Overdrive

by Dawn Ius

“Ex-boyfriend,” I say, my voice thick. “I’m not a rat.”

  Vanessa nods and I’m glad she doesn’t push. I’ve run out of reasons for my misguided loyalty to Kevin.

  “And then there’s the matter of the Millers.”

  My stomach plummets so fast I jolt forward. “They don’t want to foster me anymore.”

  Not like it’s A-plus living anyway—Mr. Miller drinks too much and his wife’s too dumb to see her husband’s a cheat. The roof leaks, the trailer reeks of old people and stale beer, and Mrs. Miller couldn’t bake a decent chocolate chip cookie if Pillsbury force-fed her step-by-step instructions. But it was a house, and more than that, Ems and I were together. At the thought of being separated from her—

  Fuck that.

  “I’m afraid it’s more complicated,” Vanessa says, cheeks pink. Her frustration transforms into something sympathetic and raw.

  Discomfort.

  The tension in the room thickens.

  “Emma’s out too,” I say, filling in the gaps.

  Vanessa takes my hands in hers. They’re cold, like she’s got antifreeze pumping through her veins. My whole body goes numb. “They warned us, Julia. They’re not wired for this.”

  I snicker at her choice of words. “Why’d you have to go and tell them, anyway?”

  Anger fuels the question, but the emotion bubbling beneath the surface is something stronger, something foreign.

  Desperation.

  My gaze flits to the hole in the wall and I imagine my knuckles making contact. I never should have taken this boost, never should have trusted Kevin. I let my guard down—for what?—and now everything’s fucked.

  “I know it looks bleak,” Vanessa says. “But there are some options.”

  At this, she actually brightens, and a faint glimmer of light shines through the thick fog of my dismay. Vanessa is a kind, practical woman with the patience of a saint. But unless she’s working miracles on the sly, I can’t piece together a Happily Ever After here.

  I yank my hand away and slide the chair back. My heart hammers like it’s mainlining nitrous oxide.

  “Think about it, Julia. You’re almost eighteen,” Vanessa says. “You have no legal”—she levels me with a knowing look that shrinks me to the size of a dashboard bobblehead—“income. I know you want to support Emma, but you don’t have the means. Is this the kind of role model you want to be? What if Emma found out what you’ve been doing?”

  The lump swells.

  My sister’s jaded, but somehow still innocent despite the shitty life cards we’ve been dealt. I’ve kept this—my not-so-legal side job—from her, but for how long? The lies are stacked so high I’m practically tripping over them.

  “Isn’t this supposed to be the part where you tell me everything’s going to be fine?” I snap. Sarcasm comes second nature to me, but the question sounds harsh even to my trained ears. I feel my eyes start watering. Truth is, Vanessa’s touched a nerve.

  “There’s a man,” she says, cautious. “Roger Montgomery. A local art dealer and a philanthropist. A bit of an eccentric.” When I don’t say anything, she continues. “He checks out.”

  I actually harrumph.

  Vanessa worries her wedding band and I know what’s on her mind. The Millers “checked out” too, but they weren’t exactly up for Foster Parents of the Year.

  I press forward. “What’s the catch?”

  She tilts her head and offers me one of those sad, sympathetic smiles I’ve come to associate with personal disappointment.

  “This life . . . it’s got to stop.” She licks her lips. “If the police had enough evidence to link you to those other stolen cars, this would be a very different conversation.”

  “I meant, what’s the catch with Roger?”

  Vanessa sighs. “I can’t find one.” She flips over the paperwork in my file until she lands on a picture of a dude in a beige fedora, thick Coke-bottle glasses, and a brown leather coat buttoned up to his neck. A black scarf looks like it’s choking him into a smirk. Dark patches of hair dot his chin and upper lip.

  Gross.

  “I can’t trust anyone that wears a fedora.”

  Vanessa trips on a light chuckle. “You don’t trust anyone.”

  True, but can you blame me? My parents, foster parents, Kevin, even Vanessa—they’ve all betrayed me somehow. Emma’s my only constant, the only one who’s never sold me out. My heart aches. For her, I need to make this work.

  I exhale slowly. “What’s his wife like?”

  Vanessa shakes her head.

  “So, he’s some kind of creeper?” Call me paranoid, but something doesn’t feel right here.

