Blackbird (7 page)

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I was just wondering.”

“No, it’s a normal question,” he says. “It’s just a sucky one. My mom’s supposed to get home in the next month, but it’s hard to know. So, yeah . . . just me for now. I turned eighteen this summer so it’s not like they can do anything. No one can force me to stay with my aunt.”

“I thought she kicked you out?”

Ben laughs. “You’re a stickler for details, huh?”

He steps around you, reaching for a drawer, but the space is too narrow. For a moment his body is just inches from yours. His breath is on your skin.

When you finally look up at him he steps away. His cheeks are pink. He keeps pushing the sandwiches around with the spatula. You watch him, waiting for him to meet your eyes, but he doesn’t.

“You could get in trouble for letting me stay here,” you say.

He still doesn’t look up. Instead he puts one of the sandwiches on the plate and nudges it toward you. “I could get in trouble for a lot of things.”

“But serious trouble. Harboring-a-fugitive trouble,” you say.

He grabs his plate and sits down on the edge of the sofa. He shrugs as he takes a bite of his sandwich. “There’s no reason for you to be here, out of all places. There’s no way for them to know we met, right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then we’re fine. It’s not like you’re going to throw a party here, right?”

“No parties . . . yet.” You laugh, taking a bite of the sandwich. It’s the first thing you’ve eaten in days that didn’t come from a plastic package or deli case.

“I’m not worried. You’ll figure things out.” He brushes the hair from his forehead. “Besides, it’ll be cool to have someone here for a while.”

He smiles, and you’re suddenly aware of him beside you. His shoulder against yours. How the sleeve of his T-shirt brushes against your arm. His pajama pants sit low on his hips, revealing a thin strip of his back.

“I bet it was the reward,” he says, then takes another bite of the sandwich.

“What?”

“I bet that’s why the guy was following you. The news I saw said there was a reward for information. He probably recognized you.”

Your insides tighten. You’re reminded of everything you haven’t said. That’s not why, and you know it, but he can’t. “Maybe.”

“Anyway, if they find you I’ll pretend I didn’t see the news. They can’t prove that I did.” When his eyes catch the light they’re a paler gray, almost translucent. “So . . .
Sunny
. . .”

“Why are you saying it like that?”

“It’s not exactly a real name. . . .” He smirks, taking another bite of his sandwich.

Normally you’d be annoyed, but there’s a playfulness in his tone. “Well, when I figure out my actual name, you’ll be the first to know.”

“It suits you, kind of. Your
sunny
disposition . . .” His smile takes over his whole face, and you can’t help but smile a little, too.

You’re going to respond, but then he reaches over and grabs your elbow the same way he did the first time you met. He lifts your arm up and studies the gash in the skin. The scab is darker. “It looks better,” he says.

“Some guy I met at a supermarket told me it was serious.”

“Nah. It looks okay. That guy sounds like an idiot.” Ben’s face is just a few inches from yours. “Hey, do you want to see something?”

“What?”

“Come with me. You’re going to have some free time tomorrow.”

He’s smiling again as he pushes out the door, waving his hand for you to follow. As you cut across the backyard you feel a little different, more at ease, and you realize that you aren’t scanning the edges of the property or glancing over your shoulder. You’re miles away from the freeway, from everything that happened this morning. The woman who tried to kill you is dead, and you have to believe that no matter why the man was following you, he doesn’t want to kill you. You don’t feel completely safe, nothing can make you feel safe after what you have seen, but Ben was right. It’s safer here.
Safer
is
the word.

“The key’s right under this rock,” Ben says, pointing to a stone beside the entryway. He takes his own keys from his pocket, opens the door, pushes into the back foyer. Dirty sneakers line the wall. There’s a basketball, a jacket piled beside it, some books.

You’re halfway down the hall and you can already feel how empty the house is. No music, no smells drifting in from the kitchen or comforting sounds of dishes clanking against the sink. It’s silent, your footsteps floating up around you, a single light ahead revealing a bare dining table.

“I hate it up here,” Ben says, and you wonder if he could see it on your face, if he knew you were thinking the same thing. He turns down the stairs and you follow. “I usually sleep on the couch downstairs. These were my dad’s. . . .”

