by Ginger Scott
It’s only in this stifling quiet that I regret not asking her where she would go. It’s too late to do that now. The mood has passed. That’s the thing about daydreams and fantasies—they’re fragile. One miscued thought allows reality to breach a carefully constructed bubble.
Eleanor pops open the door, pausing with one leg inside and one leg out. Her heavy braids glide over her shoulder as she twists back to look at me one last time.
“Thanks for letting me hide in here a while, Jonah.”
We exchange tight smiles that mask all the things we really think and want to say. My inner voice pleads with her to stay. Hers tries not to scream and cry.
“Anytime, Eleanor. Maybe I’ll see ya tomorrow?” The question feels ridiculous the moment it leaves my lips. My dream girl slips from the seat completely and offers me a polite smile in response that my gut tells me is charity.
I leave the shelter of the cab and move toward the garage button to open the door for Eleanor so she can head back out into a wild filled with wolves ready to eat her. I don’t know anything more than I did before she showed up, no news about her family or how they’re holding up, nothing about the investigation or when she might again show her face at school. I didn’t ask any of it even though the questions ran through my brain like ticker tape. I want this to be the place she comes to hide. That, and it’s hard enough for me to talk to her about normal things, let alone the awful tragedy she has to live with when she’s at home.
I press the garage door button with my thumb and take in her silhouette as the bright sunlight from outside overtakes the dim bulbs in the garage. She turns to walk backward and holds up a hand to say goodbye as her feet shuffle away. I do the same, my hand poised to close the door and keep the wolves out when she’s gone. Thankfully, though, I hold out for one more second.
“See ya tomorrow, Jonah.”
Five
I didn’t really believe Eleanor would be waiting in my garage the next day. It helped keep the disappointment at bay when it turned out that she wasn’t. She was right about the media being moved to the corner of our street, though. By the time I left for school Tuesday morning, the police tape was down. And when I got home, the cameras and big media trucks were gone too. Every now and then, someone stops by to do a report from the sidewalk or to take a photo, but for the most part, life outside our house in the space between where our property ends and the Trombleys’ begins is back to normal.
The shift in public attention is a welcome change in my household, but not because of the inconvenience of having to navigate through the media trucks while coming and going from our house. The media sparked more friendly household arguments than normal, and mostly because Grandpa Hank had a thing for the National Network News correspondent, Monica Correa, who camped out with her crew for two full days. My mom says the old man verged on getting a restraining order slapped in his face. He took her coffee seven times in the forty-eight hours she was here, and each time he failed to take what my mom said were clear hints that she was not interested in his old war stories.
Like the rest of the world, Grandpa Hank has been left to watch Monica’s reporting on TV. Not that there is much new to report about the “Mystery on Cedarwood Lane.” That’s what Addy’s case has been dubbed by the media. I’m not sure who was the first to coin the phrase—probably Monica—but it caught on. I’ll never be able to say my address without it jarring some memory. Every report feels the same, but we all hang on every word when the news is on. I think everyone in Oak Forest is praying for someone to announce “She’s been found!” The police are pursuing nothing but vague leads, though. It must feel so hopeless for the Trombleys.
While I wasn’t surprised that Eleanor didn’t join me the last three nights that I lit up the garage to remove parts and wires from under the Bronco hood, I am a little surprised by how quiet everything is across the street. Nobody has come or gone since the chaos left. Morgan’s SUV is still in the same place she left it when she arrived over the weekend. The Volkswagen hasn’t budged from the curb, tracings of paint left on the windows from last week’s football game. Maybe the Trombleys went out of town to get away. It’s understandable. Maybe they’re hiding inside, keeping quiet. That seems hard to believe; it’s been a full week, and nobody can be that still and quiet for that long.
Things around here have definitely changed. Quiet, almost eerie, is kinda the new norm. Halloween came and went, and not that our street filled with high school families and empty nesters gets a lot of trick-or-treat traffic, but this year was virtually silent, other than one or two superheroes and ghosts that strolled by. Grandpa and I doled out a few handfuls of candy and ate the rest. I do wonder if people avoided our street, skipping it for others that were not covered with crime tape a week ago.
