Chapter 9. Jade
Jade
What can I say? I have a dust allergy. I was pretty impressed with myself for staying hidden as long as I did, but you drop one book, and it’s game over. Ironically, the title of the novel that made a racket was Silent Treatment by Michael Palmer, whoever that is.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when the woman screamed.
I’m sure I startled her, but she’s acting like I’m some kind of intruder—which I realize I am, but I’m not that kind of intruder.
I admit I have a weapon—a seven-inch buck knife concealed in my backpack.
But I’m not going to use it on her, or anybody for that matter, unless I’m forced to.
It’s for emergency protection only, but this lady doesn’t know all that, and she’s too hysterical for me to explain.
To my dismay, she also has a weapon—a broomstick tucked under her arm that she flips around so the bristles point at my face.
It’s not the most lethal choice for self-defense, but it annoys the shit out of me.
She lunges forward like an Olympic fencer and swats at me as though I’m a fly.
Thick straw bristles rake across my cheek, and it genuinely hurts.
“Ouch! Stop it!” I yell, using my hands to thwart her advances, but she’s not cooperating. She’s primal, revved up like a modded Honda Civic. (I know a lot about cars, and I’ll smack anyone who qualifies that by adding, “for a girl.”)
I’ll give her credit: She’s quick on her feet. But if our roles were reversed, I’d be a hell of a lot more effective with that broom. Too bad I wasn’t more careful with the books.
I’m trying to explain myself, but my attacker’s not listening to a word I say.
She’s got her mind made up that I’m dangerous.
She’s not the first to think that. Just one glance at my dirty jeans, green army jacket, and dyed black hair suggests I’m a deadbeat and maybe even a violent drug user.
My dark eyeliner and studded jewelry seal the deal.
But I’m no threat. I’m simply misunderstood, and okay—maybe a little dangerous.
“Who are you? What do you want? Get out of my house. Get out!” she yells.
She comes at me again with those bristles. While it doesn’t really hurt, she could still poke my eye out. Since my attacker is hell-bent on keeping up the fight, all I can do is shield my face with my hands, but I quickly tire of being her punching bag.
With one quick upward motion, I grab the bristled end of the broom like it’s the hair of a girl in lockup.
I yank my arms back, pulling the weapon from Broom-Hilda’s grasp. Once it’s safely in my possession, I flip it around so that the bristles point straight at my adversary. She raises her hands and steps back, like the broom’s a loaded gun.
“Come on, I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, inching out from my hiding spot behind the bookcase.
My assurances don’t have the desired effect. Broom-Hilda’s nostrils flare as she casts a worried glance over my shoulder, maybe fearing that I have an accomplice.
I wish I hadn’t made this poor woman tremble.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I repeat, dropping the broom.
Standing in the light, she can now see that I’m not a creepy dude who’s been lurking in her home. She is genuinely surprised, and relieved, to see that I’m a girl. Her eyes have softened—most of her fear has ebbed, but she’s still on guard.
She holds her ground, eyeing me warily.
“Who are you? What do you want?” She still has her hands up, even though I’m not pointing anything at her.
“My name is Jade Jensen,” I say in a calm tone, “and I am truly sorry that I broke into your house, but I had no choice.”
Her eyes narrow, assessing me in a way I know all too well.
“How long have you been hiding here?” she asks.
“Um—” I’m not exactly sure. “Hard to say,” I tell her, grimacing. “A week and a half, maybe two? When you squat in an empty house, time kind of gets away from you.” I laugh, attempting to lighten the mood.
“You’ve been living in this house for that long? And while I’ve been here?” She looks both horrified and amazed.
I offer a shameful smile. “Guilty as charged,” I reply. “I stayed downstairs at first, but when the boards came down, I moved up to the attic. I figured somebody might show up, and I was right.
“I was sure I was going to get busted the way that nosy blond bitch was snooping around. How pushy was she? Lucky for me, the attic isn’t a selling point.”
“I didn’t see any sign of forced entry. How’d you get in here?”
I clear my throat to make way for my confession. “I cut up a plastic Coke bottle, slid the shim between the doorjamb and the metal latch, and voilà, I was in. If you get the lock changed, remind the locksmith to push in the deadlocking plunger.” I shrug sheepishly. The lady doesn’t look impressed.
“Where on earth did you learn that?”
