VIII

I try not to focus too much on the fact that Amelia and Ethan aren’t at school today, I really don’t. I just can’t help notice it, though when I bus to school, when lunch is quieter and when no one tries to get my attention from the edge of the hallway. The day is frightfully boring.

I promise that I really don’t pay much attention to it.

When the bell goes for the end of the day and Amelia still hasn’t turned up, I get a text from Carmen: I’ll drive you home. Meet me at my car. Although I hadn’t not been expecting an offer based off how upset Carmen was when I told her I bussed in the morning, I was surprised to actually get a genuine offer.

Okay, I send off as I lift my backpack off the floor and trudge out of the classroom.

“Cancel whatever plans you just made.”

I look up and standing against the row of lockers closest to my last period class is none other then Blake Weber. His crossbody bag is slung over one shoulder, one hand hold the strap and the other’s in his pocket. I eyeball him, my mouth in a straight line.

“You’re too late,” I say, turning my back to him and walking down the hallway, hoping, he will, in fact, get a hint: I’m not in the mood. You should have come to me earlier, I want to say but I keep my teeth clenched. No words escape my mouth.

Feet shuffle behind me as the flow of students leaving their classes is disrupted and out of the periphery of my vision, I know why. Blake pushes through people until he catches up to me.

“Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” he says into my ear, his tone is low and threatening and maybe someone smarter or less knowledgeable about the Webers would adhere to his advice. Either, I’m about to make a stupid descion, or I know that Blake Weber is all talk.

My feet halt. “Excuse you?”

Blake lay a hand on my shoulder and I shrug it off. He leans closer to me.

“Meet me at the end of your street at seven o’clock.” Blake distances himself, and reads my stony face. “You’re not backing out are you?”

“I hope for your sake, you learn to respect others,” I say, my feet beginning to move again. I call back to him, “It better be worth my time.”

I have no time or patience for Blake, I never really did.

The Webers were having a town barbeque, and despite only being in seventh grade, I knew town wide didn’t actually include most of the town. The Smythes were there, there was talk of Amelia’s mom running for mayor after all, and a few other families without young kids were there: the elderly couple with a kid in his late twenties, the husband and wife that own a large percent of the farmer’s market, and a few others I couldn’t place.

Ava and Noah, both in grade nine, entertained themselves on their phones, hands entwined between their lawn chairs. They didn’t talk to each other which I thought was dumb because Ava said they were dating but besides holding hands, it didn’t seem like it.

Amelia and I took turns trying to roast the perfect golden marshmallow: Amelia always got the best ones. It was my turn, and the marshmallow hovered only an inch over the flame, it neared golden when someone came and grabbed my wrist and forcefully push it down. The marshmallow on the stick went with it and it fell right into the heart of the fire. I watched it burn.

“What the hell is your problem?” I demanded Blake. I rose to my feet and because he’d barely hit puberty yet, he was my height. “Do you really have to be such an ass?”

I had a vulgar middle school phase.

Blake looked between me and Amelia. He grabbed a marshmallow from the bag on my lawn chair, took a bite of it and then turned around to leave.

“Bastard,” I grumbled as I sat back down.

Blake took that moment to show off his throwing arm. He turned back to me and threw the wet, semi-eaten marshmallow from his mouth right at me. It landed in my hair.

“I fucking hate him,” I seethed as I tried to pick it out of my hair.

“He has a crush on you. That’s why he’s an ass.”

No, I knew Blake better than that. “No, he doesn’t.”

“What took you so long?” Carmen asks as I approach her mom’s old buick from the early two-thousands.

It’s had its share of damage done; the back seat mirror on the passenger side wasn’t glass anymore, it was a trash bag taped up; the silver paint job had dulled, and it bubbled in some places with rust hiding beneath the bulging paint. It smells stale with its original upholstered seats that are fuzzy.

“I went to the washroom,” I say as I open the backseat passenger door. Mark is already in the front passenger seat. It wasn’t a lie: I did go to the washroom, just not to go to the washroom. I splashed my face with cold water to try and eliminate the flushed colour of my cheeks from my confrontation with Blake. Eventually, I gave up, deciding my cheeks would just stay red for a little while. “Have you heard from Amelia?” I ask once Carmen’s gotten herself seated in the driver’s seat.

She’s backing up when she says, “Nope. Mark?”

Mark shakes his head and I chew on my lip. “Yeah, me neither. She’s uh⸺she’s staying at the Stock’s.”

Carmen looks at me in her rear-view mirror. “And?”

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of Ethan, but I haven’t been able to. He called me last night and said Amelia was crying but that’s the last I’ve heard.”

Mark is expectedly solemn in the front seat, his head hangs low and he’s uncharacteristically quiet when it comes to talking about Amelia.

“Mark, do you want Ethan’s number? So you can get updates without me having to be the middleman,” I offer leaning forwards so my face is between the front seats. “Ethan won’t mind.” That’s not something I should promise, because I can’t ensure he, in fact, won’t mind, but I’m willing to take his wrath if it means Mark gets to hear from Amelia.

“No, no,” Mark says, coming out of a dazed stupor, “it’s alright.” He leaves it at that but I get the sense that there’s more he wants to say.

