Smoke, page 5
I wheeze, letting loose a final rattling cough. “God. How can you even drink that?” My face scrunches. “Tastes like lighter fluid and turpentine had a baby.” I wipe my mouth in disgust.
Cole chuckles again. “Honor, I can pretty much guarantee nobody here is drinking for the taste. They’re drinking for the feel or…the numb. Gets a little less terrible by the second or third try.” As he takes the bottle from my hand, his fingers brush over mine, making the rest of me burn like my stomach.
I jerk away, cramming my hands back in my pockets. If he noticed our touch, he doesn’t show it. Someone turns up the music. The bass pulses through me, bringing a warm, lulling sensation with it.
After a few minutes of staring at the ground, Cole turns his gaze on me. “Can I ask you something?”
I nod, despising the way my heart knocks harder.
“It was girl’s pick at that party last summer. You could’ve asked any guy to go in the closet. So I’ve always wondered, why’d you pick me?”
His question possesses the kind of magic that bends space and time.
And suddenly, I’m back…
Back to that night in August, when summer blushed like my skin and the cicadas held a steady serenade. I was wearing a red sundress that tied at the shoulders. One my mother bought me, shoved deep in my closet and resurrected for a single night. Boys back home never looked at me. At least not the way these boys did, wearing this girlish dress that didn’t hide how my body had changed. Didn’t bury my femininity.
Cole approached me through a sea of faces that looked as fuzzy as I felt. His eyes were pale, like the barren blue of a late-October sky, and kind—unlike the suggestive stares of some of the others. He told me his name and asked mine. When I told him, he repeated it; the sound of my name became a song on his lips.
Of course I noticed he was gorgeous. Charming. But that wasn’t what drew me to him. It was his eyes. Not the pretty color, but the surprising loneliness in them. This beautiful boy surrounded by so many people all vying for his attention. Yet somehow in his gaze, I saw the same loneliness I felt.
And in that moment, I saw a kindred spirit. Someone whose outsides didn’t quite match their insides. Someone who understood.
“Your dress,” Cole said simply. I looked down and saw one of the ties had come loose. Whether my doing or someone else’s, I wasn’t sure. “Can I?” Fix it. He wanted permission to fix it because I was too tipsy to realize how close I was to Mardi Gras flashing everyone at the party.
I nodded. And with bleary eyes watched as his nimble fingers made bunny ears, looped them around each other, then secured the tie. A perfect bow perched like a bird on my shoulder. After double-knotting it, he reinforced the other side and smiled. “All good, Honor Augustine,” he said, letting the song of my name play once more.
And for the first time in more months than I could remember, it was. All good.
“Bunny ears,” I mumble, still swept up in summer. The most dangerous season of the year.
“Bunny ears?” Cole repeats in confusion. “Are you saying I have big ears?” He self-consciously pulls down his hat to cover them.
“No! That’s not what I…” But I can’t explain. Because for whatever reason, explaining will make me feel more exposed than if the sundress had completely shed my body that night.
“You were…you were nice to me, okay?” I snap.
His brows ascend to the moon. “And that was a good thing? Because you make it sound like I’m guilty of crimes against humanity or something.”
I do. I know I do. Once again, my words and tone are inept, provoking instead of comforting. If this were an exam I’d be failing. “I didn’t mean—” But my reply is cut short by the odd sound echoing from the depths of the woods.
“Owwooo! Ow! Ow! Owwoooooo!”
Cole glances over his shoulder and sniffs. “Lacrosse team. I’d know those dogs anywhere.”
The boys parading as wolves continue yipping and baying at the moon. One wolf howls louder and longer than the others—the alpha. Instinctively, I know it’s Xander.
“I—I gotta go,” I say, scrambling to my feet and flipping up my hood. A chill slices through me as the predators draw nearer. “When you see my brother tell him I was here, okay?”
“Wait, you’re leaving?”
“Just promise you’ll tell him,” I repeat more forcefully.