I stare out my bedroom window one last time, eyes fixed on Eleanor’s across the way, waiting for some movement, some show of light, before Jake’s horn snaps me from my intense focus. My eyes dart to the street below where my friend has his arm slung out his window, his palm up as if he’s been waiting around for me all day. He hasn’t; he just pulled up. He’s impatient, which is part of the reason he fails a lot of tests. He speeds through things to get them done. He tends to do this with girlfriends too, and a part of me wonders if his reputation is rubbing off on me. Of course, this is how I make excuses to myself for the complete lack of attention from girls at school.
Grabbing a piece of toast from my grandpa’s plate as I dash through the kitchen, I thank him as he hollers “Hey” for swiping his breakfast. He waves a hand at me and grumbles as I dart out the door and dive into Jake’s car just before he hits the gas and peels away from my house.
“Why do you have to do that?” I shake my head as I rush to click my seat belt in.
Jake cackles.
“I know it pisses Hank off.”
I grimace and cock my head to stare at him. “Why is pissing my grandpa off such a sport for you?”
“I dunno,” my friend says, a quick shrug.
I shove half of my toast in my mouth and finish zipping up my bag where it rests between my knees. It takes Jake less than four minutes to get us to campus, a drive that should be twice that if you actually stop at intersections. From a safety standpoint, I’m better off walking, a statement my grandpa makes to me every time Jake drives away from our house. It’s just that the walk takes closer to thirty minutes, and it’s starting to get cold. It’s a tough cost-benefit analysis when Chicago winter sweeps in.
Jake is busy scanning the parking lot for people he knows, and doesn’t see the Volvo station wagon parked near the main office. I’m not sure how I missed the Trombleys pulling out of their garage this morning. They must have left during my rushed shower. I’m immediately hit with a sense of comfort and dread at seeing their family car parked at our high school. I’m glad they haven’t fled completely, but their presence here means something. I’m just not sure what.
Or why I am so invested.
That’s a lie.
I know exactly why I’m invested, and she just stepped through the office door with her head down, waves of blonde hair shielding the sides of her face while her hoodie covers the top.
“What, do you have Elle radar or something?” My friend’s palm slaps my back and I wince, both from the sting and from getting caught staring. Also, I hate that he knows her well enough to call her Elle. That’s me being honest about my jealousy. Doesn’t make this moment feel any better at all.
“I haven’t seen them out in a while. All week, really.” Jake’s distraction made me miss seeing Eleanor get in the car. I also missed seeing her parents come out behind her. They’re pulling out of the parking space, about to head the opposite way Jake and I are going.
“Gemma says Elle’s gonna switch to online learning for a while. Must be what they’re meeting about.” Jake slings his arm over my shoulder and pulls on my neck, giving me an awkward sideways bro hug as we head toward the center of campus and leave our view of th
e parking lot behind. I hate that he knows people in Eleanor’s circle and I have to rely on him for information. This is my honest jealousy rearing its head again. Still makes me feel like shit.
“I guess it’s not easy to show your face at school when your family has been the leading story on every news network for the last week,” I mumble. Jake isn’t paying attention anyhow.
“Hey, catch you at lunch, yeah? It’s on me today, early birthday present!” He peels away and slides his palm against mine before spinning right in step with Gemma, the girl he got his info from, probably while making out with her in his car. Seems he’s moved on from Charlotte Hickman. Normally, I’d chastise him for being such a douchebag playboy, but Charlotte really isn’t very nice. She’s pretentious, but maybe I’m jaded because she’s also two spots ahead of me in class rank and her family is filthy rich from owning two burger joint franchises.
