Then, without warning, the camera switches to the video Candy provided. It’s shaky and a little fuzzy, filmed on a cheap camera. Maybe a cell phone. But there’s Donovan, at a skating party. I watch him race from one end of the rink to the other, neck and neck with a blond kid who must be one of Candy’s sons. They do it again, flying back to the other side, where they skid to a stop at the end and high-five each other.
There’s another clip after that, but it’s just a few seconds long. This one is of Donovan at the snack bar, cramming cake into his mouth with the same blond kid and generally looking like he’s having the fucking time of his life.
I am certain none of us breathe while the videos play. They were taken two years ago, but he was already tall. Long legs with arms to match. Hair separated into small twists, the start of dreadlocks. Who did his hair? Did Donovan say he wanted dreads? Did Chris pay someone to do it?
“We thought his name was Jamie,” says Candy DeGregorio’s voice in the background. “Look, we live in a small town but we don’t get a lot of bad folks around here and I thought that man was doing a good thing, being a good person and taking in someone who needed help.”
I hate Candy DeGregorio.
I dig my fingernails into my palm as hard as I can because they just keep playing the first video and the more I watch it, the more I wonder if I have any reason to think he didn’t leave on his own. Skating parties? As those few seconds play over and over, I start to reimagine the life he lived. As Jamie Fenner.
Jamie, trekking to school with Candy’s sons, when he could have snuck off to call home and tell us where he was. Jamie, in school, sitting in a classroom with a kind-faced teacher who would have listened to him say his name was really Donovan Pratt. And Jamie with Chris. At home. Eating dinner together and watching TV together and—what? Sleeping in the same bed? Doing the same things Chris and I used to do? Together.
The news plays the video from the skating rink over and over, those few seconds that show us the life he led, that his existence wasn’t only behind closed doors.
Mom’s hand is on my arm. I feel her looking at Dad over the top of my head. I wonder what their eyes are saying, what private conversation they’ve started that will be finished when they’re safe behind their bedroom door.
I shake off my mother’s hand and stand. My copy of Great Expectations falls to the floor and I don’t bother to pick it up. I step over it—on it, cracking the spine for the billionth time—because I have to get out of here right fucking now. I can’t look at Donovan, can’t think about how many more videos and pictures like this exist in shitty towns between here and Nevada.
“Theodora?”
I’m already walking. Out of the den and down the hall, toward the front room. I need my coat. I need my car. I need to get the fuck out of here before I explode.
“I need to go out for a while.” I don’t turn around as I say this. My parents are close behind, their footsteps moving as fast as they can without actually stepping on my heels.
“Theo, sweetheart.” Mom this time, as we round the corner into the living room. “Why don’t you hold on and we can talk about this. I know it was a shock seeing him in that . . . environment, and—”
I shake my head. Tunnel vision. Coat closet. Door. Car. “I don’t want to talk. I want to be alone right now.”
“Theodora.” Dad’s voice is still gentle, but stern enough for me to turn and look at him. “This is confusing and that was hard to watch, but things aren’t always what they seem. Especially in a situation like this where—”
“Then what was it?” I yank open the door to the closet in the foyer. Snatch my coat down from its wooden hanger. “He wasn’t faking. He was—I know what he looks like when he’s happy. He was happy in those videos, so how is it not what it seems?”
“Honey.” Mom moves toward me, her eyes wide and her hands clasped helplessly in front of her soft, camel-colored sweater. “This is one piece to the story, and it’s only the beginning. They—they have to look at all sides, talk to people who knew him while he was away.”
My hand is on the doorknob. I can’t listen to them spout off these things that are supposed to make me feel better but actually make me feel like shit because they’re trying so hard and no matter what they say or do in this moment, it won’t change what I saw. “Please let me go. Please. Please.”
They look at each other and I know they don’t want to say yes, but I’m getting out of this house, with or without their permission. This conversation is just a formality as far as I’m concerned. But I can sound less crazy while we have it. Flies, vinegar, honey, whatever.
“I’ll be safe,” I say. Calmly, and while I look them in the eyes—both of them—so they’ll trust me. “I just need to clear my head. Please don’t make me stay here right now. It’s . . . I feel claustrophobic.”
Dad sighs. “Take your phone. Check in with us in an hour and don’t even think about going into the city. Got it?”
“Got it.” I use my rational voice.
“And Theo,” Mom says as I turn the handle. Her mouth stays open a few moments before she speaks, like an opera singer ready to hit the big note. “We need to talk about you seeing someone. Maybe not tonight, but—soon.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” Wasn’t Juniper Hill sufficient? Three full months in that damn hippie house in the middle of nowhere and they don’t think I’ve had enough therapy?
“Sweetheart, he was your best friend.”
Her mouth turns down and it makes me want to cry, so I say, “Can we talk about this later?” and they nod and I use that moment to slip out the door.
This is the first time since he’s been back that I walk down the driveway without looking at Donovan’s house.