The basement walls are lined with arcade games. There’s a row of ten or more pinball machines, a Pac-Man table, some sort of Skee-Ball game. Ben’s clothes are piled on one end of a long L-shaped couch in the corner. On the other end is a blanket and pillow. He goes over, picking up empty Doritos bags, tucking a few prescription bottles into the drawers in the coffee table.

“He collected these?” You sit down at the Pac-Man table, taking a quarter from a paper roll on the top. You drop it in, maneuvering the joystick, but within seconds you lose your first life.

“There’s this place in the valley that sells them,” Ben says. “He used to take me there on my birthday to pick them out.”

“How old were you?” you ask.

“I got the first one when I was twelve,” Ben says. He watches you start the next game, how you can’t help but get stuck in the corners, the joystick not moving as you want it to. He puts his hand over yours before the ghosts catch up, helping maneuver you away from them. You feel the heat of his palm, his fingers on yours.

“There,” he says. “You’re getting better.” He lets go, his hand falling back to his side. Then he sits down across from you.

“You have the home advantage,” you say.

“Prepare yourself,” he laughs. “This is six years in the making.”

He drops a few more quarters in. The electronic song starts. His eyes meet yours and he smiles that bright, all-consuming smile. “I’m glad you decided to stay.”

The next game begins. The motel room feels far away.

“I know,” you say. “Me too.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

YOU SPENT ALL
morning searching for information on Ben’s computer. Nothing about a missing girl with a tattoo on her right wrist. Nothing about a woman shot by the 101 Freeway, no matter how many news sites you combed or search terms you used. There’s no website for Garner Consulting. The news clips referred to them only as a tech company, with not a single name of someone who works there.

Now you walk out of the back bungalow, a towel in your hand, letting the sun warm your skin. The backyard is quiet except for the sound of the pool filter. You slip on the sunglasses Ben gave you and his baseball cap, red with worn, frayed edges. You’re about to lie down when you notice a ripped purple hoodie on the patio, crumpled beside the last chair. There’s an iPhone in one of the pockets. As you pick the sweatshirt up a wallet falls out. There are three credit cards, some gift cards, a New York driver’s license, and a social security card. You fan it open, counting the twenties in the main compartment—seven in all. You don’t need the cash, but the cards are tempting. The girl looks enough like you, a teen with dark hair. You could use her ID and credit cards to book a plane ticket to another coast.

You’re leaning over, about to tuck the wallet in your shorts, when you hear the creak of the gate. You slip the wallet back into the sweatshirt. Then you drop down on the chair and fold your legs to you, pretending to look out across the yard.

The girl walks over, her steps so sure and even you have to remind yourself that she doesn’t belong here. Her thick black hair is shaved on one side, her bangs sweeping over her forehead, blending into the rest of her shoulder-length hair. You adjust the brim of your hat, feeling more protected behind the glasses.

“Is this yours?” You pick up the sweatshirt, holding it out to her. “What’s it doing here?”

“I left it.” She grabs it, tying it around her waist like it’s not a big deal.

“You say that as if you live here. . . .”

“My grandma lives next door. She’s friends with Liz? She goes up there to see her sometimes. She told us we could use the pool while I’m visiting.”

Liz.
Ben never said his mom’s first name, but there are photos of her around the house. This morning you noticed a pile of mail stacked on one of the video games, bills and catalogs addressed to Elizabeth Paxton.

“Don’t worry,” the girl says. “I’m not a spy. It’s just . . . this heat is nasty.”

“It’s cool,” you lie, trying to compose your face.

“Anywhooo . . .” the girl says. “Thanks for watching Rhonda.”

“Who?”

“Rhonda.” She holds up the purple sweatshirt.

“You named your sweatshirt?”

“I like to think of her as a life force. She was with me when I passed my DMV test, when I took my SATs, when I moved. First kiss, first boyfriend, first everything.”

She uses her hands when she talks and her nails catch the light, the blue glitter polish sparkling. She doesn’t sit, but you have the sense that she doesn’t intend to leave, that she’ll stand here talking to you until you tell her to go.

“Everything . . . ?”
you ask, surprised at how quickly you match her tone.

The girl pulls down her sunglasses so you can just see her eyes. Then she smiles. “That’s a pretty personal question for someone who doesn’t even know my name.”

