In the Echo of this Ghost Town Page 3

  “Jury’s out.” I look away and take a sip of my water, annoyed but kind of curious.

  “Why’s that?”

  I shrug. “What if I’m the serial killer?” I can’t look at her, though I’m not sure why. It isn’t like I’m nervous, even if she’s a little unnerving. Why have I said that? The idea of being compared to a killer takes me backward. Griff Nichols, son of a murderer, when I’d been alone, but I’d shed that persona with my crew. I shove the reminder aside.

  “It’s a distinct possibility.”

  My eyes connect with hers, the curiosity revving up a notch. “Why’s that?”

  “Guy sitting outside of a convenience store on a Monday night looking all moody. Definitely sending shady vibes. You spike that unassuming water bottle? Use the innocence of water to lure in your victims but in reality, you’re just setting the trap?” She smiles, and I see that she’s joking around even though I don’t know her; it’s the squint of her eyes.

  “You’re weird.”

  “I get that a lot.” She pauses and leans forward to take a sip of her drink and looks over at me. Her eyes sparkle with mirth, but it’s hard to tell what color they are even in the light. Lightish. “So, what do you do in this town for fun?”

  “Get drunk. You new?”

  “Yes. Why aren’t you doing that?”

  “It’s Monday.”

  “So, a drunk six days a week? You have standards, I see. So that must be real water.” She pauses and raises a single eyebrow—which bugs me for some reason. “You don’t look much like the type with standards.”

  I’m not, but I don’t say it. “Neither do you.”

  “Touché, serial killer. So, you don’t drink on Monday for other reasons, then?”

  “I didn’t say I don’t drink on Monday. I just said it was Monday. You made the assumption.”

  She laughs, but it’s mostly air. “Fair enough.”

  This conversation could die. I could stand and walk away. I don’t. I blame it on my lack of being alone, which I’m going to have to reestablish. “So, you’re new here?”

  “Yep. Just moved. Only here for the summer.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Why what?” She takes another sip of her slushy.

  I watch her swallow it. Then I look back at my water bottle to resume plucking the plastic label. “Only for the summer?”

  “The band I play with is going on tour.”

  “Really?”

  She laughs. “No.”

  “You’re weird.”

  “So you’ve said.” She stands. “Well. Thanks for sharing the table.”

  “There were two other ones you could have chosen.”

  She glances at the other two and then leans forward. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to talk to a serial killer.” She smiles, offers me a nod, and with her hand wrapped around her cup, she walks away. She’s wearing jean cutoffs, tight, and the strings of the cut denim hang against her long and shapely legs.

  I scoff, looking away because I don’t want to notice her. A serial killer. Stupid.

  As I watch her—the nameless, weird girl—walk away, I realize I forgot what I was sulking about.

  4

  The unforgiveness of the pavement the night before is the second thing I think about when I wake up. The first thing is Weird Girl—whose name I didn’t get—and her antagonizing smirk. This is unnerving; I’d rather focus on the fact my legs feel as though I’ve stripped them of muscle and then tried to hand stitch it back to the bones. I attempt to roll over to go back to sleep, muscles screaming, but my brain won’t stop spinning with images of Weird Girl and Slurpees. Then I start thinking about Phoenix and Tanner and my friends, about drinking and partying and wishing things were the same. Then I’m angry about how shitty things are, so I get up before the sun peeks out from behind the plumber’s ass-crack horizon and slip into shoes—old ones that I’ll probably regret using because my shins are on fire—to find the pain of the pavement again.

  The blue of the pre-dawn morning is cool and quiet. Peaceful. Antithetical to everything going on inside of me.

  I run.

  I pay attention to the jarring punch of the road every time my feet hit the pavement. The pain wakes me up, though I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to be waking up from. Sure, there’s the literal waking up from sleep, but I’ve already done that. I feel like there’s more to that idea working its way through me, but instead of pondering it, I focus on the pressure against my lungs, stripping away the emotional hurt. My concentration fixated on breathing to stay alive.

