A crumpled twenty-dollar bill.
When he walks past me, the scent of fresh rain and motor oil lingers behind him.
I’m still staring after him when Frankie waves me over to the register. My boss fumbles a cigarette out of his sweat-stained apron and raises it to his lips. “Boy’s got some nerve showing up here,” he says, violating a dozen health codes with one drag.
“What’s his story?”
“Served time for attempted murder. Not long enough if you ask me.” Frankie shakes his head, disgusted. “Everyone round here knows he set the fire that killed his folks. Good people. Damn ugly business.” His weathered face arranges itself into an expression that could almost be concern. “Do yourself a favor and steer clear of Ian Lawson. That boy is trouble nobody needs.”
I nod. What I don’t say is that I’ve spent the last three years working on making myself invisible. Ever since that night in July, I don’t wear makeup, or rebel against authority, or drive above the speed limit. Staying out of trouble is pretty much at the top of my priority list.
But the thing about trouble is that it has a way of finding you. Especially when you aren’t looking for it.
TWO
I pull into the campground just as the early-morning sun is cutting across the water. Even though I’m late, the view still makes me pause. Glory Point is the best seat in the house. A secluded bluff jutting over the sleepy little town and under a blue-blanket sky. In every direction green forests meet crashing Pacific waves. It reminds me of one of those coffee commercials where everyone is happy, and life is a postcard waiting to be written.
Fort Glory, Oregon. Not just another dot on the map. Not just a pit stop on the way to somewhere else.
Home.
Now I just have to convince Mom.
I’m steering toward the trailer when a figure stumbles out of the trees along the ridgeline to my left. A man wearing a nice suit and tie. As I watch, he climbs over the guardrail and walks toward the cliff, stopping just short of the ledge. A coat hangs loosely off his wasted frame. His body is twitching the way addicts sometimes do when they’re coming down. He turns.
A chill washes over me when his eyes lock with mine. Before I can figure out why, the man scrambles back over the guardrail. One second, he’s there. The next, he’s disappearing into the woods. It’s bizarre. Is he some wealthy local with a closet drug problem? Another journalist like the woman in the diner? Either way, it’s none of my business.
Life is complicated enough without adding other people’s problems to my growing list of things to stress about.
On the short, bumpy trip to the trailer, my hands beat restlessly against the wheel. It’s not just the weirdo on the ridge. Whenever I think about my appointment at the Hands for Hearths office this afternoon, I can’t sit still. If Mom knew what I was planning, she’d have the trailer hitched to the truck before I had time to explain. It’s been like this forever. We keep pushing west, never staying in one place long enough for the dust to settle. At first, we moved because Mom was restless. Then that night in July happened, and we did it because we had to. But standing here now with the sun on my skin and the taste of evergreen and sea salt in my mouth, I know that things will be different here.
They’ll be better.
The dirt path in front of me opens up to a small clearing surrounded by giant trees. The forest is so thick, you can barely hear the roar of the ocean behind it. The park is mostly deserted. These grounds won’t get crowded again until spring, and with any luck, we’ll be settled into our new place by then.
I’m locking up the truck when a voice calls out. “You see him?”
I turn to find Rowena Mae camped out on a rickety lawn chair in front of the neighboring trailer. Her skin is a playground for freckles, and her hair is a shade of blond not known to occur in nature. I’ve only spoken to her twice, but there’s something about her that feels comforting in the way strange things sometimes do.
“See who?”
“The man on the bluff,” she says. “Fancy clothes. Passed through here a few minutes ago?”
“Yeah, I saw him.” I yank the zipper of my jacket up to my chin. “Do you know what he’s doing up there?”
“Settin’ his mind about the business of dying, I reckon.”
“You think he’s going to jump?”
“Would make the fourth one this week.” Rowena scowls. “I told the sheriff she might as well string a net across the water. Save the city a fortune in cleanup.”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Normally, I wouldn’t call the cops to save my own life, but nothing about this is normal.
