I ask Leelee one afternoon. “Is it a hotel? There’s that big vacancy sign out front but I’ve never seen it lit up.”
“Hmmm?” Leelee sits on the stool behind the counter, cursing at her computer. She’s been having a problem with it since before I arrived and we’ve had more than one goof-up with guests and their reservations.
“The Wayward Sun? Is it a hotel too?”
She holds the pencil she’s been using as a pecking instrument on the keyboard in the air. “Oh, well, it used to be, but now that Sierra’s taken over it’s more like a long-term residence type place. She opens it up to people in need
of somewhere to stay.”
“Like a boarding house or a hostel?” These are things I only know about because of books.
“Yes.” She glances at me and I spot a flash of guilt on her face. “I probably should have mentioned it before but I was worried your mother would panic.”
“Panic about what?”
She slips the pencil behind her ear. “When Sierra bought the building, she was following a dream of owning her own coffee shop. The space was ready and she figured she’d just live upstairs alone, but two years ago her younger brother came to stay with her after their mom passed. He’s a tough kid but she’s helped him a lot. His social worker thought so, too and asked if she’d consider housing a few other young men that needed a place to stay.”
My heart thumps in my chest. I’d been over there. I’d been outside in the yard with one of them. A kid with a social worker. She’s right. Mom would freak.
“Starlee, they’re good boys, they just need some help. Like you’ve needed help before. They just don’t have the parents to take care of them.” She reaches for my hand. “All they have is Sierra. She keeps them fed and makes sure they go to school. They also work at the shop and maintain the building.”
I nod, trying to squelch my initial reaction. “That sounds kind of cool.”
“It is.” She smiles. “But—”
“But what?”
“But we promised your mother that I’d keep you…”
“Isolated?”
“Safe.” She sighs. “And the truth is those boys have had their share of trouble. Nothing I’m concerned about, but Star would flip out if she knew about it.”
“Then let’s not tell her,” I say. “And I promise that other than coffee runs, I’ll stay clear of the Wayward Sun.”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Starlee.”
“I know, but it’s time for me to learn how to live in the world with other people. That doesn’t mean we have to be best friends or even talk, right? I can keep my promise to my mom about her rules even with a house full of boys next door.” I try my hardest to keep my voice from shaking. “It’s not like they’d have much interest in me, anyway.”
Leelee stares at me hard after that statement and she opens her mouth to speak but shuts it just as quickly. “If they bother you in any way, come tell me.”
“I will.”
I head to the back of the office to start my work for the day, thinking about the exchange with Leelee and the boys next door. Apprehension fills me at the thought of breaking my mom’s rules and what she’ll do if she finds out, but I also like how Leelee and I talked it out. We handled it. Made decisions, real decisions based on a conversation, not guilt and manipulation.
I just hope that I don’t regret it.
I’ve never had a job before; my mother didn’t think I was up to it. I never pushed, the idea of talking to customers or remembering orders made me sweat, but the Vine Lodge, like everything else in the small town, is easy and laid back.
I’d heard about hippies growing up. Seen them in movies and even heard first-hand accounts from my mother’s stories of traveling across the country in a van. But this place…the dream is still alive. There is a calm over the town. Nature takes precedence. Simon and Garfunkel wafts from speakers followed by the Grateful Dead and Crosby, Stills, and Nash.
I want to roll my eyes at the sheer typical-ness of it all, the California Hippie, but they’re so earnest, so determined, that I can’t find it in me to bother.
Like every other morning, I rise and change into leggings and a hoodie. It’s cool before the sun comes out. I step outside, feeling the fresh air on my face. I walk over to my trashcan for my morning view, glancing up at the roof like I’ve done every day since arriving. To my surprise someone is up there, a figure wrapped in a blue sweatshirt, hood up over his head. There’s no doubt that he sees me, too. He gives me a slight nod and I now know it’s one of the boys that lives there, maybe the one that helped me the other day at the shop, and my interest is piqued.
The sun makes its daily arrival, cresting over the mountain, casting a bright pink glow over the yard. I feel it on my face, see it on my hands, and I look over and see the boy illuminated also and I recognize him. Not from the shop but from the museum. His blonde hair lights up like a halo—the All-American. On the rooftop next to him is a book.
“Beautiful, huh?” he says, not in greeting but wanting my attention. Attention I’m not supposed to want or seek. Especially from that kind of boy.
I don’t say a word, instead turning and dropping out of sight.
I’d made a promise to my mother and my grandmother and I planned to keep it.
