I’m almost shaking from the inner conflict. I don’t want Geoff to know about it.
Geoff. Not Dad. My father already has a hold on me, and I’ve had this letter in my possession for fifteen minutes. Now that I’ve lied, I have to keep lying.
I do not like this feeling.
I can’t look at Geoff. “I said I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I’m fine.” My voice is rough, almost a growl. “Okay?”
“Did something happen?”
“No.” My fingernails dig into my palms, and my heart races like it needs to outrun something.
“Rev—”
I finally snap my head up. “Would you just leave it?”
He waits a beat, and my anger hangs in the air between us for the longest moment. “Why don’t you come inside and talk to me?” His voice is low and mellow. Geoff is the master of chill. It makes him a good foster parent. It makes him a good dad. “It’s getting late. I was going to start dinner so we can eat when Mom gets home.”
“I’m going to Declan’s.”
I expect him to tell me no. I don’t realize how badly I want him to tell me no until he says, “All right.”
It’s not a rejection, but somehow it feels like one. All of a sudden I want to beg for forgiveness. For the lying, for the anger, for doing something that protects my father.
But I can’t. I pull up my hood and let hair fall across my face. My voice is penitent. “I’ll clean this up first.”
He’s silent for a long moment, and I fish the bowl off the ground, scooping the burned pieces into it, keeping my foot over the letter. My movements are tight and jerky. I still can’t look at him.
“Thanks,” he says. “Not too late, okay?”
“Yeah.” I fidget with the bowl and keep my eyes on the edge of it. A breeze teases at the hood of my sweatshirt, but it keeps me hidden. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t answer, and a nervous tension settles across my shoulders. I chance a glance up. He’s not on the porch.
Then I hear the sliding glass door. He didn’t even hear me. He’s gone back inside, leaving me out here with the mess.
My best friend isn’t home.
I’ve been waiting in the shadows like a criminal, sitting on the blacktop at the back corner of Declan’s driveway. The chill in the air wasn’t bad before, but it’s soaked into my bones now, freezing me in place.
Light shines through his kitchen windows, and I can see his mother and stepfather moving around inside. They’d invite me in if they knew I was out here, but my brain is too heavy with panic and indecision. I fish out my phone to send him a text.
Rev: Are you working?
Dec: No. Movies with J. What’s up?
“J” is Juliet, his girlfriend. I stare at my phone and focus on breathing. I hadn’t realized how much I was counting on Declan being here until he wasn’t.
I uncurl from the shadows and start walking. I can’t go home, but I can’t stay here unless I want to freeze to death. I should go to the gym, but they teach beginners on Thursdays, and if I rolled with someone tonight, they might not walk away from it.
I must be silent too long, because Declan sends another message.
Dec: Are you OK?
My fingers hesitate over the face of the phone. I’d been ready to tell him about the letter, but now … it doesn’t feel right.
I force my fingers to work.
Rev: All OK. Have fun. Hi to J.
My phone rings almost immediately. It’s him.
“What’s going on?” he says in a rushed whisper. I wonder if he’s actually calling me from inside the movie theater.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” My voice is rough and low.
He’s quiet for a long moment. Declan knows every secret I have. It’s not like me to be reticent.
“Do you need me to come home?” he says quietly.
His tone reminds me of Geoff. Like I need to be handled. Maybe I do, but I don’t like the reminder.
I force my voice to be easy. I get halfway there. “Yeah, will you pick me up a pint of chocolate ice cream, too? Dude. No. You’re at a movie.”
“Rev.”
“It’s nothing, Dec.”
“Something happened.”
“Nothing happened. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I push the button to end the call.
Something is definitely wrong with me.
My cell phone buzzes almost immediately.
Dec: What is up with you?
My father sent me a letter and I don’t know what to do.
I can’t write that. Even thinking it feels weak and immature. I have a purple belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, but I can’t deal with three lines of chicken-scratch on a piece of paper that showed up in the mailbox.
Rev: It’s nothing. I’m fine. Sorry to bother you.
He doesn’t write back. Maybe he’s pissed. Or maybe I am.
Good. I don’t even know why that makes me happy.
I lift my phone again. I start a new e-mail. Add my father’s e-mail address.
I type Leave me alone in the subject line.
I don’t type a message.
I just press Send.
And then I walk, letting the darkness swallow me up.
THREE
Emma
The night air is crisp, just a hair too cold to be perfect. If we’re lucky, spring is around the corner. Texas trots along beside me, tail gently wagging. We’ve been walking forever. I should be enjoying the peace and quiet and fresh air, but instead, I’m replaying the interaction with Nightmare.
I’ll keep my promise to shove something in there.
She can’t game.
You suck.
My eyes grow hot again, and I’m not ready for it. I give a hitching breath before I get it together.
My phone chimes with an e-mail. I loop the leash around one wrist and fish my phone out of my pocket.
It’s a message via 5Core. From Ethan.
Thursday, March 15 6:46 p.m.