“Already done,” Rowena says, letting me off the hook. “Not that it’ll make a lick of difference. They’ve got their hands full down at the station, or haven’t you heard?” She thrusts something at me.
My gaze drops from the bright paper in my hand to the box under Rowena’s lawn chair. It’s full of pink pamphlets.
“You made these?” My thoughts fly to the young man in the diner. Ian. He must be a friend of Rowena’s if he’s distributing her pamphlets. Rowena doesn’t seem like the type of woman to forgive a pesky little thing like attempted murder. There must be more to Ian’s story than Frankie let on. I resist the urge to ask. I’m not generally big on personal questions. Mostly because they tend to cut both ways.
Rowena nods and thrusts out her chin. “I knew we were in for it when the birds stopped singing. Happened about three weeks ago. Same day the DARC went back online.”
“You mean the collider?” I picture the research facility I pass every day. A few squat warehouses and a handful of tall, randomly scattered cinder-block buildings that are the only eyesores in this fairy tale of a town. “I don’t get what the big deal is.”
Rowena snorts. “Where you been, girl? You’re standing on top of the most advanced machine ever built by man. Twenty years to plan. Fifteen billion of our tax dollars to build.”
“Fifteen billion dollars?” My brain hurts just trying to imagine how many TV dinners or tanks of gas that money could buy. Instead, our government blows it on some glorified science project. “For what, exactly?”
Rowena leans forward in her chair. The rusted slats squeak in protest. “There’s more to the DARC than meets the eye. Three hundred feet under this here ground runs a tunnel track twenty miles round. It makes a loop around town and off into the parkland, as far up as the road into Maple. They spent all that money to build their fancy machine, looking for something. But the Europeans had a fancy machine of their own, and they found it first.” Her nostrils flare. “The DARC closed down. Stayed that way for three years. Then three weeks ago it goes back online with no warning. Now folks are acting like they’ve got the devil inside of them.”
Gooseflesh breaks out across my arms. I tell myself it has nothing to do with Rowena’s ravings. Whatever she says, the DARC is just a machine. It isn’t to blame for the way people are acting.
Human beings have never needed excuses to do shitty things to one another.
“And you think the DARC is responsible?” I play along even though I’m more convinced than ever that Rowena is out of her mind. As bizarre as this conversation is, it’s still a lot easier to deal with than the one waiting for me inside. For my plan to work, I’m going to have to lie right to Mom’s face. Something I’ve been dreading even more than our first day at a new school.
“You can’t tell me one thing’s got nothing to do with the other. People been asking me for proof.” She scowls. “I tell ’em to get off their phones. Turn off the damn TV. Sometimes the truth is screaming in your ears. All you got to do is listen.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, reluctantly turning back to the trailer.
“Wait,” Rowena calls out. “Your mother. Helen, is it?”
I turn around, my stomach sinking at the mention of Mom’s name. “Yeah.” I hold my breath and wait to see where this goes.
“She’s got you both working up at the Dusty Ro
se?”
I nod, and the old woman looks strangely satisfied. “Frankie’s a mean ol’ bastard, but he pays a fair wage. He looks after his people if they earn it.”
“We don’t need looking after.” My words are sharp. I smile to blunt the edges. “We aren’t afraid of hard work.”
Rowena’s lips twitch. “I bet you aren’t.” Pale green eyes settle on me with uncomfortable intensity. The old woman tilts her head to the side. “You favor her. Your mother.”
I frown. If I look like Mom, it’s the way the passing scenery looks through a tinted window. Kind of hazy with the colors on mute. My little brother, Charlie, on the other hand, is my mother with the resolution turned all the way up. “Your brother too.” Rowena echoes my thoughts. “What’s his name?”
“Charlie. And I’m Rose.”
“Father?”
I have to hand it to her. She’s not one to throw out lines to fish for information. She’s the sort to toss a bomb in the water and see what rises to the surface. “He disappeared.”
“Men have a nasty habit of doing that.” Rowena snags her coffee mug from the grass beside her and studies me over the rim. “Read the pamphlet. Like I said, folks are acting strange. Best be on your guard.”
