by C. C. Hunter
I hate admitting it, but she’s got me pegged. “Yeah. It’s just . . . too soon.” Deep down I also know the reason I don’t want to spend more time with him is because of my promise to Hayden. And if Jacob asks me out or something . . .
“Please! It’s been a year and a half since Carl,” Kelsey says.
“But what about Jacob? As it is, Jami hates me. If I start dating her ex right after they’ve broken up, she might really come after my ass.”
“You’re scared of her?”
“No . . . Yes. I just don’t want trouble.”
“Is that really what’s stopping you?”
“Yes . . . No.” I drop my head on the table.
Kelsey chuckles. “Boys rebound fast.”
I lift up. “I don’t want to be his rebound girl. I’m not sure I want to be his anything.” And even as I say it, there’s a little part of me that knows I’m kind of lying. But then that little part of me feels guilty because . . . because I still like Hayden.
She lifts a brow not buying it. “You like him. You said so when we first met.”
I scoop up a big spoonful of chocolate turtle ice cream. “Okay, I’m not sure I want to be his anything . . . right now. I need to focus on me. Make me a better me before I become part of a we.”
Kelsey gives me a where-the-shit-did-that-come-from look. “What magazine did you get that crap out of?”
I frown. “Seventeen.”
She bursts out laughing, and so do I. It’s one of those friendship moments that soothes life’s rough spots. And lord knows, I’ve got a lot of rough spots right now.
We’re barely back to work on homework when the bell over the door dings. I look up and two men walk in wearing coveralls splotched in splatters of color and the smell of fresh paint. They must be working on one of the new constructions nearby. Then suddenly I’m drawn to the fact that they are the same size, have the same . . . face. They have to be brothers.
And bam, I recall the whole weird sibling conversation with my friendly school cashier.
One of the men turns and looks at me. Right at me. Something about him reminds me of Evil Bill. But of course, it’s not him. Then another realization dawns, and this one sends chills down my spine.
Evil Bill could have a twin, or at least a brother. I never finished reading the obituary to see if it stated the family that survived him. But that would explain how William “Bill” Griffin could be dead. His brother could’ve taken his name.
Then an equally puzzling and disturbing question hits. Why did the cashier mention siblings to me? Could she have been trying to give me a clue?
No, right? That couldn’t be.
Chapter Nineteen
Hanging on to my one suspicion about Evil Bill, I practically run into my house. Right before I take off upstairs, I look over at the dining room, hoping Hayden is there. He’s not.
“You here?” I say and wait, hoping I’ll see him. I take a deep breath, searching for his scent.
I see nothing. Smell nothing. The emptiness echoes in my chest. I miss him.
Still on a mission, I take the stairs two at a time, toss my backpack on the bed, and snag my laptop.
In a few keys strokes I’m up and running and typing William Griffin’s name into the search engine.
Links come up. I clink on one and the obituary flashes on the screen. I scan it quickly to see if they include the family members of the deceased. And there it is. I read the list of names, including his wife, his kids, and then I find what I suspected: his brother, Allen Marcus Griffin.
I jump screens and go back to Google and type in the name.
My heart slams into my chest when the first link I open is an article about Allen Griffin’s trial and the seven years he got in prison for rape. Then I see his projected release date: 2017. He’s been out of jail almost a year. He’s been out and he’s using his dead brother’s identity.
The fact that I was close enough for him to touch me makes my skin crawl. The fact that we shared the same air makes my lung go on strike. Just thinking about that man makes my blood fizzy. But knowing that he raped Abby just strengthens my resolve to stop him. To make him pay.
I remember Hayden’s idea of writing the letter. Of getting Abby to tell me exactly what happened and then writing it in a letter as if Evil Bill had tried the same thing with me, but I escaped. Then I could say that when I saw the news about Abby Howard, I worried that her death wasn’t an accident.
Now I can also tell them what I discovered about Bill Griffin. That I believe he’s really Allen Griffin. Surely that will be enough evidence for the police to look into him themselves. Hayden also suggested I send a letter to Abby’s parents and a reporter. Perhaps the reporter is a good idea, just in case the police don’t take my letter seriously, but her parents?
I recall seeing the tears in Ms. Howard’s eyes. I think she’s been hurt enough. No letter to her mom.
Mind made up, I want to move forward. But there’s no moving until . . . I stand and glance up at the ceiling. “Abby, I need to talk to you. If you’re around please come see me.”
I don’t see her or smell jasmine so I drop back down on the bed. But then I remember the weird cashier. Chills march like soldiers up my backbone.
What does she know? And how? I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. There’s only one way to find out. I’m going to have to ask.
• • •
The next day before lunch I go hide out in the bathroom and text Kelsey to go ahead and get her food, I’m running late. Truth is, I don’t want to explain to her the strange questions I’ll be asking the cashier. I tossed and turned last night, coming up with questions. Why did you bring up siblings? Did you know it was the piece of a puzzle I needed?
Waiting for a good five minutes, I leave the bathroom. My stomach is in my throat. I’m not so sure why it scares me to even ask the questions, but it does.