  “He lost his wife in a tragic accident,” Vanessa says with quiet admonishment.

  Tough break, but I still don’t like the idea of me and Ems being alone with this guy.

  “You won’t be,” Vanessa says, when I tell her as much. “Mr. Montgomery has a soft spot for teenagers—he’s already taken in three kids about your age.”

  “Perfect. Insta–Brady Bunch.”

  Vanessa smooths out the crinkles in her pants. Maybe I imagine it, but when she finally meets my gaze, her eyes have gone all glassy, like she’s teetering on tears. “You know the drill here, Julia. It’s this, or separate group homes for you and Emma, and I know you don’t want that.” Her cell rings and she jumps to silence it. “You’re basically a good kid, but you’ve committed a felony. I can’t sweep it under the carpet. I’m sorry. This is a great offer—better than you deserve. You need to think about what’s best for your sister.”

  Emotion strangles my voice. “Because I don’t all the time?”

  “Roger checks out,” she says again, softer now, not answering my question. My stomach does a slow roll of acceptance. “He’s kind and generous. At least give him a chance. Because if this doesn’t work out . . .”

  No need to elaborate. Her underlying threat hits me with the force of a head-on crash.

  3

  EMMA’S BLOND HAIR FALLS LOOSELY on her stiff shoulders. Her chin juts out, her spine straightens. She’s trying to keep it together, but her fingers are wrapped so tight around the handle of her suitcase that they tremble.

  A red flush creeps up the side of her neck.

  “Deep breath,” I say through the corner of my mouth. “You got this, Ems.”

  I get why she’s anxious. It’s a miracle I’m not speechless after our long trek up Roger Montgomery’s cobblestone sidewalk to the enormous brick entrance of his mansion. Two dog statues stand as sentries on either side of the door. It’s an absolute beast of a house—sharp-angled walls and round turrets, giant windows, interlocking marble blocks, and limestone siding. My insides squirm.

  We can’t possibly live here. It’s too big, too showy, too . . .

  Not us.

  A couple of cars loiter in the cul-de-sac driveway—an expensive-looking Audi and a baby blue Chevelle with white racing stripes across the hood. I lick my lips. That muscle car rates high on the black market—probably worth $50K in mint condition. My mind starts working out logistics, checking security, drafting a plan.

  Emma catches me and narrows her eyes in disapproval. Jesus. Sometimes it’s like she can read my mind.

  Behind us, Vanessa fidgets. Her suit jacket rustles as she reaches over Emma’s head to press the doorbell. The resulting chime warbles like it’s badly in need of a tune-up. She coughs. “Quite the place.”

  “It’s like a castle,” Emma says.

  The door opens before I can spit out a response.

  Roger Montgomery peers through thick, black-rimmed glasses that rest tight on the bridge of his nose, zeroing in on me with eyes the color of milk chocolate. His black goatee and mustache are trimmed almost to perfection. No doubt there’s something quirky about him, but I sense behind his nerdy appearance he’s—distinguished? good-looking?—something.

  “Hi,” Emma says in a swoosh of air, and my chest constricts. My sister wants this so badly, I hurt.

  Ro
ger drops his gaze to her. “You’re shorter than I imagined.”

  Her face goes red. “You’re older than I expected.”

  At this, they both laugh—Ems with a bit of a nervous hitch, Roger with a confidence that feels forced. Or maybe that’s just my nerves kicking in.

  I scope out the foyer in the background. The scent of old is cloying. Like we’re in a museum past visiting hours and there’s an invisible screen covering the flashing signs warning us to KEEP OUT!, DON’T TOUCH!, GET LOST! As though our greasy fingerprints might mar the polished gold finish of the gilt frames or the glossy wood.

  What a joke.

  Roger waves us all over the threshold. “Please, do come in.”

  We’ve barely stepped in the door before some dude in a penguin suit swoops by to grab Emma’s suitcase and my duffel bag. He’s halfway up the wooden spiral staircase before I can mumble out a halfhearted protest.

  Roger turns to my sister. “Well then, you must be Emma.”

  “Ems,” she says, and gives him a look that’s been known to bring parental types to their knees. Not quite, but Roger bends a little to shake her hand.