• • •
I end up at Casablanca’s. It’s kind of busy for a Tuesday, but our back booth is open, so I don’t care. I park myself there and wait. For what, I don’t know. I don’t even care if Jana comes over to take my order. I just needed to sit down somewhere away from my parents and make sense of what I saw.
I always knew how much Donovan liked Chris. I would have run away with Chris if he’d asked me. I didn’t know what to call how I felt for him, but it was addictive. I’d never wanted to please someone so much. Even when he didn’t deserve it, I wanted to be the one who made him happy.
But he didn’t ask me. He went with Donovan.
I look around the diner, at the plain white walls, broken up by random pieces of retro art. Generic portraits of bouquets and New England landscapes and a sun setting over a beach somewhere. Framed pieces you’d buy from a flea market, probably castoffs from a doctor’s waiting room.
“Your partners in crime ditch you?”
Jana. Usually I can hear her coming from a mile away. Her overdramatic sighs and the fact that she’s always yelling at someone over her shoulder give her away. I stare up at her blankly.
“They’re . . . they’re not here.”
She squints at me like I’m up to no good. “Well, what are you having?”
“Tea,” I say, as I kick my foot against the bottom of the bench seat across from me. The resulting thump sounds good to my ears, feels good on the toe of my boot.So I do it again.
“What kind?”
“Chamomile.” Thump, thump.
“That all?”
Thump, thump.
I nod and she stares at me until finally I say, “What?”
“First of all, you can stop taking out your problems on my booth. Second, you’re going to sit here in this big old booth to drink a cup of tea?” She rests a hand on her bony hip. Her fingernails are painted a bright red and it’s a strange contrast against the veins that crisscross the back of her hand. “What’s your deal, girl? You come in here every week and stare at that menu, stare at everyone’s food, and you never order more than a cup of soup.”
<
br /> I stop the kicking, but give her the dirtiest look I can muster. “How is that your business? I’m still a paying customer.”
She lets out her signature sigh before turning around.
“I’m a regular, too,” I call after her.
She pretends not to hear me.
I’m sitting with my back to the rest of the diner, with just the dingy wall ahead of me, but I wish I’d brought something to do. Even my English essay would be better than nothing, because when I’m doing nothing, all I think about is Donovan and Chris.
Without Sara-Kate and Phil to distract me, I’m entirely too aware of every sound in the diner, from the dinging of the register to the person who keeps scratching a fork across their plate like nails down a chalkboard. I’m also aware of the heavy footsteps approaching my table. Different from the reluctant trudge of Jana’s, these are slow but purposeful. When I look up, Hosea Roth stands next to me, holding a white take-out bag.
“I thought that was you,” he says with a hesitant smile. Hesitant because I look as unhinged as I feel? Or because he’s here alone and I’m here alone, and we keep ending up in the same places? Alone.
He’s wearing a jacket this time. A black one over the same gray hooded sweatshirt. I find myself wondering again about the black T-shirt. Maybe it’s not part of his uniform in the cooler months. I don’t say anything. I just stare at his jacket and think how strange it is that he’s suddenly around all the time. There’s always been some overlap in our circle of friends since I got to high school, but he was just Phil’s dealer. Until now. I never really thought about him before he showed up at my dance studio, because I didn’t know how much there is to like about him.
“Theo? Everything okay?”
“Where are you going?” I ask, turning the pepper shaker around the table in wide, slow circles.
Because I want to know, but asking also means I don’t have to answer his question.
Hosea is taken aback and I guess I shouldn’t have asked but I don’t care. If nothing else makes sense today I don’t have to, either.
“Home, I guess. Had to make a drop-off at this party a couple of blocks away.” His cheeks are two pink circles again, flushed from the cold. I want to press my hands over them.
“Oh.” I look down at the table again. Squeeze my fingers around the pepper shaker. Wish the news that he’s not staying wasn’t so disappointing.
He opens his mouth. Pauses, then: “You look pretty bummed. You sure everything’s okay?”
I abandon the pepper, poke my finger at the yellow stuffing that bursts through the cracked red vinyl of the booth. “I saw Donovan on the news tonight. There was video. From when he was gone. He was laughing, like those people were his friends.”
Hosea looks at me for a while before he speaks, his gray eyes searching my face like he doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for. “I don’t have to be home right away. Want to go for a drive? It helps clear my head sometimes.”
“Okay.” It’s automatic, though I still have an English essay to finish, I barely know him, and he has a girlfriend. But it’s just a drive, and maybe it will clear my head.
“Then let’s go.” He cocks his head toward the door, but not impatiently.
Still, I shrug into my jacket right away, afraid he’ll revoke the invitation if I don’t move. On the way out, I stop in front of the counter and stare at Jana until she looks over, annoyed. She’s flirting with a trucker young enough to be her son.
“What?” she spits out.
“Never mind on that tea. I have to go.”
“You kids keep coming in here and ordering things then disappearing and wasting my time, I’m gonna make sure you don’t come back.”
“You love us too much to do that,” I say, and I even manage a smile in response to her scowl because I know how much it bothers her. “See you Thursday!”
