Hunt doesn’t talk. He’s probably the only person on the planet who wouldn’t push for answers on this little joyride. I sit close to the door, blood roaring through my veins, knee jumping. At first, I think I’m psyching myself up. Maybe I’m glad this is finally happening. I’m gonna face it and end it, slay the dragon, like in that Saint George picture book Nell used to check out of the library when we were kids, running her fingertips over the drawings of the beautiful knight lying bleeding in his armor.
We drive through Frankfort and Winterport, and cross the Hampden town line. My nerves are on fire. Hunt slows to twenty-five. “Where do you need to go?”
“Irish Lane, up here on the left.”
“Which house?”
“Just drop me at the store.” He pulls into Chase’s lot, and I can almost see Nell, half-hidden around the side of the building like she was that night, curled into herself like she’d been punched in the stomach. She’d lifted her hand to block the headlight glare, not recognizing the silver Fit until I honked. She got in slowly, like everything hurt, her shoulders shuddering and twitching. I’d never seen her cry like that. “I’ll meet you back here.”
“I’ll wait.”
I’m so cranked up that I have to clench my teeth to keep from snapping at him. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll wait.”
I know stubborn when I see it, so I turn and walk stiffly away down the sidewalk, sucking air in short bursts. Why can’t your body remember how to breathe when you’re scared?
I walk only a couple minutes before I recognize the place. Nell told me all about it sophomore year, back when the world revolved around Mr. Ellis, the drama coach and ed tech who helped Mrs. Hanscom out in the resource room. She grubbed every detail of his life, keeping them like a magpie hoarding shiny, precious things. Mr. Ellis lives in an apartment house in Hampden. Mr. Ellis is gonna get married, and it’s gonna be beautiful. Mr. Ellis says I diagram sentences faster than anybody in class. Talk, talk, talk, till we all rolled our eyes and teased her about it. We should’ve known something was wrong when she went silent.I should’ve known.
His car’s parked in the side lot. I picture him driving the half hour to our road once a week or so, sitting there in the dark, waiting for that fairy light to drift out to him. I stand on the sidewalk, hugging my good arm across my middle, looking up at all the windows. If Elise is home, I’m outta here. But there aren’t any cars near his, and they’d probably park together. Most people do. I step over the curb onto the lawn.
The metal mailboxes fixed to the siding by each entrance have numbers and names spelled out in reflective stickers. #2 Ellis/Grindle. There’s green carpeting that looks like Easter basket grass covering the steps. My air slows to a trickle. I ring the bell.
Chimes play inside. I want the place to be empty, but somebody’s coming.
Brad Ellis opens the door and we look at each other. He wears this half smile, looking tolerant, like he expects me to tell him I’m selling Christmas cards for the senior class fund. He must know who I am. Even if he didn’t get a good look at me in the rain the other night, I used to wait for Nell at the resource room door before lunch all the time. Then it hits me. I’m standing on a teacher’s doorstep, about to nail him to the wall. Christ on a crutch.
“I’m . . . Darcy.” Mouth’s too dry. “I go to Sasanoa?” Stupid. He knows that. “Nell’s cousin.” He keeps right on looking. “I need to talk to you.”
He smiles, giving a puzzled tilt of his head, and steps back. “Sure. Come on in.”
I figured I’d say it right here on the steps, tell him how it was gonna be, and then go. But he’s waiting.
I slide past him into an entryway, passing a spindly little stand with a basket of potpourri on it under a sign reading Home Is Where the ? Is. I smell a pumpkin spice candle burning somewhere. I don’t want to go any deeper and I stop, turning to him as he brushes by me into the next room.
Living room and kitchen, separated by an island. Nice leather furniture in the living room, more folksy decorations. “Take a seat,” he says over his shoulder, walking around the island into the kitchen and pulling back a chair for me at the table.
I sink stiffly into it, knees angled out, fists in my lap. Should’ve stayed standing. The candle burns on the countertop, the jar smudged with soot. By the stove, some wrought-iron hangers dangle just-for-looks oven mitts. I don’t get the point of that.
“Can I get you something to drink?” He moves the same as he did in school, quick and loose, kind of absentminded or something, like a poet or an artist. Maybe that’s why he directs the plays. His hair’s all over the place, brown and wavy and long enough to push back behind his ears, and he isn’t dressed much differently than at school, either: light-blue oxford shirt untucked over khakis. But he’s in his stocking feet. Gray argyles.
“No.” What am I gonna do, sit at his table drinking iced tea? He must know why I’m here. I straighten my spine, but my voice doesn’t sound right. “I’m gonna say this and then I’ll go.”
He looks back at me, kind of puzzled, kind of amused. “Okay.” His brows are thick, his gray eyes intense, trying to give me the feeling that he’s listening very closely to my every word.
“I know what you been doing with Nell.” He doesn’t blink. “You can’t see her anymore. Or message her, or anything. I won’t tell if you promise to leave her alone.”
He gives his head a small shake. Still the smile. “What?”
“Stay away from her.”
“Stay . . . ? What do you mean?”
Heat jets up into my face. I stare at him, out of words. When I swallow, it makes a click.
He sits back slowly, his hands loose on the table. He’s not a big guy. Much shorter than Shea. He’s maybe got an inch or two on Jesse, but slender, fine-boned. Probably ran cross-country or something when he was my age. “Nell was my student,” he says slowly, like he wants to understand. “We haven’t seen each other since I took the job at Hampden High. Am I missing something here?”
I work my lips over my teeth. My voice is hoarse. “You’ve been messing with her.”
He blinks twice, quickly. He pushes back from the table, looking down at his stocking feet on the linoleum for a second. “Uh—wow. Darcy.” He goes to the fridge and pulls out a carton of soy milk, leaving the door open as he reaches into the cupboard for a glass. “I think you’re confused about some things.”
I watch him pour a glass of milk and set it in front of me. “I think . . . Nell may have misconstrued what I said to her before I left SAHS. She was always one of the best kids we worked with in resource. Really special. And I told her so. I said we’d always be friends.” Staring fixedly, he sits, putting his fingers to his temple and rubbing lightly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have.”
Disbelief crackles through me. I sit forward. “I saw you.”