“Does it look as bad as it feels?”
“She likes you,” Kristie whispers, ignoring my question as another tear rolls down her cheek before she presses her face against my chest. “I’ve felt it ever since you and I started going out.”
“She just wants what we have. It’s not me. She just wants someone.”
“You heard her today,” Kristie murmurs. “She’s not even all that into Trevor.”
“Travis,” I correct.
“She likes you. I know it. I saw it.”
There’s nothing I can say to convince her otherwise, and there’s nothing I can do other than hold on and hope the storm passes. I want to leave, but there’s no manual that says when it’s okay to. Joanne’s out there, and it’s not like her to go off on her own like this. With Ritchie going postal, Joanne taking off, Kristie flipping out, and the clock counting backwards until I’m supposed to leave with all these things unresolved, it feels like my world is falling apart.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Go where?”
“I have to go,” I repeat as I gently separate myself from her.
“Why?”
Why? Because I have to fix it, and if I can’t fix it, then I at least have to try. Not that I know how to say it in a way that’ll make sense to an emotional teenage girl, so I lie, because truth is elusive, my world is fucked, and I can only work on one problem at a time. “I promised Ritchie I’d meet him,” I say. “Maybe shoot some hoops or something.”
“I thought you two weren’t getting along.”
“We’re not, but he’s still my friend, and I need to patch things up before I leave.”
“You promised me until ten.”
“I’m trying,” I say. “I swear to God, Kris, I’m trying. I’m trying to do everything and be all things to everybody. And I’m failing miserably.”
She just stares at me, forcing me to commit to a decision.
“I have to go,” I repeat.
“Fine. Then go. If you’re so eager to go, then go. Have a nice life.”
I bite my tongue. “It’s not like that.”
“Of course not.” She’s wrapping herself into a ball upon the couch. “It never is.”
“I’ll call you.”
She nods, but she won’t look at me, and she’s wiping fresh tears from her cheeks.
“I love you.”
Still nothing.
Dating sucks, which means dating really sucks. I’m not trying to hurt her. I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I’m trying to do the right thing, and right now Joanne needs me more than Kristie does. I have to go. I have to.
Retreating from the house, I trot down the steps, follow the sidewalk and step onto the road leading toward the edge of town. I have no idea which way to go, but I have to try. I have to look. I try to put myself in Joanne’s shoes and wonder what I’d be thinking if it had been me. In a small town with eyes and ears everywhere with nowhere to hide, where would I go?
And just like that, I think I’ve figured it out. I’ll need my bike to get there, but I haven’t ridden that damn thing in years. It’s under the porch, a big conglomeration of rust and sprockets. I have no idea if it’s even roadworthy, but I’m about to find out, because I’ll need it for where I’m going—all the way to the edge of the earth and beyond.
Twenty-Three
Today
“Tony,” she says softly. “You’re scaring me.” But she’s not scared. There might be some anger and confusion and sadness, but she’s not scared. I’m the one who’s scared, because I know where we’re going, and I know what’s waiting for us once we get there. If she was scared, she wouldn’t have gotten in the car, she wouldn’t have started the engine, and she wouldn’t be following my instructions. But here we are, almost out of town where Lincoln Street turns into Route 89.
Thump-thump, thump-thump.
“Where are we going?” Kristie asks, but I don’t need to answer. I suspect she already knows where we’re going. There’s not a lot on this road. Trees, road, more trees and more road. Other than the old Johnson farm, there’s a lot of nothing, which is why I suspect she knows where we’re going.
Thump-thump, thump-thump.
“Did you kill her?” Kristie asks again in a sheepish whisper.
I don’t answer. It’s not that I’m ignoring her. I’m trying to remember what actually happened. There’s still so much that doesn’t make sense.
