We drive on in awkward silence. By now, we’re three miles from school, way up in the hills where scraggly blackberry bushes line the crumbling roads and shaggy old trees crowd around rambling houses. He turns onto the gravel road that winds deeper into the woods, leading off to a cluster of small houses where our olive two-story sits. The window screen to Charles’ bedroom always catches my eye. It’s slightly bent up from him sneaking out at night.
Both Mom’s red Camry and Dad’s blue Prius are in the driveway. It’s 5:30 p.m. Something’s wrong. Did Charles get picked up by the police again? Maybe the school officials told them about what happened today.
I apologize and thank Matt for the lift. He nods, lips tight. I slip out of the truck and he takes off. I remember that I turned off my phone in math class. First period. Hours ago. I find my phone and turn it on. A bazillion harassing voice messages from the BFJs. I scroll through until I find one from my mom and listen.
“Hi, honey! Please come home ASAP after school, okay? Oh, if you see your brother? Remind him, too. We need to have a family meeting. Love you!”
Great. Here’s “thing” number three.
Chapter 3
I can hear Mom and Dad chatting in the living room, asking questions. Another softer voice with a strange accent gives staccato answers.
“Charity?” Mom calls out. She sounds annoyed.
I shuffle through the foyer, inhaling the smell of baking lasagna. When I enter the family room, Mom and Dad are sitting on the couch with mugs, tea bag tags draped over the edges. Some guy I don’t know sits with them in the easy chair. I can’t help checking him out. He’s my age, average height, with skin pale as cream and wavy ebony hair. His light blue eyes shimmer under long, inky lashes. His wrinkled, striped dress shirt is much too big for his narrow shoulders, and his scuffed black boots with pointed toes peek out from the cuffs of his baggy jeans. He gives off a weird vibe, like he’s been in prison or working for suicide bombers.
He must be a stray.
My mom’s a social worker. She’s always bringing home people for meals. Damaged people.
Mom wraps an arm around my shoulders, kissing my ear. “Where have you been? Did you get my message?”
I shake my head.
“Hey. How’d it go?” Dad hugs me as well. I kiss his big scruffy face.
They are being very nice. Something’s up.
“Not great. I’ll tell you later.” I stare at our visitor.
“Charity, this is Aidan MacNichol. Aidan, this is my daughter, Charity.”
“How do you do?” He holds out his hand. His eyes barely meet mine. His voice is a notch higher than I expect and kind of sing-song. What century is this guy from? Who says stuff like that?
“Hi,” I say and give him The Boneless Hand. I’m touching you but I’m not happy about it.
Except I am. His skin is incredibly soft, like my mom’s charmeuse dress. He lets go. At the last second, I almost don’t.
And he almost doesn’t, either.
“Where’s your brother?” Dad asks.
“I don’t know. In jail?”
“Charity, stop it,” Mom sighs.
“What? I never know where he is.”
A car roars into the gravel driveway. It must be Charles’ ride. The music escaping the car windows sounds like someone is grinding the air into steel shavings. As the car retreats, Charles bursts through the front door and makes for the staircase.
“Hey! Charles, come here.” Dad motions to him.
Charles looks as if he’d rather snack on rat poison than join us, but he does.
“Hey.” Charles lifts his chin at Aidan. Aidan nods back.
“We want to talk to you guys.” Mom puts her hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “Aidan is going to be staying with us for a little while.”
“This is bullshit,” Charles announces and heads for the staircase. He looks at Aidan. “No offense.”
“Hey, get back here!” Dad yells.
“No family meeting? You just drop this on us?” I ask.
Mom looks mortally offended. “Charity!”
“It’s not fair. We never get a say in anything that happens around here. Not about Aunt Bulimia—”
“Aunt Bellina.”
“Or the dog I wanted?”
“Honey, you know Charles is allergic.”
“The only thing he’s allergic to is school!”
“Shut up, Cherry.” Charles glares at me, his hamster face squinching up.
“We have guests from my work all the time,” Mom says, “and you’ve never cared before.”
“Yeah, for dinner.”
