The messy remnants of a half-grown beard and red eyes are suddenly in my face.
And I smell him.
He smells like too much liquor.
I know what that smells like.
"What are you doing?" he barks at me.
Jocelyn grabs the man's arm, and he backhands her across the cheek.
I stop breathing.
I've seen people hit before-guys hitting other guys. Just saw it happen this past week, in fact. But never have I seen someone strike with such malice, and never, ever have I seen anyone hit a girl.
He struck her on her face. That sweet, perfect face.
"What's your name?" he demands.
Everything in me wants to run. I should stand up and fight him, fight for her, but I can't. I'm taller than this guy and probably weigh the same, but the way he just slapped Jocelyn and the fire in those eyes and the smell under his breath....
He reminds me of the craziness I've seen on some cop shows, the kind of cranked idiot who drives his car into someone else's living room, then continues to bolt through the neighborhood without a single injury or clue.
"I said, `What's your name?"'
"Leave him alone," Jocelyn says.
"Are you okay?" I ask her, finally breathing, finally doing something.
"She's more than okay," the guy says with a low whisper. "But you'll never know."
He smiles at me, and I see a chipped tooth.
I'm not kidding.
This has gotta be a bad dream.
He turns and takes Jocelyn by the arm and yanks her ahead, toward the door.
She doesn't turn around.
I want to follow, but I can't.
I feel like sludge.
I want to follow, but I'm too scared.
And I don't know what I'd do if I reached her.
I can't stop thinking about her.
Sometimes drowning out the world with music helps, but not in this case. Every song I scroll to on my iPod seems to fit Jocelyn.
I wonder what happened to her after that guy pulled her out of the bookstore.
I wonder what she'll say when I see her tomorrow at school.
I wonder who he was, if he's the reason she's supposedly "spoken for."
I wonder if she'd ever go out with a guy like me.
I wonder what I'd do if I hadn't been able to bring my iPod, one of the few remnants of the past we packed up and brought with us in my mother's car.
I wonder a lot of things.
It's close to evening, and I'm exploring the woods surrounding our cabin. We're off a winding road that cuts through an endless forest. So far I haven't seen any trace of neighbors despite a couple of small cabins I've spotted along the way to ours. The driveway toward our cabin veers upward along a steep hill. Below the road the hill continues downward until it reaches the mouth of the large creek we can hear from our deck.
I'm exploring because I have nothing better to do.
Mom started drinking early today and was asleep on the couch this afternoon when I left to go outside.
Maybe that should make me sad, but I'm used to it. I wish I could take away her sadness. I know the booze sure won't.
The sunlight drips through the tall trees. It's starting to get dark.
I'm listening to the Foo Fighters and wish I could've been sixteen back when Dave Grohl was in his first band. Foo Fighters are great, but Nirvana was epic.
For a few moments I'm walking on a path that I don't even realize is a path. I figure it out and notice the way it cuts through the trees and the woods. It's an old path that hasn't been walked on for years, perhaps.
I keep following as it brings me deeper into the woods and higher up the hill.
The sunlight is fading.
I keep walking.
There are times when the trail seems to disappear, but a few minutes of searching brings me back to it.
I'm curious to see where it goes.
I probably should get back home before the blanket of night arrives. Getting lost out here could be a pain. Not dangerousno, I'd find the cabin again. It just might take me an extra hour or so.
I keep walking and reach what appears to be the top of the mountain.
And there, in the shadows of the dense woods, stands a tiny cabin with dingy windows and wild growth surrounding it. Our cabin is small, but this one-story shack is really nothing more than a room with a roof over it.
I look around but know there's no one near me.
The cabin is barely taller than me, with one window next to the door. The roof barely slopes. I walk up to it and see a dead log blocking the front door.
As I glance around, taking in my surroundings, I notice that it's gotten a lot darker. Not because of anything sinister or spooky. It's just because of the setting sun and the quickly moving clock.
Without thinking about it, I try the door. It won't budge. Three nudges don't work either, so I kick it open.
Wood slices as the rotted lock crumbles.
The door swings open, and I smell something musty.
All I see inside is darkness.
And I suddenly feel very, very cold.
I look at the bumps on my arms.
I squint and look inside. I'm a little hesitant, because I don't want some big bear coming to greet me.
I don't hear anything, so I move inside.
My eyes adjust to the cold, dim light barely making it through grimy windows. Each side of the cabin has a square window on it. It appears as though there's just one room.
I see something in the corner. A bed. It's got sheets and everything.
I walk straight into a wall of cobwebs. I brush them off my head and face and wonder where the spiders are.
There's a small stove against the opposite wall. Next to that is a cupboard. There's a table and chairs on one side of the cabin, the bed on the other.
I'm shivering-it's so cold in here-in spite of my sweatshirt and jeans.
The light is growing dimmer.
I need to come back here with a flashlight.
I walk on a creaky wood floor. Dust seems to be hovering in the air. I examine the old stove, a square black thing blanketed in rust.