When I walk into the lunchroom, I’m assaulted by the smell of fish sticks. Ugh. I spot Kelsey at our regular table and offer her a quick wave, then I get in line. I grab some chicken fingers and fries, and keep moving toward the cashier. I feel my pulse flutter at the base of my neck. I repeat the questions in my head. Once. Twice.
I can do this.
I can.
I avoid looking in the cash register’s general direction for fear I’ll chicken out. But as I move closer, I realize that before asking the question, I owe her a thank you. It occurs to me that I don’t even know her name.
It’s only when I’m next in line and I’m reaching for a bottle of water that I allow myself a quick glance at her.
The cold, damp plastic bottle slips through my fingers. I kneel down and pick it up and glance at the cashier again. Sitting in the same seat, taking money is a dark-haired woman. She isn’t the blonde, blue-eyed, forty-something-year-old woman who’s usually there. I stand up, relieved she’s not here, but somehow disturbed as well. I want answers.
I need answers.
The student in front of me pockets her change and walks off. When I step in front of the new cashier, I force myself to ask, “Uh, where’s the woman who usually works here?”
The new cashier looks up. “She had a family emergency and has taken a leave of absence. That’ll be four dollars and fifty-two cents.”
I hand her my five-dollar bill and fight the crazy feeling that the weird cashier’s absence is a strange coincidence. Is she avoiding me? But how could she know I’d get up the nerve to ask questions?
The answer tiptoes over my mind. Perhaps the same way she had clues for me.
I take my change and turn away, trying to tell myself I’m making more of this than I should.
“Wait,” she says.
I turn around.
“You aren’t Riley Smith, are you?” the new cashier asks.
I hold my breath. “Yes. Why?”
“This was left in the register with your name on it.” She pulls out a small envelope and holds it out to me.
I gri
p my tray tight with one hand and take the small invitation-sized envelope and stick it in my pocket.
“Thank you,” I say and turn away, hoping I don’t appear as shocked as I feel.
I take two steps away from the register and glance at the cafeteria doors. I want to take off out of the lunchroom and go read it, now. Right now. Then I see Kelsey looking up as if she’s waiting on me. My gut says it wouldn’t be wise to read it in front of Kelsey. My gut also says that someway, somehow, the old cashier knows my secrets.
“I wonder what happened to your friendly cashier,” Kelsey says when I join her.
“She took a family leave,” I say.
“You asked?” She sounds surprised.
“Yeah.” I look away, hoping to derail the conversation.
Time passes with the speed of a turtle on muscle relaxers. My mind is on what’s in the envelope in my pocket and not on my barely-touched now-cold fries and chicken fingers still on my tray. The clink and clatter of lunchroom noises accompanied by a crescendo of teen voices echoes around us.
I’m literally counting the seconds to the bell when I realize that Kelsey isn’t her chatty self.
“You’re quiet,” I say.
“So,” she snaps.
“What’s with you?” I ask. When she doesn’t answer, I look away.
After a few seconds, she blurts out, “Today’s my grandmother’s birthday.”
I look back at her. “I’m sorry.”
“Not as much as me.” She glances around as if checking to make sure no one is eavesdropping, then she leans in. “It feels like a part of me is missing. I’ve always felt like that because of my dad. Now my grandmother’s gone too. And she was like this link to the African American part of me. Now that link’s gone and I’m not sure I’ll ever figure myself out.”
Her words echo inside me. “I kind of feel that way too. About my mom. I don’t know exactly who I am because I don’t know who she was.”
“So we’re both messed up,” Kelsey says. “That’s why we’re friends.”
She’s trying to make light of it, but I know it’s heavy. “Yeah. I guess. Or maybe it just takes time. When we get older we’ll figure it out.”
Kelsey makes a face. “You say that as if adults have all the answers. I personally think they are screwed up worse than us. Look where my mom’s choices landed her and me. She has shoes that have lasted longer than most of her relationships. She’s been beaten. I don’t have a father and I’ve cohabitated with four of her live-in boyfriends, who’ve walked in and then out of my life.”
I think about my dad and realize I can’t disagree with Kelsey’s assessment. Parents are just as screwed up as us. “Then maybe our only choice is to learn from their mistakes, and our own.”
My first mistake to come to mind is letting things go as far as they did with Hayden. At least I’m trying to fix that one. I just wish it didn’t hurt so much.
The bell rings and I’m ready to run to see what’s in that envelope, but looking up, I see hurt and grief in Kelsey’s eyes. Wanting to end on a good note, I recall Dad’s invitation for Kelsey to come with us to the car show on Friday.
I throw it out there and she accepts immediately, even sounds a little excited about it. Then we go our separate ways.
I head straight to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall and pull the note out.
Standing there, my almost-empty stomach fluttering with nerves, I finally open it. I rip the seal and get a damn paper cut. I pull air in through my teeth, making a hissing sound.
I stare at the line of blood appearing on the pad of my index finger. It stings badly, but that’s not going to stop me for one more second. I pull the card out and open it up, eager to see what the weird cashier wrote to me.
I stare at the neat handwriting and read the two words, only two words, written on the card.
You’re welcome.
I don’t know whether to be pissed, amused, or disturbed.
I’m going with disturbed.
