The Breakers Code
Page 7
“Cress…”
I turned. Owen was standing in front of me. Beside him were two men. One was older with a buzz cut that made him look like he was in the military and a long scar on his right cheek. The other was a little older than me with shaggy brown hair and kind eyes. Looking down though, I noticed that both his legs ended in stumps right past the knees. He had no prosthetics, but he was standing. Or, more aptly, he was floating. He was floating in midair in front of us.
“Owen,” I choked out. “What’s going on?”
“It’s okay Cress,” he said, and stretched his hand out in front of me. “It’ll be alright.”
He twisted his hand so that his fingers contorted in strange shapes, and then everything went dark.
Chapter 6
Killing Shirley Temple
The day our house blew up, I woke up in my own bed, though I had no idea how I got there. The last thing I remembered, I was crouched on the steps of Mrs. Goolsby’s basement with Casper, listening to Owen argue about me with an old military guy and a kid who could fly. You know the usual. But that was- How long ago was that? I must have passed out or fallen asleep because one minute I was there and it was the middle of the night, and now I was back in my room with sunlight streaming through my blinds.
I twisted up in bed, still in my flannel PJs and Avengers tee. I might have been persuaded that the entire thing was a dream. I mean, I had been having pretty intense dreams lately and it’s not like floaty amputees and secret basement bunkers were part of my every day. Like I said, I might have been persuaded, expect that I had crouched in the wet bushes outside of Mrs. Goolsby’s and the ends of my PJs were still damp.
I pushed out of bed and raced downstairs. My head was a mess of jumbled and confusing thoughts, but one stood out stark and clear among them: Casper.
He had been beside me; right there when everything went down. Sure, Owen and those crazy guys might put me back in my bed, but they could be doing anything to Casper. They could have him strapped to a chair somewhere. They could be slicing into him with knives or pulling his toenails out with pliers. He could be-
He could be sitting downstairs, talking to my mother.
“I always thought sunflowers would look good here,” Casper said, pointing to the curtains on the kitchen window. “I know they’re probably a little cliché. But hell, clichés become clichés for a reason, right?”
He could be talking to my mother about floral patterns.
My mother rubbed her chin, seeming to take his suggestion really seriously. He was just sitting there. Everything was normal, absolutely everything. There wasn’t even a sorta weird breakfast like the other day to point to. Mom was nursing a cup of overly sweetened coffee and Casper was drawing bad imitations of anime characters on his napkin, waiting for me to get up. It was a normal Saturday. But-But why?
“Took you long enough,” Casper said, looking up from his scribble napkin.
“What?” I gaped.
“It’s almost noon. I was about to call the paramedics.”
“Noon?” I repeated, like he had started speaking in French or something. Why was he talking about what time it was? Why was he talking about anything other than what had happened last night?
“Yeah, noon,” he chuckled. “You got a headache or something?”
Mom circled the counter, her sugar laden coffee in hand. “Leave her alone. She had a rough night.”
Rough night?
Did she know? Had Casper told her and, if so, why were they both actually like nothing was going on?
“Finally told lover boy?” Casper smirked, finishing the shading on an anime character’s crescent shaped peak of hair. “I’m guessing he didn’t share your burning desires. Burning is the right word for it, right?”
Getting rejected by Owen, that’s what Mom meant by rough night. That seemed like a million years ago, and more than a little trivial now.
“You stop it!” Mom gave Casper a swat on the shoulder. “It doesn’t matter what he said, even though he obviously made the wrong decision. What matters is that Cresta was honest with herself. She did the right thing, just like I knew she would.”
Mom gave me a little wink and a smile.
Were they all insane? My absolutely embarrassing rejection at Owen’s hands was small potatoes in comparison to the secret he had been keeping all this time. He was- He was- Well, I wasn’t quite sure what he was, but it was certainly more important than my lack of a love life.
“Well I for one think it’s a good thing,” Casper said, holding up his finished work and showing it to my mom. It was horrible, but she smiled politely at him anyway. “Now you can move on. You can focus on better things, things that deserve your attention.” Finished with his napkin masterpiece, he turned his attention to his fingernails, coloring them a bright shade of ink pen blue. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, cause he’s my friend and all, but Owen’s an idiot. And not just because he doesn’t see how awesome you are.”
How awesome I am? I was still standing at the foot of the stairs, open mouthed and confused. I was not going to stand here and listen to this, not when there were so many better questions.
I marched toward Casper, wet pants and all, and grabbed him by the shoulder. Tugging him into the living room, I looked back at Mom. “Be right back.”
She took a swig of her coffee and didn’t seem to pay too much attention.
I pushed Casper into the living room. He stumbled a little and backed into our couch.
“What the hell dude?” Casper asked, straightened his glasses, and plopped down on the arm of the couch.
“Are you okay?” I settled in front of him and crossed my arms over the ‘A’ on my chest.
“I was doing all right until some lunatic girl threw me across her living room. How are you?” His feet dangled from where he sat. The untied laces of his Nikes brushed the floor.
“Be serious!” My shout was more of a whisper, since I wasn’t sure if Mom knew what was going on, but I could feel the scowl growing on my face. “After last night, I’m worried about you.”
