CHAPTER THREE
Now that she was doing more exploring of the house, it was clear that none of the furniture was Mom’s. It was all old…nothing seemed to be newer than the 1950s and a lot was like, Victorian old. Most of that was big, heavy pieces, too big to get out the door, like huge dressers and sideboards, and big beds. None of it had been taken care of well, most of it had been painted and repainted and repainted again, and where there were chips you could see six or seven layers of paint.
The bedroom she had picked out for herself had a couple of those big, heavy dressers, a wardrobe instead of a closet, and a white-painted iron bedstead, the kind that “shabby chic” people would kill to get their hands on. But it had a set of saggy bedsprings instead of a proper set of box springs, and the mattress was flat and hard. The cover was faded to a sort of unpleasant uniform yellow-gray. She still had aches from trying to sleep on it last night.
Maybe there’s something better in the attic. She knew better than to ask Mom to get a new mattress. It would be like asking a butterfly to do it. If she even remembered, which was doubtful, she’d just say there wasn’t enough money, and why pay for something the landlord had already supplied?
There was an actual set of stairs up to the attic, and a kind of hinged, drop-down door to it. She listened hard before opening it, thinking about mice. And rats. And bugs.…As a New Yorker she was no stranger to cockroaches, but you could usually get rid of the things by fumigating the place every so often. She rather doubted anyone had ever fumigated this house, and who knew what kind of scary bugs or spiders were lurking up there?
On the other hand, if you had to get up high to get any cell phone coverage, maybe the attic was high enough she might be able to get a couple of bars. That thought finally made her push the door up.
During her unpacking, she had discovered some things missing—which explained why Brenda had been so eager to “help.” All the jewelry she had inherited from her grandma was gone—three rings, a pair of diamond earrings and a diamond necklace. They were all that Staci had to remember her by. Only the cocktail ring was worth much money, but they were all hers; Gramma had wanted her to have them, to keep and to cherish, and Brenda had no right to any of it! A couple of her sexier dresses were gone too, including the cute beaded minidress she’d worn for New Year’s Eve. And she knew darned well she and Brenda were the same size.
So if she could get some cell reception, bringing that up ought to be enough to get Dad to cough up something like a new mattress, and should be good enough for an increase on the allowance on that debit card.
The attic was thick with dust. It was pretty obvious that not only had Mom never been up here, neither had anyone else for a long time. The two windows, one at either end of the peaked roof, were lightly coated with cobwebs, but there didn’t seem to be any active spiders or other bugs up here. She went to the nearer window to see if it could be opened.
After she beat the cobwebs away with what looked like a piece of old curtain, she did manage to pry it up. Gingerly, she eased herself out and perched on the window ledge, holding her phone up into the air, and got…one bar. Which was a heck of a lot better than no bars.
Dad was hopeless when it came to texts, so she opened her email app and furiously thumbed out a long, long email, beginning with the discovery that her stuff was missing. She didn’t outright accuse Brenda, but she did say “the only person that ‘helped me’ was Brenda.” Then she told him what the waitress had said about no cable, no Internet and no cell phone except on the hill—though she didn’t call it “Makeout Hill”—and told him how Mom didn’t have a car, she’d had to get groceries herself (“Just like always”), and how hard it had been to sleep on a mattress “from 1800.” She told him she needed more money on her card (“if I’m going to have to keep buying groceries”) a new mattress, and a motor scooter. Her first draft came off way too…mean. She revised it a couple of times; her dad could be sensitive, and the last thing she needed was to get him upset…only to have Brenda there to comfort him. She put in a lot more about how Gramma had specifically put that jewelry in the will for her to have and no one else. When she thought it sounded reasonable, she tried sending it.
It took almost fifteen tries, and her waving the cell frantically over her head, before it finally went out. She sighed, stuck her phone back in her pocket, and took a look at the neighborhood before she climbed back in. It wasn’t much better from this vantage, and she still couldn’t see any people. But maybe they were all at work.
Then she climbed back inside the attic, though she left the window open for now. It looked out over the backyard—which was a weedy wilderness—but if she found anything up here that was useful, it would probably be a better idea to pitch it out the window than to try hauling it down the stairs. Anything up here would probably be full of pounds of dust. And maybe dead bugs.
There were some locked trunks she was kind of itching to break into, just because they were locked. They certainly weren’t her mother’s, and she had to find some way to entertain herself. Maybe another day. There were some open ones that were full of chewed-on cloth that smelled like old mice. Ew. She guessed the cloth was old blankets, linens and curtains, but there was nothing there she was even remotely interested in trying to use.
