Lyle looks down at his foot and then his mangled bike. “I wish I lived as far away from Thornville as possible. But no, I live about five minutes away.”
It takes us twenty, and by the time we are close to the dingy liver-brown ranch house at the end of the road, Lyle’s face is wet with perspiration and his chin has started bleeding again, splattering dark drops of blood onto his shirt.
“Do you want my sweatshirt again?” I ask, pointing at his chin.
“Nah, I’ll get something inside,” Lyle says, nodding toward the house. The window shades are drawn and on such a hot and sunny afternoon the house manages to look dark. Maybe it’s the thick green ivy climbing up the walls. A rusty white car is parked in front, with patches of crabgrass pushing through the cracks in the oil-stained driveway beneath it. The house, the car, and the lawn all look like they’d benefit from one of those home makeover shows Walt is always watching.
After walking down the road under the Colorado sun, which can still burn your face and neck even in September, I’m sweating too. I wait for an offer of lemonade or at least some water before I walk home.
When I don’t make an effort to move, Lyle says, “Thanks,” and gives me a small wave. I look at the house again, still hoping for something to drink. Then I notice the blinds in front of the house part slightly and catch a glimpse of a pale face. The face is so unexpected, like a moon in the sky at noon, and disappears so quickly that I wonder if I saw it at all. I shiver, the sweat suddenly cool on my skin.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say to Lyle. He nods and doesn’t move.
I start down the road toward my house, my throat scratchy with thirst.
When I look back, Lyle’s gone.
Chapter Six
I’M ONLY A FEW MINUTES FROM LYLE’S HOUSE when Frida pokes her head out from the grass at the side of the road. She has clearly been following us.
“Time to take you home,” I tell her. Instead, she ducks back into the grass and I follow, taking the path home through the fields. Even though I’m sweating again, I’m grateful my jeans protect my skin from the scratchy dry grass and clinging burrs. As we veer away from the road, I see nothing but golden hills and blue sky and a little gray cat darting in and out of the whispering grass.
As I walk up the first hill, a thin trail of smoke slices the blue sky in front of me. The smell of burning grass brings back the image of my future flash. For the second time today, I run up a hill with my heart pounding, dreading what I’ll see below me.
At the bottom of the hill, farther than I expected, a farmer is burning brush in his field. My eyes stay fixed on the orange glow. I’m no longer afraid of fire. I’m terrified.
When I reach Tabitha’s house, I knock on the door to return Frida to her. No one answers so I walk around to the back porch.
Tabitha is watering a plant with a violet-colored watering can in one hand and talking on a plum-colored cell phone in the other.
“I’ll need to find someone to watch the girls,” she says into the phone. She looks up at me as I lightly rap on the side of the porch. “And I think I’ve found just the person to do so! I’ll call you back.” She hangs up the phone and smiles at me.
“How would you like to earn a little extra money?” she asks.
“Sure.” I spend every penny of my allowance from Walt on pastels, drawing paper, and art books and can always use more.
“I am planning on visiting a dear friend in Wyoming next week so I need someone to watch the girls, to feed them and give them some TLC. Come in and I’ll give you the key and show you what to do.”
I squint at the sun lowering in the sky.
“If Carmen’s home, she might be worried. I’ll come by tomorrow after school,” I tell her.
“Very well,” Tabitha says, nodding. She’s dialing the phone as I leave.
Through the screen door, I see both Carmen and Walt sitting at the kitchen table each with a mug and a pile of oatmeal cookies in front of them. Carmen taps her red nails against her mug and Walt picks at a callous on his hand. They both stop when I walk in.
“Laney!” Carmen cries. “We were getting so worried!”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I check the clock. It’s five o’clock. I know I’m late, but no one has ever kept track of when I get home. And it’s too early for Walt to be here.
“I got a call from your teacher,” he says by way of greeting. The muscle in his jaw twitches. “I heard about the drawing you did on your test.”
“Was that the new boy you were talking about?” Carmen asks. “When you said you ruined his first day, is this what you meant?”
I had been dreading showing Walt the blank test with a red zero across the top, but Mrs. Whipple’s call is unexpected.
