“It’s called the Red Room,” Ian added, taking over. Whenever he was excited about a story, he had to get involved in the telling. “They went in thinking the album would be more upbeat and kind of poppy, but the room was full of heavy drapes and carpet, and all the fabric absorbed some of the sound and completely changed the way the songs came out. After that, they started producing songs that had that same moody vibe. They even re-created the same atmosphere in real recording studios with pillows and things. The room changed their whole musical direction.”
This was exactly the kind of musical fact that Ian loved to geek out over. Thanks to Ian, I knew tons of odd music trivia—things like Paul McCartney hearing the melody for “Yesterday” in a dream, and Bill Wyman being asked to join the Rolling Stones solely because he had access to an amplifier. No wonder Ian’s knee had graduated from bouncing to marching. Seeing something as iconic to him as the Red Room was his dream come true. “Okay . . .” I studied Rowan’s grim face, allowing the “dot-dot-dot” to settle. Then I jabbed him in the shoulder. “So what’s the problem here? Why are you so nervous?”
Rowan exhaled, giving his glasses a shove. “I just don’t want to get caught trespassing. School’s about to start, and if I get in any kind of trouble with the law, I’ll get expelled.”
“ ‘Trespassing’ is such a harsh word,” Ian said, a grin swallowing his face whole. “I prefer ‘unlawful entry.’ ”
Trespassing? I transferred my jabbing finger from Rowan to Ian. “No way. Priority number one is keeping Mom and Dad from knowing about our side trip. Which means we are not doing anything that could potentially involve police.”
“No one is going to call the police.” Ian tugged on his hair. “Why are you guys being so dramatic? All we’re going to do is drive in there, snap a few photos, and get out. The owners will never even know we were there.”
“Until photos of their house show up online and then they remember that you heckled them with e-mails for a full month.” Rowan dragged his eyes away from the road and tapped his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. “What did that last e-mail from them say? Oh, yes. I believe their exact words were, ‘Come near our property and we will not hesitate to notify the authorities.’ ”
“But they didn’t say which authorities,” Ian said, his smile still plastered on his face. “Maybe they meant the town water authorities. Or the leading authority on climate change.”
Oh, Ian.
This plan—whatever it entailed exactly—was so my brother. One part danger, two parts music trivia, three parts rebel. Add a handful of jalapeños and some marshmallows and we had ourselves the perfect Ian recipe. Nothing I said was going to matter. May as well conserve energy—I might need it for running. I tried to send Rowan an abandon-all-hope shrug, but his eyes locked onto the road.
“ ‘Look for a mossy, broken-down fence a few kilometers past the bent speed limit sign,’ ” Ian read from his phone. He stuck his head out into the wind, and his hair puffed into a large dandelion. “Addie, did you see that sign back there? Did it look kind of bent to you?”
“It was a Guinness advertisement,” I said.
“But, Ian, what about the fan who got arrested?” Rowan hadn’t known Ian long enough to understand what he was up against. “The break-in wasn’t that long ago. You know the owners are going to be on high alert. They’re probably sleeping with shotguns under their pillows.”
“A fan got arrested?” I flicked the back of Ian’s head. Was the fan part of his brain completely overriding the common-sense part?
Ian’s smile only grew. “That was a whole year ago, and that girl was a mega stalker. You don’t just walk into a stranger’s house. Not when they’re home.”
“Because you only walk into a stranger’s house when they’re not home?” I clarified.
“Oh, she did more than walk in.” Rowan pulled his glasses off and wiped at his eyes in a move that made him look like an old, tired businessman—but because it was Rowan, a cute, old, tired businessman. “She made a ham-and-banana sandwich in the kitchen and then ate it while rolling around on the carpet. The owners were sleeping upstairs, and she woke them up.”
“Ew,” I wailed. “Ham and banana? Is that a Titletrack thing or an Irish thing?”
“Definitely not Irish,” Rowan said, a wry smile crossing his face. “Haven’t you heard? All we eat are potatoes and beef stew.”
