Authors: E. Latimer
Chapter F
iv
e
Wednesday morning’s English class was painfully boring, a lecture on the inner themes and meanings of
Lord of the Flies
. I was thankful that a few brainy kids at the front kept the discussion going because I hadn't even read it. Skimmed it enough to take in the fact that little kids were dying and then closed it again. Disturbing, and not exactly my cup of tea. I should have done the homework, though, because Mr. Scott was already talking about a test.
I exchanged a look with Charlotte, whose eyes were wide.
"Did you do the reading?" she whispered. When I shook my head, she nodded. "Me either. I can hardly remember what it was about. Study at my place after?"
The idea was appealing, not only because I anticipated another blowup from Janet tonight—she'd been stalking around the house this morning, complaining about how messy I was—but because I was certain Charlotte knew more about the stupid book than I did. At least, if I kept my grades up, it was one less thing for Janet to fly off the handle about.
"Yeah, okay."
Charlotte grinned, her eyes sparkling. "Good. We can study for a bit and then make popcorn and gossip."
"Sounds good to me."
"Do you ladies have something you'd like to share with the class?" Mr. Scott interrupted his soliloquy on the meaning of the conch shell to glare at me and Charlotte.
My cheeks burned. "No."
"Then I suggest you listen. The test isn't going to be easy."
A collective groan greeted his statement, and thankfully, Mr. Scott turned his disapproval on the rest of the class.
Charlotte poked her finger into her mouth and pretended to gag, and I sighed and fixed my eyes on the clock. Three hours until the last bell.
~ * ~
I phoned the house between math and my last class of the day, history. Janet answered, and when I asked if I could go to a friend's to study, I got a curt, “Yes,” and a dial tone. I was surprised she hadn’t sounded more enthusiastic, considering she was getting rid of me for the evening.
After history class let out, Charlotte and I grabbed our books and beat a hasty retreat down the stairs before too many people flooded the halls. I was pretty sure we were both hurrying to get out before the Barbie Girls emerged from class. Amy had been trying to make eye contact during math class, but I wasn’t in the mood for another borderline-insane conversation.
Charlotte glanced over her shoulder as we reached the bottom of the stairs. "I just don't think I can deal with them right now. I'd rather it just be you and me."
Pushing through the door and out into the open, I took a deep breath of the frigid air. "I know. I don't want to think about their crazy conspiracy theories right now, just how I’m going to pass that stupid test."
"That's why we're studying," Charlotte said firmly.
We reached the middle of the slushy parking lot, and she shuffled in a circle, scanning the cars.
"He should be here soon. The van goes about two miles an hour, so sometimes he's late."
While she was talking, I watched the entrance of the school. Students poured out, but so far, no sign of Amy and her cohorts. Hopefully, Charlotte's dad would get here soon.
The parking lot slowly filled up around us, SUVs and jacked-up trucks rolling in one by one, nosing forward into the piles of brown slush that decorated the head of each parking stall. One in particular caught my eye, a long, black town car on the other side of the lot that stood out due to its impracticality. Sleek and shiny among the monster trucks.
Leaning to one side, I tried to identify the driver.
He had one hand draped out the window, smoke trailing from the cigar between his fingers. Whoever they were, they must have been doing well. The town car was fancy, and the cigar was so strong I could smell it from where we stood.
Charlotte glanced over at me and then turned to look too, wrinkling her nose. "I thought I smelled something disgusting."
"Whose dad?" I turned to Charlotte, who was shrugging her shoulders up to her ears, trying to get the top of her coat collar to cover them. The cold could creep through anything if I stood still long enough, which was why it was weird that I felt okay. I should have been freezing.
"No idea." Charlotte wiggled her eyebrows. "But he must be loaded. New student in the lower grades, maybe? I heard we got a few."
Frowning, I stared at the car again, at the smoke curling up from the window. Whoever he was, he needed to trade his car for a truck. It was impractical, and besides that, the car was sort of creepy. It seemed to lurk.
As much as a car could lurk, I suppose.
Charlotte's face brightened, and she waved one mitten in the air. "There's my dad."
The van pulling into the lot barely limped along, its tires squeaking and slipping on the packed snow. My eyes went wide, and I had to bite my lip to keep from saying anything. I hadn’t really paid that much attention the last time Charlotte’s dad had picked her up. But now that I was about to climb in…it had to be safe, right?
Charlotte didn’t seem the least bit fazed as she slid over the seat. Still, I knew my knuckles were going to be white the entire ride to her house.