Aidan slinks back, hands in his pants pockets. He watches the sky through the sliding glass door on the far wall of the living room. He’s humming a familiar tune under his breath. I can’t quite place it.
“I should go.”
Aidan’s announcement cuts through the room. Everyone falls silent.
“I can’t stay here,” he says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones. You’ve been very kind.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Aidan.” Mom invokes The Voice. It’s from her days as a trial lawyer. “If you leave, I have to call the authorities. You’re underage, your legal residency is in question, and the county has put you in our care. You can stay with us or you can go to juvy.” Mom darkened. “I don’t recommend juvy.”
“Neither does Charles,” I say.
“Shut up, Cherry!”
Aidan sighs. “I don’t know what this ‘juvy’ is but I suppose I don’t want to go.”
“Are you from like England or something?” Charles asks.
Aidan looks confused. “I beg your pardon?”
“Where is he sleeping?” I ask.
“Your room,” Dad says.
My face heats with horror. I bury it in my hands.
“Kidding!” Dad says, throwing an arm around me for a bear squeeze. “Sewing room. Now let’s have some chow.”
Mom shuttles us to the dining table. She interrogates Charles as to why he stinks like cigarette smoke, but he claims it’s from riding with his friend Noah. I say nothing. As we set the table, she brings out the salad and lasagna, which smells heavenly.
Humiliation and disappointment haven’t affected my appetite at all, apparently. I wish something would.
I notice that Aidan holds the fork like he’s strangling it. He scrapes the plate. Everyone winces. Where is this guy from? And why is he so strange? Who doesn’t know how to use a fork?
I want to flee to my room to cry but I can’t. I want to make up with Keiko. I feel terrible about that fight. But Mom has laid down the law: No running off before the meal is over. Supposedly this encourages Charles to stay put and bond with us. If I ran upstairs and flung myself onto the bed now, I’d be doubly busted because we have a guest. I just want to be alone and this weird stranger is keeping me from my snug room where I can just melt down.
“Are you all right?” Aidan looks at me, concerned. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t you who misbehaved at school today.”
Wait—what? How could he know? Or does he?
Mom shoots Aidan an anxious look, then me. “Honey, is there something going on?”
“Cherry started a riot at school today,” Charles offers.
“A riot?” Dad eyes me with disbelief.
“Shut up! That’s not what happened!”
“And then she made the Christian girls cry.”
“Charity!” Mom says. “Was this your club?”
“Mom, I didn’t do anything to anyone.”
“Then they sent Cherry like a million text messages so she can’t use her phone anymore.” Charles beams with triumph.
I want to slam his face into the Pyrex dish. “You! Did you give them my cell number?” My face heats with the rage. My hand balls into a fist on the table.
“That’s enough.” Dad points at Charles. “Did you give out your sister’s cell number?”
“Of course not,” Charles says, indignant. Dad eyes him sus
piciously, but lets it drop. There is no justice.
Mom wearily passes Dad the wine bottle. “Charity, what happened?”
“Nothing. I put up a flyer about the Skeptic’s Club and the BFJs picketed my meeting, calling me a lot of unspeakable names. They harassed everyone who was there. They were harassing me with texts calling me a Satanist even before the club meeting. I had to turn off my phone. That’s why I didn’t get your call.”
Tears scald the corners of my eyes.
“Where were the school officials?” Mom asks. “I can’t believe they let this happen!”
“Don’t worry. Mr. Vittorio told me he’s reporting it. He’s the librarian.”
Aidan sits with his hands folded in his lap, eyes trailing to the window.
Mom narrows her eyes at Dad and polishes off her glass of wine.
And then there’s Keiko… I can’t take it anymore. I manage to stand up and choke out, “Excuse me,” before dashing for my room.
I hear Charles complaining behind me. “So Cherry gets to have a tampon tizzy and get out of dishes?”
I slam the door and the tears spill out. As I fall on the bed, I look to Mr. Spotty and Miss Yoyodyne, who squat beside my desk. These aren’t stuffed animals. They’re robots I built. I feel like kicking one of my plastic component bins but I hurt so much, I just double over on the bed.
