8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Silas
I wake up to a shrill ringing that feels like it’s drilling a hole straight through my skull. I roll onto my other side, hoping I’ll fall back to sleep. The sound doesn’t let up though, and now that I’m half-awake, it’s impossible to ignore. As the realization slowly registers that the noise is coming from my back pocket, I shift enough to reach around and retrieve my cell phone. I squint at the screen: eleven missed calls from Jackie Delaney. And just as many texts, which I notice have gone from sweet and worried, to all caps:
It doesn’t escape my attention that she doesn’t actually use the word ‘ fuck’—that it’s only implied. And there’s something about this that’s so Jackie: always in control. Never really losing her cool.
I glance at the time as I slide the ringer to mute. 10:24am.
Then let my head fall back against the pillow.
Ow… Shit. Not a pillow.
Sand.
I roll my neck just enough to take in more of my surroundings, and even that small movement feels like a full-on workout.
I’m on a beach. Alone. There are the remnants of a bonfire a few feet away. No wood left, though; just embers. A few empty beer cans have rolled along the edges of the dugout fire pit, and a couple of larger liquor bottles, too.
I sit up to get a better look around, but there isn’t a soul in sight. In front of me, waves lap against the powder-fine sand, and about twenty feet behind me is a long rock wall bordering a small forest. It’s split about a third of the way along by a set of stairs and a footpath. I have no idea where the path leads. A road, I guess? Or maybe someone’s back yard, because this is definitely a private beach. No public beach this sheltered and this beautiful would be empty at ten thirty on a summer morning.
Here’s what I remember from last night: listening to a couple of bands and hanging out with a bunch of kids at the festival; rich vacationers with money to spend on booze and food and a pile of neon bracelets that some of the girls were spiraling up their arms. One of them bought me a couple of hot dogs, and liquor was passed around like it was cheaper than tap water.
That’s it. Those details are all I’ve got.
Wait—also, stumbling as one messy, drunken herd along a tree-lined road while the rest of the world became dark and still.
There isn’t a soul in sight now though and the thought occurs to me that even just lying here, I’m likely trespassing on private property. Also, Jackie is clearly worried as hell and the last thing I need is for her to call Richard on Day Two of our shit-tastic baby-sitting arrangement. I take my phone out again to text her; to let her know I’m on my way back to the festival grounds (somehow). But of course. Of course my battery is dead.
I stumble to my feet and brush the sand from my clothes, then lean over to shake more from my hair, scrubbing my fingers along my scalp to get out as much as possible. The small movement makes my head throb though, and when I straighten, my stomach tightens. I thought I was used to being hungry, but apparently not, because the cramps are a new thing. Those hot dogs were the only food I’ve eaten in the past couple of days and I probably shouldn’t have scarfed them down so fast.
I brace my weight with my hands on bent knees until the cramps subside and then slowly straighten again. I kick some sand into the pit and, not wanting to break from character, check all the bottles on the ground for any remaining liquor. Because if today’s going to be anything like the past two months since I got out of Trenton, a few swigs of Jack Daniels will go a long way to making the day more tolerable.
Contrary to what my aunt says about me, I don’t drink because I’m an alcoholic; I drink because I need it just to deal. I need it to get through the day. And I definitely need it to fall asleep at night.
I find a bottle of Captain Morgan that’s still about a quarter full, so I chug that down, hoping it will also help fill the gnawing emptiness in my stomach. But other than that, the rest of the bottles are all empty. Apparently, my brief surge of good luck ran out last night with the two free hot dogs.
Oh, and six… no, wait—seven neon plastic bracelets hanging around my left forearm.
I toss the empty bottle and just stand there for a few minutes, breathing in the sea air until the cramps let up a bit again, and the thought suddenly hits me: I’ve become a freakin’ homeless drunkard at the tender age of seventeen.
Hashtag Life Goals for the under-achiever.
I cross my arms above my head and lean in to a stretch, and the jolt of fire that heats along my left side makes me glance down and inspect the bruises gifted to me by my doting uncle. They’re turning yellowish-green now, ringed in purple, which, yeah, is about as sexy as it sounds. It’s nothing I’m not used to, though; Jackie was right on that one. I’m pretty sure she’s the sort of girl who is right about most things.
Thing is, I don’t totally hate Uncle Karl for what he did. If I was entrusted with the task of dealing with a punk like me, I’d probably kick my ass, too. I wouldn’t be such a wuss about it, though. I mean, come on: who waits until someone is passed out before landing the first kick?
