Rachael had been harassing her ever since.
Brea kept her time with Jaxon a secret to avoid making that worse. Not even Harmony knew she was seeing him.
Rachael stepped out of her car, commanding attention with an air of control that came as natural to her as breathing. Brea couldn’t help looking at her. Five-foot-seven, blue eyes, and skin the color of light caramel—she was a born leader.
Brea’s diametric opposite.
Rachael met up with Amanda and Becky and exchanged exaggerated conversation.
“Again? Really?” and “OMG can you believe it?”
Brea didn’t have to guess what they were talking about. She’d heard the news already.
The girls walked toward her, pointing and laughing, and only stopped when Adam barreled down the bus loop, tires screeching and white smoke pouring from the exhaust of the albatross of a truck he’d put together at his shop.
Brea called it “Frankentruck”, an amalgam of Chevys bound for the scrap yard that Adam had painted flat black. He’d replaced the grill with chrome fangs undoubtedly meant to intimidate, and jacked the truck up on enormous tires worth more than the vehicle. He let it idle in a no parking zone and gave Harmony a long kiss.
Harmony shot Rachael a look that had her pulling Becky’s sleeve and walking the other direction.
“I’ll see you at three.”
Harmony had to jump down from the truck to get out. “Unless I call earlier.” She hadn’t put in a full day of school in over a week.
Deathcore vibrated through the speakers, rattling the license plates.
Harmony crushed out a cigarette under the heel of her calf-high black boots and waved.
Rachael rolled her eyes, still spreading the buzz.
“What the hell’s her problem?” Harmony said.
Even through a layer of pancake makeup Brea could see the dark circles under Harmony’s eyes. She was wearing a pair of fishnet tights, a pleated black and purple plaid skirt, a sleeveless top, and the boots that were possibly her defining wardrobe staple. She was shivering and the rows of bracelets covering her scars jingled. Brea took a black hoodie out of her backpack and yanked off the tags. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Take this.” She wasn’t sure how to break the news.
“We aren’t the same size. It’ll never fit me.” Harmony, not one for taking handouts, pushed the sweatshirt back toward Brea. “What haven’t I heard?”
“I told my mother I needed a medium so I could layer. Take it.”
Harmony put the sweatshirt on. It fit perfectly. She wasn’t much for saying thank you. Brea didn’t need her to. Harmony would do anything for her and she knew it.
“What didn’t I hear, Brea?”
“I overheard my parents talking. Uncle Jim picked your mother up again.” Her uncle was a cop.
“Drugs?”
“Not this time. In and out with an appearance ticket for a drunk and disorderly. She got belligerent with Jack over at Rite Way Liquor.”
“He probably cut her off again.” Harmony chuckled nervously, but Brea could see she was relieved. She needed to get through the next six months without her mother being incarcerated or else Child Protective Services was going to send her back to the foster family she’d made out to be the Mansons. “Dodged another bullet, right?”
“I guess.” Brea started toward the entrance when the bell rang. “It might be a good time to get some of your stuff if she’s sober.”
Harmony rolled her eyes. “Charity Wolcott is never sober.”
“Fair enough, but it’s going to be winter in a couple months. You at least need a jacket.”
“Look, if this is about the sweatshirt—” She started to take it off and her bracelets caught on the cuff.
“It’s not that. Do you have any idea how many clothes my mother buys me that I never wear? At least it’s getting used. I’ll tell her I lost it at school if she asks, but—”
“But what? Spit it out.”
“Maybe you’d feel better getting whatever you have to say to her off your chest.”
“What makes you think I have anything to say?”
“The bags under your eyes, for one. It’s not all black eyeliner. What’s going on, Harmony? You’re wearing me out trying to stay up with you. Is it that nightmare again?” Brea opened her locker and grabbed her first period books off the shelf.
“It doesn’t feel like a nightmare, Brea.”
“What does it feel like then?”
“Like a memory.” She let out a frustrated growl on the third time trying her combination.
“Here, hold these.” Brea handed over her books and opened Harmony’s locker.
“There.” She took her books back, watching Harmony sift through the disaster of a locker that looked lived out of.
“The same nightmare at the same time every night. What if there’s more to it?” She handed Brea a book she had checked out of the town library. The water-stained cover had warped and the pages smelled like mold. Brea had to open to the title page to see what it was.
“Entities: Spirits, Demons, and Angels.” She closed the book and gave it back to Harmony, uncomfortable with this particular brand of insanity.
“Harm, not again—”
“Hear me out. I’ve been reading about the ghosts of people who don’t know they’re dead. What if the dream is someone’s way of trying to tell me something?”
“Someone dead?” Brea raised her eyebrows. She knew better than to use the word “crazy” with Harmony, but it’s exactly how she sounded. “I like a good mystery as much as the next girl, but this is—”
The first period bell rang, keeping her from having to label her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Maybe I am crazy, Harmony thought, though Brea knew better than to use the word. Sitting outside of the run-down trailer she formerly called home, she couldn’t help thinking it was no wonder.
