“Hey what’s that?” I mutter and run toward something shiny on the edge of the road where the bushy grass begins. I pick up the little rectangular object and flip it over then whoop loudly when I see what it is. “Ha! Look what it is!” I wave it out in front of me and Sy grins.
“That’s an iPod.”
“Oh man, I wanted one last Christmas but didn’t bother to ask. They’re expensive.”
“Well now we have one,” Sy says proudly.
“We? No way. This is mine. I found it.”
“No. We came up to it together. It’s half mine too,” he says like he knows anything at all.
“No way.”
“Yep.”
“I’ll just tell your momma that you are being mean and trying to claim my treasure.”
“Yeah, you could probably lie to everyone else but you ain’t lyin’ to me, Rae,” he smirks folding his arms over his chest like he just won something.
“I saw it first,” I growl.
“How do you know I didn’t see it same time as you?”
“I… well… I…” I stutter, trying to think of a good argument to shut him up. “Fine!” I snap and stomp my foot. “Only half yours, half the time.” Sy swings his backpack around to his front and digs out a black permanent marker. “What’re you doing?”
“We’re makin’ a contract,” he announces snagging the iPod from me. I frown as I watch him draw a line down the backside of the iPod and then write his name in big letters. He finishes and hands me the marker and iPod. “Your turn.”
I roll my eyes but enjoy taking my time drawing my name really pretty and adding a flower and a heart. If I make it extra girly maybe he won’t want to be caught dead with it!
“Good, now let’s see what kind of music is on this thing,” he bosses, figuring out how to work the thing fast. It makes little clicking noises as he messes with it. “Battery is almost dead but we can find a charger for it I bet,” Sy says quietly with his eyes on the thing. I look over his shoulder watching him explore it. “Hey what’s that?”
“Says notes,” he says before clicking on it.
“To Rusty with a whole lot of love from your favorite blue and brown girl. Kitty,” he reads.
“Aw man. Does this mean we have to find who it belongs to and give it back?” I pout.
“I don’t know nobody named Rusty or Kitty in town. Do you?”
“No,” I admit.
“Well, I say we hold on to it and keep an eye out for the owners,” he nods.
“Okay then,” I agree.
“Check out all the music.” He grins. I smile too, not really minding all that much that I have to share the thing with him—just until we find someone named Rusty or Kit.
Suddenly, surrounded by these things, I’m thrust back in time again and wading through an onslaught of memories. I’m a little girl with her first iPod full of oldies, a pubescent kid in junior high secretly drawn to her best friend, a naïve teenaged girl doing her best to figure out the world. My eyes scan over a small physical representation of my formative years prior to my great escape. It feels like a mausoleum in here, a silent tomb memorializing a dead girl. I say dead, because to me she is definitely dead. That girl—the one I had been, she died one evening over a decade ago and Sylas Broussard is her killer.
If Sy is the killer, you were his accomplice, Regret declares with frostily.
Before I can mentally linger any longer on the topic of dead girls I kneel down shoving random junk aside in search of what I came into this mausoleum for. “Yahtzee,” I whisper dusting off my old black and white Converse.
Going down the stairs dressed for a night of bowling gives me the most intense sense of déjà vu. Racing memories crowd my mind, considering how many Thursday nights I skipped down these same stairs and headed off to spend the night with Sy and Chick and our group of friends.
“Rae, honey,” Momma calls from the kitchen. I peek my head around the doorway.
“I’m headed to hang out with Chick,” I explain.
“Bowling I assume,” she declares, smiling.
“Yes momma.”
“Well when you get back, I’d like to discuss something with you,” she says. I scan her face for insight but she gives nothing away as she keeps at her cleaning up the kitchen the way I’ve seen her do a million times before.
“We can talk now if you’d like,” I offer, walking fully into the kitchen where she’s wiping down the counters. I lean my hip against the breakfast bar and set my purse and keys down.
“No, no. You go on and have fun catchin’ up with Chick. We can talk tomorrow,” she says then comes to me for a hug. “It’s so good to have you in this house again,” she whispers in my ear. “Now go on,” she says before she releases me.
I smile and nod all while being fully aware that for the rest of the night I’ll be wondering what she needs to talk about.
I park my rental and before I can even get out of the car, I hear the bass from the music inside thumping beyond its walls. I climb out and smooth my skinny jeans, peering down at my Converse while I run my fingertips over the silk blouse feeling doubtful of myself, which I freaking despise. I’m a successful, driven, accomplished woman. If high and mighty politicians can’t make me feel self-conscious, then stupid shoes and teenage hangouts shouldn’t either.
I look slightly overdressed with the shirt and all but this is as good as it’s going to get. Someone opens the door to the bowling alley and for a moment the music spills out into the darkened parking lot. It’s enough to distract me from my thoughts. Before diving further down that rabbit hole, I lift my chin and march my ass toward the entrance. They renovated the place to add a real bar which is a welcome sight, but overall the place is exactly how I remember it. The scent, the sounds, the neon colors highlighted by the black lights hanging over each lane they switch on for Rock and Bowl Thursdays. I stand awkwardly at the mouth of the entrance looking left then right wondering where I might find Chick when strong arms band tightly around my midsection lifting me two feet off the ground and back against a hard, muscled chest. For a moment my mind drifts to Sylas, but Chick’s rumble of laughter makes me forget my nerves.
“My god, you actually showed up,” he laughs setting me back to my feet and immediately grabbing my hand. He tugs me toward the small bar situated in the front right corner of the building. And slaps the counter. “Harry, two shots of Jack and another pitcher of…” Chick swivels his head toward me questioningly.
“Uh, pass on the whiskey but whatever beer you like is good with me,” I say with a shrug. He nods.
“Tequila?” he asks. I consider it for a moment then shrug. Screw it.
“Sure.”
“Two shots of Patron and a pitcher of… Coors Light.” Harry goes about fulfilling our order and Chick beams a victorious smile at me.
“What?” I laugh and take a surreptitious glance around us. A handful of people take curious glances my way but get back to their drinks and friends.
“I just never thought I’d be in this bowling alley on a Rock and Bowl Thursday night with Raegan Potter again. Damn happy I am though,” he says, lightly bumping his shoulder into mine.