6
Each day this town feels a little more like my own. At first, I felt awkward fumbling around the desk, checking in visitors from all over the world, but really it was pretty easy. Check the registration, give them their key and welcome sheet. Explain the few rules.
Slowly, Leelee is introducing me to the whole town. It starts with little errands, like the morning coffee at Wayward Sun, then smaller things around the lodge like taking extra towels to one of the cottages in the afternoon or driving her car down the block to fill up the tank with gas. Last night I picked up our dinner at the Epic Café. The older man at the counter smiled at me when I said my name.
“You’re Lee’s granddaughter.”
“Yes, Starlee.” I tried a pleasant smile. I had no idea if it worked.
“I’m Tom, the owner of the café and a friend of your grandmother.”
Tom had long, gray hair tied in a ponytail and a kind, still-handsome face.
“Oh,” I said, taking the container of food. Everything here was organic, freshly made and according to the long line every day, very good. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, Starlee, I hope you like it here.”
The truth is that I’ve survived every encounter, even the one with Tom’s dog Jerry that wanders the grounds without a leash. Other than Jerry, the only other dog I’ve seen is a small chihuahua nosing around the backyard at the Wayward Sun. Jerry is a yellow lab, friendly and fat, apparently spending most his days accepting leftovers from the guests.
There’s one thing I haven’t done again, though, and that’s climb my perch to watch the sunrise. And it stinks, because I liked the morning tradition. The first morning after our encounter I got up and peeked through my window. He was out there again. I couldn’t see the sunrise from my room but I saw the light cast over his face. Then he leaned against the side of the house and opened his book.
The following day is the same and I realize I’m being dumb. I’ve been here for a week now. I know my way around. There’s no reason for me to hide out in my room. There are dozens of places to view the sunrise. I just need to find a new one.
The quiet of the town gives me courage and I feel a strange sense of sureness as I leave the porch and follow the path to the road. I know where I’m headed—to the small overlook between buildings across the street. The outdoor store and the market hang over the cliff. I’ve seen the small spot between them that has a clear view of the lake.
As I cross, I notice a backpacker waiting outside the shop, he’s sitting on the bench, probably waiting for it to open. It’s five, but the store opens at six for early hikers and fishermen that need supplies. I pass him without a word, not wanting to break the solitude of my morning ritual. One person had already pushed me to a new venue. I didn’t need another to do the same.
The view is spectacular, way better than from my trashcan perch. The cliff is steep and there’s only a small railing to separate the alley from the space below. I watch the sun peek over the mountain and spread orange and pinks across the wide sky.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” a voice says from behind me. I jump in surprise, my foot sliding down the edge of the cliff. Pebbles fall with a clatter against the rocks below.
“Careful.” The backpacker stands behind me and reaches for my hands. I twist away, not wanting him to
touch me, but there’s literally nowhere for me to go.
“I’m fine.” I hold my ground. The man is too close to me, inches away. He’s young, dirty—not like most of the travelers I’ve seen come through town.
“I, uh, I need to…” I shift right, hoping to skirt past him, but he moves with me, blocking my way. “Excuse me.”
“Look, I need some cash. I ran out of gas back in Blighton and maybe you could help me out.”
“Sorry. I don’t have any money on me.” My heart pounds so hard and loud, surely, he can hear it. “Sorry.”
“What about back where you stay? You live around here? You have money there, right?”
His breath is rank and he’s so close I can see the dirt under his nails. He’s inched closer and there’s nowhere to go. Why did I come out here? What was I thinking? My breath comes out ragged and a million fears, a thousand anxieties rush through my mind, paralyzing my body.
He grabs my arm, squeezing, and I yelp, louder than I thought I could. He pulls his face next to mine and says, “I tried to be nice, but I need that cash, girl. I’m going to get it one way or the other.”
A reflection catches my eye and that’s when I see the blade in his other hand. “No, don’t.”
Blood rushes to my ears and I only faintly hear the sound of something crashing across the street—the voice shouting from a distance. The backpacker is there one minute and yanked away the next; hauled off by a figure into the street.
“What the hell?” shouts the backpacker, his body staggering back. I gasped for air, realizing the other person is the boy from the coffee shop. He’s physically dominating, rushing up to the guy, chest puffed and fists clenched.
“Keep your hands to yourself, asshole,” the boy says, his face twisted in anger. “You think you can force your way on that girl?”
“I just needed some money—no harm in that.” He holds the knife between them.