by Dalya Moon
He twists the knobs on the guitar, plucking a single note to tune it, then clears his throat and strums the first few bars of a song I don't recognize. Josh can play guitar? Duh, I say to myself. Of course he can. He is in Band.
Tick and Dana let out a shared “Whoo!”
Josh stops playing and blinks at us, like he's just realized he's not alone. He waves.
In the silence, I hear an older woman at the next table remark that Josh is “as cute as a bug's ear” and she's going to take him home, fatten him up, and “after the appropriate number of years, marry him!” The woman and her friend cackle over this, like a couple of dirty old ladies.
Josh plays the same opening bars again. He leans in and begins to sing, very quietly. The talking in the restaurant shuts off like a tap.
He's singing so softly that I can't make out all the words, but the lyrics seem to be about devotion, or love potion, or something in motion.
His eyes are closed, and he wrinkles his forehead while he sings, his head moving from side to side with the rhythm of the song. His chin juts forward and some arteries stand out on his neck, even though he's singing softly. He looks so serious, so earnest, and I'm embarrassed for him when his voice cracks a tiny bit, but he gets to the chorus, relaxes, and he's incredible.
There's a tightness in my chest that builds up to my throat, like how I felt a few years ago when I was twelve, and just a tiny bit obsessed with Justin Bieber. There's something about a cute boy, singing, that makes me have all these complicated feelings.
“That drink made me warm,” Tick says to Dana. “And I think I'm in love.” Dana nods and takes a drink from her mug of something, her gaze fixed on Josh on the stage.
* * *
It's two in the morning by the time we start walking back home. We only left because the cafe was closing for the night. Tick tosses her arm over my shoulder, says, “I wuv you, cuz,” and burps in my ear. The burp smells like root beer and roast beef.
“Are you drunk?”
“I don't know,” she says. “Tell me if I'm walking in a straight line, okay? Watch. Watch meeeee!”
She runs ahead with her arms out like airplane wings, weaving from side to side on the sidewalk until she trips and does a face-plant on someone's snowy lawn.
“Be quiet,” I say, running to her side.
She moves her arms back and forth, still face-down, creating a snow angel and giggling.
“Very nice,” I say as I lift her up by her green army jacket. I put her arm back over my shoulder and somehow manage to drag her the rest of the way home without further incident.
We stand together at the back of the house, staring up at our bedroom window, way up on the second floor. It didn't seem so far away when we were climbing down.
“Come on.” She teeters toward the bottom rung and tries to put her foot on it, but misses.
I make the decision that the stealth factor isn't worth breaking bones—neither hers from falling, nor mine from being landed upon—so I drag her around to the front door and use the spare key, from under the plant pot, to open the door.
“Good thinking,” she says.
I slap my hand over her mouth and beg her to be quiet. We're so close now.
“That's odd,” I say. “Why are the kitchen lights on?”
Chapter 8
We open the door and step inside. You've never heard a building squeak and creak at night until you've lived in a house that's over a century old. I push the door back closed as slowly as I can manage with one hand over my cousin's mouth, and still it makes a groan so loud my ears ring.
When I turn around, someone's standing in the hall.
I scream.
It's my father, his arms crossed.
Tick swears.
“Hold off on the search and rescue,” my father yells toward the kitchen. “The jail-breakers have returned.”
“I can explain,” I say.
Sternly, he says, “No, you can't.”
Tick moans and tumbles to the ground near my feet, clutching her stomach. “I don't feel so good.”
The look my father is giving me makes me back away, towards the door. I'll run out. I don't know how that'll help, but I have to run.
My mother appears behind my father. The look on her face is even worse.
Someone is apologizing. It's me, saying, “I'm sorry,” over and over again.
I kick my cousin and tell her to get up. My hand is on the doorknob behind me, but I can't get the door open, because my cousin is collapsed in front of it.
“Oh no,” she says, and throws up. On my feet.