“You don’t know my name either.”

The girl just smiles. “I wasn’t wearing her, exactly. . . . But she was there. As a witness.”

She plops down on the lounge chair beside you, her metallic pink bikini top reflecting the sun. Her jean shorts are ripped, showing the white cloth pockets underneath. She has a piercing in her cheek and a tattoo—a line of script down her right side:
If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.

“Your tattoo,” you say, pointing to it. “Where’s that from?”

“
The Bell Jar
. A book. When my parents found out about it they nearly shit their pants. They were all like, ‘We can’t believe you did this to your body. You’re ruining yourself. It’s so cynical, when did you become so cynical?’”

“It seems kind of cynical. But I like it.”

The girl runs her finger along the letters, tracing a line beneath them. “That’s the messed up thing, though. I got this when I was thirteen. Three years ago. And when they said that, there was this part of me that thought:
Huh. Maybe I will hate it. Maybe I’ll be one of those people who has this ugly greenish-black tattoo on their body and I’ll spend years wishing I didn’t have it. Maybe I’ll have to get it removed.
But I still feel this way. I still think it’s true. I almost wish I didn’t.

“What about yours? What do those numbers mean?” She points to the inside of your wrist. It’s a reflex, how quickly you cover it with your hand.

“It’s stupid,” you say, keeping it covered. She couldn’t have gotten that good a look.

“Come on. I show you mine, you show me yours, right?” She flashes a smile. No teeth, just her lips twisting into a dimple.

“It’s just something I got with a friend. The numbers are . . . his birthday,” you say, wondering if it could be true. You think again of the dream, of the boy you followed through the forest.

“What are the letters? Initials?”

“Yeah, initials. We’re not together anymore.”

It’s comforting, this story, how you loved someone enough to make it permanent. You almost want to believe it yourself.

She nods. “So you’re with Liz’s son now . . . Bud? Billy?”

“Ben.”

“Right. My grandma had these fantasies that maybe we’d like each other, that maybe we could be friends while I was here. He’s cute . . . a little mainstream for me. I go for more of the skinny jeans, tight T-shirt, is-he-gay-or-not-we-don’t-know emo guys. I can’t blame you, though.”

You’re conscious of the connection. This girl telling her grandmother telling Ben’s mom. It’s better if no one knows you’re staying with him, that there’s a toothbrush on the sink, some of his borrowed clothes crumpled on the bathroom floor. “We’re not together. I just hang out here sometimes, but it’s not a thing. It’s just easier being here. I have to sort some things out at home.”

“Gotcha. Yeah, sorting things out . . . I can relate.”

“Yeah . . . shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“I’m eighteen,” you say. You can’t be sure, but compared to her, it feels right.

“I’m taking a hiatus while I’m staying with Mims . . . my grandma.”

“Where are you from?”

“Long Island. Have you ever been? It’s a mall-based economy, if that explains anything.”

It doesn’t mean anything to you, but her expression changes when she says it. The girl looks down, picking at the frayed edge of her shorts.

“I haven’t been.”

“I’m just staying for a week, laying low, as they say. There was a ‘scandal’ at school. My mom’s solution was to go online and immediately buy me a ticket to LA.” She makes imaginary quote marks in the air when she says “scandal.”

“A week with your grandmother . . . sounds kind of boring.”

“Actually, Mims is awesome. She does yoga every day and she’s ripped. Seriously—her arms are more toned than mine. And it’s just easier to be around her. I don’t have to explain myself all the time.”

The girl pulls her iPhone from her sweatshirt. She starts flicking through it, typing, then she turns the screen to you. “Wanna see something?”

You lean forward, watching as she plays a video. At first it just shows a kid in a supermarket aisle. The kid can’t be more than three or four, and you can see her mother’s legs in the background, facing away. It’s silent. The girl wears a blue dress and she’s dancing, though you’re not sure to what. She shuffles her feet, throws a hand up in the air. Then an acoustic-guitar melody starts. It cuts to a woman who fits the description of Mims, caught in a moment by herself, doing a quick pivot across her floor. The video goes on like that for the length of the song, showing different people of different ages, dancing without knowing they’re seen.