Kyle spent all day in his room with Buddy, playing Doom and eating Snyder’s pretzels. His mother was worried about him, though he wished she wouldn’t worry.
Kyle was worried enough for the both of them.
But he kept that to himself, too.
CHAPTER 7
Allie Garvey
Mom?” Allie said softly, bending over the bed. Her mother was lying on her right side, facing the door, in such a deep sleep that she didn’t react at all. Her face was so slack that her features seemed to be sliding off, and it hurt Allie to see, because her mother was such a pretty woman, or had been. Linda Garvey had fiery red hair, thick as a bristle brush, bright blue eyes, a pert nose, and lips like a Cupid’s bow. Allie’s grandmother always called her “a spitfire,” but that was before Jill had been born and then died, which Allie’s grandmother hadn’t lived to see.
“Mom, want some dinner?” Allie touched her mother’s shoulder, which was lost somewhere in the thick chenille bathrobe. Her mother wore her bathrobe 24/7, sometimes with a blue fleece hat that had been Jill’s. Her mother’s short hair stuck out in all directions, and Allie could see her black roots getting longer, shot through now with silvery gray strands. Before, Allie’s mother would never have let her roots go and she’d be at the salon for a touch-up as soon as she saw what she called the headband, but that had gone by the wayside.
“Mom, I made dinner. Aren’t you hungry?” Allie jostled her mother slightly, but it still didn’t wake her. Allie leaned closer to make sure her mother was breathing, and she was, her breath smelled slightly sour. She didn’t know when her mother had eaten last, when she’d lost the fifteen pounds that Allie had gained. Her father kept saying that the pills Allie’s mother had been given would work in time, but Allie thought they were only making her worse.
Allie gave up. The bedroom was dark because the curtains were always drawn, and the air smelled of the dirty laundry overflowing the hamper. Allie made a mental note to run off some clothes. Her mother had spiraled down since Jill’s death, corkscrewing herself into the earth, as if she wanted to be buried, too. Allie didn’t blame her, because she always knew Jill was the favorite. Jill was Allie’s favorite, too.
“Mom, you rest, it’s in the fridge if you want it.” Allie kissed her mother’s cheek, left the room, and went down the hallway, passing the closed door to Jill’s bedroom with its sign, NO BOYZ ALLOWED. Jill had made it after watching a VHS marathon of Little Rascals, one of their mother’s favorite shows. Allie hadn’t gone in there since Jill died.
She hustled into the kitchen, crossed to the stove, and picked up the fork just in time to turn the hotdogs over. She made them the way her father liked, fried, cut down the middle, and flattened, which he called filet de frankfurter. The water was boiling, so she dumped in the bag of corn. Al dente, her father would say, and he was due home any minute, at seven-fifteen.
Allie found herself thinking about finding the gun in the woods, her head filling with questions. Should we turn it in? What if it’s a murder weapon? Should I tell? She heard her father’s car pulling into the driveway and the garage door rattling in its tracks. The sound always reassured Allie, because oddly, she worried that one day he wouldn’t come home, that he’d leave the depressed wife, the overweight daughter, and the closed bedroom.
The steam from the corn warmed Allie’s face, and she remembered how she and Jill used to stand over boiling water with a towel over their heads, after Jill read that steam prevented blackheads. The steam also loosened up the mucus in her lungs, and she used to say, Oxygen or blackheads, which matters more?
“Hey, honey!” her father called from the entrance hall, and Allie turned off the boiling water and dumped the corn into the colander in the sink.
“Hey, Dad!” she called back, and her father entered the kitchen with a brown Staples bag. He looked older than he was, which was fifty-one, and he had lost most of his brown hair after Jill died. He was short and skinny, with alert brown eyes behind his glasses and their fine black wire rims. His lips were thin and always set in an almost-smile, which her mother used to call benign. Allie always liked the way her mother talked about her father, and they had a good marriage. Until recently.
“What a day!” Her father set the Staples bag on the kitchen island.