Instinctively, I kick off my boots, but now she's grabbing onto my pants, sobbing, and throwing up on my socks. It smells. Horrible.
My father says, “You. Go to your room.” His voice is so cold and flat, it sends a chill right through me.
“Take off your dirty pants and socks and leave them there,” my mother says.
Tick is sobbing now.
Aunt Trudy appears behind my mother, hobbling on her crutches.
My father repeats himself, “Lainey, go to your room. Right. Now.”
I squirm out of my jeans as quickly as I can, drop them, along with my socks, and run past the three of them to the stairs to my room.
Coughing, Tick says, “Me too? Beddie-bye time?”
I'm already halfway up the stairs and I practically fly the rest of the way up. Once inside my room, I close the door nearly all the way and sit on the floor, listening by the crack.
They're murmuring downstairs, but I can't hear what they're saying. I can't even imagine what kind of trouble we're in. There's absolutely no precedent. My sister never did anything like this.
I grab a shirt from the hook on the wall and wipe away at the tops of my feet, which are gooey from things I don't want to think about, and chuck the shirt in the laundry basket.
Someone's coming up the stairs.
The light is already off, so I jump into my bed, then pull the covers up over my head.
The door creaks open. “I'm going to use the bathroom,” Tick says.
“Are you going to throw up again?”
“How should I know? I'm not the expert on drinking.”
The house is quiet again, and I hear my parents' bedroom door close.
“Come with me to the bathroom?”
“Okay.” I get out of bed for the second time tonight and follow her to the bathroom.
She runs the last few steps and throws up in the tub. Wiping her mouth, she says, “I feel much better now.”
I put some of her cinnamon-flavored toothpaste on her sparkly toothbrush and hand it to her.
She thanks me and starts brushing her teeth. I brush mine too.
We take turns going to the bathroom and then return to the bedroom.
After a few minutes, I realize everyone hasn't gone to bed. That door closing must have been just my father, because my mother and Aunt Trudy are arguing downstairs. They're trying to keep their voices low, but there are no secrets in a creaky, thin-walled old house like this.
Aunt Trudy says sneaking out is normal teen behavior, and we're testing boundaries to create our own identities.
My mother argues that we could have been hurt, and there are bad people around, even in small towns.
I stick my head under my pillow. I don't like hearing fighting. I remember when we first moved to Snowy Cove, and I was only eight years old, they used to fight a lot. One morning, Olivia told them we could hear everything from our bedroom, through the gap-ridden floors, and they stopped.
Something is tugging at my brain, keeping me from getting sleepy. How did they even know we were out? We were so quiet, so careful.
My cousin's been quiet for several minutes, so I sit up in bed and ask if she's awake. Silence.
I tap the lamp once to turn it on at the dimmest setting. She moans and rolls over.
I scramble to the foot of the bed and grab the cordless phone from my desk, then scroll through the call display. There it is: one
hour ago, a call from The International Cafe.
Gwendoyn.
Genna's sister must have called my parents.
* * *
On Monday morning, I prepare for a potentially sombre Murphy breakfast by putting on a black shirt, hoping that will help me disappear.
I can't avoid eating with my family, because having whole-grain toast and peanut butter is now my regular morning routine, instead of skipping breakfast. I consider staying in my room until the last minute, and hitting the vending machine at school, but I'd hate to fall back to bad habits.
Tick has dark circles under her eyes, but she still slides down the bannister as is her routine, her moist palms squeaking on the waxed wood, which looks shinier than ever.
Aunt Trudy is on her feet for breakfast, banging her cast around and hobbling back and forth to the kitchen to get jam, butter, a different kind of jam, and then margarine, because someone put the butter in the fridge and the ice cold chunks are “savaging” her defenseless toast.
I eat my toast, with a new spread Mom bought, that combines almonds, cashews, and peanuts. I tell her it's good, but secretly, I'd rather have plain peanut butter. When you eat your food slowly, you start tasting it in a way you never did before.
