Road to Eugenica (Eugenica Chronicles)

by A. M. Rose

  As I slide off the bench and peer through the glass, the tide is coming in for the night, and surfers are lined up to catch their ride. The streets are emptying out a little, too, people getting ready for the real parties that are to come out here. They’re supposed to be amazing, not that I’ve ever been to a beach party before.

  Just as I’m about to turn away, green eyes stare up at me from the sidewalk below, and I jerk back. The fish taco rolls around in my stomach. No. It can’t be. I glance back at Maddox, who is sorting the plastic baskets from the trash and stacking them near the garbage cans.

  I take a breath and look back over the side, and the Green-eyed man is gone. Or maybe he was never there to begin with.

  “Ready, Drea?” Maddox calls.

  I nod and slide off the bench. My legs don’t want to support me at first, and it takes me a second to stand. Maybe the zoo isn’t a good idea. But getting out of here right now seems like the best idea ever. I slip my trembling hands in my pockets and pray the Green-eyed man isn’t down there. Waiting.

  Chapter Nine

  The drive back is quiet. Too quiet. Part of me wants to ask if Maddox saw the Green-eyed man. But how do I even bring that up? So I stare out the window, glad Maddox decided to put the top up. Except that now the new car smell is super obvious. There’s even a strip of plastic still on one side of the center console.

  “New car?”

  Maddox taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s my uncle’s.”

  “Wow, he let you drive his brand-new car?” When Mom got her new car I couldn’t even breathe too hard in its direction.

  “He’s had it for a while.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “But—”

  “Wow. What’s that?” Maddox points.

  At first I’m not sure I’m seeing what he’s seeing. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. “That’s a bookstore.” Okay, it’s a huge bookstore, but still.

  “Can we go?” He sounds excited. It’s just a bookstore.

  I slip my phone from my pocket. Still nothing from Mom. Maybe that thing Maddox did worked. Now I could text her and tell her where I am, but since she hasn’t texted me with, “Where are you?” or “Get home now,” she’s still at work. Which means I’m free to do whatever for at least a little while longer. “Sure, let’s go.”

  We walk up to the doors of the largest bookstore in the area—faux brick exterior, white shutters around the windows. It even has a little porch that wraps around with oversize rocking chairs and boards to play checkers and chess.

  I race ahead of Maddox and open one of the doors. It’s heavy with big panes of glass, probably so you know if someone is trying to come out when you’re trying to go in. “Here, let me get that.”

  A young woman with the infamous ponytail-because-I-didn’t-have-time-to-wash-my-hair has been trying to juggle the door and her massive stroller to get inside. Her diaper bag weighs down the handle, and little forest friends hang from an arch above the baby. “Thank you so much.” She grins. It takes her two tries to angle the thing just right to get inside.

  Maddox comes up next to me as I continue to hold the door open for an older couple coming out. “What did you do that for?”

  “Do what?”

  The couple smiles and offers me a good night. They link hands as they cross the parking lot. Now there are some serious relationship goals.

  “Open the door,” he says with a clear look of confusion on his face.

  I arch an eyebrow at him. He can’t be serious. “You’ve never pushed a stroller, have you?”

  His forehead crinkles as he watches a few more people come and go through the door I’m still holding. “No, can’t say that I have.”

  “Well trust me, it isn’t easy.” All of the ten times I’ve ever babysat were pains in the ass.

  “Are we going to stand here all day? Or are we going inside?” A smile plays on his lips.

  “Go on.” I push him through.

  His eyes widen at the sheer size of this place. The outside is something special, but the inside is like every other box-kind where they fit in a café, games section, and stationary store all under one roof. If they had the square footage, they’d probably add a gym. But who am I to judge? Dylan loves this place, too. Sometimes on Sundays he’ll drag me here and spend hours wandering up and down every. Single. Aisle. I like to grab a romance book and follow along behind him. Reading out loud about so-and-so’s quivering member. Dylan tries to ignore me, but he can’t hide the fact his face turns red when I get to the sex scenes.

