Five Total Strangers

by Natalie D. Richards

  Kayla doesn’t say anything or acknowledge me at first. Her eyes are glassy, and her hands are wet like she’s just washed them. When she finally looks up, I can see myself tense in the mirror behind her. Embarrassed at my reaction, I try on a smile. It fits like it belongs to someone else.

  “Come to check on the burnout?” she asks.

  “That’s not how I think of you.”

  “You think of me?” She smiles back and it isn’t soft or real. Whatever tender, honest thing I saw a few moments ago—it’s gone now. “I’m touched.”

  I feel that familiar unease again, but I shove it down hard. I won’t let everyone else’s emotions continue to throw me into a tailspin. If I can handle burying my aunt, I can handle an awkward conversation in a bathroom.

  “Do you honestly think you’re the only one in the car that’s used drugs?” I ask.

  Her expression is predatory in that moment, like she knows exactly how to strike for the kill. “Oh, you’re a bad girl, are you? Maybe you’ve hit a joint or two at a party. Or maybe that one time, when your friend’s mom was away, you snuck one of her Valium, because you were just so stressed.”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I say.

  “I know you’re not a user. You might dabble. You might play. But you don’t use.”

  I don’t even dabble, so I don’t argue. Instead, I lean back against the wall. “Well, I’m not going to talk to the cops about it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “You’re not my problem, Freshie.”

  My reflection in the mirror frowns, my mouth a bracket. Kayla tilts her head, her long hair a tangle against the glass.

  “What is your problem, then? What are you worried about?” I ask.

  “I’m not worried about any of you. You’re all too messed up to even know how to watch your own backs.”

  “I’m watching my own back,” I say.

  She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all day. “Oh, sure. You’re tough.”

  I shrug. “Okay, fine. If not me, what about Brecken? You really think he doesn’t know how to look out for number one?”

  “I think he’s got a lot on his mind,” she says evasively.

  “Like the fact that he was the one behind the wheel when all this happened? Or the fact that he stole the gas, which started this whole mess in the first place?”

  “Calling the police is stupid,” she says.

  “They need to know the truth.”

  She laughs again. “Yeah, you’re all qualified to give it, right?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’m the only person in that car that isn’t a liar.”

  “I’m not a liar,” I say, but the words come out a little flat and dry.

  “Aren’t you?” she asks, the smallest smile playing at her lips.

  And I don’t answer, because she’s right. I am a liar. I lied to my mom about who I was with. I lied to everyone in the car about being in college.

  “Look, everyone lies about something, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to lie to the police.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs. “I’m just saying, we’re all implicated in some of this shit. And when things like this go down, the police don’t go for the truth. They go for the easy targets.”

  Kayla sighs then, pushing her hand into her hair. The medical bracelet on her arm jangles. It looks old and heavy on her delicate wrist.

  “What’s your bracelet for?” I ask point-blank.

  I can tell my directness surprises her, but she still answers. “Type 1 diabetes and a seizure disorder.”

  I’m opening my mouth to respond when she shakes her head.

  “It’s not mine. It’s my brother’s. Jonah.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Wait. Why are you wearing his medical bracelet?”

  “Because he’s dead. He died three years ago.”

  I hate my reflection in this moment. After Phoebe, when I’d tell people my aunt died—they’d make a face like the one I’m making now. It’s an awkward mix of sadness, discomfort, and regret, and I remember so clearly wanting to punch everyone who wore this expression.

  But you can’t do that. Instead, you have to—

  “You don’t have to say anything,” she says.

  Do that. You have to smile or say something reassuring exactly like Kayla just did. Somehow, even though you’re the one with the trauma, you become the comforter to the person fumbling through an attempt at sympathy. Usually you end the awkwardness with a thank you, but Kayla doesn’t.

  She looks at the wall like she’s a million miles away. I thought her drugs—her shit, as she called it—was missing. But she looks like something is kicking in.

  I feel differently about it now that I know about her brother. She isn’t doing this to have a good time. She’s probably just trying to dull out every awful, hollow thing she’s been drowning in for the last three years.

  My mom could have ended up like this. Desperate and addicted.

  If she didn’t work in the emergency room. If she didn’t have a thousand stories of overdose victims suffering unspeakable pain and life-shattering consequences, she might have gathered up all those bottles of pills on Phoebe’s end tables. On one of the bad nights, maybe she might have tried one. Just to help her sleep. To take the edge off. Maybe that’s how it would have started.

  But she knew enough about it that she scooped every last bottle into a box the day after Phoebe died. I sat in the passenger seat as she drove them to the fire station for disposal. When I asked why we had to do it right then, she shook her head. Just once.

  “Don’t want them in the house. Don’t want that in my head for even a second.”

  In some way, it could have been me, too. Not hard to come by illegal substances in San Diego, but I’ve got an unreasonable terror of pills and a propensity for puking after anything strange enters my system. Plus, I knew right away what I had to do after Phoebe died. I had to be strong for Mom. I still have to be strong for Mom.

  But if I didn’t?

  Another version of me might have ended up where Kayla is now.

