by Ginger Scott
“And young Jacob here doesn’t know shit about spelling or math, so that’s why he hangs around all the time,” Grandpa Hank says, coming to my rescue. I ratchet my shoulders up to my ears and grit my teeth, but Eleanor simply laughs harder. Jake, thankfully, isn’t offended one bit, barking out a quick admission and saying it’s totally true.
For a moment, the green eyes from my dreams seem to find solace in my dusty blue ones. If only for a breath, the madness of reality dissolves on the other side of the garage, and Eleanor can simply be a beautiful girl faced with three very different guys all trying to win her attention. Right this minute, all is incredibly normal, at least for her. And it makes the aching discomfort in my chest from my social anxiety worth every single second.
Four
Eleanor didn’t say much after those first few minutes in my garage. She sat in that chair next to my grandpa for maybe an hour, and any time her attention wandered from Jake and me toward her house, Grandpa pulled her back in with one of his army tales or some story about my dad when he was young. I enjoyed those accounts as much as she did.
Some of them were stories I’ve never heard before, like the time Grandpa caught my dad sneaking home drunk when he was sixteen. My dad was typically a quiet man, even in his youth, but for whatever reason, he managed to walk home from a party my uncles had dragged him to seven miles away and could not shut up about it after slipping undetected through the front door. He woke my grandparents to describe all the things he’d seen during his walk.
“A regular tour guide, straight from Anheuser-Busch,” my grandpa joked.
When Eleanor left, the stories stopped. Jake and I poked around under the hood for another hour or so, then called it a day. We pulled out the battery and the alternator, and I made sure to label wires as we went along, like my dad wrote in his book. It drove Jake nuts, but the activity left me feeling a few percentage points smarter about how a seventy-two Bronco works.
I brought my dad’s notebook to school with me today, and it’s given me something to do during lunch besides eavesdrop on the various rumor-pods doling out the latest news about Addy and the Trombleys.
Eleanor was just named homecoming queen at Friday’s game. For some, seeing her fall from grace so quickly feeds an addiction for gossip. They must separate themselves from the reality of it all in order to be so entertained. Why else would a missing nine-year-old spawn so many cruel conspiracy theories followed by cackling laughter? Girls who, just last week, fought over a spot at Eleanor’s lunch table now cast shade and question whether the princess of Oak Forest High had something to do with her baby sister’s disappearance.
“We’re heading off-campus for Tommy’s. You coming?” Jake throws an arm around me while I shuffle my way toward the cafeteria. I shake my head and hold up my notebook, touching it to my head.
“Studying. Thanks, though,” I reply.
He grimaces.
“The Bronco is supposed to be fun. I swear to God, you’re the only person I know who can turn such a kick-ass present into homework. You sure you don’t wanna come along?” My friend leans his elbow into my arm, urging me, but any temptation I may have felt fades the second two of his basketball buddies pile into our conversation, peppering me with maybe a dozen questions on what I know about the Trombley case.
What’s crazier is I’m pretty sure they were at the Trombley party that night, and Addy was last seen the afternoon before the game. I wonder if they’ve been interviewed by police. Jake was. He has yet to stop bragging to me about his alibi—spending the night at Charlotte Hickman’s house while her parents were out of town.
I make up an excuse to duck into a restroom when his circle of friends closes in expecting answers I don’t have. When I’m sure they’ve gone and the rest of the lunch rush is either in line for food or settled at a table, I find a window nook in the hallway and make myself completely unapproachable, sort of par for my course. I pull a brown bag from my backpack and unwrap my peanut butter sandwich, crossing my legs out in front of me and balancing my dad’s notebook open on my thigh.