  Tonight’s pretty busy for a weeknight. The sound of the cappuccino machine hisses, hushed voices carry on, probably about the newest hot cookbook or whatever people talk about in the bookstore.

  A cold breeze rolls over my skin, and goose bumps make an appearance. As usual, the air conditioning is set to arctic. Or subarctic is more like it. Maddox is not interested in coffee. Not sure how anyone could not be interested in coffee, but whatever. He wants to start at the top and work his way down. So I tell him I’m going to grab one and meet him upstairs.

  Thank God no one’s in line at the cafe. I might freeze to death if I have to wait any longer. At the counter, I inhale the seductive smell of freshly roasted beans and hand over a ten-dollar bill. After stashing my change, I grab my cappuccino, dump in four packets of sugar, and head toward the escalator, taking a shortcut through the clearance section. This is the only place Dylan never wanders, and I don’t know why. It’s like every type of book imaginable is on the shelves. He wouldn’t have to spend hours in this store if he just breezed through this section. I move to the side to let a lady and her daughter pass and notice a bright pink book with a chocolate cupcake and perfect white frosting on the cover. See, this is why Dylan would love this section. Chocolate with vanilla frosting is his favorite.

  I set my coffee down and flip to the page where the cupcake on the cover is. “This decadent chocolate ecstasy cupcake will entice all of your senses with its moist, flavorful chocolate body, and light, and airy whipped topping. The extra cocoa will have you dipping your finger in the batter for a taste before the final ingredients are mixed in.” My mouth starts to water as I keep reading. Whoever wrote this is pretty good. Chocolate cake isn’t my absolute favorite—I’m more of a vanilla girl with chocolate frosting—but this sounds incredible. Below the tantalizing description is the recipe. My eyes glide along the long list of ingredients, then the instructions and a sense of confidence takes control. I could totally make these.

  Without thought, I put the book down and pick up another. This one’s about hair braiding. Wow, some of these are more like art than hair. Four-, five-, even seven-strand braids. I can barely get mine up in a manageable ponytail most days. But my eyes race along the pages as I flip through. Sitting on the edge of the display, I pick up one about acupressure and reflexology, followed by a book on aviation, then California history, and an instructional book on crochet. So that’s what I was doing wrong.

  It’s intoxicating going through each one. I can’t control myself as I pick up one book after another. Flip through the pages and do it all over again.

  “So this is where you are.” Maddox’s voice comes from above, and my head snaps up.

  I sit frozen for a moment. Shit. I’m not sure how much time has passed, so I check my phone. Double shit. It’s been a while. A long, long while.

  “Preparing for the zombie apocalypse?” He sounds amused.

  I’m surrounded by piles of books. Piles and piles of books. All different sizes and subjects. I don’t remember looking at each of them, but as I scan the titles, they’re all familiar.

  My pulse ratchets up a notch. This isn’t exactly the easiest thing to explain. I decided to alphabetize. No, that’s bad. I didn’t build a sandcastle at the beach, so this was my next option. Even worse. I settle on, “They must’ve been stocking books.” I lie, not knowing how else to explain the tower I’ve encased myself in. “I saw this art book so I climbed over and just s
at down.” I gesture to the book on my lap. It’s a large coffee table book full of pictures of famous artists and history about their different styles. The page I’m on is Andy Warhol. His use of colors is absolutely fascinating.

  Maddox reaches down, takes the book from me, sets it on the shelf next to him, and helps me to my feet. “Well, let’s get you out of there.”

  Escape from the fortress I’ve built seems impossible. This is embarrassing. Beyond embarrassing, it’s mortifying. Heat rushes through my body. Maddox is standing less than three feet from me, staring at me like I’m some sort of crazed bibliophile. Yes, it was his idea to come in, but I’m the one who did this. Books piled on top of books. Zombie apocalypse? Where’s a zombie when you need one?

  “Here, let me help you.” Maddox reaches out toward me.

  “I…” Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse: this. I pick up the top couple of books from my barricade and lay them back on the shelves. “I can just—”

  “Come on. What are you afraid of?”