He pushed at a few strands of red hair that threatened to spill over his glasses. “Last night? I mean, yeah, your car’s uncomfortable, but I’ll survive. It’s nothing for you to get all worked up about, girlie.”
“Not that,” I was ready to punch him. I found my arms stretched out. My hands loomed with exasperation. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“Okay,” he answered, scrunching his nose. “But I really don’t.”
“With Owen and Mrs. Goolsby,” I clarified through clenched teeth.
“Who’s Mrs. Goolsby? Is that the new substitute?” He chirped. His feet twirled carelessly like propellers over the floor.
“Mrs. Goolsby,the old lady from the house across the street.” My eyes narrowed.
“That’s Mrs. Carpenter,” he answered.
“No! The house next to hers. Why are you acting like this?”
“The house next to her is empty Cress,” he hopped down and walked toward me.
“Of course, it’s empty! We broke into it last night. You saw it was empty.”
“Why would we break into an empty house? You’re not making any sense.”
“Because we saw Owen sneak in there. He was in the black car, remember? You thought he was a gigolo. And there was the buzz cut guy and the floating kid with no legs,” I wasn’t screaming yet, but my voice was definitely louder than it had been at the beginning of the conversation.
Casper’s hands were on my shoulders now. I hadn’t realized I was shaking until he steadied me. “Cress, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Is this a joke or something?”
What was this? I knew Casper. I didn’t think he was the type who would joke about something like this. But even if he was, there would be a tell; a gleam his eyes or the shadow of a smirk on his lips. He was serious now. He really didn’t know what I was talking about. And that, him looking at me like I was crazy, made me act-Well, crazy.
He just stared at me. His eyes were wide and more than a little concerned.
“We were!” Now I was screaming.
Mom pushed through the door, her coffee cup still in hand. “What’s wrong?”
“I-I’m not sure,” Casper said, and looked at my mom like I was three-quarters of the way to insane.
“It’s-I-“I stuttered. How was I going to explain this? It’s not like ‘Casper is pretending the old woman whose house we broke into and were later accosted at last night’ rolls off the tongue.
I shook my head hard, like the motion might make things make sense.
“Is this about Owen?” Mom asked and sat her coffee on the dresser.
“It’s about a Mrs. Goolsby,” Casper looked at her.
My mother’s eyes narrowed. Her fingers drummed across the dresser.
Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.
“Who’s Mrs. Goolsby?” She asked.
I bolted out of the living room and through the front door. If they were going to act this way, of they were going to pretend an entire person didn’t exist, then I was going to prove them wrong. I’d go get Mrs. Goolsby and bring her to them. Let’s see them scrunch their noses at that.
“Cresta!” Mom’s voice came booming from behind me. “Cresta, come back!”
I kept going; my feet squishing again through the still damp grass. I probably looked like a crazy person; running around barefoot in my pajamas at noon with my mother and best friend chasing after me, but I didn’t care about that now. This was the second time in a day that I had ran out of my house looking for answers, and I was more confused than ever. Things were insane, and I needed to make sense of it.
I heard Casper catching up with me as I skidded to a stop in front of Mrs. Goolsby’s house. Or, more aptly, what used to be Mrs. Goolsby’s house.
It was completely different. The house, which just yesterday was a tinted, almost dingy shade of white/yellow, was now a fresh minty blue. The yard, always a bit overgrown, was neat and trim. In front of the house, like almost every empty house in Crestview, a picture of Nelson Ennis, the only real estate agent in town, sat dug on a sign near the road. His familiar ‘Git ‘r Sold’ slogan was splashed across the brim of his oversized cowboy hat, which was an as-ridiculous-as-it-sounded trademark of his.
Casper almost slammed into me as I stood wide-eyed in front of the house. He spun me around, huffing from the run. “Dude,” he huffed. His face was red and splotched with acne, which had settled into a nest on his forehead near his hairline. “You are seriously scaring me.”
I scanned his face for even the smallest sign that he might be joking, but again came up empty. Mom came up behind him. Over his shoulder, I could see worry lines forming above her eyes. This wasn’t right. How was I going to prove Mrs. Goolsby was real if she wasn’t here?
I met her eyes, and the look in them made me feel crazy, stupid, and powerless all at once. I pulled away from Casper. He reached for me again, but I swatted him away.
“She was here. She was right here,” I said to Mom.
Her mud brown curls swayed in the breeze; surrounded by tiny dark twisters of hair. “I know baby,” she said. “I believe you.”
But she didn’t. How could she? I barely believed myself anymore. How could any of it be real if there was no proof and I was the only one who remembered it?
The few people that lived on our street had poured out of their homes and gathered across the street from us to check out the drama. There was no doubt that, by lunchtime, my little tantrum would be top tier salon gossip; the quiet girl from the big city with the dead daddy had finally lost it. If history was any indication, by dinner, the story would have grown arms and legs. Not that it mattered. I never cared what these backward hicks thought of me and I wasn’t going to today.