“Thanks. I will.” I offer her a small smile. I can’t help it. Most people wouldn’t bother with the dire warnings. Especially not for newcomers like us. Rowena may be a little nuts, but she means well. As neighbors go, we’ve had far worse.
Inside the trailer, I tap Charlie’s foot on the way to the bedroom I share with Mom. I grab some jeans and a cable-knit sweater that’s as old as I am. Most of my clothes once belonged to my mother. After a hundred washes, they still smell like her. Sunshine and honey.
“Morning, Rose.” Mom greets me wearing the diner uniform: a simple pink dress and white apron that makes her eyes glow violet. My mother’s eyes are the kind of blue people write songs about.
“What time does your shift start tonight?” she asks.
“Five.” I’ll be working doubles for the rest of my life, but it’ll be worth it if Hands for Hearths accepts our application for a home. At this point, it’s a matter of basic necessity. Like our truck, the trailer is on its last leg. It was a relic when Dad bought it. That was nine years ago. Living in it was never the plan. It was a short-term solution while my parents made other arrangements—arrangements that went up in smoke when my dad left one night to buy a lottery ticket and never returned. I’ve been doing what I can to keep the place livable with his old tools, but there are only so many times you can tape up a leaking pipe before it comes apart in your hands. Most days, I feel like my collection of maps are holding up the walls instead of the other way around. Which leads me to the real reason we have to make it in Fort Glory.
We have no other choice.
“Rose?”
“Yes?” I look at my mother.
“Can you check on Charlie after school? Make sure he’s … adjusting?”
We both know what she’s really asking. I nod to ease her mind and wish this was one of those towns where the high school and elementary school were right next to each other.
Mom refuses to admit that Charlie is different. I’m not angry with her about it. She means well and she loves us, but I’m tired. Tired. And as much as I love her back, I could use a break from all this pretending.
“Why don’t you guys swing by the diner after school?” She reaches for me but pulls back at the last minute. “You can tell me how your first day was over a piece of pie.”
“There’s a cheap mechanic in Maple. I thought I’d check it out before work.” I never lie to my mother, and I don’t like the way it feels.
“You’re a good girl, Rose.” She kisses my forehead—something she used to do all the time when I was little. Since I never kissed her back, she must have assumed I didn’t like it.
I liked it.
Charlie walks out of the bathroom, his hair curling from the shower. It needs a trim. He’s paler than usual, which highlights the dark circles under his eyes. He’s also dropping weight when he has none to lose. He isn’t eating enough. Isn’t sleeping. Whenever I get off late or wake up early, he’s just lying on the pullout, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Every so often his lips turn down in a grimace. Almost like he’s in pain. He’s never done that before, and it makes me worry about him. Even more than usual.
“You ready?” I ask.
Seconds tick by, but I’m used to that. My brother answers every question as if the fate of the world hinges on his response.
“Sure,” he says, throwing on his favorite green hoodie. It’s way too big and threadbare in places. I’ve wanted to get rid of it so many times, but Charlie won’t let me. It’s one of the few things he has left that belonged to our father.
We head for the truck—an ’85 Chevy with an extended cab, lovingly named Rusty for reasons that need no clarification. Rowena waves at us from her lawn chair. Movement at the trailer next to hers catches my eye. There’s a figure wedged under the hood of one of those muscle cars that always sit on cinder blocks outside of trailers the way white picket fences frame perfect lawns in the suburbs. Only this boy looks like he has plans of driving away. It isn’t just the sweat stains on his shirt or the grease under his fingernails. It’s the way he’s bent over the engine—like he could breathe life into it with his desire to be somewhere, anywhere else.
He turns, and I freeze. It’s him. The boy from table nine. Ian.
And he doesn’t look remotely surprised to see me.
Ian wipes his face with the hem of his T-shirt and starts putting up his tools in a beautiful toolbox that makes Dad’s ancient rollaway seem shabby by comparison. My fingers itch to explore the perfectly designed cubbies. I tear my gaze away before he catches me coveting his tools.