As I walk toward the bed, I notice something attached to the wall next to the bed.
I get close and notice that it's some type of chain, bolted into the wall of the cabin and maybe two or three feet long. At the end of the chain is a round leather piece.
For a second I stare at it before realizing what it is.
A shackle.
And it's at the foot of the bed.
I don't want to touch it. It fills me with dread.
I stare at the wall next to the bed and see markings on the wall, almost as if they've been cut out by someone.
Or maybe clawed out by someone.
The cold dread I'm feeling is only getting worse with the lack of light.
I decide to leave, come back another day. Or maybe not ever.
Just as I walk across the center of the rickety floor, something gives way.
For a second I feel light, like I'm flying.
Or falling.
Then I feel a sharp pain and a crack, and the darkness all around me smothers me until I'm out.
The man stands in the driveway, big and tall but completely weak. His eyes say it all. They're white with defeat.
He moves toward me, and I tell him to stop.
I don't want some epic, meaningful farewell.
"Chris-" he starts to say.
But once again I tell him to stop.
"Don't do this, " he says.
I want to say the same to him but I already have, a hundred times. Don't do this to us.
The weak, blind, stupid man in the driveway claims he's my father, but he's nothing more than a living, breathing waste of an opportunity.
I want to tell him this, but I can't.
In the car an hour later, listening to my mother weep as she drives us away from the life that once was, I vow to tell that man those very word
s.
I choke on the grainy air and the memory vanishes.
My mouth tastes like dirt, and I open eyes that sting.
My back and side throb in pain. For a moment I wonder if something's broken-I know what it's like to break a bone or twobut soon discover that it's just the impact of the fall.
I'm on dirt.
Fresh dirt, it appears.
The kind that might cover a grave.
I cough and keep tasting dust and grime on my tongue. Above me is the hole I fell through, the jagged opening of the floor.
I move and feel my entire body throbbing in pain. I'm going to be sore for a long time.
Something cool blows against my face. There's a breeze coming from in front of me, not above me.
How can that be?
Even as my eyes adjust to the darkness, there's nothing to see. The darkness is rich and smooth like chocolate.
I get on my knees and then stand, feeling my side and making sure a bone isn't jutting out.
Sometimes it's hard to keep my imagination in line.
My hands feel it again ... the cold breeze blowing in front of me.
"Hello," I call out, not to see if anybody is there, but to see if there's a wall where it should be.
Just as I thought, there's an opening in the space directly across from me. I feel around and touch soil and earth. There is a gap large enough for me to walk through if I bend my head.
I hold out my hand and start walking, expecting something to block my way. Yet I keep walking.
I walk hesitantly for several minutes.
When I glance behind, I can barely make out the entrance to the walkway I'm in.
My hair brushes against dirt and roots above me. I wouldn't be able to stretch both of my arms out, this passage is so narrow.
Someone dug this out.
The question is why. The cabin looked as though it hadn't been touched for a long time. Was this underground passageway part of it?
I keep moving, feeling the air grow colder, feeling my breaths become more ragged. Perhaps it's fear, but I can't seem to catch my breath or suck in enough air.
I realize this is bad. That if something happened and the ground gave way, my mother would never see her son again.
Yet something draws me in, wanting me to see where this leads, hoping that this will produce something magical and miraculous. Or sinister and creepy.
I move onward until I hear the cackle.
That's what it sounds like. An echo of a sharp, strange laugh that seems to be coming from miles away.
Yet echoing down in this narrow passageway.
I stop and listen.
"Christopher," a voice whispers.
I turn and look behind me.
"Christopher."
The voice is low, whispered, yet sounds like it's far away and screamed at the same time.
"Christopher, come to me."
I swallow, and my mouth tastes dry, and I can feel the beads of sweat on my forehead.
I want to run, but am not sure which direction to go.
Again I think of my mother and why I shouldn't be here.
You need to stay alive to take care of her.
"Christopher," the voice says, then laughs again.
I bolt back to the place where I fell, and I scrape my arms and my face, and I finally reach the opening, and I tear through it and then see the way out above me.
For a minute I'm sure I'm stuck down here and I won't be able to get out....
Then I see the strips of metal that seem bolted into the side of the dark earth.
Those are the rungs of a ladder.
I don't hesitate as I start climbing.
These won't break.
I don't hear the voice again. Thankfully. As I get back up to the cabin, I wonder if I heard it in the first place.
Like I say, my imagination can do wonders.
I used to even believe that it could bring my parents back together.
But it can't do miracles.
Nonchalant.
That's what I'm going for in English class. Calm, relaxed, cool.
But Jocelyn and I both know I'm doing a horrible job at it.
Every time I've stared back at her-two rows away, three seats back-I see those eyes on mine.
There's no elephant in the room. It's a fox, waiting silently and watching with steady eyes.
Even at the end of the class I find myself moving slower than usual.
My hope is rewarded. I feel a tug at my shirt and hear a warm voice call out my name.
I turn toward her and nearly get trampled by a football player.
