by Alex Flinn
She smiled. “How did you?”
“I asked. None of the other guys did. They were intimidated, afraid to. But me, I was just so stupid. I just asked you, and you figured it was better to go with me than to sit home and cry from loneliness.”
I gave her a goofy look, and she giggled. “Oh, I am sure I found you attractive—in a funny sort of way.”
“So before you could realize your mistake and dance with someone else, I’d lead you onto the dance floor. The band would be playing . . .” I realized I had my phone. I scrolled through the play-lists. The first slow one I saw was “I Will Follow You into the Dark,” which was a guy saying he’d go with his girlfriend if she died. Morbid, much? I wished I had some classic songs like “Unchained Melody” or “When a Man Loves a Woman,” but I didn’t have those. I’d never been the kind of guy to download songs girls liked. Finally, I found “The Only Exception” by Paramore. I’d liked them at one point. There was no speaker, of course, so I turned up the sound on my phone as loud as it would go. Rachel was right. It was quiet here, and she could hear it. The voice started coming out of that tiny speaker. I held it to Rachel’s ear. “They’d be playing this, and I’d lead you out onto the floor.”
I stood. Rachel did too, and I put one arm around her, swaying to the music. The song was a little depressing too, about someone who didn’t believe in love, but I liked the chorus, where it said:
Darling, you are the only exception
You are the only exception.
Because that was how I felt about Rachel, exactly how I felt. The song was about me, keeping my distance, not taking chances with people because I was afraid. But Rachel was different. Rachel was worth the risk, any risk. The only exception.
I tightened my grip on her.
“This is so nice,” she said. “I’ve never danced with anyone before. Would you try to kiss me on the dance floor?”
“I would try. Would you let me?”
She leaned in toward me and whispered, “I might.”
You are the only exception.
“I bet I would then,” I said.
And then, we were kissing, kissing and holding each other, the music in our ears, as we sank slowly to the stone floor.
36
Rachel
I had expected Wyatt to try, again, to persuade me to go with him. I had thought of nothing else since he left. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps my destiny was not here, in the tower, waiting. Maybe I was meant to go with him. I had decided that, if he asked me again, I would hear him out.
Which was why I was quite surprised when he said, “I think you’re right that you should stay here at least a little longer.”
I reached to brush a lock of hair from over his eye. “Really? Why? This is quite a reversal from before.”
“I know.”
“What is the meaning of it?”
He gestured toward the picture he had given me.
“I don’t know. Just a feeling. But I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket. “Take this.”
He handed me an object, the same object he had used for the music. Now, I held it. It was rectangular, smooth and black with bits of color on it.
“What is it?”
“A phone. A telephone. You can use it to talk to other people. I noticed it worked up here, probably because you’re so high. It doesn’t work in the woods, mostly.”
I shook my head. He would think I was stupid. “I don’t know how to use it.”
“It’s easy. Everyone can use a phone. Here, do you have paper?”
I gave him some, and he began writing, first numbers, then a sort of diagram. “This is what you press to call me, and here’s the number. Or you can just go to ‘Contacts’ and look for ‘Greenwood.’” He pressed a button that looked like an arrow.
“My goodness! It looks like something from the works of H. G. Wells!”
He laughed. “I don’t think you’ll be able to time travel with it. But look.” He pointed to some numbers. “Here’s a clock.”
“Oh, I have a clock. I asked Mama for one last year.” I didn’t want him to think I was some idiot who didn’t know what a clock was, for heaven’s sake! But my clock was round and had hands. The one on his telephone only had numbers.
“Okay, well, I’ll call you at eight. Before I go to bed.”
This was unbelievable. “And I will be able to hear your voice, inside of this little thing?”
“Yeah. We can talk all the time.”
“I cannot wait. You must leave now, so we can try it.”
He laughed. “Okay. Maybe you could read the diary after I leave. It would tell you about your mother.”
“My mother.” I felt a weird empty sort of feeling in my stomach. I had just met my mother, and now, she was dead. Still, I knew I would look at the photograph, read the diary, until I saw him again.
“I love you, Rachel,” he said.
“I love you too. Now, go. Go, so I can talk to you.”
37
Wyatt
I realized there was someone else I should talk to, someone who might know about what happened to Danielle, crazy as it sounded, crazy as he sounded.
“I have to go . . . darling.” The word sounded crazy old-fashioned, like something romantic guys would say in movies my mom watched late at night when she thought no one heard. Yet, it sounded right when I said it to Rachel. She was like a girl from one of those books they made us read in Language Arts class, like Cathy Earnshaw, only not batshit crazy, or like Daisy Buchanan, only nice. I repeated the word because I liked it so much. “My darling.”
She touched my cheek with her soft hand. “My own, Wyatt. Wyatt. I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. I don’t either. But you’re safe here, and I need to get some answers. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Remember, this is my number.” I pointed to what I’d written. “Don’t answer if anyone else calls.” I thought of the weird phone calls. If someone was really following me, I sure didn’t want him to find Rachel.
“All right. I promise. But call soon.”
“What time does Mama come?”
“At night, nine or ten. Call before then.”
