by Ginger Scott
I breathe out a short laugh and let my head fall into my open palm, arm propped on the table. “I don’t care if she’s using me for a distraction. I don’t care at all because I like spending time with her. But maybe that’s selfish? Am I a dick for wanting her to keep coming over here while her family is literally reeling across the street? Am I—”
“Stop it, Jonah.” My grandpa wraps his hand around my arm, tugging it gently from under my head so I’m forced to sit up straight and look him in the eyes. He twists to sit sideways in his chair, so I do the same. Leaning toward me, he places a palm on either side of my face.
“If you like spending time with that young lady, then you spend time with her. She wouldn’t come to see you if she didn’t want to. And her reasons are whatever her reasons are. If you can be a good friend to her when she truly needs one, then maybe when she heals from this crazy business her family is going through, you’ll have built a really close connection.”
I blink for the first time as he pats his right hand against my cheek then sits back in his chair.
“And it’s okay that I think she’s beautiful?” My chest burns from uttering such honest words.
My grandpa’s mouth tugs high on one side and he laughs softly while giving me a subtle nod.
“A beautiful girl is a beautiful girl, pretty when she’s laughing and just as pretty when she’s not. There is never anything wrong with admiring God’s work, my grandson. Never a thing at all wrong with that. You just remember to respect it too.”
He reaches for his paper and shakes it out straight again, shifting in his seat to lean back comfortably. My grandma died about ten years ago. I have vague memories of a funeral, and I have heard stories about her from my mom, mostly about how she was a saint of woman who kept Hank in check with his smoking and gambling and swearing and all other baggage that comes along with an army veteran who also spent years working with the same group of guys for the Chicago Metra downtown.
I rap my knuckles against the table twice then stand, my strength a little renewed. I pause right before I round the corner toward the stairs and look at the top of my grandpa’s head as it peeks over the edge of his newspaper. He refuses to adapt to digital news. He likes the feel and the smell of the ink, he says.
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” he coughs out. “Oh, and Jonah?”
I rock back a step and meet his eyes, the paper bent on one side in his hand.
“If you do see a bug in front of that young lady, smash it with a shoe. Don’t be a chicken shit like that friend of yours.”
I grin.
“I won’t, Grandpa. Size elevens right here,” I say, lifting my leg and tapping on the toe of my sneaker.
I smile my way back up the stairs, ideas running through my mind of things Eleanor and I can do to pass the time while we wait for Jake to show up and my mom to get back home. We could rent that old movie of the Bradbury book, or maybe surf the Internet for camping sites in the Blue Ridges, or she could try to teach me one of her dances. I’m horrible, so it should make her laugh. I love to see her laugh.
All of my brainstorming gets put on hold when I reenter my room. Eleanor lay just where I left her, only now she’s curled up on her side, knees drawn in to her chest. Half of my blanket is pulled around her body as she clutches the edge in a fist against her chest to keep herself wrapped like a taco. Her lips hang open, the bottom one making it look like she’s pouting as she takes long, hypnotic breaths.
I tiptoe into my room and close my door until it’s only open a crack. I move to my window and draw my shutters closed one section at a time, pausing before completely closing the last set to peer over at the Trombley place. Another car is parked in the driveway next to Morgan’s. It’s a Mercedes, an expensive-looking one. Lawyer maybe? I close off my view and glance at the sleeping beauty over my shoulder. I wonder when she last slept peacefully. I wonder if she’s sleeping peacefully now.
Scanning my room, I search for something to occupy my time, landing on my copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes. It’s askew from where Eleanor left it on the shelf. Taking it in my hand, I sink down to the carpet and crawl in slow motion toward the bed, hating that my knees pop when I move. Eleanor doesn’t seem to wake, so I lean my back against the side of my bed and cross my legs out in front of me. Her soft breath sighs just to the right of me, and before I crack open my book, I allow myself the privilege of staring at her this close. Her lashes are gold, like her hair, and there’s a trail of freckles that spans from one cheek to the other, crossing over her nose. It’s like God sprinkled her with cinnamon, my one and only pancake ingredient. I wish I could cover her better, or give her another pillow. But any movement might pull her out of whatever dream she’s managed to find, and in her sleep, she seems to be smiling.
