In the Echo of this Ghost Town Read online

  Cal offers me a ride home, and then asks Weird Girl—Max—to take me because he gets a call he has to take for a potential job. I’m not one to pass up a car ride over the bus, so I follow her out of the house and get into a white truck that’s seen better days.

  “So,” Max says when she drives out onto the main road, “thanks for not saying anything about last night to my dad.”

  “Sure.”

  “How come you didn’t?”

  “Not my business.”

  “I snuck out.”

  “You still have to do that?”

  She doesn’t answer, just drives, and I don’t press. I don’t really want to know her weird shit. I have my own to deal with.

  We pass Custer’s, and I think about sitting there with her last night. I’m curious. “You sneak out a lot?” I don’t know why I’m asking.

  “Not a lot. My dad—he’s cool and all, and he probably would have given me the keys—but he worries. I also don’t like to leave him alone on the first night in a new house.”

  “How many houses have you lived in?”

  “This makes–” she pauses, then– “ten.”

  “Shit. That’s a lot. Ten different houses?” The thought shocks me. The thought of moving ten times—well, I can’t fathom it since I’ve never done it once. I glance at her. “Not all here?”

  I see her grip adjust on the wheel and then she leans against the door, holding the wheel with one hand. “Nope. All over.”

  This makes me swallow. Ten houses. Different towns.

  “What about you?”

  I tell her where to turn. “I’ve been here my whole life.”

  “That must be nice. You must have lots of friends—the same ones.”

  I wish I could say yes, but it would be a lie. I don’t say anything. “You too? Friends in lots of places.”

  She gives me a tight smile before looking back at the road. “You’d think. It’s hard to make friends when you’re just passing through.”

  I hadn’t thought of it like that. “Next right,” I say and point out my house. “Thanks, Max.” I tell her to test out her name. “Is it short for something? Maxine?”

  She scoffs. “Not that. Maxwell.”

  “Maxwell.” I hum on it. “That must have a story.”

  “Yeah.” But she doesn’t elaborate.

  “Well, thanks for the ride.” I slide from the passenger’s seat out onto the sidewalk.

  She offers me a polite smile, then drives away after I close the door. I wait a moment and watch the truck as it chugs down my street before going back into my house, thinking about what it really means to be alone.

  5

  The dilapidated porch is hidden under shadows when I climb the perilous steps the next morning. Cal asked me to get to the house early. When Cal opens the door, a warm golden glow reaches for me. He’s smiling, and I wonder how at this hour of the day. I can barely keep my eyes open. I’d considered skipping the run when that alarm hit but hadn’t been able to go back to sleep, afraid I’d miss the bus. So I’d forced myself to get up, forced myself to face the retribution on the road again. It sands down my edges.

  He turns from the open door. “I got coffee on.”

  “And electricity,” I say, the grain of sleep still in my throat, and trail him into the kitchen.

  “It will be a real house by the time we’re done.”

  I have my doubts, but I’m willing to go on this ride for a paycheck. Besides, ten houses. Cal must know.

  There’s a table with a light green Formica top set up in the kitchen with four gleaming chrome chairs with green vinyl seats.

  “You got a table.” I put a hand on the back of one the chairs.

  “Yes. Max and I unloaded more of our stuff yesterday after you left. Still lots to do.” He steps around boxes in the kitchen. “We’ll just unpack necessities. Figured a table fit that category. We’re going to have to tear all this out and start from scratch.” He pours some coffee into a plastic mug.

  “Max still sleeping?”

  “She’s out for a run.”

  Running? I find the information thought provoking. Something we have in common, not that it matters.

  “Cream and sugar?” Cal asks.

  I shrug.

  “I drink mine black, but Max likes hers with both.”

  “I’ll try it black.”

  Cal smiles and slaps the lid on the second mug. “Let’s go out, and I’ll show you what I need you to do today.”

  I take the offered mug with a “thanks” and follow him from the house, taking a sip.