Ian clasped his hands prayerlike in front of him and pushed his lower lip out in a pout. “Come on, guys. I promise not to make a gross sandwich and roll around on the carpet. No one will see us; no one will know.”
I shook my head disgustedly. “Ian, the lower-lip-pout thing stopped working about ten years ago.”
He pooched it out even more. “The lower lip pout is successful at least seventy-three percent of the time. How do you think I passed Español last year? Señora Murdock can never resist it.”
I shook my head impatiently. “Quit trying to change the subject. Rowan’s telling you that he doesn’t want to go to Torc Manor, which means we are not going to Torc Manor.”
“That was the bent speed limit sign!” Ian shrieked, hurling his body partially out the window. “We’re almost there. Rowan, we have to, have to, have to go.”
“Fine.” Rowan’s gaze swiveled back and forth from my brother to the road. “But listen to me. I cannot get caught. Cannot get caught. My parents are already in a constant state of stress. I can’t stir the pot by getting in trouble.”
“That’s it!” Ian yelled.
Rowan hit the brakes, and Ian all but threw himself out the window, extending his face toward the tall, ivy-covered fence. An oversize NO TRESPASSING sign cozied up to an even larger BEWARE OF DOGS sign.
I pointed to the image on the sign. “What a cute snarling shadow dog.”
Ian waved me off. “That sign’s a fake. Half the time people put those up when all they really have are goldfish.”
“Rowan has a goldfish,” I said.
His mouth twitched. “Had a goldfish. Had, Addie.”
“Look, as long as we stick to the plan, we’ll be fine. We already know that the room is ground level and faces the backyard. It will probably take me ten seconds to find. Rowan, all you have to do is drive in and wait. I’ll do the rest.”
This was train-mode Ian. I couldn’t stop him. Rowan couldn’t stop him. A slab avalanche couldn’t stop him. Our best bet was to do exactly what he wanted—get in there, get a photo, and run.
“Fine.” Rowan sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
Ian bounced giddily, pulling his notebook out. “Thanks, Rowan. I really owe you.”
Rowan put the car into reverse. “Yeah, you really do.”
“What about me?” I asked, yanking my legs out of the crevice behind the passenger’s seat. Over the course of the day, I had reached a new and alarming mental space where I now accepted my legs being asleep as normal.
Ian petted me on the head. “Thanks, Addie. I really owe you, too, I guess?”
I shoved his hand away. “No, I mean what do you want me to do while you take photos of the inside of someone’s house? Go with you?”
“No. It will be better if you stay right where you are. Guard Rowan’s stuff.” He tried to pet my head again, but I ducked out of the way.
I was about to insist on going with him, but when I straightened up, Ian had already moved into his pregame routine, a ritual I’d seen just shy of a million times. First he tied and retied his shoes—once, twice, three times—then he cracked his neck back and forth, finishing with a firm shoulder shake.
Watching him soothed me. If anyone could outrun an angry shadow dog, it was Ian. If he weren’t the quarterback of the football team, he’d be the running back. He was the fastest sprinter on the team.
There was also the semicomforting fact that Ian was unequivocally lucky. If, for instance, the owners saw us and decided to shoot our car with flamethrowers, Clover would choose that exact moment to hit a pothole, and Ian would
be launched from the car at just the right second, tumbling into soft grass and surviving the ordeal completely unscathed. It was Rowan and me who would end up crispy.
“Where is he? It’s been donkey’s years,” Rowan hummed under his breath. Our eyes met over the clock on the dashboard. I wasn’t sure about donkey’s years, but it had been a lot longer than the two minutes Ian had promised before he’d disappeared out the window. Now we were both impersonating him, jiggling anxiously.
Torc Manor was trying very hard to be charming, and the ingredients were all there: a steeply pitched roof, white-trimmed windows, well-kept flower garden. But the longer we sat there, the more I realized there was something eerie about it too. Thick white sheets shrouded the patio chairs, and the surrounding trees grew in a wild tangle, filling the sky with branches and making the afternoon feel much darker than it actually was.