An old photo slips from the pages, and I manage to catch it before it drops to the floor. The image is folded, flattened from years of being used as a page marker. I straighten the crease and study the young couple standing in formal clothes in front of the familiar Bronco’s front end. There are hints of the people I recognize as my parents in these faces, but they’re so young. The divot from worry that’s become a permanent scar between my mom’s eyes is gone, replaced by smooth skin and a wave of light brown hair that my dad is about to sweep away from her eyes. Her chin tilted toward him, she’s gazing up at him like a teenager in love, which I suppose is exactly what she was. Mom’s always adored my father, that’s something I’ve never doubted. But there’s something about seeing the beginning of their affection for each other that has me caught. Even more than the way she’s looking up at him is the way he’s taking her in, completely. How did this man become so obsessed with his work that he quit pausing to look at her like this?
A tiny flower is tied around my mom’s wrist. It’s purple, like her dress, I think. The color in the photo has faded some, everything a little yellow. This looks like a prom photo. They don’t quite look old enough to be seniors; they’re maybe seventeen in the shot.
Seventeen, just like me.
Curious, I flip the picture over, hoping for a date or some other clue, but the only thing written on the back is a line from a poem or something, written in my dad’s perfect typewriter-like handwriting.
Candy Colored Sky
I ponder those words, flipping the photo around my fingers for a few seconds before tucking it back into the book’s pages and finishing my pathetic brown-bag lunch.
I think about the photo for most of the day, but don’t pull it out again until my walk home from school. I’m busy studying it as I trip over a new line of tape closing off a bigger section of my street. I stumble but catch myself before completely falling to my knees and taking out one of the traffic barricades with me. The number of people outside the Trombleys’ has doubled from when I left this morning.
I punch in the code to open our garage, continuously checking over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being followed or watched. My paranoia skyrocketed after the first night when the reporter asked me to talk. Most of the cameras are clustered around an officer talking from the center of the street. They’ve blocked the view of the Trombleys’ house from reporter cameras with a huge crime scene truck, and there’s a little more clearance in front of my driveway.
“My dad says by tonight they’ll have most of the media staged near the corner.”
“Jesus!” I grip my chest and leap backward several feet at the sound of Eleanor’s voice. I was so wrapped up in the press conference behind me that I wasn’t paying attention to the garage door rising in front of me—or the girl occupying the same green folding chair she was in last night.
“Sorry.” Eleanor’s pale pink lips stretch to one side and curve into an apologetic smile that only lasts a second.
Under my sternum, my heart pulses with enough force to crack the bone. I flatten my palm over the flannel button-down in an attempt to calm the thunder underneath.
“It’s fine. Yeah, I just . . . How?” I stammer through several thoughts in a few nonsensical words, then end up pointing at the chair she’s folded herself up in. She looks down at the ground around her, almost as though she’s floating on a life raft being circled by sharks.
“I saw your grandpa out getting the mail. I asked if I could sit in here a little while, away from the noise, ya know?” Her eyes lift briefly then drift away from mine, her attention again lost to the cold garage space around her.
“You wanted to be in here, with the lights off?” I’m an idiot. Of all things to utter, this is what I say.
“They were off?” She lifts her chin and squints at the now glowing bulbs at the end of the garage opener mounted on the ceiling. She isn’t being sarcastic. I ca
n tell; my sarcasm meter is well-honed.
“They come on with the door . . . but they weren’t . . .” I realize the inner-workings of our garage door wiring isn’t important and move to the button to close the door again, switching on the real lights so we don’t end up in the dark—again. Maybe that’s what she wants though, to hide in the dark.
Eleanor is close to my height, probably two or three inches shorter than my six feet. I only know this from standing behind her in the same lunch line at school. She appears so much smaller now, one leg folded under her body, the other bent with her arms hugging her knee close to her chest. It’s amazing how similar all of the Trombley girls look, especially through the years. It’s as if Morgan handed down her shape and hair styles and expressions to Eleanor, who then left the small lanky build of her youth for Addy to fill. From the back, I could easily fool myself that it’s Addy sitting in this chair, the way her long double braids rest heavy on the back of her deep purple hoodie. A slight shift in Eleanor’s profile, though, makes it obvious there’s a mature beauty to her cheeks and lips. I’m so used to seeing that mouth smile, and right now it’s far from it.
