The Intruder, page 10
Anton lives in a housing development, which, like mine, is for low-income families. But instead of having a whole house, his family just has an apartment. Although actually, his apartment is about the same size as our tiny house, just less vertical.
Anyway, Anton’s apartment doesn’t have anything embarrassing about it. It’s a normal apartment with the walls painted a dull off-white color, threadbare furniture, and a thin woman lying asleep on the living room sofa—his mom, I guess. Except when we get inside, this kid who looks about eight years old runs up to us, practically levitating with excitement. The kid looks a lot like Anton, except he’s about a head shorter. And his hair is a normal color.
“Anton,” the kid says. “Can we play Nintendo?”
“Can’t you see I got company, Brad?” Anton says irritably. He doesn’t seem interested in introductions.
The little boy looks at me, then back at his brother, pouting. “But you said we could!”
“Yeah, later.” Anton shoves his little brother out of the way, but he’s gentle about it—almost playful. He’s careful not to hurt the younger boy. “Quit bothering me, and we’ll play after dinner.”
Brad follows us down the hallway, but when we disappear inside Anton’s room, he doesn’t bother us anymore. “Sorry,” Anton tells me.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, not bothering to say that I wish I had a little brother or sister.
Anton’s room is really small, and I wouldn’t say it’s neat, but it’s better than mine anyway. There aren’t any fish tanks, that’s for sure. He’s got some dirty clothes on the floor, but they are pushed to the side of the room, and you can easily walk through it without relying on trails. He’s even got a desk that is mostly cleared to work on. I was worried the room might smell like cigarettes because he smokes, but it doesn’t smell like that at all.
“So tell me how you want to do this.” Anton sits on the edge of his bed, letting me have the desk. “Like, tell me how we’re supposed to divide up the work.”
I take my binder out of my backpack and lay it out on his desk. It’s so nice to have the space to work on rather than trying to get everything done on my bed. I take the cap off my pen and lay it down next to the notebook without having to worry it will get lost in the sheets.
“Well,” I say, “I guess it makes the most sense for each of us to take one type of rock and research it; then we can compare them together.”
“Yeah, makes sense.” He looks down at his watch. “All right, so we’ve got an hour to do this before my dad gets home. Well, he might be home later if he stops at the bar. And if that happens, you really don’t want to be here.”
He flinches when he says it, then looks a little embarrassed, like he said too much. Except I don’t know how he could be embarrassed about anything after seeing my house.
“Sorry,” he says. “My dad is a huge asshole, that’s all.”
I tap my pen on my notebook. “You know, I got my mom to stop drinking.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Really? How?”
“Well…” This is something I have never told anyone, and I can’t believe I’m about to tell Anton, my sworn enemy. “I used to do chores for my neighbor, and while I was at her house, I found this bottle of something called ipecac. I looked it up, and it makes you throw up. So I put a few drops of it in all my mother’s liquor bottles.”
Anton’s mouth falls open. “Seriously?”
I nod. “Yeah, it totally made her throw up, and then she stopped drinking altogether. I guess she got sick of being sick.”
“Wow…”
“I could bring it for you,” I say. “I still have most of the bottle left.”
“Yeah, I’ll take it.” He grins at me but then winces and touches his split lower lip. “You’re actually pretty cool, Ella.”
I sniff. “Glad you noticed.”
“I always noticed.”
Yeah, right. “Really? Then how come you called me names all the time?”
“Well, because Smella rhymes with Ella, obviously.” He looks down, picking at a hole in his bedspread. “I don’t know. Nothing ever seems to get to you, but when I called you that, your face would get all red. Same color as your hair.”
I don’t know what to say to that. He’s right. Usually I let insults roll off me, but somehow when Anton called me out, it got to me.
“Anyway, I’m sorry.” He lifts his eyes, the right one tinged with purple bruising from yesterday. “I swear I won’t call you that again.”
I don’t know if I believe him, but I’ll still bring him the bottle of ipecac. If his dad is half as bad as my mom, he could use it. Anyway, Mrs. Fleming doesn’t have any use for it anymore. She still hasn’t been back home since her little accident. I’m guessing she hasn’t woken up, or else the police might have shown up at my door.
I start to make an outline, dividing up how we’re going to do the work on the project. I didn’t notice it, but the sleeve of my sweatshirt rode up as I was writing, and the angry red blister from the cigarette burn last night is now visible. Anton has been leaning over my shoulder, and his eyes widen when he sees it.
“What happened to your arm?” he asks me.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
“It looks like a burn or something.”
“It’s nothing.”
Anton opens his mouth, but he doesn’t ask me any more questions about it. That’s good, because I’m not going to tell him what really happened. I’ve already told him too much today. That’s a secret I’m taking with me to my grave.
26
NOW
CASEY
Without electricity, the cabin has become very dark.