“Yeah. Sure. But we were finally talking and—” Cole tries to get up from the log too quickly, and gravity drags him ruthlessly back to earth. “Son of a—” He struggles to sit back up.
“Honor,” he says, slightly out of breath, “it doesn’t have to be this way. Stay. Just for a little while. Please?” His eyes implore like his tone.
I hover at the edge of the woods where the trees stand shoulder to shoulder. There are more brambles this way. More prickers. More things that will want to pierce and claw at my skin.
Still. They’re less fearsome than the wolves on the main trail. Namely, the alpha.
“I can’t, Cole.”
He still doesn’t get it. How the whole situation would get spun if we were seen together again, alone in the dark. So I dive, fighting my way into the tangle of forest. Branches part with reluctance and scratch in protest.
Once I break through the worst of the thickets, darkness settles like a blanket over my shoulders. Cole calls for me again. But in my mind, his voice has grown as far away as last summer.
Then I turn on my flashlight and let the beam of light guide me home.
5
How did my life become irreversibly altered in the span of twelve hours? All because I turned right instead of left. Had I taken the trail that veered left, I would’ve gone straight home.
Which meant I wouldn’t have discovered the catastrophic secret I now carry. In fact, I might never have discovered it.
Until it was too late.
It happened in the wake of last night’s party that wasn’t. After I wandered the woods like a reclusive sasquatch, texting Zee about the “epic time” I was having at the Hole. I’m not sure why I lied. I guess I felt ashamed, like I’d failed us both with my inability to raise even a modest amount of hell. Maybe Knox was right and I really was born eighty.
Anyway, a half hour into my forest meandering, my toes had gone numb and my shivers bordered on convulsions, so I decided to thaw at the greenhouse, since I couldn’t go home. Showing up two and a half hours before curfew wasn’t exactly going to sell Dad on this whole normal-teen facade.
Little did I know that trip would change everything. Because once you’ve pressed a button, you can’t unpress it.
I figured the blinking light on the office answering machine would be the mulch guy with a delivery date. It wasn’t. Maybe I should’ve known better. Because does anything good ever come from a flashing red light?
So I played and replayed the message, my heart sinking lower with each repetition. Until eventually, my rib cage felt hollowed out and empty, and the message had imprinted on my brain in a way no button could erase.
Even now, slumped against the wall Sunday morning while Knox hogs all the hot water with his marathon shower, I can recall every word. Every breath. Every loaded pause…
“Good afternoon, Ms. Hannigan. This is Lydia Katchurski at Ravenswood Community Bank,” the woman stated crisply. “This is my third attempt to reach you in regard to your delinquent business loan. Please contact me immediately to discuss arrangements on this account to avoid the legal action and penalties outlined in our previous notices.” She rattled off her availability and phone number, ending with a curt goodbye.
And I sat there, shell-shocked and unblinking, struggling to comprehend just how dire our situation was. Sure, business had taken a hit with the big-box stores opening, but it couldn’t be that bad, could it? Besides, Aunt Maeve hadn’t given any indication we were in a financial suckhole. Why would she intentionally hide something so huge?
Maybe she was in denial. Or maybe she was keeping our money troubles under wraps for the same reason I was hiding out in the greenhouse—to protect Dad. To shelter him from the kind of stress that could trigger another episode. To make him believe everything was okay.
It wasn’t until I tore apart the office that I found out what legal action and penalties truly meant. And it was worse than I could’ve imagined.
The bathroom door suddenly swings open, and Knox shuffles out, steam billowing in his trail. His hair drips like the showerhead, towel slung at his hips. He stops to sniff the air before staring at me as intensely as his bloodshot eyes allow. “I think you might be taking your tree hugging too literally, Hon.”
My thoughts are still swarming with secrets and how I’m going to face Aunt Maeve and Dad, so his comment doesn’t register. “Huh?”
He gestures to my head with a smirk. “Your hair.”