At least Ian was right about no one being there. There weren’t any signs of life—no cars in the driveway, no shoes at the door, and no noise. Even the birds and insects were quiet.
Suddenly, Rowan ducked low. “Did you see that?”
My heart skittered as I followed his gaze to the upstairs window. But the curtains were drawn; no movement anywhere. “See what?”
“I thought I saw something. A flash of white.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry I’m being a dope. I’m not that great at stress.”
Ian suddenly materialized at the car window, startling me so much that I flung my arm into Rowan’s chest, hitting him with a dull thud.
“Oof,” he wheezed.
“Sorry, Rowan,” I said. This was not an isolated incident. Startled Addie equaled flailing Addie. Once, during a particularly intense cinematic moment, I’d showered an entire row of moviegoers with popcorn. Now I had my snacks doled out to me at movies.
Ian crossed his arms, reveling in a self-satisfied smile. “Why are you so jumpy? I told you, no one’s here.”
I looked at the house again. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. “Can we get out of here? This place creeps me out.”
Ian shook his head. “The windows back there are too high. I need you to come with me so I can lift you up.”
Instinct told me to hijack the car and get us out of there, but reason told me to go along with Ian’s plan and get it over with. Also, I liked the fact that he was asking me for help. It felt pre-Cubby. “Let’s just make it quick.”
Ian dragged me around back. The back lawn was carefully maintained, with a wall of well-tamed rosebushes. Wind rippled through the trees, making a low shrieking noise. “I think it’s that one,” he said, pointing to a large window.
“Let’s check.” He knelt down so I could climb onto his shoulders, then wobbled to a stand. I leaned in, careful not to touch the spotless window. “Impressive,” I said. “You found the Red Room on the first try.”
“I did? What does it look like?” He bobbed around happily, and I had to grab his hair to keep from falling off.
“It looks . . . red.” Heavy red drapes drooped down to the oxblood carpet, tufted sofas and chairs rounding out the remaining hues of red. Even the portrait over the mantel depicted a redhead holding an armful of poppies.
He handed me his phone, but between the glare and my proximity, all I could see in the image was my own reflection. “Can you move to the right? The glare is really bad over here.”
Ian moved, stumbling on a garden hose but catching his balance quickly. This time the image was perfect. I took a stream of photos, capturing as many angles as I could. “These are going to turn out great.”
“Addie, thank you so much. This is really great of you!” The excitement in his voice narrowed the chasm between us.
“I read your articles,” I said, holding tightly to the small bridge between us.
The swaying underneath me immediately stopped, and his shoulders tensed. My opinion still mattered to him. “And?”
“They were incredible,” I said simply. “Really, really incredible. You’re meant to write about music.”
He squeezed my ankle. “Thanks, Addie. That means a lot. I’ve wanted to show you for a long time, but at first it was nice to keep it secret, because it was less pressure. And then this summer . . .” He hesitated.
A long, clunky silence filled the air, and I suddenly felt desperate to keep the camaraderie going. I missed the easy parts of our friendship.
“Ian, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should tell Mom.” The words ran out of my mouth faster than I could catch them. Oh, no. Why had I just said that?
“Really?” Ian’s voice bounced off the house, his relief heavy as an anchor. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that. Telling Mom is the right thing. That’s what being an adult is, you know? You have to own up to your mistakes.”
Mistakes. I felt myself bristle at the word. But I couldn’t afford to get angry; I needed to focus on letting him down gently. “Ian, listen . . .” I steadied my fingertips on the glass and took a deep breath. But before I could speak, something caught my eye and I looked up. A woman stood at the glass, a vein bulging in her pale forehead, her face as close as my reflection. Her mouth stretched open in a wordless howl.
“Aaaaaah!” The scream ripped out of me and I hurled my body backward.
“Addie!” Ian tried to catch me, swiveling back and forth. I lost my balance and fell onto my back, hitting my head on something solid. A rock? Black polka dots invaded my vision.
“Addie, are you okay? Why did you scream?” Ian stood over me, his eyes tight with panic.
