Solitary: A Novel (20 page)

"What do you mean, dark stuff?"

"Maybe another time, all right? I'm just trying to warn you."

"People have been warning me about her ever since I first spoke to her."

"Doesn't surprise me. Our school's not that big. People talk. Rumors, secrets, all that. A lot of the kids who don't live in Solitary don't really know what they're talking about. But it's just-you're new, you don't have a clue."

"Thanks," I say.

"No offense. Not like you're clueless about life. Just about Solitary. I can see any guy coming to this place and being gaga over her. I sure was."

"What happened?"

"Issues, man. Like major crazy issues."

I think back to the last week, to the conversation in the car, to my last few interactions with Jocelyn.

It's easy to believe Ray.

"Man, I'm still crazy about that girl. But she changes like the moon. Some days it seems like she's full, you know, when she's just alive and amazing. And other times, it's like she's empty. Nobody's there. I don't know why. Guess that's why they have medication and doctors and all that."

I suddenly don't feel so hungry.

It's strange, but I feel almost guilty talking about Jocelyn with Ray. Even if she doesn't want to talk to me.

Ray finishes his plate and tells me he's going to get another. I nibble on my food and listen to conversation in the background and try to picture my mother here.

It's impossible. I can barely even picture myself here.

A minute or two later I see the pastor walking toward me.

A dread suddenly comes over me, and I have no idea why.

It's like I'm worried that he's going to ask me about God or my faith or my family or something else that perhaps I need confession for.

"Can I sit here?"

I nod and smile and suddenly have an urge to jump off the deck and fall several stories below.

"I don't believe we've met," the pastor says in a calm, warm manner. "I'm Jeremiah."

I shake his hand. "Chris."

"Friend of Ray's?"

I nod, suddenly feeling light-headed. The guy has a baby face, the kind that probably could never grow a beard, with tiny lips and a narrow jaw that makes it appear like he's smirking all the time. His hip glasses glint in the sun.

"New to the area?"

I nod again.

The pastor looks around. When I follow his glance, I see there are only a couple of people left out here, and they're starting to walk away.

Where'd everybody go?

"Solitary is a good place, a quiet place," Jeremiah says between small bites of his salad. "I grew up here, then left for a while to find the world. Learned that the world is no different from here. It's just faster. And louder."

I try to swallow, and some potato salad seems to get stuck in my throat. I wonder if Pastor Marsh knows CPR, because I might need it.

"Is your last name Buckley?"

"Yes," I croak out, taking a drink of my soda to help loosen the potatoes.

"What's your mother's maiden name?"

"Kinner."

"Tara Kinner?"

"That's my mom."

"I knew it," he says with a smile.

A creepy smile that gives me an icky feeling that I can't explain.

"You look just like her," the pastor says.

"Yeah."

"How is she?"

"Good," I say.

Ifgood means downing bottles of wine every day.

"You're not going to believe this, but your mother and I were in the same class at the grade school."

"Really?"

"Yes. Until she moved away. Ask if she remembers me. She probably won't. I was a little nerd back then. Even in grade school your mother was beautiful."

I nod and force a smile. I want to get up since we're the only ones on the deck now, but there's no way to delicately do that.

"Where are you living?"

"We're at my uncle's cabin."

Jeremiah nods, taking a bite and quickly chewing the way a mouse might. Every time I look at him, something seems off.

I have no idea why. He looks normal.

Something's not right.

"I haven't seen your uncle for some time. It's Robert, right?"

"Yeah. He sorta vanished."

Instead of finding this surprising, Jeremiah takes a sip from his glass of water in a casual matter. As if he already knew that.

Probably does, since this is such a small place.

"Did you know your Uncle Robert?"

"Not really."

"How old are you, Chris?"

"Sixteen."

"That would make you a junior then, correct?"

I nod.

Where's Ray? Where's anybody?

"Any other friends you've made at the school besides Ray?"

He waits for an answer, giving me a hard look that forces me to answer it.

"No, not really."

"No one? No one at all?"

"No," I say again.

"There is a lovely young girl I know named Jocelyn Evans. Have you met her?"

I stare at him, feeling like he has his knee on my chest and is pressing down. The oxygen inside of me is suddenly gone. My head feels dizzy, down, suddenly despairing.

"Sure, I've met her."

He nods. "Of course you have."

Adults can talk to kids this way. Even if you're sixteen, you're still always behind.

I don't know what to say.

"I'm sure you've probably been told by different people to be careful, right?"

"It's come up," I say.

"And?"

I shrug, looking into the closed screen door where I hear voices and laughter but don't see anybody.

"Have you taken their advice?"