  When I get home, I fill a glass of water and sit at the counter to cool off.

  My mom walks into the room and freezes. Her surprise isn’t surprising. I’m not usually up until noon, long after she’s gone to work. I’m suddenly sorry for being an ass to her the day before; my shit friends aren’t her fault.

  “What’s this?”

  “Went for a run.”

  “Why?”

  I shrug and take another sip of my water.

  She slaps something in front of me as she walks past. “Here. And you’re welcome.”

  I follow her across the kitchen with my gaze. Then I glance at the flattened white paper in front of me that was once curled up into a tube. “What is it? A receipt?” I take another sip.

  “Stop slurping.” She scoops coffee from a tin into the filter of the automatic coffee pot.

  “Are you just planning on being on my ass all day?” I take another drink and slurp loudly just to irritate her.

  “Yes. If you don’t have a job by the end of the week, that’s exactly what I will be, like a fucking fly on shit.” She snaps the filter into place and presses the button to start the coffee, then points at the paper. “It’s a job. A guy runs a construction company or something, I didn’t catch all the details. He’s looking for help.” She goes to the sink to wash the remnants of a dinner I ate. “How many times do I have to ask you to do the dishes? Come on, Griff.”

  “Sorry. I forgot.” But that’s a lie. I was too lazy. “Leave them,” I say, feeling guilty. “I’ll do it.” I set the water glass down on the counter and pick up the strand of receipt paper from the till on which the note is scrawled. CAL WALLACE written neat, in all caps. There’s a phone number and the word JOB underneath. “A stranger? You talk to this guy? How do you know he’s not a serial killer?” I picture Weird Girl, her smirk, and shake her face from my thoughts.

  “Who can know? But he came into the store yesterday asking to post a notice. Seems nice. Cute.” She sets the dishes to dry in the plastic strainer doing them anyway and moves to the refrigerator. She’s always moving, always busy.

  I groan. I don’t want to hear about “cute” from my mom. “Why don’t you sit down a minute, Ma?” I ask her.

  “There isn’t time to sit on my ass.” She’s bent over into the fridge. “I have to get down to the restaurant to prep for opening. Then I’m at the hospital for a swing shift, so I won’t be home until late.” She withdraws some bread and a few other items that look like she’s going to make a sandwich. “You need a job. He’s got one.”

  I stand up and pour her a cup of coffee which I set down at the kitchen bar counter next to where I’d been sitting. Then I take the ingredients from her. “Sit and tell me what to make.”

  She looks at me, narrows her eyes but does as I ask. “Who are you and what do you want? I don’t have any money for you.”

  I scoff. “Nothing. If this is what I get for helping, why do it?”

  She takes a sip of her coffee.

  I heard her come in the night before around two in the morning, which means she probably only slept three or four hours. Her schedule has been like this, well, since my dad went to prison.

  “Mayonnaise?”

  She nods, still watching me with an unwavering gaze over the rim of her cup. “The guy said he’d be home today. You could go by.”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  She sets d
own her cup. “Griffin.” She sighs like my name weighs a ton. “Use public transportation. You’re a high school graduate, and not incapable.”

  She’s right, even if I’d rather sit around feeling sorry for myself. I slather the bread with the mayonnaise, annoyed because she’s called me out on making excuses. I hate when she does that.

  She clears her throat. “Look, if you land a job,” she says and takes another sip of her coffee, “I will release some of Grand Pop’s money he left you so you can get a car. Especially if you’re still thinking about community college. The rest will be for that.”

  I look up from the sliced cheese I’ve just laid on the bread. “Really?”

  She offers a smile. “It isn’t like you’ll be able to get a Corvette. But a used beater to get you from point A to point B. Yeah.” She smiles wider into her cup.

  I finish making her sandwich with some turkey followed by some lettuce before smashing it together and slipping it into a container. “A car. Cool.”

