by E. Latimer
Footsteps pounded up the stairs overhead.
I put my English binder on the table next to hers, and then shuffled around the living room. It was sparse, but not unfriendly. A shag rug straight out of the ’70s was where we'd dropped our knapsacks and jackets, and the coffee table was just as old. A low oak piece I was sure I'd seen at thrift stores before. There was an old TV, the kind that still had rabbit-ear antennas—that made my eyebrows shoot up—and a VCR player. On the shelf next to it, a collection of movies was stacked, apparently organized by title and category.
Her dad had to be military or something—or at least compulsively tidy. Even Janet didn't keep her designer-magazine house this meticulously organized.
After scanning the stacks, which seemed to be a lot of old Disney tapes, I made my way over to the window. It was just starting to get dark, which dimmed the shine that usually reflected off the snow and made me squint all day. There were cars driving past, a few at a time, headlights flickering through the picket fence out front. The sound of tires spinning on slush was muted.
I felt bad for Dave. I'd have to ask him to come pick me up after dinner, since there was no way I was going to let Charlotte's dad drive me back home. Dave might not have been the best driver in the snow, but at least the truck never fishtailed in the middle of intersections.
There were a few vehicles parked along the opposite side of the road—a couple of trucks and a low, black car. Another town car.
Frowning, I pulled the curtain back a little. It was hard to make out, but I was fairly certain the driver’s side window was open a crack and there was smoke trailing out. In the depths of the car, an orange brand flickered, illuminating the faint outline of a face.
"What the hell?"
"What?"
I nearly yanked the curtain down as I spun around. "Oh, shit! Charlotte, you scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry." Charlotte was carrying a green file folder stuffed with papers. Some of them were falling out, and one slipped free, drifting to the floor by her feet. The notes were scribbled in black chicken scratch I could hardly make out. She was as messy as her father was neat.
"Come look at this car and tell me if I'm crazy. Isn't it the same one we saw in the parking lot?"
Charlotte tucked the folder under her arm and yanked the other curtain out of her way. The town car's headlights flooded on, blasting light onto the white snow. Spots jumped in front of my eyes.
"He's leaving," I said.
The car turned onto the street, speeding past the fence and out of sight.
I turned to Charlotte. "Please say you saw it before it drove away."
"Well, yeah. But maybe it's just another one of those cars." She returned to the coffee table and began to sort through the papers one by one. "You're probably just spooked from all of Amy's crazy talk."
Frowning, I nodded, my thoughts too busy to argue for the moment. There was no doubt I’d seen that burning-orange light inside the car. The tip of a cigar, I was pretty sure.
"How many town cars do you think there are? It's not exactly the right car for this area, considering the weather."
Charlotte shrugged. "Neither is our van."
Right. But somehow, the broken-down minivan was a lot less intimidating than the lurking town car. Sighing, I dropped the curtain back into place. The car was gone now, and it wasn't as if I could phone the police and tell them that I'd seen a similar-looking car in two places. Maybe the guy from the school just lived on the same street as Charlotte; it wasn't like Grande Prairie was that big.
I retreated to the table, and we spent the next hour going over Charlotte’s notes for Lord of the Flies. It was some seriously disturbing stuff—that was pretty much what I got from it. Maybe that was all I would write across the test: Seriously disturbing.
And receive a big, fat F, no doubt.
After what seemed like hours of going over the themes and tones of the story—the type of stuff that would probably be on the test—Charlotte flopped back onto the shag carpet, blond hair fanning out around her like a halo. She huffed loudly and stretched her arms out.
"I don't know about you, but I'm done. I've had enough death and despair for one night."
"Yeah." I shut the book with a snap, relieved. Truthfully, I hadn't been studying very well. Mostly, I'd been craning my neck to check the window every six seconds, looking for that car again. A few trucks had gone past, but no black town car.
Charlotte was right. I was being paranoid.
We put the notes away and sat back on the couch, debating which movie we should watch. Finally we settled on something called The Marigold Hotel, and moved to the kitchen to lean on the counter while the popcorn popped.
“I still can't believe the Barbies started talking to me."
“I’m surprised you even humor them." I wrinkled my nose. "I thought you hated them."
"I don't hate them." Charlotte stretched up on her tiptoes, opened one of the cupboards with a loud creak, and pulled a pair of chipped, blue mugs down. "We just don't travel in the same circles. Ever."
Shrugging, I took one of the mugs as she began to dole out hot chocolate powder. "They sound crazy to me. And Amy is really...intense."
"She's like that about everything," Charlotte said. “I remember when she and her friend last year liked the same guy. Becca, I think it was. I'm not sure though."
My eyes went wide. "I can only imagine. Did they fight to the death or what?"
Charlotte snorted. "Hardly. There was a throwdown in the hallway, and Amy reduced Becca to tears and made her swear off Jonathan."
