The View from the Top (5 page)

Tobin zoomed down Oceanside Drive and circled around WhirrrlyWorld, with its swirling lights and gleeful screams of terror. He pulled into the parking lot, figuring this night would end the way most nights ended when he couldn't deal with his dad's bedroom antics: riding the Ferris wheel alone over and over until the park closed. But as he drove around looking for a spot, the cotton-candy-funnel-cake smell made his stomach feel as if he'd been riding the ferry on choppy waters and he decided to go somewhere else.

But where?

He sped off, the wind slapping his face. A car horn blared at him and he realized he'd just run a red. “Stupid traffic light,” he grumbled. Up until a few days ago, it had only been a stop sign. The traffic light was one of those new “safety features” requested by the people who'd built those enormous beach houses that looked as if they could eat all the other Normal houses for lunch. Normal had never had a traffic light before and, as far as Tobin knew, nobody had died because of it. So why did they need one now?

Before he could get over his traffic-light frustration, the van lurched over a giant speed bump—another fun new safety feature.

Tobin started to worry that he might get in an accident, so he pulled into the next driveway, marked by a mailbox with an elaborately painted name, SINGLETARY. The driveway was long and gravelly and led to a mega-cottage—a crazy castley-looking place with towers and turrets, where he'd helped his dad install a pool last summer. He was pretty sure he was safe hanging out here while he collected himself; there were no other cars in the driveway. And vacation season didn't start for a couple more weeks. As he parked behind some towering bushes, he realized he'd never turned off the music in his car. Now it was spewing Brahms. Just for piano and cello.

The Anabelle tape. The goddamn Anabelle tape.

He couldn't believe how stupid he'd been for making it. For thinking she might secretly like him back.

Tobin slammed on the eject button and the cassette shot out of the stereo. He grabbed it and yanked at the thin brown ribbon. He kept pulling and pulling until none of the tape was left in the plastic shell, until it was a mangled heap in his lap. “Fucking hell!” he yelled as he got out of the van and tossed the whole mess into the bushes.

What were these ridiculously high bushes doing here anyway? Tobin didn't remember them from when he'd worked on the pool. That weird pool that was supposed to look like a pond or a marsh or something, where his dad kept making lewd comments about the supercurvy girl who lived here. She was about Tobin's age and had some hyphenated name like Mary-something and she kept trying to talk to him while he was working. He was never interested in her, though; his dad didn't get why. He'd always shake his head in dismay and say something like, “You should really get a piece of that.”

Ugh, his dad was disgusting! As if girls were made of pieces! What piece did he think Tobin should go for anyway? Was there a certain piece his dad was after when he hit on ladies at bars and the beach? And had he loved
all
the pieces of Tobin's mom before she died? Or was it none of them? Because that's sure what it seemed like, with the parade of women he brought into the bed he used to share with his
wife.

Tobin picked up a handful of driveway pebbles and started tossing them at the lawn one by one.

What was wrong with this town? Why was it that in Normal, most single women went for a sleaze like his dad and the Anabelles of the world went for the Jonahs? It didn't make any sense. He couldn't wait to get out of here, to get away from these people, to get his scholarship and go to the conservatory.

He threw the rocks harder and harder, now aiming them at the gutter pipes along the side of the house. They made a satisfying
plink
each time they hit.

Tobin wondered if this was how things worked everywhere. He couldn't really imagine being as crazy about any girl as he was for Anabelle. But even if he met someone just as incredible as her, he didn't think he had what it would take to win a girl over. He would never be a Jonah. Did that mean he'd never have a girlfriend?

He leaned over and picked up the biggest rock he could find—about the size of a harmonica—and, without really thinking, hurled it into a large bay window on the second floor. The glass shattered, leaving a jagged hole in one of the panes.

Tobin couldn't believe what he'd just done. He knew he should feel awful, but for some reason he felt a surge of power. Like he could lift a tree out of the ground if he wanted to. And he could wield that tree like a baseball bat, demolishing this entire house—knocking all three stories into the sea.

Tobin stretched his arms out to his sides, feeling the adrenaline race to his fingertips. He started running around the bushes, angling his body to the left then the right, as if he were a little boy imitating a plane. Then, with a running jump, he did a cartwheel—or his best approximation of one—and then a somersault. He did three of those in a row before tumbling onto his back, out of breath. He inhaled the salty ocean breeze wafting from the shore and looked up at the bushes, black against the dark denim sky. There was something menacing about the shape of them, but he couldn't place it exactly, until he realized they were cut to look like a couple of bears. One was on its hind legs and the other on all fours. Out there, with no people around, the bears seemed almost real to Tobin, as if they might pounce on him at any second.