“Why’d you do it, Laney?” Walt says. The crease between his eyebrows reminds me of that day all those years ago when I told him about my future flash of the wedding. Don’t say you saw something unless you really mean it. I need to know this. I look over at our empty wood stove.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Did he do something to you to make you want to do that to him?” Carmen asks. It’s a reasonable question with no reasonable answer.
“Why did you draw a picture of him in a fire?” Walt says. “What made you think of that?” His voice is too loud.
“I don’t know,” I say again. I haven’t moved from inside the doorframe. No one says anything and I listen to the clock ticking. Does it always tick this loud? Under the clock is a framed drawing of Sleeping Beauty that I drew when I was five. Her head and hands are too big, but otherwise it’s a decent rendition for a five-year-old. I always felt bad for Sleeping Beauty, for how she spent her whole childhood hidden away from her parents and from the evil witch, only to prick her finger anyway. And no one even warned her about the spindle.
“Laney,” Walt says, picking at the callous on his palm again, but staring straight at me. “I need to know why you drew that picture.” He speaks slowly, deliberately.
I think of Walt making me promise never to go near matches. Was it more than just a request from an overprotective dad? Does he know something about what I saw? But that’s ridiculous. How could he?
“I saw something on TV,” I lie. “A boy in a fire. The actor looked kind of like Lyle and I wasn’t really paying attention to what I was drawing. I just drew something I’d seen on TV.”
Walt closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with his hand. Then he does something that surprises me. He stands up and walks over and hugs me. I breathe in his coffee and fresh sawdust smell and hug him back. I peer over his shoulder at Carmen, who looks surprised too. She flips her palms toward the ceiling and shrugs.
“Of course you’re grounded,” Walt says when he pulls away. “You’re a talented artist, Laney, but you can’t use that skill to draw pictures that will hurt other people. You need to think about your actions a little more. No television and none of Carmen’s sweets for a week. You got that?”
I nod.
“I’ve gotta run, but I get a hug too,” Carmen says. “Once you can have sweets again, I’ll bring your favorite cinnamon donuts,” she whispers in my ear as she kisses my cheek. Carmen leaves without saying goodbye to Walt. Maybe she’s just flustered from worrying about me.
The house is quiet for a minute after she leaves. Then Walt asks me if I want to take out the Play-Doh. After all that happened today, I’d rather sit in my tree house by myself, but Walt is already grabbing a box off the shelf.
“Okay,” I say as he rolls up the sleeves of his flannel and pries open a can of red.
Most twelve-year-olds have long since given up Play-Doh, but most twelve-year-olds don’t live with Walt. He can make sculptures out of Play-Doh that look like they belong in a museum. He likes to joke that he’s an artist like me, it’s just that his only medium is Play-Doh.
“What are we making today?” he asks.
“Cats,” I decide, sitting down.
“Cats?”
“I’m taking care of Tabitha’s cats next week,” I tell him, rolling a ball of purple Play-Doh in my hand. The cool dough feels good against my palm.
“We’re going to be up all night if we’re making all of Tabitha’s cats,” Walt laughs.
We are quiet as we sculpt. Two hours later, the table is covered in all sorts of cats—purple cats with yellow ears, red cats with blue paws, some sitting up and some sleeping with their tails wrapped around their bodies. When we both lean back to admire our work, I realize that for the past two hours, I had almost forgotten about everything that happened today. I imagine Lyle lying on the ground and worry gnaws at my stomach again.
“Are you sure everything is okay with you and that new kid—with Lyle?” Walt asks when we get up to scrub the semi-hardened dough from our fingernails. At first I’m not sure if he is talking about the picture I drew or about Axel pushing him off the bike. Then I remember that he doesn’t know about Axel. I hesitate. I could tell Walt about Axel. He’ll forget all about the picture I drew, but then he’ll probably call Axel’s dad. Lyle already thinks I hate him. Getting Walt involved in his problems will only make it worse.
“Yes,” I finally say. “Everything is fine.”
Walt apparently forgot about his threat of no sweets for a week because we eat Carmen’s oatmeal cookies for dinner.
