Where Silence Gathers (3 page)

“We listen to you, Georgie. There's no need to go through it all again.” The third member of our little group appears beside us, holding her books and fixing her gentle smile on Georgie. Briana Brinkman, who's been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, shifts her clear gaze to me and her smile grows. “Hey, Alex. We came early to work on Georgie's essay. It's due first hour, and all she's written is her name.”

“Essay … ” I repeat with a sinking sensation in my stomach. “I completely forgot.”

G
eorgie eyes me. “What's going on with you lately?” Her expression changes and she grabs my arm. “Oh my God, I can't believe I forgot to tell you!”

Grateful to avoid explanations, I indulge her. “What?” We all start to walk toward the library.

“Billy and his friends were down by the mines the other night and they heard
moans
coming from the tunnels. Pretty freaky, right? Maybe the ghost of Sammy Thorn really does exist.” Georgie doesn't try to hide how thrilling she finds this.

Briana responds, her tone solemn, but I don't hear what she says. I'm thinking of the Sammy Thorn legend, a bedtime tale for wayward children. Decades ago, little kids were disappearing from their beds. It became a national issue, and Franklin turned into a place of closed curtains and locked doors. Somehow it was discovered that a miner called Sammy Thorn was the culprit, but only one of the children was found when they searched his house. Thorn was chased into the mines and never seen again. Things went back to normal in our town, and so many years passed that people began to feel safe again. Thorn became a story.

Mid-sentence, Georgie turns to me again. “Don't think you're off the hook, by the way,” she adds.

They're both staring at me, waiting, and I falter. “There's nothing to tell. Personally, I'm more interested in finding out if Briana finally asked Rachel Porter out.”

At this, Georgie scoffs. She doesn't give Briana a chance to respond. “Of course not. She's too much a chicken. Now, spill. How did the birthday dinner go? Were they mad about the piercing?”

Damn it. “Uh, well, I—”

Alexandra.

I freeze, forgetting how to breathe. All the nerve endings in my body flare to life. This isn't like it was last night, some faint whisper in the distance. It sounds close, right in my ear. I lean against a locker to steady myself. What's happening to me?

My friends are staring. Even Revenge. “Did you hear anything?” I demand, still breathless.

Briana puts her hand on my arm, and an Emotion presses close to her. I don't let myself look up; her concern only makes things worse. Am I going crazy?

“I have to go,” I say, taking a step back. Then another. My glance flicks to Revenge. He's frowning. For the first time, he doesn't understand me.

Something has started, and I'm a leaf in a current, helpless against it. I turn away from them and face the light pouring through the front doors. I think of Nate Foster and empty rum bottles and mysterious strangers wearing white.

Georgie swears. “Is she high or something? Alex? Alex!”

I ru
n.

Three

“Shouldn't you be in class?”

I turn away from the bookshelf and meet Andrew's concerned gaze. In case there was any doubt about what he's feeling, Worry stands beside him. I'm sick to death of this particular Emotion. He ignores me, and I ignore him as I say to Andrew, “They cancelled school today. A meteor fell and destroyed all the classrooms.”

What I don't say is,
Oh, I think I might be losing my mind, and I can't be in Franklin right now.

My godfather, who was my father's best friend, sighs and lowers himself into the chair behind the desk. His glasses flash in the weak lamplight. “You need a diploma, young lady. Life will be much more difficult without it.”

Despite knowing how much he hates it when I touch his things—I've never been to his office before, but I've been to his house a hundred times—I pick up a plaque in front of him and read the engraved words:
PROFESSOR ANDREW LOMENTA
. I drove over an hour to get to Green River Community College.

“Life, difficult? How so?” I ask flatly, putting the plaque down.

Worry's body gives a particularly odd twitch. It draws my attention to him, and as I watch he flickers again, like a channel with bad reception. I frown. It takes me a moment to remember what's happening and how Revenge once explained it: Beings from the other plane are able to be in multiple places at once. In order to address each and every summons, they do what Worry is doing right now—create another copy of themselves to send.

After another moment, Worry vanishes completely, his summons from me answered. Yet his effect lives on.

Andrew purses his lips and leans forward, imploring me with both his expression and his words. He can't resist readjusting the plaque so that it's exactly where it was before. His fingers are long and elegant. “Well, what about college? You want to go to college, right?”

I swing away and stroll along the edge of his office, feigning interest in the wall of books again. “Is that a trick question?”

“Missy asked me if I gave you a recommendation. She thinks you applied.”

Anger appears and lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. I resist the urge to shake him off. His touch burns, right through my skin and into my bones. Just when I think I can't take another second, he vanishes.

Andrew types something on his computer while I struggle to respond, but I'm clenching my jaw so tightly it's nearly impossible to get anything out. “Can we not talk about my aunt, please?” I say finally.