Finally, in the far corner, she found a featherbed wrapped up in yellowed plastic. She only knew it was a featherbed because she’d slept on one before, when she and Dad had gone up to Vermont to ski and stayed at a little bed and breakfast place instead of one of the lodges. That trip hadn’t gone well so far as the skiing was concerned; there hadn’t been enough snow and all of the beginner slopes were closed, so they’d gone back home after one night. The featherbed had been all right, though. Had to be more comfortable than that antique mattress, anyway.
After an initial struggle, she managed to stuff it out the window; it rolled down the roof and pitched into the unmowed grass, sending up a cloud of dust. She wondered if Mom was expecting her to do the mowing, the way Mom always seemed to expect her to do most of the housework. Well, unless a fairy turned up and materialized a brand new mower, that was just not going to happen.
Even if a mower did materialize…I’m gonna have to be pretty bored before I go mowing a lawn for fun. But in this town, that might not be such a ridiculous possibility.
She plodded down the stairs, after making sure her phone was still in her pocket. There had been something that looked like a wire tennis racquet in one corner; that would do for beating the hell out of the featherbed. She managed to get the thing draped over the fence and beat on it until her arms were sore, then dragged it back inside just as it was starting to get dark. You couldn’t say “the sun was setting,” since you couldn’t see the sun through all the overcast.
When the bed was done—and it was somewhat more comfortable than just the mattress alone had been—she realized that she was starving and more tired than she ever remembered being in her entire life. It took an act of will to go down to the kitchen and heat up a frozen dinner. There hadn’t been any brands she recognized in the store, but at least it wasn’t gross and it didn’t smell like dog food.
She had just about enough energy left to climb into bed and watch one of the DVDs she had brought before turning out the light. She didn’t even hear when her mom came in.
* * *
There was no sign of Mom in the morning, other than her purse on the kitchen table and more small bills and coins in the jar. From experience, Staci knew that the highest probability was that her mom was drunk-asleep and would sleep until at least 5 P.M., since this was Sunday and a bar wouldn’t be open. Hopefully, she was sleeping alone…the times Mom had brought guys home, they had all been creepy, and Staci had never stayed around when they were there any more than she had to. And if those guys spent more than one night, she always locked her bedroom door.
I hope this door has a lock.
She looked at the stuff in the fridge, but… Hell. I am not making my own breakfast. Especially since she wanted pancakes and they were a pain to make. She grabbed another handful of money from the jar, locked the house up behind herself, and got on her bike.
The nice waitress—Beth, that was her name—wasn’t at the diner when she got there; it was an old lady this time, who wasn’t mean, just tired-looking, and didn’t seem even remotely curious about anything other than getting Staci’s order. So she ate in a hurry, left an okay tip, and got back on her bike. Time to find out if the story about cell reception on Makeout Hill was a fairy tale.
It was a long, hard ride. The grade wasn’t too steep, but the road itself was gravel once you left the pavement of the main streets, and it switched back and forth a lot. If you had wings, it probably wasn’t all that big a trip, but by the road it must have been two miles, at least. She was too busy peddling up to the top—or stopping, getting off, and walking for a while when her legs got tired—to pay any attention to the view. It wasn’t until she made it to the top that she caught her breath and looked around.
There was a huge old tree at the edge of what turned out to be a pretty steep drop right down to a little bit of beach at the edge of the water. The grass was all worn away between the road and the tree, proving that people did a lot of parking up here. Then the gravel road continued on into some woods. Staci didn’t think she’d ever bother exploring that way. It wasn’t that the woods were spooky, because they weren’t. They just looked tired, and uninteresting. Pretty much the same as the town.
On the road side of the bluff, you got a good view of the entire town, which didn’t look quite as shabby from here, although it certainly didn’t look any more inviting than the woods. Staci dug the placemat-map out of her pocket and compared it to the view, and it was pretty clear the map had been drawn from this vantage. She picked out all the “landmarks” Beth had drawn for her, then, holding her breath, she pulled out her phone.
Three bars! And the phone started beeping as the texts came in.
She sat down in the roots of the tree—it wasn’t bad, not uncomfortable at all—and began answering them. There was something close to the sensation of being a little high, like she’d had a couple of puffs of grass, as she finally got connected back to the real world. It was so euphoric that she took her time answering each one, even though under any other circumstance, she’d have done them with a “reply all.”
She could have done just that, since she answered all of her friends pretty much the same way. It’s horrible here. The town is nasty and gross, stuck in 1950 and not in a good way. There’s no cell, no net, and no cable. The only way I can get cell is to get to the top of this hill and it’s like five miles to get there. Mom is worse than ever, I don’t think I’ve seen her sober for a minute. She offered me beer for breakfast! Then she decided to throw any pretense she had at pride right out the window. Is there any way I could move in with you? she asked. Or at least, she asked all the girls. There wasn’t a single guy she knew that she’d be willing to shack up with, even if his parents were okay with that.