Mr. Colburn though, who was standing in his yard pretending to rake leaves as he stared at me, he was a different story; at least for the moment. He lived across from Mrs. Goolsby for like, two centuries. If anyone remembered her, it would be him.
“Colburn!” I yelled over my mother’s shoulder. “Tell them about Mrs. Goolsby! Tell them!”
He reared back, clutching his rake for dear life. “Missy, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar!” I shouted and kicked the ground, which hurt like hell, since I was still barefoot. “You’re all liars! Why are you lying?”
“Cresta!” Mom grabbed my shoulders and squeezed. “Get it together!” She leaned in so that our faces were inches apart. With our noses almost touching, she whispered, “I’m going to ask you this once. Are you taking drugs?”
I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. It was all too much. This didn’t make any sense. It had to have something to do with Owen and what we saw in the missing Mrs. Goolsby’s basement. What had he said though?
“The lines,” I muttered, remembering. “He said the lines were changing.”
Mom’s grip loosed. Her face grew pale white and stone still. She pulled away a little. “What did you just say?”
“The lines,” I repeated, though I knew I was rambling like a crazy person.
“Take her home,” Mom turned to Casper, who was biting his nails so furiously that, for a second, I thought he was going to draw blood.
He must have assumed I was going to swing at him again because, before I could move, he whipped me off my feet and slung me over his shoulder.
Maybe it was because I was exhausted, maybe because I was defeated, or maybe because I wasn’t looking forward to walking back to the house without shoes on, but I didn’t mind it.
“Your butt is so close to my face right now,” he said as he carried me back to the house caveman style.
By the time Mom quieted the gossipy firestorm I had created outside, I had curled up on the sofa, sipping on the microwavable hot chocolate Casper made for me and not saying much. Was I crazy? I didn’t feel crazy. Unless, of course, this is what crazy felt like.
She rounded the couch and sat on the floor in front of me; her legs tucked under her. Her hair was still a mess and, while she still looked concerned, the tired sheen had washed from her eyes, replaced by a sort of manic intensity.
I swallowed hard. My throat was sore from all the screaming and the hot chocolate, while yummy, wasn’t helping. “Mom, I-“
“I believe you,” she said, her eyes pinned on mine. I knew my mom even better than I knew Casper. Her eyes weren’t joking either. She did believe me. But how could she?
The phone in the kitchen started ringing. Instinctively, I moved her to get it. Mom touched my leg and motioned for me to stay still. She wasn’t taking any calls right now.
“This is very important,” she said. “I need you to tell me about Mrs. Goolsby. Tell me about the lines and absolutely everything about the world that is different than how you believe it to be.”
I tensed, sitting the hot chocolate on the couch exactly where Owen’s eggplant had been a day ago.
“It was Owen,” I choked out. “He had been sneaking into Mrs. Goolsby’s- the house across the street. He said that he had been watching me; that some lines were changing.”
She took my hand and flipped it over. She ran her fingers across my palm and inspected it. “Changing how?”
“I don’t-“
Casper burst in from the kitchen. I had forgotten he was still in the house. “Mrs. Karr,” he said meekly as though he was sure he was interrupting something. “Dr. Conyers called.”
“Tell her I’ll call her back,” Mom said, still looking at her hand on mine.
“She already hung up,” he explained. “She said she couldn’t meet you tomorrow though.”
“Fine. Whatever,” Mom waved him off.
“She
said traffic would be a pain, that there’s construction on Greene Street or something.”
Mom dropped my hand.
“Greene Street? You’re sure she said Greene Street?”
“Uh, yeah,” Casper shrugged. “I remember ‘cause I thought she said Greep Street, and I was like where’s Greep Str-“
“That’s enough,” Mom said and hopped to her feet. “Cresta, get dressed. We’re leaving.”
I stood slowly; still lightheaded from everything that had gone on. “Where are we going?”
She didn’t answer me. Instead, she turned to Casper, who looked like he was still waiting to finish his Greep Street story. “Casper, go home. Forget everything you saw here.” She looked back at me. There was something like regret in her eyes. “In fact, it’s probably better if you forget you ever met us at all.”
“What?!” I said before Casper had a chance to react. “Mom, what is going on? “
“Cresta, I said get dressed!” Mom was never one to raise her voice. So, the fact that she did, left me a little breathless. Of course, that might have been the asthma.
“But Mom-“
“Don’t fight with me Cresta, not now!” She moved further into the living room and pressed her palms flat against the wall above the faux fireplace we got last year when she decided the space wasn’t ‘lively enough’. There was something strange about her, and not just in the weird words and odd demands she was throwing out. It was in her movements. She moved fluidly; like water. Her fingers traced incredibly straight lines on the wall, which curved into boxes. When her hands met at one of the invisible boxes points, the area that she had traced shifted. The wall, the same wall I had looked at every day for the past two years, contorted. It moved out and then opened, revealing a hidden compartment on the other side.
“Mom…” I gasped.
Mom pulled a small briefcase from the wall and, as quickly as the compartment opened, it slammed shut, reverting back to a plain old wall. She moved quickly toward me, as graceful as any dancer would.
“Mom,” I grabbed her arm. “Tell me what’s going on. Please.”