No word has been said yet about our punishment, and I'm not stupid enough to ask. A few times, I think Tick is going to say something, but she looks around and sees the same tired parental faces I do, and wisely shuts her mouth. I have to give the girl credit for at least recognizing when she's in serious doo-doo.
* * *
At lunch at school, I tear into Genna about her sister tattling on us. I feel terrible doing it while simultaneously eating the delicious sesame-peanut soba noodles in the Bento box she made, but I can't help myself. I look at Genna's face and I see her sister, Gwendolyn, who not only got me in trouble, but caused my parents unnecessary mental anguish.
“You can't be serious,” Genna says. “Mental anguish? What are you, a lawyer?”
“I don't understand,” Briana says. “Why didn't you invite me? I don't live that far from the cafe, and you know I'm a night owl.”
“Sneaking out is wrong,” Genna lectures Briana. She actually tilts her head, sticking her nose up. “It's wrong. Plus it's stupid, stupid, stupid.”
I slam down the tiny frog-shaped bottle of soy sauce, making it squirt out messily. “You think your sister was right to phone my parents?”
Genna delicately pats her lips with her cloth napkin. “Who do you think gave her the number?”
Something boils up inside of me like a pot of soup on a too-hot stove.
I grab my lunch, stand, and march over to the empty spot next to Tick, at the rowdy table. “Is this seat available?”
“Fill your boots,” Dana says with a smirk, so I take the seat.
Dana's blue hair has grown out enough to reveal roots that are surprisingly pale and gold. Why would someone with such a pretty color of hair dye it blue? She also has a tiny, silver nose ring.
“How long have you had a pierced nose?” I ask her.
She turns her head and resumes her conversation with the guy next to her. When I realize who it is, I get this feeling like someone dipped me in ice water.
Josh.
As in, Josh, the guy who was playing guitar like a real musician last night, and singing shyly about devotion or locomotion or something. Josh, who I never realized—perhaps because he's constantly putting on wigs and acting like an old lady in Drama class—is actually cute.
His best friend Ty squeezes onto the bench next to Dana, directly across from me. As he wiggles his broad shoulders in, everyone grumbles, but they do slide down to make room for him.
Ty raises his one eyebrow, his dark brown eyes twinkling with humor. “Two Murphys at the table. Double the fun.”
I say, “Your comedy routine last night was really good.”
Tick mumbles in agreement, but keeps her head down, picking away at her macaroni salad.
On the other side of Dana, Josh looks up at me. I want to tell him I liked his singing, but I can't get any words out.
Ty's talking, saying, “And most of it was my old material. I'm working on some killer new stuff. All new.”
“I look forward to seeing it,” I say. “If my parents ever let me out of the house again. We got busted sneaking back in last night.”
Ty bobs his head. “Tough break, yeah. Hey, I wanted to tell you something.” He leans across the table and gestures for me to do the same, meeting him in the middle. He says, softly, “The bit about the crack hair is not true. I'm not hairy at all, but Josh ... that boy's not right.” He leans back and puts his arm around his friend. “Josh has hair growing out of everything. That's why he wears collared shirts. Neck hair and back hair and all-over hair. Long, too.”
We both turn to look at Josh, who says, “I can hear you. I'm right here, man. Not cool.”
“It's okay, I know he's just making jokes,” I say. “He'll say anything to get people's attention, won't he? He'll do anything too.”
Josh pushes up his wire-frame, square-shaped glasses. “Lainey Murphy, you're smarter than the average bear,” he says, his eyes fixed on mine.
I'm smiling at his compliment when one of the guys further down the table gets Josh's attention, and he turns to talk to him. He looks back for an instant, giving me the sweetest little shy smile.
Ty is still talking to me and Tick, though the words aren't sinking in. I nod and smile when it seems appropriate, and he keeps going on about stuff. He's making some observations about puberty in general, and the conflicting feelings he has about his older sister's laundry.
