Such a Bad Influence: A Novel, page 4
What the space lacked in air circulation, it made up for in privacy. Located just off the kitchen, the bathroom was directly across the hall, so she’d have it to herself. I never had company over, so the back half of the first floor would be all hers. In fact, besides Juno and Wade—the latter of whom I begrudgingly let inside on occasion to fix things—Alex was the only person I’d had in the house for the last three years.
Guests posed too much of a risk.
All I had left of my mom were the things she’d touched, so I loved her possessions the way I’d loved her. Her pictures and paintings, though valueless, held immense sentimental worth to me. I couldn’t risk exposing the inside of the house to anyone, because everything—from the dishes to the furniture to the faded curtains—was a memory I clung to with both hands.
Of course, I didn’t tell Alex any of this. My apprehension might scare her off, and I didn’t want her to be afraid to touch something. Though, for some reason, my anxiety hadn’t spiked when she entered the house or when she sat on the guest bed and wrinkled the blanket. Her presence felt natural, as though the room had always belonged to her.
Alex stared at the pictures hanging above the dresser. My mom had called it her “beach room,” decorating it with items we’d collected from years of vacationing on the East Coast. Alex examined a photograph of the two of us standing in the ocean, my mother’s arms wrapped around me as I smiled. I’d been ten when that photo was taken, but I remembered the surf crashing into our ankles as we walked the shoreline. I still smiled when I dusted that photograph, recalling our trips to the beach with fondness.
“Have you ever been to the Outer Banks?” I asked.
“Where’s that?”
“North Carolina.”
She shook her head and turned away. Okay, then. I cleared my throat and finished the tour, leading her to the guest bathroom.
“I have one upstairs, so this will be all yours.” I demonstrated how to twist on the finicky showerhead and showed her the toiletries under the sink. She followed me back into the guest bedroom, where Juno jumped onto the twin bed. Alex’s eyes remained expectant.
The house must be really underwhelming, I thought, then said, “So that’s everything.” I held my hands out like I’d said Ta-da.
“What are the house rules?”
“What?” I must’ve misheard; I didn’t have rules for guests.
“Like no smoking or drinking or going upstairs. Stuff like that.”
My childhood sleepovers, though few in number, had never included a list of prohibitions. “Where are you staying that there are rules?”
I regretted the question the moment I asked it. She looked like the deer I often caught munching on blueberry bushes after they’d hopped the fence. A single shout sent them fleeing back to the woods.
She spoke to the floor. “Well, I, um . . . Well, at foster homes, the parents normally had rules about what we could or couldn’t do in their house.”
“You’ve lived in a foster home?” Shock clouded my voice, and her head ducked lower.
“Not anymore,” she mumbled.
I wanted to ask her follow-up questions all night, but in our limited time together, I’d discovered she was rather quiet—not entirely unlike me, in that regard. So I didn’t press her, no matter how much I wanted to. Like the deer, I had the distinct impression Alex would flee at the first loud sound.
“I don’t have any rules.” I fought to keep my voice casual. “But if you smoke, perhaps do it on the porch.”
She nodded, looking relieved. When the awkward silence grew to be too much, I retreated upstairs to get the list of items I’d mentally tallied. I set a basket full of things, including a set of my favorite pajamas and a hairbrush, on her bed.
“Yell if you need anything, but you’re welcome to whatever you can find.”
She looked around the room. “I won’t need anything.”
Her dismissive tone sent me toward the door. Message received: She needed some space.
“Come on, Juno.” I patted my outer thigh. “Come on, girl.”
Juno lifted her head in response, then set it back down on Alex’s bed.
“Come on.” I hit my leg again, awkwardly hovering in the doorway, but Juno rolled onto her side, making it clear she had no intention of leaving the bed.
Since when did Juno prefer this room? “Are you okay with her staying in here?”
Alex shrugged as if she didn’t care, but as I closed the door behind me, she reached out and scratched Juno’s head, a small smile on her lips.
Heading upstairs, I crossed my fingers that Alex wouldn’t be gone in the morning, along with half my things, although I had nothing to steal but pie plates and the bucket of seashells on her dresser—both of which were more valuable than my television. Since it had been purchased in the early months of 2001, she’d need a forklift to get the television to the driveway.
Perhaps going to bed way past my usual time, or the stress of last night’s adventure, had caught up to me, but my eyes wouldn’t close. A glass of tea would settle my nerves, but I feared Alex would think I was hovering. So I did what everyone does when they can’t sleep: I lay in bed and scrolled through the internet on my phone.
The mindless scrolling quickly turned serious when I searched for information about foster care children. Articles about the adoption process popped up first, but Alex hadn’t intimated she’d been adopted. She’d mentioned foster homes, as in plural, and said that she didn’t live there anymore.
I refocused my search on teenagers who’d aged out of the foster care system. My heart ached the more I read. No wonder Alex had gotten arrested. Twenty-five percent of these teenagers end up in prison within two years of aging out. Per the articles, if she’d aged out, Alex would be at a much higher risk of teenage pregnancy, having a criminal record, being homeless or human trafficked, and developing substance abuse problems. Was there anything she wasn’t more likely to have?