I let her be and pull my phone from my pocket, switching on the flashlight so it’s just bright enough for me to read. I balance it against my chest and bring my knees up to lay the book flat and open against my thighs. And while sweet dreams hopefully carry on behind me, I dive into one of my favorite fictional nightmares.
Nine
Eleanor sleeps right through the hamburger festivities. I made sure she could. I read the entire length of my book over four hours sitting as still as possible so as not to disturb her. I may not be able to look to my left for the next couple days thanks to the awesome crick in my neck, but it was worth it.
In total, she slept a good nine hours. Jake ended up bringing Gemma with him for my non-eventful eighteenth birthday party, and she took a few trips up to my room to look in on Eleanor while we ate. I’ve been dodging the probing stare of my best friend most of the day, but now that we’re alone under the hood of my Bronco, it’s impossible to avoid the question I’ve been anticipating.
“Elle’s been coming here a lot.” This is Jake’s way of testing the waters, seeing if I have some exciting revelation to spill. I don’t know how it is with girls, but I know the idea of girl talk, and this, this is the guy equivalent of that—Jake style. He wants to know if we’re hooking up, doing shit, and not just kissing or whatever. I know it’s disrespectful as hell, but he doesn’t mean to be. His brain only has so many modes to shift to, and emotional support doesn’t fit with his logic.
“Yeah, she’s been over a few times.” I keep my eyes fixed on the wrench I’m making careful quarter turns with on a bolt I’m not sure holds a major purpose.
“Like, she really came over this morning, huh?” He’s a foot away and if I wanted to, I could knock out his teeth with a quick jab from my right elbow. I could pretend the wrench slipped.
“She really did. I mean, you saw her, right? Not a hologram.” He can’t see the face I’m making, but I’m pretty sure my sarcasm-drenched response painted a thorough picture.
“And she slept in your bed. All day. And you . . . you read?”
I stop turning the tool and close my eyes as I let out a deep sigh. I’m going to do this just once and if I have to do it again, I’m going to threaten to stop tutoring his ass.
“Yes, Jake. Eleanor Trombley came to my house to have pancakes with my family and then slept the rest of the entire day in my room, and I sat there and let her.” I stand and turn to face my friend as I flatten the wrench under my palm on the edge of the truck. His smirk is annoying, but the longer I stare the less prominent it is in his suspicious expression.
“Okay, dude,” he laughs out, holding his hands out like a guilty criminal pleading innocent. “It’s just weird is all. That’s all I’m saying. I mean, you are in love with this girl for what—your entire life? And now, here she is, glued to your hip, and you read a fucking grade school book?”
“Her little sister is missing, Jake. How do you not understand that her being here, needing a place to escape, is only to avoid what is probably suffocating her over there?” I point beyond him out the garage, where the sun is setting on a still very dark house. “She’s not here for some loser like me to hit on
her. Christ! She’s hurting, Jake. She’s fucking lost. And am I glad she stumbled here for help? Yeah, of course. And what does that say about me?”
The obviously pretend coughing sound seizes my breath, and both Jake and I turn to our right where Gemma and Eleanor have entered the garage through the back door. My lungs feel like they are deflating into raisins inside my ribcage, and my mouth feels fat and numb like it does when the dentist shoots it up with Novocain. Even the end of what I said was bad enough and never meant for Eleanor’s ears.
“Mind if we join you boys?” Gemma does her best to dress up a really crappy situation, and I’m thankful for it. Still, as my eyes graze over Eleanor’s face, I can’t help but feel pained when she quickly averts her eyes.
“Of course. Make yourself at home. Maybe some tunes, too, yeah? Jonah? What do you think?” Jake is trying to erase the last two minutes, but my blood is still boiling because of him. I turn to meet his eyes with a hardened deadpan expression.
