“I used to, but it made my mom so much worse afterward, and it didn’t help me at all. And as Chloe got older, I mean, it’s her birthday, so it feels twisted to make the day so dark for her. She didn’t even know him, which is…just…sad. Half the people here still go—they all lost somebody or knew someone who was hurt. It wasn’t just my dad.” He waved his hands around at the restaurant staff who weren’t at all busy, but who continued to show up knowing the tips weren’t flowing in. Vera didn’t lose anyone that day, and she felt guilty about that. They all grieved something so specific, yet her world was spared. “Those memorials, everyone’s all smiling and singing, but their eyes, it’s like they’re blank.” He shivered.
“It’s called walking depression.” Vera picked at another splinter on the table, not wanting to sound like a premed know-it-all, but she did work at a hospital. She wanted to specialize in psychiatry one day. “They go about their lives to ‘do it for the team’—or the town, in this case—but inside, they’re counting the seconds until they can go home and pull the covers over their heads.”
“God, isn’t that everybody?” Maxwell huffed. He smiled like he was kidding, but it didn’t sound like he was.
No, Maxwell, it’s not. Vera’s chest ached for him. “It sounds like your mom had gotten a little better. She’s been sober a while?”
“Four years. The car accident was rock bottom. And counseling worked. Then she dove into self-help.” He picked at a packet of sugar with a chewed nail, looking uncomfortable. “She was in TSC. You know them? She’s got the yellow hat and everything.”
“I’ve been seeing them everywhere lately. Some of my coworkers are into it.” She thought about the books popping up in janitor carts and on reception desks. “I hear it’s expensive.”
“Yeah, I freaked. I mean, the restaurant’s not exactly rolling in cash. But my mom was able to renegotiate our debt and practically saved the place. She said it was all because of the almighty Sunshine Crew. They taught her the ‘communication and assertiveness skills’ she needed to make it happen.” He sounded like a phony sales pitch as he smirked condescendingly.
“What do you think really happened?”
“I think my dad was a lifelong customer of the bank, and he graduated from high school with the new manager. But whatever, if my mom wants to credit TSC, fine. Either way, the place got back in the black, and the group made her happy.”
His lips pursed as his heavy gaze moved toward the ocean. Vera wrung her hands, wanting to touch him, comfort him. Kids their age shouldn’t have lives this tragic or problems this massive.
“You wanna talk about last night?” she asked, almost hating to bring it up.
“I’m not sure where to begin.” Maxwell flicked his gaze her way, his eyes intense and the color jarring—pale wet sand with rims dark and stormy. Vera’s cheeks flushed.
Then he drew a long breath and told her about the unsettling smell of lilies and his sister leaving their mother chocolate. It wasn’t until he recited the words It is through suffering that we reach a pure state of being and Death is just sleep that Vera’s stomach sank. Those were Mr. Gonzalez’s words. Again.
“Did you find flowers in her room? The source of the smell?” she asked.
“I checked this morning, and there were no flowers. At all. But I swear I could still smell lilies. I’m not making this up. I hate that scent. It reminds me so much of my dad, and the pollen makes me gag.” He clucked his tongue. “That stench was there.”
Vera smelled something similar in Mr. Gonzalez’s room, only it didn’t make sense.
“You wanna know what my parents would say?” she asked rhetorically as Maxwell nodded. “Demons do emit smells. I’ve heard them talk about it a lot. But those odors are horrid, sulfuric, the essence of evil mixed with rotten fish and baby diapers. Demons don’t smell like fresh-baked cookies or wildflowers.”
“But they could. Maybe you just haven’t met this demon.”
Actually, Vera hadn’t met any demons. “If you think what you went through seven years ago was bad, if you think your mom’s addiction was bad, then you have no idea what my parents’ work looks like. It’s Hell—not metaphorical, not in the dramatic sense, but actual, literal Hell.”
