Curiouser (Girls of Wonder Lane Book 3)

by Coryell, Christina

  It’s not unlike any other Christmas, other than the fact that Jake is here. Strangely enough, though, instead of feeling like there’s an unwanted presence, it actually feels like there’s something missing.

  Bailey finally settles herself on the couch, lazily brushing the mane of her new purple pony with her eyes partially closed. Not even lunch time yet, and she’s almost down for the count. As she goes through the grooming motions, I pick up her sippy cup of milk that is slightly warm by this point, standing up to take it to the kitchen. The minute my bare feet touch the cold kitchen tile, I halt in my tracks. Heather’s standing on one side of the counter spinning the bottle of coffee creamer between her hands, and Jake’s across from her nursing a cup of Dad’s decaf. There’s no reason for me to feel awkward in my own parents’ house, but instead of walking over to the sink, I shrink back just out of sight.

  “You know what gets me?” Jake asks softly enough that I actually find myself leaning closer to the wall. “She’s such a great mom. How do you all do that? Is it just ingrained in your DNA or something?”

  “What, like all women?”

  “Definitely not all women. No, I mean in the Jennings DNA.”

  Heather lets out an unladylike snort, and I can tell from the sound that she’s actually moved farther away, which seems contradictory.

  “No, you wound up with the good Jennings. Alex has always been like a mini-me of Mom. Smart without trying, doesn’t bother dressing up because she already looks great, just naturally nice. And whatever she tries, you know before she makes the first step that she’s going to nail it. Seriously, sometimes I think she’s got a direct line to God. They’re in cahoots.”

  “In cahoots?” He sounds more than a little skeptical, and I can’t blame him. Heather’s being ridiculous.

  “You know, I seriously doubt she’s ever done anything wrong in her life, other than get messed up with you. And maybe listen to me a few times.”

  “Yeah, we’re pretty much polar opposites in that regard,” Jake tells her.

  “You mean you wouldn’t listen to me?” Heather giggles, and it’s all I can do not to peek my head around the corner. “Seriously, though. If I find out you’re not on the up and up with her or with Bailey…I know people.”

  Pressing my shoulder against the wall, I wait for his answer to come, but instead I hear Heather’s voice again.

  “So, you and Alex, are you…?”

  My mouth nearly drops open at Heather’s audacity. The only thing that could make it worse would be if Jake laughed. Which of course he does, quickly and quietly.

  “No, it’s not like that.”

  “Oh. I just figured since you came down here together, maybe something was going on.”

  “No,” he says again, making me cringe even more. “She’s way too good for me.”

  Heat moves across my neck and threatens to overtake my face as those words ricochet around me. Too good. Just like I’d been too good for Cody. Too good for everything, but somehow I still don’t measure up. Really wish God would explain that little oddity that I’ve somehow inherited.

  “Darn right, you’re not good enough for her,” Heather agrees. Something about her voice causes me to try to breathe more silently. “I’m not as forgiving as Mom and Dad.”

  Jake’s sigh is so heavy I can hear it around the corner. “Trust me, if I could undo what happened so I wouldn’t be that guy, I would.”

  “As long as you don’t keep on being that guy. Bailey’s kind of important to me too, you know.”

  “Don’t worry, Alexis keeps me on a tight leash.”

  They both laugh at his little joke, and I know I should stop eavesdropping and take the cup to the sink, but I can’t make myself move.

  “She thinks she has to hold the world together.” Heather’s voice feels closer, so she must have stepped in my direction. “It’s been like that as long as I can remember. Even when we were little girls, she was watching over me, trying to keep me from screwing up. Just don’t give her anything else, okay?”

  A knot forms in my stomach while I ponder her words. Exactly what does she think Jake’s going to give me? The mere thought makes me shudder.

  “Anything else?” he asks, likely trying to dissect her statement the same way I am.

  “Yeah,” she continues, dangerously close to me. “Don’t give her anything else she has to hold together. It’s not fair.”

  Bailey’s sippy cup slips from my fingers and settles on the living room carpet, and while I’m bent retrieving it, Heather emerges from the kitchen and nearly steps on my fingers. Jerking my hand back, I stand to face her, slightly shorter than her frame thanks to those boots she’s wearing. Why she needs snow boots on such a mild day is still a mystery to me. Why she needs snow boots with a three-inch wedge heel is a question for another day.

  “Milk got warm,” I tell her, raising the sippy cup by dangling its handle from my index finger. She wrinkles her nose as she stares at me, her warm cinnamon-swirl eyes trapped by a layer of black liner that makes them look harder than they are. Heather and I really could be two sides of a coin, only I’m not really sure which extreme should be left face-up.

  The thought causes irrational tears to fill my eyes, and rather than ask what’s wrong, my little sister leans down and wraps her arms around my neck.

  “I hate warm milk,” she mutters.

  A breathy laugh escapes before I can catch it, and she laughs along with me as she squeezes my shoulders once more before pulling away. One tear has managed to escape from the corner of her eye, leaving a little mascara smudge, so I use my thumb to wipe it away. She smiles, and I know exactly what she’s thinking. There goes Alex, wiping away the imperfection, cleaning things up. She never could stand a mess.

  She’s right, I suppose.

  “He’s really handsome,” she whispers almost inaudibly, mischievously glancing in the direction of the kitchen. “Maybe you should make him your pet project.”

  “Silly Heather. I don’t have time to take care of a pet.”

  “We getting a dog?” Bailey bounces up from her spot on the couch, grabbing my pajama-clad leg as she jumps up and down. “Please, Mommy. Puh-leeeze!”

  “Maybe when things calm down.”

  “But Jay ‘posed to get me a puppy.” She sticks her bottom lip out in a pout worthy of an Oscar nomination. If Gump was in the room, he’d be a goner.

  “What was Jake supposed to do?” He steps around the corner with his eyebrows raised, correcting the only flaw I’ve managed to notice. Well, outside flaw at least. Inside he’s probably marked with a roadmap of scars and bruises.

  “Puppy,” Heather tells him, extracting herself from our little huddle and sitting on the couch as she pulls out her phone.

  “Sorry kiddo, but a puppy seems like something you and your mom need to agree on, doesn’t it?” Jake tries to confirm as he stands next to me. He gave her a stuffed dog for Christmas, so at least he made an effort. It’s gray and white and very fluffy, but immobile.

  “Jake, honey, do you want to invite your dad for Christmas dinner?” Mom has a way of making an entrance, that’s for sure. Hey, everyone, would you like to be uncomfortable?

  “Thank you, Mrs. J, but I don’t think he’d come. Probably need to get going myself so I can visit with him a bit.”

  “Oh, don’t leave before dinner!” If Mom can’t make a case for food, the world will have turned upside down. The smells wafting into the room from the kitchen should be impetus enough to convince someone not to leave.

  “Maybe Jake can take some food to his dad,” I suggest. Harmless enough, and it solves both of their problems.

  “Maybe you can go with him,” Mom says, directing her sweet, innocent-eyed plea in my direction. It would be better played on Jake, because he’s new enough that he would probably want to please her. No way do I want to go meet Jake’s father.

  I look at Jake and begin to shake my head, but he quickly averts his eyes and drops them to Bailey, who’
s given up on the puppy and is sitting at my feet with her pony toy.

  Our conversation from last night trips clumsily back through my mind. His dad tried to kill himself. Jake found him at the table. Drinks all the time, and he’s not okay, but okay enough. Still, Jake’s too uncomfortable to stay there. Uncomfortable enough to sleep here. To spend Christmas morning with people he barely knows.

  The feel of it bubbling up terrifies me, and I desperately wish that I could do something to stop it. Maybe take a breather and stuff it back into its little hole, force it to hibernate a little longer. But I know it’s too late the instant my throat begins to close off.

  “Would you like me to come with you?”

  Of course he wouldn’t, Alexis. How insulting.

  The stupidity of my words causes me to close my eyes for a second, wishing I could get them back and forget that I’d uttered them in the first place. Jake and I are not friends. Even though it had been rude to tell him that last night, that doesn’t make it less true today.

  Opening my eyes, I find him staring directly at my face, watching my reaction. Since Mom’s standing beside us, I offer a tentative smile, hoping I don’t look too senseless. Jake’s head barely inches up and down, but I see the motion.

  “Yes.” He continues to watch me with those distinctive eyes of his, but doesn’t return my smile. “Yeah, I would.”

  Jake doesn’t have much to say as he drives his pickup down a two-lane road southwest of Jackson. I can’t say that I blame him. My own mind is teeming with so many thoughts I can’t possibly corral them in order to make sense of them, so instead I focus on the plate of food wrapped in cellophane on my lap. Turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, green beans, my mom’s famous cranberry sauce.

  It’s what my parents have done practically every holiday since I can remember. Taking Christmas to the less fortunate. This year they adopted Jake and acted like he was part of the family. Now they’re extending their kindness to his dad through me. I’m a broken, fragile vessel of a messenger, but I guess I’ll do in a pinch.

  My brain is still trying to decipher the reason he wanted me to accompany him when he pulls into a driveway with dried weeds growing tall against a row of about ten mailboxes. Why is it that trailer parks always have aesthetically pleasing names that seem more fitting on lakeside cabin retreats? Sweet Pines. It sounds more like an RV park, or a convalescent home.

  A bulldog on a chain barks as we pass the first trailer, the large window in the front covered with a patterned blanket. The pattern is largely indiscernible thanks to being obscured by a satellite dish sticking out of the ground like a yard ornament. The second residence has a brand new Chevy pickup sitting out front, and six concrete blocks forming the steps to the trailer. A boy of about six or seven sits on a bike next to the place, wearing a light jacket.

  This is where Jake grew up.

  The thought makes me picture Jake as that skinny boy, the weight of the world on his shoulders. It makes me just sad enough that I clear my throat to remove the traces of emotion.

  The truck stops at trailer number three, an old black Toyota the only outside decoration marking the place. Otherwise there’s nothing distinctive about the trailer featuring white at the top and a light walnut brown on the bottom.

  Jake doesn’t say anything as he quiets the engine, so I follow his lead, hiding behind the plate of food and preparing myself to be uncomfortable.

  Why should I be afraid? I face high schoolers every day, and they haven’t eaten me alive yet.

  The off-white door sports a swath of dirt or mud at the bottom, and I can picture it as the place where Jake’s dad taps his boots against the door before he walks inside. After a swift knock, Jake grabs the doorknob and twists, pulling the door open carefully. The way he peers into the trailer isn’t lost on me. He must get nervous every time he crosses the threshold.

  “Hey,” he offers quietly, holding the door so I can climb up the wooden steps behind him. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

  “Jacob.” He attempts to rise from his recliner, but doesn’t manage it on the first try. The way he’s favoring his right leg in his pursuit makes me think he must still have some issues with his injuries. I expect Jake to tell him not to get up, but instead he slips an arm around his dad and assists him to his feet.

  “We brought you a Christmas feast,” Jake says, making sure his dad is steady. The similarities and contrasts between them are striking. Same blue in their eyes, although the elder’s seem a little murky. Similar build, almost identical in height, and same hair color. Jake will probably look a lot like his dad in thirty to thirty-five years, except maybe without the sagging skin under his eyes. And it’s hard to picture Jake with the slight extra girth around his midsection.

  I’m not sure what I should do, so I hold the plate in front of me with a grin pasted on my face, trying to look friendly. Oh, look, the Christmas freak is here. Can’t stop smiling.

  “I had me a sandwich a little bit ago.”

  “You don’t want to eat a sandwich on Christmas when we brought you turkey and stuffing, do ya?” Jake finally looks in my direction, stepping aside so his dad will focus on me. “Dad, I want you to meet someone. This is Bailey’s mom, Alexis.”

  “Little stinky britches?”

  It’s pretty difficult to keep the smile pasted on your face with a welcome like that.

