Lock and Key

by Sarah Dessen

  Cora’s door swung open almost soundlessly, revealing the big, airy foyer. Like at the yellow house, everything was still and quiet, but in a different way. Not untouched or forgotten, but more expectant. As if even a house knew the difference between someone simply stepping out for while and being gone for good.

  I shut the door behind me. From the foyer, I could see into the living room, where the sun was already beginning to sink in the sky, disappearing behind the trees, casting that special kind of warm light you only get right before sunset.

  I was still just standing there watching this, when I heard a tippity-tapping noise coming from my left. I glanced over; it was Roscoe, making his way through the kitchen. When he saw me, his ears perked up straight on his head. Then he sat down and just stared at me.

  I stayed where I was, wondering if he was going to start barking at me again, which after starting a new school and breaking into my old house was going to be the last thing I could take today. Thankfully, he didn’t. Instead, he just began to lick himself, loudly. I figured this signaled it was safe to continue on to the kitchen, which I did, giving him a wide berth as I passed.

  On the island, there was a sticky note, and even though it had been years since I’d seen it, I immediately recognized my sister’s super neat handwriting, each letter so perfect you had to wonder if she’d done a rough draft first. J, it said, Lasagna is in the fridge, put it in (350) as soon as you get home. See you by seven at the latest. Love, me.

  I picked the note up off the counter, reading it again. If nothing else, this made it clear to me that my sister had, in fact, finally gotten everything she wanted. Not just the things that made up the life she’d no doubt dreamed of—the house, the job, the security—all those nights in our shared room, but someone to share it with. To come home to and have dinner with, to leave a note for. Such simple, stupid things, and yet in the end, they were the true proof of a real life.

  Which was why, after she’d worked so hard to get here, it had to really suck to suddenly have me drop back in at the very moment she’d started to think she’d left the old life behind for good. Oh, well, I thought. The least I could do was put in the lasagna.

  I walked over to the oven and preheated it, then found the pan in the fridge and put it on the counter. I was pulling off the Saran wrap when I felt something against my leg. Looking down, I saw Roscoe had at some point crossed the room and was now sitting between my feet, looking up at me.

  My first thought was that he had peed on the floor and was waiting for me to yell at him. But then I realized he was shaking, bouncing back and forth slightly from one of my ankles to the other. “What?” I asked him, and in response he burrowed down farther, pressing himself more tightly against me. All the while, he kept his big bug eyes on me, as if pleading, but for what, I had no idea.

  Great, I thought. Just what I needed: the dog dies on my watch, thereby officially cementing my status as a complete blight on the household. I sighed, then stepped carefully around Roscoe to the phone, picking it up and dialing Jamie’s cell-phone number, which was at the top of a list posted nearby. Before I was even done, Roscoe had shuffled across the floor, resituating himself at my feet, the shaking now going at full force. I kept my eyes on him as the phone rang twice, and then, thankfully, Jamie picked up.

  “Something’s wrong with the dog,” I reported.

  “Ruby?” he said. “Is that you?”

  “Yes.” I swallowed, looking down at Roscoe again, who in turn scooted closer, pressing his face into my calf. “I’m sorry to bother you, but he’s just acting really . . . sick. Or something. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Sick? Is he throwing up?”

  “No.”

  “Does he have the runs?”

  I made a face. “No,” I said. “At least, I don’t think so. I just came home and Cora had left this note about the lasagna, so I put it in and—”

  “Oh,” he said slowly. “Okay. It’s all right, you can relax. He’s not sick.”

  “He’s not?”

  “Nope. He’s just scared.”

  “Of lasagna?”

  “Of the oven.” He sighed. “We don’t really understand it. I think it may have something to do with this incident involving some Tater Tots and the smoke detector.”

  I looked down at Roscoe, who was still in full-on tremulous mode. You had to wonder how such a thing affected a little dog like that—it couldn’t be good for his nervous system. “So,” I said as he stared up at me, clearly terrified, “how do you make it stop?”

