The Noctalis Chronicles Complete Set Page 8

  When I was little, the threat of telling my father about things was the one way to really terrify me into behaving. Not that she'd used it as a way to keep me in line, but when I did something wrong, she would always say, “You know, we have to tell Dad,” and my heart would freeze and the bottom would drop out of my stomach.

  Telling him was always so much worse than telling her about anything. I could have stumbled in blind drunk and she would have laughed and told me I'd regret it in the morning. My father would have yelled and his face would have gotten red and I would have lost my phone, TV and breathing privileges. She’s the kind of mother who thinks that the mistakes and the consequences are punishment enough. Nine times out of ten, she's right. It doesn't mean that I'm not terrified of telling my dad that I failed a math test.

  Often, we are partners in crime, she and I. Bonding over the shared secrets of my misdeeds, minor as they might be. A secret for just us girls. Most of the time I figure she does it because she doesn't want him to have a heart attack at forty. He's come close, and she's even tried to get him on some anxiety medication. No such luck. He's calmed down a little bit in the last few years since I've gotten older and stopped doing things like trying to fly off the porch. But since my mother's diagnosis, he has begun his descent into crazy again.

  To make up for my mistake, I'm a good girl the rest of the morning. I finish my homework, do the dishes, comb my mother's hair, and make sure Dad isn't stressed because of me. I'm the model daughter.

  “I put something in your purse, just in case,” my mother whispers in my ear while Dad checks his email. I give her a quizzical look and go to check my purse. Great. I have my very own can of pepper spray and a rape whistle. I almost laugh, but then remember the look on Peter's face as he tried to choke the life out of me. Not very funny at all.

  Jamie texts me and offers to take me out to lunch at Miller's Diner. I haven't seen him in a while, and I feel guilty about that so I say yes. Along with offering to pay, he also picks me up. It takes more effort than normal to haul myself into the truck. He looks like he's going to say something about how shitty I look, but then thinks better of it. I silently thank him by asking how his Saturday night was.

  Miller's, the closest diner to Sussex with the best reputation, is the kind of place people have been going to for sixty years and where the only thing that ever changes is the prices to match inflation. We always order something horrible and fattening, drenched in butter or sauce or fried. Jamie always says he likes a girl who knows how to eat. I can definitely put it away.

  Of course it's packed with the after-church lunch crowd. There's a distinct smell of rose perfume and mothballs that emanates from a group of elderly women clustered with their husbands and families in the booths that line the restaurant. Miller's used to be a train car, so there's little room to maneuver along the aisles. Our waitress leads us to a booth in the back, one of the only left available. The seats are cracked and repaired with Duct tape that doesn't match the green fake leather. It's all part of the Miller's charm. Neither of us bothers to look at the menu. We have it tattooed on our brains. I order a grilled cheese and a salad, but make up for it by getting fries. Jamie goes for the bacon cheeseburger with a milkshake.

  “You there?” he says after our waitress brings our food. I've been mostly absent from the conversation so far. I'm distracted. I'm also hoping he doesn't mention the scarf.

  “Yeah, sorry.” I shake my head, trying to clear it.

  “You've been out of it lately.” He squirts ketchup all over his burger and fries. He'd eat ketchup on ice cream if it were socially acceptable.

  I wave my hand. “Sorry. A lot on my mind.”

  “You recovered from the party?”

  I reclaim the ketchup from him. He drained most of what was left in the bottle.

  “It wasn't that bad, Jamie.” I glare at him. I can't believe he's still going on about that. Compared to the rest of my week, that was one of the tamest things I'd done.

  “It could have been.” He leans over the table, as if he's trying get his point across, but I'm not getting it.

  “I wish you wouldn't worry about me so much.” I shift in my seat. The fact that he's so worried that I had a few too many drinks shows me just how ballistic he would go if I actually told him everything. Well, I just can't tell him. Ever. That totally sucks, because I hate keeping anything from him.

  “Then don't give me a reason. I know you enough to know that something is up with you, and that you don't want to tell me.”

