Fifteen
The group downstairs is not quiet. Their voices travel from the bottom of the stairwell all the way to Henri's living room. Though their voices are distinct, their laughs and jeers permeate the relative safety of the apartment so that during the day it's impossible for me to pretend that I'm alone and safe.
"They won't come up," Henri had said the first day I asked him about them. He didn't really bother saying any more about it.
For those first couple of days, I try hiding out in my bedroom. It's quiet there at least, but there is nothing to do. The book Brandon got me from the junk shop is too quick a read despite my best efforts to read as slow as possible. And though Henri's house has bookshelves full of things to read, I avoid them all. Henri hasn't told me not to touch his things, but he also hasn't told me it's okay to fiddle with them either.
I doze lightly on the blanket staring at the ceiling. This is all a waste of time.
Roughly, I push at the mattress and sit up quickly. After a few days here at Henri's, I feel as if I know even less than I did when Brandon was trying to protect me. Henri shares nothing with me. The most I get from him are grunts and sometimes, if he's feeling generous, a sigh.
The living room is actually a mess in the light of day. There are stacks of yellowing and crinkly newspapers on surfaces I hadn't seen the first night when I was just trying to get away from Jimmy. The only surfaces uncovered are the kitchen counters and the dining table which is surrounded by four chairs of dark wood with faded seat cushions. This is definitely the home of a person who's lived here a while.
That's the nice way of putting it. As I stand there in the living room with a hand on my hip, I can feel the thought burbling up before I can stop it and I just think, Old person. It catches me by surprise and I almost snicker to myself like an idiot.
Outside, a laugh carries up from the downstairs hall and it helps me sober a little. Henri isn't young, but he isn't what I'd call old. At least, he's not a typical old person. His eyes have a dangerous sharpness to them that beats any of the looks I've gotten so far from the tribe members standing around out front of buildings. It's a look that even Jimmy can't really match.
It's taken me a couple days of dozing and thinking, but I think I've gotten it. It's the look of a man who shouldn't be here and he knows it. Most of the people I've seen are closer to Brandon's age. Jimmy is probably the oldest among that crowd I've seen. And no one but the villagers have been as old as Henri.
I rub at the goose bumps on my arm absent mindedly as I step over to the living room door. The voices from downstairs carry like music, soft and indistinct. Yet those laughs, some deep and some higher pitched, they cut through the melody sharply at unexpected intervals. Each time I almost jump, already slightly creeped out by the dingy and dark house that looks surprisingly worse by the light of day than it does by the harsh light of the lantern at night.
My chest rises as I inhale deeply and close my eyes. Henri didn't say much of anything about the people who'd be downstairs, but I imagine that they won't hurt me. I mean, as far as they know I'm under Henri's protection, right? And Henri doesn't seem like the sort of person you want to piss off or disobey. That thought brings up the memory of my day standing on the balcony and I shake my head as I reach for the door handle.
The door opens easily and quietly. I step into the hall and listen. The voices definitely come from the stair well. Without the door between us, it's easier to catch some of the words that float up.
"C'mon!"
"..dare you."
"Move."
Carefully, I step over to the stairs to listen but the old dry floorboards still squeak under me as I walk. I stop right away, but the voices have gone quiet already. My ears burn, and I make ready to turn around and run back to the apartment with its door ajar, but something stops me.
There's a squeak on the stairs and a head of messy brown hair, streaked red from the sun, appears just before bright green eyes pop over the ledge. I recognize him right away from the bonfire, and a tiny bit of relief courses through me though I know it's ridiculous to feel that way. I know nothing about him but I remember that he was the one who told me that Jimmy and Brandon were brothers when no one else would.
He glances down at the others then back at me. "You shouldn't be here."
That's the entire point of my life right now. No I shouldn't be here. But I understand what he means. I should be back in the apartment. Henri didn't give me any specific order about the people downstairs, not even an order to avoid them. Maybe he assumed that I'd have enough common sense to know better.
I nod and head back to the apartment and shut the door quietly.
Henri is a large man. I watch him as he prepares dinner, standing at the kitchen counter island with an elbow to prop up my head. It's exhausting doing nothing all day. Much more than I ever imagined. There were so many times between homework and school functions and even hanging out with friends that I wished I could just stay home and do nothing. I had no idea it would be like this.
It's ridiculous to stand at the counter. Henri never speaks to me while he's prepping the food and hardly even speaks to me when we're sitting down to dinner. This is easily the most awkward part of my entire day and the only thing I can say for it is that it's awkward for him too.
I tap on the counter lightly with my fingertips, trying to avoid the annoying sound of nails against the surface. I can't sit still tonight. Something has to be said. I'm not sure if I should tell Henri about stepping out into the hall. It's such a small thing, but it feels like something.
A couple of times, I open my mouth and inhale to start saying something but lose my nerve at the last second. There are plenty of questions that I have, but I know that he won't answer any of them. I glance down at the ground, my hand on my chin pressing up some of the skin of my cheek towards my eye. I have to say something. We're not getting anywhere.
So I open my mouth one last time. "I can cook, you know."
Henri doesn't even look back at me. "No." His answer is too quick and much too easy.
I give a sigh, and roll my eyes, secure that he won't be able to see me. But just as I do, he turns ever so slightly to glance back at me with his sharp, beady eyes.
"Is there something you need to talk about?"
I stand up and take a gulp. Has he heard already from someone else? I don't doubt that he would have heard. Henri doesn't strike me as the sort of man to let anything go unnoticed or unturned.
He only glances back at me. His eyes are back on the food in the pan that's almost done. That doesn't give me much time where we can talk without him shoving something in his mouth to avoid talking about it.
"The people downstairs... who are they?"
Henri is quiet for a moment, focused on the pan and the food. I half expect that he'll just ignore the question completely. Then he speaks. "Don't go downstairs."
I swallow again and shift my weight from one foot to the other. This isn't something he told me before. I'd remember if he'd said something like that before and so directly. "Why are they down there?"
Henri slides the food out of the pan onto two waiting plates. "There's nothing wrong with them being down there. They keep an eye on things."
The implication is partially clear and somewhat disconcerting. I'm trapped here on these upper floors, unable to go downstairs. I don't know what would happen if I did go downstairs. My brain answers for me, imagining them holding me down while others rip at me and my clothing. The thought surprises me with its strength and I have to fight it back by reminding myself that it isn't real.
Henri hands me my meal without saying anything more. I'm sure as far as he's concerned everything that needs to be said has been said and anything not said isn't important enough to get the time or his attention. My breath comes short. It's like that time I got stuck in a box while trying to play a trick on my friends when I was little. I had to kick and scream until someone came along to let me out. But that panic, it felt much the same as the slow realization of what it means to be really trapped-- really stuck. I have a lot of ground, but I can never go elsewhere. Just these two floors and hope they never come up and try to pull me downstairs.
Because Henri strikes me as the sort of person to let others learn their lessons. And I'm sure anything short of death he'd count as a very important lesson.
Henri is already sitting by the time I catch my breath, and he glances at me sharply. "You going to sit down?"
I can feel my face tighten, my brows draw together, and my head throb, but still I nod and take a seat too. There isn't anything I can say. I glance up at Henri and he's already digging into his food as if I'm not really here. There is no point to bringing up my thoughts, to asking him directly about the orders of the people downstairs. This is probably my first and most very important lesson.