  “You got your tools?” Cal asks and skirts around the side of the house.

  “I couldn’t really find any at home.” I hadn’t looked. Well, I had, but what we had consisted of a small kit under the sink to do minor stuff around the house. The hammer hadn’t been much bigger than my hand.

  He looks over his shoulder, still walking. “No tools? Nothing?” He faces forward again. “What’s your dad use around your place?”

  I know his question is innocent. Cal couldn’t know about my dad, but the question still makes my chest burn. Anger isn’t the current fire however, because I can give Cal some leeway, but his honest assumption drudges up those feelings I like to keep locked up. “He’s not around.”

  Cal stops and turns toward me, hand on his hip, the other holding his coffee. His brows are drawn together. I don’t think it’s what I’ve told him that’s stopped him, but perhaps the way I’ve said it. I feel his eyes assess me. He takes a sip of his coffee then resumes walking. “I think I can scrounge up some stuff for you to use.”

  “Thanks.” Having to offer this gratitude bugs me because it feels like I owe Cal something. Then again, I kind of do; he’s taken a chance on me.

  We turn another corner to the back of the house where an old porch looks worse than the front. It’s a mouth, missing teeth with the remaining ones discolored, broken or loose.

  “You’re going to take this down today. Demolition.” He turns and looks at me with a grin. “I love demolition.”

  “Okay.” By the looks of it, I could probably just give it a push and watch it collapse.

  I took woods at school with Mr. Henry. I learned some shit about building stuff. Measuring, sawing, fitting stuff together, gluing, nailing. I mean, I didn’t try too hard. I wouldn’t have wanted to look like a try-hard or anything, but I kind of liked that class. I liked the way you could take a slab of wood and make something with it. We didn’t demolish things though, but taking shit apart seems like something I might have a talent for.

  “I’ve already dealt with the electrical, so that won’t be an issue,” he says like I know what he’s talking about. He points to the skeleton of a light fixture. I nod like I have a clue. “Start on the top and work your way down so you don’t hurt yourself.”

  I look up at the dilapidated roof.

  “I don’t want you up there–”

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “–so, we’ll set up a ladder and a scaffold before I leave.” He turns away and heads toward his rust dappled truck. “Taking it down will be the easiest part. When you’re done, if there’s any salvageable wood, pile that up in its own pile. Be sure to use gloves—I’ve probably got an extra pair around here. I’m not sure you’ll find much usable wood on that porch. Separate the rest of what you can into trash or salvage. You know the difference?”

  I don’t and force myself to ask the question. “How do you know if the wood is salvageable?”

  He glances at the porch. “Most of that’s going to be in the recycling pile.” With the hand holding his coffee mug, he points at the porch. “See the dark spots? The way it looks like it’s splintering?” After I nod, he says, “That’s all rot. When wood is soft like that, weak, spongy, and broken, you can’t use it for building anymore. If you find any pieces that look–” he turns back to the truck and presses a finger to a smooth board– “closer to this. See how the grain of this is compact?” H
e knocks on it with a knuckle. “No give. We’re using this for your scaffold. It’s strong and sturdy. That’s what we want.”

  I nod again because it’s all I know to do. I feel like an idiot and hate that I do. I wonder if Tanner would know all this stuff. Probably. I want to ask more questions but don’t. Afraid to look stupid.

  After I assist Cal with the setup of the scaffold, Cal glances at his watch. “I’ve got to get out of here. Don’t want to be late for that job.” He walks back to the truck. “Oh.” The door creaks as he opens it. “Max should be rolling in at any moment, would you ask her to text me when she gets back so I know she’s home? She’ll be around, so if you need anything, she can help.” He climbs into the truck and slams the door shut.

  The truck rumbles and drives away.

