White Smoke

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  “Yeah! It’s one of my faves!”

  “Okay, remember when they replaced the actor that played Logan with some new guy, ’cause the original Logan kept coming to set drunk?”

  “Ugh! Don’t remind me. New guy was so blah-looking.”

  “Right, the show went on, but it wasn’t the same. That’s what ‘change’ sometimes be like. Take the whole soul out of something. Not all change is a good thing.”

  Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is needed.

  My breath catches and I’m not sure why I feel so exposed. Nervously, I dunk the last of my doughnut in the apple cider.

  “So you rather the Wood stay like it is now? A mess?”

  “No! I never wanted the Wood to be this way. No one did. I’m just saying, they didn’t throw away the Sistine Chapel because the paint started to flake. They renovated that shit! Took them some years and some serious cash, but they got it done. Why can’t our city do the same for us? They got all that money for the Riverwalk but can’t spare a dime to fix the pothole in front of Ms. Roberson’s house.”

  I stop to glance up at him. “Okay, not going to lie, I’m hella impressed with your Sistine Chapel knowledge.”

  He smirks. “Heard someone say that on one of those stupid baking shows.”

  “Told you, sugar over dirt!”

  “You right, you right,” he laughs. “Well, Unc and I, we’re thinking of starting a Maplewood historical society.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. We have to start saving our legacy before it’s all washed away. Pop-Pop took lots of pictures growing up. We can maybe raise some money for a museum or something.”

  I smile. “I love how . . . passionate you get about Maplewood.”

  “It’s my home, why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know. Guess I don’t really feel attached to much of anything . . . anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  Because my old town is full of jerks, and my old house kept the memories of bedbugs, my ex-boyfriend, and my parents’ divorce alive. Plus, there’s the whole nearly dying on my bedroom floor thing. But I didn’t want to get into all that.

  “No reason,” I say with a shrug before spotting the perfect pumpkin right by my boot.

  “There! Got one.” I lift it up in the air. “And I shall name you Sweets and I shall carve out your eyes and smile with a steak knife.”

  He shakes his head. “Well, that ain’t creepy at all.”

  Yusef offers to carry Sweets to the car as we head back. Sammy waves at us from his horse, practically moving in slow motion.

  “Yo, we should’ve brought your sister,” Yusef says. “She would’ve loved this too.”

  I roll my eyes. “Dude. That little bitch is not my sister. Besides, I would’ve been too tempted to tie her to a scarecrow.”

  “Whoa,” he says, face turned up. “Yo, do you talk like that around her? Not cool.”

  “You don’t know what’s she’s like. She makes life . . . miserable. More miserable than it has to be.”

  He rolls his eyes. “She’s a kid!”

  “She’s ten,” I snap back.

  “She’s. A. KID! Give her a break. She ain’t got it easy.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Come on now, it’s the Wood. Everyone knows everything about everybody. Word is nobody talks to that girl. She’s straight-up canceled. Think of all the looks you be getting at school, multiply that by a hundred. That’s what she’s dealing with.”

  Guilt starts to eat at my hard candy shell. I didn’t know she had it that bad. Didn’t seem like she cared either way if she had friends or not and totally fine staying up under Alec. But maybe that’s her defense mechanism, pretending everything’s fine and she doesn’t give a damn.

  That’s at least one thing we have in common.

  “Still don’t give her the right to take her issues out on us,” I mumble.

  “Girl ain’t getting no love at school, no love at home . . . seems like there’s nothing left to do but be a little asshole. But even assholes got a heart and a turning point. Just got to give her a chance. I’m sure folks given you second chances when you’ve fucked up.”

  My stomach muscles tie in knots.

  Does he . . . know?

  Sunday. Wash day.

  As I stand in front of the mirror, detangling my coils, my thoughts drift back to the secret garden. Could I be imagining things? The room felt . . . off, disturbed. Didn’t seem like anyone broke in there; the door was exactly as I left it. So how could the furniture be moved around yet the door never be open? And if someone was snooping around . . . why didn’t they mess with the plants? Maybe they’re waiting for the right time to blackmail me.

  “Mari! Mari!” Sammy calls from downstairs.