  I think before I answer, swirling a fry in ketchup. “What if there is?” I say without looking him in the eye. Thing One and Thing Two.

  “I want you to talk to me about it.” He hasn't touched his burger yet, which worries me more than anything else. Nothing gets in the way of Jamie and a good meal.

  “What if I can't?” I pop a fry into my mouth, still not meeting his eyes.

  “That's what scares me.”

  “Don't be scared. I'm fine.” I smile with the fry still sticking out of my mouth and cross my eyes.

  “I wish I could believe you.” He finally lifts his burger. Whew. I was getting really concerned there.

  “You're not my father. You can't make my decisions for me.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to.

  “I wish I could,” he snaps back. I'm glad he can't. My hand goes to the scarf for the millionth time. “You've gone through a lot, with your mother and everything.” So has he, with his father.

  “I'm fine.” Wash, rinse, repeat.

  “Of course you are.” He sighs.

  “What about Tex? You don't do this with her.” It is a valid point.

  “Tex can take care of herself.” The truth is Tex would tell him to go to hell and mind his own business. I'm more passive. He knows he can influence me more. I hate that he knows that.

  “So can I. You need to stop treating me like some delicate flower, or some lost puppy that needs a home. I'm not.”

  I start ripping a fry into small pieces and throwing it in the ketchup. He takes tiny bites of his burger. The problem is that I kind of want someone to take care of me. Someone to hold me and take my mind off all the crap I can't control. Jamie's just not the one who can do that, and I'll never admit out loud that I even want it. So we're both out of luck.

  “I know. I know.”

  We eat the rest of our food in silence and don't get dessert, even though Miller's pie is legendary. He pays after I put up a good fight for the check. Jamie always wins.

  “I don't want you to think that I don't think you can take care of yourself. You're strong; I know that. Can I help it if I worry?” He holds the truck door open and holds an arm out to boost me in.

  “You could try harder.” I elbow him, which is more a punishment for me because his stomach is so hard.

  “I will.” He pokes my nose and I try to bite his finger but miss.

  ~^*^~

  The bruises are a purplish-green by Monday morning. I sigh as I wrap my scarf around my neck. I haven't been back to the cemetery. Not because of him hurting me, as much as I want to say that's what it is. Before that night, the cemetery was a sanctuary. I go there to feel like I'm soaking up the eternal rest of everyone around me. I take my shoes off and let my feet sink into the grass and drink in the immortality around me. I've never felt that death lingers there, or sadness, only peace and remembrance. That's been broken for me, and I want it back, but I need some time to recover before I go on another suicide mission. No one can take that place away from me. Not even him.

  “Hey, are you okay? I feel like we left off on a weird note yesterday.” Jamie finds me by my locker. I'd gotten to school super early due to waking up and not being able to get back to sleep. I haven't been tardy in over a week. I'm on a roll.

  “Not weird. I'm fine.” I'm going to say it over and over until it makes sense, or I start to believe it.

  “Try again.” He sighs, as if I'm being difficult on purpose.

  “Seriously
, I'm fine. Just because I don't text you every five seconds doesn't mean there's something wrong. You don't text me either, so what's wrong with you?” I jab my finger into his chest. Ouch. He tugs his ear twice. Uh oh. That's a Jamie-tell.

  “Cassie.” That one word sums up so much. This is not going to be good. He leans up against my locker and closes his eyes.

  “She back again?”

  “Yeah.” Quickly, he looks around, making sure no one's eavesdropping. The hallway's empty since it's so early. “She's pregnant,” he whispers, leaning down so far I can smell his aftershave.

  “Pregnant!” I slap my hand over my mouth like I've just said fuck. Not what I was expecting. It isn't out of left field, but still. No wonder he looks messed up. Cassie is Jamie's older, screw-up of a sister who was kicked out of school and arrested. Twice.

  “Don't say that so loud. She hasn't told my parents.” His eyes flick around to make sure no one overheard. We're good.