• • •
That afternoon, I find my house empty again, except for Pumpkin. No Hayden. No Abby. “Abby, I need to see you,” I say aloud. My voice seems to echo on the empty white walls.
I feed my cat and finish my homework. It only takes fifteen minutes. Then I’m bored. I recall Kelsey being so quiet on the ride home from school. No doubt thinking about Bessie’s birthday.
I suddenly feel like a terrible friend for not suggesting we hang out. Mind made up, I grab my purse and keys and take off. When I pass the grocery store, I get an idea and pull in. I buy a marble cake and some birthday candles.
I drive to Kelsey’s house, and before getting out I check to see if Jacob’s truck is parked next door. It isn’t. I can only hope he doesn’t come home and decide to pay me a visit over here.
Supplies in hand, I knock on the door. Kelsey answers, her eyes a bit puffy. She’s been crying. I suddenly wonder if the cake and candles are a bad idea. But it’s too late to change my mind.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi.” She glances down at the cake. “What’s this?”
“I thought we should celebrate your grandmother’s birthday.”
Tears instantly well up in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I thought it’d help. I guess it’s a stupid idea.”
She sighs. “Not stupid,” she says. “Come in.”
I follow her into the kitchen and set the cake on the table. Then I pull out the pack of candles. She looks at me. “Thanks.”
“It’s nothing,” I say.
“No, it’s something. It’s you being a friend. I forgot how nice that can be.”
• • •
Thursday, after the last school bell rings, I head to my locker, feeling generally pissed. I haven’t seen Hayden or Abby, but last night the ghost of that angry convict followed Dad home. I managed to pretend I didn’t see or hear him, but his rage rubbed off on me. I feel it buzzing in my blood. Part of it may be from what I’m going through with Dad. Oh, he’s waking up on his own now, but he walks around with this look of guilt on his face and he’s being extra nice. I know something is up, I just don’t how to approach it, to make him face it, to fix it.
The school’s-out hall noises echo around me. Everyone just wants to go home. Me included. I grab my books from my locker and slam my door a little hard.
“Hmm, what did that door do to you?” Jacob asks, appearing at my side.
“Nothing,” I say, trying to blow off steam, and meet his eyes.
He smiles. “I’m a good listener.”
“I’ll remember that,” I say.
“Want to hang out after school?” His shoulder comes against mine. The touch is warm, but not completely welcome. His scent reaches my nose. It’s a boy smell, but not the one I’m missing so much.
I immediately recall my promise to Hayden, but . . . “Can’t today,” I say. And it’s true. I need to stay home and wait for Abby and Hayden.
He leans closer. “Still not giving up.” His breath whispers across my cheek.
His next move leaves me stunned. He presses his lips to my cheek. It’s quick, so fast that to complain about it sounds silly, and then he’s gone. I stand there for several seconds, then brush my hand over my cheek, wishing he hadn’t done that. Wishing my heart hadn’t responded so much when he did it. I’m so damn confused!
I walk to the parking lot, and there’s a cold breeze that my light hoodie isn’t holding up against. I crawl into my car, grip the steering wheel, and just sit there. Kelsey had a dentist appointment and left early. I’m alone. I’m lonely.
I miss Hayden. I lean my forehead against my steering wheel and fight back the tears.
• • •
At five o’clock that afternoon, the stark silence in the house finally breaks me. My patience snaps with it. I have to write that letter to stop Evil Allen. I grab my keys and head out. I’m done waiting for Abby. Since she isn’t coming to me, I’m going to her.
A
s I drive, I try to come up with a reason to just show up at Dad’s work. The only one I can come up with is wanting to go out to dinner and thinking meeting him would be a better option. It’s not as if we haven’t done that before. The fact that I didn’t call or ask first is another matter.
I’m hoping in his guilt-ridden eager-to-please mood, he won’t think anything of it.
I walk into the funeral home. It feels like a tomb. The cold attacks me. Chills race down my back. I’m hoping Dad is with someone, so I can search for Abby.
Standing in the entryway, no one comes to greet me, which is a good thing. Maybe Ms. Duarte is out. I walk toward the back and hear Dad talking. I almost turn around so that I can find Abby before he sees me, but then his words stop me.
“Everyone makes mistakes. God knows I’ve made my share.” His voice is quiet, soft, even comforting. I move closer, curious to see who he’s speaking with. The door, left ajar, has a sign posted on it: Personnel Only.
I know this is where Dad works on the bodies.
Dad’s voice reaches my ears again. “I like to think we are judged by the good we do as well as our mistakes.”
I inch closer and peer through the small opening. Dad’s working on the convict. Applying makeup to his face.
The spirit is standing on the other side of his body, listening to every word my dad says. Both are so intent on the conversation that they don’t know I’m there.
“One day at a time,” Dads says. “That’s how I try to take it. There’s a lot of days I’m not successful. And part of me hates myself because of it.” He exhales. “But this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you. And I’m betting if you took a closer look at your life you’d see the good things you did too. I helped write the obituary, and it says you have a daughter. I have one, too. They’re precious.”
Dad’s words tug at my heartstrings.
“I know,” the convict’s voice answers.