  “Um. It’s just…”

  His hands, warm and strong, settle on my waist and my mouth goes dry. Slowly, I reach up and loop my arms around his neck. A mistake? Maybe. But he lifts me effortlessly over the stacks and sets me on the floor in front of him. We’re too close, but I don’t move away.

  His body is hot against mine, and he smells like the ocean. All salty and fresh. For a moment, the roar of waves crashing against the shore echoes in my ears. Not the rustling noises of other shoppers or the barista calling out names. It’s like we’re back on the beach, eye to eye. So close I could kiss him and something deep inside me wants to know what it would feel like to have my lips pressed against his. They’re more red than pink. Would they taste salty?

  His gaze shifts to my lips, and then abruptly away. “Here. Let me get those.” Maddox steps back and pulls the books from my hands.

  I tuck a loose piece of hair behind my ear and follow him to the register. I’m such an idiot. “Thanks.”

  …

  It’s dark out by the time we pull into the driveway, and any good feelings I’d had about the day have faded away. There aren’t any lights on in the house, and Mom’s car isn’t parked in the driveway. If Dylan were here, he’d walk me to the door and make sure I get in okay before he left. I think he does it to earn brownie points from Mom, more than anything. I’d always thought it was kind of silly until tonight. Something feels different about the dark, still house. It’d be stupid to ask Maddox to come in and make sure nobody’s lurking in the shadows. So I remind myself the Green-eyed man doesn’t really exist and say nothing. I take my seat belt off and reach into the back seat to get my things.

  I come back with an arm full of books and, once again, I’m staring into sapphire eyes. His hot breath caresses my skin. Gum again, this time, cinnamon. But it doesn’t last as I avert my gaze and sit back in my seat with a stack of books in my lap and pull my bag onto my shoulder.

  “See you tomorrow,” is all that’s said as I climb out of the car and make my way to the back door.

  Before I get my key in the knob, the back door swings open and thuds against the kitchen counter. Heart pounding, I flip on the lights and take a hesitant step inside. Not a single light is on. Dad used to leave the stove light on for me when he knew I’d be home late. But it’s dark. And the silence screams through my ears.

  Maddox’s engine ignites. I stumble inside and slam the door shut, clicking the lock twice, just in case. It’s okay. No one’s here. It’s one of the safest neighborhoods, Mom always says. I let my breath out, flip on the light, set my stuff on the kitchen island, and pluck the note Mom left off the fridge.

  Picked up an extra shift. Won’t be home tonight.

  Why didn’t she text? I check my phone again. Still nothing. I’m sure she’s busy. I should be happy she at least left a note, but still something heavy sits in my chest. Like she doesn’t care if she comes home and finds me dead. Murdered by some serial killer.

  Now I’m just being ridiculous. The killer always hides behind the door, and he clearly isn’t there.

  I sigh and crumple the note. She must’ve left the door unlocked on her way out. And she isn’t one to text and drive, so at least the note kind of makes sense. She’s had a lot on her mind lately, and maybe an emergency to get to. I shake it off as I toss the note in the trash.

  Outside the kitchen window, it’s black. Without the porch light on it almost looks like a portal to somewhere else.

  A door closes, a faint click. My eyes snap in its direction. The Green-eyed man. Is he here? I stand still, quietly waiting to hear something else, my heart climbing into my throat with every beat, every second. My eyes strain to focus into the pitch-black hallway. Watching for any sign of movement. A flicker of a shadow. Anything. Maybe we should get a dog. A big dog. The clock against the wall ticks then tocks, and the refrigerator hums. The scent of Mom’s all-natural lemon and vinegar cleaner tickles my nose.

  Come on, Drea. You’re being stupid. No one’s here.

  When Mom works late, this would be my time to spend with Dad. We’d stuff our faces and argue who should get kicked off Survivor. I lean against the kitchen island. The marble top is hard and cold and doesn’t give me the support I need. I’m not sure I can do it without him. It’s not easy getting used to being alone. I’m not sure I ever will. Or even want to. And who am I to have a day like today, when Dad is cold and buried? I slam my fist onto the counter, and the force of it rattles the dishes inside.

