Authors: T. G. Ayer
I never forgot the acid spike of the spirits he used to clean the chrome or the dull tone of the oil when he changed it and droplets spilled on the bare concrete. And when Joshua spoke of his baby, I knew I'd get a ride in it, no matter what. Beneath the banter lay the bet. He eventually gave in. What would it hurt anyway? Just one ride.
***
When he came to pick me up, Ms. Custer frowned as I sped to the door.
"He coming in then? Or is he gonna let that monster growl outside like a hell hound?"
"Nope, we're going out for a ride."
The frown deepened. "Now, Bryn. I . . ." She paused. She was so going to stop me. I held my breath but the frown smoothed and her eyes crinkled. Wrong. Perhaps she trusted me. "Be careful, and wear your seatbelt."
She followed me out onto the wraparound porch just to be sure, and stood watching while I jumped into the gorgeous red machine, adjusted the strap and fastened the seatbelt as she'd instructed. Joshua had cursed its bum clasp to no end but thankfully the darned thing chose this night to lock loudly. We both sighed.
I curled my arms around my midriff, unsure what to do with them. Folding them in my lap would appear silly, especially when we sat within a growling machine so far from demure as to be ridiculous.
Excitement and nerves warred inside me. Beside me and beneath his leather jacket, Joshua glowed brighter than yesterday. More radiant than last week. My heart stuttered and I forced those thoughts away. How could I change the inevitable? Was it possible that I could influence his life? Prevent his death? Who could I go to? Who could help me?
Nobody.
The best answer I'd come up with.
I was all out of luck and so was Joshua.
A moonless night and a patch of oil were never meant to be friends. Not anywhere and certainly not within the dark embrace of Craven. A black and angry cloud hung over the town, permeating the spirit of the place, hiding behind closed doors and beneath masks of pleasantry. Paranoia? Maybe.
I blamed my jaded opinion on the ache in my heart. The first time I understood that the damned glow was synonymous with death, it happened to be coming from the first friend I'd ever made.
Joshua grinned at me, teeth glinting in the lights from the streetlamps, mischief and self-satisfaction plastered across his face. I'd gotten what I'd wanted. But he'd gotten more. He revved the engine and I could have sworn the hefty laughter coming from the vicinity of the veranda belonged to Ms. Custer. Taking off at a walking pace, we slid along the darkened streets.
I closed my lids, absorbing the throb of the engine through the reconditioned leather, resting them from the ever-present radiance of Joshua. I bore the pain of meeting his eyes, because I longed for one more smile. I had no idea when his laughter would embrace me for the last time, or if the next silly, girlish giggle he gave, when a joke happened to be unconstitutionally funny, would be his last.
We turned onto Main and headed uphill, through the empty streets. Up ahead a pair of lights turned into Main and rode toward us.
Nothing ever happened in Craven. Nothing to get tongues wagging. Not until our night in the Camaro.
The oil patch appeared in the split second between Joshua's gasp and the crunching of metal. The rainbow at its center caught my eye. The shimmering, bland menace of it; a warning too late. A second, meant to be the shortest of moments, was enough. A blink in time filled with Joshua's grimace of fear, filled with hopeless desperation, as he wrenched the wheel against the spin of the car. Filled with the stark horror on the faces of the couple in the other car as we spun toward them.
The crunch of metal.
The barely audible click of my seatbelt as it came undone.
Metal tasted metal.
The two cars crumpled into each other, the force of the impact flinging me across the street. Slamming my body into the light pole outside Joe's Barbershop. Any normal person would have broken in half, spine crushed from the impact of vertebrae to steel pole. Not me.
Coming away from the accident with a head wound, no matter how serious, wasn't enough for Craven. I should have died like Joshua. The couple in the other car was still in hospital.
But I was still walking.
Still breathing.
They hated me for that.
I skidded out of my memories and walked back alone from the funeral, away from the eyes.
The wind blustered and thin silk was no match for its icy tentacles. My feet dragged me back toward Ms. Custer's, the silent afternoon keeping me company. I was thankful for the solitude. Thankful for the subtle warmth soaking into my body from the amber at my neck.
One block to go. An engine suddenly growled behind me, throbbing closer and closer, raucous laughter raising the hair on my neck. A car tailed me; its honking brought goose bumps to my skin. A bunch of nasty, dumb kids voicing their displeasure at my survival. I kept walking. Exhaled only when they whined past. The driver thrust his arm out the window and raised his middle finger. Strident laughter followed. I flushed, embarrassed, furious at his nerve.
My heart stuttered as the twin red eyes disappeared into the gathering shadows ahead. Sighing, I turned into Elm Wood, seeking the lights of home. Bright lights beckoned in the dusk like so many welcoming flames. The house promised warmth and comfort. A blessed haven in which to hide away.
But only a temporary home. I'd learned not to grow too fond, not to get too comfortable.
Three other kids occupied the loving home of Ms. Custer, laying claim to foster-hood more than I had the right to. All orphans. Simon Harper and Brody Stevens were both ten and cute as a pair of unmatched buttons could be cute. Simon, pale and blond, in contrast to Brody's dark skin and sooty hair. Otherwise, they were the same. Boisterous, cheeky, funny and a handful. Ms. Custer called them "Ebony and Ivory." Most appropriate.
Isabel Martin was elegant, sweet and very, very quiet for a twelve-year-old. But all three accepted me, drew me into their little family despite my discomfort and constant protests.
I let myself into the house, expecting Brody and Simon to be in the living room pretending to do their homework, and Izzy in the kitchen peeling vegetables or laying the large dining table. I craved peace and quiet and knew I wasn't going to get it.
The living room's silence greeted me, while the kitchen simmered with cheerful chatter amidst the clinking of utensils. As I stepped inside the kitchen a second of peace reigned before Brody and Simon spoke over each other, asking how Joshua's brother was doing. Izzy smiled, waiting for her turn to question the life out of me.
