"The thing is ... I don't ... I didn't feel like I was dreaming. I know I was. It's just ... it felt so real."
"What?"
Mom looks at me, then shakes her head.
"I don't know. It's nothing."
But the look on her pale face says something else. Maybe she's not lying. Maybe she just doesn't want to say because she thinks it might scare me.
Or make me scared about her sanity.
My mom's not crazy. In fact, she's the sanest person I've met in this insane world.
My dad's the crazy one. Crazy for not loving her, crazy for leaving her, crazy for letting the divorce happen.
I don't want to talk about him or them. I want to talk about her.
Tara Buckley is a cool name if you ask me. I like Chris, but I love Tara. It sounds both classic Southern and also modern and hip. Buckley is my dad's last name, but Mom is going to keep it. She lost enough in the divorce. She decided she'd stick with the name she'd carried around for eighteen years.
Mom is thirty-nine but looks ten years younger. If I had a dollar for every time someone has expressed disbelief that she is my mom ... well, I'd be a rich kid. Which at this point in life would be nice. I think she's beautiful.
She used to complain about her upcoming birthday-the big four-oh-until she had other, more pressing things to think about. Sitting across the table from her, I see dark lines under her eyes. They're new. So is the lack of spark in her green eyes. And how thin she looks. And how faded her blonde hair seems.
I notice all these things now under the cold light above our little table. The first thing that I'd like to replace about this tiny little cabin are the lights. They seem like they'd be more appropriate in a dank prison than in a cabin nestled in the mountains of North Carolina.
The cabin is small. It doesn't have the dining room over here and the family room over there and all that. Basically, when you enter the cabin, you have the living room and dining room and kitchen all to one side. It's small. Cozy, my mother said. It had been large enough for Uncle Robert, but it was never meant to be a place a family lived in.
But it was the first, and only, place she thought of going after the divorce was final.
Mom grew up around Solitary, though she says she doesn't really remember it much as a kid. I wonder why she would want to come back to a place this remote, especially if she doesn't remember much about it. But she said that it's the only place where she still has family.
If you can really call them that.
The only real family member is Robert, and he's been missing for over a year. Sometimes I think she came back to find her brother and take him away from Solitary. Then again, I think a lot of things.
My mom is strong. At least, so far she's been strong. I know that deep down, underneath it all, she's sad. But sadness gets you nowhere in life. I think she would say that if forced to.
Sitting across from my mom, the lady known as Tara Buckley who has come to live in a cabin her brother abandoned for some unknown reason, I wonder if there will be more nightmares.
And I wonder what sort of visions brought out the screams.
Have you ever seen someone swatted? Not struck in anger or patted in amusement, but literally swatted like a fly?
I'm in the hallway and still don't believe what I just saw.
It's Friday afternoon, and the hallways of Harrington High feel a little more energetic than usual. I think it's because everybody knows they're about to be let out, to have a nice two-day break. The thought of being away from this school is promising, but what kind of weekend awaits me is a whole other issue.
I'm pondering this as I see a pack of four guys walk up behind a small kid. They're wearing smiles on their ugly faces. One of them takes the palm of his hand and bats it across the kid's head, sending him sprawling onto the floor.
They just keep walking by.
Meanwhile, I stop.
And then I resume walking, toward the four big guys, toward the kid now picking up the pieces to his glasses.
As I'm about to help the kid, the swatter turns and blocks my way.
"Got a problem?"
Man, is this kid ugly. A big meaty face with large pork chops for cheeks stares me down. His eyes look like something in a frying pan; his forehead is dotted with sweat; his AC/DC T-shirt is far too much of a cliche.
"That explains it," I say, moving past him and bending over to help the kid.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, a strong hand that pulls me back.
"Why don't you just leave now?"
Something in me just, I don't know ... ignites. Or explodes.
"You know what I think?" I say.
"I don't care what you think."
"I think that if I was born with such a homely face, I'd probably go around hitting people too."
The guy blinks several times, as if he's trying to compute what I just said.
I probably should try to figure it out myself, but instead my mouth keeps rambling. "What's the point? There are four of you. And do you even know him?"
"That's Newt," says a tall, skinny kid in the background. The rest of them laugh.
I turn and really see Newt for the first time. Something on his face startles me-did that cut on his cheek just happen? Then I realize that it's not a cut. It's a long, deep, bright red scar.
"Hey. I'm Chris."
"You're the new kid," says the big sweaty guy, hovering in my face.
"Are you the school bully? I've been waiting for one to pop up."
"Man, you don't even want to begin to mess with me."
"No, to be honest, I don't. Because you're bigger than me and sure, you could probably beat me up. But I can run faster than you because it looks like you've been wolfing down a little too much fast food."
Turns out Newt isn't the only one red faced. This guy is beet red.
There's probably a fifty-fifty chance I get decked, but for some reason, the big red-faced guy plays it cool.
It's about the guys behind him, about saving face.
Plus, I'm new. For all he knows, I'm a cage-fighting champion. He doesn't know that I've been in two fights in my life, and both of those I lost. Bad.