Footsteps pound up the stairs and Mom taps on my door. I know her knock.
“Come in.”
Mom sits on the bed and hugs me. Between sobs, I tell her what happened with Keiko.
“Honey, these people are serious bullies. Do you want me and Dad to talk to the principal?”
“No. That’ll only make it worse. Besides, the school says they’ll deal with it. Can we wait and see what happens?”
She looks unconvinced, wiping hair out of my eyes. “If they lay a hand on you…”
“…I have a good lawyer.”
After Mom leaves, I text Keiko.
I’m so sorry, K. Please don’t be mad. I won’t put up any more flyers. I promise! Xoxo
As I read One Hundred Years of Solitude for AP English, I can hear the bumps and scrapes of Dad and Charles setting up the cot in the sewing room. Despite his protests, Charles enjoys showing off that he can lift more than Dad, who had back surgery several months ago. Mom digs through the sewing room closet. “We’ll get you more clothes this weekend,” I hear her tell Aidan. They wish each other a good night.
After two long hours of AP Calculus followed by Honors Chemistry and French, I eventually crawl into bed, exhausted and wishing that I believed in something—anything—that I could pray to and make things okay with Keiko.
Everything falls quiet except for Aidan. I hear him humming. The wall is thin between us.
I remember hearing Mom crying in the sewing room after we first moved here. She and Dad weren’t getting along. I hate thinking of my mom being weak. She has to be strong, the badass lawyer who torches anything in her way with her words. I love her for that. To hear her sobbing was haunting.
Aidan keeps humming. It’s that same tune as before but this time I know what it is.
Carol of the Bells.
A Christmas song.
Chapter 4
My eyes open the next morning to the sight of Mr. Spotty sitting on the shelf above my window. Mr. Spotty’s grounded because I used his catapult arm to throw rocks at Charles. I didn’t mean to hurt him. He was hiding in the bushes with his friends smoking pot. I just wanted to startle them, not take a hunk of flesh out of my brother’s forehead.
Although, I’m kinda glad I did.
The other two robots aren’t grounded, just temporarily decommissioned as I work on a new, far more sophisticated robot. Her name is Les Femmes Nikitas, and she flies. There are actually three of her but they fly together. She could seriously wreck the house—even the garage—so I only test her outside.
Still feeling like crap, I slip out of bed and check my phone. No texts from Keiko, just the BFJs. It’s quieted down a bit, though. I go online. Keiko has unfriended me everywhere. I slouch over the keyboard, wishing I were dead.
I claim the bathroom before the boys can. As I brush my teeth, I glower at my ridiculous hair in the mirror. My dad is black. My mom is a ginger. My hair is doomed. By the time I’m out of the shower, Charles is banging on the bathroom door.
“Innaminute!” I yell.
Charles continues to assault the door. Mom chimes in. “What’s going on in there?”
“Just doing my fracking hair!”
Mom yells, “Some women would kill for your hair! Ask Alex Kingston! You look just like her.”
“Alex Kingston,” I yell back, “is perfect in every way and is married to The Doctor.” I punish the rebellious strands with more conditioner, tie them back, and apply mascara.
My dad shouts from the master bathroom, “River Song is not married to The Doctor, honey. That was in a timeline that no longer exists.”
“River Song is totally married to The Doctor!” I burst out of the bathroom. “Love is—”
Aidan stands there, toothbrush in hand.
“—forever.”
His eyes are a milky blue color, like that neon fluid you find inside glow sticks. Otherworldly. Alien. Beautiful. I fall into them for a moment.
I then realize my bathrobe is open. I clutch the collar closed and feel embarrassment burning up to my earlobes.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Your mother said to wait here.”
“It’s okay,” I sputter. Did he already shower? He smells good. I can’t even look at him, I’m so mortified that I might have flashed him. “I’m done.”
“Thank you,” he mutters. As if paralyzed, he doesn’t move until I try to step past.
