“I’m so sorry to bother you, but—”
“What’re you selling?” The woman exhales, blowing a tendril that’s escaped from her messy ponytail. She looks to be midthirties and is casually dressed in jeans and a button-down, barefoot with a look-alike child tugging on her thigh.
“Selling? Oh, nothing.” I suddenly feel stupid as I hold up the shirt as a peace offering. “I wanted to drop off Elle’s tee.”
“Elle?”
“Yeah, Elle.” After glancing at the numbers on the side of the house, 1812, and peeking at the garage, I confirm the latter is a two-car with a side door that Elle disappeared through last night.
“I’m sorry, who is Elle?”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “I dropped a girl off here last night.” Over my shoulder, I gaze up and down the street. “I’m on Larchwood, right?”
“Yeah, this is Larchwood.”
“A teenager—blonde, named Elle, doesn’t live here?”
“Nope, last time I checked, I named my kids.” She sighs. “But can we just say Elle is my mother-in-law’s name, and you can take her with?”
Unsure how to answer, I motion to the children. “Your kids are adorable.” I’m a big fan of children, especially babies, their tiny hands and feet and cherubic faces exuding such innocence.
Clearly anxious to close the door and slowly starting to shut it in my face, the woman pulls her head back inside, warning me that her time is limited.
“Ouch,” the woman moans, because her toddler has now resorted to pinching her skin instead of merely pulling on it.
“Okay, so no Elle. Do you happen to know if she lives on this street and I maybe got the address wrong?”
“No.” The woman scrunches her face. “Not that I know of. We’ve lived here for seven years, and I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“I watched her walk inside . . .” I’m silenced by a death stare.
“During the storm? We were all here last night, even my husband.”
“Darn. I must not have gotten the address correct last night.”
“I don’t blame you. It was rough, especially the tornado warning. I thought our basement was going to flood.”
“It was dark when I brought her,” I muse, “so I must’ve gotten mixed up. The house was the same style.”
“Try the next street over. There’re a couple look-alikes. Maybe you’re one street off. Look for Larchmont.”
As I thank the woman for her time, I don’t bother arguing that it was definitely this street and this particular house. I watched a girl swallowed up by the gloom enter the side door. But there’s no use in quarreling with a sleep-deprived new mother about a teen who isn’t around.
Elle doesn’t live here. That’s all that matters.
But why would she lie?
And if the homeowners are unfamiliar with her, then where did she go?
I slide back into the driver’s side, refolding the T-shirt before laying it on the passenger seat. Maybe Elle was scared of a stranger’s taking her home. That makes sense.
Of course, that must be it.
I feel like an idiot. Even though I gave the girl a ride, she probably felt uneasy about taking me to her house.
But if Elle doesn’t live here, then where does she live?
I might be stuck with this tee after all, from a band I’ve never heard of.
CHAPTER 7
Elle
I wake to my alarm blaring country music, my least favorite, meant to entice me to get up.
It doesn’t work today.
My eyes are filled with sleep, and I rub them. Stretching my arms, I roll over the lumpy makeshift mattress I shove in the closet while I’m at school.
This place is such a dump. Yet I don’t ever want to leave here. It’s better than living on the streets. And I’m not an entitled teenager who can be choosy.
Once again, I overslept after hitting the snooze button multiple times. Another red mark on my tardy and absent report at school. It’s my senior year, and they don’t take kindly to your missing your first class at least once a week. Especially when you are responsible for attending only four classes, and three of them are fluff. Physical education. Art. Study hall.
Sighing, I know Principal Mitchum will jump down my throat. He and his frumpy secretary.
Diane is not home to chide me. She uses the system to get a check, but I couldn’t care less. I’m about to age out of the system, and she’s already got two more kids staying here. They’re brothers, ages ten and eleven, and they share the bunk beds I used until she decided she needed more money for her habits.
I moved to the couch when she brought them home a couple months ago, reminding me that my time is indeed limited. Then I got tired of waking up with severe back pain, so I asked around the complex for an old mattress. I was in luck—a neighbor was ready to discard one.
It works, as long as I keep clean sheets on it. I try not to picture where it’s been before me.
It is history.
The history we all have.
Besides indulging in her vices of drinking and smoking, Diane likes to gamble. She can multitask and do all three at the same time, most days, except when she is doing the part-time job she manages to keep as a cashier.
The apartment smells like stale cigarette butts and soiled kitty litter that hasn’t been emptied for days, though I can’t say I’ve spotted the cat recently, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have a name. Diane isn’t a housekeeper, a cook, or motherly at all, really. But she’s good at pretending when the time calls for it.
There’s never any food in the apartment, so I don’t bother searching the cupboards. Last week, all I found were empty ramen packets, a couple cans of soup, and a dead rat. I made chicken noodle for the boys, but nothing new has appeared since.
The boys are at school; they take the school bus, since she takes the car to work or the casino. I check for any missed calls—she allows me to have a cell phone only because it benefits her. If she’s stuck at the casino on a hot streak, I can help with after-school pickups. It also allows her to demand that I drive her places if she’s drunk. Even though it’s a prepaid plan and the phone is refurbished, it’s better than nothing.
Luckily, Charlotte sent cookies and peppermint bark home with me, and, wearing the yellow rain jacket she gave me last night, I devour both as I wait for the next city bus. She didn’t want it back, and the truth is it’s insulated and warm and I could really use one.
Especially now.
Plus, it’s a small consolation prize for all the trouble she’s caused in our lives.
When I reach school, I try to slink by the administrative office. Mrs. Marsh, the receptionist, doubles as a parole officer, and her beady eyes watch every move I make like a hawk. Her nasally voice echoes in the empty corridor. “Elizabeth?”
Dammit.
I consider running for it, but she’s already spotted me. I stop in my tracks and then walk backward in a shuffle.
“Really?” She puts her hands on her generous hips, ones Diane would call childbearing hips.
“Yeah?” I play stupid, acting like I’m headed to class.
“You’re late.” She taps her wristwatch. “Halfway through period two.”