  “You can’t,” he said. “He’ll do it the entire time the oven’s on. Sometimes he goes and hides under a bed or the sofa. The best thing is to just act normal. If he drives you too crazy, just shut him in the laundry room.”

  “Oh,” I said as the dog rearranged himself, wedging himself between my shoe and the cabinet behind me. “Okay.”

  “Look, I’m breaking up,” he said, “but I’ll be home soon. Just—”

  There was a buzz, and then he was gone, dropping off altogether. I hung up, replacing the phone carefully on its base. I wasn’t sure what “soon” meant, but I hoped it meant he was only a few blocks away, as I was not much of an animal person. Still, looking down at Roscoe trembling against my leg, it seemed kind of mean to just shut him up in a small space, considering the state he was in.

  “Just relax, okay? ” I said, untangling myself from around him and walking to the foyer to my bag. For a moment he stayed where he was, but then he started to follow me. The last thing I wanted was any kind of company, so I started up the stairs at a quick clip, hoping he’d get the message and stay behind. Surprisingly, it worked; when I got to the top of the stairs and looked down, he was still in the foyer. Staring up at me looking pitiful, but still there.

  Up in my room, I washed my face, then slid Cora’s sweater off and lay back across the bed. I don’t know how long I was there, staring out the windows at the last of the sunset, before Roscoe came into the room. He was moving slowly, almost sideways, like a crab. When he saw that I’d noticed him, his ears went flat on his head, as if he was expecting to be ejected but couldn’t help taking a shot anyway.

  For a moment, we just looked at each other. Then, tentatively, he came closer, then a bit closer still, until finally he was wedged between my feet, with the bed behind him. When he started shaking again, his tags jingling softly, I rolled my eyes. I wanted to tell him to cut it out, that we all had our problems, that I was the last person he should come looking to for solace. But instead, I surprised myself by saying none of this as I sat up, reaching a hand down to his head. The moment I touched him, he was still.

  Chapter Four

  At first, it just a rumbling, punctuated by the occasional shout: the kind of thing that you’re aware of, distantly, and yet can still manage to ignore. Right as my clock flipped over to 8:00, though, the real noise began.

  I sat up in bed, startled, as the room suddenly filled with the clanking of metal hitting rock. It wasn’t until I got up and went out on my balcony and saw the backhoe that it all started to make sense.

  “Jamie!”

  I glanced to my right, where I could see my sister, in her pajamas, standing on her own balcony. She was clutching the railing, looking down at her husband, who was on the back lawn looking entirely too awake, a mug of coffee in his hands and Roscoe at his feet. When he looked up and saw her, he grinned. “Great, right? ” he said. “You can really visualize it now!”

  Most of Cora’s response to this was lost in the ensuing din as the backhoe dug once more into the lawn, scooping up more earth from within Jamie’s circle of rocks and swinging to the side to dump it on the already sizable pile there. As it moved back, gears grinding, to go in again, I just caught the end, when she was saying, “. . . Saturday morning, when some people might want to sleep.”

  “Honey, it’s the pond, though,” Jamie replied, as if he had heard every word. “We talked about this. Remember?”

  Cora just lo
oked at him, running a hand through her hair, which was sticking up on one side. Then, without further comment, she went inside. Jamie watched her go, his face quizzical. “Hey!” he shouted when he saw me. The backhoe dug down again, with an even louder clank. “Pretty cool, don’t you think? If we’re lucky, we’ll have it lined by tonight.”

  I nodded, watching as the machine dumped another load of dirt onto the pile. Jamie was right, you could really picture it now: there was a big difference between a theoretical pond and a huge hole in the ground. Still, it was hard to imagine what he wanted—a total ecosystem, a real body of water, with fish and everything—seeming at home in the middle of such a flat, square yard. Even with the best landscaping, it would still look as if it had fallen from the sky.

