by Rachel Shane
Students still trail in, checking the time on their phones. A teacher ticks off names as the students enter the doorway we just avoided.
Sabrina follows me out the window and lands on her feet like a cat.
My lungs burn and my chest aches but I force myself to keep going. We beeline to my car, so dilapidated, the only way the bumper will stay attached is with a long rope tied with boy scout knots. It’s parked at the back of the lot, surrounded by two empty spaces. Even the other cars don’t want to be near me.
“Girls! You can’t leave.” The security guard drops his cones and rushes toward us.
The passenger door always sticks. I yank it open as hard as I can and then circle around to my own side. The engine putters to a start, and instead of shifting into reverse, I put the car in drive. Toward the copse of trees beyond the field.
Sabrina checks her seatbelt to make sure it’s tight and clutches the door handles. “What are you doing?!”
“Getting us out of here.” I gun the pedal and the car crashes into the curb. The wheels get caught, and I smell burning rubber. We’re stuck. In the rear-view mirror, I see the security guard waving a few feet behind me.
I take a deep breath. I want to close my eyes for this part, but that would be kind of irresponsible. I back up from the curb a few inches, as much as I can without getting booked for manslaughter, and then slam my foot on the gas. The car lurches forward and the front wheels clear the curb this time. The car wobbles as the back wheels bump onto the grass, and I steer in the direction of the sparse trees that surround our school like anorexic bouncers. A toothpick fence.
“You’re going to hit one!”
I shrug. My car’s made it through worse.
Sabrina hyperventilates as the security guard screams warnings at us, trying to catch up. I squeeze my car into the widest distance between the trees and continue to weave through them. They scrape against the sides, and we’re moving at such a slow pace that the security guard bangs on the trunk.
I see the road between two poplars so I don’t look back. I spin the wheel when trees get in my way and try to hit as few of them as possible. Sabrina’s face is whiter than her old well-pressed shirts. Cars rush by us on the road. The security guard tries to wrench open Sabrina’s faulty passenger door. I pause one, two, three seconds, the entire time my heart beating faster than a techno backbeat. This is it, I think. My car and I will go out the same way. But then the road clears and I smash the pedal. The security guard remains behind on the grass, probably memorizing my license plate.
Once on the road, I start to relax. “So where am I going?”
Sabrina leans back in her seat and lets out a breath, her knuckles white on the door handle. “No idea.”
I pound the brake, and she lurches forward. “You said you knew where Gavin was.” A car behind me honks, and I slowly accelerate.
“I will. Eventually. He said these are clues. You’re the one who knows where they lead. We have to visit whatever places these trinkets refer to, a bread crumb trail to his whereabouts.” She spins around and settles the shoebox into the backseat.
“That doesn’t make sense. What are we supposed to look for when we get to these places?”
“See? You don’t trust him. I bet he realized you wouldn’t figure it out on your own.” She smirks at me. “That’s why he included me. I’m supposed to decipher whatever info we find at these places.”
Ouch. Gavin really doesn’t think I know him well enough. I swallow hard.
I raise a brow at Miss Know-it-all. “So which one do we go to first?”
Without missing a beat, Sabrina says, “Chronologically. We have to think like Gavin.”
“Paper lantern it is then.” And I drive off in the direction of the abandoned warehouse that changed my life. And Gavin’s too.
Three Months Ago
I wouldn’t have noticed the advertisement if I hadn’t volunteered to clear off the grocery store bulletin board every week. I always thought a person had to be really desperate to place an ad here, where no one would see it, rather than on the Internet. But maybe that was the point for the ad I just pulled off. Instead of trying to catch a passerby’s eye with computer-generated borders, large fonts, and an abundance of exclamation points, this yellow post-it note hid behind the other ads. A spider web of folds creased the sheet as if the person crumpled it, but then changed their mind and stuck it up.
Band Audition. Teens only, please. Bring your own instrument.
It was the please that caught my attention, the polite begging.
A few cashiers giggled as they watched me, probably thinking I was so desperate for free stuff, I’d take whatever junk was offered here. And I usually did. Not to mention volunteering for extra tasks made me an alien, someone with an obvious agenda. I glared at them.
Their giggles increased.
I smelled the bubblegum before I heard the cow chewing. Staring at the post-it in my palm, I moved my thumb to obscure the address written beneath the text.
“Can I see that?” Amber, the nosiest of all the cashiers peered over my shoulder. She wore too much make-up, and I suspected she took a dip through the samples in the beauty department during her break. “My boyfriend plays guitar.”
The lightweight note felt heavy in my hands, as if it held some significance I couldn’t put my finger on. I shook my head.
Her eyes narrowed. “Give me that. What, are you like a groupie or something?”
I lifted my chin. “I’m going to audition.”
“You?” She popped her gum. “In a band? Janine! Come here. You have to hear this.” She waved over the red-headed cashier who continued flipping through a magazine without looking up.
“Amber!” Our manager approached with his arms crossed. “Get back to work.”
Amber glanced from the post-it to our boss. “Whatever,” she said with a defeated glaze in her eyes as she stalked back to her aisle.