Payton fades in our mirrors, leaving a rolling landscape of green. It would have been a long walk back then, but when you’re too young to drive, five miles each way is a good way to kill a Saturday afternoon. The old Johnson farm stood like a lighthouse at the edge of the county line—a beacon signifying the point of no return. It was also the one place accessible to teenagers where parents wouldn’t think to follow and cops wouldn’t bother to patrol. Everyone would rather turn a blind eye and let boys be boys than worry about what goes on out at an abandoned farmhouse. Break a window, build a fort, whatever. It’s kids being kids. No harm, no foul.
“Why are we here again?” Kristie says as we draw closer. “We were just here yesterday.”
“We missed something.”
She turns and looks at me. “Like what? My sister?”
I don’t answer.
“Did you send the letter?” Kristie continues. She shakes her head and drives. “I swear to God if you did, I’ll kill you. I swear it.”
I remain stoic. “I didn’t send the letter. I had no idea there even was a letter.”
“Then who did?”
“Turn here,” I answer, though Kristie probably doesn’t need to be told. We’ve reached the farm, and she’s already pulling into the overgrown driveway. Just like yesterday, we drives as far inland as we can get. Overhead, the sky is ugly, bloated and uneasy. There’s even a rumble of thunder in the distance. There’s going to be a storm for sure. Not like the spring rains we’ve seen these last few days. A real storm. The kind that buries things—things that need to be buried. The kind that drowns the world.
“You ready?” I ask.
She turns to me. “Why? Are you going to kill me too?”
“Nobody’s dying.”
“Did you kill her?”
I shift anxiously. “Come on. It’s going to rain.” I open the door and climb out as lightning flashes overhead. As if on cue, fat raindrops begin to splatter like broken eggs. It’s slow at first—mini grenades—nature’s way of saying that we have less than thirty seconds until all hell breaks loose. I trot to the porch and jump the steps two at a time before turning. She’s still in the car, eyeing me from behind the rain-splattered windshield. I wave her in, and when she doesn’t move, I point up at the sky. Finally, her door opens, and she steps out. She doesn’t run. She just walks, and she’s about twenty feet from the porch when the skies open up. She continues to stare at me through the rain, her eyes fixed as she walks through the tall grass to the rotting porch. Her hair is plastered to her neck, her skirt glued to her legs by the time she climbs the steps.
“What happened here, Tony?” she asks harshly as she climbs the rickety steps. “You owe me that much.”
“As naïve as it might sound, trust me when I say we’re both about to find out.” Thunder. “Come on,” I say, motioning her inside.
Kristie stalls. “I found the headband in the barn, not the house.” She blinks away raindrops.
“It’s not in the barn,” I answer.
“It?” she asks. “Or her?”
A jagged bolt of lightning creases the sky and the whole house shudders.
“It,” I answer. “The answer you’ve been waiting twenty years for.” I turn away and step into the house. “Come on. You’re getting soaked.”
Even though we’re inside, nothing is dry. Half the roof rotted away years ago, and the rain is already making its way through the ceiling overhead and onto the kitchen table. Water streams along the inside of the intact windows—inside out—before running along the kitchen counter l
ike a snaking river toward the edge where it spills over the edge onto the floor. Water runs in bubbles under the old wallpaper and soaks what’s left of the chewed up carpeting. Drips bounce off the silent grandfather’s clock, ticking against the old brass pendulum.
Opening the basement door, I hesitate, making sure she’ll follow. Part of me wants her to run. Part of me wants it to end, and the only way it can end is down where it started, so I take the first step. The stairs are wet, rainwater dripping from one step to the next like a slow Slinky. I don’t turn to see if she’s following, but I can hear her footfalls behind me.
“Why are you bringing me here?” she asks, her voice shaking. “What is it you didn’t show me yesterday?”
“I didn’t remember.”
“And now you do?”
“Some of it.”
Thunder cracks, the entire house shuddering. The basement is damp and dark, the old bricks wet with moisture and moss. It even smells wet down here. There are spider-webs stretched among the joists, soulless corpses trapped in the stringy goo, and had we not been down here just twenty-four hours earlier, I’d swear nobody had for years. Instead of heading toward the canning room, I step into the coal room where the floor, still covered beneath a small pile of dusty coal, reveals nothing. The door had been removed a long time ago. It’s leaning up against the wall, and other than a small pile of coal, an old pair of rubber boots and a shovel in the corner, there’s nothing in here.