I nod a goodbye that nobody sees, every ounce of Jake’s attention now on his latest infatuation. I wish I’d brought my dad’s notebook again today. It’s been a good distraction—aka excuse to be anti-social. I still don’t understand most of the notes written in it, though the fact I’m buying my first part today with the money Grandpa Hank gave me speaks volumes about the progress I’ve made.
Not everything in that notebook is about the Bronco, though, and I suspect that’s the real reason they gave it to me. Turns out, Randy Wydner had a secret passion for poetry, or maybe song lyrics. I have yet to figure it out, but I found several scribbled-out, half-finished attempts tucked inside those pages, sometimes on the back side of diagrams he’d drawn to perfect scale. It’s as though he is two different personalities sharing the same page.
I won’t be finding any of those gems today, though. No, today I won’t have much of a choice but to let Jake drag me along with his crew—and Gemma, probably—for lunch. At least it’s Friday, which means half-price milkshakes at Tommy’s. I’ll just drown my lack of conversation skills in a large strawberry with a stubborn straw.
One of the biggest reasons I avoid going out for lunch with Jake is because it is literally the cool thing to do at Oak Forest High. I can count on one hand the number of times my friend has taken his lunch in our school cafeteria since getting his license at the end of our sophomore year. Lucky bastard has a May birthday.
The minute he got access to keys and a credit line from his mom, he declared he would never again eat food off a tray. I hate to break it to him, but every place he jets off to for our forty-minute lunch break serves their meals in bags . . . placed atop trays.
Lunch with Jake is such a popular ticket that his car is typically overcrowded, like beyond the recommended number of passengers. Normally, I end up sandwiched in the back, my knees hiked up to my ears because of the hump seat while two couples make lap seats on either side of me. It’s so uncomfortable that usually people don’t make out at the stoplights—usually.
I got to Jake’s car early today, so I rejoiced internally when I scored shotgun. And then Jake coaxed Gemma onto my lap, insisting we share a seat belt for the drive to Tommy’s. Most guys would probably thank him for being put in this position. Gemma’s hot. Her mom was a model in Ghana, and Gemma is the spitting image of her, all the way down to her long, toned legs.
I remember all the girls were fascinated when her mom came to talk to us for career day in junior high. She brought the replica of her Miss Ghana crown. I was more fascinated with her story of being one of the first women from Sub-Saharan Africa to become the face of several designers in the high-fashion industry.
I’m probably the only seventeen-year-old guy to think about these topics in this situation, and I’m probably nuts for doing so because, back to point A: Gemma is hot. And she’s into Jake. Of course, my other thoughts during our drive are about her trajectory if my best friend has to hit the brakes. My grandfather’s voice plays through my mind for most of the trip.
Jonah, you’re better off walking.
Something about an awkward car ride like that brings people closer, I guess, because ever since we got to Tommy’s, Gemma has been talking to me non-stop. Prior to our commute, I think she thought my name was Jason. It’s funny because I could literally write her short biography. It’s like that for a lot of the people in Jake’s circle, though, and to be fair, I’ve never taken the time to give them my story. I always think mine would be so boring in comparison.
“I hear Elle’s parents are basically at each other’s throats blaming each other. It’s so bad that Morgan had to step in and pretty much be the parent. I heard she’s skipping next semester so she can stay and help at the house, make sure Elle graduates and all that. Morgan and Elle don’t get along, though, and it’s like, this totally wretched vibe. I just . . . I feel so bad, ya know?” Gemma dips one of her fries in ranch then pops it in her mouth, which means I have about eight seconds of silence while she chews. Everyone at the table nods as if she just shared something profound, not a bunch of gossipy-sounding surface-level stuff.
She gets to call her Elle, too. This one doesn’t feel fair.
“The media’s gone,” I add, feeling as though I should.
Everyone nods again, but less interested by my contribution.
“I wonder if her family is going to be on Dateline?” This question, from one of Gemma’s friends, spirals into an entirely new loop.
I take advantage of my distracted company and pull out the notes app on my phone to read through some of the things I copied over from my dad’s notes. Read together, the lines read like a beatnik poem, random phrases linked by nothing more than the fact they’re words. But there’s something about each little line that is somehow really beautiful.