When the manager retreated to the back office, the girls slammed me for my lack of talent—though they had no way of knowing—and my apparent habit of seducing guitar gods. Yeah, right. I’d never seduced anyone. Still, the barbs stung and I bit my cheek to stave off tears.
Instead of tossing the post-it into the garbage where it probably belonged, I shoved it in my pocket.
I peered down at the address and time on the sticky note to make sure I was in the right place. My pulse amped in my veins as my shaking fingers closed over my door handle. The breeze picked up pace, blowing dust devils down the road like even the dirt wanted to escape the dreariness. Several buildings lined the path; their rundown structures yearned for restoration. Dusk’s shade covered most of the decay, turning the buildings all the same murky gray hue.
Closing my eyes, I counted to three. Don’t be chicken. Don’t be chicken. Before I could talk myself out of it. I left the safety of my car and crossed the entryway into darkness, sucking back the gasps that wanted to betray me.
Debris from the building’s deterioration littered the floor, and everything smelled like moldy bread. Equal parts dread and excitement welled in my stomach as floorboards creaked under my feet. A spark of red light caught my eye, flickering in the distance where a paper lantern hung from the ceiling. It twirled on a string, a small light bulb trying its best to stay illuminated. Up ahead, another lantern guided my way. With cautious steps, I followed the glowing lanterns up the stairs like Dorothy’s yellow brick road until I found a guy sitting cross-legged on the dirty floor, fiddling with a laptop.
He looked up when I entered, his eyes widening in surprise. His hair hung in his eyes, cascading around his face in long hemp-colored strands.
My shoulders relaxed. Just a teen boy. An opportunity. Not a murderer.
He placed his computer on the ground and stood. His lanky body nearly reached the low ceiling. With my 4’10” stature, I had no concept of height; everyone was taller than me.
“Didn’t think anyone would show.” He flashed me a striking smile.<
br />
I gave him a small laugh. “You didn’t make it easy.”
“Really?” His brow furrowed and a slight hint of a frown crept on his lips.
“I just meant…” I reached up and swatted one of the lanterns hanging low from the ceiling. “Most make their advertisement flashy. Yours looked like you used the board as your personal trash can.”
“Got you here, didn’t it?” He moved from his defensive position at the far end of the room and sat about ten feet away from me. Afraid to get too close? That thought stung.
“I was curious.” I nudged a discarded sandwich wrapper with my shoe. “Besides, it takes a lot to scare me.”
“Curious about being in a band?”
“That too, but mostly about who would hold a band audition in such a strange place. Also, I think I’m the only one who reads that grocery board.” I didn’t want him to think I was weird, so I added, “I work there, you know.”
“I know. You’re a checkout girl.”
He couldn’t be lying because he had his facts right, but I’d remember someone like him. Someone so tall, with trendy hair and clothes that screamed that his mommy dressed him. Someone gorgeous in a way that wasn’t intimidating because it seemed like he had no idea. “I don’t recognize you.”
“Yeah, we’ve never gone through your line. I think your hair scares my mom.”
I reached up to touch my strands and straightened in a proud way. “It scares my mom too. That’s kind of the point.” For the last few months, I’d been dying my boring blond hair a dark black and then pouring bleach on random strands, creating a streaky, almost zebra-like appearance. I figured if everyone was going to make fun of me at school anyway, I might as well give them a target. Better this than call me a slut based on my mom’s actions and giving me a reputation I could never live up to. It was hard to be a slut when you’d never even kissed a guy.
“I’m Gavin, by the way. Gavin Tully.” He approached me with an outstretched hand, which was too polite for such an informal meet up. His hand trembled, like he didn’t want to touch me, but he still felt the need to use proper etiquette.
“Moxie.” I snubbed him to spare him the horror of making contact with me and to spare me the agony of him pulling away too fast. “And seriously, why haven’t I seen you before if you’ve seen me?” I unhooked the least flickering red lantern from its string to act as a campfire flashlight. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I avoided getting tangled in the electric wires, which were pulled taut, straining to reach the power supply.
He changed the subject. “Moxie? That’s a strange name.”
“It’s a nickname. And stop trying to change the subject, Gavin Tully.”
“I don’t go to your school or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”
There was only one high school in a thirty mile radius around here, so he either attended Milford Brook High or was some kind of archaic child predator who preferred post-its to chat rooms. “How old are you? Can I see your ID?”
“Oh. I don’t drive.”
What teenager didn’t bother to get their license when they turned sixteen?
“So,” he said, continuing on. “What kind of instru—”
“Did you just move here?” I asked. Maybe that was why I didn’t know him.
“Um…” Gavin twisted his hands together.
Avoiding such an easy question made me think he lived here. That would explain the intricate lighting. But I wouldn’t judge. This might even be considered a step above my own home situation. “You’re a bit strange. You know that? I guess the warehouse should have been my first clue.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I didn’t really have any other options within walking distance.”
