Five Total Strangers

by Natalie D. Richards

  Kayla sits up with a groan and rubs her eyes. “What’s this place?”

  “The Cock ’N Bull,” Josh says, completely deadpan. “Harper wants to go inside.”

  “Cool. I could use a drink,” Kayla says around a yawn. She’s sweaty and dazed.

  “Does this strike you as a good time to stop for a drink?” Brecken asks.

  “Stop deflecting,” Josh says.

  “We’re stopping to call the police,” Harper tells Kayla.

  “This feels like an opportunity to pin everything on me and pretend you all had nothing to do with it,” Brecken says, sounding more annoyed than afraid.

  “We need to tell them what happened,” I say. “If we don’t, we all look guilty.”

  “How stupid do you think I am?” Brecken snaps, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “I look guilty, not you. Just me, because I was the one behind the wheel.”

  “No one’s accusing you of anything,” Josh says, and he’s using that soothing tone again. It makes me think of preschool teachers. The cold look that crosses Brecken’s face tells me he doesn’t appreciate it. But Josh goes on, undeterred. “Harper just wants to be honest. I think that’s what we all want.”

  “Like you’re being honest?” Brecken asks, eyes narrowed. “About who pulled the wheel?”

  “I did pull the wheel.” Josh says each word slowly. “I pulled it because I didn’t want you to…” He trails off shaking his head. “Let’s just explain what happened. It was an accident, right?”

  Brecken shakes his head. “You guys really don’t think it was, do you? You think I did this?”

  “I don’t know what to think.” Harper opens her door. “And it doesn’t matter, does it? We hit him and just drove away. Whatever the circumstances, we can’t ignore that. Let’s go in.”

  Josh and Harper are already heading that way, but my body tenses looking at the neon sign.

  “I’m not twenty-one,” I say quietly.

  Kayla laughs. “Hell, they’re not going to check ID. Merry Christmas, Mira. You’re stranded in the middle of Hellhole, Pennsylvania, but hey—you can probably get drunk.”

  She leaves with her strange, wispy laugh trailing behind her, and I feel suddenly terribly alone. I don’t like to get drunk. They don’t know this—no one knows this, other than Zari and Phoebe. Zari knows because she was the one who held back my hair when we snuck into her mom’s liquor cabinet and drank most of a bottle of some awful peach nightmare. I cried and puked and confessed the next morning to Phoebe, who washed my clothes and fed me some weird herbal tea that eased my hangover. Kayla doesn’t know any of that, but her comment makes me hate being here. I don’t want to be with these strangers. I want my mom. My best friend. I want to go home.

  Maybe this bar will help us get there. But as I watch Kayla’s thin body wobble-sway across the snowy parking lot, I can’t help but feeling like it’s a step in the wrong direction.

  August 30

  Mira,

  You post that you’re single and searching—you make jokes with your friends like you think love is a myth. What we have is sacred, but you treat it like trash. Who do you think you’re fooling?

  You belong with me.

  You know it in your bones.

  You paint it on every canvas.

  The student gallery. What a surprise to find you’re only in high school. But the rest was no surprise at all. Another clock with the same time. All is dark except for me. White shirt. Dark pants.

  I’m the one turned away in the painting, but you’re the one who turned your back on me.

  You can’t keep running from this, Mira.

  I will make you see.

  Yours

  Chapter Eighteen

  At the bar door, Kayla pauses, her reflection illuminated in the glass. Her eyes and mouth are dark blue smears of shadow in her pale face. It’s unnerving.

  “Are you staying outside?” she asks with a smirk.

  I slip in behind Kayla, and Harper doubles back to the door. She stops to hold it open for Brecken, but for a split second I don’t see him. Maybe he decided to wait in the car. But then, he’s there, loping across the lot with his chin up and eyes glittering.