~ * ~
Charlotte's dad was nice, though he was nothing like my uncle. Uncle Dave was goofy, a total pushover, and more of a friend than a father figure. Charlotte's father was strict, with gray hair and a square chin covered with stubble. He talked the entire time he drove us home, barely paying attention to the road.
I managed to squeak out my answers between deep breaths to keep myself from panicking as the van slipped and slid over the road.
Twenty minutes later, my fingernails were stuck into the pleather seat, and my entire body ached from being rattled around. We’d made it in one piece, though, pulling up in front of a tiny, brick house with a rusty swing set in the front yard.
Charlotte slid across the seat and yanked the door open, releasing me from the death trap. "Come on. We can make hot chocolate and popcorn while we slog through my sister’s notes. She graduated last year, but I asked her to save them. We should be able to get the gist of it from those."
"No cheating, you two." Charlotte's dad gave us a stern look, his steel-gray eyebrows drawing down.
The expression was a bit terrifying, but Charlotte only pulled a face and led me down the driveway. Then she opened the door and ushered me inside. The house was small and clean, arranged with military precision. There was nothing out of place, though there was hardly any furniture to
be
out of place.
We went into the living room while her dad retreated to his den, and Charlotte drew the curtains back from the big bay window, letting the glow from the streetlamps flood the living room.
"We should probably study first." She plunked her books on the table and turned towards the doorway, letting her jacket drop to the carpet. "Hold on. I'll grab my notes. They're in my closet somewhere."
"Cool." After wiggling out of my jacket, I dropped it next to hers. Then I unzipped my knapsack and pulled my books out. To study, I had to take my gloves off, but it seemed different here than at school. More dangerous. What if we watched a scary movie and Charlotte grabbed my hand or something? She seemed like the type that would. Of course, Adam and I hadn’t been watching a scary movie when it had happened, but still…
Footsteps pounded up the stairs overhead.
I put my English binder on the table next to hers, and then shuffled around the living room. It was sparse, but not unfriendly. A shag rug straight out of the ’70s was where we'd dropped our knapsacks and jackets, and the coffee table was just as old. A low oak piece I was sure I'd seen at thrift stores before. There was an old TV, the kind that still had rabbit-ear antennas—that made my eyebrows shoot up—and a VCR player. On the shelf next to it, a collection of movies was stacked, apparently organized by title and category.
Her dad had to be military or something—or at least compulsively tidy. Even Janet didn't keep her designer-magazine house this meticulously organized.
After scanning the stacks, which seemed to be a lot of old Disney tapes, I made my way over to the window. It was just starting to get dark, which dimmed the shine that usually reflected off the snow and made me squint all day. There were cars driving past, a few at a time, headlights flickering through the picket fence out front. The sound of tires spinning on slush was muted.
I felt bad for Dave. I'd have to ask him to come pick me up after dinner, since there was no way I was going to let Charlotte's dad drive me back home. Dave might not have been the best driver in the snow, but at least the truck never fishtailed in the middle of intersections.
There were a few vehicles parked along the opposite side of the road—a couple of trucks and a low, black car. Another town car.
Frowning, I pulled the curtain back a little. It was hard to make out, but I was fairly certain the driver’s side window was open a crack and there was smoke trailing out. In the depths of the car, an orange brand flickered, illuminating the faint outline of a face.
"What the hell?"
"What?"
I nearly yanked the curtain down as I spun around. "Oh, shit! Charlotte, you scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry." Charlotte was carrying a green file folder stuffed with papers. Some of them were falling out, and one slipped free, drifting to the floor by her feet. The notes were scribbled in black chicken scratch I could hardly make out. She was as messy as her father was neat.
"Come look at this car and tell me if I'm crazy. Isn't it the same one we saw in the parking lot?"
Charlotte tucked the folder under her arm and yanked the other curtain out of her way. The town car's headlights flooded on, blasting light onto the white snow. Spots jumped in front of my eyes.
"He's leaving," I said.
The car turned onto the street, speeding past the fence and out of sight.
I turned to Charlotte. "Please say you saw it before it drove away."
"Well, yeah. But maybe it's just another one of those cars." She returned to the coffee table and began to sort through the papers one by one. "You're probably just spooked from all of Amy's crazy talk."
Frowning, I nodded, my thoughts too busy to argue for the moment. There was no doubt I’d seen that burning-orange light inside the car. The tip of a cigar, I was pretty sure.
"How many town cars do you think there are? It's not exactly the right car for this area, considering the weather."