The reception was only 2G, which was like, Dark Ages, but she did manage to get Facebook to load, and she posted pretty much the same thing to her Facebook page, only without the begging to move in with someone. She didn’t want Dad to see that. Not yet, anyway.
Then, finally, she got email to load, although it was agonizingly slow. It was pretty much the same as the texts, only longer. This time she did a group reply, which was just a longer and more elaborate version of her text replies. Since it was her friends…she got a little bitter about Brenda’s sticky fingers. Several of them had their own problems with a parent’s “new wife” or “new husband,” so she figured she’d get some sympathy. She also got pretty bitter about Mom. It looks like she hasn’t cleaned since she moved in, so guess who she expects to be Cinderella?
Then the return texts started to come in. All of her friends were supportive, commiserating with her and agreeing about how unfair it all was. But whenever it came to the question of if she could move in with any of them…most of them were silent. A few actually replied…maybe out of guilt. All of them had excuses for why it wouldn’t work out, and how it wasn’t possible right then. They all had plans for the summer, and their folks wouldn’t go for it…and so on.
Finally, after getting text after discouraging text, she got to an email from Dad.
And guilt practically dripped from it.
Honey…Brenda and I went out last night, and while I’m no fashion expert, it wasn’t hard to notice she was wearing your gram’s ring and your New Year’s dress. I waited until we got home, but after your email, I had to confront her on it. She said she’d taken them because they weren’t “age appropriate” for you. I don’t know, I suppose she could be right, but you’re right too, that doesn’t excuse stealing. I didn’t say anything about the dress, but I couldn’t let the jewelry thing pass, and I got it all back from her and locked it in the safe. And I’m going to make it up to you, because that just was rude and wrong of her, and there’s no excuse. I’m sorry your mom is so…irresponsible. I’ll be putting what I consider to be good child support on your debit card; you’ll have to manage your own finances, but you’re smart, and I know you can do that. If you get sick or hurt, you’re still on my insurance, so that’s okay. If you need anything more than that, get an email to me and I’ll take care of it. I’ve already ordered you a mattress and bedding.
Well…it wasn’t anything like the You can come home now, we’ll work something out that she had been hoping for. But it was better than nothing.
We’ll see about a motor scooter when you prove to me you have a valid driver’s license—not a learner’s permit, a real license.
She sighed deeply. How was she supposed to get a license without a car?
Maybe the school has driver’s ed?
Or maybe she could make friends with someone who had a car and he—or she—could teach her?
At least he hadn’t outright said “no scooter, ever, no way.” Which he sure would have if she’d asked for a motorcycle or a whole car. Though right now…a motorcycle like Dylan’s…that would be way, way cooler than a scooter or a car.
I wonder if Dylan would teach me how to drive? The line of daydreaming that thought took her towards definitely helped to take the sting off of all of the earlier texts.
* * *
She spent the rest of the morning up on the hill until her phone ran out of power. She’d never had that happen before in such a short period of time—but then, she’d never done nonstop texting and emailing before without a phone charger nearby. Her thumbs were sore and she was hungry, so she tucked her phone back in her pocket and moved to the town side of the bluff, staring down at it.
The diner, the pizza joint, or the drive-in? She could see the roof of the drive-in from where she was standing. It was pretty obvious what it was, since she couldn’t think of any other building that would have six covered walkways radiating from it like spokes on a wheel.
At least the drive-in would be new. And she might run into some of the local kids there, and get some sort of feel for them. Maybe she’d see Beth there? She climbed on the bike and headed back down into town, grateful that going downhill was a whole lot easier than coming up had been, but still dreading the return leg.
About halfway down, it occurred to her that she was going to look unbelievably lame, turning up at a drive-in with a bike. Who did that? Nobody, at least not in any of the movies she had ever seen.
Her fears about looking lame vanished once she got closer to the drive-in. It was certainly not like any of the ones she had seen in movies, or anywhere else, for that matter. Staci should have known better; it was exactly like the rest of this town. Worn out, run-down, and old as dirt, and riding up on a bike was probably no different than walking up.
The circular “hub” of the drive-in had inside seating, and a bike rack with two other bikes in it, so she obviously wasn’t the only one who came here on a bike. And—oh my God!—it was actually called the “Burger Shack”! Clearly it had not been renamed since it was built. She locked her so-called “ride” into the rack, and went inside.