  Harper doesn’t pause in the tiny lobby, but turns left into the main bar area like she’s been here a million times. I follow her in, my senses reeling at an onslaught of unpleasant odors. Spilled beer and old cigarettes. Deep-fried food and a blend of sweat and cheap perfume that makes me think of my school locker room.

  Twenty seconds inside and I know enough about the Cock ’N Bull to know it’s not a place any normal person would choose to spend Christmas Eve. It’s dark, cramped, and almost entirely empty. A plain, nondescript bar stretches across the longest wall in the room, dotted with a dozen red-topped barstools and two men on them. Eight round tables sit in a haphazard scatter around the rest of the room and Josh, clanking his way in—heads straight for one of these.

  Harper walks directly to the bar. A gaunt woman stands beside the register, a white towel slung over her shoulder and a hard look on her face that doesn’t match the tiny, glittery Christmas trees dangling from each ear.

  “Merry Christmas,” Harper says, smiling widely. “Wow, are we glad you guys are open.”

  “Not for much longer,” the woman says. “Closing early tonight for the holiday.”

  “That’s okay, we really just need to use your phone,” Harper says. “There was an accident, and our phones are dead. And of course our car charger is messed up. It’s been a complete nightmare. Do you have a charger?”

  “At home,” the bartender says.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t carry mine, either,” the man on the stool in front of her says. “Were you in the accident?”

  He looks much friendlier than the bartender. He has dark, wide eyes that radiate concern and a collared shirt that looks expensive. The guy at the other end of the bar is a silent lump in a flannel shirt. He’s hunched over a glass of something amber-colored, not even sparing us a glance.

  “No. Well, yes. Sort of. It’s been an unbelievably terrible day.”

  “You shouldn’t be out driving in this,” the woman says. “Anybody out in weather like this is looking to cause accidents or end up in them.”

  “Believe me, it wasn’t the plan,” Harper says, and then she turns to the friendly man. She holds out her hand.

  “I’m Harper,” she says. “Harper Chung.”

  He hesitates at her all-business approach, but then grins and offers her a wide, brown hand. “Mitch. Smitty to my friends.” He narrows his eyes, looking curious. “You weren’t in one of those pileups, were you?”

  “Almost,” she says. “We were on the bridge when it was happening, but we got pretty lucky. But we were just in another accident and we need some help. We’re not hurt, but is there any way I can use your phone? We just need to call nine-one-one.”

  “Because your car’s banged up?” the bartender asks, looking suspicious. “Look, the police have real problems to worry about tonight.”

  “This is a real problem,” Josh says, sounding sad. “A person got hit. We need to make sure the police know what happened.”

  The concern in Smitty’s eyes deepens to worry. “Where? Is he nearby? Is he all right?”

  “Yes, I think he’s fine. I know they called the ambulance, it’s just…” Harper trails off, chewing her lip like she’s not sure how much to say.

  I pick up where she left off. “We were there. We witnessed it. One of the people on the scene was threatening, so we left, but we still want to call the police.”

  “But you left,” the bartender says, her arms crossed and her lips pursed like she isn’t sure about our story. And it makes sense, because we’re being shady as hell. “We’re not a phone service, we’re a cocktail lounge. So, if you aren’t ordering something—”

 
“Joyce, for heaven’s sake,” Smitty says, shaking his head and reaching into his trousers to produce a worn leather wallet. He pulls out a couple of twenties and lays them on the bar. “Get them some drinks and a pizza and give them the phone.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Harper says. “Just the phone would be—”

  “It’s Christmas,” Smitty says, shaking her off. “Plus, this weather is the worst I’ve seen in a decade. Both of those situations deserve a drink, and every situation deserves a bit of decency, don’t you think?”

  Harper pauses, letting out a slow breath that shakes before she answers. “I think I can agree with that.”

  “Good.” Smitty smiles. “Then tell me what you’re having.”

  Harper doesn’t ask anyone for preferences. She orders three draft beers and two Cokes. Joyce interrupts right away to tell her they don’t serve Coke, but something called RC, and Smitty laughs and cuts her off.

