Where Silence Gathers (2 page)

For some reason, I choose this moment to imagine that empty bottle I left on the bridge. It rolls across the gritty surface, clinking over the rocks and dirt. Then it falls. It makes the smallest of sounds when it hits the water, and all its pain and toil is behind it. The water carries the bottle down the mountain, to new and different places. I could do that, couldn't I? Float away and never look back? Just … move on?

Something flickers out of the corner of my eye.

No, not something. Someone. The newcomer stands in the shadow of a pine tree, too far away for me to make out the details of his face. All I see is a white T-shirt.

“Who is that?” I ask Revenge, not taking my eyes off the newcomer.

Oddly enough, Revenge's jaw is clenched. “No one,” he growls. “Alex—”

“Don't.” I'm still staring at the stranger. He stays where he is. Somehow, as always, I know he's one of them. It's the way they move, I think.

Eventually, I tear my gaze away from the stranger and focus on the gun. It's so light, so small. Strange that something this insignificant could cause such damage. I glance at Nate Foster again. He's listening to the woman speak. His wife.

I could do it. I could walk up to that window and shatter their lives the same way he shattered mine. I could.

Instead, I walk away.

“That's it?” Revenge calls after me. He doesn't follow this time, and I see that the stranger is gone. Feeling as if my soul is made of the heaviest iron, I head for the car. I'm not drunk anymore. No, I'm more sober than I've ever been in my entire life.

“For tonight, yeah.”

Just as I reach the driver's side, I hear, “Hey, Alex.” I turn to face him, and Revenge musters one more smile. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he looks sad for me. “Happy birthday.”

Two

Saul is waiting for me when I walk through the front door.

He sits at the tiny kitchen table. It's round, placed right in the center of the room. One lone light bulb dangles from the ceiling and casts a soft glow over him. I pause in the doorway, flattening one palm against the wall to pull my boots off. They leave dirt on the floor.

Uncle Saul watches for a moment. “Are you drunk?” he asks calmly. He looks at me with my father's eyes, rich and brown and knowing. They flick to my eyebrow ring, but he doesn't comment on it.

I hesitate before going to stand behind the chair opposite his. My finger trails the wiry path of some blue river on the wall; every room in the apartment is decorated with the contours of a continent. “Not anymore.”

“There's cake in the fridge.”

His tone is still even, but the implication is clear: they had plans for tonight. They wanted to celebrate the day that I dread most.

“Is Missy asleep?” I ask, trying to sound as controlled as him. We're both frozen lakes, everything hidden beneath a layer of ice.

Saul finally cracks. He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, revealing just how worried he was. Even if the Emotion has left, their essence always lingers. But all he says is, “I told her there wasn't a point to both of us waiting up.”

“Look, I'm—”

“Give me your keys.” I toss them onto the table and open my mouth to try apologizing again. “Just go to bed, Alex. We'll talk in the morning.” Saul heaves himself up, wincing. He must have been sitting there for hours. Guilt appears and puts her heavy hand on me. That's how they come, almost every time; one moment there's nothing, and the next they're reaching for you with too-hot or too-cold hands and forcing you to feel everything.

Without another word, Saul lumbers down the hallway and disappears into their room. The door clicks shut. I stay there for a few seconds, wishing I'd done everything differently tonight. Regret joins Guilt and both of them torment me with their existences. I slip out of their grasps, giving them no time to enjoy it.

We live above Saul's piano tuning shop, in one of the three apartments. The one to our left is empty; it's where I used to live with my family. I haven't been inside since the day of the accident. The one to our right is occupied by a little boy and his parents. Angus. The moment I enter my room and sit down on my bed, the springs squeal and Angus knocks on the wall our rooms share. It's a language we invented a couple years ago, something to connect our uncertain worlds. I listen and decipher.
You okay?
he's asking.

I smile and knock back:
Fine. Sleep.

His reply takes a few minutes.
Happy birthday
.

The simple statement pierces me even more than when Revenge said it. Angus reminds me of my little brother. Or at least, what my little brother might have grown to be.

Exhausted, I don't bother with pajamas or brushing my teeth or even the mascara caking my eyes. I just crawl beneath the covers and curl up. The sheets are cold. Light from the hallway spills toward me, reaching. I stay in the shadows. Still, it's comforting. That light never stops trying, never fades.

Alexandra.

My name is so faint I wonder if I imagined it. Frowning, I sit up and listen. The fridge hums in the kitchen and the wind blows against the window next to my nightstand. I don't hear the voice again. “Uncle Saul?” I shout-whisper.