“Not surprised. Did Amy date this guy after?"
"Yeah—for, like, three days. Then she dumped him for some new guy and that was it." Charlotte rolled her eyes and headed for the living room. "There's always some kind of drama going on in the group, but Amy's the leader. They don't go up against her. At least, not if they want to stay friends."
"Why would they want to stay friends?" I retrieved the popcorn and followed her. "Because they all think they're some kind of weird connection between them? Like they came from the same planet or something?"
"Yeah. Like Scientology."
"So...a cult."
"Exactly." Charlotte laughed, but she had popcorn in her mouth, so it came out in a sort of snort, which reduced us both to fits of helpless giggles.
We ended up doing more gossiping than movie watching. Then it was already nine o’clock, and my cell was vibrating my leg through my sweatshirt pocket. Uncle Dave was on his way.
Charlotte hugged me goodbye at the door, and I stiffened at first, surprised. After a second I relaxed. She’d brushed my arm and nothing had happened. There was nothing to worry about.
Dave cheerfully grilled me about my new friend as we picked our way down the icy driveway. I told him that it was the best study date I'd ever had, and surprisingly, I meant it.
Chapter Six
Amy grabbed my arm the second I walked through the door, yanking me into the hallway that lead to the bathroom. "Did you see it?"
I pulled out of her grip, uneasy. "What? See what?" There was a thick jacket between my arm and her hand, but she was still too close for comfort.
"There was a creepy black car in the parking lot yesterday. One I've never seen before. Then it showed up at my house. I mean, parked down the street, but it was the same car. The other girls think I'm being paranoid." She glared over her shoulder at her little crew.
The other girls flinched, and Malibu Barbie—Stacey—shrugged apologetically.
"I didn't see anything.”
Everyone seemed to agree, but nobody actually spoke up. Apparently, they were all too cowed by Amy. I could only stare at them.
Okay, breathe. Just breathe.
Amy studied my face, and her eyes widened. "You saw it too."
"I..." What could I say? Lie about it? "I don't know if it was the same car, but...it was parked outside Charlotte's house last night."
She whirled on the res
t of her group. "See! Megan saw it too. Someone is watching us."
Becca shrugged.
Stacey crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "So you're both paranoid. Congrats."
"There are lots of black cars. Maybe you guys just saw one that looked similar," Margaret said.
"Yeah. Charlotte didn't think it was the same one either." Feeling a little out of breath, I leaned against the locker. Whether I was paranoid or not, it seemed like too much of a coincidence.
Charlotte darted in, elbowing her way past Amy to grab my arm. "Come on. Class is starting. Sit by me." I let her lead me down the hall without protesting, but I could feel Amy's eyes on my back as I walked away.
~ * ~
They dragged me into another Barbie meeting when the lunch bell rang. Seemed Amy was all gung ho to talk about the mysterious car.
This time, Charlotte was there, and she rolled her eyes the same way Stacey had. "Not you too. The paranoia is contagious."
Margaret jerked her locker open and shoved her books in. "I dunno, you guys. It does seem a bit coincidental. I mean, it's not like Amy told Megan she saw it until now. It wasn't the power of suggestion." She looked at me over the tops of her glasses. "Right?"
"No," I said hastily. "Amy and I haven't talked since the coffee shop."
"It's not like we're BFFs," Amy said, and there was a definite undertone of sarcasm. "We don't talk on the phone every night. And I certainly didn't call to tell her about the car."
Silence followed. Even Charlotte looked lost in thought, though she'd been laughing me off just seconds before. I wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or relieved. It seemed Margaret voicing her doubts had given them pause. The librarian effect, I guessed.
Amy slumped against her locker, her expression relieved. Maybe she thought she was going crazy.
Welcome to the club.
"Was he smoking?" I asked.
She bolted upright. "Yes! A cigar?"
"Yeah." My mouth went dry. "Yeah, he was. Could you see it the second time you saw the car?"
"No...not really. But I thought I saw the flame inside...like he was sitting there smoking in the dark." She shuddered. "Creepy."
A chill dropped down my back, and I hunched my shoulders, my fingers twisting in the fabric of my T-shirt. There was no way she could have guessed exactly what I’d seen. "Yeah, that's what I saw."
"This is proof!"
"Proof of what exactly?"
"That I'm right about us. There's some kind of conspiracy. Maybe it's government related."
Stacey groaned. "Or maybe it was just two cars with two smoking guys. Lots of people around here smoke."
"Do they?" Amy shot her a poisonous look. "Do lots of people sit in their cars and smoke cigars?"
Stacey leaned back against her locker, her face sullen.
This was insane. There was no way I was getting sucked into some kind of X-Files episode. "It's probably not a conspiracy. It's...something else. Anyways, I left my sweater in the classroom." I turned to leave, but Amy caught my shoulder.
