My light on dim, I poke open the shutter slats and stare at the scene that is somehow growing in size despite the late hour. It doesn’t take long for my gaze to wander up the driveway to the Trombley front door. Any evidence of yesterday’s homecoming festivities has been swept away, replaced with markers on the lawn and police tape closing off places still to be dissected by the investigators. The bright orange and yellow wreath on their red front door seems so out of place.
I’m not sure how long Eleanor’s curtains have been open. Perhaps she just flicked on the light, and that’s what caught my attention. Regardless, it’s obvious she’s looking at my window, and I’m temporarily pinned in place with my heart pounding at getting caught staring at her personal nightmare. I’m sure the neighbors are staring at her house through their windows too. Our entire street is probably spying on the Trombley house in some way or another. Hell, I bet the retired guy who lives three houses down and does nothing but yell at people who let their dogs poop on his lawn is on his roof with binoculars. Still, it feels as though I should know better. I should respect their—her—privacy at a time like this.
I rock back on my heels and am about to give in to the temptation to slowly back away and turn off my lights when Eleanor lifts her arm and presses her palm against the glass. The thunder in my chest skips; sharp tingles run down my spine. I open my slats wider when my feet finally unglue from their spot on the floor, and even though my insecurities scream at me to run and hide, my arm operates independent from my brain and I manage to hold up my hand in response. I keep it raised for several seconds, waiting for her to drop her palm from the glass. When her head falls to the side against her window, I open my shutters completely, folding them to the side, and sit on the edge of my desk so I can do the same. Something about this feels utterly necessary. Maybe the voice in my head is crazy, but it’s telling me that Eleanor needs me to be here, like this, for just a little while.
I pull my knees up and cross my ankles so I can hug my legs. My desk is kinda small, and this position is not very comfortable, but I hold it while the two of us stare down below. The bright lights of yet another news crew lights up the front walk and damp flower beds in Eleanor’s front yard. The newswoman standing in the spotlight isn’t anyone I’ve ever seen on TV, but the sophistication of their operation makes me believe that this news team is bigger than Chicagoland.
My attention shifts from the newscast after the woman begins talking, and while Eleanor’s gaze remains fixed on the strangers in her lawn, mine is locked on her. So many times I’ve glanced over there—okay, stared—and she has been laughing, pacing while she talks on the phone with her friends, or posing as she snaps photos that I later find on her social media. This version of Eleanor Trombley is a shell. The laughter is gone, and there is no sign of it returning in the unblinking eyes and sagging shoulders a hundred feet away.
The bright lights below glow for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and when they shut off my eyes find it hard to adjust. The front of the Trombley house suddenly appears dark, buried under the heavy shadows of their enormous tree. I blink for several seconds to regain my focus on the wreath, waiting for the orange and yellow to return. By the time I can make out the door, Eleanor’s window is dark and her curtains drawn. The ghost of a girl has gone. To bed, I hope, though I doubt anyone in that house is sleeping tonight. For whatever reason, I don’t immediately abandon the uncomfortable perch of my desk. Something compels me to stay, to stare at the unmoving curtains a little while longer. I tell myself I’m merely watching over my friend, but that’s not true. We aren’t friends. We’re people who live on the same street who recognize each other. I’m being nosy. Also, a small part of me hopes Eleanor comes back and waves to me again, and just how selfish is that?
Three
The media circus tripled overnight. I awoke to the sound of trucks beeping while backing up to jockey for position in the makeshift parking lot police set up in our street. There’s a small path roped off with yellow tape and cones allowing the five houses closest to the Trombleys’ access to back in and out of driveways. Traffic is temporarily one-way only. I have nowhere to be, but Jake should be here in twenty minutes for geometry tutoring and, given what I know of his skills at navigating shapes, he’s bound to mess this up. This is his second go at this class, trying to earn something better than a D.
I pause halfway down the stairs to finish firing off my text to him with directions to enter from the south instead of the north, but by the time I get to the last step I realize my message isn’t necessary at all.
“Dude. You think I wasn’t showing up early to see the shit show outside?” Jake is a six-foot-four basketball star at our high school. He’s the most popular guy on campus, and the fact he’s my only friend makes zero sense. We’ve known each other since kindergarten, though, and for whatever reason, when it became clear he was destined for the jock route in life and I was more on track for the debate team, he still stuck by me. I have literally manhandled him through passing fifty percent of