  “You are missing the joy in your name, friend. Now put something wet in front of these kids and shake off that grinchy spirit. It’s the holiday, and I do believe you’re getting a gift.”

  “You didn’t need to do nothing,” Joyce says. The way her mouth softens isn’t a smile, but it’s not far off. She looks at us like we’re trouble, but Smitty clearly gets a pass.

  “What about that gentleman?” Smitty asks, nodding down at the end of the bar. “He need a refill?”

  “No.” Joyce’s voice is low, but serious. She cuts a swift, hard glance at the flannel lump. Given her expression now, her earlier attitude toward us seems positively magnanimous.

  “Joyce—”

  “He don’t need another drink,” she repeats. “If he does, he can buy it himself.”

  Chills run up the back of my spine as my gaze drifts to the end of the bar. I can’t see the man’s face because of the way he’s hunched forward, but the drink in front of him is almost empty now, only a thin layer of brown liquid left in the bottom of the glass.

  “If he does want another, he best be ordering it soon,” Joyce says.

  Smitty just laughs, but I feel chilled, even though it’s warm and dry inside. I don’t know what’s making me cold now. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

  I have got to knock this off. I’m acting like the boogeyman is hiding behind every corner, and it’s ridiculous. My eyes drift to a painting in the far corner of the room, a Monet print, light and airy and full of movement. I used to work with colors like that. My paintings used to dance.

  Do they still?

  I think about my recent paintings. Themes of time and darkness and shadows. Maybe I lost the colors when Phoebe breathed her last.

  I make my way to the table where the others are waiting. They pepper me with questions about the other three occupants of the bar. There’s not much to say, but I recount whatever I can while Harper calls the police. I can’t hear her part of the conversation, but I can watch her talk.

  Joyce watches on, her head tilted as she lingers over every word Harper says. Even Smitty quiets at a point, his wide smile vanishing at something Harper mentions. I don’t have to ask. I know she’s talking about hitting Corey.

  I can only imagine what this looks like to them. Would I believe our innocence if it was my bar and five strangers walked in admitting they took part in a hit-and-run? Hell, I don’t know if I believe it, and I’m one of us.

  I don’t think this looks like a harmless accident. It looks like a crime.

  Harper returns to our table, but my eyes drag to the bar where Joyce and Smitty are speaking. They’ve got their heads tilted toward one another, creating a private space where they can confer—no doubt about the phone call they overheard. At the other end of the bar, the stranger remains utterly still, his body curled protectively over his now-empty glass.

  Harper slumps in her chair with a heavy sigh, looking uneasy.

  “Well?” Brecken asks.

  “I told them the basics,” she said.

  “Which basics?” Josh asks.

  “I told them there was an accident, and that we hit someone but that we were worried about the father being armed, so we left.”

  “You told them about the guns behind the counter?” Kayla asks.

  Harper nods.

  “How about the stolen gas?” I ask. “Did you explain that we tried to pay?”

  “I didn’t talk about stealing the gas,” she says, and her eyes land on Brecken. Her gaze is softer. Hesitant. And her voice follows suit. “When they get here, we can explain. I know what it looks like, but we all know it’s not that simple.”

  “Oh, it’s plenty simple,” Brecken says, face hard. His eyes flick to Josh. “And I’m looking forward to talking to the police.”

  “That’s not going to turn out how you want,” Josh says softly.

  Kayla scoffs, pushing her chair back and rising. “Yeah, they’ll simple that shit up real fast. And I’m not sticking around to get busted.”

  “Sit down,” Josh hisses. “Where are you going to go?”

  I look up, shocked at his sudden anger. “She can go if she wants.”

  “It’s not smart,” Harper says, her expression flat when she turns to Kayla. “There isn’t anywhere to go. There isn’t anything open.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Kayla retorts. But, other than swaying on her feet, she stays put. Her red-rimmed eyes and slack mouth tell me she’s got enough chemicals in her system to have reason to be afraid of the police.

