I chuckle. “Wait, nobody believes this shit, right?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you how many gardens I’ve tilled just so folks could plant their seeds.”
“Whoa, dude is like an evil genius! So what are they? Bean stalks to heaven?”
“Now you asking the right questions, Cali,” he says with a smirk. “Nobody knows. You plant them and they may sprout a little something but then they die off quick. Ain’t surprised, nothing grows around here except weeds. Ground won’t take.”
“Then how’d you get your stuff to grow, Mr. Gardner?”
“Give the land the right TLC, turn up the soil, mix it with some compost and plant food, and you can do anything. But them seeds, not even God himself could get those to grow. Believe me, we’ve tried. We’re not in the three-generation gardening business ’cause we wanted to be.”
Yusef nods at Pop-Pop, rolling his eyes. “Come on. This way.”
As he leads me down a narrow hall, I hear music beating through the walls, enough to shake the framed black-and-white family photos. He opens the first door on the right and the music blows my hair back.
“Damn, conserve energy much?”
“My bad,” he laughs, turning down the volume as I take in the spacious room—the football jerseys pinned to blue walls, the stacks of sneaker boxes, the three-monitor computer setup, giant floor speakers, and the souped-up deejay turntable.
“Whoa! You’re a deejay? Dude, how many jobs do you have?”
“It was my dad’s. He used to be a deejay. I’m . . . practicing, trying to take over another family business.”
First time he’s mentioned his dad. I note his discomfort and move on.
“So. What’s your deejay name?”
“Haven’t figured one out yet. But check out this set I’m working on. Found this cool song in my dad’s collection.” He clicks through a couple of buttons and the track plays. “There was a rap group back in the day called Crucial Conflict, had this track called ‘Hay,’ this beat is fire! Listen!”
He turns up the volume again.
The hay got me goin’ through a stage and I just can’t get enough
Smokin’ every day, I got some hay and you know I’m finna roll it up.
Weed. It’s a song about weed. My mouth waters.
“So, uh, you smoke?”
His face scrunches. “Nah. I don’t touch that shit!”
“Right! Right, yeah, of course,” I say, backpedaling.
He doesn’t ask me, and I take it as a sign he assumes I don’t either. My leg brushes against the frame of an unmade twin bed against the wall, sheets hanging on the floor. A wooden bed, a place for a million bedbugs to fester.
FACT: Although bedbugs do not have wings, they can jump short distances, catching rides to their next host’s house.
I gulp air and step away, skin in flames. It’s cool, keep cool, keep cool. Don’t freak out. You’ll wash your clothes when you . . .
I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE NOW!
“Um, so I gotta get home soon—”
“Oh, right! This way!”
The door at the end of the hall leads us back to the garage and a giant wall of tools. Some of the finest I’ve seen.
“All right. Let’s see what we got.” Yusef rummages through the shelves and I drift outside, admiring the rosebushes lining the driveway. Across the street, a woman stands on her porch, staring at me, unflinching. I shrink back inside.
“Hey, when does it start getting cold around here?” I ask.
“End of September.”
“That’s . . . really soon,” I mumble, doing some quick math in my head. Last article I read said the vegetative stage for cannabis seeds can take three to four weeks, before the flowering stage, which can take another five. And with the tools I’m working with, I might not be able to harvest anything until November.
“Well, with all the global warming stuff, sometimes it’s longer. Last year, didn’t get under seventy until the third week in October. Frost not until Thanksgiving. So take it easy, Cali, you won’t freeze to death just yet. But you better buy a good coat ASAP.”
The nickname is growing on me. Only because it reminds me of home. I look out into his lush front yard. The woman still staring, now on her phone.
“Thought you said nothing grew around here except weeds?” I ask, hinting to the rosebushes.
Yusef smirks. “Like I said, you gotta give the land some extra nurturing if you want anything to grow.”
He pats a bag marked “Plant Fertilizer” next to him. I lick my lips.
“You got any more?”
Six
THE ROOM IS pitch-black when my eyes peel open. I’m awake . . . but not fully. Everything is a fuzzy blur. My skin feels prickly, nerves tapping against bones. I blink and realize it’s all I can do. Arms, legs, hands . . . nothing is moving the way it should. I’m stuck. Stuck. Stuck?
What’s happening?
The door creaks open slowly, its eerie hinges singing. I try to roll over but remain frozen. It physically hurts to move as I struggle to talk. Who’s there?
Someone. There’s the faint outline of their body in the shadows. A tall body. Mom? Alec? Who is that?
My body throbs like a hit funny bone, invisible hands pressing me deeper into the mattress. Buddy sits up with a whimper, staring at the door. Then he lowers his head and lets out a low growl.
My mouth is dry from trying to force out words, fists clenched tight, gripping my sheets.
The shadow shifts. I can’t see it anymore. Where is it going?
Don’t go, help me. Please. I can’t move.
Drool pools in the back of my throat. I’m choking, I’m drowning, I’m dying.
Things are crawling on me, bedbugs, get them off! Get them off!
With everything in me, I strain, pushing from the inside out. My spine cracks in my ear, neck muscles bulging as I let out a staggering exhale.
Buddy cranes his head around as I launch up, gasping for air.
What the fuck was that?
Panting, I look out into the hall, eyes now adjusted. The shadow is gone. But I know I saw something. Or someone.
Buddy sniffs around in the dark as I let the fridge light illuminate the kitchen. My skin still feels achy, hands tingling as I pour myself a glass of water.
Three nineteen again. The silence is deafening. Deathly.
Except it’s not totally silent. Pipes still ping, wood breathes . . . but somewhere in the distance, I hear a growl, a rumbling.
Is that coming from outside?
Our street is a ghost town, quiet, desolate. We practically live on our own island. So when I peer out the front door window, I almost think I’m still dreaming. Because there’s a truck sitting across the street, its lights off, engine purring, a shadow behind the wheel.
“What the fuck?” I mumble. Who the hell is that?
I ruffle the curtain as I grab the doorknob. The driver must have seen, because the truck quickly backs up, makes a U-turn, and skirts off.
“What! No way!”
Tamara’s rejection is an awkward surprise. I reposition my computer.
“What do you mean? This was your idea!”
“I meant for you to find seeds there, in Cedarville. Dude, do you know, like, how much trouble I’d get into? Can’t you buy them online or something?”