Maxwell grunted. “I’m already living in Hell.” His gaze held the same broken cast as the crowd of mourners he described at the memorials. This was so different from the role of the big man on campus that he played at school; it was as if he were a weary method actor unable to keep up the ruse anymore.
“When my dad died, it wasn’t just a hole in our house, it was a black hole that swallowed everything—the restaurant, our livelihood, our activities. I hate basketball now. I hate driving anywhere near that site. I hate when other people talk about the deaths in their families, because I find myself comparing our losses. How sick is that? And I know I sound ridiculous, but I also know what’s happening in my house right now. I’m not asking you to be your parents. I’m just asking you to come to my house and see for yourself.”
Vera nodded. It was a reasonable request, and honestly, she’d decided to get involved the moment she saw that skeleton in the fog. “When should I come?”
“Tonight. We can’t wait any longer.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Max
Chloe stampeded toward Max’s legs, hooking herself around him so hard he stumbled back.
“Did you miss me?” she screamed.
Her friend Alexis Tenn charged in behind her squealing “Cats rule! Dogs drool!” with her mom right on their hyperactive heels.
“Sorry,” mouthed Mrs. Tenn.
Max shrugged. If he knew how to lower the volume of a seven-year-old, he’d have a yellow Lamborghini in his driveway.
“Did you have fun?” he asked.
“We went to a cat café!” Chloe cheered.
“And had ice cream!” cooed Alexis.
“I’m returning her high on sugar.” The mom approached the table grinning, her dark eyes shifting to Vera.
Slowly, then all at once, her face changed.
Max watched it happen. First, Mrs. Tenn maintained the forced look of politeness that adults reserve for semi-strangers. “Well, hello, Bob. Your lawn is looking healthy….” Then she must have placed Vera, because her eyes flexed, her head tilted, and her eyebrows pinched together.
“Oh,” she said. Like, Oh, you invited a serial killer to lunch. Or, Oh, my daughter is within striking distance of a Salem witch.
To Vera’s credit, she didn’t react.
“Hi,” Vera said. She even smiled.
Mrs. Tenn blinked, her body otherwise motionless so as not to make any sudden moves. There was actual fear in her eyes. Vera was the only person in this town helping Max right now, and she was doing it even though he had never been particularly nice to her. Apparently, no one was nice to her.
“Um, Alexis, we have to go.” Mrs. Tenn grabbed her daughter’s hand and tugged so hard, Alexis slipped from her flip-flop.
“Mom! You said we could stay for lunch!” she whined.
“We can’t. I forgot.” The mother bent down and snatched her daughter’s shoe, then continued yanking her through the restaurant with one bare foot.
Max looked at Vera, her eyes focused on the sugar packets so as not to reveal what she was thinking (though he had a pretty good guess).
“Alexis!” Chloe yelled with the melodramatic flair of a lover in an old movie.
Max grabbed his sister’s hand, stopping Chloe from darting after a mom convinced a tantrum-throwing seven-year-old was easier to deal with than Vera Martinez.
“It’s okay, we’ll have lunch together.” He tried to make it sound like a treat when really, it was their normal routine.
Vera continued organizing the sugar container, lining pinks, yellows, and whites together as if the task were vital. What
would he be teaching his sister if he let someone treat her like that?
“Chloe, this is my friend Vera,” he said.
Vera’s eyes sprang up.
“Hi.” Chloe’s voice held the choked tone of a kid who just lost her best friend—at least for the afternoon.
“I like your shirt.” Vera pointed to Chloe’s teal T-shirt featuring a cat in sunglasses. “You like cats?”
“Duh.” Chloe cocked her hip. “My mom said I can get one when I turn ten. She and my dad had one before I was born.”
Max nodded. “Yeah, Lupi. We called her The Hisser. She died when I was five.”
“Sorry.” Vera’s face looked sympathetic, for a mean-as-shit cat.
Actually, the day the cat died was the only time Max had ever seen his father cry. Until then, he hadn’t known parents could do that.
His dad had spent most of the day cracking jokes. As always.