Ms. Custer stood at the sink, drying a dish that looked dry to begin with, her smile a faded copy of her usual toothy blessings.
"Come on, kids, get to your chores. Boys, help Izzy set the table please. Use the good dinner service and be careful. Anyone break anything and they'll be scooping horse poop at McGregor's Farm for the whole of spring break."
They groaned and flashed out the door, bickering comfortably as they worked.
"It's dry, you know?" I lifted an eyebrow at the dish.
She huffed, laid it on the table and proceeded to fill it with steaming mashed potatoes. The food should have assaulted my taste buds, but not a particle within me did any sort of dance at the prospect of eating. Not anymore. It'd been weeks since food had last satisfied me and I longed to eat the roast just for the sake of recalling the taste and sensations on my tongue. It would no doubt do no good. These days food equated to tasteless sludge.
"When was the last time you ate a proper meal?" Ms. Custer's eyes narrowed, as if she possessed some kind of inner lie-detecting radar. She had no idea how long it had been and I didn't intend to tell her I survived on air and water these days. Just about anything could get a foster kid moved.
"A proper meal you mean?" I received a curt nod and a further narrowing of her eyes. "Around the time Aimee Graham died."
The truth was the last thing I'd intended but it slipped out of my mouth anyway. The queen of avoidance was also an awful, awful liar.
Ms. Custer nodded. The skin around her eyes softened. "That was three weeks ago, young lady. How are you surviving?" I waited as she yelled for Izzy, who hauled the mashed potatoes to the dining table.
"Not sure," I said. What was wrong with my mouth?
Way to go, Bryn. A secret stash of smartass quips, a thousand snarky responses and you spew out the bald truth?
"Are you eating anything at all?" Concern and fear swam back into her warm brown eyes.
I shook my head. "Food tastes like sawdust. And makes me ill." I gripped the chair in front of me, needing the solid wood to ground me.
"But you don't look like you've survived on nothing. Not skin and bones at all. You
look
fine." Ms. Custer spoke below her breath. Since she didn't seem to expect an answer, I bit my tongue. "Maybe you need to see a counselor?"
My head shook a violent response while inside my mind I screamed, panicked. I drowned in memories.
My mother's voice echoed in my head, harsh with pain. Her accusations. My fear when I figured out what I'd done by admitting I could see the glow.
The visits to the psychiatrist who persisted in his treatment, delving deeper, searching for a reason for the visions. A reason that would match one of his textbook definitions. Even the quiet understanding of my father hadn't made it any better.
"No!" The skin on my knuckles went taut as I gripped harder, terrified I'd lose control. The word barked out, harsher than I'd intended. "I'm sorry, Mom. It's just . . . I've had my fair share of counseling. If anything, they make things worse, not better."
She paused and I just knew she wouldn't let the issue slide. But her next words surprised me. "That's okay, Bryn, honey." Her smile, like the soft pat on my shoulder, was gentle and sweet and enduring. "Did it go well today?" She reached out and gently touched my bandage.
Ms. Custer had intended to come to the funeral but I'd asked her to stay home. Didn't want the kids exposed to more grief. And my sorrow craved solitude. I wasn't sure why, but I knew I'd shatter into a million shards of grief if my little family were with me.
I just nodded. No sense in telling her about Cherise and her malicious machinations. Ms. Custer's face tightened but she let it be.
Tender garlic and herb-roasted chicken and butter-glazed carrots made it safely to the table. I went through the motions, pretending to eat under the stern supervision of my foster mother. Washing up was easier to do and I escaped the kitchen, both dishes and myself in one piece.
A wide veranda hugged the front half of the house, dark and private, especially in the evenings. I surrendered to its comforting embrace. Enjoyed the thrill of having the porch swing to myself, reveled in the enveloping dark night and the sweet scent of Ms. Custer's pink climbing roses. I sat alone, enclosed in my little private world, with just the crickets and cicadas to vie for my attention.
***
I stayed home, under doctor's orders to take things easy after the accident and the blow to my head. A week dragged by. A week in which I relished the chattering of leaves outside my window, as the wind frolicked through the thick branches of the red maple. A week I wanted to last forever. Not because the end of it meant I'd have to run the North Wood High gauntlet again, but because I'd lost my support. My strength. My only friend who I'd just let die, without doing a thing about it.
The porch swing creaked, and I sighed, loving the silent, fragrant darkness. A fake haven where I remained invisible and the world walked by without knowing I watched. I should have seen Aimee's father walking his dog, trying to maintain a sense of normality after losing his only daughter. Should have seen Anna and Cherise slip into Anna's house and throw vicious stares at our house as if the building itself had taken their hunky quarterback from them. But all I saw were lonely pink petals falling and falling into nothingness.
Until the black and chrome Ducati roared, loud and intrusive as it turned into our driveway.
Biker-dude cut the engine and swung off the machine, his movement like a river of mercury. He strolled to the front door.
Walk
wasn't the most appropriate word for the rolling gait he used to go from bike to door, but it did strange things to my heart and my breath. Deliciously nice things.
I stared from the darkness, half a smile on my lips, one foot on the wooden deck so the swing didn't give me away with a random creak, holding my breath. He thumbed the doorbell and peeled off his helmet. Long black hair dripped over his forehead and caressed his nape. He fluffed the dark mop, not in the vain I-look-so-hot way, but in an unconscious get-out-of-my-face way.
For the first time in my sad and predictably unlucky life, my heart lurched in my chest. All the soppy, mushy stuff was present: lightheartedness, breathless expectation, deep rosy blushes. Exactly the way girls fell for the male lead in chick flicks or the way the simpering heroines swooned in great romance novels.