Another sigh. Andrew always gives in eventually. “Fine, Alex. You can hang out here for a while. But promise me you'll go back for your afternoon classes, okay?”

I pluck a textbook from its place on the wall—the one I'd been looking at earlier—and plop into the plushy chair by the door. My legs dangle off the armrest. “Of course,” I chirp. I flip through the pages, stroking the ridges with my thumb.

Andrew pauses in his typing. His expression is strange. “What made you pick that book?”

I shrug as if the answer doesn't matter, as if it's nothing. “I figured it wouldn't be boring.” But I can feel the embossed title against my palm—
Creatures of Myth
—and it matters more than he can know. Almost as much as getting the nerve to face Nate Foster matters.

“You didn't used to be interested in myth,” Andrew says.

His tone is light, conversational, but no one can ever suspect. The other plane wouldn't like it. So I lift my head and snap, “I don't see any gossip magazines around here, so … ”

The professor raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. Behind him there's a wide window, and the newly grown leaves of an oak tree sway in the breeze. “I didn't mean anything by it. I just thought it was interesting. Your father read that book too.”

At this, my stomach flutters and I stare at him. “He did?”

“Cover to cover. He used to ask me questions about … other dimensions. Or planes. I can't remember the exact way he phrased it.”

“What did you tell him?” I try to sound casual, but my grip is too tight on the book. Excitement and Confusion lean over me.

Andrew picks up a pen and frowns at a paper on the desk. “I'm not really an expert on the subject, since my specialty is economics. But I gave him access to the college's library, and the number of an old friend who used to dabble in the subject.”

Without thinking, I open my mouth to demand the name and number, and I'm saved when a student fills the doorway and ventures, “Professor Lomenta? Do you have a minute?”

Andrew hesitates, glancing at me.

I stand up, still clutching the book. “I better go, anyway.”

“Can you wait in the hallway for a moment, Jenny? I'll be right there.”

The girl nods and leaves. Andrew focuses on me again. “Alex … I know you're having a difficult time, especially lately, considering … ” He stops and clears his throat, fidgeting with his pen.
Click. Click. Click.
“But your parents would have wanted you to be happy.”

I force a smile, studying this awkward man that my father loved. Trusted. “I know, Andrew. Thanks.” A hug is a bit too much, so I just move to put the book back.

“You can borrow it, if you want,” he says.

I hesitate, but I already know there isn't anything in this book that can help me. “No thanks.” The book slides back into its place with a soft sound.

“Alex.” When I turn yet again to meet his gaze, Andrew hesitates. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and I'm surprised to see Apprehension appear behind him. Andrew's eyes flick toward the window, toward those quivering leaves, and then he says, “Don't come to my office again. If you need me, call, and we can meet somewhere. My house or a coffee shop. All right?”

He's always serious, but there's something different about his voice, a shadow that clings to the words. So I don't argue. “No problem. See you around, Lomenta.”

This time he doesn't stop me from reaching the doorway. I feel him watching me go, and he probably thinks whatever issue I had is resolved with his simple assurances. But it will take more than concern or kindness to make everything right.

What will make everything right?
a little voice in my head asks me.
Nate Foster's death?

Maybe.

But that's not what's most important right now. No, what matters most is this new discovery, this burning knowledge that yearns to expand and grow. Something I should have known. It may mean nothing; it might mean everything.

My father saw them too.

Angus sits on the bench outside of Saul's store, holding a jar in his hands.

The town clock is going off again. It does that every single hour, on the dot, no matter how annoying we find it or how much we complain. Just like Joe and his damn radio station, playing all that Elvis.
Dong. Dong. Dong
.

I slam the car door shut and approach my small neighbor. “What are you doing out here? Are your parents fighting again?” Angus just nods. I squat in front of him. “Is that a new jar?”

“Found it,” he mumbles, swiping at his nose. His sleeve leaves behind a streak of dirt. I smile a little, watching him use the edge of his shirt to clean the glass. He does so with a painstaking dedication that I've never given anything.

“How many jars does that make, now? Fifty?”

Angus shrugs. It's strange, the fact that he's more talkative through a wall than here, where the sun makes everything bright. Then again, maybe it does make sense. It's easier in the dark, sometimes, with a barrier between you and everything else.

“Have you decided what you're going to do with them yet?” I press.

Nothing.

I stand and let Angus revel in the silence we don't get in the apartments.

The moment I step through the front door I smell dinner. Well, I smell dinner burning. I set my bag on the floor and tug my boots off. With a heavy sensation in my chest, I wander down to the kitchen. The maps look older in the lamplight, and the harsh lines of the world seem softer. Saul has even more in his office, framed maps that are worth more money than anything else we own. They're ancient and yellowed and treasured, and if looking at something could make it fade, Saul would have had lost his maps long ago. I've never asked him what he finds so fascinating about them; I've just accepted it. Same with Angus and his jars. We all cling to something.