“Are you ready?” Adam cut the Chevy’s engine, silencing the rumbling exhaust.
“As I’ll ever be.”
It was Harmony’s first time home in months. She postponed the visit as long as she could, but now that fall was giving in to winter, she needed warmer clothes and to address the thing she’d put off too long: the visit with the court-ordered psychologist. They were supposed to go on a monthly basis. Her mother only managed to make the first appointment and Harmony was out of excuses. Missing the next one for any reason was as detrimental as her mother going back to jail. Either way she was back in the system. Child Protective Services loomed as an ominous threat, one which had been in her life for as long as she could remember. She was wrong to think their interest in her would stop even this close to eighteen.
The security light on the trailer next door glistened across the frosty lawn, burning through the windshield like a spotlight. Her mother’s trailer was dark and she wondered if she was even home.
“Grab the flashlight, would you?”
Adam took a light from under the driver’s seat and hopped down from the truck.
Harmony was already halfway across the lawn.
“Here.” He handed it over, having to jog to catch up with her.
Harmony aimed the beam at the cracked terra cotta pot on the brick paver patio uneven from years of frost and snow. “Key’s under there.” The plant inside had long been dead, lending nothing to the curb appeal of a place that already looked condemnable. The hidden key was her mother’s way of accommodating late night clients and one of the many reasons she couldn’t stand to sleep there.
Adam tipped the pot. “No key.”
Harmony grunted and scaled the rotting stairs, dreading the possibility of walking in on her mother with a John.
“Be careful.” Adam held her waist to keep her from falling through the collapsing porch.
Rusty nails stuck out in spikes, pulled from the wood. The metal door was ajar and had several new dents.
She hadn’t been there five minutes and a
lready couldn’t wait to leave.
“Let’s get this over with.” She pushed the door and met with unexpected resistance. A half-foot gap offered her passage, but she wasn’t sure Adam could fit. She shined the light inside, reached for the switch to the right of the door, and flipped it. “Power’s off.”
No surprise there.
“Let me go first.” Adam opened the folding knife he took from his pocket.
“Put that away. It’ll be fine.” Harmony squeezed through the door sideways, focusing the light on the floor by the door. Dust motes swirled in the air like snow. The ice-cold room smelled of stale cigarette smoke and vomit. “Mom!”
Charity lay on the floor, blocking the door.
Harmony grabbed one of her feet and pulled her limp body the few inches she needed to make enough room for Adam to get inside. She dropped to her knees and felt for a pulse. It was weak, but there. The acrid smell of whiskey spilled from between her mother’s cracked lips. Her left eye was black and blue and swollen.
“Mom, please answer me.” Harmony smoothed the tangles of dirty blond hair back from her mother’s face. Her hand came away sticky. She held it in front of the flashlight and saw blood streaking her fingertips. “She’s hurt.”
One of her “boyfriends”, a term her mother preferred to “client” or “John”, had most likely gotten rough with her.
“Here, hold this.”
Adam focused the beam like a spotlight.
Harmony assessed the damages.
Her mother’s denim mini skirt was twisted up around her waist. The tank top that may have once been white was torn, slung over one shoulder, exposing a jagged scar than ran from beneath her left breast to just above her hip.
Harmony looked up to see Adam staring at it.
“Get me something wet to wash her face with.” She pulled her mother’s shirt and skirt down and noted that one side of her underwear had been torn clean through. There were bruises on her thigh from force. Tears welled up in her eyes, but having seen this before, she refused to cry. She reached back to grab the afghan off the tattered recliner and used it to cover her mother, rubbing her hands gently across her bruised arms and legs in an attempt at both waking her and warming her dusky, cold skin.
“Here.” Adam held out a wet kitchen towel.
Harmony applied it to her mother’s head. Charity sat up, screaming.
“It’s okay, Mom. It’s me. Harmony.”
“Help! Get off of me!”
Charity swung.
Adam caught her hand right before it connected with Harmony’s cheek. “Leave her alone.”
“Get out of my house!” Charity rolled onto her knees, her movements uncoordinated and sloppy, and swung again, the side of her fist glancing off of Adam’s chin.
“Mom, stop.”
“Leave me alone!” Charity tried to scratch Adam and narrowly missed, catching a hold of his sleeve. It was as if she came to in the middle of whatever fight she’d been in. They couldn’t get her out of attack mode.
Adam wrestled her into a cross-legged sitting position and held her arms behind her back, refusing to let go.
“Don’t hurt her,” Harmony said.
“Hurt her? She tried to punch me in the face.”
“She’s confused. Mom, can you hear me?”
Charity fought Adam with all the strength she had left, squirming like a small child wriggling to get free. “Get off of me! You hear? Get off!”
Adam locked his grip. “She’s tough, I’ll give her that.”
It was a trait she’d passed on.
“Mom, please, you’re fine. It’s all over. You’re going to be okay.”
“I. Said. Get. Off.”
Adam let out a pained grunt when Charity’s bony elbow connected with his ribs. “How long are we going to keep this up?”
Harmony hauled off and slapped her.