  My eyes scan the kitchen. Everything’s in place. Spotless antique white cabinets. Shiny pots hang on the rack near the stove. Kitchen sink empty. The only thing that lines the dark gray granite counters are the copper canisters that are always there. Canisters full of sugar, flour, coffee, and packets of tea. Everything as it usually is. See, nothing to be scared about. It was probably just the wind or something.

  I focus back on the canisters. Flour, baking powder, the basic ingredients to make a cupcake. All of a sudden, the recipe from earlier is at the front of my mind.

  Maybe. Just maybe…

  I shuffle into the pantry and pull out the baking soda, brown sugar, salt, vanilla extract, and more. I don’t even stop to think. As the oven preheats, I pour this, measure that, sift this, and mix that until I have a smooth batter. I’m not even wearing more of the ingredients than are in the bowl this time. And that book was right, it does smell like pure chocolate ecstasy.

  It tastes perfect, too. Sweet and creamy, and just the right amount of cocoa. Excellent. I pop the filled tray into the oven and spin around to work on the fluffy white frosting.

  It’s just as easy, whipping it by hand to create soft peaks. That Ace of Cakes guy’s got nothing on me.

  The kitchen fills with the oh-hell-yes smell of sugary goodness. My mouth waters. While I wait for the cupcakes to cool, I grab my laptop. After checking my email, and seeing if there are any notes from my teachers on Skyward, I read the top news stories. Soon I find myself doing some fact-finding on different topics. The more I read the faster I go until I’m clicking through different websites at high speed. Just like in the bookstore, I’m lightheaded and my body tingles. Even though I’m reading so fast, barely glancing at the page, when I close my eyes, it’s there.

  I know it all.

  Chapter Ten

  Something’s different. As I walk to class today, my shoulders are back and my head’s raised high. I look people in the eye as they pass. Instead of fading into the background like in one of my photographs, I’m in focus. The good kind of focus. Not out of pity but because today I’m something to look at. I’m not entirely sure what’s going on with me, but I feel too good to care. It’s actually kinda nice.

  I march into English class, take my seat, and turn toward Dylan, opening up a container of the cupcakes I made and setting them down in front of him. “Truce?”

  He stops pretending to ignore me and puts his book down. The cupcakes are perfect, just like the pictur
e in the book. I knew they’d get his attention. He eyes them, then me, and back again. He fights a smile as he pulls one out, peels back the paper, and takes a bite. His eyes grow wide and his eyebrows shoot up. I should be recording this, but instead I take a mental picture. Two bites later the cupcake’s gone.

  “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.” I smile big. Bigger than normal. He’s so predictable, but that’s not a deal-breaker. Spontaneity is completely overrated. I like that I can predict things about Dylan, like how he’ll always scratch his leg when he’s eaten too much. Or he’ll always insist on seeing a movie after reading the book, so it doesn’t ruin the reading experience.

  He licks frosting from his fingertips. “Where’d you get these? They’re awesome!”

  I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against my desk. “Made them myself.” That sounded cocky even to me, but hell, I should be proud. These cupcakes are incredible.

  He scratches his jaw. “You did not! You can’t even make boxed macaroni and cheese.”

  That’s true. But this isn’t prepackaged stuff; I made them from scratch. Maybe that’s the difference. I needed more creative freedom. “Did so. I have at least a dozen more at the house to prove it.”

  He considers me for a moment. “I may have to come over later to investigate.” He eyes the container. “I guess I was kind of a dick, too.”

  “You were.” I go to reach for a cupcake, but he pulls the box away. “Friends?”

  “Friends.” With his crooked smile on his face, he pulls out another cupcake. He’s about to take a bite, but stops. “But I’m still mad at you.”

  I laugh and roll my eyes. “Hey. There’s something else…something I need to tell you…” The bell rings and the last stragglers make their way to their seats.

  “What is it?” Dylan asks, chocolate at the corner of his mouth.

  “It—”

  “Ms. Smith. Mr. Alonzo.” Crap. Mrs. Notting’s looming over us, A Midsummer Night’s Dream in hand. “Care to join the rest of us?”