The answer appeared as I scrolled: a high school degree.
My heart shattered as I imagined what Alex had endured.
From the day I was born till the day she died, my mom had been a constant presence in my life. At eighteen, I wouldn’t have lasted a week without her help. She’d answered my questions about laundry, the best price for groceries, how long chicken remained edible before I had to freeze it, and a thousand other things I hadn’t learned before heading to the University of Chicago.
At Alex’s age, I’d also leaned heavily on my mom for emotional support. We spoke every day on the phone, sometimes for hours. With my social anxiety, I didn’t have many friends—at least not the kind who wanted to stay home and watch movies on Friday nights. I disliked drinking, loud music, and crowds. Any friends I made slowly drifted out of my life because we wanted different things. Sara-Lynn, my senior-year roommate, had once told me, “The city is wasted on you.” Another friend had grown frustrated with my lack of energy and said, rather harshly, that my life was “depressing.” Sooner or later, I ended up feeling judged by anyone who got close to me, and I withdrew from people more and more, sticking to less emotionally threatening activities, like academics and my part-time job as an English tutor.
When she died, I lost more than a mother—I lost my best friend.
The hole in my heart, the place I tried to keep my mind from entering, swallowed me into a sea of hopelessness.
Perhaps Alex never had anyone to lose. Was that pain worse than mine? To have an intact heart because no one had claimed any part of it?
My eyes drooped, too well conditioned to close at the first sign of tears. I’d cried myself to sleep countless times, but tonight would be different. I couldn’t fall apart.
When tomorrow came, I had to be prepared, well rested, presenting a positive outlook on life. Because Alex was here, in my house, with my mother’s cell phone number, and these kinds of things didn’t just happen.
For the first time in three years, I had a reason to get out of bed in the morning, and I had no intention of failing both my mother and Alex.
Voices drifted up the stairs, stirring me from my sleep. Light under the curtains revealed morning had arrived. Had I left the television on? I pulled the pillow over my head to block out the noise. Then my eyes snapped open.
Alex!
I’d brought Alex home from jail last night, and that noise wasn’t coming from the television.
Who was she talking to? Who was at the house? I never had visitors. Tossing on my robe, I darted downstairs, not bothering to tame my wild hair.
My mood soured when I saw Wade in the kitchen, going through the fridge. I had every right to be concerned.
Juno followed his every move, waiting for him to drop something edible.
“So that’s when the judge decided I wasn’t worth the hassle,” Wade said as he pulled out a carton of milk. He opened the top and sniffed. Shrugging, he reached for a glass from the cabinet. Not the fancy glasses! I wouldn’t let him drink from my garden hose, let alone my mother’s favorite dishware.
Alex laughed at his story.
“What are you doing here?” I entered the kitchen, and both Alex and Wade turned to look at me. Since when did he wake up before noon? I should’ve warned Alex not to let him in the house. That should’ve been House Rule Number One. “Don’t you have your own kitchen to mess up?”
“Morning, Felicity.” He sounded unconcerned with my harsh tone. He pushed himself up and sat on the countertop. “Seems you had an out-of-character and exciting time last night. What with your stealing cars and all . . .”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. Stealing the truck had been out of character, but Wade had no right to judge. This thirty-year-old man-child still partied like it was spring break at Daytona Beach.
“Borrowed it,” I said. “The keys are in the glove compartment.”
“Lucky I didn’t report it stolen.”
“Nobody would steal that hunk of metal.”
Wade smiled as if my words amused him. He turned back to Alex, who still wore the pajamas I’d laid out for her last night; apparently, the color pink didn’t bother her.
“So, like I was saying, you’re young and harmless looking. It’s going to be easy. All you have to do is tell the judge whatever sob story you can think of. One tear and you’ll be golden.”
“They’re not going to buy it,” Alex said. “I’ve got priors.”
Wade snorted and jumped down. “Juvenile priors that are probably off your record by now. When I was sixteen, I lit the opposing football team’s bus on fire. Barely got a slap on the wrist. Then, when I was seventeen—”
“We don’t need to hear every detail of your deplorable teenage behavior.” My voice rose, drowning out his and putting an end to his stories. Alex didn’t seem to need any inspiration for getting into trouble.
“Too much fun for you, anyway,” Wade said. “But I’ve got a connection to a lawyer who can help with this shoplifting charge.”
Now it was definitely time for him to leave. I snatched the glass of milk from his hand and set it gently in the sink. “We don’t want the lawyer who handled your public intoxication charge.”
“Hey, that guy was good. Only got forty hours of community service. And he handles everything: DUIs, divorces, botched medical procedures—”
“Absolutely not.”
Wade turned to Alex and pointed over his shoulder at me. “You’ll have to forgive her. She’s usually in bed by nine, so last night was a lot for her.”
“Goodbye, Wade.” I shoved him out of the kitchen and toward the front door.
“So inhospitable,” he said, then called over his shoulder, “It was nice to meet you, Alex!”
I kept my hand pressed to his back until his feet landed on the porch.
Once outside, he turned and lowered his voice. “You know this is a bad idea, right? Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to grab some popcorn and watch this train wreck, but bringing home a teenager from jail? You’re not equipped to handle this.”