"Wait. You can’t just—”
“Don’t.” I yanked myself out of her grip again, irritation making my voice sharp.
Amy frowned, her head tilted, blue eyes searching my face. “Holy crap, Megan. Your skin is freezing.”
I should have kept my sweater on all day, but I’d been overheated that morning. My fingers curled into fists, and I stepped back. She opened her mouth, about to ask questions, to make accusations.
Someone walked past me, knocking into my shoulder—a couple of guys with long, shaggy hair and chains decorating every available pocket. They stared at us as they went by, and one snickered.
"Clones."
I looked up abruptly, glancing around at the other girls. A shiver went through me, a horrible, crawling feeling. I was a part of something I didn't want to be involved in. Something I'd been dragged into against my will.
~ * ~
Uncle Dave and Janet were out that night. Date night, they called it. The monster baby was with a sitter since Janet didn't trust me. I never complained about that.
I turned the music up way too loud and tried to get homework done, enjoyed a long, hot shower without Janet screaming through the door to quit wasting water, and then made myself a sandwich and left the kitchen a giant mess just for her. Then I retreated to my bedroom with satisfaction, flopping onto the bed with my sneakers still on.
My phone buzzed, making me jump—a text from Charlotte asking if I wanted to hang out after school tomorrow. Hey, it was that or Fevero with the Barbie group. I texted back “YES” and then created a perfect snow angel on the feather comforter.
After an hour of playing on the phone, my eyes felt scratchy, and I shut them, pressing the heels of my hands into my lids.
The room was dark and utterly silent, and it was hard not to think about the man with the cigar. What if he was waiting outside my house right now? That burnt-orange ember flickering away in the darkness. Watching my bedroom window. Waiting.
There was no way I was going to sleep tonight.
Chapter Seven
A rattling sound woke me. At first, I thought it was Uncle Dave and Janet arriving home, bumping around downstairs. Maybe Janet had too much wine again and was rearranging the furniture at two in the morning. That had happened before. I forced my eyes open and squinted at the clock. Only eleven thirty. Probably not them yet. Date nights usually went into the wee hours of the morning.
The rattle came again, and it was frighteningly close.
My eyes flew to the dark windowpane, expecting to see something. A hand, a face. My heart was pounding a hundred miles an hour, practically beating out of my chest. There was no noise for a second, and then a faint scraping sound came from underneath the frame.
I whimpered, sliding under my sheets.
What was that?
A ladder, my brain told me unkindly. Someone is sliding a ladder under your window.
I stretched down, groping for the heavy flashlight I kept on the floor beside me, the edge of the bed pressing into my stomach. Not only would it light up the bedroom, but it would be awfully handy if I needed to knock someone over the head.
Finally, my fingers closed over the cool surface of the flashlight. I tightened my grip, my hands shaking. Sweat beaded on my upper lip. Slowly, on unsteady legs, I climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the window, pointing the flashlight at the pane.
The light flooded outwards, bouncing off the windowpane and blinding me. I cursed out loud, and as the white spots faded, I peered through the glass. The snow-filled yard was empty in the beam of my flashlight. It wasn't good enough. I had to be sure or I'd never get back to sleep.
I stuck my phone in the pocket of my nightgown, just in case, before heading down the staircase one step at a time. The front door was still locked, and I let out a shaky breath.
The house was huge and full of creepy shadows, and I cast the light around, the beam jumping and bouncing wildly with my shaky hands.
Deep breaths.
I stretched a hand out and touched the knob, daring myself to open it. The lock clicked, and the door creaked as it swung outwards, making me wince. The night air wasn't as frigid as it should have been, considering the wide beam of the flashlight revealed snowflakes falling from a gray sky.
Ignoring my bare feet, I moved onto the icy walkway. The shock of cold I’d expected didn’t come, and I glanced down, surprised.
Something in the bushes beside me moved, making me jerk, and my foot slipped. I yelped as I lost my balance and pitched backward. The beam of light swept the yard wildly as I fell, and then I was on my back in the snow. My peripheral vision showed a rabbit running across the lawn, tiny feet crunching as it raced over the white mounds.
I'd just freaked out over Thumper the fluffy bunny.
I lay there for a moment, perfectly still, my bare legs and arms touching the snow. The texture was there, wet and crumbly. The feeling of ice. What it should have been was cold. I didn
't get up. Just lay with my flashlight beside me, staring at the gray sky. "How is this possible?”
No one answered. Moisture seeped into my thin nightgown, but still no cold. There was definitely something wrong with me.
A few feet away, something crunched, and I sat up with a gasp.
There, in the halo of my flashlight, stood a man. He had to be well over six feet, with brilliantly blond hair, and he was dressed in nothing but a T-shirt and blue jeans, in spite of the sub-zero weather.