Kristie hesitates just outside. “Why did you bring me here?”
Instead of answering, I look down at the floor and kick away a few bricks of coal. Then I pick up the old shovel and begin shoveling away the dusty chunks, revealing a sandy floor.
“I don’t understand,” Kristie answers.
I look at her, lightning flashing through the tiny basement window over my shoulder.
Twenty-Four
Yesterday
I try to convince myself that I have no idea which way Joanne went, but I do. When someone threatens to leave town, there’s only one way out: Route 89. Of course, along that desolate road running along the edge of town, there’s only one place to stop and rest. The last outpost—the point of no return. Battered, weathered, and scorned, the old Johnson farm, as mysterious as it is charismatic, marks the end of the line.
My bike is a piece of shit. I bought it at a garage sale for ten bucks a few years back, and it was bad then. It’s worse now. I’ve invested exactly zero dollars into its maintenance, and after a few years of neglect beneath our less-than-weatherproof porch, its condition hasn’t exactly improved. The chain is rusty, the spokes worn, the tires half inflated, the paint rusting away. It still rides, but it certainly won’t win any beauty contests. Or races. But I pedal my ass off anyway.
Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak.
I zip through town, across the football field, shortcut around a scattering of cars in the school parking lot, and through three backyards. I pedal until my calves feel like bursting and the houses begin to thin. Then I pedal some more. Eventually, the houses disappear altogether, leaving nothing but pines and maples on either side of the two-lane road. There’s hardly any traffic once I make it past the city limits. Of course, it wouldn’t matter what time of day, what day of the week or what the weather is like, because there’s hardly ever any traffic on Route 89. Certainly no big rigs, no buses and no cabs. It’s just a lonely highway stretching toward the horizon. Once I crest the hill, I’ll see the old farm on the other side.
I keep pedaling, pumping my legs, sweat raining down my face. The old bitch is squeaking and whining, and I swear she’s going to fall apart at any second. Ironically, it’s at that perfect moment when I’m cresting the top of the hill that she finally does. The chain breaks, leaping from the sprocket and whipping me sharply across the leg before getting tangled in the spokes of the front tire. Logically, this seems impossible, but I only have a few tenths of a second to ponder physics while considering what I’m going to do once I’m propelled over the handlebars. Sadly, once the tire locks up, the bike stopping on a dime, I realize I’m not going fast enough to clear the bike altogether. Instead, I slide over the handlebars like I’m wave surfing. The bike follows suit, the front tire skidding, the back tire more than eager to keep going. We both go head over heels, and I land hard—skidding across the cracked asphalt. For the briefest of moments I’m convinced that I landed gracefully. Then I’m pretty sure I didn’t. First the pain is limited to the palms of my hands which were shredded when I used them as landing pads. Then the side of my face starts to burn. I can already feel blood running along my cheek. I’m sprawled on my back in the middle of the road, but I can’t feel much of anything else aside from searing pain.
I hear someone shouting, and the voice is drawing nearer, but I can’t breathe very well given my state of shock. Breathing hurts, and that seems more important than listening. Besides, all I can do is lay quivering in the middle of the road while hoping I’ll either die or the pain will go away.
Part II
I open my eyes to see Kristie hovering over me, tears racing down her cheeks. She’s shouting my name, asking me what I was thinking, calling me a stupid ass while wondering if I’m okay. Her voice sounds funny. She has a slur—as if she’s got a fat tongue. Which means…
“I’m fine,” I croak. I need to get off the road and into the shade or something.
“What happened?” Joanne asks.
“Help me up,” I say, not that I know if I can actually stand or not.
“You’re bleeding everywhere,” she cries. “Oh my god, your hands!”
“Help me up,” I repeat. Maybe she didn’t hear me. She just keeps panicking, so I roll onto my stomach and push myself up, my hands raw, the blood hissing on the burning pavement.