“You should put this in the routine,” I say.
He grins. “That is the plan. You're a good listener!”
I glance back over at my regular table, where Briana, Genna, and the Annual Girls are sitting. They're actually the only table in the cafeteria that's just girls.
My universe is expanding.
Ty asks me, “So, do you get a lot of earwax? Like, how much, would you say you dig out, on a daily basis?”
“Earwax? No, gross. Girls don't get that,” I say, smiling.
* * *
By the end of the school day, I'm feeling less giddy about my lunch spent near Josh and the other fun people, and apprehensive about going home. I've never been in serious trouble before, and I have no idea what's coming next.
When I think about the look on my father's face, though, I feel as nauseated as I did hearing and watching my cousin throw up last night.
On the walk home, Tick and I talk about what we think will happen. She says she's never been caught sneaking out, so she doesn't have any precedent with her mother, either.
There's nobody there when we get home, which is normal for a Monday. Even empty, the house feels angry at us today. When I get a glass of water in the kitchen, the pipes groan and sputter.
Tick grabs me by the hand and looks me straight in the eyes, her chin dimpled and trembling, like she's about to cry. “I am really sorry,” she says.
I almost give her a hug. I wish Olivia were here. She'd know what to do, and she'd make me feel safe.
“Don't be sorry to me,” I say. “I made the decision to go with you. I have to take responsibility for my own actions.”
Her lip quivers. Watching her, my own eyes get hot with sympathetic tears.
Suddenly, her face breaks into a smile, and the sadness is gone. “Pretty convincing, isn't it?” She giggles. “Don't worry. We'll be out of this jam in no time. Remember to look REALLY SORRY and agree with everything they say. Don't fight it. Just agree.”
“You faker,” I say angrily. “You can fake away all you want, but I'm not putting on an act. I actually am sorry, and you should be too.”
“You didn't seem that sorry last night. Admit it. You had the time of your boring life.”
I turn away from her and dig through the fridge for a snack. The bowl of Mom's Pink Stuff—raspberry-flavored Jell-O mixed with Cool Whip—
looks like just the thing to take my mind off impending doom.
“That has a bezillion calories,” she says.
“Mind your own business.”
“You've already lost, like, five pounds at least. If you're going to gain it all back, at least go for something yummy, like Black Forest Cake. Or sourdough bread with lashings of butter. Do you like that word? Lashings. Dana's parents are British. I learned about lashings of butter last weekend.”
I shove the jiggly Pink Stuff to the back of the fridge and grab some baby carrots instead. I wish I had never told her about my diet.
Now she's looking at me while I eat the carrots. Why's she smiling?
She's the worst.
I wish she'd never come here. I wish she'd never been born.
* * *
The time it takes for my parents and Aunt Trudy to come home is both agonizingly long and painfully short. They all stamp their feet inside the door and say “Brrr” to each other, like it's a totally normal day.
They ask how school was.
Nobody says anything about last night.
Tick and I go up to my room and she plays games on the computer while I read a book until Mom calls us down for dinner.
I'm in charge of setting the table, as usual. My cousin's been here for three weeks now, and she still doesn't have any chores.
My mother hums to herself as she gets things ready in the kitchen. Hums to herself? Since when is she so happy?
I can't stand the suspense, so as I'm getting the plates and glasses from the cupboard, I just come right out and ask. “What's my punishment? I want to get started on it as soon as possible.”
She looks at me coolly as she stirs the spaghetti sauce on the stove. “We're going to make a few changes around here. You're moving into the den, downstairs, and your aunt is joining your cousin in the big bedroom.”
“What?! It's not the big bedroom, it's my bedroom!”
“Your aunt will need assistance getting up and down the stairs, of course, and that'll be something you can help with.”
At a loss for words to express my unhappiness about this new development, I forget how to breathe for a minute.