I was dreading the moment when the lights went out, even though I had been expecting it for the entire evening. But I had previously imagined that when it happened, I would be able to curl up in my bed with one of my paperbacks, reading by the light of my Itty Bitty book light until I drifted off.
Instead, I am sitting in the kitchen of my house, alone with a girl who I am 99 percent sure has killed or at least mortally wounded somebody in the last twenty-four hours, and she’s feeling cornered, and we are sitting in pitch-blackness, the wind screaming through the cracks at the windows.
“Casey?” Eleanor’s voice floats through the darkness. A minute ago, I was feeling wary of her, but now her voice is tremulous. “The lights…”
“I’ve got candles,” I say with more calm than I’m feeling. “Let me light them.”
I curse the fact that I left my flashlight in the living room. I am feeling my way to the kitchen counter when a slice of light illuminates my way. I look over, and Eleanor is holding her flashlight. It must be the same one I saw her with in the toolshed. I get the drawer open and pull out a lighter; then I start igniting the candles one by one.
Eleanor stands up too. I would never have offered her a lighter, but apparently, she already had one. She uses her green lighter to light all the candles in the living room. I’m thrilled to know that this girl is in possession of an object that can set my house on fire.
It’s much better when all the candles are lit. It’s not as good as the overhead lights, but at least I can see my hand in front of my face. Also, I can walk across the kitchen without bumping into anything.
“Well, that’s better,” I say with false cheer. “Do you want to keep playing?”
“Actually,” she says, “I’m kind of tired. Is it okay if I go to sleep?”
Poor girl. I can’t even imagine what she’s been through today. I’m sure murdering someone is very exhausting. (No, I don’t actually think she killed anyone. But admittedly, I’m struggling to explain all that blood.)
“Of course you can rest,” I say softly. “Why don’t you lie down on my bed?”
Her blue eyes widen. “Your room?”
“Sure. I can sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”
“I know, but I’d like you to have the bed. It’s a lot more comfortable.”
Eleanor looks between me and the bedroom, like she’s not quite sure what to make of this act of hospitality. Finally, she nods. “Okay. Thank you.”
She thanked me. It’s a miracle.
I’m hoping she’ll leave her backpack behind in the living room so I can search it while she’s asleep, but of course, it’s the first thing she grabs when she goes into the bathroom, and I’m sure she’ll take it into the bedroom with her. I have a feeling she’s not going to let that bag leave her side.
Is the bloodstain on the bag darker? I can’t tell.
I can’t help but think that it’s the perfect size to fit a human head. Or failing that, a hand or foot. Anything could be in there. I imagine opening the bag and finding a pair of dull, lifeless eyes staring up at me.
Or it could be something benign like clothing. Or books. Or drugs. At this point, I’d be thrilled to find drugs in there.
While Eleanor is gone, I work on getting the fire going. I’m hardly an expert, but my father showed me how to start a fire years ago, back when I was Eleanor’s age, and now I’m finally using that knowledge. He’d be proud.
Although maybe not so proud of the fact that I got fired from my job. God, I still can’t believe it all went down like that.
While I’m poking at the embers with the fire poker, I notice a scrap of paper on the floor. I’m certain it wasn’t here before—I would never leave a scrap of garbage lying around—which makes me think that it must’ve fallen out of Eleanor’s pocket.
Before she can come out and realize she’s dropped it, I pounce.
Once it’s in my hands, I identify it as a piece of lined paper, which looks like it was ripped out of a notebook. The ink on the paper is slightly smudged from the rain, but it hasn’t run so much that I can’t read it anymore. I look over the paper, examining the contents. It’s a drawing, most likely scrawled by Eleanor herself.
And when I realize what I’m looking at, my jaw drops open.
This is much worse than I thought.
27
BEFORE
ELLA
There is nothing to eat in our refrigerator.
It’s ridiculous because there is actually a lot of food. Possibly more food than any other refrigerator I’ve ever seen in my life. Like, the vegetable crispers at the bottom are stuffed to the brim, but most of the vegetables are brown, and some have kind of turned to liquid. And there are probably two dozen condiments, although most of them are hard to open because the caps are all sticky and sealed shut. We’ve also got a bunch of the little sauce containers that come with take-out meals, but because there are no dates on those, I don’t know how old they are. But they’re old. Really, really old.
And don’t get me started on the freezer. It’s one big frozen block of gray mystery meat.
The thing we have most of is yogurt though. My mom is obsessed with yogurt. She will come home from the grocery store with, like, twenty little containers of yogurt. She says yogurt is good pretty much forever, unless the top of the container is puffing out. I think it tastes bad after the expiration date, but my mom says I’m being dramatic. She eats it herself though, and it hasn’t killed her, so maybe it really is okay.
I don’t know what I am supposed to eat in this refrigerator. I don’t want expired yogurt. There are some boxes of dry food in the pantry, but my mom got another fish tank, if you can believe that, and she is storing it on top of the stove, so it’s hard to cook anything right now.
Maybe we can get takeout.
