Two minutes left. Her shoulders began to unclench. One class safe? Then Angus —one of the guys from the cabin party—paused in the doorway and checked the room over like she had. Greta held her breath, watching for who would follow him. No. Just him. He picked a desk not far from hers—one of the only ones left—and tossed her a cold look over his shoulder. Greta pretended not to notice.
The second Angus sat down, the smell of his cologne or body spray hit her and, in the next beat, a wall of nausea. That cheap woodsy scent…something about that night. Sweat. Hands on her body, breath by her ear. Bile moved up her throat, burning. Greta lurched from her desk, scooping her books in her arms as she fled. The teacher paused, and heads swiveled in her direction. Greta burst into the empty hall and stumbled to the bathroom, locking herself in a stall. What’s wrong with me? She took deep breaths and swallowed, her heart slowing now. She couldn’t assign the feeling to one thing, but that cologne formed a part of the fog of that night at the cabin, tied in with the blur of bodies, the nausea of the purple drink, memories like gray forms—almost there. Pull yourself together. She took a long drink from the water fountain until her stomach stopped convulsing, but couldn’t bring herself to go back inside the classroom.
Greta left for her French class early, creeping through the silent hall, and sat outside the door until the bell rang. Even though she’d moved at the pace of a turtle, her breath came short and shallow. At the door she paused and looked the room over. Sam—Baby Spice—sat near the front. Greta’s eyes whipped through every row, checking for the others. No one she recognized. Her chest loosened.
Then Sam turned in Greta’s direction, giving her a tight smile before snapping to face forward again. Et tu, Sam? Et tu? That definitely wasn’t an invitation to sit in the empty desk beside her. So much for being the nice one.
At lunchtime Greta crouched low in the cafeteria, hunched in her and Ash’s usual corner, behind a ficus tree. Greta had suspected it before—but had never fully realized till now—that the table with Dylan, Matt, Rachel, Priya, Sam and all their hangers-on was the hub of the whole cafeteria. Really, the whole school. She’d been there, sitting right there, and now she had to crouch behind a ficus tree to eat her microwaved Mr. Noodles. Everything gift wrapped for her—“on a silver platter,” as Patty would say—and she’d still messed it up. Why had she ever gone to the cabin?
Rachel had driven her there, nearly an hour outside the city, with the windshield wipers beating against the steady fall of fat November snowflakes. A layer of white coated a line of empty cabins nicer than anything Greta had ever lived in. Rachel pulled in behind Matt’s dad’s SUV, beside a small A-frame cabin.
Dylan had swung the door open and leaned against the doorjamb. He wore a loose plaid shirt over a white T-shirt, baggy jeans. It was obvious he’d already had a couple. The grin gave him away, like Rachel’s car was delivering a winning lotto ticket. And he had that amused look —just waiting for someone to make him laugh. His loose brown curls slightly disheveled. Greta had wanted to touch him.
Matt came and stood behind him, a beer in one hand. “Heeeeeyyy!” he and Dylan called to Rachel and Greta at the same time.
Rachel laughed. “Those two.”
Inside the cabin, she hovered behind Rachel as Matt and Dylan set up beer pong and mixed some purple punch that made her eyes water from three feet away. How could she keep up with them? They obviously did this every weekend.
Priya—all legs in a little dress and tall boots—and Sam arrived shortly after. Rachel pulled Greta into the living-room area, where two tiny loveseats and a wicker chair bumped each other. A burning log in the fireplace radiated the only heat. “You should probably know,” Rachel whispered, “that Dylan used to date…”
Don’t say Priya, Greta had thought. Priya already seemed to own every room she entered—a goddess ready to shower commoners with blessings or wrath.
“…Priya last year,” Rachel finished. “I’d keep one eye on her, if I were you.”
More people crowded into the kitchen and living room, and they started a game of beer pong. Greta tried not to gag on the yeasty, lukewarm beer. For a few minutes, nothing, then the buzz hit her head, her legs a little off balance. She leaned back on Dylan’s chest, his chin resting against her hair. She stayed close to him, watching Priya work her way around the room as more people arrived.