I straighten and take in one last sweep of the view, because it’s stunning: glittering waves as far as the eye can see. I hope whoever owns this beach realizes how lucky they are to have their own little slice of heaven to escape to every day.
I make my way to the stone steps and the footpath through the trees, still combing my hands through my hair to shake out the loose sand.
The good news is that when I come out on the other end of the path, I’m on a dead-end street, which means there’s only one direction I can head. The bad news is that I’m in a ritzy residential neighborhood, so I’m likely far from the festival grounds—which, I’m pretty sure were closer to the touristy town, right near the tip of the peninsula.
Looks like Day Two on the road is already shaping up to be just as memorable as Day One.
I walk for over an hour, but I don’t seem to be anywhere closer to any sort of actual town center. Instead, I end up on a rural route where houses are all at least a mile apart. I know it must still be fancy vacationland though, since I pass about six antique dealers, all with ornate furniture displayed on wide flat lawns, or piled on wooden porches.
I start walking backwards in order to see any cars approaching and stick my thumb out any time a vehicle comes into sight, praying that someone will give me a lift. I need to get back to those festival grounds soon . As in yesterday soon. Jackie will be losing her shit at this point, if her earlier texts are anything to go by. In fact it’s possible she’s already ratted me out to Richard for being M.I.A.
No one even slows down, though. And that’s another thing I’ve learned about rich people: they’re not big on picking up hitchhikers. It’s possible the concept is so foreign to them they don’t actually know that someone on the roadside with their thumb out is looking to bum a ride. Like, if you need a ride somewhere, why wouldn’t you just hop in your Mercedes sedan and drive there yourself?
It must be close to noon because the sun is beating down like an inferno. My T-shirt sticks to my back and the friction from the sand feels like sandpaper against my skin. I eventually stop for shade under a large weeping willow: my mother’s favorite tree.
“ Sorry, ma, ” I can’t help whispering. Because if Aunt Deborah was right about anything, it’s that my mother would be disappointed if she could see me now .
A couple more cars pass but ignore my outstretched arm. Then just as I start walking again, I hear another one approaching and I swivel, arm already extended, as it comes into sight. Only it’s not a car.
It’s a camper.
Banana-peel yellow.
I drop my arm and let my head fall back, cursing silently. The camper slows, pulling alongside me, and Jackie lowers the window.
“What the heck , Silas?” she yells from the driver’s seat.
I shove my hands in my pockets, but don’t say anything. I may have flunked English twice, but I’m pretty sure ‘what the heck’ is a rhetorical question.
She pulls right onto the dirt curb and jerks the camper into park, jumping out onto the ground. She looks ridiculously tiny next to that thing and it would actually be comical if she wasn’t giving me such a death glare as she fast-walks toward me.
“I’ve called you about fifty times!” she screams. “I was texting you! I was worried sick, Silas!”
My jaw tightens. I don’t get how she seems to be constantly surprised by my actions. She sounds legitimately horrified, like she truly didn’t expect me to act in the exact same way I have from the second she found me, passed out drunk , on her bed. As if the news that I’ve got an actual criminal record and spent two years in juvie wasn’t enough to squash any delusions she might have still been clinging to about me being some sweet, upstanding guy.
“I searched the whole festival,” she continues. “I’ve been driving all around town! I thought something happened to you!”
I’m not sure what sort of terrible fate she imagined befalling me at a lobster festival. That I got attacked by a giant mollusk or something? I mean, come on: that place was as family-friendly as it gets.
That’s not what I say, though.
“My phone died,” is my only sorry-ass explanation. Which obviously just pisses her off more. And it surprises me I feel a twinge of guilt, because here’s the thing: any remorse I ever felt for my asshole behavior or my smart-ass comments with my aunt and uncle always got canceled out the second they laid a hand on me. To the point that over time, I’ve come to actually feel a glimmer of victory anytime I do or say anything that visibly gets to them. I actually relish hurting them back now, especially since it’s become harder and harder to affect them over the years.
So technically, I guess I should count the fact that they disowned me as a big win: I managed to piss them off so much they actually kicked me out of my own home. Fifty points for Team Silas.
“You didn’t come back at all last night,” Jackie says, a little calmer now. “ You could have at least… I don’t know, at least let me know where you were going. Or when you’d be back.”