That night I dream about the pale face in the window.
Chapter Seven
THE NEXT DAY, I RUSH TO THE BIKE RACK again, beating Lyle there. This time he smiles when he approaches. I’m relieved to see he’s no longer limping. And while his chin is marked an angry red, the cut has scabbed over.
“You think I actually biked here today?” he asks. “Didn’t you see that thing yesterday? I’ll be walking home until I can figure out how to fix that wheel.” He’s wearing his gray periodic table T-shirt again, though it’s been washed since yesterday. The blood spots are gone. Still, I wish he would change every once in a while. The shirt makes me feel like every day could be the day of the fire.
I scan the parking lot. Axel is talking to a group of boys by the side of the school.
“Let me show you a different way home,” I offer.
“A shortcut?”
“It’s actually a little longer, but it’s a different way than Axel goes.”
Lyle looks back in their direction.
“That would probably be helpful,” he says.
I lead him around the side of the school and, when we’re sure no one’s looking, we head out into the path toward his house. This time I’m not surprised to find Frida waiting for me in the grass.
“That cat follows you everywhere,” Lyle says. I lean down to scratch her head.
“She does seem to like me,” I say, pleased. “And she just reminded me that we’re going to need to take a detour. I told my friend that I’d stop by to learn how to feed her cats. I’ll call Carmen from there, too, and tell her that I’m going to walk you home.” I’m not sure how Carmen will react to this, given that all she knows about Lyle is that I drew a picture of him on fire, but after yesterday I want to play it safe.
I point out the fork in the dirt path where Lyle should turn right to get to his house, but we continue on the same path until we reach Tabitha’s.
We find her dozing on a lounge chair. She’s wearing a purple floral dress, and three large cats are sleeping on her lap. Every time Tabitha lets out a snore, the cats move up and down like ships on a purple sea. Her lavender cat-eye sunglasses are pushed up into her hair, which is dangling down the side of the chair, and a fuzzy black kitten is batting at it with her paw.
“This is your friend?” Lyle whispers. Tabitha’s eyes fly open.
“Laney! Who have you brought with you today?” She bolts upright and cats fly in every direction.
“When you said feed your friend’s cats, you weren’t kidding,” Lyle whispers to me out of the corner of his mouth.
“This is Lyle,” I tell her. Lyle sneezes twice into his elbow.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m allergic to cats. And pretty much everything really.” He sneezes again before offering his hand. “Lyle Durand. Pleased to meet you, Ma’am.”
“Oh, pshaw, none of that formality here,” Tabitha says, waving him off. “You realize you’re talking to a crazy old cat lady after all, don’t you? You can call me Tabitha, and you don’t need to bother with last names and Ma’am’s and all that. Come on in kids.” She opens the screen door.
I’ve been stopping by Tabitha’s house ever since I was old enough to walk to school on my own, but continue to be a bit taken aback by the strange mix of floral perfume competing with an acidic odor every time I step into her house. In the living room, the usual multi-colored pile of cats stretches on the sofa. Everything else is a shade of purple. After years of creating art with crayons and pastels, I can name each shade—mulberry wallpaper, periwinkle rug, indigo coffee table, radiant violet bricks around the fireplace. Lyle raises his eyebrows and starts to whisper something, but I put my finger to my lips. Tabitha doesn’t notice. Chatting away, she leads us into the kitchen.
“You’ll need to stop by once a day to refresh their food and water,” she says, deftly maneuvering through the kitchen to reach a bowl of keys on the counter. Lyle and I don’t follow her. I can’t imagine making my way around the kitchen as the floor is covered with ceramic cat bowls.
“Bright Purple with Ruby Red Sparkle,” I say under my breath.
“Huh?” Lyle turns to me.
“I’m just trying to see how many shades of purple I recognize,” I whisper. “The cat bowls are the same color as one of my crayons.”
He puts his finger to his lips, imitating my earlier gesture.
Each bowl has a name written on it in dark purple paint. Daisy, Bella, Sadie, Frida . . . there are too many to count.