Hey, Maxie-boy! What did one plate say to the otha? Lunch is on me!
He was full of the worst dad jokes in the world, but man, his laugh—it reverberated through the entire restaurant. Sometimes Max swore he could still hear it. But then that day, his mom showed up with blotchy cheeks and glassy eyes, and Max stopped coloring on his paper menu. She whispered something and Dad removed his Mets cap, dropping his chin to his chest, tears streaking his plump, stubbly cheeks.
It was Max’s first experience with death, the finality of it. He had no idea that just a few years later, grief would shape his entire world. And that seven years after that, he’d be running his father’s restaurant.
It was a bait-and-tackle shop when his parents bought it, and they turned it into the number one restaurant in Roaring Creek. Busboys, drivers, and kitchen staff said it was the best job they’d ever had. It was why they still worked here, because they could feel the ghost of Tony Oliver coating every speck of dust in the place.
Max turned to Vera, about to ask her to stay for lunch, when the rumble of a busted muffler puttered in the parking lot. A country tune drifted inside. Then he heard the familiar laughs.
Crap. He groaned, spying his friends piling out of Leo’s flatbed, including Delilah.
“Chloe, wait here.” Max looked at Vera. “Is that okay?”
“Sure.” Vera nodded, shifting down on the picnic bench to offer his sister a spot. Then Vera reached into the galvanized tub and pulled out a kids’ menu, which featured an octopus in a sailor hat. She handed Chloe the complimentary crayons. “What color should we make him?”
Max grabbed his dirty Mets hat off the register and headed toward his friends in the gravel lot, who were joking at a volume that made his sister seem muted.
“Maxwell!” Jackson swung his arms wide and barreled in for a hug, but he tripped over his flip-flops, catching himself just shy of falling on his face. “My bad!” He bounced up smiling.
“What are you guys doing here?” Max asked, adjusting his brim in the noonday sun.
“We’re here to rescue you,” said Leo. “From boredom.”
“Shheriously, the day’s too nice for you to be stuck inside.” Delilah batted her lashes, which looked twice as long as they had last week. “Come hang out with us.”
She tugged at the string tying her bikini around her neck. Her suit was covered (somewhat) by a loose-fitting tank top with armholes cut for a professional wrestler. She shifted her frame, offering Max a glimpse of her curvy figure.
“I’m working.” He looked at his feet.
“Please, is there even anyone in there?” Jackson plopped a sweaty palm on Max’s shoulder, his beer breath smacking him across the face. “Just close up. Screw it!” He peered into the restaurant, and Max sidestepped, hoping to block Jackson’s view of Vera.
“Dude, we feel bad you’re here all day.” Leo ran his hand through his spiky black hair. “When are you off?”
“Late. We’re short-staffed.”
“You have, like, one customer,” Jackson mocked, not caring how rude he was.
“It’s just…” Max fiddled with his hat, still trying to block Jackson’s sight line. “I got a lot going on. Chloe’s friend dropped her off early.”
“Sho? Where’sh your mom?” Delilah asked, slurring slightly.
“Not feeling well.”
He looked at Leo, clearly the only sober one in the group and the only friend who bothered to check up on him. Max tried to communicate telepathically: Leave. Now. Please. But Leo’s eyes narrowed and his gaze flicked to the restaurant’s interior. Then his face shifted. So did Jackson’s and Delilah’s.
“Dude!” Leo yelped, eyebrows pressed high above his sunglasses.
“Holy shit! Is that Demonic Barbie?” Jackson shouted, fist kissing his mouth. “I knew it! I knew it when you were looking at her in school! You’ve gotta thing for the ghoul!”
Jackson’s voice couldn’t have been louder if he were holding a megaphone and pom-poms.
Max’s stomach formed a slipknot. “It’s not like that. She just came in for lunch.”
“Is she sitting with your shister?” Delilah slurred, sounding offended that Vera was with his family, like she thought Vera was his girlfriend. It wasn’t like that. But he couldn’t exactly tell them what it was like, either.