“Bring it!” he yelled up at them. “I'm all yours!”

B
y the time Jonah's mom sent him to the health-food store for pumpkin seeds and cascara pills, he had already spent all day peeling the waxy skins off of her fruits and vegetables and making her countless pots of clove-infused tea. She would've taken care of the tea herself, she'd told him, but she was too busy washing her hands to death and making sure her finger and toenails were clipped down to the flesh. These were all necessary steps toward ridding herself of the parasite in her intestines. It had been growing there for three days now. Or so she said.

Jonah's mom always thought she had something. In fact, it was the antibiotics the doctor had prescribed for her recent “bladder infection” that she blamed for this worm, or whatever it
really
was that was, uh, giving her bathroom troubles. Not that he even wanted to think about that. Still, he went on his assignment to find her natural laxatives.

He got to the store just as they were closing and flashed the cute cashier an apologetic smile—a smile with just the right side of his mouth, which he knew made pretty much all girls swoon. “Take your time,” the cashier said, the air from the ceiling fan ruffling her thin bangs. He thought he remembered her from school a few years back—maybe she was a senior when he was a freshman? Lately he'd been finding himself really attracted to older girls, especially ones like this cashier, who could pull off little-girl braids and still look sophisticated. As she rang him up she kept giving him flirtatious glances and he considered asking her if she wanted to take a walk on the beach when she got off work. No, he told himself.
Stay out of trouble.
These things never ended well. Or not simply, at least.

He decided he'd stop by Matt's on his way home. His mom could wait for her pumpkin seeds and cascara pills. And if she checked herself in to the hospital again just to be told there was nothing wrong with her, that was fine with him.

The Fletchers' back door was unlocked, as usual. Jonah let himself in and called out for Matt. No answer. Just as he started running upstairs to check Matt's room, Jeanie came into the hallway. She was wearing a silky red kimono, unbelted, over shorts and a tank top.

“Matty's not here,” she said, waving a pot holder in the air as if flagging him down. “It's just me.”

“Hey, Jeanie,” he said, breathing through his mouth to keep from inhaling a burnt-food smell. “You cooking or something?”

“Well, sorta,” she said. There was a crazy noise coming from the kitchen. A whole bunch of rumbling. And something like pops from a cap gun.

Jonah couldn't remember ever having seen Jeanie cook a meal. She was more of an order-in kind of woman.

“Sorry, I actually have to get back in there,” she said, hurrying into the kitchen. “You can join me if you want.”

Jonah followed her to the stove. The noises had died down. But the smell was way worse.

Jeanie uncovered the pot and peered inside. “Shit, shit, shit!” she said. Jonah watched her under the dim range light tasting a piece of popcorn. She had her hair up, but there wasn't really enough to form a ponytail, so it was falling out all over the sides in black wisps. Jeanie was the master of little-girl sophistication. She had it down better, even, than the health-food-store cashier. Way better.

Jeanie swallowed the kernel and wrinkled her nose, groaning. She sank her fingers into her hair, pushing her fingertips against her scalp.

Jonah wasn't really sure what to say to her, or why he was sticking around without Matt there.
Just make some small talk,
he told himself,
and if Matt doesn't show up in a few minutes, you can take off
“Hey, weren't you supposed to be on a hot date with that Steve dude?” He had to remind himself not to call Steve “Skeeve,” like he and Matt always did.

“I was,” she said, forcing out a sigh. “And now I'm back.”

“Oh,” Jonah said. “You okay?” He pushed himself up on the counter by the stove and gave her one of his trademark half smiles.

“Yeah, I guess.” Jeanie shrugged and looked down at a bulging black trash bag that sat on the floor by her feet. “I've, well ... I've been at this for a while.” She opened the top of the bag. Inside was a ton of popcorn that looked as if it had spent too much time at the tanning salon.

Jonah felt a little weird, like Jeanie was revealing a side of herself to him that he wasn't supposed to see. A screwed-up side. A side that you wouldn't expect a mother-of-two, middle school secretary to have. But it also made him feel special. That she'd trust him enough to expose herself in this way.

It was quiet. So quiet he felt as if the silence were something he could reach out and touch. Like a wool blanket wrapped tightly around his head. Jonah wanted desperately to fill the emptiness with words. Words to cheer up Jeanie. All that came to him were clichés about what she deserved and how many fish there were in the sea. He drummed his heels against the cabinet behind him, the only sound he could think to make as he racked his brain for a more original offer of comfort.

But she spoke first. “I just wanted one good batch. Except every time I try, I get to thinking and then ...” She pointed at the stinky pot. “Sorry,” she said, “I don't need to burden you with this garbage.” She emptied the pot into the trash bag.