“It’s school. What’s there to like,” I say, taking the steps two at a time.
“Good point,” he laughs. “Walk you home? We can compare A and B day schedules.”
I stop short to face him, keeping my voice down. “Dude, no way!”
“What?”
“Do you want me to get my ass beat for real?”
“Girl, what are you talking about?”
I glance over my shoulder, feeling the whispering voices on my back. Cliques of girls gather on the front steps, mumbling to each other, their eyes frosty.
“Just . . . stay away from me, Yusef. Seriously.”
Yusef stares, dumbfounded. “Um. Okay.”
Then I’m rushing away, fast. With a twinge of guilt threatening to catch up to me.
“And they have a science club. And a sci-fi club. And a code club!”
Sammy talks fast over a plate of carrot sticks, book bag still hanging off his shoulders.
“See? Told you you’d like it there,” Mom says, sliding a bowl of oatmeal across the counter, his favorite afternoon snack. “And how was your first day, Piper?”
Piper doesn’t look up from her Lunchable, remaining silent.
“Oooo . . . kay! And what about you, my other minion?”
I shrug. “I survived.”
“Must feel . . . different,” Mom says. “After the last few months of homeschooling.”
“I guess,” I mumble, popping a handful of grapes into my mouth. “They don’t take cards in the lunchroom so I’m going to need some cash.”
Mom stares for a beat, wheels spinning. “They . . . have a school account. I’ll send a check.”
“Seriously? I’m just buying lunch. You can’t trust me to do that?”
Mom quickly pivots, putting the kettle on the stove. “It’s just easier this way. Right?”
She still doesn’t trust me with money. Guess I don’t blame her.
“Gonna go for a run,” I announce through gritted teeth.
I lace up my sneakers on the front porch and stretch my calves. Running releases toxins in the organs through sweating. It’s not track meets, but it’s a decent substitute. And I’m hoping it at least curbs the weed cravings gnawing on my tongue.
Across Sweetwater, the other side of Maple Street is idyllic compared to our side. There’s at least some resemblance of life. Old men watering half-dead lawns, women on porches, kids playing in driveways, the smell of charcoal burning through the air, a casual afternoon. But the moment I jog by, all the reverie is cut short, shut off like a yanked TV plug.
The stares hit my skin and sink into my bloodstream. Reminds me of the day after my arrest. How the whole school stopped to watch me clean out my locker, flanked by police escorts. Megan O’Connell threatened to bomb the school and she was only sent to the nurse’s office.
I turn my music up and push myself harder, trying to burn all the thoughts—the girls at school, Yusef’s face, the image of that hand reaching into the shower—out of my frontal lobe. It was just my imagination, I keep telling myself over and over again. The exhaustion and new environment are playing tricks on me. There was no hand.
But . . . its skin was dark and charred like burnt plastic, nails black with dirt . . .
How could I make something like that up? If I was still on the Percs, I could’ve blamed it on a crazy trip. Damn, I could really use some weed. I know I made a promise to Dad, but it’s the only thing that helps my anxiety. Surrounded by emaciated houses, with no cell phone service, a jerk of a stepfather, and strangers creeping in the bathroom—he can’t really expect me to just deal in these types of conditions. Weed would at least take the edge off and make me a functional human.
My jog morphs into a sprint, muscles not warm enough, but I push them harder . . . with weed heavy on my mind.
Something is trying to break into my room.
It’s scratching at my door, feverish and desperate. Hungry. I’m familiar with that type of hunger.
Okay okay okay if I can just get Mom’s door open, I can get that sixty dollars I saw yesterday, then I . . . come on! Open!
I stir and blink in the darkness, lips dry, mouth parched. I sit up in bed, clenching my fists to keep them from trembling. The door shakes again, violently. Now fully awake, I crawl closer to the end of the bed.
Buddy is in downward dog, clawing at the door’s sill.
“Ugh! Bud! You’re killing me!”
New 10:00 a.m. ALARM: Buy Buddy new chew toys before I leave him on the side of the highway.
Buddy scratches harder, whining, staring back at me as if to say, “Are you really just going to sit there?”
“Buddy! Stop it. There’s no one—”
But then I think of the friend Piper mentioned . . . and that hand in the shower. The door creaks loud as I open it a crack, peering into the dark hall. Buddy shoves his nose between my legs, and darts out, sprinting down the steps.
“Buddy,” I shout under my breath, trying not to wake up the whole house. But there’s a light on downstairs.
Thought I turned those off.
I tiptoe after him, following the light into the kitchen. Empty. So is the family room. No way my earth-conscious mom would ever leave the lights on like this. Must have been Alec.
The cup is on the counter again.
Buddy paces in front of the basement door, sniffing, nose jabbing at the bottom. Time on the microwave, 3:19 a.m.
Am I ever gonna get a good night’s sleep in this place?
Who am I kidding? I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in over a year.
Yawning, I pour myself some water. The windows facing the backyard are like black voids, a draft whistling through the cracks. Outside, something is staring at me. Or someone. I can’t see them but I feel them there. Waiting . . .
Why is it always so damn cold in this house?
Buddy turns, giving me the classic puppy-dog eyes with a whimper.
“Forget it! I’m not going down to the cellar of doom in the middle of the night.”
Buddy flops his tail, crying again.
“Ugh, Bud, there’s nothing down there, look!”
I yank the basement door and it jerks me forward. Locked. Locked? It wasn’t locked the other day. The knob is old, brass, screws loose, the keyhole ancient. I yank it again. Definitely locked, but feels like it’s from the inside.
How is that even possible?
“Alec must . . . have the key or something,” I tell Buddy, letting go of the handle.
That’s when I smell it again. A mix of funk and . . . death. It’s stronger now, like a cloud hovering over my face.
CREEEEAK
Am I losing it, or did something . . . just move behind the door?
I take two steps back, listening to the silence.
A loud THUMP hits the door, shaking it in its frame. A yelp escapes me and Bud whimpers. Something definitely shook that door. But that’s crazy talk because there’s nothing down there.
It’s a draft. There’s probably a window open. . . .
“Bud, come on,” I snap, never taking my eyes off the door. “It’s way past your bedtime.”
I grab his collar and head for the stairs, but on step one . . .
“AHHH!”
Piper is at the top of the staircase in her pink pajamas, glaring down at me, face hidden in the shadows.