She grumbles and waves me away and it’s just as well, because Hosea is waiting.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HOSEA STEERS THE CAR WITH ONE HAND AND HOLDS A SANDwich in the other. A BLT. An unlikely choice for eating and driving, but he’s surprisingly graceful.
His car is a carrot-colored hatchback with a faded black racing stripe down the center. It only starts after a couple of tries. It’s cramped inside, so small that his seat is pushed back almost twice as far as mine to accommodate his long legs. My eyes sweep over the pack of cloves in the console and I think about Ellie, how she’d be furious if she could see me sitting here right now. But she won’t find out. Somehow, I know Hosea won’t say anything to her any sooner than I will. And knowing I have a secret with him is even more satisfying than Ellie learning we hung out alone.
There’s hardly any traffic. Everything in Ashland Hills shuts down by nine and it’s a quarter till. I stood outside the cloudy windows of Casablanca’s as I called my parents. I looked in at Jana and the trucker as I told my father I stopped by Sara-Kate’s house, that I’d be home soon. It’s safer than Phil’s; he lives so close that they could easily bump into him or his mother.
Hosea doesn’t talk much. He’s eating and the radio doesn’t work but the silence makes me nervous. I don’t know him well enough to be comfortable, to guess what he’s thinking. To wonder if he regrets inviting me to go on this drive. I watch him take another huge bite of his sandwich, watch his jaw move sternly as he chews. I watch all of this from the corner of my eye and then, just before he takes another bite, I say, “Are you going to study music next year?”
He lowers the sandwich a bit and looks over at me like I’m crazy. “What, like major in piano?”
I shrug. “Lots of people do.”
We’re driving through downtown Ashland Hills, which is just three short blocks with the usual suspects lined up on each side: the supermarket, bank, library, coffee shops, boutiques, and restaurants. We don’t have a local dance studio, which is why I ended up at Marisa’s. My parents like living in a small community—they say it’s easier to get things done. Chicago is loud and busy, but sometimes I think I’d rather deal with the hassle than live in a town where everybody knows your business.
Hosea eases his foot down on the brake as we approach a stop sign. “I’ve never thought about studying music,” he finally says. “Not seriously.”
“Why not?” I inhale and decide I like the smell of his hatchback. There’s an old-car mustiness to it, but it’s mostly cloves and that familiar boy smell, like deodorant and soap and a hint of sweat.
Hosea finishes the last bite of his sandwich and brushes his hands against his jeans before we start moving again. “You know you have to be good enough to even audition for one of those places, right?”
“But you are good enough.” I look at him, think about the way he turns into a different person when he sits behind the piano. How he makes such familiar pieces sound brand-new, how beautiful and evocative the notes become under his fingers. He doesn’t say anything and that’s when it hits me. “Is that why you asked me not to tell anyone about your job at the studio? You don’t think you’re good enough?”
“I know I’m not. I should be competing or performing by now.” He pauses. “I haven’t even taken lessons since I lived in Omaha. I’m not exactly on the fast track to a conservatory.”
“Some people don’t need lessons.” I fold my hands in my lap. “It’s called raw talent.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” His grin makes my face warm and I look out the window because I don’t know what to say.
We wind through the quiet streets in silence for a while. Pass the Ashland Hills train station, then loop over to Klein’s neighborhood. The hatchback’s engine thrums as we drive by the sprawling houses, some of them dark save for the glowing porch lights.
“Whose party were you at earlier?” I ask when the silence is too much. It’s not uncomfortable, but with the radio broken, it’s easy to let my thoughts wan
der back to Donovan.
“No one from school. Just this guy I used to be friends with.” He shakes his head. “That’s the last time I’m going over there, though. He’s in over his head.”
“How do you mean?” I look out the window at an older woman walking her terrier. She’s bundled up in a parka, scarf, mittens, and a knitted hat, like it’s February. The dog is utterly unconcerned, taking his time as he finds the perfect place to relieve himself.
Hosea pauses, then: “He’s into some hard shit now. Shit I don’t touch.”
I look back at him because his voice changed. It’s more serious. Somber, almost. “Like what?”
“Like everything. Tonight it was crystal.”
Oh. Nobody at school messes with meth. “How do you know him?”
“He was the first person I met when I moved here. He’s a couple years older, but he grew up around the corner from my Grams and he was always cool to me, you know?” Hosea sighs. “He’s the closest thing I ever had to a brother and now it’s like I don’t know him.”
“That’s how I feel about Donovan.” I absently run my index finger along the cracked dash, come away with a fingertip of dust. “I mean, sort of.”
We’re at the edge of town now, where the houses thin out and give way to more land. He pulls off to the side of the road near a paved driveway with a closed gate and a large house set back from the street, shadowed by trees. Hosea leaves the car running for the heat.
He fiddles with the pack of cloves in the console but never attempts to take one out of the box. “Klein said you were with Donovan before he disappeared.”
“Yeah.” I shift in my seat as I think about that morning.
I’d walked in the unlocked front door of Donovan’s house like I always did, because the rest of his family was gone. His mother was on her way into the city to open the museum gift shop while his father dropped off Julia at kindergarten on his way to the office.
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