Once again, it was 1950s throwback time, but it would take someone who was really, really into the ’50s to get excited about this place. There were vinyl-upholstered booths at the windows around the curve of the building, with a no-kidding jukebox at the far end of the dining area, and a curved lunch counter with circular stools along the inner wall. It was done up in turquoise, chrome, and black-and-white checkerboard—but the turquoise was all sun-faded, the vinyl of the seats was cracking and patched with tape, the chrome cloudy with age, the linoleum of the floor faded and worn, and the only things that looked new (or at least, not faded) were the black and white ceramic tiles of the trim. When she sat down at a booth and the carhop, who evidently serviced the inside and the outside, brought her the menu, it too looked to date from the ’50s. It was a single plastic-coated sheet, the paper inside faded with age so that the colors of the food pictures were an unappetizing greenish and bluish, and the prices had been redone with little white stickers that had been stacked on top of each other over the years. It wasn’t hard to choose, since the limited menu was “burgers and fries” with a “fish sandwich” and “grilled cheese” stuck over by themselves, like exiles. So that was the main difference between here and the diner; the diner served “meals” and not burgers, and the Burger Shack served burgers. The diner closed after lunch, the “Burger Shack” was evidently open until the crazy hour of 10 P.M.!
And after ten, they roll up the sidewalks and chase everyone home, she grumbled to herself, after ordering. She looked out the window at the kids in the two cars she could see from her vantage, then glanced at the two groups of four that were in booths and the two that were at the counter. They kind of all looked a lot alike…for a minute she couldn’t put her finger on why, but then it hit her. They were all, every single person save for the drive-in staff, dressed pretty much alike. And not like her. Jeans, and not cool brands, more like the ones you got off the cheap rack at a big box-store. Faded plaid shirts, over T-shirts. Girls and guys.
Looks like a retro grunge-band convention. Did every kid in this town dress that way?
On reflection, she thought probably not. The Goths wouldn’t be caught dead wearing grunge stuff, not even in a backwater place like this, and the rich kids obviously wouldn’t be eating at the drive-in. But she was pretty sure she was catching them surreptitiously eyeballing her, and in her capris, henley and hoodie—none of them faded—she was standing out like a sore thumb.
And yet—after those first few glances, no one seemed at all curious about her. They all went back to their own, low-voiced conversations, talk that didn’t seem to include any of the shrieks of laughter, broad gestures, or sudden rises in tone that you’d expect. In fact, there wasn’t any real animation in their talk at all. It was as if they were too worn-out to get excited about anything. I think I moved into a Stephen King novel.
Then again, what was there to get excited about? One television station, one radio station, no cable. You had to get to the next town to get anything new, and how would you know about what was new in the first place? Magazines, maybe, but magazines would turn into a torment, showing you all kinds of things that you couldn’t have. Maybe in the end it was just easier to give up and settle for what you could get?
It was strange to eat a burger and fries that clearly had never been formed by a machine, or cooked on an assembly line. The burger wasn’t thin, like the ones she was used to; the patty was uneven, and there were charred spots on it, and the cheese wasn’t evenly melted. The cheese didn’t taste like burger cheese, it tasted like the cheese Brenda put out in chunks for parties. The chewy bun didn’t help things. Some of the fries still had skin on them. The whole time she was there, the other kids kept…it was a weird sort of ignoring her. Not like they were snubbing her. More like they didn’t know what to do about her, so they were ignoring her. She finished her food quickly, doing her best not to draw any more non-attention than she already was.
It was clear she was going to need to get some—what did Biology class call it? “Protective coloration.” Maybe if she looked more like them, they’d talk to her.
Well, she was pretty sure there were some thrift stores between here and home. If she couldn’t get grunge-chic there…
She got her bike, and headed back up the street. On the way, a sign caught her eye, and she realized it was the bookstore Beth had told her about, the one where the nerds hung out. Hey…it might have wifi, if the nerds hang there. Or at least have a net-cafe…It was worth a shot.
Another of the ubiquitous bells-over-the-door jangled as she pushed it open.
There was a cash register at the front, and a guy sitting on a stool behind it. Finally, here was someone who didn’t look as if he was worn-out and worn-down. He was, she guessed, somewhere in his mid-thirties, maybe early forties. He had slightly long, wavy dark hair and a full beard; both had a few strands of gray in them, but not enough to be too noticeable. He had a sort of stern expression; more like “worried” stern than “I want you kids out of my store” stern. He was wearing a thin leather jacket, black, and a dark blue work shirt under it, with the collar open.
He looked up at her, nodded once, then went back to reading the heavy book he had in his hands. She turned her attention to the rest of the store.