“I’m really sorry, by the way.”
I am still an idiot.
I scrunch my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. It’s such a cliché thing to say, and probably the last thing she wants to hear. The minute I hear my own voice I wish I could eat the words. What else is there to say, though? Welcome to my garage?
“Thank you, and it’s okay. I know it’s awkward.” She’s kind enough to let me off the hook. We both shrug when our eyes meet, and I drop my bag from my shoulder, setting it on the ground near the entry into the house.
My fingers tingle nervously because Eleanor is staring at my hands. I shove them deep into my pockets and form fists, pushing down to stretch my arms that now feel the brunt of her stare.
“I can go—”
“No!” I bark out before she can excuse herself. She eases back into the chair, maybe a little startled from my quick response.
“Sorry, now I’m scaring you.” I breathe out a short laugh and it draws another brief smile from her.
“It’s only fair,” she jokes. My chest shakes with another laugh.
It gets so quiet suddenly that I can hear the small crackling sounds our house makes when the heat is running inside. My eyes dart around for something to do or an idea for something new to say, but before I utter my next dumb thing, Eleanor fills the silence.
“So that’s really yours now?” She gestures toward the Bronco. I move to the passenger door and grip the handle, peering inside at the well-worn seats.
“Guess so.” It’s a far cry from the Bronco in that photo. I’m half tempted to show it to Eleanor, but it feels presumptuous somehow, that she would be interested.
“It’s pretty cool. I mean, it’s no green Volkswagen Beetle, but…”
I smile at her joke.
“I always thought your car was cool,” I respond, turning back to face her. I’m surprised when I see she’s stood from the chair and is moving toward me.
“It’s a manual, and the clutch is sticky. I wear my knee brace more when I drive than when I tumble on the track.” Her head cocks to the side as she wears a wry smile.
“Well, this is an automatic, but that doesn’t mean it runs. I may need to borrow your knee brace for the times I’m going to have to push it,” I joke. This time, her laughter makes an airy, sweet sound.
“Can I get in?” Her eyes glance to the side, to my grip on the door handle. I’m pretty sure my palm is sweating.
“Sure, I guess.” I give the interior another inspection. It’s pretty dusty inside. “I can’t guarantee you won’t take a spring to the back of your thigh, but . . .”
I pull the door wide enough for Eleanor to lift herself inside. She stands on the running board, which thank God doesn’t break off with her step, and peers inside the cabin for a few seconds before sliding fully inside.
“It’s roomy. I bet you could camp in this thing.” Her gaze moves from the driver’s seat to the large back, the second row of seats folded down in the back. The carpet from the very back is covered in grease stains, probably from my dad’s old tools and his last attempts to get this thing running.
“What do you say? Should we take it for a pretend drive?”
“Huh?” I startle, meeting her waiting gaze. She leans her head to the left, lips parted in a soft smile that is void of her reality. How could I not indulge?
I nod and rush around the front of the Bronco to the driver’s side. This door is a little tricky, so I put my foot on the running board to brace myself as I pull the handle open, a trick Jake and I figured out last night. I grab the handle inside and pull myself in, wishing I could pop in the key and cruise away with the girl of my dreams. But the key is on my desk inside, and turning it in this ignition won’t do a damn thing anyhow.
Eleanor pulls her door closed, so I do the same. I grip the wheel and straighten my arms, leaning my weight back in my seat. I’ve seen my dad sit like this. It’s one of the few early memories I have of him tinkering on this thing, before his real work took over.
I sense Eleanor’s weight shift and feel her eyes on me before I turn to confirm that they in fact are. She’s managed to tuck her long leg under her body again, her bare knee popping out through the rip in her jeans.
“Where would we go?”
I must look shocked because she starts to laugh at whatever expression is on my numb face.
“Not right now, Jonah. I mean, if we could just back out of this garage, peel down the street.” Her open palm paints an invisible line from me to her side of the windshield. “If we could just go, where would that be? Anywhere in this whole world, where would that be?”