  In the beginning, this whole plan seemed so foolproof. Now I’m exhausted living this double life and, what’s worse, not even close to the type of high I want. Scratch that, need.

  “Mari! Mari!”

  “What?! I’m doing my hair!” I shout through the door, hands covered in deep conditioner.

  “Come here! Quick!”

  “Dude,” I groan, and stuff my wet curls in a plastic cap.

  “Mari, are you coming?”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming. Hang on,” I say from the steps, water already leaking down my neck, soaking the collar of my T-shirt.

  “Hurry up!” Sammy excitedly waves me on, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the family room.

  “What is it?”

  “Come here! Look at Buddy!”

  Buddy is sitting back on his hind legs, paws in the air. For a silly slobber dog, he’s completely stoic, motionless.

  “He’s been like that for, like, five whole minutes,” Sammy laughs. “He hasn’t moved. Even when I offer him treats!”

  Sammy snaps his fingers, but Buddy doesn’t blink. Tail erect, eyes focused, he’s a tense living statue. The same way he looks when he spots a squirrel; his wolf instinct returns and he’s nothing but a predator glaring at his prey.

  I follow Buddy’s eyeline to the basement door.

  “Buddy?” I say slowly.

  A low growl seeps through his teeth, transfixed on one spot. Hairs prickle on my neck like hundreds of tiny knives.

  There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there!

  With two quick strides, I bolt across the room, pushing Buddy sideways, and he yelps.

  “Dude!” Sammy yells. “What’d you do that for?”

  Stunned, Buddy shakes his head, looking up at me with a happy pant, tail wagging.

  “It’s . . . uh, it isn’t good for his joints, sitting like that,” I say, plopping on the sofa, trying to keep it cool. “You want him to get arthritis?”

  “He’s seven,” Sammy scoffs before his voice trails off, and he turns, staring at the basement door. I lean forward.

  “What is it?” I gasp.

  For a moment, he stands staring just like Buddy, entranced, unmoving, but exhales, turning back to me.

  “Oh. Nothing,” he quips with a shrug. “Thought I heard something,”

  “Something . . . like what?” I ask, inching forward, prepared to catch his secret.

  “I don’t know,” he laughs, blowing me off, and gives Buddy a good scratch behind the ears. “It’s nothing.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from pushing further. I want him to hear something. To see something. I want him to jump on the crazy train with me, so I don’t feel so alone.

  “Where’s Piper?” he asks, rubbing Bud’s belly.

  “In her room, I guess.”

  “You guess? Some babysitter you are.”

  “Believe me, this is one job I did not sign up for and quit regularly,” I moan and flop on the sofa, leaning my head on the sofa arm with a yawn. Insomnia and early morning gardening has me wiped out.

  “She was just sitting down here in the dark, doing nothing. No TV or anything. Weird little kid.”

  Consid
ering my talk with Yusef, I try to see things from Piper’s perspective. Through the eyes of a little girl living with cold strangers who doesn’t have a friend her age in the world. I glance at the freshly carved Sweets on the counter and smile.

  “Hey, did you have fun apple picking? I mean, after you rode your pony?”

  He narrows his eyes. “She was a retired racehorse. And yeah, I did. Yusef’s really cool.”

  A memory flashes of David and Sammy playing video games in our living room while I did homework. Sammy loved David. He took the breakup pretty hard, enough to find David’s number in Mom’s phone and secretly call him sometimes. It made our breakup complicated.

  “Well. Don’t get too attached,” I blurt out.

  He snorts. “I could say the same thing to you.”

  “Touché . . . ,” I chuckle. “Ugh. It’s so annoying having a younger twin.”

  He points at my head. “You’re getting your hair mayo on the sofa.”

  “Shit,” I mutter, jumping up. Last time I tried to do a hot oil treatment, I fell asleep watching The Great American Baking Show and oil leaked out my shower cap, staining the cushion. I flipped it over and it’s been my little secret ever since.

  “Hey, what’s that?” Sammy points behind me, frowning.

  “What?”

  “On your pants.”

  I slide a hand down my side before looking, expecting to touch something wet, but instead come across something dry, minuscule . . . and hard.