  Our life has always been about extremes—people who don’t give a crap, or those who try too hard. Roger is clearly the latter, and maybe I should be grateful, but frantic energy bubbles through me.

  “I’m Julia, if it matters.”

  There’s a split second of hesitation, and I think I catch a flash of annoyance before Roger acknowledges me with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course. Do you prefer Jules?”

  I shrug. “Whatever works.”

  Sunlight cuts through the windows, reflecting off a giant chandelier. Dozens of rainbows dance on the walls. I shield my eyes with the edge of my hand and look up. “That thing looks like it’s straight out of Phantom of the Opera.”

  Roger twirls the end of his mustache. “It is.”

  My jaw goes slack. The chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling by a gold interlocking chain I’m sure can’t hold it. Maybe it’s symbolic. Like, if it shatters to the ground, everything else does too.

  “So, Mr. Montgomery,” I begin.

  He cuts me off with a grimace. “I’m not much into formalities. Please, just Roger will be fine.”

  Roger, Roger. “What’s the deal here?”

  He blinks.

  “Nice digs.” My sarcasm spews like antifreeze from a cracked radiator hose. “But it’s not exactly teen-friendly. Want to take us out to the dog shed or wherever you keep the rest of us hoodlums?”

  Vanessa admonishes me with an out-loud tsk. I expect smoke to steam from Roger’s ears any minute, but he masks whatever he’s feeling with a soft expression of sympathy. My spine stiffens. Screw him. I don’t need his pity.

  “I can show them around, Rog,” comes a voice from my right.

  A willowy redhead glides into the room, flashing a smile I’m sure has fired up a few engines. The outline of her bathing suit shows through a sheer cover-up—a flashy bronze and brown one-piece with strategic cutouts. Something I could never pull off.

  I gather my hair to the side of my neck and knot it around my fingers. I’d give anything for a brush, shampoo. Scissors.

  “Chelsea,” she says with a tilt of her head. “You must be Julia.”

  I nod, drawn to her hypnotizing coffee-colored eyes.

  “And I’m Emma.” My sister’s cheeks glow pink. “You’re really pretty.”

  “And you”—Chelsea pokes Emma’s chest—“are my new favorite person.”

  My sister rocks back on her heels, proud, while quiet jealousy pulses at my temples. It’s not just my sister’s reaction. Everything about Chelsea is intoxicating, even her laugh, like it’s infused with champagne. I swear she radiates confidence.

  “Go on, then,” Roger says, nudging his chin toward the spiral staircase. “Vanessa and I will finish up the necessary paperwork and be up in a few minutes.”

  Emma bounds up the stairs like a turbo-boosted pace car. At the balcony landing, she leans over the edge, face beaming, and shouts, “Jules! Check this out!”

  This is a long, narrow hallway peppered with framed artwork. I’m no expert, but it reeks of the big names—Monet, Picasso, and something that reminds me of a Van Gogh at the end of the hall. I pause and tilt my head sideways to study the image. It can’t be real.

  “You’re a fan?” Chelsea asks.

  Not really, but I shrug to avoid sticking my foot in my mouth, remembering that Roger is the reason Ems and I are still together. Besides, I’m more intrigued by a series of hanging wood carvings that look suspiciously like weapons.

  “Cannibal tools,” Chelsea says. “From Fiji.”

  “Charming.”

  A shy smile tugs at her lips. “Roger likes to collect . . . things.”

  I’m mid-wondering where Ems and I fit in Roger’s collection of misfit toys when Emma’s high-pitched squeal ping-pongs through the hall. My pulse spikes with a split second of fear, until she peers out from a doorway, giant grin stretched across her flushed face.

  “Jules,” she breathes. “This room is . . .”

  A preteen girl’s wet dream.

  The walls, the bedding, the furniture, even the ceiling, is splashed with neon—pink, green, orange, yellow. It’s enough to give me a headache. Behind an oversize bed overflowing with pillows, graffiti covers a charcoal brick wall.

  Emma runs toward a giant keyboard set in the floor in the corner of the room.

  I want to scream at her not to touch it. Not to touch anything. But she’s already planted her feet on the alternating black and white keys. A deep musical note erupts from surround-sound speakers. We both jump in surprise.