"Do you know Jocelyn?"

"I know most of the people in this town, Chris."

I feel bumps on the back on my neck. And on my arms.

Something in the way he said that ...

"She's just someone I've gotten to know."

"You know what a pastor's job is, Chris?"

The way he says my name. Its almost the way my father used to say it.

Its too familiar, too close.

"No," I say because I have no idea what else to say.

"It's twofold. It's to help. And to guide. Some people need encouragement to do the things they need to do. Others need their hand held. Which one are you?"

"I don't know."

"And sometimes, when people don't want their hands held, they end up falling on their behind. That's what I want to prevent, Chris. Can you understand that?"

"Is this about Jocelyn?" I blurt out, surprising myself.

"This is about you."

"What about me?"

"A new kid who needs help. And guidance."

"Yeah, sure."

He looks at me, dark brown eyes that almost look black, peering from behind his spectacles. "Do you need help? Or do you need your hand held?"

"I just-I don't-"

"Because I want to help you, Chris. You and your mother. I'm here to help."

"Oka y"

"The last thing I would hate for you to do would be to lose your way."

"I'm not lost."

"We're all lost, Chris. Every one of us. The difference between me and most other pastors is that I'm honest. I tell the truth. And the truth is this. Do you want to hear it?"

I nod, feeling like I have a knife stuck up against my temple forcing me to stay here, forcing me to comply.

"The truth is that sooner or later, we all die. It's inevitable. But we do have choices when it comes to that. We can be afraid, or we can embrace that inevitable dark last breath."

I seem to have stopped breathing. I'm just looking at him, probably shrinking down in my chair.

It's only when I hear the sliding screen door and Ray's voice call out that I suddenly start to breathe again.

Pastor Marsh touches my arm and holds on to it.

"Think about what I've said, Chris. Tell Tara I say hi."

I force myself away from him and follow Ray back into the house.

I just want to get out of here, far away from Jeremiah Marsh and his foxlike glare.

I'm sixteen. Some people think that's young, but it's not that young. I've had sixteen full years to get to know the person I live with each and every day, and there's one thing I know about myself.

I don't like being told to do things.

I'm stubborn.

I take after my mother in that way.

My father forced the faith issue, and she drew the good old line in the sand. She said no way because ultimately she doesn't like being told what to do.

It's way past midnight, and I can't sleep in this dark room.

I'm listening to Cocteau Twins because it's dreamy and light, but it doesn't put me to sleep.

It gets my mind spinning and spiraling just like the songs themselves.

I'm thinking about everybody telling me to stay away from Jocelyn. Everybody, including Jocelyn herself.

I would probably feel more inspired to stay away if everybody and their brother didn't tell me to.

I think things through. Why Jocelyn? Why is everybody so against me seeing her? What is the big deal?

More like whats the big secret?

My mind can wander and imagine. But the more it does, the more it makes me curious. The more it makes me want to find her and figure her out.

And protect her.

The voice that whispers this is another voice, one deep down, one that's foolish and that nobody except me hears. It's crazy. Protect her from what? And how would I do that? How can I have anything to do with her?

Figure it out.

I don't like this voice. It's one thing to be curious, another to be crazy.

It's November, and I've managed to finally start to fit in. I've got Ray on my side, a decent guy (not to mention popular and wealthy). I've got Gus off my back for the moment.

Jocelyn-what can I do about her?

Don't shut the door.

Yeah, that's fine, I tell this voice, but she's the one who shut the door. She made it clear that she doesn't want to have anything to do with me.

Are you that stupid?

I'm having a mental conversation with myself. Yeah, I'm that stupid.

Don'tgive up on her, because she needs you.

A part of me thinks this is stupid and dramatic. She doesn't need me. Nobody needs me. And if they did, heaven help them. What can I do?

Still, I hear Newt warning me. I hear her step-uncle threatening me. I hear the other voices, including the most recent belonging to Pastor Jeremiah Marsh.

Warning me against seeing her.

Why?

I want to know.

I want to find out why I need to stay away from her.

And knowing myself, I know that until I answer that question, I will do the exact opposite of what everybody tells me to do.

If it worked for Rachel, it could work for me, too.

It blew up in her face (mine too), but still it worked.

So in the middle of the following week, nine days after the party (but who's counting?), I decide to write Jocelyn a letter.

I'd email her if I had an Internet connection. Maybe I'd get lucky and be able to chat with her online.

I'd text her if I hadn't broken my cell phone before leaving Chicago. Maybe she'd text me back, and that would break down the walls she's been building.

But instead of doing normal things that normal teens do, I have to get out a pen and paper and start writing.

J OCELYN: