by Taylor Hale
“I remember you too, kid. You look just the same.”
He laughs at me, and I flinch. More wind pushes against him. This time, in our direction. West almost grabs him but stops when Jenkens catches his balance with a post. Oscar barks.
“I’m sixty-eight years old.” Jenkens coughs. “I should be allowed to decide my time. Get out of here, you don’t have to see this.”
“What’s going on, man?” West asks. “Do you have cancer? You dying?”
“No, I’m not dying.”
“Then come on down, you don’t have to do this. Please?”
After a long, heated moment, Jenkens sighs. “Not going anywhere, are you?”
“I can’t just let you do this. Come down, we can talk about it, get you some help.”
The wind dies. Time on the bridge stands still. But then it restarts, and Jenkens eases himself off the ledge, saying, “Really thought I’d do it this time. Guess I’ll save you kids the trauma. Bridge’ll be here tomorrow.”
West dives forward to grab him, but Jenkens swats him away. “Fuck off me, boy.”
Jenkens lands safely on the bridge, and relief flows through me. “Dammit,” he mumbles. “What’re you kids doing over here, anyway? This part of town’s always dead after nine p.m.”
“Why were you trying to kill yourself?” West asks.
“I’m sick of all this shit. Sick of this town. Can’t afford to leave it, got nowhere else to go.”
“Did something happen?”
Jenkens’s features harden as he hides his face beneath straggles of straw-like hair. “Some kids vandalized my property again.”
Again?
“What?” West says. “What the hell did they do this time?”
“About two hours ago I stepped out for a damn coffee and they graffitied some bullshit all over my newly painted garage.” He spits on the bridge. “Calling me a serial killer and a goof. Guess this is what I get for living out in the woods; assholes aren’t afraid to go after me in broad daylight with no neighbors around to give a shit.”
“That’s bullshit,” West says. “You know who did it?”
“Some teenagers, no doubt. Who knows which ones.”
A cold awareness creeps through me. Miles, Faye, Dean, and Shawn. They all thought Mr. Jenkens could be the animal killer. I could see the others doing this, but Miles? The Miles I knew would never do such a thing. But even if Miles wasn’t involved, he could be guilty by proxy for telling that stupid squirrel story. He joked about a man who was going through a difficult time, riled up the others just to get a laugh. He could have cost Mr. Jenkens his life.
“Let’s tell the cops, Jenkens,” West says, his tone softer. “Maybe they’ll look into it. But you’ve got to let me get you some help, man. Let me drive you to the hospital. If you need help with bills, I can figure something out. But I can’t trust you to not throw yourself over as soon as I’m gone.”
Jenkens laughs and protests, but there must still be fight left in him. Because he agrees.
West’s apartment is in a basement unit under the fish ’n’ chips shop, and though the restaurant is long closed, the smell of fried grease permeates the parking lot behind the building. The stench reminds me of the chicken shack beneath my apartment back in the city.
Jenkens and I shuffle our feet, shifting around under a buzzing street light as we wait for West to return without the dog. Jenkens asks about my parents, and I tell him about their store, and he talks about the slow business at his, and we chitchat like he didn’t just try to commit suicide. When West comes back out, he presses a button on his keychain, and a silver Dodge pickup truck lights up.
“Roommate’s ride,” he says to me. “The ’vette’s a two-seater.”
“I can just walk home from here, it’s not too far—”
“You’re not walking alone. We’ll drop you off before we head to the hospital.”
I hesitate, then go to the passenger side. It’s one of those huge trucks with four doors, and the hot, stuffy interior smells like air freshener. West jumps in the driver’s seat, Jenkens in the back. Various keychains dangle from the rear-view mirror. I’m in some random girl’s pickup truck under Hello Kitty and Nintendo keychains, and my childhood best friend’s (hot-as-hell) brother is driving, and there’s a suicidal old man in the backseat. What is my life?
When West starts the car, “Call Me Maybe” blasts from the speakers and shatters my eardrums. He flicks it off. “Damn it, Sandy.”