“Because—” My brain felt too confused to explain.
Suddenly, the porch door slammed, bringing me back to coherence. “Brutus, Marshall, get them!” The sound of scrambling erupted across the patio, followed quickly by barking.
“Addie, we have to run!” Ian yanked me to my feet, dragging me behind him as he charged for the car.
Rowan’s phone was pressed to his ear, and his eyes widened when he saw us. “What happened? What—?”
“Just drive!” Ian stuffed me in headfirst, then jumped in behind me, and Rowan dropped his phone, tearing down the drive as two of the largest dogs I had ever seen threw themselves at our back tires.
Even though the dogs stopped dead at the edge of the property, Rowan spent the next ten minutes driving like a madman, swerving through lanes and overtaking every car he possibly could.
My hands would not stop shaking. Seeing the woman in the window reminded me of a game I’d played in elementary school called Bloody Mary. A group of us would turn off all the lights in the girl’s bathroom and then chant BLOO-DY MAR-Y into the mirror in hopes that her ghost would appear. Nothing scary ever happened except for the occasional appearance of the crabby old janitor who came in to shoo us out. I’d always wondered what I’d do if a face actually appeared, and now I knew: crumple into a ball and wait for Ian to rescue me.
“Follow my finger,” Ian commanded, moving his index finger left to right. “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseated?”
“Ian.” I slapped his hand away. He was running through concussion protocol. All the student athletes had been required to attend a meeting on it back in March.
“What about sensitivity to light?” Ian shined his cell phone flashlight directly in my eyes, and I quickly blocked the brightness with my hands.
“Ian! Forget a concussion. You’re going to blind me.” I pushed him back into the front seat and carefully touched the back of my head. “It hurts, but it’s just a bump.” I winced, feeling the goose egg already forming. “No concussion.”
“Good.” Ian nodded, pointing to his black eye. “Call it even?”
I shrugged, and Clover flew over a bump and soared through the air.
“She didn’t see me, right?” Rowan kept saying. “We’re positive that woman did not see me?” His phone had been ringing ever since he’d dropped it, and he stuck his hands down between the seats, groping around.
“Rowan, how would she have seen you? You were in the
car the whole time,” Ian said cheerfully. At least he was happy; he had his photos to keep him going. “Addie, these are incredible.”
I knew his sunniness wasn’t just about my excellent photo-taking skills—it was about what I’d said right before diving into the flower bed. Maybe I should tell Mom. What had possessed me to say that? It was only going to make things worse. I carefully touched the back of my head, wincing again.
“Tackling people in parking lots, surviving head injuries . . .” Rowan sounded amused, his worry about being seen lifting. “Addie, I have a new nickname for you, and I think it fits perfectly.” He met my eyes in the mirror, pausing dramatically. “Queen Maeve.”
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“She’s a famous Irish queen. Part myth, part real. And she was a warrior. I’ll find a picture.” He hit silent on another incoming call and then passed his phone to me. Ian crowded in close to look. A blond, long-haired woman sat slumped over on a throne, like someone was trying—and failing—to entertain her. Her foot rested on a golden shield.
“She seems . . . cool,” I said, trying to disguise how flattered I felt. I’d always identified with characters like this. The limp-noodle princesses never felt right—who wanted to sit around in a tower all day?
Rowan took his phone back, nodding. “They buried her standing up; that way she’s always waiting for her enemies. The best part is that her tomb keeps getting bigger because any time someone hikes up the hill where she’s buried, they take a rock with them and add it to the pile.” He quickly turned his head back to me when he said, “So she’s always getting stronger.”
I loved the sound of that.
Just as I was about to thank him, Rowan’s phone started ringing again, and I quickly handed it back to him. He angrily hit the silence button.
“Who keeps calling?” Ian asked, his nose just a few inches from the photos.
“My mum.” The words spat out of his mouth, too vehement for either of us to ignore. It was the same tone he’d had when he was on the phone at the gas station.
Love & Luck Page 14