From: Ethan_717
To: Azure M
Hey, here’s the screenshot I promised.
Also, that guy was an ass. I booted him. I’m really sorry. Message me if you get back on.
The message chases away my tears. I smile.
I pull up the screenshot Ethan sent.
At first it takes a moment to see what I’m looking at, but when I figure it out, I giggle. His burly hero character is bisected by the slope of a mountain, and one sword-heavy arm is lifted in the generic /wave/ command. In the image, he looks like he’s waving for help.
I’ve come to the corner by St. Patrick’s Catholic Church, and there’s a huge open stretch of grass in front of the parking lot. When I was a kid, we used to come to Mass here as a family, until one day Mom and Dad stopped bothering. It seems like an extra kick in the teeth that we let the dog crap on their lawn. I bring bags. Does that count?
The street is a well of silence, so I stop under the streetlight to let Texas off the leash to do her thing. While I’m waiting, I tap out a reply.
Emma: Thx. I’ll fix it when I get back from walking the dog. Around 9?
He must be online now, because his message comes back almost instantly.
Ethan: 9 is good. No d-bags this time.
I smile at the face of the phone. “Come on, Tex. We’ve got a date.”
Texas doesn’t come.
I lift my head. The field is empty.
I look around. The street is empty. A faint light glows from inside the church.
A breeze rushes through the trees, sliding under my jacket to make me shiver. The air smells like rain might not be far off.
I listen for Texy’s dog tags to jingle. Nothing.
“Tex!” I call. “Texy! Come!”
How could I lose a nine-year-old dog in less than thirty seconds?
Get away from that technology.
Mom is going to kill me.
Then I hear it, the faint jingle o
f dog tags in the distance. She must have gone around the corner of the building. I break into a jog and spot her down by the back of the church, under the stained glass windows. It’s nearly pitch-black out here, but she looks like she’s eating something.
OMG. If she’s found a dead animal, I am going to throw up.
“Texas!” I shout, sprinting in the darkness. “Tex. Get away from that!”
“She’s okay,” says a male voice. “I gave it to her.”
I give a short scream and skid in the grass, coming down hard.
“I’m sorry,” the guy says, and his voice is quiet. Now I see him, a dark huddled shape beside the church wall. He’s wearing dark jeans and a hoodie, and the hood is large enough to put his entire face in darkness. I feel like I’m talking to a Sith lord.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you saw me.”
I scramble and somehow manage to find my feet. My phone went somewhere in the grass, and I have nothing with which to defend myself.
I can’t believe I’m worried about my phone.
“Who are you?” I demand breathlessly. “What are you doing to my dog?”
“Nothing! They’re chicken nuggets.”
To the guy’s credit, Texy looks thrilled. Her tail is wagging, and she looks up at me, chomping happily.
My pulse isn’t ready to take him at his word. “So you’re just randomly sitting beside a church eating chicken nuggets?”
“Yes. Well, the random sitting. Your dog is eating.” His voice is dry and quiet. He hasn’t moved.
I swallow my heartbeat. “Those aren’t laced with rat poison or something, are they?”
“Of course not.” He sounds offended.
“What are you doing here?”
“I like it here.”
“A good place to bury a body?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Texas finishes her nuggets and goes to him, nosing at his empty hands. Traitor dog. He rubs her behind her ears and she flops down next to him. Something is familiar about him, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I lean in a bit. “Do I … do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.” The way he says it is almost self-deprecating. “But maybe. Do you go to Hamilton?”
“Yeah. You?”
“I’m a senior.”
He’s a year ahead of me. I study his shadowed form.
And then I have it. I don’t know what his name is, but I know who he is. The hoodie should have been an immediate giveaway, because he’s always wearing them. I’ve heard kids call him the Grim Reaper, but I’m not sure if he knows that. He doesn’t have a dangerous reputation, just one of freakish interest. I don’t really know him, but I’m aware of him, the way outcasts are always aware of each other.
I completely realign my immediate fear and start to think of other reasons a teenager might be sitting in the darkness.
“Are you okay?” I say.
He shakes his head. “No.”
He says the word so simply, without much emotion, that it takes me a moment to process that he said no. His hands are buried in Texy’s fur, and she’s leaning into him.
I glance at my phone lying in the grass. “Do you want me to call someone?”
“I don’t think so.”
I sit down in the grass. It’s cold and almost damp. “Did something happen to you?” I ask quietly.
He hesitates. “That’s kind of a loaded question.”
It is? “Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone?”
“I’m sure.”
We sit there in silence for a while. Texy rests her head in his lap, her neck under his arm. His hand remains buried in her fur, until she begins to look like a life preserver, and he’s clinging for dear life.
Eventually, he looks up at me. I’m not sure how I can tell—the hood only moves a few inches. “Do you believe in God?”
My night could seriously not be more surreal. I wet my lips and answer honestly. “I don’t know.”
He doesn’t challenge me, which I was worried about. “There’s this verse I like,” he says. “ ‘The one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.’ ”
My eyes narrow. “Are you quoting the Bible?”