As the noise climbed around them, Dylan poured two cups of his homemade punch and led Greta, bumping shoulders and stepping on feet, across the living room. He dropped into the wicker chair and pulled her into his lap. She fit there, in the curve of his body. Tucking her legs up, she lay against his chest. He ran his fingers up under the cuff of her jeans, against her bare skin. She knew there was a reason she’d shaved her legs.
“You’re the most beautiful girl here,” he said, his mouth by her ear. She lay still, his heartbeat making her sleepy.
After a sip of punch, which burned going down, she tried to put it on the floor. “I think I’m good for now,” she said. “I might be designated driver.”
Dylan laughed. “I don’t think you’ll be driving anytime soon. Don’t die on me now, Greta.”
She’d drained the cup. After Dylan went for a refill, things got blurry. Memories smeared or chopped in pieces. Rachel sitting close to Matt on one of the sofas. Priya and Sam dancing to a song playing on Priya’s phone. Some guy with a goatee smoking nearby, tapping ashes into an empty bottle. On a trip to the bathroom, Angus stepping close to her, smiling, his hand on her waist. Talking close to her ear. Her reaching to touch his dreads, but Dylan appearing, pulling her away. Doing a shot with Sam. Matt and Dylan streaking out the front door, shirtless, into the snow. Dylan kissing her in the kitchen, tasting like fruit punch. Angus’s face a storm cloud over Dylan’s shoulder.
Her last memory of that night was of being stretched out on her belly on the leather sofa, Priya by her head, bent over to talk to her. “Are you okay?” Her hand on Greta’s shoulder. “Do you want me to take you home?” Through an eye slit, Greta had seen Priya’s jacket and the tops of her long black boots, the keys in her hand. Greta had tried to tell her to go away, to stay away from Dylan, but the words wouldn’t come. She’d turned her head away from Priya.
Now, in the cafeteria, Greta turned away from Priya again, just as Ash and Nate appeared. Nate sat between them on the bench, leaning forward with the same expression as a dog with its head out the window. He immediately launched into a game of Would You Rather.
“Would you rather”—he twisted his mouth—“eat an entire pig or wear a wig for the rest of your life?”
Ash’s brow furrowed. Greta stepped into her role as the-one-who-is-patient-with-weird things. “I’d probably rather eat a pig.” Wigs were itchy, sweaty.
“The whole pig, raw. Every part. Just sit down and eat a raw pig.”
She grimaced. “Okay, maybe not. I’d wear the wig then.”
“That’s every day,” Nate said. “Night and day, from now until you die.”
“Uh, I don’t know.” She honestly didn’t know. Through the ficus leaves, she saw Chloe—Ginger Spice— slip her arm around Dylan’s waist and hang her thumb from his back pocket. Not surprising. Greta had noticed her always hovering around Dylan. That was the thing about having a lineup of people wanting to date the same guy. Always someone ready to step over your corpse and take your place. Just as she had done with Priya and Angela.
One more class to survive. Math.
Greta arrived before the teacher and found the door locked. A middle-aged black woman came up behind her, picking a key from a lanyard. “You’re keen, aren’t you?” The teacher winked and swung the door open for Greta. “I’m Mrs. Flynn. You here for math?”
Greta just nodded—no energy for small talk. She found the perfect desk in the back corner and waited for the room to fill. A minute later more people wandered in, dropping books on desks, their heads turned to one another. Some girl from Greta’s bio class last term. A guy from her Fre
nch class. Strangers. Strangers. A bunch of people on their phones. Greta saw the long black hair first and felt her heart pound her chest. No—a different head of long black hair.
Mrs. Flynn called in a straggler from the hallway and shut the door. She started talking about class rules and expectations as she made her way to the front of the room. Greta didn’t hear another word. All three classes free of Dylan, Rachel and Matt. Angus and Sam she could handle. She closed her eyes and felt the lead escape her bones, float to nowhere. She hadn’t even known it was there. Her chest expanded wide—more air than she thought possible—for the first time all day. No, for the first time in nearly three months.
She could do it. They could do it. All of it. Come to school. Graduate. Get jobs and move past this. Everything was possible. She closed her eyes and felt her body float from her desk—so light.