  Sammy’s eyes grow wide, shooting his hand out. “Wait, Mari . . .”

  But it’s too late. I glance down and see a sprinkle of black dots on my pants and pinch one in between my nails.

  “Oh God,” I whisper before snatching the cushion up, exposing my oil stain . . . as well as black spots in the sofa lining.

  The scream that bubbles up is agonizing. The scream of a siren. Sammy covers his ears as I back away, tripping over Buddy, my arm in flames.

  Bedbugs. We have bedbugs. Bedbugs bedbugs bedbugs . . .

  Sammy moves closer to investigate.

  “NO, SAM! Don’t!” I sob, reaching out to grab him. Buddy, unnerved by my screams, starts to whimper.

  Sam bends, grabbing a black dot, examining it before he sniffs.

  “It’s coffee,” he mutters, standing. “It’s not bugs, it’s just coffee. Here, smell!”

  “DON’T BRING THEM TO MY FACE!”

  Sammy jumps back. “Dude, calm down!”

  I fly into the kitchen, diving under the sink for the cleaning supplies.

  We need soap, bleach. I think the steam cleaner is in the linen closet. Boil the water, Sammy. It has to be superhot. Where’s my hair dryer? Can’t sit on your bed, rip the sheets. I’ll start the first load. We have some of those big black garbage bags, right? Let’s put the furniture on the deck, I’ll start scrubbing. Is it gonna rain? I don’t think it’s gonna rain. It can air out. Maybe save a mattress, seal off the room. What about Bud? I don’t want him messing with the glue traps. We have to lay traps at each foot of the bed. Four traps, four beds, four times four is eight but we should double that to sixteen so we can do two rounds. Oh God, is that a bite? That’s a bite!

  “Mari? Mari, calm down. It’s not bedbugs.”

  But it’s too late. I’m sprinting up the stairs, yanking my clothes off as I go. Heart thumping, I strip the bed, checking for bloodstains.

  FACT: Stains from blood or feces left behind by bedbugs usually appear on sheets and bedding as a rust color.

  No sign of blood. Not on the sheets or the mattress. Maybe in Sammy’s room? Or Mom’s? Piper’s? They could be anywhere. Everywhere. An infestation!

  FACT: Bedbug eggs may be difficult to see with the naked eye since they are about the size of a grain of sand. Look for grain-sized eggs that are milky in color.

  Downstairs, I hear Sammy on the phone.

  “You have to come home! She’s having one of her episodes again.”

  No, Mom. Don’t come home. Stay away, we’re infected. I’m infected. The linens, we need to wash all of them on the hottest setting, no, no, we need to boil water, steam clean, I think I brought our old one with us . . . wait, our old one? What if we brought bedbugs from Cali? What if they’ve been with us all this time?

  FACT: Bedbugs can go without feeding for twenty to four hundred days, depending on temperature and humidity.

  Bedbugs bedbugs bedbugs they’ll follow us everywhere!

  Piper hovers in her doorway, watching me.

  “Piper! Strip your bed,” I cry, throat dry. “We have bedbugs!”

  Piper doesn’t move. Just stands there with a smug smile painted on her face. As if we aren’t under attack by mini demons; we’ll never get rid of them. Never ever ever ever ever! They’re multiplying, living in the walls, in the sockets, the carpet . . . on our clothes. I check over my body, every nook and crevice, in search of a bite. Nothing, nothing. But the eggs are there, in my arm hairs, invisible, microscopic. I knew it! I knew they were here! I knew it!

  Shower. I scrub my skin with a new loofah. Hot water, soap . . . and rubbing alcohol. I jump out, slipping on the wet tile. Can’t use the towel, might have bedbugs. Heat. Must use heat. Heat will get rid of them. I plug in my hair dryer, turn it on high, and blow-dry all my arm hair and leg hair. My skin is red and blotchy. Is that from the bedbugs or the hair dryer? Do I need another shower? More alcohol it stings, it burns, it stings, it burns. I have no clothes all of them covered in bedbugs they’re everywhere, everywhere!

  Downstairs, the front door slams.

  “Sammy,” Mom calls. “Where is she?”

  “Mom!” I scream, running downstairs. “Mom! We have bedbugs again! I found them in the sofa.”