  “You’re not going to get in trouble,” Brecken says. “The cops aren’t going to care about whatever shit is running through your veins. They care about what happened to that kid.”

  “Corey,” I say, because it feels important. “His name is Corey.”

  “They might care about the stolen gas, too,” Josh says.

  Brecken bares his teeth in a sharp smile. “They’ll certainly care about my version of things.”

  “Can you both knock it off?” Harper asks. “We just need to get our shit together and handle this. Do you understand? No one is going to try to pin this on anyone. Because it’s an accident.”

  There’s something clinical about the way Harper phrases this. Like she’s discussing a class project that’s gotten a little out of hand. She glances around and notices our collective tension.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m just… I can’t be held up here. I have things going on. I can’t…”

  “Well, you won’t be held up,” Brecken says. “You weren’t driving when it happened.”

  “Brecken,” Harper says softly.

  He gets up and wanders to the far end of the bar. Harper follows. Joyce arrives with a tray of drinks. She sets them down hard, her gaze drifting to Harper and Brecken, their heads ducked in intense conversation.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Joyce says.

  “No trouble,” Josh says brightly.

  I don’t know if I believe him, but I still pull myself together and smile up at Joyce. “There won’t be any trouble at all.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I am desperate to be home, desperate for sleep, and desperate to be away from these people.

  Joyce brings us a rubbery pizza and delivers it with a quiet reminder. “We close in forty minutes.”

  “How long do you think the police will be?” I ask Josh.

  He sighs. “No idea.”

  So much for sticking around here. I take another sip of my mostly flat definitely-not-Coke and try to avoid Kayla’s eyes.

  At the bar, Joyce slides another drink to the man in the corner. He hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t looked up from the second tumbler of whatever he’s drinking. With the way she looked at him earlier, I’m surprised he’s getting another drink.

  “Hey, Mira?” Kayla says.

  “Yeah?”

  Kayla gives me the smile of
a girl who’s only half here. “Are you afraid to look at me?”

  Apparently, I’ve been staring so much at everyone else in the bar that Kayla, who’s been on the verge of a coma most of our trip, thinks I’m avoiding her. I can’t imagine why she’d care about it, but I frown.

  “Why would I be afraid to look at you?”

  She leans in and I fight the impulse to flinch. She shrugs a slim shoulder.

  “Maybe you’re afraid that whatever bad, bad stuff I put inside my body might somehow rub off on you? That you might be bad, too.”

  “Stop,” Josh says.

  Kayla whirls, her eyes narrowed. “Why do you care?”

  He glares. “Because we don’t need any more drama on this trip.”

  Kayla laughs, but to my surprise leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. Her sullen swagger melts away. She pushes her thumb into a crack in the tabletop, and her chin trembles.

  “It’s not what you think,” she says. “It’s not—it’s not like I’m some stupid party girl who just craves the high.”

  “I didn’t think…” I don’t know how to finish, so I trail off with an awkward shrug.

  Kayla gets up with a laugh that pinches at my chest. “Yeah, it’s best when you don’t think about people like me at all. So, keep it up.”

  She walks toward the RESTROOMS sign on the side of the room.

  I shake my head at Josh. “Why did you have to snap at her?”

  “I didn’t mean to snap. I’ve got other things I’m worried about,” Josh says. He doesn’t look at me, though. His brow is furrowed and his gaze is fixed on Harper and Brecken at the end of the bar.

  I walk to the bathroom to check on Kayla. Maybe I can’t control what’s happening here, but I can decide who I am. I can be a person who cares enough to pay attention.

  Kayla is sitting on the counter, her back to the mirror. There’s not much to the bathroom—two stalls and a single sink with a roll of brown paper towels set in the corner beside the faucet. I stand across from her, leaning against the wall she’s facing.