down the street. When she’s not home, she’s out of town, working.”
“I
Marcie’s words dropped like a blade between us.
I hugged my arms around my middle and turned away, feeling like I might be sick. Tears choked up my throat, burning the back of my nose. Without a word, I walked stiffly down Marcie’s walk. I thought she might shout something worse at my back, but there was nothing worse she could say.
I didn’t go to Patch’s.
I must have walked all the way back to Clementine, past the bus stop, the park, and the city swimming pool, because the next thing I remembered, I was sitting on a bench on the lawn in front of the public library. A cone of streetlight fell over me. It was a warm night, but I hugged my knees against my chest, my body wracked with tremors. My thoughts were a jumble of haunting theories.
I stared into the darkness settling around me. Headlights swung down the street, grew closer, moved on. Sporadic sitcom laughter carried out an open window across the street. Pockets of cool air flushed goose bumps across my arms. The heady smell of grass, musky and humid from the earlier sun, suffocated me.
I lay back on the bench, shutting my eyes against the dusting of stars. I laced my quivering hands on my stomach, my fingers feeling like frozen twigs. I wondered why life had to suck so hard sometimes, wondered why it was the people I loved the most who could disappoint me the hardest, wondered who I wanted to direct my hate at more—Marcie, her dad, or my mom.
Deep inside, I clung to the hope that Marcie was wrong. I hoped I’d get to fling this back in her face. But the sinking sensation that seemed to tug me inside out told me I was only setting myself up for disappointment.
I couldn’t pinpoint the memory, but it was within the last year or so. Maybe shortly before my dad died … no. After. It had been a warm day—spring. The funeral was over, my grace period of grieving had ended, and I was back in school. Vee had talked me into ditching class, and in those days, I didn’t offer much resistance to anything. I floated along. I got by. On the thought that my mom would be at work, we’d walked to my house. It must have taken us all of seventh hour to get there.
As the farmhouse came into view, Vee yanked me off the road.
“There’s a car in your driveway,” she said.
“Whose could it be? Looks like a Land Cruiser.”
“Your mom doesn’t drive one of those.”
“Do you think it’s a detective?” It wasn’t likely that a detective would be driving a sixty- thousand-dollar SUV, but I was so used to detectives stopping by, it was the first thought that came to mind.
“Let’s get closer.”
We were almost to the driveway when the front door opened and voices carried out. My mom’s … and a deeper voice. A man’s.
Vee lugged me to the side of the house, out of sight.
We watched as Hank Millar climbed into the Land Cruiser and drove away.
“Holy freakshow,” Vee said. “Normally I’d suspect foul play, but your mom is as straightlaced as they come. I bet he was trying to sell her a car.”
“He came all this way for that?”
“Heck yeah, babe. Car salesmen don’t know where to draw the line.”
“She already has a car.”
“A Ford. That’s like Toyota’s worst enemy. Marcie’s dad won’t be happy until the whole town is driving a Toyota….”
I strayed out of the memory. But what if he hadn’t been selling her a car? What if they’d—I swallowed involuntarily—been having an affair?
Where was I supposed to go now? Home? The farmhouse no longer felt like home. It no longer felt safe and secure. It felt like a box of lies. My parents had sold me a story about love, togetherness, and family. But if Marcie was telling the truth—and my greatest fear was that she was—my family was a joke. A big lie I’d never even seen coming. Shouldn’t there have been warning signs? Shouldn’t I have been hit with the realization that I’d secretly suspected this all along, but had chosen denial over the painful truth? This was my punishment for trusting others. This was my punishment for looking for the good in people. As much as I hated Patch right now, I envied the cold detachment that separated him from everyone else. He suspected the worst in people; no matter how low they sank, he always saw it coming. He was hardened and worldly, but people respected him for it.
They respected him, and they lied to me.
I swung upright on the bench and punched my mom’s number into my cell. I didn’t know what I’d say when she answered; I’d let my anger and betrayal guide me. While her phone rang, hot tears tumbled down my cheeks. I slapped them away. My chin trembled, and every muscle in my body was drawn taut. Angry, spiteful words sprang to mind. I envisioned shouting them at her, cutting her off every time she tried to defend herself with more lies. And if she cried … I wouldn’t feel sorry. She deserved to feel every last ounce of pain from the choices she’d made. Her voice mail picked up, and it was all I could do to keep from flinging the phone into the darkness.
I dialed Vee next.
“Yo, babe. Is this important? I’m with Rixon—”
“I’m leaving home,” I said, not caring that my voice sounded thick from crying. “Can I stay at your house for a while? Until I figure out where I’m going.”
Vee’s breathing filled my ear. “Say what?”
“My mom gets home on Saturday. I want to be gone by then. Can I stay with you the rest of the week?”
“Um, can I ask—”
“No.”
“Okay, sure,” Vee said, trying to hide her shock. “You can stay, no problem. No problem at all. You’ll tell me what’s up when you’re ready.”
I felt fresh tears well up inside me. Right now, Vee was the only person I could count on. She could be obnoxious, annoying, and lazy, but she never lied to me.
I got to the farmhouse around nine, and slipped into a pair of cotton pj’s. It wasn’t a cold night, but the air was humid, and the moisture seemed to slip beneath my skin, chilling me to the bone. After making myself a cup of steamed milk, I sank into bed. It was too early for sleep, but I couldn’t have slept if I’d tried; my thoughts were still dashing themselves to pieces. I stared at the ceiling, trying to erase the last sixteen years and start fresh. Hard as I might, I couldn’t envision Hank Millar as my father.
I swung out of bed and marched down the hall to my mom’s bedroom. I flung open her hope chest, searching for her high school yearbook. I didn’t even know if she owned one, but if she did, the hope chest was the only place I could think to look. If she and Hank Millar went to school together, there would be pictures. If they’d been in love, he would have signed her yearbook in some special way that would signify it. Five minutes later, I’d thoroughly searched the chest and come up empty-handed.
I padded to the kitchen, looked through the cupboards for something to eat, but found my appetite gone. I couldn’t eat, thinking about the big lie my family had turned out to be. I found my eyes traveling to the front door, but where would I go? I felt lost in the house, restless to leave, but with nowhere to run. After standing in the hallway for several minutes, I climbed back to my bedroom. Lying in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin, I shut my eyes and watched a reel of pictures slide across my mind. Pictures of Marcie; of Hank Millar, whom I barely knew, and whose face I could conjure up only with difficulty; of my parents. Faster and faster the images came, until they blended together in a strange collage of madness.
The images seemed to lurch into reverse suddenly, traveling backward through time. All color drained from the reel, until there was nothing but fuzzy black and white. It was then that I knew I’d slipped into the other realm.
I was dreaming.
I was standing in the front yard. A rowdy wind swept dead leaves across the driveway, around my ankles. An odd funnel cloud swirled in the sky overhead but made no move to touch down, as if it was content to bide its