Standing feels no better than baking on the blacktop, but at least I’m up, and she’s wrapping my arm over her shoulder and helping me limp down the hill toward the Johnson farm. We manage our way through the tall grass and up the steps of the rotting porch leading into the open door where she leads me to the old couch still sitting in the living room beside the silent grandfather clock.
“I’ll find some water to clean it,” she says with motherly care. “Don’t you dare move.”
Then she’s gone, and I have a moment to study the damage. The skin is broken, and tiny stones are imbedded within the meat of my palms. My hands look like cotto salami. I expected worse, probably because of her reaction, but I remind myself that she’s never been a boy, so she doesn’t understand that bad injuries as a consequence of stupid stunts is what we excel at. Especially when it comes to impressing girls. I’m only hoping my face isn’t as bad. I don’t want her to think I’m hideous, because if I’m—
It suddenly occurs to me that I’m worrying whether or not Joanne finds me attractive. Joanne. Not Kristine.
She smiles as she returns with a wet rag. “Rain water.” She shrugs. “Should be clean…ish.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming,” I answer.
“Don’t move.” Gingerly, she taps the wet rag against the side of my burning face. Each time she does, I wince, and she winces empathetically before giggling. At this point I’m pretty sure she has a crush on me, and she’s probably had a crush on me for some time. I never saw it. Not until now. What’s worse is I think I have a crush on her too, which makes me feel dirty and disloyal and sad. I think I want her more than I want Kristie. I think I want her so bad that I’m willing to do anything for her, and it’s at this vulnerable moment of narcissistic clarity devoid of altruistic intention that our eyes suddenly meet, and she stops dabbing at my face. She’s not Kristie, but in a way she is. She’s just as beautiful, twice as smart, and more romantic. I tell myself this is wrong, but in a way, nothing has ever felt more right. I have genuine feelings for Kristie, but there’s always been this…thing, or at least there’s always been something. Joanne was right. She and I have more in common, and we can relate on levels Kristie and I never could. We can t
alk about science and math or English or politics. I can’t do any of that with Kristie. Not that Kristie’s stupid. She just has different interests.
Joanne’s giving me that look. It’s the same look her sister gives me when she wants me to kiss her. Lips slightly open, eyes dancing up and down, her breaths coming quickly. “You came for me,” she whispers.
“I don’t like to see you and Kristie fight.”
She rolls her eyes. “Can we not talk about my sister for once?”
“I just hate to see you two like this.”
“Well, I’m angry with her,” Joanne says. “Sister’s fight, Tony.”
“I know. I get it.”
“Do you?” She slides her hair behind her ears. “You’re an only child. You don’t have any siblings.”
“I still don’t like seeing you fight. You both mean a lot to me.”
“Which one means more?”
“You don’t honestly expect me to answer that, do you?”
“She stole you from me.”
“What?”
“She knew I had a crush on you. She didn’t even like you at first. I did. And since she thought I always got all the attention due to my hearing problems, she was jealous. Once she found out I liked you, she swooped in like it was a competition.” Tears spring to her eyes. “I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t talk to you. I couldn’t talk. I have this fucking slur, and she has a cute voice, and none of it had anything to do about love with her. She just had to have something I wanted.”
I feel the air leaving my lungs, the hairs on my arms standing up, and an overwhelming squeeze on my heart. “I…”
She takes that as an invitation and leans in, her lips touching mine, her arms suddenly wrapped around me and pulling me to her. If it didn’t feel so good, I would push her away, but it feels just right, and she’s so soft and alive—so hungry for me. I’m always fighting for Kristie, but Joanne isn’t making me fight. She’s throwing herself at me. Right here. Right now. So, I kiss her back, the excitement intoxicating. I’m scared, but at the same time, I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt. Something inside me has switched on, and I knew it the moment she tried to kiss me back at the house. I think I’ve always wanted Joanne, but it was Kristie who showed me attention, so I convinced myself that she was the right one—the only one.
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