“I will. I can’t wait to hear your voice again.”
It should have been easy to reach the ground. I’d done it before, so I was used to the rope. My feet had memorized the tower’s shingled surface. Yet, it was hard because I didn’t want to go.
But I had to leave. I had to go to Hemingway’s, to find the one person besides Mrs. Greenwood who might know something about what happened to Danielle.
The whole way, I tried to think of an appropriate reason, a reasonable explanation why I was there. After all, it was a hardware store, not a grocery store. Maybe there were some people—adults—who would go to one every day, but guys my own age didn’t think home repairs were fun. I didn’t want Josh to think I was stalking him. Unfortunately, Hemingway’s wasn’t like Home Depot, so big you could probably keel over in the aisle and go unnoticed. Around here, people wanted to talk to you.
So, when Josh greeted me at the front (crushing any hopes I had that he might not be working that day, it being the last few days of break), I said, “I need a washer. Mrs. G. has a leaky faucet.”
“All work and no play . . .” Josh grinned. “What size?”
“Yeah.” I tried to laugh. I hadn’t anticipated this question. I looked around, trying to see if the old man, Jerry, was there, if I’d made the trip for nothing. “I’m not sure. Mind if I just look around.” I didn’t see him. I didn’t know why I’d been so sure he’d be there.
Josh looked dubious. “Sure. But usually, people bring in the old washer or the faucet or something. It’s hard to judge otherwise.”
“Is there a standard size?”
“Nothing’s standard in Slakkill.” He gestured toward the aisle where the washers were. “The houses are old. Most faucets are washerless these days, but don’t tell the peop
le who come in here. They want to repair the one they have for the fifteenth time, instead of buying a new one that will last the rest of their lives.”
I spotted Jerry. He was, as usual, browsing through the yard sale items. I said to Josh, “Would it be better to buy a new one?”
He shrugged. “If you can talk her into it.”
“I can try. Is there some kind of catalog with pictures of the faucets. Maybe she’d like a pretty new one.”
“I could give you some websites if she, you know, believes in the internet.”
“Paper would probably be better.”
“I can print something out. Just give me a minute.”
“No problem.” I gestured toward where the old man was standing. “Take your time. I’m going to look at your secondhand stuff. I want some board games.”
“Board games?”
“The old lady, she’s been kicking my butt at something called Rummikub. I thought maybe if I got a different game, the playing field would be more level.”
Josh shook his head. “Beating up on the elderly, nice. Oh, I think we’ve got Battleship.”
“Perfect. I’ll look for it.” There were board games over where the old man was standing. “Take your time. I want to make sure it has all the pieces.”
“Good idea.” He walked away.
I headed toward Jerry in the opposite direction of Josh. I wanted to see what he was looking at, but on the way, something caught my eye. A hairbrush. The same silver hairbrush I’d seen before. I remembered Rachel telling me her mama used to brush her hair with a fancy hairbrush. I picked it up. The bristles were made of boar’s hair, and the back had an intricate design, flowers as Rachel had said, orchids or lilies. It was ten dollars. I decided to buy it for Rachel.
I approached the guy. “Hello?”
Nothing. Maybe he was deaf. I walked closer and raised my voice slightly. “Hello?”
He jumped, then, like he hadn’t realized anyone was there. He’d forgotten he was in a public place and was just caught up in his own little world. “Oh, you scared me. Hello.”
“I’m Wyatt. Mr. . . .”
“Jerry. Do I know you?”
I held out my hand. “We met the other day. You were in here buying a television set.”
“Yessiree, it was a good one too.”
“It actually worked?”
“You bet it did. Watched the Sugar Bowl on it.”
I fought the urge to ask which teams had played because, if he’d watched it on that TV, maybe his house was some kind of portal to 1985 or something. But I didn’t ask. I remembered how it had been with my grandfather, after he’d lost it. He didn’t remember things that had happened the day before, but the past, he remembered really well. I wanted to ask Jerry about the past.
I picked up the Battleship game. “I think I’ll buy this. I want to play it with my friend, Danielle. Do you know her? Danielle Greenwood?”
He took his hand off the set of hot rollers he’d been contemplating and stared at the ceiling, like he was trying to remember. “Danielle Greenwood . . . I think Suzie has a friend named Danielle.”
“Suzie?”
“My daughter, Suzie. She’s about your age. Do you know her from school? She’s a cheerleader.”
I nodded. “I think so. Does she know Danielle?”
“Yes, I’ve seen her at the house. Pretty girl, long, dark hair, right?”
“Yeah.” I wondered what year he was thinking it was, how old Suzie had been when Danielle disappeared.
He shook his head. “I know Danielle. Poor girl.”
“Why?” We were getting someplace now.
“I’m sorry to break it to you, boy, but I don’t think you’ll be able to play Battleship with Danielle Greenwood. She’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” I looked to see if Josh was anywhere around.
“Yes, disappeared. The police think she’s just run away, but Suzie said she’s dead.”
In the empty store, the word dead sounded like a door slamming.
“You know about Danielle?” I asked. “You know what happened to her?”