  “She told you?” We're both leaning in, as if we're sharing a delicious piece of gossip. Not so much.

  “I guessed.”

  “How?”

  “I could, you know... see it.” He gestures to his middle, as if he's tracing a basketball stuffed under his shirt.

  “Who's the daddy?” It's really none of my business, but I kind of want to know.

  “She doesn't know.” He tugs his ear again.

  “Awesome.” I see his face and try to curb my sarcasm. I should be more sensitive.

  “Just — don't tell anyone.”

  “You have my word of honor.” I put my hand over my heart.

  “Thanks, Ave. I can always count on you.” He pulls me in for a hug. One of the things I love about Jamie is he's such a good hugger. He isn't afraid to touch me. He doesn't try to scoop me up like a child. He just folds himself around me, pulling me into his chest where I can hear his heart. It's just not enough. I wish it was.

  “I'm here. If you need anything.” I should have said this earlier, but at least I remember to say it at all.

  “I know. Same goes for you,” he says in my ear.

  “I know.” The words thrash behind my lips, and I clamp my mouth shut, biting my lip to keep them in. I can't let them out. I can't tell anyone else. My mother is going to die.

  “You sure you're okay?”

  “Yup.” Another smile. My fingers twist together, as tangled as my thoughts.

  “I like your scarf. I meant to tell you yesterday.” He flicks it with one finger. I try not to look freaked out when he does it.

  “Thanks, my aunt gave it to me.” I make sure it's covering everything it needs to cover. It's like a nervous tick now. Along with looking around every corner, expecting to see Peter.

  Jamie's not the only one to notice the scarf. Tex grabs me on the way to lunch.

  “What is with that scarf?” I jump back as she tries to take it off.

  “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes narrow. Tex is always suspicious.

  “You're not a scarf kind of girl. What's the story?”

  “Aj gave it to me, and I haven't worn it. So I thought I would.” Simple enough. She studies me a second longer, and then relaxes. So do I.

  “Copy that. At least she has amazing taste. My mother is always trying to get me into these weird beige things that I wouldn't be caught dead in. Speaking of her, when are we going shopping?” She picks at her neon green nail polish. Why she bothers, I've never understood, but I haven't seen her with nude nails in five years. Two seconds after she paints her nails, she's already smudged one, and she starts chewing a minute after that.

  “Don't know. She's really busy with work.” Aj adopted Tex as a surrogate niece. Sometimes I wonder if she likes Tex more than she likes me.

  We both get into line and I buy a salad. Tex goes for the greasy pepperoni pizza. It looks disgusting, making me feel even more secure in the decision to be a vegetarian that I made when I was ten after a school trip to a pig farm.

  “Have you talked to Jamie?” I say as we find an empty table in the back corner behind a rusty pipe. I'm fishing to see if he's told her. I'm not sure I want to be the only one who knows about the Cassie situation. I've got too many secrets already.

  “No, why?” Damn. Now I'm in trouble. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  “Oh, no reason,” I say, poking at my salad. She tries to smack me in the arm, but I duck aside.

  “You whore! Now you have to tell me.”

  “It's nothing. Just forget I said anything.”

  “Oh, believe me, I won't.” She's already on her phone, furiously texting.

  Maybe it's sick, but I want them both distracted until my bruises fade. My stomach twists and my conscience screams, but I ignore them both. Distracting my friends from my issues is so minor, it hardly matters.

  Ten

  I don't have to work until Tuesday, so I go right home after school to find my sunburned and bug-bitten mother knee-deep in dirt and weeds.

  “You look like some sort of gardening goddess, all covered in dirt.”

  Her laugh rings out and she wipes her cheek, which only smears more dirt on it. I sit next to her, not minding that my jeans will get covered and my butt is going to get wet. Seeing her looking so healthy makes me happy.