West and I lock gazes before I catch my haggard reflection in the window—buggy blue eyes, unkempt brown hair—then snatch a glimpse at Jenkens, who hides his face. The truck grumbles as it starts, and West drives in the direction of Keely’s house. West’s driving is slow and steady, a contrast to my buzzing thoughts. So much happened in such a short time, I can hardly swallow it.
All I have to say is, I’m really, really glad we were on that bridge.
Though I doubt West and Keely have ever hung out, he knows exactly where she lives. Caldwell is small like that. It’s one of the things I miss: the tight-knit sense of community that I didn’t have in New York. West pulls up to the Myerses’, where the TV in the living room flashes blurred images through the curtains. Keely probably isn’t home yet, and Sun will be absorbed in a television drama while Roger is at work.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say to West.
He gives me a crooked smile. “Goodnight, Olive.”
“I hope you feel better, Mr. Jenkens.” I hop out of the truck.
“Thanks,” he says. “I’m glad you’re home, it’s nice to see you with Weston.”
As the truck drives down the street, I’m convinced there’s no way the animal killer is Mr. Jenkens. Only a person with no soul could dismember bodies like that, even those of small animals like squirrels. And if the eyes are an open window to the human soul, then I saw Mr. Jenkens’s, and he’s not capable of that kind of evil.
The concrete stairs on Keely’s front stoop are still warm from the summer sun. Taking a moment before going in, I sit and call Miles.
“Liv?” The sound of bassy music and voices from the party almost drown him out.
“Miles,” I say. “Did you vandalize Mr. Jenkens’s house?”
“What?” He must’ve gone to a different room, because the background noise fades. “What are you talking about? Why would I do that?”
“Somebody vandalized his house, Miles. You were telling that weird story at the cabin last weekend.”
“Yeah, but that was a joke, Liv. Did you even see Jenkens’s house?”
“No, but—”
“It wasn’t me.” His tone becomes harsh, defensive. “People have tagged his house before, this isn’t even the first time. And I’ve never had anything to do with it. Do you really think I could do that?”
The Miles I used to know would never do that. He was always the good kid, the well-behaved rich boy who followed me everywhere I went.
But maybe I don’t know the new Miles.
“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t know.”
“Look, are you still coming over tomorrow? We can talk about it then.”
“I’m not sure if I want to anymore.”
“Is that Liv?” Keely says, followed by some muffling. “Liv!” Keely shouts into the phone. “What’s up? Are you coming back over here? Where are you?”
“I’m already at your house. Are Dean and Shawn there?”
“Somewhere around here, yeah.”
“Were they out earlier?”
“Hmm, maybe they got food or something, but nope they’ve pretty much been here. Why, what’s up?”
“I’ll tell you later. Has Miles been at the party all night?”
“Hundred percent, I ran into him after you left. What’s this about? You’re killing me with suspense!”
“Thanks, I’ll talk to you late
r.”
“Liv!”
I hang up.
If Miles was there all night, he couldn’t have vandalized Mr. Jenkens’s property. Still, something smells off about this.
Not even thirty seconds later, a text pops up from Miles.
I didn’t do anything, Liv. But I’ll try to find out who did, okay?
Leaving him on Read, I go back inside and hide in my room, ready to put this night behind me.
7
When the sun rises the next morning, I contemplate avoiding Miles, but I won’t be able to believe he had nothing to do with Mr. Jenkens until I see him face-to-face. I arrive at the Hendricks estate midday, the sound of the ocean in the distance overpowered by the songbirds cheeping, dipping their blue feathers in a garden bath between two rosebushes. Setophaga cerulea, otherwise known as the cerulean warbler. Their melodies harmonize as I knock on the door of the mansion and smooth the fabric of the blue dress over my thighs. Moments later, someone opens the door—and I shrink beneath the icy gaze of Miles’s mom, Beatrice Hendricks.