“Found ’em!” Tabitha says, holding up a key on a fuzzy purple chain. She notices our hesitation at the entrance of the kitchen. “Oh, you’ll get used to this,” she says, waving her hand at the cat bowls.
I look at the clock behind her, a magenta cat with huge eyes and a ticking tail.
“Do you mind if I call Carmen and tell her I’ll be late?” I ask.
“You’ll have to use my cell,” Tabitha says. “No land line here.” She hands me the plum-colored cell phone.
As I explain to a baffled Carmen that I’ll be walking Lyle home, Tabitha continues to show Lyle what to do.
“So, I’ll be home in a little bit,” I say, watching Tabitha show Lyle how to unlock the door to the porch.
“The cat door is in the kitchen, but you will use this door of course. It sticks sometimes, so you really have to pull,” Tabitha says, shutting the door behind her.
“Did you hear me?” Carmen asks.
“What? Oh, no, sorry,”
“When you do get home, I really need to talk to you.” Her voice sounds strange, lower and quieter than usual.
“You do?”
“Yes. I have to go. I love you, Laney.” The line disconnects.
“Carmen?” I hold the phone in front of me. Did Carmen hang up on me? What could she want to talk about? “I love you, Laney” rings in my ears. I know Carmen loves me but she isn’t one to throw around those words lightly over the phone. And she normally ends our calls with “I’ll catch you later, Laney.”
“Laney, come listen to this. I need to show you where I’ll hide the keys!” Tabitha calls from the porch. I try to push the phone call from my thoughts. Carmen’s probably concerned after our conversation about Lyle yesterday.
Tabitha lifts up an amethyst-colored flower pot in the corner of the porch to show us where she’ll hide the keys. Apparently Lyle will be helping me with the cats. I guess we’re going to be friends after all.
Chapter Eight
WE TAKE OUR TIME ON THE PATH TO Lyle’s house. There’s no smoke on the horizon and if Lyle hasn’t forgotten about the drawing I made, at least he doesn’t mention it again.
As we cut t
hrough the cow pasture, Lyle plucks a piece of grass and presses it between his thumbs and then up to his lips. When he blows on the grass, a shrill whistle fills the air. I expect the cows around us to kick up their heels, but they continue chewing, unperturbed.
“Where’d you learn how to do that?” I ask him.
“My dad taught me. We had a field of grass behind our house in New York. Green grass, not like this dried out stuff here.”
“New York?” I stop walking. “You’re from New York?” I remember hoping the new kid in our class would be from New York, yet it never occurred to me to ask Lyle where he came from or why he moved to Thornville. “I’ve always wanted to go there, to go to the museums, to be somewhere more exciting than this dumpy old town.”
Lyle sneezes. “I’m not sure you’ve always wanted to go to Albany. When I say New York, I don’t mean New York City.”
“Oh.”
“But I was born in New York City,” he adds as if he senses my disappointment. “My dad was in school there and my mom was an artist there for years. They moved to Albany when I was two. My dad got a job at the university teaching chemistry.” He blows on the grass again. This time it sounds like a trumpet. “My dad died three years ago and we’ve been moving around from place to place ever since.”
“How’d he die?”
“Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
We continue in silence for a while before Lyle asks, “What about your parents?”
“What about them?”
“I mean, do you live with your mom and dad?”
“Just my dad. My mom, um, died too. Of pneumonia.” I feel guilty for the lie when Lyle’s dad really did die, but Walt’s answer is easier than the truth. It’s not like I know what happened to whoever left me on Walt’s stoop all those years ago anyway. And I’m not about to talk about the car seat and the yellow note.
“It’s really hard, you know?” Lyle says quietly.
“Yeah, but it’s different because I was really little so I don’t remember anything about her.” To avoid further questions about my family, I quickly ask, “Is your mom still an artist? I’d like to see her stuff.” I don’t know anyone in Thornville who would call herself an artist. The closest thing we have to art in Thornville is one of Carmen’s pastries. Not that her pastries aren’t fabulous, but I’d love to meet someone who could teach me how to paint better, someone who would appreciate talking about different art I’ve admired in books.
Future Flash Page 4