No answer.

Glancing warily around the darkened room, I lie back down and close my eyes. Eventually I fall asleep and dream of the figure in the white T-shirt.

Voices drift down the hallway. I open my eyes a slit and hover in that place between full awareness and the straggling images of my dreams. They were all about the accident,
of course. There are spaces of white in my memory, but every night I see a doctor's droopy eyes, a ceiling rushing past. Blood. Always blood.

As I wake, those images slowly fade. Gray light pours through the window and rain splatters against the glass. Another day.

I can hear the giant clock on Main Street marking the hour.
Dong. Dong. Dong.

“ … just think we need to nip this in the bud. If we give her any leniency, it'll only get worse.”

Uncle Saul. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. The hangover isn't as bad as I thought it would be; my head aches rather than pounds. Mascara smears my hands. I'm still wearing the clothes from yesterday. After sniffing everything else lying around, I just leave them on. Then I leave the comfort of my bed and tiptoe toward the kitchen, trying to ignore how cold the floor is. I get close enough in time to hear Missy reply, “You don't know that, honey. She's never done anything like this before.”

There's a
thud
. “You may not see it, but Alex is exactly like William. I won't let her go down the same path he did.”

My aunt takes her time in answering. She must be frying something, because there's the distinct smell of grease in the air and the sound of sizzling. “She might be like Will in some ways, but she does have her mother's qualities too, Saul.”

“Maybe.” He sighs. That single release of air contains the weight of all our sorrow. “But if we come down hard on her now, maybe she'll think twice next time she wants to steal our rum and come home drunk.”

“When you put it like that … ”

I don't want to hear any more. Pretending to yawn, I shuffle into the room. Both of them instantly stop talking. Missy stands at the stove, attempting to make scrambled eggs from the looks of it. She can't cook anything without burning it—she always gets distracted by other tasks or her own thoughts—but that doesn't stop her from trying.

“Want some?” she asks, glancing briefly in my direction. She must have been warned about the eyebrow ring, because she doesn't look surprised.

Saul is at the table again, this time with a paper and a cup of coffee. Steam rises from the black surface. He doesn't look any less severe than he did last night. I smile at my aunt and shake my head, going to sit down across from him. He doesn't look up, and my keys glint in front of my seat, along with a wrapped gift.

“It's cold today” is all Saul says. Meaning, I have permission to drive. The present gleams and beckons, and I know they expect me to open it, but I can't bring myself to touch it.

Not when I don't deserve to.

Another apology sticks in my throat, but Revenge decides to show up just as I'm about to speak.
The sight of him makes my mouth go dry. He's chosen to dress in modern clothes again—today it's a brown leather jacket, form-fitting jeans, his typical glinting hair, and that cocky grin—yet I can't control the way my entire body ignites.

Another Emotion comes up behind my chair and leans down, putting hands on my shoulders and a mouth by my ear to whisper, “You don't know what you're getting into, girl.” I don't turn around or acknowledge the words, but her scent overwhelms me.

Oblivious, or maybe choosing to ignore her too, my friend settles into one of the other chairs. It doesn't creak or even move. “Better eat something,” he drawls. “You've got a test in American Lit, right?”

I freeze, forgetting to be disappointed that he doesn't seem as affected by my presence as I am by his. “Shit.”

Saul and Missy stare at me now. Recovering, I clear my throat. “Uh, sorry. I just meant … I just realized that I have to be at school early today. I'll see you guys tonight, okay? I'll open your gift then.” Standing, I scrape my hair into a ponytail and use the hair binder around my wrist to secure it. The gathered strands brush my lower back.

A line deepens between Saul's eyes as he begins to stand, too. Worry twitches into reality behind him, a frizzy-haired Emotion who avoids eye contact. “Alex—” my uncle begins.

But I'm quicker. I snatch a piece of toast from the plate on the counter, grab my keys, and dart back down the hallway. Missy says something I don't catch. My teeth sink into the burnt bread as I yank my boots on—no socks—and I'm out the door before my left heel slides into it completely. The keys jangle in my hand, and once I've hurried down the stairs and reached the car I spare a moment to look up and wave at Angus, who's watching me from their front window.

Revenge materializes in his spot in the passenger seat. “Smooth,” he says, eyes light with amusement.

I roll my own eyes in response and start the car, an ancient Saturn that Saul fixed up for me. “Shut up.”