Okay, so he lived elsewhere. I glanced at his laptop, realizing the reason for his evasiveness. He must go to some rich private school and didn’t want me to feel too blue-collar. “Right, the no car thing. What happened? Your chauffeur couldn’t drive you?”
“I—What?” He tilted his head to the side. After a moment, he said, “Oh, no. It’s just…my parents don’t exactly know I’m here.”
Obviously this boy was trying very hard to be secretive. But he intrigued me, so I tried another approach. “I like boys who break the rules. I think we’ll get along just fine.”
He chuckled, his lips quivering slightly. Then he caught himself, coughing as if to cover up his show of emotion.
“So do you play an instrument?” He turned around to look back at the entryway, as if I’d somehow dropped a drum set when I walked in and he hadn’t noticed.
“I sing. Though, never in public before.” I leaned back against the wall and stretched my legs out in front of me.
A question formed on his lips I didn’t want him to ask.
“But I’m not afraid or anything. I just never really had the opportunity.” Only prissy girls wearing their boyfriend’s Varsity jackets tried out for choir. Girls who were on the front lines of calling me names.
“Well, here’s your chance. Wow me with your skills.”
I cleared my throat and listened to the room for a moment, hoping it would give me a key. The faint rustle of wind whistling through the window acted as my background music. I opened my mouth and hummed a spontaneous tune.
Then I sang whatever lyrics popped into my head. Of course, the warehouse setting inspired me because what came out was about emptiness and loneliness, two things I was very well acquainted with. “Like a dream sequence I cannot fight. But it might just be my limited sight.”
I kept going. Gavin stared at me with his mouth ajar.
I squirmed in my seat, my cheeks igniting at his open mouth. Abruptly, I clamped my mouth shut, bracing myself for him to laugh. When he stayed quiet, I stood up. Blood thundered in my ears. “At least I wasn’t scared.”
“Wait!” He pushed himself off the ground and dashed for his discarded computer, then balanced it in his lap. “Try those words with this melody I have. It’s a ballad, is that all right?”
I hovered in my half crouched, half standing position. Did he really want me to stay?
He pursed his lips. “I might have something more rock and roll.”
“No, a ballad is perfect.” I resumed my position on the floor. “Play it once through first and then I’ll sing.” I raised my eyebrow, waiting for approval.
He fiddled with his keyboard until a soft melody played from the tinny speakers. The slow piano beat sparkled through the room, reminding me of twinkling stars. Other instruments I didn’t recognize joined the sound, creating something of an urban symphony. And then there were sounds that were harder to pinpoint. I thought I caught the brief hint of gushing water and the squeak of a rusty bicycle wheel mixing into his ballad.
“Found sounds?” I asked.
He nodded, surprise widening his eyes. “Sometimes digital music sounds fake.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a digital recorder. “So I always carry this. It’s amazing what sounds you can capture and then turn them into a song.”
I listened to his ballad, letting the music seep into my body. My eyes closed, and I sang a low, throaty tune that harmonized with his music. His ballad had a bluesy vibe to it, so I scatted like the jazz singers of the olden days, dragging out simple words to make them sound sexy. The voice of a phone sex operator. The voice that Krystal—my mother, though I would never give her the satisfaction of calling her that—probably used with her clients.
I lapsed back into humming while my mind replayed a memory from freshman year, one that always seemed to attack me whenever I thought about Krystal. She hadn’t been home in days. Maybe even weeks. When she finally staggered in, she took one look at my face and slapped me.
The imprint of pain still throbbed on my cheek.
“From now on, you stay out of my life and I’ll stay out of yours.” She slurred her words, losing her balance when her hand left my cheek. She grabbed the doorjamb for support and for a few seconds after, I t
old myself she was just drunk. She didn’t mean it.
As I stared at her though, I realized how hollow my conviction was.
I’d been expecting those words, wondering why it took her so long to say them. So instead of getting upset, I got tough. Krystal had ruined my life at school without ever stepping foot inside it, tore away my best friend without ever saying a word to her, and drove away my father the day after my birth. I wouldn’t let her break me too.
I was startled back to reality when Gavin’s music abruptly stopped and he shut the lid. “Wow. You’re really good.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Thanks.”
“So you want in? I mean, I know this isn’t the most ideal situation for a band, and clearly no one else showed up, but—”
“What kind of situation is this?” I asked.
“Meeting here. Instead of in public. And I only have certain hours I can sneak out.”
Sneak out. “You just said the magic words. I’m in.”
“The magic words are in public?”
He made me smile. I stood and placed my security blanket lantern on its hook. “So just for future reference, what kind of band are we? The ballad was cool and all, but I don’t think it’ll get us many gigs. What do you play?”
He pointed at the computer. “Anything.”
“No, seriously.”
He shrugged. “I play piano, but only at church. We don’t even have a keyboard at home. My computer and sneaking headphones in the middle of the night are all I have.”
Church. The idea of it was more myth than practice for me. “So you’re pretty religious then?”
“If I was, I’d feel worse about ditching my church piano lessons to come here.” He laughed. “I hate the music they make me play there. And my parents won’t let me listen to anything else, so…”