  Back inside, I flopped back into bed, although sleeping was clearly no longer an option. Hard to believe that the previous Saturday, I’d been at the yellow house, waking up on the couch with our old moldy afghan curled around me. Fast-forward a week, and here I was at Cora’s. My basic needs were certainly being met—running water, heat, food—but it was still strange to be here. Everything felt so temporary, including me, that I hadn’t even unpacked yet— my bag was still right by the bed, where I was living out of it like I was on a vacation, about to check out at any moment. Sure, it meant the little bit of stuff I had was that much more wrinkled, but rolling over every morning and seeing all my worldly possessions right there beside me made me feel somewhat in control of my situation. Which I needed, considering that everything else seemed completely out of my hands.

  “The bus?” Jamie said that first night, when he mentioned Nate picking me up and I told him I’d prefer alternate transportation. “Are you serious?”

  “There isn’t a Perkins Day bus in the morning,” Cora said from across the table. “They only run in the afternoon, to accommodate after-school activities.”

  “Then I’ll take the city bus,” I said.

  “And go to all that trouble?” Jamie asked. “Nate’s going to Perkins anyway. And he offered.”

  “He was just being nice,” I said. “He doesn’t really want to drive me.”

  “Of course he does,” Jamie said, grabbing another roll from the basket between us. “He’s a prince. And we’re chipping in for gas. It’s all taken care of.”

  “The bus is fine,” I said again.

  Cora, across the table, narrowed her eyes at me. “What’s really going on here?” she asked. “You don’t like Nate or something? ”

  I picked up my fork, spearing a piece of asparagus. “Look,” I said, trying to keep my voice cool, collected, “it just seems like a big hassle. If I ride the bus, I can leave when I want, and not be at the mercy of someone else.”

  “No, you’ll be at the mercy of the bus schedule, which is much worse,” Jamie said. He thought for a second. “Maybe we should just get you a car. Then you can drive yourself.”

  “We’re not buying another car,” Cora said flatly.

  “She’s seventeen,” Jamie pointed out. “She’ll need to go places.”

  “Then she’ll ride the bus. Or ride with Nate. Or borrow yours.”

  “Mine? ”

  Cora just looked at him, then turned her attention to me. “If you want to do the bus, fine. But if it makes you late, you have to do the carpool. All right?”

  I nodded. Then, after dinner, I went online and printed out four different bus schedules, circling the ones I could catch from the closest stop and still make first bell. Sure, it meant getting up earlier and walking a few blocks. But it would be worth it.

  Or so I thought, until I accidentally hit the snooze bar a few extra times the next morning and didn’t get downstairs until 7:20. I was planning to grab a muffin and hit the road, running if necessary, but of course Cora was waiting for me.

  “First bell in thirty minutes,” she said, not looking up from the paper, which she had spread out in front of her. She licked a finger, turning a page. “There’s no way.”

  So ten minutes later, I was out by the mailbox cursing myself, muffin in hand, when Nate pulled up. “Hey,” he said, reaching across to push the door open. “You changed your mind.”

  That was just the thing, though. I hadn’t. If anything, I was more determined than ever to not make friends, and this just made it harder. Still, it wasn’t like I had a choice, so I got in, easing the door shut behind me and putting my muffin in my lap.

  “No eating in the car.”

  The voice was flat, toneless, and came from behind me. As I slowly turned my head, I saw the source: a short kid wearing a peacoat and some serious orthodontia, sitting in the backseat with a book open in his lap.

  “What?” I said.

  He leaned forward, his braces—and attached headgear— catching the sunlight coming through the windshield. His hair was sticking up. “No eating in the car,” he repeated, robotlike. Then he pointed at my muffin. “It’s a rule.”

  I looked at Nate, then back at the kid. “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?”

  “This is Ruby,” Nate said.

  “Is she your new girlfriend?” the kid asked.

  “No,” Nate and I said in unison. I felt my face flush.

  The kid sat back. “Then no eating. Girlfriends are the only exception to carpool rules.”

  “Gervais, pipe down,” Nate said.

  Gervais picked up his book, flipping a page. I looked at Nate, who was now pulling out onto the main road, and said, “So . . . where do you take him? The middle school?”

  “Wrong,” Gervais said. His voice was very nasal and annoying, like a goose honking.

  “He’s a senior,” Nate told me.

  “A senior?”

  “What are you, deaf?” Gervais asked.