“Come on, birthday boy. Loosen up,” he continues, patting a stiff hand on my bicep. I flex from the touch and regret not taking my shot with my elbow when I had it.
“Whatever,” I mumble.
Jake immediately jogs to his car in my driveway and pulls out a small speaker from his back seat. He sets it up at the edge of the garage and connects it to his phone, putting on a playlist of the current top hits. Gemma sings along with the song that starts halfway through, and at least four more songs play before anyone actually speaks. Thank God it isn’t Jake. I’d be happy if he never spoke again.
“You think you might be able to drive this thing to school second semester, Jonah?” Gemma asks.
I unbury myself from the space under the hood and calm myself with one last deep breath. My pulse has settled since I flew off the handle, and Jake is starting to show some remorse. He does it in little ways, becoming overly helpful with everything—running inside for a drink when he sees my water is empty, handing me tools before I need them, telling me my ideas are good when they’re just guesses. This is Jake’s way of saying sorry.
“I think I’ll be happy when it can make it to the gas station,” I joke. Jake laughs more than necessary, and I roll my eyes toward him.
“Dude, you can stop. I’m not mad anymore,” I say under my breath. He holds out a fist and I drop mine on top to seal the apology acceptance.
“I bet this thing can hit the highway by Thanksgiving,” Jake pronounces.
I quirk a brow and he holds out his hand, wanting to shake on it. That’s three weeks away, and I don’t see how that’s possible. There are too many mysteries under this hood, like wires that look as if they’ve been rat food and lead to nonworking parts.
“I think you’re delusional, but what are the terms,” I say, glancing to his open palm.
My friend chews at the inside of his mouth for a moment until his lips pucker in this ah-ha! expression that jacks up my nerves.
“We get this baby running by Thanksgiving and you, Jonah Wydner, self-proclaimed-loner, have to come to prom.”
Shit.
“Because nothing screams ‘I am not a loner’ like going to prom by yourself,” I respond. My entire body is hot with embarrassment because I’m not even exaggerating a little.
“You won’t be alone. We’ll all go together—one big group. In this thing!” Jake’s hand lands on the top of the Bronco in a sturdy declaration that makes me punch out a laugh.
“So that means we have to keep this running long after Thanksgiving.” I anticipate a lot of upkeep on this truck. I’ve actually been toying with the idea of maybe selling it once it’s working again, but I don’t want to have that conversation with my mom and grandpa until I actually get enough results to make it a viable option.
“I mean, if it’s so impossible, what’s the harm in making a little bet. I’ll even buy your prom ticket,” Jake says.
“And if I’m right and this plan fails miserably?” I question.
There’s a long pause in conversation, the void filled with the very song that Eleanor sang during our trip to the parts shop. It’s as if karma’s introducing her to the conversation.
“Jake streaks the gym after his last basketball game,” Eleanor says.
My eyebrows shoot up to match my friend’s upon hearing that suggestion. Gemma spits out her water and laughs loud enough to cause it to echo in my garage. We all turn to face Eleanor as she sits with her legs twisted up in the green folding chair.
“I would honestly pay to see that happen. Your white ass flying through that gym. I mean, come on.” Gemma leans to one side hanging her arm over the back of her chair as she crosses her legs slowly in temptation to Jake. She stares at him with one brow higher than the other for a few long seconds and he doesn’t break her gaze once, even as he accepts the terms.
“Deal. Jonah, you better start pricing out tuxes because ain’t no way I’m getting naked in the gym—unless I want to.”
We all laugh at his attempted bravado, and Eleanor is the first to call him on his ridiculous argument, shouting above our collective laughter, “What does that even mean? Who wants to be naked in the gym?”
“This guy,” I say, pointing to my friend, setting off a new round of laughter.
To prove how unfazed he is, Jake pulls out another folding chair, places it in the open part of the garage, and promptly stands on it. He rolls his hips and tugs up the bottom of his sweatshirt and T-shirt underneath, swinging them in cowboy-roping-style circles over his head after pulling them off. It is one of the saddest-looking strip teases to ever be performed, no doubt, but it has all of us laughing so hard that it might be hard for a passerby to discern whether we’re in pain or not.