A floral silk robe hangs off her thin frame, and her silver-platinum hair is in a tight bun. Beatrice was never particularly mean to me when I was a kid, but it was the look on her face that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The wrinkles around her fuchsia-painted lips have deepened; she must still smoke those long, thin cigarettes on the second-floor balcony.
“Yes?” Beatrice asks, voice clipped.
“I’m here to see Miles?”
Her eyes trail down my dress. “Right. How could I not recognize you? You’re the Catharts’ child.”
“Olivia.”
“Right. Olivia. Please, come in.”
I step into the cold house and immediately feel like an ant. The ceiling is so high and creepy old black-and-white photos hang on the red-and-gold wallpaper, the smell of cleaning products and paper in the air. Of course it’s beautiful, with the winding staircase that leads to the second floor and the multitude of hallways that branch from the foyer, but what do people do with this much space? Not much, apparently, because when we were kids, I remember most of the rooms in the house being occupied by nothing but extravagant, overpriced furniture. Sleeping here is probably like sleeping in a crypt.
“Miles is showering right now so you’ll have to forgive his tardiness,” Beatrice says. “You’re welcome to wait for him here.”
Beatrice’s slippers clap against the floor as she leaves, and the foyer becomes dead silent. Not knowing what to do with myself, I step over the pearl-and-burgundy checkered tile and check out the pictures on the wall. As I look at the portrait of Miles’s grandfather when he was young, I realize I’m next to the hallway that leads to his dad’s office.
Brian Hendricks, like Beatrice, always intimidated me. But there was one time in particular he really freaked me out. I’d been waiting for Miles in this exact spot, and I could hear Brian yelling at someone, but I didn’t understand what it was about. I crept up to the door to his office, where Brian sat on a leather armchair and spat into a phone, his face twisted in a menacing rage. My breath caught, and I went to run away—but my feet tripped over themselves, crashing me into the wall. Brian’s footsteps had thundered against the floor, rattling the chandelier and pictures on the wall. He’d stomped so loud, I thought of him as the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk.
I braced myself—for what, I’m not sure—but the thumping stopped. When I opened my eyes, Brian looked down on me like I was a timid animal. “I apologize, Olivia,” he said. “I thought you were Weston, up to no good again.”
Brian left without another word. I’ve always wondered what he would have done if I had been West.
The other side of the foyer leads to another hall. A shrill voice sounds from a room where the door is slightly ajar—Faye’s dance studio. They converted it from a family room when Faye took up ballet. Inside, Faye and Beatrice oppose each other. I shouldn’t spy on them, but the chill in Beatrice’s voice freezes me.
“This is unacceptable, Faye,” Beatrice snaps, oblivious to her daughter’s tears. “Your aunts are coming all the way from England to see your performance. We didn’t pay all that money for your lessons so you could recklessly hurt yourself. You should know how to manage your injuries by now.”
The room is lined with mirrors and railings, and Faye wears a pink leotard. Red streaks the dance studio floor next to a bloody pointe shoe.
“Mom, it’s not my fault,” Faye sputters. “I was rehearsing the choreography exactly as I was taught, I—”
“It’s Swan Lake, Faye. You need to be elegant, you can’t be stumbling around on stage with a broken toe.”
“It’s fine. I can still dance. It’s fine.”
“No, you can’t. You’re going to embarrass our entire family if you pull a stunt like this on a stage in front of hundreds of people. We’re taking you to the hospital to get an x-ray on it. If that toe is really broken, you aren’t performing.”
Beatrice leaves through another doorway and slams it behind her.
“Damn it!” Faye screeches, before she stomps over to the shoe and crams it back on her foot. Faye attempts to pirouette, only to have her foot crumple beneath her. As soon as she collapses, I rush to her side.
“Hey, maybe you shouldn’t be on that,” I say.
“What the hell, Olivia? Stalker much?”
Grunting in frustration, Faye roughly undoes the ribbons on her shoe, kicks it off, and peels off her tights. Once she has all the layers off, she carefully unwraps a bandage to reveal a black, pussing big toe with a busted nail. I try not to gag.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Faye says. “If you’re going to gawk at my disgusting feet, at least make yourself useful and grab my bandages.”