  Jake chuckles before he manages to control himself and give me an apologetic tilt of his head. “The night Dad hurt his leg, when we were in the truck taking Bailey to Camdyn’s house, she sort of—”

  “She tooted her horn like an eighteen-wheeler,” Jake’s dad interrupts.

  Jake can’t seem to stop himself from laughing again, but he moves forward to take the plate from my hands as a smile lights his face. Without the safety hedge of the food to hide behind, I hesitantly step forward and offer my hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. McAuliffe.”

  “A fancy gal with manners to boot,” he says before he accepts my hand, squeezing it awkwardly and gingerly and then dropping his arm back to his side. “Name’s Danny.”

  My hands retreat to the pockets of my jeans in a defensive move, and I can’t help but look down at my Converse sneakers. Granted, I did take a shower and comb my hair before we made the trip over here, but I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever called me fancy before.

  “Here, Dad.” Jake places his hand on his dad’s shoulder and points to the small two-person table in the kitchen area, where he’s arranged the plate with a fork beside it.

  “Your girlfriend want something?” Danny asks as he sits in front of the food.

  “No thank you,” I manage, barely more than a whisper. Jake pulls out the chair across from his dad and motions to it, so I reluctantly cross the tiny space and sit at the beat up old table. The metal trim around the edges makes me wonder if it once sat in a diner.

  “Dad does automotive repair at a little shop just down the road,” Jake offers as he stands by the sink, using the counter to lean upon.

  “Oil changes,” Danny tells me as he shoves a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. “Can change the oil on near about anything, from a big rig to a tractor.”

  “A tractor, like a John Deere?”

  “Is it a tractor?”

  He continues focusing on his food, and I suppose his question was rhetorical, because he dismisses me like I have nothing more to say. It’s not much of a stretch, because I actually don’t.

  “Alexis is a math teacher,” Jake adds, gazing at me as though he expects me to bring more to the conversation. Normally I’d be happy to acquiesce, but this is brutally awkward.

  “Math, huh?” Danny pulls apart a yeast roll with his fingers and nods his head. “Never had much use for schooling myself. Didn’t even finish it.”

  Jake gives me a half-hearted closed-lipped grin, and I let my eyes drift down toward my lap.

  “Dad prefers getting his hands dirty to learning about things,” he tries to explain.

 
; “And then Jacob just thinks he has to tear everything apart,” Danny says, bringing his right hand up to rub his cheek. “Remember when you took apart the alternator?”

  Jake raises his eyebrows as his dad returns to eating, and then he looks me straight in the eye. “I liked to figure out how things worked. Easiest way to do that is to take them apart, right? So I went through a phase where I would come home from school and deconstruct things. First it was easy things, like flashlights, clocks, and the radio. But one day I took part of Dad’s engine out of his truck, and he wasn’t very appreciative.”

  “Fool truck never run right after you messed with it,” Danny says.

  “It ran fine.”

  “It was a mess.”

  “That had nothing to do with me.”

  There’s no Christmas tree here. The realization hits me as I allow my eyes to drift over the mobile home, and the thought makes me wonder what Danny was doing before we got here. The TV wasn’t on, and neither was the radio. He’d simply been sitting in his chair alone.

  “So, did you take things apart right here at the kitchen table?” I ask Jake, hoping to keep the conversation light.

  “No, in my bedroom. Granny gave me a set of screwdrivers and wrenches for my birthday when I was fourteen. I still have them.”

  “But he still can’t change his own oil,” Danny tells me.

  “I can,” Jake counters. “I can change my own oil.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Maybe he’s worried about his fork cutting through the paper plate and the cranberries going all over his table, but Danny resorts to picking up the turkey and eating it with his fingers. I try not to watch him and instead focus on the wood grain of the cabinets behind Jake.

  “You want to see the tools Granny gave me?”

  It takes me a minute to realize that Jake’s talking to me. As weird as his question is, I’m fairly certain he’s just looking for any excuse to talk about something other than his dad. Perusing screwdrivers seems weird, but if it makes him feel better, how can I refuse?