Point proven when the music cuts off and our good time comes to an abrupt halt as Jake flirts with unsnapping the button on his jeans.
“Oh, party foul . . .” My friend’s voice fizzles when he sees Morgan Trombley standing at the entry of my garage, his speaker in one hand and the batteries in the other.
“What is wrong with you, Eleanor?” It’s as if Morgan doesn’t see the rest of us at all. Her eyes are red, almost glowing, and locked on to her sister’s.
“I’m just visiting my friends.” Eleanor’s voice is almost a whisper, and her body somehow becomes smaller in size, everything about her shrinking before my eyes as she squirms to fold herself into a tighter ball.
“Aunt Renee and Uncle Kevin have been here all day. They’re asking about you, wanting to see you and make sure you’re all right. We all thought you were in your room, sleeping. That’s all you do, sleep! We were worried, and instead you’re here?”
I bristle at her comment about my house as if I’m some den of sin just because one of our teenaged friends makes us laugh with a strip tease. Also, I can’t believe that all Eleanor does in her room is sleep.
“Hey,” I say, moving forward with an open palm to stop Morgan’s verbal assault.
“I’m sorry, but who are you? Why are you talking?” She scolds me fast. I’m so shocked by her words that I’m left with my mouth hung open, unable to form the right response. I’m mentally riffling through the facts, that the Trombleys are grieving, that they are worried and stressed to unnatural heights, that Morgan is only doing what she thinks is right to keep anyone else from going missing.
But Eleanor slept for an entire day at my house, which means she doesn’t sleep at hers. Or maybe I’m all wrong about it, and maybe she should be with her family right now. I don’t know what’s right.
“He’s my friend, Morgan. It’s his birthday, and I wanted to feel normal for a little while,” Eleanor finally blurts out, standing from her chair and glaring at her sister with fire in her eyes. “So much for that lasting, though.”
She folds her chair and leans it against the other folded chairs with a bang, quickly crossing her arms around her chest and marching toward her sister who has come to take her home. The two of them have a short standoff, staring at each other at the entry of my garage, eyes gla
ssy and jaws locked for battle until Morgan breaks, bending down to set Jake’s speaker on the concrete. She pockets his batteries and passes her judgmental gaze over the three of us, ignoring Jake’s retort of “Hey, those are mine.”
“I’m sorry, Jonah. Sorry, guys.” Eleanor grimaces, her voice a far cry from the defiant one she used a second ago. She follows in her sister’s steps while the three of us hover at the garage entry and watch her melt back into darkness.
Jake and I manage to get a lot done in the couple of hours he and Gemma stick around after Eleanor leaves. Probably because no one is talking. Or singing. Or dancing. Nothing but the cricket-like sound of wrenches broken up by the occasional masculine grunt from Jake or me trying to loosen impossible bolts.
When Jake gets a text about a party at one of the other ballplayer’s houses, we wrap up work for the day. He asks me to tag along, but we both know that’s not happening. I close down the garage after he and Gemma leave and go inside to cut myself an extra piece of birthday cake from the pan of chocolate goodness my mom made. I can tell from the missing gaps that Grandpa’s cut a few extra pieces of his own.
Plate in hand, I scale the stairs to my room, my house quiet and dark minus the rhythmic snore from Grandpa’s room. Mom will be up early again for her weekend job, so she’s long been asleep.
I close my door behind me and head to my desk, flicking on the small lamp to the dim setting. I open my laptop to the latest scrolling stream of dumb videos to amuse myself while I eat, but the call to look out my window is too strong to completely ignore. Shutting my laptop down, I open my shutter slats and survey the windows of the Trombley house. Dark, every single one of them. The cars are all in their same positions, the new one probably belonging to Eleanor’s aunt and uncle. I look on at the quiet scene while I eat bite after bite of my cake, mentally replaying Morgan’s visit to admonish her sister for leaving the house. I still have Eleanor’s bowls and her griddle in our kitchen downstairs. How did nobody see her leave with all of that stuff?