  “Job first.” She sets down her coffee on the counter. “You have to buy everything for it, so it’s useless without all the other stuff.” Then using her fingers, she counts off everything. “Insurance, gas, registration, maintenance. Everything costs money.”

  “I got it.” I put the sandwich in a baggie and set it in front of her.

  “Yeah, yeah.” She nods. “Thanks for the sandwich.” She pauses. “We should talk about your dad.”

  My shoulders tighten. I wrap a hand around the back of my neck and lean against the counter. “You think he’ll come around?”

  She shrugs and stares into her coffee. “If it were me, then there wouldn’t be anything to keep me from you.”

  She looks up, and for the first time I see my mom as someone different, as a woman who has done everything she can to keep life together for her kids. For me. Of course, I knew it on one level, but I’m not sure I understood her sacrifices, so stuck in my own self-centered universe. The awareness makes me wonder about Phoenix and kicking him out. I don’t ask though because I like this with her, as rare as it is. I wonder if my father even cares about us? If he ever did? Knowing he has another family out in the world makes me question it. Maybe Mom would do anything she could to see me and Phoenix, but maybe he’d do anything he could to see his other family, instead.

  She stands, comes around to wash her coffee cup and sets it in the drainer, then leans against the counter next to me. “I just think we should probably prepare ourselves for it.”

  I glance down at her and nod.

  She bumps me with her shoulder, then she rises up on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. I can’t remember the last time she did that. That realization moves through me like fingernails on one of those old, green chalkboards. Jarring and uncomfortable. It’s easier to be pissed at everyone, but maybe I could reevaluate the way I am with Mom. I’ve been mad about her kicking out Phoenix, but what if there are things about the situation I don’t know. If it were me, then there wouldn’t be anything to keep me from you. That doesn’t sound like a mom who wants to kick out her kid.

  If I’ve been wrong about that, what else am I wrong about?

  The thought is uncomfortable.

  So I think on more pleasant things: the image of a car. It gets me moving.

  After calling the number of the Cal guy, setting up a meeting time and getting his address, I figure out the bus schedule. When the bus stops, I get off and use my busted-up phone to find the guy’s place. The spiderweb screen makes it a little difficult to see the map. Eventually, the app’s disembodied robot voice leads me to a farmhouse.

  The building looks like a piece of shit, everything sagging and old, the paint gone or peeling away. It belongs in a ghost town because it’s definitely haunted. There’s a porch in the front curled around one of the sides. The other side is stark and rises two stories with old shutters, a few of which are missing or hanging from lazy fasteners who are letting go. I have the impression that a deep breath might push the house over. What was my mother thinking to send me to the house of some horrible horror story about to come to life. It’s a fucking dump.

  I climb the porch anyway, hopeful I won’t fall through, because there’s the promise of a car, and knock on the closed door, hopeful it won’t come off the hinges.

  Inside, I hear steps.

  The door opens.

  On the other side of the threshold: Weird Girl.

  Her eyes—which I see now are light grayish—widen. “Serial Killer?” Her hair, which I thought was light brown, is the color of sparkling honey in a jar with the sun shining through it. It’s in a thick braid draped over a shoulder. She steps out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. She’s built like a linebacker, tall and strong, because our eyes are almost level, but she’s rounded in all the places a dude isn’t. In this light and that tank top, nice and very noticeable.

  I take a step back to keep some distance between us.

  “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  “What?” I shove my hands into my pockets.

  She crosses her arms and frowns. “Well?”

  “I’m looking for Cal Wallace.”

  Her arms relax and fall to her sides. “Oh, shit.” The door creaks as it opens, and she turns. “Hey, Dad.”

  A man steps out, tall—like me—with ashy brown hair laced with silver strands. He smiles. “Hi. You must be Griffin.”

  I hold out my hand toward him as Weird Girl steps to the side. The porch creaks. “Hi.”

  Cal shakes my hand. It’s sturdy, but he doesn’t try to crush my bones like he’s a caveman or something. “I see you’ve met Max.”

  Max. Her name is Max.