  I guess I got lucky.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I know it doesn’t change anything. I know when you lose someone… I just know it doesn’t matter. But I’m sorry all the same.”

  Kayla doesn’t respond, so I turn for one of the stalls, wondering what the hell I’d even hoped to accomplish coming in here.

  “Mira?”

  “Yeah?”

  She’s still fingering her brother’s bracelet. Still staring at the wall across from her with her jaw clenched and eyes watery.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What do you mean? What for?”

  She looks up at me and her eyes are colorless. “For everything.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Kayla’s words send goose bumps up my arms, but she doesn’t elaborate. She slides off the sink and sways heavily, catching herself on the wall next to the sink. Then she pads outside, leaving me to stare at my ashen face in the mirror.

  I’m sorry. For everything.

  A chill rolls through my reflection in a shiver. I don’t need to use the restroom, but I don’t want to be out there yet. I need a minute. Maybe several of them.

  I take a deep breath; my exhale is slow and shaky. I need to pull it together. The flat of my palms are cool against the tile on either side of the sink. Shadows circle the soft flesh beneath my eyes, and my lips are chapped and cracked.

  “What is she sorry for?”

  I whisper the words, but they are still jarring in the quiet of the bathroom. I shiver again. God, what if Kayla is right about me? What if I’m a mess just like the rest of them?

  But someone in our group is more than a mess. Someone is dangerous.

&nbs
p; Too many things have gone wrong to blame this all on coincidence. My dad always says if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck—it’s probably a duck.

  Or in this case, sabotage.

  The word feels ridiculous, but what else fits? Someone obviously doesn’t want us to get to where we’re going. But who? And why?

  I turn on the tap out of habit. Water hisses down the drain in a sibilant rush. Should I try to talk Joyce into letting me stay here in the bar? Should I try to tell someone what’s happened so far—what I’m afraid of?

  The police.

  I turn the water off and take a deep breath. All of this is about to solve itself. The police will come, and I’ll explain all the wacky things that have gone down. Better yet, I’ll tell them I’m only in high school and that will be that. They’ll whisk me off to some tiny police station in a warm cruiser. Probably wearing an officer’s coat. Maybe they’ll even offer me some hot cocoa. No more riding with these strangers. No more wondering if all these little misfortunes and my suspicions add up to something sinister.

  The door bangs open and my made-for-TV fantasy bursts like a soap bubble. Harper storms in, eyes blotchy and red. I see those spots of blood on her white shirt. She doesn’t look so crisp now. She looks like something terrible has happened. Or like she knows something terrible is coming.

  Harper meets my eyes and stops short.

  I think of her and Brecken—all those close conversations. Josh said there’s something between them, but what? Why the hell would either of them not want to get home?

  I clear my throat. “Are you okay?”

  “I just need a minute,” Harper says, voice rough.

  “If you need to talk—”

  “I don’t,” she snaps. And then she gives me a tight, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I just need a minute. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Josh is waiting just outside the restrooms, leaning heavily on his crutches.

  “Is she all right?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. She didn’t talk. She said she needed a minute.” At the bar, Joyce is watching us with a frown. Then her eyes flick back to the guy at the end of the bar. He’s finished his drink, but still seems to be staring at his lap. I wonder if he’s asleep.

  Between this guy and Kayla, it’s like a sleeping epidemic has hit central Pennsylvania.

  Brecken is back at the table, reaching for Josh’s beer. His own glass sits empty beside him. Kayla watches him, but also steals quick glances at the door like she might bolt. Harper is literally crying in the bathroom, and Josh and I are skulking around the corner whispering. We’re quite a party.

  “Are you okay with Brecken drinking your beer?” I ask Josh.

  “It’s fine. I don’t like to drink.” Then he frowns. “Look, we have a problem.”

  I laugh with zero humor behind it. “You mean aside from the hit-and-run, the missing items, the wrecked car, the snowstorm of historic proportions…”

  Josh doesn’t smile or add anything to my list. “Harper called the police again, to check in since it had been so long.”

  “And?”

  “They’ve picked up the kid and his father and transported them to the hospital.”

  “So, on a bright note, we don’t have a gun-toting gas station owner after us,” I say. Then I pull my lip between my teeth. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know. The cops want a report, but they are still cleaning up I-80, and they have no idea how long it will be.”

  “We’ll have to wait.”

  “Which could be fun,” he says sarcastically. “The bar is closing soon.”

  “That’s right.” I reach for my pocket, then remember my phone is gone. I search the walls, finding an old-fashioned Budweiser wall clock above a row of whiskey bottles. The position of the hands knots my stomach in an instant. “We only have twenty minutes.”

  “Right,” he says.

  Joyce is behind the bar. She’s leaned over, washing glasses in the sinks as far as I can tell. Smitty has finished his drink, and maybe he wants to go home, but he was kind to us once.

  So here goes nothing.

  “Wait.” Josh’s hand lands on my arm after my first step. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to talk to them. If I explain the situation, maybe she’ll understand. Or maybe Smitty will convince her. I don’t know.”

  “You can try, but Harper started bawling at the bar. She wasn’t moved.”