After hurrying over to the first aid kit in the corner of the room, I hesitantly hand it to Faye. She doesn’t tell me to leave, so I sit on the floor across from her as she rips into the bag and tears out a package of white gauze.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Can you fuck off, please?”
I scowl at her. “I’m just trying to help. I haven’t been here for years, why do you still hate me so much?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Hate is a strong word.” She laughs and wraps the bandage around her toe, trembling as it makes contact with her flesh. “It’s not like you’re my biggest fan either.”
“Because you were always mean to me.”
“As if you were the nicest to me.” Faye focuses on her feet. Her hair is tied back in a tight bun. Rosacea splotches her paper-white cheeks; Miles has it too. She sighs. “Look, I don’t hate you. And for the record, I shouldn’t have splashed you at the cabin last week.”
“Is there an apology somewhere in there?”
“Yeah, right,” she says, but there’s a smirk on her lips. I almost smile too.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Thanks, for . . . sort of saying sorry.”
We fall quiet. And it’s the strangest thing, but for the first time in my life, I don’t feel any hostility between us. Maybe I could even talk to her.
“But seriously,” I say, “I never figured out why you had it in for me when we were kids.”
She adjusts the tape around her toe. After a moment, she shrugs and meets my stare. “Honestly? I’m Miles’s twin sister, yet when we were kids, he cared more about hanging out with you than me. I wasn’t jealous, it was just annoying, because you cared more about hanging out with West. It was painful watching him chase you.”
“What? I hung out with Miles way more than West.”
“Don’t play dumb, Liv. It’s not cute. You clearly used Miles to get to West.”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“No!” It really isn’t. I liked West, but Miles was my best friend. I had no idea Faye thought that. “I never used Mil
es,” I say. “Honestly, I’m a little hurt you’d think so low of me. But I don’t know why I’m even surprised.”
“Don’t take it so personally. I call things how I see them, but maybe I was wrong.”
As Faye slides the pointe shoe back on her foot and redoes the ribbons, a mark on the inside of her arm catches my eye. It’s a yellowing bubble, shaped almost like a horseshoe—a burn, maybe—but it doesn’t look like any burn I’ve ever seen.
“What happened to your arm, Faye?”
She slaps her hand over it. “It’s just a smiley. Haven’t you ever gotten a smiley?”
“No . . . what’s a smiley?”
Faye rolls her eyes like it’s no big deal, then shows me her arm. “It’s when you get a Bic lighter really hot and press it to your skin until it makes a scar. See? It looks kind of like a smiley face. Dean showed me.”
“Dean did that to you?”
“Only because I wanted him to.”
Faye focuses on her shoe, and I study her face. There’s no way she would want him to burn her like that . . . right?
“Anyway, I need to practice,” Faye says. “Our theater performance isn’t for a few weeks. My toe is fine—I’ve had worse and still danced.”
She tries to stand but topples over. I get up in time to catch her. Faye shoves me away and balances herself, but winces in pain.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I tell her, “but I think your mom is right—you should get an x-ray on that before you keep dancing.”
“Ugh. Fine, I’ll figure it out. Just leave me alone, okay?”
I want to tell her to be more careful—with dancing, and with Dean—but my welcome is already overstayed. Just as I leave the studio, Miles comes down the stairs to the lobby.
“Liv, there you are.” He wears a curious smile on his face. The clean smell of his body wash reaches my nose. “Come on, I have somewhere to take you.”
When he touches the small of my back, I resist a squirm to avoid being rude and allow his fingers to brush me as he leads me outside.
The forest stretches for acres behind the estate, and the afternoon sun creates prismatic shards of light on Miles’s face as it peeks through the leaves. As I tell him about what happened with Mr. Jenkens, I search for any sign of deceit on his face, but Miles just nods thoughtfully with his hands in the pockets of his shorts.