  I’m left staring up at a porch ready to topple. I use my spider-web screened phone to look up how to remove a porch. My data plan sucks, but after a while a video pops up. While I’m waiting for it to load, I hear the rustle of gravel and turn to see Max running up the drive. She’s got on shorts, short shorts. Her legs are full, and she’s glistening with sweat—golden in the fresh sunshine. She’s got this fitted top that hugs her body. I look back at my phone and try to concentrate on the video taking a lifetime to load.

  “So, Serial Killer,” she calls. “You’re just gonna stare at your phone instead of work?”

  I glance at her, not really wanting to for some reason. She looks kind of…alluring. And I’m a dude. I notice shapes of stuff. “You my supervisor?”

  She smiles. “You can be sure as shit that I will let my dad know if you’re spending all day on the phone.” She stops a few feet from me. Her skin glows from the exertion, and though her hair has been slicked back into a ponytail, lots of little hairs explode around her head. Her eyes, this pretty shade of gray with swirls of other colors I noticed yesterday, but can’t see this far away, are vibrant. She’s still breathing hard from the exercise, which makes me feel heated, which is stupid. She’s not my type.

  But that isn’t true.

  I haven’t been all that discerning.

  I look away, ignoring that fact. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’m making a plan.” I wave my phone at her. “Your dad wants you to text him.”

  She turns and walks away. “Got it.”

  I can’t help it. I look at her ass, then I’m irritated with myself for doing it. New boss’s daughter. Terrible idea. Besides, she’s… never mind. Too much time spent thinking about her. I shut it down.

  Trusses.

  She calls over her shoulder. “That shouldn’t be too difficult. Swing the hammer and back away.” Her laughter skitters over the space between us, then she’s gone.

  I press my teeth together. That’s it. She’s aggravating. I return to the video, which I use to help me get started.

  A while later, I’ve got the shingles and the plywood of the roof off, and my hands are blistered even inside the gloves I’ve borrowed from Cal. I’m pounding at the wooden trusses of the roof with the hammer (trusses are those triangles that connect the walls to the roof—I can learn). The porch shudders under the pressure and begins leaning as if it’s possible to lean any further than it is already. Something cracks, and I locate the source of the sound to the edge of the truss fastened to the siding of the house. I realize Max was right: swing the hammer and back away. I climb down from the scaffold and hit the weak spot of the wood, grateful it isn’t taking the siding with it. The porch shudders again, and with a monster’s yelp, collapses into a heap.

  A moment later, I hear, “You okay?”

  I spin, the dust and debris settling around me.

  Max is standing at the corner, no longer in her running attire, arms crossed over a tie-dyed t-shirt. Her hair looks darker, damp, and hangs in loose waves around her face.

  “Yeah.”

  She nods. “Hungry? I’ve got some breakfast sandwiches if you’re game.”

  My stomach growls. I follow her, my stomach, the ruler of most things. My dick is a close second.

  When I walk into the house, I see she’s unboxed a bunch more stuff, the kitchen starting to look like a kitchen and less like a run-down storage unit. There are two plates, each with a muffin sandwich layered with meat and egg and dripping cheese and insignificant vegetables. My mouth waters. She pours herself a coffee into a mug sitting in front of one of the plates and then lifts the pot with a silent question.

  “Water?” I ask.

  She returns the pot to the coffee maker and fills a glass of water from a filtering pitcher in the fridge. “Not sure about the pipes yet,” she says, echoing my sentiment from the day before and places the glass in front of me. She turns as though to return to the fridge, but then spins and puts the water pitcher in front of me. “You’re probably thirsty.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her and watch her, like I’m trying to decipher a new puzzle. I like puzzles, though I’ve never told anyone that. There’s something fun about having a problem and finding the solution or even better, the work around. It’s probably why I like video games. They’re fun to solve. Max is a puzzle. She makes me curious, but I’ve never actually spent time with girls who incite my curiosity. Truthfully, I haven’t taken the opportunity to get to know any girl outside of physically messing around.

  I frown at the direction of my thoughts and stare at the stacked sandwich.

  “I don’t think it’s going to hurt you,” she says as she slides into the seat across from me.