  She looks down and crosses her arms again.

  Her manner makes me think that perhaps she’s worried I might mention last night so I say, “Yeah.”

  Her head snaps up, and her gaze crashes into mine. I don’t like the way the base of my spine does this strange electric thing when that happens.

  “Come on in,” Cal says, “but it’s a mess. We’re still unpacking.” He turns and disappears into the dark of the house.

  The condition of the house inside isn’t much better than the outside. I notice, however, that in its prime, it must have been beautiful. There’s all this natural wood; some of it looks insect ridden, but then there are these spots where the wood looks like it’s worth gold or something. There’s a pretty, stained glass inset in a doorframe. Boxes in different stages of unpacking litter the floor throughout the house.

  “This is–” I stop, because I can’t freaking lie.

  “A shithole,” Max says as she walks past me.

  Cal rolls his eyes and smiles. “Nice, Max. Language.”

  “Sorry, Dad. Not sorry. Water?” she asks me.

  I don’t want to say that I’m scared of what might come out of these pipes. “No. Thanks.” I follow them into a dilapidated kitchen where patches of linoleum are peeling, and exposed wood is dry and graying. “Is this place safe?”

  Cal offers me a chair which I’m pretty sure goes with a missing dining table. He sits in another. “Livable. This is what I do. Fix up old houses and then resell them.”

  “Why?” I ask because I can’t imagine wanting to live somewhere like this. Sure, my house isn’t all that awesome, but there aren’t holes in the walls. The carpet might be worn, but at least it stretches across the room. The tile might be cracked in places, but not missing.

  Max leans against the kitchen sink and crosses her arms.

  Cal glances at her before looking at me. “Got to make a living. Allows us to live, me to work my business, and then to make some cash once the place is fixed up.”

  I can see the rationale, but I’m not sure I trust the floor, afraid to sit. When I glance at Max, her frown, added to Cal’s earlier look, tells me she might not be as into this whole fixer-upper thing as her dad.

  “And that’s where you’d come in.” Cal’s voice draws my attention back. “It’s okay to s
it. I promise.” He waits for me.

  I ease down onto the chair. The floor holds.

  “I’m going to need an extra set of hands with Max headed to college; we need to get this place turned over quickly.” He glances at Max again, who’s looking at her feet. At the stretch of silence, she stands.

  “Nice to meet you, Griffin.” She disappears from the room, and I can hear every groan of the house with each of her steps.

  “Honestly, Mr. Wallace,” I start.

  “Cal.”

  “Cal. I’ve never had a job. And I don’t know much about construction or anything. My mom just said I should check in with you.”

  “Your mom. The convenience store clerk?” He offers a quick smile and a nod; then he runs his hands down his denim covered thighs and glances at where Max disappeared. He sighs. “It would be helpful if you did have experience–” he clears his throat, thinking, and then he looks at me again. I can see the doubt work across his features—Max has his eyes—and I’m pretty sure he’s going to say, “Thanks but no thanks.” Then he clears his throat and says, “I can teach you what you need; I just really need someone who’s willing to work hard.”

  I must look surprised because he offers a short laugh. “Really?”

  “Are you?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t know if it’s true, but I think it is. It could be.

  Cal stands and extends his hand. “Great. Can you start tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bring some tools.”

  “I don’t–”

  “Hammer, screwdriver. Gloves. Whatever you might have. Tool belt.”

  I nod but don’t tell him I have no idea what he’s talking about. If Tanner and I were still friends, I could ask him. The thought makes me feel like an empty road.

  Cal gives me a tour of the place, the house—which is as bad as I thought—and the outbuilding: a combination garage and workshop. He shares his plans for the place and details all the work we’ll be doing. I try to listen, try to understand what he’s talking about, but really, all I feel is overwhelm because I have no idea what he’s talking about. What the fuck are trusses? I try to stay engaged by nodding, but I’m terrified, and sure he’ll fire me after my first day when he realizes what a fraud I am.