"Hey," I say.
Nonchalantly.
You're not fooling anybody.
We keep heading out of the room and reach the hallway where I see soft, seductive, sad eyes look at me.
"I'm sorry about the other day."
"Oh, no. That's fine."
The smile Jocelyn gives me is far too mature for a sixteen-year-old.
Even that smile seems to contain an air of sadness.
"That was Wade. My step-uncle. Well, that's what he calls himself, even though he hasn't technically married my aunt, whom I live with."
Every word she says makes me blush a little more. I keep wanting to interrupt her, to say it's fine, it's not my business, it's really okay, I can pack up our things and drive her to California this afternoon if she'd like.
My face feels warm.
I'm such a loser.
"As you could see, Wade is quite the winner," Jocelyn says.
«, I m just-no-it's fine."
Seriously. What is coming out of my mouth? Words, yes, but barely. A jumble of third-grade nonsense.
"I'm sorry he was so rude. Believe it or not, that was Wade on a good day."
"So you live with your aunt?"
Jocelyn smiles again, brushing that long dark hair to one side and knowing that I'm changing the subject on purpose.
"Long story. I don't know which is the bigger nightmare: my parents' sad story or my aunt and her love life."
"My parents are divorced."
"Mine passed away. A long time ago."
"Wow, I didn't mean-"
"I didn't say that for sympathy. Really, it's fine. Aunt Helen-you know, you'd think adults might think things through before subjecting kids to a life of utter misery, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah."
"I better get going, but look-find us at lunchtime, okay? Do you mind?"
"Well, I was planning on having lunch with Gus and his friends, but maybe I can change my mind."
She laughs. "That's funny, but don't go there."
"What do you mean?"
"Mr. Meiners was right, Chris. You don't want to mess with him."
I'm about to reply, just to keep the conversation going, when Poe, dressed in all black as if it's Halloween, comes out of nowhere and puts an arm around Jocelyn and scoops her away.
"See you later," Jocelyn calls out.
Poe doesn't even say hi, which I'm already used to, having known her for almost a week now. The only time she seemed reasonably excited to be around me was that first day. Since then, she's been indifferent. Perhaps she's decided that I'm not as cool or unique as she thought. Or maybe it's just Poe. Who knows.
I want to ask what the deal is with Gus and why everybody is so afraid of him.
It makes me curious. And a little more defiant.
Gus doesn't scare me.
The only thing around here that scares me are those hazel eyes.
"Over here, Chris!"
Rachel's voice carries over the din of the cafeteria, where the scent of corn dogs and pizza hovers. I see messy blonde hair and animated eyes and a hand flapping, motioning me to come over. It feels like everyone is watching as I take my lunch over to where the three girls are sitting.
Poe is talking to Jocelyn and doesn't even stop as I sit down.
"Glad you found us," Jocelyn says.
"Yeah, it was really hard."
> "How's your second week going?" Rachel asks as she pulls her chair closer to mine.
I can't help notice all the jewelry adorning Rachel-bracelets and necklaces and earrings. Her hair is curly in a way that looks more bed head than intentional. She's got a round face and a rosy nose that makes me think she'd be good as Santa Claus's daughter.
"Fine so far. No drama."
"Just give it time," Poe says in a world-weary voice. "There'll be drama, just not any kind that's interesting."
"Just ignore her," Rachel says. "The witching hour is almost here."
"Shut up."
Rachel ignores her. "She's just angry because her date is taken for the Halloween dance."
"Halloween dance?" I ask.
"Oh, yeah. They really celebrate Halloween around here. It's like some big festival. I'm just waiting for the farmers to bring their pigs in to sacrifice." Rachel giggles and looks at Poe. "For this dance, the girls ask the guys. And Poe had her eyes set on this little freshman boy."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did. You told us last week that you were thinking about asking him."
"Thinking is not asking," Poe says.
"She was going to until we learned that he was already asked."
As Rachel and Poe argue, I glance over at Jocelyn. She rolls her eyes and smiles and continues playing with some grapes in a plastic bag.
"So who are you going to ask then, huh?" Rachel eventually says.
"Maybe I'll be like Jocelyn and not go."
"What am I supposed to do, then?"
"Have fun with Lee."
"He's a nice guy," Rachel says.
Poe looks at me. "I mean, come on. Lee? Only in the South, huh? The war is over, and you lost. Get real."
"If you think she's pleasant now, wait until there's a full moon." Rachel makes a baying sound.
I can't help but laugh.
I also can't help but notice all the eyes watching me.
A part of me wants to stand up and ask what everybody's problem is. But listening to the girls talk-especially Rachel, who doesn't seem to care about being loud-I can see why people are staring.
But I wonder if there's more to it.
I find myself more and more glad this trio decided to befriend me.
"Maybe someone will ask the new boy here," Poe says.
I smile and avoid looking at Jocelyn. It would be too obvious. Too cliched. Too much to look in her eyes.
She already knows.
Solitary: A Novel Page 3