“What happened?” Allie forked his dogs onto his plate, mounded some corn beside it, and brought his food to the table, which was crowded with open cardboard boxes of envelopes stuffed with flyers about the upcoming 5K, Jog For Jill. Her father had organized it to benefit cystic fibrosis, and it was going to be held on the anniversary of Jill’s death.
“What didn’t happen?” Her father loosened his tie, then tucked it inside his shirt, easing into the chair. “We ran out of everything, but not all at once.”
“What do you mean?” Allie brought her hotdogs and corn to the table, then sat down opposite him, with the boxes around them like cardboard walls. More boxes and papers covered the kitchen counter, blanketing the surfaces where Jill’s medicine bottles and nebulizers used to go.
“We ran out of flyers, then envelopes, then the printer jammed and we had to call the guy.” Her father cut his hotdog into skinny slices the way he always did.
“You mean the printer at work?”
“Yes, I should’ve had them run it off at Staples, but I knew Ellie was free and I let her handle it. I was trying to save money. What a mess.” Her father squirted mustard onto his hotdog, ignoring the burping noise produced by the plastic bottle, which would have elicited gales of laughter from Jill.
“But it got done?” Allie chewed her hotdog, which was buttery and delicious, probably going to the exact spot on her waist where David had held her.
“Yes, but we have to stuff them so they can be in everybody’s mailbox over the weekend.”
“We’ll get it done, Dad.” Allie ate at a fast clip, the way they did these days.
“It will take tonight and tomorrow night to get it done.”
“Dad, it won’t take that long,” Allie said, but her father liked nothing better than a plan. He kept a running Things to Do list and divided the tasks into Short-Term and Long-Term, which her mother used to tease him about.
“No, we couldn’t possibly do it ourselves, just the two of us.” Her father stabbed his hotdog, barely looking up. “There are about four hundred families in the development, and each house has to get an envelope. There are three sheets that have to go in each envelope—All About Jill Garvey, the entry form, and the waiver and release form. We lost time over the printer snafu, so we didn’t get to collate. So we have to collate, then stuff.”
“So we’ll start now.” Allie wished she could cheer him up. “We’ll make it fun. We can put on a movie. If we go to the video store after dinner, it will be early enough to get a new release. We can stay up as late as we want. It’s not like I have school tomorrow.”
“No, it’s all set up. The committee is coming over. More hands make less work. They’ll be here in an hour.” Her father shook his head, wiping his mouth with a napkin, which he neatly refolded and returned to his lap. “I’m herding the cats.”
“Oh, okay.” Allie felt her chest tighten. They were about to be invaded by a slew of women, including her mother’s best friend, Fran, who’d been in Pittsburgh for some time, taking care of her own mother. Allie called her Aunt Fran and knew Aunt Fran didn’t realize how bad things were with Allie’s mother. “Dad, Mom was really sleepy today. I couldn’t wake her up for dinner.”
“She’ll be fine.” Her father sipped his water without meeting Allie’s eye.
“I wonder if whatever meds she’s on, they need to change the dosages again.”
“They know what they’re doing.”
“But I don’t even think she ate. When I came home, there were no dishes in the sink. When she eats, she leaves the dishes.”
“She’ll eat when she’s hungry. We’ve discussed this. They said she’s having ‘complicated grief.’ You can’t rush it
.” Her father rose with his plate, gathered his silverware, and went to the sink, turning away.
“Aunt Fran’s going to go upstairs.”
“Fran knows she’s under a doctor’s care.” Her father rinsed his dish, his back turned. “Besides, she might not come. Jim might have torn his rotator cuff.”
“But what if she goes upstairs? They only talk on the phone. Since she’s been away, Aunt Fran hasn’t seen—”
“I’ll tell Fran your mom has the flu. She won’t go up.”
Allie blinked, surprised. She had never known her father to lie, and Fran wasn’t stupid. “Mom doesn’t have the flu, Dad.”
“It’s no one’s business what she has. No one’s business but ours.” Her father turned from the sink. “Understood?”