I help Newt to his feet. He's going to need a new pair of glasses.
Newt looks about ten, he's nerdy, and I can't help but feel sorry for him.
I can't stand bullies. I can stand a lot of things in life, but not people that pick on the helpless. Sad to say, Newt really fits that category.
Red-faced Ugly Boy still glares at me. "I'm going to tell you this one time and one time only: You come across my path again and I'll kill you."
"Fine. Let's make an agreement. I see you, and I walk the other way. I'll avoid you like the plague. But only if you don't go around acting like some hideous high school stereotype."
There the blinking goes again. I can see his brain not computing.
"I'm serious."
"Yeah, good," I say. "I am too."
"You have no idea where you are or who I am, do you?"
"Well, let's see.This is the backside of nowhere. So yes, I have an idea of where I am. And you're what crawled out of that backside."
This does it. The big guy lunges at me.
At that moment Mr. Meiners, my history teacher, walks past and breaks up the one-sided fight. He ends up taking a fist alongside his face before settling the guy down.
"Gus, you get out of here. Now! Boys, break's over."
Mr. Meiners has fire in his eyes and his voice. It looks as though he and Gus have butted heads before.
Gus looks at me and grits his teeth and starts walking away.
Where is he going? Is he just walking away after hitting a teacher?
And is his name really Gus? I mean, come on.
The other boys leave me with Mr. Meiners and a paralyzed Newt.
"Newt, you okay?" the teacher asks. "What happened?"
"Yes, sure, I'm fine." Newt has a high-pitched voice that doesn't fit his obstinate tone.
<
br /> "They were picking on him," I say.
"I'm fine," Newt says again. "Really fine."
"Look, Chris. You don't want to get involved with Gus."
"I wasn't trying to."
"No, I mean you don't want to get involved with him, okay? I'm serious." Mr. Meiners sighs and rubs his bearded jaw. "He's got a pretty good right hook."
"Who is he? Where I come from, kids don't get away with slugging their teachers."
"Yeah, well, that's where you come from. Gus isn't the one I'm afraid of."
I wait for more, but more doesn't come.
"You seem like a good kid," Mr. Meiners says. "Guys like Gus aren't."
I nod.
"Be careful, okay? You too, Newt."
Mr. Meiners walks away.
I'm left with the short kid with the scar on his cheek.
"So is this a regular thing? Gus giving you a hard time?"
"He means it," Newt says, looking at me with strange, wandering eyes. "About Gus."
"What about Gus?"
"It's his father."
"And who is his father?" I ask.
"Ichor Staunch."
It sounds like ick and cur put together.
"Ichor what? Is that even a name?"
"He owns most of the town."
"Does that include the teachers?"
"You don't want to mess with him." Newt is playing with his glasses.
"His last name sounds like Stench. Kinda fitting, huh?"
"I guess I should thank you, but I don't want to thank you for being stupid."
I look at Newt. "What year are you?"
"I'm a sophomore. I know I look younger."
"Why was I being stupid?"
"Because if you're going to mess with someone, you should first know who you're messing with."
"I've seen a hundred guys like Stenchy-boy before."
"No, you haven't. Not like Gus."
"I'll avoid him, no problem."
"Good. Because as much as I'd like to return the favor, I don't believe there's anything I-or anybody-could do for you."
With that ominous little warning, Newt walks away.
I can't help but laugh, shaking my head.
And as I start to walk to my class, I see a figure in the doorway.
Jocelyn.
For a moment I stop, seeing the look on her face.
"Hi," I say.
Lame.
She looks at me and smiles, as if she's about to say something. But then she walks away.
I'm left there in the hallway, stumped, confused, but feeling like something just happened here.
I just can't really explain what.
The beast lies in the middle of the street as if he's guarding the town.
I slow my bike down to a halt. It's a German shepherd, mostly black, with cold, menacing eyes. They bear down on me, daring me to pass.
I glance around for an owner, but there's nobody around.
A car coming the other way slows down and swerves around the dog, as if he has the right-of-way. The driver glares at me like I'm doing something wrong.
I pedal my bike toward the sidewalk, and then I hear it: the deep gargle of a growl.
The German shepherd stands.
Another car passes and honks at the dog, but the big brute appears to be more annoyed than anything else.
I get off the bike and try to roll it onto the sidewalk next to a small hardware store.
This time the dog unleashes a bark that is more like a sergeant shouting out an order.
He really doesn't want me around here.
I'm starting to reconsider my trip into Solitary and seriously thinking about turning the bike around.
Until I see the man.
A big guy-hulking, swaggering-with reddish hair and a grayish red beard walks out of the woods and across the tracks on my left toward the street. I wonder if the long trench coat he's wearing came from a thrift store selling vintage items from the 1930s.
He calls out in a voice even scarier than the dog's, and instantly the German shepherd rushes to the man's side.
Two pairs of grim eyes now look at me as if I did something wrong. I wave at the guy, then feel stupid for doing so and continue on through the main section of downtown Solitary.