There was a coffee bar at the back with some stools in front of it. The rest of the store was tables and chairs, and a couple of beaten up but comfortable-looking chairs and couches, mixed with bookshelves. More bookshelves lined the walls. It was warm in here, not a stuffy warm, but a comfortable warm. It smelled like paper, and coffee, and a little bit of leather. Right up by the counter with the cash register was a magazine rack, but she couldn’t see what was on it from where she stood. The lighting was muted, but there were little green-shaded banker’s lamps near the chairs for people to turn on if they wanted more light.
Sadly, there wasn’t a computer to be seen. So…not a net-cafe. But there were other kids, kids who weren’t like the ones at the Burger Shack, and who were watching her surreptitiously as they continued low-voiced conversations or read. There were a couple Goths—not tricked out in piercings and white-and-black makeup, but since they were the only people she’d seen so far who were dressed head-to-toe in black and had black-dyed hair and heavy silver jewelry, it was a good bet they were Goths. The rest at least weren’t in the grunge uniform.
“Can I help you?” She started at the sound of a raised voice, and turned; it was the guy behind the counter, who had put down his book. Maybe he’d figured she’d stood there long enough, and he wanted to give her a little prod. But he didn’t look unfriendly…and he didn’t look all fake-friendly, either. “Do you need help finding something?”
“Uh, just looking around. Someone—a friend, I guess—told me about this place. Figured that I would check it out.” She glanced around. “It’s nice. First nice place I’ve seen in this entire town, actually.”
“Would you be Paula Kerry’s girl?” he asked. Staci felt her heart drop down into her stomach for a moment, before the man put one of his hands up. “It’s a small town, so word travels fast. We don’t often get many new faces around these parts, you know?”
“Yeah, I’m starting to get that,” she said ruefully.
He extended a hand towards her. “My name’s Tim. Welcome to my store, Miss…?”
“Staci.” She tried not to sigh. He might take it as being bored, which she wasn’t. At least not right now. “You look like the only person who might know; is there any way at all to get high-speed net around here?”
“’Fraid not.” He shrugged, but it wasn’t dismissive. “We’re the land that time forgot. All we have is old copper phone cable, and count your blessings that we aren’t still on party lines.”
“Uh…what?” she asked.
He chuckled softly. “Before your time. Count your blessings, whipper-snapper. Anyway the best you can do is around 24-baud, dialup, from your home phone. Since Paula works at night, at least you’ll have access to it while she’s at work.” He craned his neck a little. “Go on back to the table nearest the coffee bar and ask for Seth. He can help you get set up with a dialup modem and show you how to optimize your computer so you can at least read email.”
For one moment, she had to fight back sudden and unexpected tears. This was the first person—the only person—who had pointed her towards something like her old life. Connections, at least. “Thank you,” she managed. “I mean—really—thank you—”
He smiled. It did a lot to soften his stern expression. “No problem. Seth’s a good kid and nothing makes him happier than being able to flex his geekdom.” With that, Tim picked up his book again; it was a sturdy-looking hardcover. The artwork on the front caught her eye; it must have been science fiction, since it was a robot eagle, wreathed in golden and orange flames, doing a dive over a burning city. It looked like something that belonged on a thrash metal album cover instead of a book.
Staci made her way to the back, where the coffee bar was. It wasn’t hard to pick out Seth; thick, hard-to-break glasses, shaggy brown hair, and a Firefly T-shirt. What did surprise her was that he was with three other people, and they were all talking and joking together. Not too loud, but it didn’t seem like they were afraid that making any noise would end the world, like the people at the drive-in. They were clearly all friends.
One was one of the two Goth kids in the store; a girl about Staci’s age with shoulder-length, straight black hair, dark red lipstick, and what she recognized as the self-satisfied smirk of someone that was used to being right. Or at least happy with being snarky.
The other two were snuggled up on a loveseat; a boy and girl, definitely an item. The boy had short blond hair; not a crew cut, just a little messy. The blue eyes and a good jawline completed the picture; he was kind of cute, actually. The girl had red hair done up in a French braid; from the amount of hair she had, it was probably down to the middle of her back when it was undone. She had what Dad used to call “classic Irish colleen” looks: pale skin, freckles, green eyes.
As she hovered a moment, hesitant about how she should try to break into the group and introduce herself, Tim solved the problem for her.
“Jedi Seth!” he called from the front, just loud enough for his voice to carry to the rear. “Got young Padawan Staci Kerry that needs your ubergeek Force Knowledge to get her something approximating interwebs.”
The entire group turned to look at her as one, and she felt like she was turning a lovely shade of purple.