“Whatcha got there, Romeo?” Jake snatches my phone and his eyes rake over the words, his mouth puckering with the need to burst out in laughter at my expense.
“Asshole!” I growl. I’m not very assertive, so this out-of-character move gives Jake enough pause to tone down his volume, but he still keeps my phone, eventually reading one of the lines back to me.
“Face like Milky Way, all lit up with potential.” He spits out a puff of a laugh and I grab my phone back while he’s too busy being a dick.
I push my phone in my back pocket and instantly regret my lifetime of friendship with Jake. I can’t dodge his curious stare, though, so I finally hold out my palms with a “What?”
“You writing her a poem, Jonah?” A divot forms between his brows and his mouth hangs open in anticipation of my answer. He’s dead serious, and because of his reaction I know there is no way I am ever writing a girl anything and sharing it with him.
“They’re things my dad wrote. I copied it from the notebook. Just random stuff in margins and sometimes on receipts.” I shirk off the penetration of his stare because I sense the way it shifts from teasing to pity. He clears his throat after a few seconds and I glance to him, his mouth a tight, apologetic line.
“Sorry, man,” he says, sliding his palm forward a few inches on the table for effect. I shake my head and get to my feet.
“It’s fine,” I say, clearing away my trash.
I decide to pass the last remaining minutes of lunch waiting for the others while sitting on the back of Jake’s car. He doesn’t drive anything fancy. It’s a sedan that only makes the obnoxious noise it does because he talked one of his friends into jacking with the tailpipe, something he has suggested we do to the Bronco a dozen times. He just can’t fathom not wanting attention. Part of why our friendship works is because I gladly give him any that drifts our way. I am happy to not share spotlights.
I’m busy calculating how fast Jake’s going to have to drive to get us back to school on time when a delicate hand slinks up my arm and squeezes at my shoulder. I shiver from it, even in my layered long-sleeved T-shirt and hoodie. I jerk to the side and am met with Gemma’s hand holding out this bright blue and yellow hair tie.
“I’m good. I keep it kinda short,” I joke, running my hand through my hair. When Gemma’s hand
lands on top of mine, I tense. No, I petrify.
“It’s a cute length,” she says, a raspy giggle added at the end. I’m starting to see why Jake has become so helpless in her presence. Granted, I’m pretty sure he gets compliments like this on the daily.
I pull my hand out from under hers, which I realize a little too late maybe offended her. It definitely embarrassed her because now she’s sucking in her bottom lip and looking down and off to the side.
“Sorry,” I say at the same exact time she does.
We both breathe out a laugh.
“Here,” she says, handing me the hair tie that started this whole thing.
“Oh-kay?” I take it from her and stretch it out with my fingers, not quite sure what I’m meant to do with it.
“For Elle—Eleanor?”
I nod, but my puckered smile and scrunched eyes must give away how confused I still am. Gemma waggles her head and laughs politely, tugging at the elastic band still in my hand.
“I made them for us, for tonight’s game. Just didn’t feel right that she doesn’t have hers, even though she won’t be here. I want her to have it.”
Gemma has more depth than I gave her credit for. I nod again, eyes clearer, and tuck the satin cloth into the front pocket of my hoodie. I keep it there, clutched in my fist, as I slip into my friend’s car and make room for a girl I find to be a little less of a stranger, and a lot more genuine. She hunkers down on my thigh and leans sideways into my chest. I put an arm around her because I feel obligated to do something to keep her from flying through this windshield, but I note how her eyes never leave Jake’s presence as we rush back to campus. It’s pretty clear she really likes him, despite being liberal with her flirting. I hope he doesn’t break her heart.
Six
It’s cold enough outside that I can hear the announcers at the high school football field. Their voices don’t carry far enough to be clearly audible, but when they shrill with excitement, joined by a roaring crowd, I can tell when our team is doing well.