I wonder again why my mom chose to come back to Solitary.
There's nothing here to come back to.
The first time we drove through downtown she seemed to barely remember it. She left when she was ten years old, the year her mother died. Her father took Mom and her older brother and headed north.
North proved to be tough for the family. Very tough indeed.
Strange that Solitary didn't mean enough for her to come and visit-not even once-yet it's the place she moves back to.
Sometimes I don't think she wanted to move so much as to hide. And this is the place to do it.
So far I haven't seen anything I recognize. No McDonald's or Subway or Starbucks or chain of any kind. Not just downtown, but anywhere.
Surely North Carolina has chains somewhere. Give me a big, fat Wal-Mart and a Whopper, and I'll be a little less nervous.
The downtown area consists of one block. A diner, a sheriffs office that looks like the one off that show with the kid named Opie, a place to get your hair cut (back home we call those salons, but this is no salon), a bookstore, a bank, a pub. A few other shops. They're all in various brick buildings, some beige, all polished and pristine. They look old and vintage, classy and clean.
Yet the place also looks abandoned.
Other than the shady character I just saw retrieving his dog, I don't see anybody else.
It's the middle of a Saturday. Where is everyone?
Our house is on the outskirts of Solitary, about ten minutes south of town, farther up in the rolling hills. The closest stores-gas, grocery, you name it-are all right here. On the gravel road our house stands on there's nothing except dense woods and a gushing creek cut down the hill that drops off from the main road.
Just as I lock up my bike and stand back up, I see her.
Jocelyn opens the door and steps inside the bookstore.
And I begin to think that I might be the luckiest soul alive.
"You don't have to hide," the voice says. "I saw you when you walked in."
I'm standing in front of a wall of books labeled SELF HELP. I turn and see Jocelyn walking over to another aisle in the store.
I decide it's impossible to pretend I just somehow wandered into The Corner Nook, a bookstore and cafe on the edge of the intersection off Main Street. I'm not looking for a book, and I don't drink coffee.
I find Jocelyn browsing through a shelf of books. A dark waterfall of hair seems to rush over the back of her T-shirt. Then I notice something startling.
A round, colorful tattoo on her inner forearm.
"Much of a reader?" she asks without looking at me.
"Not really."
"That's a shame."
"Looking for a book?"
"Either that or I'm deep in thought staring at the shelf in front of me."
I feel pretty stupid. For the second time this girl makes me feel like an idiot.
"I come in here all the time trying to find new authors," she says. "Sometimes I'm lucky."
She's holding a book in her hand, but I can't see the cover.
"So what'd you find?"
"Nothing."
"C'mon. What is it?"
Jocelyn looks at me, annoyed and unwilling to continue to play a game. "There. Happy now?"
It's a paperback novel with two figures embracing in what looks like more than just a kiss. It's called Passionate Moon.
I can't help but laugh.
"Looks like deep literature."
"I like all types of books, but I'm willing to admit it. I like romance. Even the slightly smutty kind."
"Oh, just slightly smutty."
"Did you come in here to make fun of me?"
Actually, I came in here to admire you.
/>
"No."
"It's Chris, right?"
I nod.
"English-and-history Chris."
I nod again. Her hazel eyes seem to glow as she stares at me.
"Have a good first week?"
"Yeah. Most of my classes are pretty good. Well, English and history are."
"Nice."
"What?"
She goes back to looking at books.
"What'd I say?"
"Nice line."
"It wasn't a line-I was just being honest."
"Honesty can get you in trouble," she says.
"Yeah, I guess. But you never know if you'll have another opportunity to say the things you think but might not want to share."
Okay, I don't know where that came from. Getting past the initial awkwardness of standing here in front of Jocelyn, I feel more myself. But even I don't understand where that line came from.
It's like meeting someone famous. You get all tense and worked up and want to say the right thing even though there really is no such thing as the right thing....
Something in her face changes.
Her expression softens.
Just for a split moment.
But I see it. And it's something she can't erase or take back.
She turns her back, looking at more books.
And suddenly I feel stupid.
My embarrassment ends quickly with a ragged "Joss" yelled across the bookstore.
I turn and see a scraggly guy with watery eyes and dark bags underneath them. He's got a terrible drawl, like he's faking it. That's how bad it sounds.
I see skin on a tattooed arm that almost looks like it's falling off the bone. A hand is waving at her like a dog.
The guy curses and calls out for her again. I look at her and see yet another face.
First there was confident, beautiful Jocelyn, the one who strides around the school hallways ignoring everybody else. Then, for that brief second, there was soft Jocelyn. Friendly. Nice.
And now there's scared Jocelyn.
I see the color drain from her beautiful face.
"Excuse me," she says as she hands me the romance novel and rushes past to the front of the store.
The skinny guy, at least in his thirties or maybe early forties, wearing jeans and dirty boots and an equally dirty T-shirt, starts walking toward me, ignoring Jocelyn. She speaks to him, but he keeps coming my way.
Solitary: A Novel Page 2