“My hair?” I repeat in confusion and push from the wall. Anything that can garner the amused attention of a hungover Knox can’t be good. I race into the foggy bathroom, rubbing the steam from the mirror. “What the hell?!” I squawk, inspecting the shiny-looking glob. It’s super thick and tacky and—“Oh no, it’s sap!”
“Explains why you smell like Christmas.” My brother leans in the doorway while I assess the damage, his devilish grin widening by the second. “Buchannon said you showed at the Hole last night. Didn’t believe him until now. Puffy red eyes, accidental sapping…” His face erupts in full glee. “You imbibed, didn’t you?”
“No! It must’ve happened last night when I tripped in the woods.”
“Classic,” he chuckles. “Stumbling drunk in the dark—we really are related.”
I pin back the nonsticky sections to see what I’m dealing with. “Shit,” I moan. “It’s right at the front in the middle of my hair! How am I going to get this out before brunch?”
Knox bursts into laughter. “Sorry. I was just remembering the time Dylan Caldwell passed out after a night of partying and woke up with his gum in his pubes.”
I shoot him a dirty look as he doubles over, clutching his stomach.
“Swear to God!” he cries, lifting a hand. “He had to use ice to get it out. Except, well, then he ended up freezing his nutsa—”
I kick the door shut and focus back on my fraught reflection.
“Hey! Dude, I just told you how to fix it,” Knox calls from the other side.
When I don’t respond he adds, “What, you’re just gonna ignore your wizened elder?”
That is precisely what I intend to do. Also, everything about that statement is wrong.
My brother sniffs. “Fine, have it your way. Enjoy your bald spot!” he shouts into the keyhole.
But there won’t be a bald spot, because I’ve already figured out how to fix my hair. It’s everything else, the stuff that matters most, that I have no clue how to fix.
Because the legal action and penalties Ms. Katchurski threatened in that message all boil down to this bleak reality: we have until August to come up with $25,897 to pay off the delinquent loan or the bank will seize the greenhouse and the farmhouse.
Four months to come up with the cash or…
We lose everything.
* * *
Thirty-five minutes later, I descend the stairs and into the maelstrom of monthly brunch. Aunt Maeve cackles at something Knox has said as she pulls her famous egg casserole from the oven to check the temperature.
I watch them from the hallway. Every one of them hiding something in between their easy banter. Even Knox. True, his secret isn’t money-related, but I know for a fact he said he was going to hang with Jason Stiles the other day and didn’t. I know because Jason called our landline four hours into their “hang” when he couldn’t reach him by cell.
So where was Knox all that time? Beats me. And frankly, I’m fine not knowing. My headspace is already at maximum capacity, standing room only.
Aunt Maeve takes several gulps of her special stress-busting tea. It makes sense why she’s been downing the infusion like whiskey shots lately. Now that I’ve seen all those damning emails and hidden bank notices, it casts everything in a new light.
And that’s the thing about revelations—nothing ever looks the same after them.
“Come on, Aunt Maeve,” Dad goads over the hissing strips of meat on the griddle, “spill the tea. Did you go and get yourself a fella? Is that why you’re all gussied up?”
“Oh, please,” she replies, tightening the apron over her linen dress. “As if any man around here could keep up with me. They’re either married or fuddy-duddies with no sense of adventure and a surplus of ear hair. No, I’m hosting book club later this afternoon. Which I’ve learned is actually just an excuse for a bunch of old ladies to get together and get snockered.”
Dad and Knox laugh.
“I’m serious! They talk book for five minutes, then it’s all gimlets and dirty martinis for the other two hours and fifty-five—” She cuts off when she sees me. “Hey! Morning, Pip,” she says brightly.
“Ah, the creature lives!” my father declares, giving the bacon slices a flip. Geronimo licks his chops, willing gravity to deliver a morsel of meat his way. “Thought we were going to have to send up a search party for you. How’s my social butterfly this morning?”