My mom comes into the kitchen, and she’s dressed up again with lots of makeup and a short sundress. Another date, I guess. I wonder if it’s the same guy. I hope it is and that it works out for her. She was so much happier when Chip was living here. Things were actually kind of good back then. She used to tell me that they were probably going to get married, and he would be my new father, and then after he left, all I can remember is her crying nonstop for the next month. The only thing that seemed to make her feel better was going shopping.
“I’m going out,” she tells me, in case I couldn’t guess.
My stomach churns, wondering if she’s going to lock me in the closet again. She probably will, because she’s too scared about me throwing out her stuff when she’s out of the house, especially after she caught me trying to throw away her precious bottles. She also says she doesn’t want her boyfriends to know that she has a daughter, because a lot of men don’t want to date a woman who has children, although it might be okay if she springs it on him later.
“Is it the same guy?” I ask.
Her face lights up. My mom is pretty, but she looks ten times prettier when she’s happy. “Yes. His name is Harvey. I really like him a lot. If this goes well, he could be your new father.”
She likes to say that, but it’s not really accurate to say anyone is my new father if I never had a father to begin with. Since she is in such a good mood, I wonder if she might be willing to answer some of the questions that have been swirling around my head more and more lately.
I shift between my sneakers, knowing I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can you tell me who my real father is?”
Instantly, her good mood evaporates. The smile drops off her face. “Why would you want to know that?”
“Because he’s my father.” And he has the same blue eyes as me. Maybe he likes the combination of chocolate and peanut butter like I do. Or the smell of pine cones. “Maybe he could give us money so you wouldn’t have to worry so much.”
“I can provide for my family,” Mom says stiffly. “Look at how much food there is in the fridge! And anyway, he’s a deadbeat and would just suck us dry.”
“Can’t you tell me his name?”
“I told you, he’s a loser,” she says through her teeth. “Even if he wanted to have anything to do with us—which he doesn’t—we’re better off without him.”
I wish I could say I’m surprised she’s refusing to tell me, but I’m not. Someday I’m going to find out who he is though. There’s got to be a way.
“Shut the refrigerator door, Ella,” my mother says with considerably less cheer than when she first walked into the kitchen. “You’re wasting electricity.”
“I can’t find anything to eat,” I say.
Mom raises her eyebrows, which look like they have been penciled in. “Ella, the refrigerator is full of food.”
I wish I could order a pizza. Just the thought of that crispy crust and gooey cheese makes my mouth water. But I don’t dare even ask.
My mother marches over to the pantry and pulls out a box of protein bars. “Why don’t you take this with you in the closet while I’m gone?”
I take a step back, wondering if I could possibly make a run for it. What if I did leave the house? What would she do? Would she call the police to bring me back? I doubt it, because she doesn’t want the police coming into her house.
But if I did leave the house, where would I go? I don’t have any friends whose houses I could hide out at. And also, it’s raining.
“Come on, Ella,” she says impatiently. “I don’t have forever. Let’s go.”
I don’t want to spend the evening in the closet. Yes, I did manage to throw away those peaches that were rotting, but the closet still smells terrible. And it’s dark and scary, and there’s nowhere to sit that’s comfortable.
“Ella,” she growls. “Come on.”
“Mom, I swear I won’t throw anything out.” I take another step back. “Please let me stay in my room. Please.”
She shakes the box of protein bars in her hand. “You can either sit in the closet with this food, or you can sit there without it. It’s your choice.”
My stomach rumbles painfully. The idea of sitting in the closet all night without even getting any dinner is too awful for words.
My father wouldn’t do it. If he were here, he would tell her that it’s not right to lock a child in a closet. And then he would order a pizza for dinner.
“Ella.” She shakes the box at me again. “Come on. Now.”
So I follow her. In less than five years, I’ll be eighteen years old, and she won’t be able to put me in the closet ever again. Or maybe before that, I’ll find my father, and he will put a stop to all this.
28
Today I meet Anton again after school to work on our project. I find him leaning against the building, his bag slung on his shoulder, but he’s not smoking like he was last time.
“Out of cigarettes?” I ask him, hoping he won’t ask me to steal some of my mother’s.
His brown eyes meet mine. His black eye has faded in the last few days, but you can still see it. Devin has been out all week, and people are saying he fell off his bike and got a concussion. “I quit, actually.”
“Really?”
He runs a hand through his green hair. “They were always making me cough, and they stunk up my clothing.”
Except when he says it, he’s looking down at my arms. Where he saw the cigarette burns.
“Was it hard to quit?” I ask him. My mom tried to quit once, and she was going out of her mind with cravings and snapping at me even more than usual. As much as I hate the cigarettes, it was even worse when she was off them.
“Kind of.” His grin is lopsided. “I’m trying not to think about it. In fact…” He fishes into the pocket of his baggy jeans and comes up with a lighter the same color as his hair. “Can you take this for me? I just need it away from me.”