  Sammy covers his eyes as Mom grabs a blanket out of the living room.

  “Marigold, my God,” she shrieks, wrapping the blanket around me. My skin engulfs in flames.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” I scream, shoving her off me, hard.

  Mom crashes into the wall behind her, dropping her purse in shock. “Marigold!”

  “I didn’t wash that! It could have bedbugs!”

  “You can’t stand here naked!”

  “Mom, you’re not listening!” I scream through choked sobs, face sweaty, skin burning. “We have to call the exterminator. We need to book hotel rooms so they can do smoke bombs. We need to smoke them out!”

  Everything itches. The scalp under my wet hair, my legs, my stomach, my arms my arms my arms they’re everywhere oh my God please please please . . .

  “I—I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!” I gasp. “I can’t . . . can’t.”

  Mom’s eyes flare as she scoops me up under my arms. “Sam, grab her inhaler! Come on, baby, come on outside with me.”

  Mom gathers the blanket and gently leads me out to the back veranda. The chilly air on my wet skin is a slap to the face.

  “Come on baby, breathe,” she instructs, slow and steady. “That’s it, just breathe.”

  The patio furniture is covered in leaves that crunch under our butts. Mom rubs my back.

  “Mom, we . . . we have to . . .” But I can’t finish a single sentence. The building sitting on my chest weighs a million pounds.

  “Marigold,” Mom whispers, cupping my face. “Marigold, you need to relax, baby.”

  Sammy runs out to join us with Buddy on his tail. He passes me my inhaler and a bottle of water. Mom digs into her purse, taking out her medicine pouch. After about forty-five minutes of deep inhales and exhales, I could feel my heart rate start to slow by a fraction.

  “Now in just a few, we’re going to go inside and I’m going to show you what you saw.”

  “No,” I whimper. “No, please, Mom! I can’t. We need to go.”

  Mom smiles at Sammy. “But your brother has done all this work to make sure you’re safe. Why don’t you come see?”

  Inside, the cushions and pillows are laid out on the floor like a giant thick rug. Mom tries to lead me over and I resist.

  �
��No no no no no . . . wait, please!”

  “Look, Marigold,” Mom insists, turning on her phone’s flashlight. “Look at their color, at their shape. It’s not bedbugs, baby. Sammy’s right, it’s coffee grinds.”

  I blink and blink again.

  “Coffee?” I parrot, as if I’ve never heard of the word before.

  Mom talks to me calm and rationally, even places a few specks in my hand to examine. I sniff, recognize her morning rain forest brew. Not bedbugs. Just coffee. Tears spring up as I glance at Sam.

  “I’m . . . sorry,” I mumble with a shiver, clutching the blanket to my chest, painfully aware I’m naked underneath. How many times am I going to scar his childhood?

  “It’s all right, baby. I would’ve freaked out too,” Mom says, holding me.

  Shame swallows me up. I can’t believe I shoved my mom. First, I made her have to move because of my addiction, because of my anxiety, and now I’m physically abusing her, when she’s already done so much for me. Is this rock bottom? This has to be.

  “We’ve been through a lot with those stupid bugs, haven’t we,” she says with a tender smile, wiping my tears. “They definitely left their mark.”

  Sammy brushes the sofa with a perplexed scowl. “How did coffee grinds . . . get in the couch?”

  Mom shrugs. “I don’t know. Guess maybe some spilled out when I took out the compost.”

  “Yeah, but in the sofa? It’s almost like someone stuffed them down there.”

  She sighs. “I don’t know, guys. But . . . it was an accident. Everything’s fine now, right?”

  I look over my shoulder at Sammy, his eyebrow cocking up, and know we’re both thinking the same thing.

  Piper.

  Mom kisses my forehead. “I’m going to make you a cup of chamomile tea, draw you a nice oatmeal bath, and give you some melatonin so you can get a good night’s sleep. That’ll help you relax.”

  Resolve comes slipping back into my bloodstream, because there’s only one thing I know that’ll really help me relax.

  Yusef is all smiles in the hallway by his locker, holding up a doughnut.

  “Cali—”

  “Not now,” I grumble, blowing right past him.