  I tell her about all the silly things from my day, about how they got rid of the chocolate chip cookies at lunch because they're unhealthy, that the lacrosse team is going to state and how Braden Chance got expelled for breaking into the headmaster’s office over the weekend and trying to destroy his computer. He'd succeeded in smashing the motherboard, but he'd forgotten about all the security cameras. There was also that there was a backup computer. Idiot.

  “Need any help?” I say after I've yammered her ear off.

  “Thanks, ma fleur, but I can manage. You could pull a few weeds, if you're so inclined. It's very satisfying.”

  It reminds me of when I was little. She'd take me out here and show me how to clean up the beds. Which things to pull and which to not pull. I'd ruined several of her bulbs by yanking them out, but she'd laughed and just put them back, telling tearful me that it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed.

  If only things were that easy now.

  “How are you feeling?” I say, yanking out a weed. The soil is cold on my bare hands.

  “Much better. Strong. For the first time in a long time.” Her cheeks are red, and not from makeup. She hasn't bothered with a wig, simply wrapped a bright kerchief around her head to keep warm. I like her better like this.

  “Do you remember the bouquets I used to bring you?”

  “With the roots still hanging off? Of course.” She pulls me close and gives me a hug. I inhale the cool scent of the earth that's all through her clothes. This is where she's meant to be. Out here, with the plants, or in a room full of screaming kids.

  “How's your neck?”

  “It's fine.” I pull down my scarf and show her. I'm still astounded she didn't freak out about someone hurting me. She smoothes the initial flicker of horror like a crease from her skirt.

  “I hope you got a few good shots in,” she says with a sly smile.

  “Sort of.” Not really.

  “Good, because if he ever touches you again, he's going to have me to contend with.” She points her trowel like it's a sword. I wouldn't mess with her.

  “It's not going to happen.” I toss another weed away with more force than I mean to.

  “I know. That's why I gave you the pepper spray.” She smiles as I put my scarf back on and she arches her back. “I think I need some lemonade. Would you like anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She brushes my shoulder as she gets up, using me as a support. I watch her walk away, thinking about how many days I have left with her.

  It's just the two of us tonight, with Dad out at some dinner with the stockholders of the bank that he's required to go to. It sounds horribly dull.

  “Ava?” she calls from her room. She's been in t
here for a while, and I haven't wanted to disturb her. She seems distracted. I'm busy in the kitchen, baking some banana bread. It's from a box, but still. She loves the smell of it baking and doesn't have enough energy to do it herself after all the gardening.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you come here for a moment?”

  She's lying on her bed, surrounded by torn sheets of paper. It looks like a notebook exploded. I step on a few crumpled pieces near the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She turns the paper she's holding over so I can't see what she's writing. “Sit down.” She pats the bed and I clear some of the paper away, trying to read the curly script, but I can't.

  “I've been thinking about some things I want to talk to you about.”

  I hate the way her voice sounds. I'm not going to like this conversation, I know it.

  “There are some things I want you to know before...”

  She's accepted it, but doesn't say it out loud. Not yet. Not until it's closer. She shakes her head, as if to rid her mind of the words.

  “So, I made a list.” Of course she made a list.

  “What's on it?” I say.

  She grabs a piece of paper from her nightstand and hands it to me. The writing isn't as nice as the other pieces around me.

  The list is relatively short.

  “Make real banana bread,” I read. That one makes me smile. She's underlined the word real. Okay, I get it.

  “I feel it's only fair to teach you. My grandmother taught me, and yours isn't around to teach you.”

  My mother's mother died when I was seven. I have only blurry memories of her, and they all took place in a nursing home. One of the only things I can remember is the smell of that place. That's what death smells like. Rot and bodies and stale bananas. The cemetery smells like grass and fresh air. Ironic.

  “Hem pants.” It's something she always does for me. Being 5-foot-1 is rough when most pants are made for someone who's 5-foot-7. They leave a lot of leg that drags on the ground and trips me up. She whisks them away, gets on her Singer sewing machine, also from my grandmother, and fixes them for me. They appear in my drawer completely done, as if fairies sewed them in the night.