Missy and Saul wait in the kitchen, talking in low voices. Once again Saul is at the table, his silver hair shining in the dusk. Missy is leaning against the edge of the counter with a bowl in one hand and spoon in the other.

“Hi,” I say, going to sit beside my uncle.

In unison, they focus on me and put on their smiles. “Hi, honey,” Missy says. She's mashing potatoes.

“About time you showed up.” Saul wraps his arm around my shoulders. Guess he's not mad at me anymore, or at least he's doing a better job of hiding it. He smells like cigars and … garbage. I wrinkle my nose. Saul notices and pulls away, sighing. “Damn animal got in the trash cans again,” he says. “Had to clean it up.”

My aunt pours a glass of water and slides it in front of me. She picks her spoon back up and starts mashing again. “How was your day?”

“Fine. Yours?” I take a drink so I don't have to come up with anything else to say.

Missy and Saul exchange a glance, probably without meaning to. I see it and clench my fist under the counter. If Saul feels the tension in me, he doesn't comment.

“So are we going to do this or what?” I ask, trying to sound flippant.

Silence. I attempt to interpret their wordless conversation
. Do you want to take this? No, you do it. Are you sure? I'm sure. Okay
. Looks like Missy draws the short stick.

“The school called,” she says, brushing a stray hair out of her eyes. Her black hair has gray streaks it didn't used to. When did she stop dyeing it? “You missed class today.”

I study the designs in the wooden table, losing myself in the thick and thin lines. They wait patiently for me to respond. But what can I say? What can I tell them? It feels like any words would only cause more damage.

“Do you need help with anything? Dishes? Dinner?” I offer when the silence becomes too long. “Or I could run to Ian's and pick something up.” He's the owner of the general store.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, it's not just the three of us in this small room. Worry, the Emotion I seem to bring out the most in people, appears. He touches both Missy and Saul, and the sound of his foot tapping is something only I can hear. I grit my teeth.

Oblivious, Missy sets her spoon down once more, and it clinks against the side of the bowl. Her dark eyes try to find the secrets in my own. “Alex, we need to talk about this. Where did you go today? Do you need to talk about anything? I know that Nate Foster—”

“Don't.” I slide off the stool so violently that it scrapes over the floor with an ear-splitting squeal. That name can't exist outside of my head. He can't be anything other than the monster. I head for the door.

“Where are you going, Alex?” Missy calls after me. Then there's the
thud-thud-thud
of her pursuit. “Honey, you can't just—”

“Nowhere, Missy. Just out.” Hating myself, hating the pretenses even more, I shut the door on her concern.

She doesn't try to follow me.

Guilt walks beside me as I make my escape into the trees out back. She towers over my head, her greasy hair shining yellow in the twilight. It takes the last of my self-control not to shake her big hand off. The emotion oozes through my veins.

But Guilt doesn't linger, and I stop when I reach the trail. I stand there for a minute, concentrating on the push and pull of air in my lungs. The haze ebbs from my vision enough that I can see the ground, so I make my way down to the ditch and search the long grasses for a flash of color, the glint of an object. Over the years, I've searched miles of the woods that surround the store.

Nothing.

After a few minutes, I climb back to the trail and squint at the horizon. I hear dirt crunching behind me, and then Uncle Saul's voice drifts into the stillness: “It hurt your aunt when you talked to her like that.”

At first, I don't respond. Because they deserve better. The thought calms the storm raging within me. Calms it but doesn't stop it. My lungs are clouds and my blood is a torrent of rushing rain.

“I know.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “I'm sorry. And I'll tell her that too. I just … ”

Uncle Saul gives me a chance to finish. When I don't, he does it for me. “Being young isn't as easy as everyone makes it out to be, huh? Especially when life has dealt you some rough cards.”

My nostrils flare. It's been six years, but I can still taste blood in my mouth, hear the screams, feel the heat of breaking glass and twisting metal. “Is that what you call it? Rough cards?”

He chooses not to respond to this, but I see the way his mouth tightens. Remorse grips my stomach; sometimes I forget that when I lost a father, he lost a brother.

Saul puts his back to the sun and faces me. A tuft of hair sticks up on the back of his head, making him look younger. “What are you doing out here?”

I wasn't expecting that. Part of me was steeling myself for something about Nate Foster, about the unfairness of his release, how it would be best for me—for all of us—to move on. I let out a breath, and the truth comes out along with it. Maybe to make up for last night.

“I'm looking for something,” I tell him. “Dad used to talk about it. He said that one Fourth of July, you guys shot off this giant rocket he built and he always wanted to find it. He didn't exactly get the chance, so I'm … ” I swallow.