I don’t suppose our street has ever seen a party. I mean, Rhodes Center, in the middle of town, has this free-for-all cookout to celebrate our founding father, and both schools throw a dance, but as far as private parties go, they don’t happen on Triangle Crescent.
Triangle Crescent is mostly where people come to die. My mom calls it God’s waiting room, with the residents having a collective age that predates religion. Luke and I are the youngest by about twenty years. I’m not bitching. Most of the folk around here are nice. At least they were the last time I left the house. On Saturdays I used to walk around the street listening to stories about absent grand-kids and collecting free candy for a chorus of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle.’
It’s almost seven. The light is dying. Dirty blue and purple clouds bruise the sky. I’ve ignored everything in favour of watching the guys toss around a dusty old piece of pigskin. The faint whistle of my plummeting school grades can be heard in the distance.
I eyeball the open door of the study.
This will all be over tomorrow, I reason. I can quit worrying about it and catch up then.
Guilt might be about to shake me into submission when I hear Luke laugh. I like the way he laughs. He puts his whole self into it, throwing his head back and holding his stomach while his entire body shakes.
They seem to be having a good time until a phone rings, Tubular Bells, and Luke pulls his cell from his pocket. He stares at the screen and his two friends exchange a rolling-eyed glance.
Amy.
I don’t hear him say it, but I can read it in the way his lips curl around the pronunciation of her name. The guy who I am now, like, ninety-nine per cent certain is called Simon dismisses the call with a wave of his hand. But Luke is already walking away, lifting the phone to his ear. Blond Guy shrugs – it’s a what-are-you-gonna-do type of gesture.
Amy.
My interest evaporates. I slump back against the wall, bring my knees up to my chest and hug them tight. My teeth grate against the skin on the inside of my mouth, but I don’t bite down.
Why does this name bother me? My straightforward-thinking brain wants to know.
My heart keeps tripping, but I’m not panicking. I know what panic feels like and this isn’t it.
I wonder what Amy looks like and if she kisses with reckless abandon. I wonder if she can walk down a crowded strip mall holding someone’s hand. I bet she can go out for dinner and not spend an hour trying to taste salmonella in her chicken. I bet she can go here, there, and everywhere without worrying about what might happen.
Right. I guess that’s why it bothers me. It’s like watching my Hub feed play out in my front yard. And probably, maybe, definitely, the new boy next door has me intrigued. But suddenly I’m not sure if that’s even allowed.
I kneel up, take one last look out of the window. Luke has rejoined his friends; they have their arms slung over his shoulders, laughing. But not with him. Luke looks unimpressed, kind of like a guy who’s just been ordered to run laps around a freezing-cold track. Maybe they’re mocking him.
Are you okay? I think it a thousand times, even write it out once on the wall with my finger.
He shrugs when Blond Guy starts making whooping sounds. Then he looks up, glances over at my house. There’s no way he can see me. He’s looking in the wrong spot, for starters. But I turn to stone and try to wish myself invisible anyway. Then he looks away and they all head back inside his house.
Ihave a plan.
It is a good plan.
A safe plan.
So why am I itching to leave my room? My palms are drenched. I rub them in circles on my knees, trying to dry them off.
It’s ten-thirty. I should have been trapped between my headphones, submerged in music for the past three hours. But I can’t stop pulling my headset off. Even when it’s on, I don’t hear a single one of my six hundred songs.
My mind has always taken care of me, protected me from things that are daring, dangerous. It’s how we’ve been for four years. Blissful. Working in unison, like an old married couple. So why is it trying to fuck me over now? Why does it desperately want to know what is happening at Luke’s house?
I fix a stare at my door for the ten-hundredth time, slide my headset off again, and let it rest around my neck. Some thrash-metal rock god is screaming tortured-soul song lyrics at me, but I tune him out, try instead to hear through layers of brick and mortar for any noise escaping from next door.
It’s all very quiet – aside from a throbbing beat, I mean. But that’s standard, normal noise. I was expecting more sounds of chaos, screams, sirens, drunk teens fighting in the street. I start to wonder why the only thing I can hear is music. And not regular-person wondering. Norah’s wondering, which covers every scenario from mass suicide to a police raid. Then I realize that maybe my mind isn’t a traitorous snake hell-bent on betraying me. Maybe this is just my need-to-know preparedness, working some overtime. Version 2.0, thirsty to figure out more.