A string of unintelligible slurs spilled from Charity’s mouth. The best Harmony could make out was that it was some kind of apology.
“Let her go.” Adam shook his head. “I said let her go.” Harmony licked her finger and wiped at the streak of blood on her mother’s cheek. She lifted the stretched tank top strap onto her bony shoulder and brushed her hair back from her eyes a second time.
It was like someone flipped a switch.
Charity threw her arms around Harmony’s neck and held on for dear life. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
It was the kind of lie you only believe the first time. Harmony half-heartedly returned the embrace and shifted her mother’s weight to help her stand. “Can you walk?”
Charity pulled her legs underneath her, her range of movement limited as she tried to get to her feet.
“Help me get her up.”
Adam grabbed underneath her armpits and lifted. The blanket fell to the ground around her and her panties dangled from one foot. Harmony unhooked them from her heel to keep her from tripping.
“Get her to the couch.”
Adam dragged Charity across the cluttered floor. “We should call the police.”
“No police!” Charity said. “No. Police.”
“Watch your step.” Adam nodded his head toward the pile of burnt-to-the-filter cigarettes and the broken glass ashtray at Harmony’s feet. A blood smear darkened the rim.
“That’s probably what the asshole hit her with.”
“No police!”
“No police,” Harmony agreed. “That’s not going to help anyone’s situation.” By that she meant hers and she could see Adam understood that. “Sit with her a minute.” Adam sat on the couch while Harmony fetched a glass of water and two aspirin from the kitchen. “Mom, how long has the power been off?” She handed the glass to Adam who helped Charity sip it with the pills. The left side of her jaw was swollen and it seemed to affect her opening her mouth. “How long?”
Charity swallowed and stared vacantly ahead.
“If CPS gets notified that the power’s shut off again, they’ll be here sooner than later.”
Adam looked panicked. “I’ll call tomorrow and see if I can make a partial payment to get it turned back on, at least to buy some time until your appointment.”
“The appointment’s tomorrow, Adam, and there’s no way we can take her to Bennett looking like this.”
“Tell him there was a billing error, that things got crossed in the mail and that everything’s better. Maybe if you tell him before your case worker does, it’ll look like you’re being up front.”
“The power’s the least of my problems.” Harmony dabbed at the trickle of blood rolling down her mother’s gaunt cheek. “I’m definitely going to have to go alone.”
“And say she’s where?”
“I’ll think of something.” Harmony sighed. “Right now I just want to get out of here.”
“We can’t leave her. She’ll freeze.”
As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Adam was right.
“Hang on a minute. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To buy some more time.”
It was the story of her life.
She navigated the cluttered, narrow hallway by flashlight and stumbled into the back bedroom that was once hers. The mattress on the floor, covered in mismatched sheets, had recently been slept in. She tried not to think too hard about by whom. Her closet door hung half off the track. When she tried to fix it, the bracket holding the wheel broke and the door crushed her fingers. She let out a yelp.
“Everything all right?” Adam said.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” She set the door against the wall, filled an old backpack with as many warm clothes as it would hold, and slung the strap over her shoulder. “I’ll be right out.”
She could hear her mother dry heaving in the living room. The sound echoed in a pan or pail. She hurried, shining the light on the kerosene heater in the corner and letting out a relieved sigh to see it hadn’t been stolen or sold. A gift from a concerned neighbor, the heater was
only one of the dozen band-aids put on her life.
Taking care of her mother had hardened her into someone who thought nothing of leaving her drunk, starving, and beaten with nothing but portable heat. It was more concern than she’d ever been shown. She shook the heater, relieved to hear the swish of fuel inside, and stepped over a pile of clutter to get a two handed grip. It was heavier than she remembered. She grunted when she lifted it, freezing when she saw the clock on her nightstand had stopped dead at 2:34 AM.
CHAPTER SIX
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Adam said for at least the tenth time since leaving the trailer.
“I’m fine.” Harmony said.
“Fine. Fine means you’re angry. Fine means, ‘I don’t want to talk about it’.”
“Then I don’t want to talk about it.” Harmony opened the door to Adam’s apartment, relieved to be home.
“The expression on your face when you came out of that room—”
“What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ don’t you get? How could you even see my face with the power off?”
“You were holding a flashlight. Besides, I know when you’re hiding something. Why won’t you talk to me?”
“Because there’s nothing to talk about. I need you to drop me at the mall tomorrow so I can see if anyone’s hiring again. I’ll find a way to pay you back for the electricity bill.”
Adam set Harmony’s backpack on the counter and pulled her to him despite her resistance.
“You don’t have to be so damn tough all the time,” he said. “Not with me.” He held her until she relaxed.
“I know. I’m just not used to being helped.”
“Well, you better get used to it,” he smiled, “because I’m not going anywhere.”
The sentiment unnerved her.
She had built her life around not needing anyone—not a mother, or father, or boyfriend—because she’d learned the hard way that, in the end, everyone was only out for themselves. She reached for her bag and stepped away from him. Too much had happened and it was getting late. She pulled open the refrigerator and took a beer from the top shelf.
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