My brother snorts.
Before I can answer or respond to Aunt Maeve’s cheerful greeting, Dad does a double take, pointing at me with the tongs. “Something’s different about you.”
“Um…” My eyes self-consciously jump to Knox. He smothers his smile and clears his throat, then resumes slicing the tops off the strawberries. “I wanted to try a new look,” I fib.
“Bangs!” Aunt Maeve gestures to my forehead, her hand covered by the rooster oven mitt. “She got bangs!”
“Yeah,” I mumble, beelining for the fridge to get juice. The bangs ended up shorter than expected, too. But really, that’s the least of my concerns this morning. Hair grows. Money doesn’t.
“Well,” Aunt Maeve continues, pulling the foil from the casserole, “I think the bangs make your hazels absolutely pop. You look très sophisticated.”
“Très très sophisticated,” my brother obnoxiously parrots, setting the bowl of berries on the table with a smug expression. Then he hums “O Christmas Tree.”
Shut up, I mouth to Knox, and grab a stack of plates from the cupboard. The dishes rattle in my unsteady hands, but nobody seems to notice.
Dad’s grouching over yet another burner that’s gone out on the stove as Aunt Maeve commiserates over the poor manufacturing of appliances today. For the record, that stove is twice as old as me.
With breakfast ready, we gather at the oak table while Geronimo helicopters around it. Conversation swells, food is passed, and silverware scrapes over chipped heirloom porcelain.
But my stomach has gone sour with acid. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through this breakfast, much less eat it. What should be an ordinary moment now feels like a brutal reminder of what’s at stake.
“Something wrong with the bacon?” Dad asks, nodding toward the crispy strip inches from my mouth.
Not something, everything. And the wrongness has nothing to do with bacon. But I shake my head and take a bite. Because that’s what we do.
We are a family of well-meaning pretenders.
So I play my part. Like always. Dutifully sitting in my place at the table. I force food into my mouth and down my throat while I pretend this is just another Sunday. Pretend I don’t notice the tightness of Aunt Maeve’s too-quick smile, or the worried set of my father’s jaw when he thinks no one is looking. Pretend everything we hold dear isn’t slipping away.
Dad cannot know about the bank loan. And Aunt Maeve’s been taking steps to conceal the gravity of our financial situation, so I have every reason to believe she’ll continue living on her island of denial. I could talk to Knox, but…well, his skill set doesn’t really lend itself to a problem of this magnitude. Besides, he’s far better at spending money than sourcing it.
Which leaves me. So I have to find a solution so my family doesn’t end up homeless. Or worse.
And I have roughly 120 days to do it.
6
With a heavy sigh, I flop down on the bench outside the school’s media center, where I stayed after to study with Zee. Nine days of brainstorming, and I still have no viable solution to show for it.
Usually, I’m great at solving puzzles. My mind latches onto them with the same ferocity as Geronimo’s jaws on his rope toy. But never have I come up against a puzzle like this. One where the fate of my family’s future hangs so precariously on my ability to solve it.
My ears perk at the sound of an aging muffler. Dad angles the work truck up to the curb. The brakes release a pitiful whine.
“Sorry I’m late,” he calls over the blub-blub-blub of the exhaust. “Picked up another job at the Hollands’. They’re looking to put on a new deck, so I stopped to give them an estimate.”
I hop off the bench, hefting my messenger bag to my shoulder. “No worries. Zee and I just finished in the library.” Tossing my bag to the floor, I slide into the cab, fragrant with sawdust and metal. No worries, I think. If worries were currency, I’d be filthy rich and our money problems would be a distant memory.
“I recognize that kid from the paper. What’s the Buchannon boy doing hovering?” Dad asks, motioning with his chin toward the bench I just left.
Sure enough, Cole hovers several feet away, a bulging equipment bag weighing down one shoulder. He quickly looks away and busies himself with his phone.
Was he there the whole time? My insides contort like a prize gymnast.