I grabbed the side of the door, ready to slam it in his face. How did he know what I could or could not handle? He didn’t know anything about me. “Gee, thanks, but you’re the last person I’d take advice from. Didn’t you get drunk last year and superglue your hands together?”
“Yes, but there was a good reason for that.”
“Which was?”
“I can’t remember.” Wade stuck his head back inside and whistled. “Juno.” He whistled again. “Come here, girl.”
Paws clattered on the hardwood floor. I scratched Juno behind her ears as she raced outside after her owner. I closed the door, thinking the dog was welcome in my home anytime—but her owner, not so much.
When I returned to the kitchen, my anxiety spiked at Alex’s expectant look. My grand plan to impress her had vanished the moment Wade set foot in this house. What would I say to her? Was I doing the right thing by letting her stay here? Nothing had gone according to plan lately, and now a homeless eighteen-year-old sat in my kitchen. She’d need food and clothes and a whole host of items I couldn’t afford. With my wider hips and pudgy waistline, Alex would have to wear my old, out-of-style—probably never-in-style—clothes from high school. Blood rushed to my head. My fashion choices had now harmed more than just me.
“Sorry about that,” I said, sitting across from her at the kitchen table, trying not to enter full panic mode. Be cool. Be calm. Take a jab at Wade. “He’s annoying, but his dog is nice.”
“Are you still dating him?”
I choked on the air in my lungs. “No.” My answer was emphatic. If he’d suggested otherwise, I’d strangle him. I didn’t care how cute his dog was. “I’ve never dated or done anything close to resembling dating Wade.”
Alex looked like she didn’t believe me. She glanced out the side window toward his house. “He’s good-looking.”
She wasn’t wrong, but I’d never admit that. Not to Wade, or Alex, or anybody.
“Don’t bother telling him, because he seems to already know.”
“He’s better-looking than you described him.”
My heart slammed into my throat. I’d mentioned Wade frequently to my mom in the voicemails, almost none of it good. The fact that Alex knew about him from those messages sent my mind into a tailspin. Had she listened to all the messages? How long ago did she get that phone number? If she listened to the messages, then she’d know all my problems and secrets.
I bit my lip, mortified, but Alex gave nothing away.
“So, what’s the deal with these Blueberry Bandits?” she asked, playing with the edge of the place mat.
I seized the distraction. “I’ll tell you as we eat breakfast.” I stood and opened the fridge. I’d been right about its sorry state last night. “We’ve got eggs, cinnamon, flour, butter, two slices of bread, half a carton of milk, and . . .” I opened the cupboard to the right. Oh! “About two cups of brown sugar.” When had I last bought brown sugar? It’d probably been there for over a year—but no matter, because I had all the ingredients necessary to cook a great breakfast. “How about blueberry coffee cake?”
Alex made a face. “Coffee tastes like battery acid.”
“There’s actually no coffee in coffee cake.”
“Dumb name, then.”
I set the butter on the counter, her lack of enthusiasm not dampening my excitement. Years had passed since I’d baked for anyone but myself. “Do you want to grab us some berries? Two cups ought to do it.” I held out a bowl.
Her eyes widened, and I realized she’d probably never picked fruit straight from the vine before.
“Come on, I’ll show you how to pick the best ones.” I moved toward the back door and turned the handle.
She mumbled under her breath—something about child labor—but stood and followed me outside.
Six
Alex crouched to examine Timmy’s bucket.
We’d trudged out to the back acre after breakfast because she wanted to examine the “crime scene,” as she called it. The bushes, set in organized rows, lay flat against the Ohio earth until they reached the woods and disappeared along the horizon. Not exactly the Rhine, but it had a certain charm.
“Four of them, you said?” Alex asked.
“That’s right. Timmy Callaway and three unidentified friends.”
“How are they getting onto the property?”
“Climbing the fence.”
“So they’re relatively athletic?”
“I suppose.”
She inspected a bush that had been picked clean. “And they come every Friday night?”
“At midnight,” I said. “What’s with all the questions?”
“This is what they usually ask.”
“Who?” My shoulders dipped in bafflement.
“Detectives in crime shows. They always start at the scene of the crime. Haven’t you watched NCIS?”
“No.”
“CSI? SVU?”
Now she’s just making up acronyms. “I don’t watch—”
“If you say Bones, this partnership is finished.”
“I’m a woman in her late twenties, living alone on an isolated farm. Twenty minutes of any procedural cop show and I won’t sleep for a week.”
Alex snorted. “Well, lucky for you, I know what I’m doing . . . and I’ve got plans for little Timmy.”
“We can’t do anything that makes him ill, injured, or dead,” I said quickly. The glee in her tone made me anxious.
“You’re ruining all my creativity.”
“I’m serious, Alex. We’re dealing with children, not murderers from your crime shows. I think the best option is to catch them stealing on video. Then we’ll have proof for the sheriff.”
“You’re bringing Johnny Law into this?” She made it sound like I was a traitor. “Haven’t you tried that before?”
“I haven’t had proof before. That’s where you come in. Between the two of us, we can cover the whole back section of the field.”