“I told you. Chloe just got back,” Max explained, though he shouldn’t have had to.
Jackson stumbled toward the entrance, angling for a better look, and Max grabbed the back of his sweaty T-shirt (yuck) and yanked him to a halt.
“Oh, come on! I just wanna say hi,” Jackson said, then his head whipped around in alarm. “Did she cast a spell on you? Is that why you’re with her?”
“I’m not with her. I’m serving her lunch in the place where I work. She’s nothing to me.” An anchor of guilt instantly dragged his heart somewhere down into his belly, and he prayed Vera couldn’t hear. But the real reason Vera was meeting with him was something he wouldn’t share with these people if they stuck branding irons to his chest.
“All right, all right.” Leo held up his tan hands. “We’ll go. You’re working. We get it.”
“We do?” Delilah countered.
“Yes, we do. Max is busy. We’ll check in with you later. I hear Marissa’s parents are away.” Leo tried to steer the conversation back to the typical, but Max knew the second they drove off, his friends would talk about him for the rest of the afternoon. He’d be lucky if he and Vera weren’t trending on social media.
“Hey, if she turns you into a frog, hop to my house, okay?” Jackson teased. “We’re turning on the hot tub.”
Max squinted with annoyance—Please, shut up—and when he opened his eyes, Delilah was right in his face.
“I guessh I know why you don’t text me back anymore.” Her tone was curt. “Thank God I shaw this, because I will stop texting you now.”
Seriously? That was a bit much. Max’s brows knitted together. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it.”
“I don’t have to.”
They were barely together when school was in session, and now she, Leo, and Jackson were making him feel shitty when they were the ones being jerks—to him and to Vera. So far, Vera had shown no reason to deserve the crappy treatment she’d gotten from the student body over the years. If Max felt guilty about anything, it was how he was acting right now. To her.
His friends climbed back into Leo’s pickup, and as soon as the engine started, Max swiveled toward Vera. She met his gaze head-on, and he saw it right away.
She’d heard everything.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Vera
Vera scribbled her best rendition of an anime cat on the back of the paper menu using a cheap blue crayon—not cobalt, sky, or sapphire…just “blue.” Chloe leaned closer, studying her every waxy line.
“I love the eyes!�
� said Chloe.
“I saw them in a graphic novel.”
“Oh, I love manga!”
“Me too.” Vera handed her the crayon.
She could see Maxwell in the parking lot, lit by the blazing noon sun, talking to two of his friends, Leo and Jackson, and a girl from their grade, Delilah Pazinski. Delilah might be his girlfriend, or at least Vera remembered her decorating Maxwell’s locker—and by “decorating,” she meant decoupaging it with every trinket found at the dollar store.
She turned back to Chloe, who had impressively replicated Vera’s cat eyes. “Awesome.”
Chloe beamed.
Laughter floated from the parking lot and Vera shifted her chin, straining to hear, though she needn’t bother. Their voices were loud enough.
Demonic Barbie.
Ghoul.
The words wrapped themselves around Vera’s chest and squeezed.
She closed her eyes. Demonic Barbie. Okay, that was a new one. Maybe it’s sort of a compliment. Barbies are pretty. Her brain tried to convince herself of this, but it didn’t stop her stomach from falling to the floorboards.
She opened her eyes and spied Maxwell grabbing the back of his friend’s shirt. He seemed to be pulling him away. Was Maxwell Oliver defending her? The corners of her mouth almost twitched up, then she heard Maxwell’s voice. “She’s nothing to me.”
The breath kicked out of her chest.
Her head hung.
Okay, he doesn’t know you any better than they do, she reasoned. You just started talking to him. Technically, you’re not friends. He just wants help. This is a business arrangement.
But, deep down, she didn’t want this to be a business arrangement, and for a moment, idiotically, she let herself believe that Maxwell saw her as something more than a green-faced ghoul with striped socks on a broomstick.
Small Town Monsters Page 7