  Chelsea laughs. “We should probably turn down the volume on that.”

  Fuck, yes. “This entire room could use some toning down.”

  Emma jumps onto her bed, burying herself into a mountain of pillows. When she emerges, one is tucked against her chest, her hands wrapped around it so tight, it’s now in the shape of an hourglass.

  My heart races so fast I’m sure it will redline. I’m on the verge of tears and I don’t know if it’s because I’m scared or happy or pissed right the hell off. Mad because even though none of this makes sense, it has to. Emma needs this.

  Maybe I do too.

  I conjure up a smile. “However will you sleep in here?”

  She flops back onto the mattress with a sigh. “Perfectly.”

  Her response twinges something in my subconscious and a shiver of unease trickles across my spine. Emma’s entire room is perfect—too perfectly Emma.

  I drop my voice to a whisper. “What’s Roger’s deal?”

  Chelsea raises an eyebrow.

  “All this”—I scan the room—“seems a bit much.”

  It’s like a lightbulb goes off in her head. “Right? You’ll get used to the way Roger spoils us. . . .” She holds out her wrist and a heavily jeweled bracelet blinks at me. “He gave me this for my birthday.”

  “Nice,” I lie. Am I the only one that finds this all a bit . . . ick?

  My sister flings opens the French doors that lead to an en suite. Her gasp rebounds off the gleaming tile and punches me right in the solar plexus. “Oh my goodness.”

  It’s more spa than bathroom. Dozens of shampoos, soaps, bubble bath containers, and pedicure tools overflow from a basket propped beside a deep claw-foot tub. The jewel-framed vanity mirror sparkles like it belongs backstage at a burlesque.

  Air catches in my lungs, causing me to choke. “It’s a little over the top, no?”

  “Only the best for my children.”

  I spin around to find Roger staring at my sister with shimmering dark eyes. The guy creeps me out in an I-need-to-take-a-shower way, but I get what’s at stake here. Emma and I have one shot to stay together. Roger’s it.

  “Do you like it?”

  I sputter out a huff of disgust. “How could she not?”

  Emma’s face glows. “It’s the best room
I’ve ever had.”

  Roger may not know the significance of her words, but his chest still puffs with pride. And while I’m not convinced he’s quite the White Knight my sister has inadvertently labeled him, I confess there may be some silver armor beneath that stuffy tweed vest.

  But when the smile begins to fade from my sister’s face, I know her anxiety is threatening to smother this new excitement.

  “Do you want to have a sleepover?” she says, and my heart cracks a little.

  My room at the Millers’ was barely larger than a storage closet, the hard futon no bigger than a twin, but when Emma woke with night terrors, I’d curl her into my arms and whisper, “Come on, let’s have a sleepover.”

  Chelsea puts her hands on her thin hips. “How do I get invited to this slumber party?”

  Annoyance flashes through me, but I mask it with a forced smile. “Maybe I should check out my room first. It could be even cooler than yours.”

  Emma’s eyes widen. “I bet it’s perfect.”

  Probably not. And yet, my stomach clenches as we all make our way down the hall. Emma’s room is slam-dunk perfection. That can’t be coincidence. So does that mean my bed will be covered in satin, like my old ballet slippers? Will dance posters cover the walls?

  The idea is obviously ridiculous because I doubt Roger sees past my scuffed running shoes and oversize hoodie. Doesn’t matter anyway. Unlike Ems, I won’t be so quick to get caught up in this fairytale.

  At my bedroom door, I straighten. Take a deep breath and flick on the lights.

  My stomach sinks so fast I’m rooted to the floor.

  “Oh.”

  Plain black furniture spots a room that is otherwise blanketed in white—the curtains, the bedspread, even the carpet. I curl my toes into the floor for balance.

  Emma jumps on my bed. “Wow! It’s so . . .”

  White.

  White and cold and impersonal.

  I rub my hands over my jeans and then wrap them around my upper arms. Goose pimples cover my skin. I catch Roger staring at me, and for a split second I get a solid view of what’s behind those brown eyes—the design of my room is absolutely deliberate. A silent signal.

  White as a Ghost.

  And then, whatever malevolence I envision is replaced with deceptive charm. He has the arrogance to look sheepish. “I admit, it’s a bit of a blank canvas right now.”