  Nate shot him a look in the rearview. “Gervais is accelerated, ” he said, changing lanes. “He goes to Perkins in the morning, and afternoons he takes classes at the U.”

  “Oh,” I said. I glanced back at Gervais again, but he ignored me, now immersed in his book, which was big and thick, clearly a text of some kind. “So . . . do you pick up anyone else? ”

  “We used to pick up Heather,” Gervais said, his eyes still on his book, “when she and Nate were together. She got to eat in the car. Pop-Tarts, usually. Blueberry flavor.”

  Beside me, Nate cleared his throat, glancing out the window.

  “But then, a couple of weeks ago,” Gervais continued in the same flat monotone, turning a page, “she dumped Nate. It was big news. He didn’t even see it coming.”

  I looked at Nate, who exhaled loudly. We drove on for another block, and then he said, “No. We don’t pick up anyone else.”

  Thankfully, this was it for conversation. When we pulled into the parking lot five minutes later, Gervais scrambled out first, hoisting his huge backpack over his skinny shoulders and taking off toward the green without a word to either of us.

  I’d planned to follow him, also going my own way, but before I could, Nate fell into step beside me. It was clear this just came so easily to him, our continuing companionship assumed without question. I had no idea what that must be like.

  “So look,” he said, “about Gervais.”

  “He’s charming,” I told him.

  “That’s one word for it. Really, though, he’s not—”

  He trailed off suddenly, as a green BMW whizzed past us, going down a couple of rows and whipping into a space. A moment later, the driver’s-side door opened, and the blonde from my English class—in a white cable sweater, sunglasses parked on her head—emerged, pulling an overstuffed tote bag behind her. She bumped the door shut with her hip, then started toward the main building, fluffing her hair with her fingers as she walked. Nate watched her for a moment, then coughed, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

  “Really what?” I said.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Ahead of us, the blonde—who I had now figured out was the infamous, blueberry Pop-Tart-eating Heather—was crossing to a loc
ker, dropping her bag at her feet. “Nothing,” I said. “See you around.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, nodding, clearly distracted as I quickened my pace, finally able to put some space between us. “See you.”

  He was still watching her as I walked away. Which was kind of pathetic but also not my problem, especially since from now on I’d be sticking to my original plan and catching the bus, and everything would be fine.

  Or so I thought until the next day, when I again overslept, missing my bus window entirely. At first, I was completely annoyed with myself, but then, in the shower, I decided that maybe it wasn’t so bad. After all, the ride was a short one. At least distance-wise.

  “What kind of shampoo is that?” Gervais demanded from the backseat as soon as I got in the car, my hair still damp.

  I turned back and looked at him. “I don’t know,” I said. “Why? ”

  “It stinks,” he told me. “You smell like trees.”

  “Trees? ”

  “Gervais,” Nate said. “Watch it.”

  “I’m just saying,” Gervais grumbled, flopping back against the seat. I turned around, fixing my gaze on him. For a moment, he stared back, insolent, his eyes seemingly huge behind his glasses. But as I kept on, steady, unwavering, he finally caved and turned to stare out the window. Twelve-year-olds, I thought. So easy to break.

  When I turned back to face forward, Nate was watching me. “What?” I said.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “Just admiring your technique.”

  At school, Gervais did his normal scramble-and-disappearing act, and again Nate walked with me across the parking lot. This time, I was not only aware of him beside me—which was still just so odd, frankly—but also the ensuing reactions from the people gathered around their cars, or ahead of us at the lockers: stares, raised eyebrows, entirely too much attention. It was unsettling, not to mention distracting.

  When I’d started at Perkins, I’d instinctively gone into New School Mode, a system I’d perfected over the years when my mom and I were always moving. Simply put, it was this: come in quietly, fly under the radar, get in and out each day with as little interaction as possible. Because Perkins Day was so small, though, I was realizing it was inevitable that I’d attract some attention, just because I was new. Add in the fact that someone had figured out my connection to Jamie—“Hey, UMe!” someone had yelled as I walked in the hall a couple of days earlier—and staying anonymous was that much more difficult.