  I sigh. “Great. Okay, then we wait in the parking lot. If the engine is running, we’ll be warm.”

  “Maybe we should find another open restaurant or something,” he says.

  I shake my head. I am done driving with these people. “Everything has gone wrong since we’ve gotten into this car. I’d really rather stay here.”

  Josh looks at me with an expression I can’t read and my neck goes hot. I duck my head.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure I must sound completely paranoid.”

  “You don’t,” he says softly. “Everything has gone wrong.”

  I snap my head up and the intensity in Josh’s eyes is clear, his focus absolute. His gaze flicks around the room—checking to make sure we’re not going to be overheard. Waves of gratitude roll over me, because I’m so glad to not be alone in this moment.

  “I think we need to be careful with Brecken,” he says quietly. “He’s stressed and volatile and he’s trying to pin the blame for what happened to Corey on anyone but himself.”

  I tense. “He’s trying to pin it on you, you mean.”

  He shakes his head, unconcerned. “I don’t care about that. I know what happened and I’m happy to talk to the police.” He ducks toward me and I smell soap. “I’m more worried about Kayla. He keeps making comments about the drug thing. If he paints some picture of a deranged addict, they might buy it.”

  “Kayla wasn’t driving,” I say.

  “I know, I know. I don’t know how he’d do it, but…” He lets out a hard exhale. “I sound crazy. I’m making him out to be a monster. He’s probably just scared.”

  “Maybe,” I say, but I don’t know if I believe that Brecken is afraid. Across the room, he’s sitting at our table, his mouth a hard line and his fists thick and heavy on either side of his empty glass. He looks like he would not hesitate to throw someone else in front of a firing squad if it meant saving his own tail.

  “I just can’t shake the feeling that he’s up to something.”

  Harper steps out of the bathroom and we separate instinctively, Josh’s face going blank. She pauses beside us, taking in the room.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her softly.

  “I’m fine,” she says, and she sounds it. Her eyes are puffy, and those bloodstains aren’t going anywhere, but her hair and skirt are smoothed. She is put together beautifully again, but I know better now. I thought Harper was all the things I wanted to be, but there are two sides to that coin. For every moment she’s held it together, there’s another where she’s fallen to pieces.

  At the bar, Smitty stands up, donning hat and gloves and handing Joyce what looks like a fifty-dollar bill along with a kiss on the cheek. Her eyes well up she tries to give it back, but he refuses, wishing her a Merry Christmas.

  He’s pushing in his bar stool when he pauses, looking over at the man at the end of the bar. I look, too, a chill running up my back. That man still hasn’t moved. Not to pull out a phone or go to the bathroom—he’s somehow downed two drinks, but I haven’t seen him so much as twitch.

  Smitty isn’t smiling at him the way he smiles at everything else. He’s frowning, a deep furrow between his dark brows.

  “Sir, you need to pack up,” Joyce says curtly. “I’m shutting down soon.”

  The whole bar feels like it grinds to a halt. I’m almost convinced that this guy isn’t even alive—he’s tha
t still. I take a couple of steps closer, ready to ask if we should check for a pulse. But then he moves, his hand dragging up to the bar in slow motion. There’s something familiar about the way he moves. Something about his coat, too, when he pulls it on.

  He reaches up to place a few crumpled bills on the bar and my stomach clenches. His fingers are gnarled. His coat is brown. Familiar.

  I take a sharp breath that smells of hospitals and death. And then darkness engulfs me.

  Total, complete darkness. My hands fly out, my throat tight with panic. I find a chair. A table. It is still pitch black.

  “What’s happening?” Harper asks. But it’s obvious. The power has gone out.

  “Just hold on,” Joyce says. “Hold tight. I’m getting a flashlight.”

  “I’ve got my phone,” Smitty says, and a few seconds later, a beam of light pierces the black interior of the bar. I follow the beam, spotting snatches of bar stools. Chair legs. A stranger’s heavy work boots. Thin, ratty hair under a yellow hat. It’s him.

  I can’t breathe. Can’t swallow. He has to be someone else. I have to be mistaken.

  “I’ve got mine, too,” Joyce says, and another beam joins the first. They’re scanning the bar, crisscrossing over the tables and chairs. “Just leave the glasses and dishes and get your coats.”

  “We’re leaving?” Brecken asks, sounding surprised.

  “No power,” Joyce says. “It’s ice that’s done it. Won’t be coming on anytime soon.”

  The beams cross again, and then Smitty holds his on the door, asking if we can see our things. We can. Joyce is checking the bar with hers. She clinks glasses. Rustles something behind the bar. Maybe a purse.

  Then her flashlight beam swings wide, and I see a flash of cardboard-brown coat. He’s moving. Coming at me. I gasp and stumble back, knocking over a chair and falling on my butt.

  Light hits my eyes. I reach up to cover my face.

  “I’m sorry,” Smitty says, averting the beam. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Here’s your coat,” Harper says, and she puts it on me like I’m a little kid.

  I don’t argue with her. I’m too busy listening to those heavy work boots, watching that man—the man I can’t be seeing—walk out of the bar without a word or a backward glance.