After Nate dropped them off at home, Greta said, “Ash, you don’t have to transfer to my math class.” She faced forward to hide her smile.
“Why not?”
“I have a good teacher. Take art instead.”
“You were always better at it than me anyway. I don’t think I would have been much help to you.”
She unlocked the door, Ash nearly stepping on her to escape a gust of wind. He beat her to the oven in the kitchen. “I’m thinking of moving the couch,” he said, pointing to the middle of the kitchen floor. “To right here.”
Greta smiled, then noticed the light blinking on the answering machine. Dad. Always her first impulse, no matter how hard she tried to stamp it out. She pressed Play as Ash reached for the matchbox.
“Hi there, Ash. This is Ed, the manager of Freddy’s Fries.” His voice sounded tinny through the answering machine. Both Ash and Greta froze and watched the machine as though Ed himself stood there.
“Thank you for your interview yesterday. I wanted to let you know that we’ve gone with another candidate at this time.” He cleared his throat. “Have a good day.” Click.
She searched for something hopeful, supportive, to say. Something to say it was okay. The have a good day a final kick in the crotch. She had nothing.
Ash looked at her. “Tomato or chicken noodle?” he asked.
“We had tomato yesterday. Chicken noodle.” She didn’t want oversalted canned soup though. She wanted a steak, medium rare, and a baked potato with bacon bits and sour cream. She wanted a salad full of green things not found in her fridge, with a dressing not from a Kraft bottle. Cheesecake with melted chocolate sauce, the kind that felt heavy in her belly and that she would regret just a little.
And she wanted to disappear into her room so she didn’t have to try. Let herself plummet over the edge of the world. But it wouldn’t be fair to Ash, leaving him to plummet alone. “Want to watch Quiz Kings?” she asked. It was a trivia show for old people that Patty had got them all hooked on, and it seemed to run about five times a day.
They sat on the couch with their knees pulled up, slouching toward the middle, where the broken springs sagged. Greta turned on the TV, right in the middle of a commercial for men’s underwear, all abs and bulges. She closed her eyes and counted to twenty, trying to stave off the feeling of dirty panic. She couldn’t handle it—not right now. Ash is here. I’m okay. Ash is here. I’m okay. Ash got up to relight the oven, taking the edge off the room, and brought in mugs of soup. The next commercial came on, this one for breakfast cereal. Greta focused on its annoying jingle and how the mug burned against her palms.
“Maybe you were right about the haircut,” Ash finally said, settling next to her again. More likely it was Ash’s give-me-a-job-or-die persona. You want Coke with that? Want me to shove your face in the deep fryer?
“No,” Greta said. “It wasn’t the haircut. Don’t worry—you’ll find something better. I will too.”
A knock on the door between their suite and Elgin’s. Greta pointed to the oven. Ash scrambled to turn it off as Greta eased the door open. There Elgin was, in the same undershirt and fluorescent running shorts as before. Greta didn’t want to talk about jobs, bills or rent right then. Just Quiz Kings and toxic soup.
Elgin clasped his hands in front of him—a formal gesture for someone standing in that outfit. “Just wondering if you kids had heard about that job yet,” he said.
Greta waved him inside. “Uh, that one didn’t work out,” she said. “We’ll keep trying.”
Elgin’s wild-man eyebrows shot up, then dropped low. “That right? Okay, keep me—” He stopped and looked around. Greta noticed the dust on the TV stand and the pile of blankets by the couch. “Sure is chilly down here. Is it always like this?” He seemed to shrink, his clothes hanging looser on his frame.
Usually colder. They’d had the oven on for a few minutes. They nodded. But how could they complain, living there for free at this point? Elgin walked farther into the living room, then into the kitchen, his hands out to test the air. “It’s a little warmer in the kitchen.”
“We were”—Ash cleared his throat—“cooking something.”
“And the bedrooms?” Elgin asked.
“Colder,” Greta said.
Elgin eyed the kitchen counter with the empty soup can, a ring of fluorescent yellow goo dribbling off the lid. “Do you have enough food?”
Greta shrugged. “We have a little.”