Dad drives us to school. He insists. I’d rather risk the bus than be seen with my loser brother and Aidan, who looks dweeby in one of Dad’s shirts and old gray ski jacket. He grips the straps of a sagging backpack Mom dug up from the garage. Before I can get out of the car, Dad taps his cheek and grins.
“Forgetting something?”
I lean over and give him a kiss. To my surprise, he gets out with us.
“I want you guys to help Aidan today, okay? Make sure he gets on the right bus and everything.”
“Sure.” How in the world can I help anyone today when I can’t help myself? At least it’s Friday. Just have to make it through one more day. Sometimes the weekend can reboot and correct social disk errors.
“Great. Catch you guys later.” Dad waves to us as he walks Aidan to the school office. If only he hadn’t gotten that job transfer a year ago, we’d still be in Woodland Hills. At my old school near Los Angeles. There were kids like me—multiracial, hella smart. No bullies.
The hallways are socially chilly. No one says “hey” or anything.
In AP Calculus, Keiko ignores me. She sits toward the back of the room when I enter, pretending to study. Even Michael Allured doesn’t notice me, but he’s enrapt with his latest gadget, an app for his tablet that lets him draw equations and store them. Not that he cares about getting tainted by my friendship. Michael couldn’t care less about social status, which is partly why I like him.
When class ends, Keiko races out without looking at me.
No one talks to me all day except Darren and his crew. They hiss “You’re going to hell!” even at lunch as I huddle over a ham and cheese sandwich I bought off the food truck.
Alone.
They’re wrong. I’m already in hell.
By the time I get to fifth period American History, I slouch forward in my chair and rest my forehead in my hand. I had a lot of friends back at Willow High. The Math and D&D Clubs. The robotics team. But here? Nothing. I’m on a robotics team but it’s made up of students from the surrounding schools, some outside of the county. No one school out here has enough engineering wannabes to make a whole team. Our team does okay, but I miss my old team so much. We’re still connected on all of our phone apps, but I think they�
�ve forgotten me. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.
People file into class, including Aidan.
He seems distracted by the walls. Mr. Reilly’s entire classroom is papered with “Wanted” posters of famous historical figures. It would be cool except Mr. Reilly seems to be permanently displeased with us, making us feel like we’re the ones on the posters.
Aidan notices me and stares.
“Sit,” I stage whisper.
Thankfully, he sits over a couple of rows, behind and out of sight. At least I don’t have to look at him. It’s super cold outside and Dad’s coat has been draped over his arm all day. What the hell is wrong with him?
Mr. Reilly addresses the class. “As we discussed last week, the Industrial Revolution fundamentally changed the way we harvested food, made clothing, even structured our society. It all started about eighteen hundred—”
“I beg to differ, sir,” Aidan says. Mr. Reilly keeps talking but Aidan continues. “One could argue it began nearly two hundred years before, as the ideas of many famous philosophers trickled down into popular thinking.”
Oh, god.
Mr. Reilly scribbles something in his notebook. “As I was saying, the Industrial Revolution changed lives in a fundamental way. Can someone tell me how manufacturing changed?”
It’s silent for a moment. Usually I raise my hand whenever I can but today I feel like rolling up like a pill bug.
“Standardization and the steam engine. They changed everything.”
Why can’t Aidan shut up? Why?
“Mister…MacNichol, we raise our hands when we wish to be recognized so that we may speak. Do you understand?”
“Charity? Is this some sort of ritual?”
“Cherry’s got a boyfriend,” Darren singsongs. People laugh. It’s that mean laugh, the one you know you’re going to hear later in the hallways. “Cherry loves gargling his Jizzterine.” Darren throws back his head, his bottom lip curling into his mouth as he nods. Like he’s just scored big. He runs a hand through his buzz cut.
My head drops to the desktop. I don’t care. They can call me a Satanist—it’s not like Satan even exists—but this is too much.
Mr. Reilly’s eyebrows rise. “Mr. Jacobs!” He scribbles in his attendance book on the podium. “Report directly to the principal’s office after class.”
Snowed (The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy Book 1) Page 2