  I shake my head to come back to the real world and nod, offering her a partial smile of gratitude. “Thanks. For this.”

  She nods. “Sure. I was hungry. Thought I’d make extra in case.” She doesn’t look up at me, dressing her coffee in cream and sugar.

  I take a bite and force myself not to react. The food tastes amazing. “That’s really good,” I say around the bite.

  “Well, most things taste good to a caveman.”

  I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but she looks at me pointedly and takes a bite.

  I swallow and study her as she chews. She swallows, and I notice the movement of her throat. “Are you saying I’m a caveman?”

  She sets down her sandwich and wipes her mouth. “I might be insinuating that. Yes.” Then she smiles. “Serial killer and caveman. Not a great combination.”

  “I’m neither of those things,” I say and take another bite.

  She watches me, and I notice her eyes have swirls of blue and green with flecks of gold in combination with gray, swirling like the colors in her shirt. She nods as though bestowing approval and takes another bite of her sandwich.

  “Where’s your mom?” I ask after I’ve finished my bite.

  She sets down her sandwich again, and I can see I’ve hit a nerve. She’s frowning, which I’ve only seen her do once when I showed up on the porch after seeing her at Custer’s. She takes a sip of her coffee.

  “Sorry,” I tell her, though I’m not sure I’m sorry about asking, more about maybe bothering her with it. I think about how Cal mentioned my dad earlier and how tripped up I felt by it.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t really like to talk about her.”

  I nod. That I understand.

  “How about your mom?”

  “She’s around.”

  She gives me a quizzical look, her eyebrows shifting asymmetrically over her eyes. “Cryptic much?”

  I offer her another partial grin. “She’s always working. Got three jobs. I don’t see her much.”

  “Three?” This time she looks astounded with eyes wide and her eyebrows high.

  I never realized how many different looks a girl can express in a matter of moments. My mom is usually just annoyed. This girl’s got like a billion expressions. “Yeah. After my dad–” I clear my throat. Shit. I try to recover from the accident of mentioning him. “She’s just trying to make ends meet.”

  “And your dad?”

  I look up at her.

  She’s got her ha
nds wrapped around her coffee mug, her eyes focused on me, and her attention makes me feel fidgety. “Or is that a little like how I feel about my mom?”

  I nod.

  She glances down at her coffee cup and contemplates it.

  I take another bite of the sandwich.

  “She left us,” Max says after a few more seconds.

  I stop midchew, surprised that she’s offered this information, trusted me with it. This trust—which may or may not be misplaced—allows imprisoned Griffin the opportunity to peek at the feeling. Angry Griff swoops back in, however, and makes me hesitant and kind of resentful at what I figure is meant to be a bridge.

  She keeps her eyes locked on her coffee mug. “I was five. I don’t remember much about it. I mean, I do, but it’s like I’m not sure what’s real or made up anymore, you know?”

  I don’t say anything. I understand though, sort of, thinking about my dreams and how they are a mixture of my memory and my subconscious. Sometimes, a remembering of my dad’s arrest. The memory makes my chest ache. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

  “I better get back to work,” I say and stand. The chair flops backward and slams with a thud against the floor in my rush. I turn, hoping it didn’t bust through the floor and grateful the chair is splayed out on top of the linoleum.

  She looks up at me, surprised, then she nods. “Yeah.” She stands, too.

  I grab the plate and take it to the sink. “Thanks for the sandwich.”

  “No problem.”

  I set the dish in the sink and can’t get out of the room fast enough, away from her eyes measuring me. There’s a reason she’s not my type.

  6

  I’m alone at home, and my brain splinters with the solitude. There’s the trail that leads to Tanner, Danny, and Josh. There’s the trail that leads to my dad and his release from prison. There’s the trail that takes me to Phoenix. I consider taking out his postcards and rereading them again, but I’m too tired to get up from the couch. Then I think about reaching out to my former friends, but the last time I did, Danny brushed me off. So I play video games with strangers online instead.