“I don’t know, but Suzie does. She said she couldn’t tell me, though. If she told anyone, they’d kill her, and they’d probably kill me too.”
“Who are they?” The game felt suddenly heavy in my arms. I put it down, the hairbrush on top of it.
“The people with the rhapsody.”
“Rhapsody? What’s rhapsody?”
“A leaf. A drug, actually. It grows somewhere, maybe deep in the woods, and people will kill for it.”
“Is that why they killed Danielle?”
“I told you Suzie didn’t tell me anything!” He stomped his foot. “Don’t you think I’d remember if she had?”
He was shaking. I placed my hand on his arm, to calm him. It was rigid, but under my touch, he relaxed. “I’m sorry. Of course that’s true.”
He looked into my eyes, pleading.
“Do you know where Suzie is? Do you?”
“What? No. You said she was missing.”
“Missing? Suzie?” His face crumpled, and he began to cry.
“Wait. I could be wrong. If you tell me more about it, I could help you find her, maybe.”
“I told you I can’t talk to you. Leave me alone!” He was flailing his arms now, beating his fists into me, the shelves, everything, and all the while, sobbing. “I can’t tell! I shouldn’t have told! Now, Suzie will be lost forever!”
I heard footsteps, Josh’s footsteps running toward me. He grabbed the old man. “Jerry. Jerry, it’s okay. He won’t tell anyone. Look, we got some new stuff in. I saved it behind the counter, old clocks like you like.”
“It’s no use,” the old man was sobbing. “Suzie’s gone. He’s right. She’s dead.”
“No, it’s okay. We’ll find her. There’s a box on the counter over there. There are cameras too.”
“Cameras? Do they have any pictures in them?”
Josh nodded. “Some might.”
Finally, Jerry calmed down enough that Josh could escort him to a new box of old junk. He was still looking at it when I left with the Battleship game, the old hairbrush, and more confusion than I’d felt before.
38
Rachel
For hours after Wyatt left, I could do nothing but stare at the photograph he had shown me and read the diary he had left. My mother’s diary. Her photo. Up until today, I had known I’d had a mother, and yet, she had never seemed quite real. Now, I looked at her picture, and I saw a girl like me, but not like me, a girl who had attended school as I hadn’t, who’d had a true love, as I had.
What had happened to her?
It was so sad that, though I could see her, we would never touch. I would never hear her voice.
I gazed upon the photo again. That’s when I realized she was wearing a coat. But not just any coat—the same coat I’d had on yesterday. I shivered, realizing it. The coat must have been in the closet where Wyatt was staying.
Now, it was here, under my bed!
I checked the clock. It was seven, an hour, still, before I’d planned to speak to Wyatt, longer still before Mama would arrive. I glanced out the window to make sure she was nowhere in sight. No. Nothing but trees. Even Wyatt’s footprints had already been covered by a fresh layer of snow, like they had never existed. He might almost have been a product of my desperate imagination.
I looked at the object he had given me, the telephone. No, I could never have imagined that. He was real, and he loved me. He would take me away with him if I only asked.
But, for now, he had given me this token of my mother’s existence.
I reached under the bed and drew out the coat. It was the first object I had ever owned that Mama had not given me. That made it the most precious as well, even more so because I knew it belonged to my mother, my real mother.
I lifted it to my face, sniffing it, trying to find a scent, a sign of her. I wondered what she had done when she wore this coat. W
ho had purchased it for her? What had she been like?
But I smelled nothing but the odor of age. Mama’s clothes smelled like this too, as if they were coated with a thin layer of dust.
Perhaps, I detected the slight smell of something else. Cinnamon.
Of course, that might simply be from the house where Wyatt lived, a smell of something baked yesterday, not when my mother was alive. But I preferred to think otherwise, that my mother had smelled of cinnamon, perhaps from a spiced cider she had drunk when wearing this coat, so many years ago.
I shivered at the thought of it, and in that moment, swept the coat around and onto my shoulders.
It fit perfectly. I buttoned it up and tied the belt around my waist. I made my hair into a ponytail and slipped it between the coat and my back, then lifted the hood over my head. I walked to the mirror.
Hair hidden, I looked exactly like the girl in the photograph.
I sort of hugged myself and then slid my hands deep inside my coat pickets, imagining my mother doing the same.
I gasped.
She had certainly done the same thing. I knew that, for when I reached into the pockets, I touched an object.
I drew it out.
It was a letter, a letter addressed to Danielle Greenwood.
The return address said Emily Hill.
39
Wyatt
Mrs. Greenwood went to bed early that night. She knocked on my door at seven thirty to say goodnight, like she always did. I’d been thinking she missed having someone to say goodnight to. She always watched television in bed, usually late-night shows, but tonight was earlier. I heard a situation comedy with lots of canned laughter.
When I was sure she was snug in her bed, I crept downstairs and picked up the kitchen phone. It was the old kind, the kind my grandfather had had, that attached to the wall. Mrs. Greenwood said she had it because it would work even during an electrical outage. Grandpa had said the same thing, but I didn’t believe it. I thought the old people just wanted the old things. Maybe someday, I’d be desperately clinging to my old cell phone or computer, when there was something way cooler.