Elgin crossed his arms against the cold, his face settling in a grimace. “I may have a space heater upstairs.” He climbed the staircase between the suites, leaving the top door open behind him. Ash raised an eyebrow at Greta, and they both waited.
No one moved until he came back down again, his arms empty. “I must’ve loaned it to my daughter.”
“That’s okay,” Greta said, starting to turn away.
“But…” Elgin clasped his hands again. “Um…”
Greta and Ash faced him. His eyebrows worked overtime.
“If you like”—Elgin coughed—“I have a spare room upstairs.”
Greta leaned forward slightly, her mouth opening. Ash frowned and flipped his hair from his eyes.
“You could stay there for now,” Elgin continued, “until your aunt comes back.” His words came fast and clear now. “It’s warm. I have money for food, but I hate grocery shopping. I’ve been having groceries delivered and paying someone to shovel the walk too. I don’t like going outside much in winter. Maybe you could take on those things and help around the house in exchange for room and board?”
Greta’s eyes darted to Ash, reading his thoughts. “If it’s easier for you, Mr. Doyle, Elgin”—she paused—“we could work for you and still stay in the basement. We’re kind of used to the cold now, and we don’t want to, uh, disturb you.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” Elgin said, “but I may have to move your belongings into the garage and rent out this space. You see, I have other…financial obligations.”
Greta nodded, trying to digest what he’d said. Could they live with Elgin? All the plants? The lack of pants? They’d lived with Patty and survived. “Thanks so much for that. Can I just talk to my brother for a minute?”
Elgin nodded and left. Not like they had much choice. No, Elgin, we prefer to keep living in your basement for free.
The second they heard the upstairs door close, Ash turned to Greta. “I don’t know, Greta. He’s kind of weird.”
“We’re weird, Ash,” she snapped. “Is anything about us or our lives normal?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “He’s just an old man. I’m pretty sure the two of us can take him if he tries anything.”
“So we’re going to live with our landlord,” he said, his voice flat.
“I don’t see that we exactly have a choice until we get jobs or Aunt Lori comes back. It’s either Elgin or a tarp under a bridge.”
Ash sighed and shook his head. “This just gets better and better.”
“But Ash”—she grabbed his arm as he turned away—“don’t leave me alone with him. Ever.”
“Okay.” He opened his mouth and closed it again, watchi
ng her face.
“I mean it.” She didn’t let go. “If I have to go to the bathroom, you’re standing outside that door.”
“You think—?” He started to say more but stopped himself. “Okay. I’ll stay with you.”
Greta gathered her stuff from the bathroom and emptied her drawers into a suitcase. Ash took even less time, clearing his things from a shelf in the storage room into a cardboard box with one swoop of his arm. He went upstairs first.
Greta stood at the base of the staircase, one hand on the doorknob and the other around her suitcase handle. She looked over the suite, wondering if there was anything else she needed or some keepsake she wanted with her. A bad taste settled in her throat. Everything bore the taint of Patty, from the faint scent of her cigarettes to the memory of her shouting at them for playing near her hideous porcelain-dog collection. A mark attached to everything.
She’d told Ash the truth when she’d said it didn’t shock her that Roger had left. Like how she knew, at least one time per winter, their car wasn’t going to start. She didn’t want it to happen, but it didn’t surprise her. She gripped the doorknob tighter. But seven years. Seven years he’d made excuses for Patty’s anger, tried to make them share the blame in her tornado of drama. They’d been kids—imperfect, noisy, messy. He’d played middle man between a wolf and two sheep, trying to justify why the wolf always tore at them. Trying to please that rabid wolf. And for a while they’d tried to please it, too, believing they couldn’t do anything right and if only they’d try a little harder. Roger had failed them for seven years. That part, unforgivable. Leaving, just a technicality.
She slammed the door behind her, shaking the frame, and climbed the stairs without looking back.
EIGHT
When Greta reached the top of the stairs, Elgin pointed in the direction of his spare room. He really didn’t need to—the layout of the upstairs mirrored the basement. It made sense that his bedroom was the larger one by the bathroom, and the spare room the replica of Greta’s downstairs.
Trail of Crumbs Page 7