But my heart doesn't feel like a hot coal while I say it, as it did a few hours ago. Everything feels normal again, like all the shifting and changing that happened yesterday was just another dream. Nate Foster is still in his tiny jail cell, Revenge is here because there's nothing for him to do but wait, and the gun in my glove box hasn't been touched. There are no decisions, no uncertainties, no memories slamming at the inside of my skull.

Then Revenge has to ruin it.

“Are you going tonight?” he asks.

I could pretend confusion. I could act like I didn't hear him. Yet his simple question destroys any pretenses of normality I've managed to achieve. Elvis mourns into the sudden stillness. I turn the radio off, gritting my teeth.
The clouds have relented just a little, but the light drizzle makes the world the darkest of greens.

The few businesses in Franklin crawl by on our right. The gas station, the diner, the general store. Everything else has
OUT OF BUSINESS
signs propped up in the windows. Ever since the mines closed, we've been fading away. The only people left have nowhere else to go. Most have lost hope. A group of kids play on the street, their faces dirty and their clothes ragged. They should be in school. But they aren't. It makes me think of futures and families … or the lack of them.

Naturally, this leads to thoughts of Nate Foster.

“Will you come?” I ask Revenge, even though I already know the answer.

“There's nowhere else I'd rather be.”

He's looking at me. I can feel it. I focus on the road, unable to ask my own questions.
But why? For me? Or for you?

Fear—an Emotion I meet more often than I'd like to admit—wraps his arms around both me and the seat. His skin is so cold, and his smell is sickeningly sweet. “Five seconds,” he whispers in my ear. “That's all it would take to face your fear. Maybe less, if you can talk fast.”

My eyes meet his in the review mirror, and the blond creature flashes me a quick grin. Revenge watches him with obvious dislike. Hopefully he thinks Fear's summons stem from the idea of facing Nate Foster tonight.

Then I blink and we're alone again—nothing to prove that Fear was even here other than his lingering scent. Revenge visibly relaxes. “So, why are we going in early today?”

The school rises up against the horizon. Back in the 1800s, it was a huge courthouse. Despite the conversion, it still has the gold plaque next to the door. The town clock towers beside it. I guide my old car into a parking space next to the curb and still avoid looking at Revenge. I'm afraid he'll see the truth in my eyes. “I had to get out of there” is all I say.

Rather than climbing out like a normal person, Revenge vanishes and reappears at my side. “I understand that,” he says, shrugging. “There isn't a species more annoying than humans.”

“No, it's not that.” I study the cracks in the sidewalk as we make our way to the front steps. There isn't anyone around to notice me talking to the air. “I just hate making them worry. My father wasn't the most well-behaved kid, I guess. The sheriff was always arresting him and Dad didn't get to graduate, which is why he went to work in the mines. Saul and Missy probably think I'm going to end up the same way.” And I probably will, in most ways.

Revenge looks speculative. “You made him out to be so perfect.”

I picture my dad. I was twelve when he died, and already it's hard to remember the exact details of his face. We had the same thick eyebrows, the same clear skin and wide eyes. I got his hair, too, a caramel-like shade of brown that has a slight wave to it. Maybe the similarity is why I haven't cut it in years, and now it's become a thick, unmanageable curtain. What does Missy think I inherited from my mother, exactly? When I look in the mirror, all I see is Dad.

Realizing I still haven't answered Revenge, I shoulder my bag and start to climb the steps. “To me, he
was
perfect. I never saw that side of him.”

“Wrong,” Revenge says, startling me. “Don't you remember what—”

A familiar perfume—sweet pea—surrounds me just before someone slams their shoulder into mine. “Can someone please tell me why I have to stick around here for another year? Is a diploma really that important? I mean, I have a plan. Move to L.A. and become a star. Who needs high school for that?” My friend eyes me and tosses her curls over one shoulder. “You look like shit, by the way,” she adds. “That birthday dinner with Missy and Saul must have been exhausting. Did you get in trouble for the eyebrow? I have to say, I did a great job.”

“Hey, Georgie,” I say dryly. Revenge wrinkles his nose in distaste. He's never liked her. Probably because they're so alike. “Why are you here early?”

“I told you, it's Georgiana now. Georgie is just … amateur.”

“Oh, excuse me. Georgiana.” We reach the front doors and I open one of them for her.

She sweeps past.“Make fun of me while you can. You won't be laughing in a year.”

The air in our school smells like mold and disinfectant. Though her locker is on the other side of the building, Georgie walks with me toward mine. “A year is all it will take to rise to fame, huh?” I ask her, trying not to smile.

“Again, I've got a plan.” She sniffs. “Don't you ever listen to me when I tell you things? First, I'm going to—”