My brow lifts with my rapid blinking eyes.
“Oh, well . . . hmm.” I’m not great at imagining things beyond the practical. Part of my father’s genes. We aren’t really dreamers.
“Maybe Tommy’s?”
Her laugh is immediate and loud. I’d be embarrassed if it weren’t so surprising to hear. There’s a raspy quality to her laughter, one I didn’t expect, especially given how little she has to laugh about.
“I give you the option of anywhere in the entire world, and you want to drive four blocks to the hot dog joint. That’s classic, Jonah. Truly.” She grazes my arm with her fingertips as she continues to be amused by me, and I laugh along with her on the outside. Inside, I’m logging this memory of the time I both made her laugh and she touched me intentionally. Every time she says my name, too—a memory is logged. I shouldn’t be surprised she knows my name, given we have “known” each other for years. It’s just that I’ve never heard her actually say it before.
“Okay, so I should think bigger?” I force myself to relax, twisting to the side in my seat in an attempt to match her. I lean my shoulder into the seat back and grab the strings from my hooded sweater, busying my hands with the frayed ends.
“At least beyond town limits,” she demands.
Her arms cross her chest like an expectant teacher waiting for my answer to a question I didn’t hear in class. I tighten my lips and look down to the space between us to avoid her stare while I think of something that doesn’t make me sound like a loser. I could say Hawaii or Rome, but that’s not the point of this. It needs to be a real escape, one that these wheels could accommodate.
“I always wanted to hike in the Blue Ridge Mountains.” I lift my gaze with my answer and breathe a sigh of relief that she smiles in response. She approves. It was the only thing I could say that would not have been totally made up. I wouldn’t say I’m pining to go there exactly, but my parents used to camp there before they had me, and Grandpa Hank always talks about the fishing. I’ve never done either of those things—fished or camped. Seems like a guy my age should try it once.
“Blue. Ridge. Mountains.” She sighs out the words, staring up at the ceiling as she sinks deeper into the corner where her seat meet
s the door. Eleanor is a dreamer. My mom’s eyes dazzle just like hers are now. They haven’t in a long time, but they used to often—when she read me bedtime stories, when she planned road trips and vacations for the three of us, when she fantasized about getting a family dog.
“We’d camp, right? With a tent? Or . . . back there?” She reaches over the seat and points to the back of the Bronco. I swallow as I dare fantasize about a camping trip with Eleanor Trombley that involves the two of us sleeping side-by-side in such tight quarters.
“I mean, there are lodges and stuff—”
“No, we’d camp for sure. That’s the only way to do it. In the summer.” She folds her arms over her chest again and flits her eyes as she looks at what must be an imaginary scene above her head.
I run my moist palms over my jean-covered thighs in an attempt to stem my nerves. It works for exactly four seconds. My heart is beating out random rhythms and my mouth is so dry.
“I have fishing rods. Oh, and sleeping bags. We have so many sleeping bags. Before Morgan moved out, we used to beach camp in Michigan, on the lake. My dad even bought a stove you plug in to that little cigarette lighter thingy.” She leans forward and taps the space where the Bronco’s lighter is missing.
“The twelve-volt,” I say.
“Sure.” She giggles. It’s the one technical automotive word I know, and only because it’s how I charge my laptop in my mom’s car.
Eleanor’s gaze drifts away again, but the smile lingers for almost a minute as we sit in silence, basking in this pretend world she’s built based on some whim that came out of my mouth. It almost feels real, and that makes me want to dive under the hood and get this thing running.
The longer the quiet lasts, the more the pressures on the other side of the garage door seep in. Life outside of this cabin is muted, and I can’t help but think that the minute we open our doors, the sounds of chaos will be waiting for us. The idea weighs on Eleanor too. I see it in her heavy eyelids, her dropped shoulders, and the tight grip her hands have on her opposite arms as she hugs herself.