I still don’t say anything. Yeah, I feel kind of bad. But also, she’s starting to piss me off again. It’s one thing to agree to the Trenton-alternative-plan she and Richard made with me yesterday, but that does not give her free license to take over as my case-worker. I agreed to check in with Richard every night at ten, and I did. There’s nothing in our un-written contract that says I need to check in with Jackie every few hours after that, too. In fact, I thought I made it pretty clear that I am not on board with being her pet project for the summer.
I reach into my shirt pocket and find an almost-full pack of cigarettes. So, that’s one good thing, then: someone obviously gave me a pack of smokes last night. In addition to the seven rubber bracelets, that is.
“Where were you going to hitch-hike to?” Jackie asks, her eyes narrowing with suspicion now. “Were you running away? And you weren’t even going to tell me?”
I take a cigarette out and let it dangle between my lips.
“So, what if I was skipping town?” I ask. “Or hitching a ride to Maine or Oklahoma? Or to fucking Paris? How is it really any of your business?”
I say it because she just can’t seem to help herself: she has to position my disappearance last night as a symptom of something else—some issue or behaviour that she needs to understand and make better, and it gets my back up.
I pull the lighter out of the pack and light the cigarette, my cheeks hollowing as I inhale a long drag. I turn away from her when I exhale, but the smoke still billows into a thick cloud that weaves around her hair, and I can tell she’s fighting the urge to make some comment about it.
Instead, she takes a couple of quick steps and turns so that she’s facing me again. “It’s my business because I was worried, Silas. Because, go figure, I actually give a damn about you!”
And then, more softly, she adds: “Also, technically you can’t hitchhike to Paris.”
I snort and take another pull on the cigarette to keep from smiling. She never could let a geography slip-up go unchecked. I turn and blow the smoke away from her again, then turn back, flicking the ashes onto the gravel.
“We’re not friends, Jackie.” I remind her, locking my gaze with hers so hopefully my words will sink in this time and she’ll actually get it. “We hung out when we were kids. Seven years ago. And now we’ve struck a deal just to keep me out of juvie for a few weeks until I move on with my life and you move on with yours.”
But of course she doesn’t back down that easily.
“Okay, you hate me now. Fine. I get it: Message received,” she says all matter-of-fact. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I still care about you . And that I still worry about you.”
“Well, don’t,” I snap, bringing the cigarette back to my lips.
I don’t miss the hurt in her eyes. I know I’m being a dick, but why can’t she just take the hint and back the hell off? I can’t risk getting close to her, and everything that would bring up. I know I couldn’t handle it—I’m barely handling it now. And I doubt she could, either.
Also, I wasn’t lying earlier when I said she shouldn’t want to be friends with a guy like me. She seems like she’s doing well and she’s got a good life and good friends— friends who are probably genuinely good people. And who are actually going places and who won’t drag her down. There’s no reason for her to screw that all up over some deluded notion that she can change a guy she used to be friends with when she was a kid. She needs to let go of this sentimental idea that I’m still a good guy. Because I’m not .
Neither of us says anything for a few seconds. A car passes, kicking up dust so that we’re both forced to turn from the road.
“Okay… Well, are you at least coming back with me to Trudy now?” she asks, once the car has disappeared into the distance. “I don’t have anything until the music festival in Old Orchard Beach tomorrow night, so I’m just exploring today. I have kind of… an itinerary,” she says. Which means she’s got her entire day planned out. I’m almost positive she’s the kind of person who plans out even her down time.
My eyes stray toward the long, arched branches of the weeping willow. I’m grateful to her for at least giving the illusion that I have a choice right now. Because no matter what she thinks, I’m not actually going to ditch her and go on the lam. I’m not that deluded. Or stupid. I realize there isn’t some sparkling perfect life waiting for me if I can just make it far enough; to some other town in some other state.
I take another pull off the cigarette, flicking the ashes absently onto the road. When I turn and make my way toward the camper, Jackie lets out a breath. It also doesn’t escape my attention that her eyes widen at the cigarette still dangling between my fingers and that she’s biting down on her lower lip, worried I’m going to light up in her sunshine-mobile.
Because I’m an ass, I pause and take another drag when I reach the passenger door. Sue me for wanting to make her sweat a little. Eventually I do drop it though, crushing the embers with the toe of my boot before getting in. I still don’t make eye contact but I can hear her breathe a sigh of relief as she walks around to the driver’s side, pausing to lean against the door to shake some loose gravel out of her flip-flop before climbing into the seat.
“I have a new playlist,” she announces. “And it’s seriously awesome.”
Fuck. Me.
“Cool,” I say.
And we’re off.