There’s more I want to say too, I want to tell them I wish Amelia would respond because I know she has her phone⸺she called me with it last night, I want to wonder out loud why Ethan is ignoring my texts⸺did I do something wrong?⸺ and why I wish I knew his address so I could show up and demand to know what is going on.

I know better, however, I know that both Carmen and Ethan have no care for Ethan, and I’d honestly rather not go into why he’s a concern of mine when it’s Amelia I should be solely worrying about. Truth is, I don’t know either.

So I stay quiet and just lean back against my headrest, waiting until we arrive at my house so I can thank Carmen and leave, not having to worry about seeing the both of them until tomorrow morning tomorrow’s lunch.

The news of the Smythe’s house has hit paper, I know because Mom has today’s newspaper in her hand when I get home. She stands in the foyer, holding it so I can clearly see the cover image. It’s the burning house.

“Is this where you went last night?” Mom asks while I ignore her and take off my sneakers.

I look up at her. “Yeah.”

“How’d you get there?”

“Ethan Stock drove me,” I say. I walk off the kitchen, leaving Mom to trail after me.

“Why would Ethan Stock be invested in you or Amelia Smythe?” Mom spits his name like it hurts her.

It hurts me, though.

I hesitate. What’s less damaging to tell her? If word reached the town of the nature of the Mayor and the Sheriff’s relationship, their credibility would hit the fan. No one would trust the skills of a police appointed by her romantic partner. On the other hand, if I told Mom about what Ethan and I were doing, I was in for a long conversation that would involve yelling and maybe some drinking on her part.

“Ethan and I are dating,” I decide is the best explanation.

Mom goes white. I wonder if she’s going to throw up. “You and that oriental?” Her voice is stony and she looks almost hurt. How dare she be hurt? “Charlotte, you better be joking, I swear to God.”

I ignore the racial slur, even if it makes my stomach churn. “I’m not joking.” I catch her eye and she immediately backs down after seeing the glassy reflection my eyes must cast of her.

Mom makes a disgusted noise, and turns on her heels, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I drop my backpack.

I lean against the counter, my head in my hands as I try not to break into a fit of crying.

I keep from descending too far into madness by actually catching up on school work: I start and complete a draft of my essay, I review for an upcoming calculus test, and I even organize my binder.

As retribution for the claim I made to Mom, I’m not called for dinner and when I go downstairs at six-thirty to make something, Mom is waiting for me in the kitchen. She looks so very disappointed and I want to tell her I lied, admit that Ethan and I aren’t dating, but that would put Ethan under more scrutiny if Mom knew the truth, For that reason, I uphold my lie.

Mom shakes her head almost sadly. “Not tonight, Charlotte,” she says.

I just nod is acknowledgement and turn around to head back upstairs. I don’t go straight to my room, I want to check something in Ava’s room first so I venture in there.

Everything is as I remember it: bed made, blinds open, fan off. Part of me wished something had changed, like maybe her bed had been slept in, or a pair of pants had been set out on her dresser. I suffer no such luck.

Dropping to my knees, I fish my hand around under Ava’s bed, feeling for the box of granola bars she always kept stocked incase Mom did something like this.

My hand hits something plastic and I fumble around until I get a good feel for it, it’s a garbage bag. I try to tug on it but it doesn’t budge and before I can investigate further, there’s footsteps on the stairs. I pocket two granola bars and book it out of Ava’s room before Mom can corner me again.

By the time I’ve scarfed the granola bars and chased them down with as much water as I have left in my water bottle⸺albeit, only two big sips⸺it’s nearly time for me to leave.

Shit. I hadn’t thought that through. Mom won’t let me leave if she even has the slightest idea that Ethan is among those I’m out with. That being said, Ethan is not invited tonight.

I can’t convince Mom of that though.

I grab my purse and leave my room.

Mom stops me at the top of the stairs. “Where are you going?” She yells from her spot on the master bed.

Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought. “Blake invited me out to hang out,” I say, “Ethan won’t be there.”

“Are you lying?” Mom asks.

“No, you can call Sheriff Stock, if you want.”

“Be back before midnight,” she says, effectively ending the conversation.

“I was planning on it,” I say before I scamper down the stairs and out the door, pausing only to slip on my shoes and grab my spring jacket.

The sky is overcasted tonight, and the ceiling hangs low enough that the roar of a plan coming into the land at the national airport a few towns over is only that: the noise, since the clouds hide the haul of the plane.

I don’t think there’s forcasted rain, but the dull ache in my head says otherwise. Considering my encounters with Mom tonight, that might be the culprit of my headache.

My house is only thirty doors down from the top of the street, meaning I should make it in under ten minutes. I check the time on my phone: it’s only a quarter to seven.

I trudge up the street, more focused on the music in my headphones than the houses around me. I keep my earbuds in when I reach the top of my street. I keep them in when I see Blake’s car roll down the road, it’s black tinted windows hiding what I’m sure is a typical outfit and expression on his face. My headphones are still in when I open the passenger door and exclaim, “You have got to be shitting me!”

Ethan Stock sits in the front seat.

Oh, how I hope Mom doesn’t call Sheriff Stock.