Hinges creak behind me as Mom slips into the passenger seat. Charlie throws his backpack through the back window and prepares to climb in after it. The door has been jammed forever, which makes getting in and out somewhat of a production. I can’t decide which is worse: dropping Charlie off a few hundred yards from Roosevelt Elementary, or letting him climb out like that for everyone to see.
Shadows dot the sky as a flock of geese passes overhead. Charlie watches them intently. “They’re going the wrong way.”
“Maybe they got turned around.” My gaze cuts to the woods, and a shiver runs up my spine. The quiet that was peaceful a moment ago suddenly feels oppressive. It takes me a minute to figure out why. It’s the birds. They’ve gone dead silent.
“No,” my brother says. “They hear it too.”
“Hear what, Charlie?”
For a second, I think he’s going to answer, then he just shakes his head. “Do you feel that?” he asks instead. When I don’t answer, he elaborates. “The sky. It’s too heavy.”
Mom frowns. The silence stretches. Another winged army passes over our heads.
I take one look at Charlie’s worried face before I jog back to the trailer. “Just in case.” I toss our umbrella on the dash and turn the key in the ignition. There’s an awful sound, like chicken bones down a garbage disposal. Panic shoots through me. My appointment with the Hands for Hearths representative is scheduled for four this afternoon. Their office is in the neighboring town of Maple. Fifteen miles away.
I wrench the key in the ignition again only to get the same sound as before. My knuckles gleam white against the wheel. Tears of frustration burn my eyes, but I refuse to cry. Just like I refuse to miss that appointment. I’ll walk to Maple if I have to.
When the engine catches on the third try, every muscle in my body goes liquid with relief.
Rowena flags me down as I’m backing out of the park. She chews her lip thoughtfully while she stares at Mom. “I cut hair when I’m not acting as a watchdog for the people. I got some color that might do those roots of yours a world of good, Helen. Come on by, and I’ll treat you for free.”
“That’s kind of you.” Mom is practically collapsi
ng into the upholstery in an attempt to make herself invisible.
It wasn’t always like this. My mother used to wear lipstick, and sing along to the radio, and look strangers in the eye.
She used to do a lot of things.
Rowena frowns at me. “That truck is an accident waiting to happen. I’ll send Ian over later. That boy can fix anything.”
“Thanks, but we’re all set.” Rowena is trying to be nice. I get that. Still, it feels a little like pity and that burns even though I know it shouldn’t.
My feelings must show because Rowena snorts. “The weather will turn soon. The road into town is dangerous. Let him take a look, and the boy will tell you what needs doing.” I open my mouth to refuse again, but she cuts me off. “Don’t let your pride make you foolish, girl. Too many damn fools around here already.”
“All right.” It’s clear she won’t be taking no for an answer. “I’ll let him look, but I’ll pay him for his trouble.”
Rowena gives me a nod of grudging respect. “Don’t let Ian’s manner put you off. He’s rough around the edges, but so’s gold before it’s polished. There’s more to a thing than the look of it.” She levels Mom with a knowing glance.
“Thank you.” I say it again, only this time I really mean it. Rowena may be pushy, but at least you always know where she stands. In my book, that more than makes up for the crazy.
“You can thank me by spreading the word.” Rowena hands me a stack of pink pamphlets. “Knowledge is a weapon, and we’ve got to arm ourselves. Those big brains at the DARC are knocking on doors best left closed. Sooner or later, they’ll get an answer.”
I smile politely. Mom is too busy staring at her lap, so I glance in the rearview to share a look with Charlie only to find him nodding solemnly in the backseat.
* * *
After dropping Mom off at the diner, I park next to some reddening bushes behind Roosevelt Elementary. A sense of dread fills me at the sight of that rectangular brick building. For a moment, I’m tempted to lock the doors and drive away, but Charlie has to walk through that door, and I have to let him. I just wish it wasn’t so hard.
Before I Disappear Page 2