“Yes,” Allie answered, realizing she now had a second secret.
CHAPTER 8
Sasha Barrow
Hold on, Melanie.” Sasha set the phone down and put on the flowy white dress in front of the floor-length mirror. It slid down her body, then clung to her hips. Sasha was pretty and tall enough to be a model, but she had higher hopes. She was going to be a world-famous fashion designer like Diane von Furstenberg, Donna Karan, or Coco Chanel. She liked everything about designing clothes except sewing, which was boring.
Sasha spun around in the mirror, dreamy. She loved clothes, noticing every detail about the cut, stitching, and fabric. She practically studied chiffon, silk, and the tweed in her mother’s Chanel suits. It was called boucle, Sasha had taught herself. She read Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and WWD and sketched all the time, trying out ideas. She wanted, someday, to run a fashion empire like the Fendis and the Missonis, with ateliers in all the European capitals and seamstresses to sew for her. She’d personally oversee every piece in her collection before the girls went down the runway. The designer always walked last, and Sasha would make her runway appearance to thunderous applause. She could almost hear it now.
“Sasha, you there?” Melanie asked on the other end of the line.
Sasha came out of her reverie and picked the phone off the bed. “Chillax.”
“I’m sorry, I was just saying that there’s nothing to do down here.”
“Where are you again?” Sasha turned this way and that, then spun around to make the hem flare out.
“Down the shore, in Long Beach Island. Come down. It’ll be fun. One of your parents could take you. Are they around?”
“No,” Sasha answered, distracted. Her strapless bra was making tiny bumps in the dress, and she would have to get a new one. Also strappy sandals. She had seen a pair of Manolos in Neiman Marcus.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know.” Sasha’s parents traveled for work, but she didn’t mind. She had Bonnie and her husband, Clark, whom Sasha called Clyde, and they lived in the au pair suite and took care of her and the house. Sasha liked the freedom she had over her friends, who had to get permission to breathe. Bonnie and Clyde knew to let her do what she wanted, if they wanted to keep their jobs.
“What about Clyde? Can he take you?”
“No,” Sasha answered, eyeing her reflection.
“I bet I can get somebody to pick you up. My brother might do me a favor.”
“I can’t, I’m busy. Hold on.” Sasha wiggled out of the dress. She had three more to try on, then she wanted to message Julian about the gun.
“But this morning you said you were bored. You weren’t busy at all.”
“Yeah, well, I got busy.” Sasha was thinking about the gun, which she couldn’t get out of her mind. She crossed to the shopping bags at the foot of her bed.
“Sash? You there?”
“Hold on a minute!” Sasha rummaged in the bag, took out a box, and opened the lid.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying on dresses for my cousin’s wedding.” Sasha took out another dress. There were small pink flowers along the hem, which were a little young.
“Sasha, are you there?”
“Give me one more minute.” Sasha put the dress over her head and smoothed it into place. Her belly was super flat, and she bet she could bounce a penny off it.
“A dress? What’s it look like?”
“White with pink flowers.”
“You’re not supposed to wear white to a wedding if you’re not the bride.”
“Why? I look good in white, and I’m going to be tan by then. Hold on.” Sasha unzipped the side of the dress, and got it over her head. She heard a ripping sound, but Bonnie would return it for her tomorrow anyway.
“Sash? You sure you don’t want to come down?”
“Totally. Ask Courtney. She’s free.”
“I can’t stand her.”
“Nobody can. That’s why she’s free. Bye.” Sasha hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. She crossed to her desk, sat down in front of her computer, and dialed up the Internet. She didn’t have to wait for anybody to get off the phone so she could get on, like her friends. The modem sounded, and she logged into AOL. She could see from her Buddy List that Julian was online. As soon as she appeared, he IMed her:
Heir2Throne987: do u like the new toy?
SashaliciousOne: toy? r u trying not to put it in writing?