“Yes.” He says this like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You know what I like about it? I like how it makes doubt seem inevitable. It’s okay to be unsure.”
I blink and let that sink in. This should be off-putting, but somehow it’s not. It feels like he’s sharing a piece of himself.
I wish I knew his name.
“I like that, too,” I say.
He says nothing for the longest moment, but I can feel him evaluating me. I stare back at him—well, at where I think his eyes are. I’ve got nothing to hide.
“Did you figure out how you know me?” he says.
“I’ve seen you around school.”
“Do you know anything about me?”
The question feels heavier than it should be, which tells me there’s a lot more to his story than the fact that he wears hoodies. “So far, all I know is that you like to sit beside churches and quote the Bible,” I say. “And I’ve learned that in the last two minutes.”
He gives a soft laugh that carries no humor.
“Why did you ask if I believe in God?” I ask.
He grimaces and looks away. “I forget how much of a freak I sound like when I say things like that.”
“You don’t sound like a freak.”
He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I got this letter in the mail, and I was sitting here trying to figure out what to do.”
He doesn’t extend the letter toward me, and I wait for him to say more. When he doesn’t, I say, “Do you want to share?”
He hesitates, then holds it out. I unfold the creased paper, and dark flakes drift off into the grass. I read the three short lines and try to figure out why they’re upsetting.
I glance back at him. “Someone sent you a burned letter?”
“I did that. The burning.”
I wet my lips. “Why?”
“Because that letter is from my father.” A pause. “I haven’t seen him in ten years.” Another pause, a heavier one. “For reasons.”
“Reasons,” I echo. I study him, trying to identify the emotion I hear in his voice. Trying to figure out what would inspire someone to burn a letter after not seeing someone for ten years. At first I thought it might be anger, because there’s a thread of that in his voice, but it’s not.
When I figure it out, I’m surprised. “You’re afraid,” I whisper.
He flinches—but doesn’t correct me. The fingers brushing through Texy’s fur are tight, almost white-knuckled.
I consider my hypercritical mother, my laid-back father. We’ve argued, but I’ve never been afraid of them.
For reasons.
Abruptly, he unfolds from the ground. He’s bigger than I expected, tall and lean with broad shoulders. He moves like a ninja, all silent, fluid motion.
Looking at him now, I can’t imagine him being afraid of anything.
But then he says, “I need to go home.”
He sounds a little spooked, so I’m surprised when he puts out a hand to help me up. He’s strong. His grip makes me feel weightless.
Once I’m on my feet, he doesn’t move. Light from somewhere catches his eyes and makes them glint under the hood. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For seeing me.” Then he turns, jogs across the street, and disappears into the darkness beyond.
FOUR
Rev
Thursday, March 15 7:02:08 p.m.
FROM: Robert Ellis
TO: Rev Fletcher
SUBJECT: RE: Leave me alone
Where did you come up with “Rev Fletcher”?
Regardless, I’m glad to hear from you. If you
wanted me to leave you alone, you wouldn’t have sent me an e-mail at all.
He’s right, of course.
You’re afraid.
She’s right, too. This e-mail seems to double down on the fear.
I can’t believe I showed her the letter. I’m halfway home before I realize I never asked her name. She goes to Hamilton, but I don’t even know what grade she’s in.
Not like it matters. I’ve long since abandoned any hope of a relationship with a girl.
I keep thinking of her eyes. The way she saw right through the anger and uncertainty and pinned me down with two words.
You’re afraid.
And then I proved it by running.
I am such an idiot.
My phone chimes with a text. It’s Kristin.
I wince. It’s Mom.
I expect her to be checking up on me, because I’m sure Dad told her I was playing the role of petulant teenager after school. To my surprise, she’s not. Well, not really.
Mom: Are you coming home soon? We’ve got an emergency placement. I’m getting things ready now.
I stop in the middle of the street.
An emergency placement means a kid needs immediate foster care. Geoff and Kristin are certified for special needs infants and toddlers, so we get a lot of those. Some kids stay for short periods of time—maybe the parents were in a car crash, or there was a medical emergency, and it takes time to work out the legalities of who should take custody. Some kids stay longer—like if the mother has been arrested or is in rehab. The last baby we had stayed for nine months. The spare room has been vacant for less than a week—but it never stays empty long.
Normally, I’d rush home to help.
Tonight, my twisted emotions are in the way. I keep worrying about my father, wondering when something is going to snap inside me. Wondering when I’m going to turn vicious and cruel, just like he did.
I want to text Declan to see if I can crash there, but our last text exchange sits on the screen, making my insides twist. I can’t explain myself without talking about my father. I’m not ready for that. He wouldn’t mean any harm, but it’s his personality. Declan ignites. I extinguish.
I’m probably not being fair to him. Everything seems upside down.
Maybe I’m overreacting. I can go home. I can sit on the couch and make faces at a baby.
I can forget about my father for a little bit.
More Than We Can Tell Page 2