Heir2Throne987: put WHAT in writing???? LOL
SashaliciousOne: i think we should move it
Heir2Throne987: why
SashaliciousOne: fat people yap
Heir2Throne987: she won’t
SashaliciousOne: david is on her side
Heir2Throne987: he wouldn’t
SashaliciousOne: i could move it
Heir2Throne987: please dont
SashaliciousOne: i know where it is & I could dig it up & then it would be MINE ALL MINE bahahahahahahahaa
Heir2Throne987: i dont want u 2
Sasha was only kidding, but the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to move the gun. She could find the bent tree on her own. She ran through the woods all the time and knew the trails better than Julian or David.
Heir2Throne987: i dont want the owner to know we found it
SashaliciousOne: how could he
Heir2Throne987: what if he watches the spot @ night
SashaliciousOne: that would be weird
Heir2Throne987: he could have binoculars & if he knows then he would move it
Sasha thought that over. Julian was right. He liked her, but she could do better and she was keeping her options open. Plus there was something about him that was a little, well, off.
Heir2Throne987: never underestimate the downside risk
SashaliciousOne: u sound like ur father
Heir2Throne987: did I convince u
SashaliciousOne: yes
Heir2Throne987:
SashaliciousOne: i have another idea
Heir2Throne987: what
SashaliciousOne: bullets!
CHAPTER 9
David Hybrinski
Twilight washed the sky in pink and purple, and the sun sank behind the tree line bordering the softball field at Brandywine Hunt. The baseball diamond was set in a green field that had been mowed in swaths like a vacuumed rug, the red clay on the baselines had been newly raked, and the cinder-block dugouts freshly painted brown and white, courtesy of Browne Land Management. Multicolored plastic banners touting other corporate sponsors were tied to the PVC fencing, advertising Westtown Xpress Lube, Devon Family Practice, and Coca-Cola Bottling of Chester County.
The air was balmy, and everyone agreed they couldn’t have asked for a nicer night for the quarterfinals of the Chesco Girls’ Softball League. The Browne Batters were leading West Caln Chiropractic 9–8 in the seventh inning, with David’s nine-year-old twin sisters, Jessica and Jennifer, playing first and second bases. The spectators cheered noisily and beat their feet, but David kept his head down, immersed in his thick paperback. It was 1,079 pages long with 388 footnotes, and he still didn’t understand it completely, which was what he loved about it. He’d never read a book that was essen
tially a huge puzzle, with so much to hold his attention that he was able to screen out the noise around him.
“Way to go, Browne!” his father cheered, sitting to David’s right. He’d come from work so he was still in his gray suit, with his tie loosened and his attention focused on the field. His father kept raking back his thinning hair with his fingers, making it greasy, and his fleshy features set in a scowl behind his prescription sunglasses. His father yelled almost constantly at the games, mostly encouragement except for the occasional honey, look alive out there! David’s mother was helping the team in the dugout, distributing bottled water and orange slices.
“Go get it, Jessica! You got this, Jennifer!” David’s brother, Jason, sat to his left, making a point of cheering for the twins separately. The twins were identical, so the only time most people could tell them apart was on the softball field, when they had their numbers on their shirts.
Jason nudged David. “Cheer for Jessica. She made a good catch.”
David shouted, “Way to go, Jessica!”
His father turned to David. “So how was camp today?”
“Good.” David didn’t return to his book, since his father took it as a criticism when David read. It was why David would never tell him that he wanted to be a writer someday, as opposed to being the next Pete Sampras.
“Did you practice your overhead?” His father pressed his lips together unhappily.
“Yes.”
“Hitting any better?”
“I will in time.”
“You have to commit early. Make the decision early.” His father frowned deeply, and David had learned not to talk back when his father gave tennis advice, even though his father never played the game. Suddenly his father leaned over, so close that David could smell the onions on his breath, from lunch. “Anything you want to tell me?”
“No, what do you mean?” David’s mouth went dry, thinking about the gun. He had no idea how his father could’ve known. He thought of that line from his book, My chest bumps like a dryer with shoes in it.
Someone Knows Page 4