I’m not about to tell her the truth, so I blurt out the first lie that comes to me. “The internet.”
“Right.” She shakes her head in dismay. “How could I have no idea that you were here?” she asks, bewildered. “I thought you were a family of squirrels or something.”
“You also thought I was a ghost—and that psychic … hope you didn’t pay her much.”
Sadness fills her eyes. “I didn’t see a trace of you anywhere. And where have you been peeing? The water wasn’t even on.”
“It’s easy to sneak into the YMCA to use the bathroom. And they have showers. Also, I’m pretty good at covering my tracks.” I stand taller, a little proud of myself. “Slept on the couch most of the time until I moved up here. Kept my bag packed in case I had to make a run for it.”
“And food?”
“Let’s just say it’s a good thing there weren’t squirrels living up here, or, well—you know, desperate times, desperate measures.”
She looks sorry for me. I hope that means she’s not going to rush to call the cops.
“And it’s only you? There’s nobody else up here?” Her voice wavers.
“I swear—it’s just me.”
I think she believes my story, even though she’s still jittery.
“Look, let me explain a little more,” I say. “It’s not what you think. I’m not going to rob you or hurt you or anything like that. I just needed a place to crash, somewhere warm, dry, and safe. I really didn’t think anyone lived here. I kind of thought I’d struck gold.”
She appraises me anew, cocking her head to one side like she’s now more perplexed than frightened.
“Where are you from?”
“Pennsylvania,” I tell her. “Outside of Philly.”
“Philadelphia?” she repeats. “You’re far from home.”
“Not far enough,” I mutter.
A pale clamminess crawls across my skin. I need a place to stay, and right now I’m not getting generous vibes from my host.
“My parents died.” My voice chokes with emotion.
When I think of them, it’s still raw. Everything that happened, it’s all too painful.
“They were in a car accident on I-95 about two miles from our house in Bristol—a drunk driver going the wrong way. They were coming back from dinner with friends. It was instant, that’s what the police told me, but almost every night, I still have dreams about it. I saw photos of the wreckage…”
Tears well in the corners of my eyes. “I wasn’t the easiest kid,” I admit.
“I caused a lot of trouble and put them through a lot. Spent some time in juvenile detention—” I pause because I feel I need to come clean about my earlier lie.
“That’s actually where I learned how to pick locks with a Coke bottle—in juvie. ”
“Juvenile detention taught you how to get into more trouble?”
“Ironic, I know.”
She raises an eyebrow. “A criminal who can properly use irony. Impressive.”
But she’s not impressed. Her arms are folded across her chest; her foot tapping a swift beat against the floor.
“We were putting all that behind us when—when the accident happened.”
Even though I shut my eyes tight, a salty tear leaks out.
“I am so sorry,” the woman says, braving a step toward me. This person, who was ready to wallop me with her broom moments ago, looks like she wants to pull me into a hug.
I take a step back, and she gets the message.
“I don’t understand—why did you run away? If your parents are both gone, who did you run from?”
“I’m not eighteen,” I tell her. “So I had to go live with my aunt. She’s a tyrant—emotionally and verbally abusive. She has three kids, and they’re all messed up, just as mean as she is.”
She nods, compassion in her eyes. “My name is Holly,” she says, extending her hand. “Holly Sinclair.”
My face lights up. “Are you the writer?”
Holly does a double take. “You’ve read my books?” She sounds astonished.
“Oh, you have more than one? I only read what I found up here in loose pages.”
The color vanishes from her cheeks. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Are you telling me that you’ve read—?”
I finish the thought. “Yeah, I read Beach Thriller, by Holly Sinclair. I found it in a box in the corner. It looked interesting, and I had nothing better to do. I love to read. It’s a really good book. Like, it felt super realistic, even though the title makes it sound like a mystery.”
Something tells me I’ve struck a nerve.
“It’s pure fiction.” Holly’s tone is brusque. “Just a story I made up when I was young and didn’t have much writing experience.”
“Did you ever finish it? I want to know what happens to Anna. And does Conrad leave that nasty ho, Elizabeth, for her? I feel like Anna’s getting herself into a lot of trouble. Am I right? It’s so good, but—”
I see daggers in Holly’s eyes.
“But what?” Holly wants to know. “Are you a squatter and a book critic?”
I clear my throat. “It’s just that you’re a character in your own novel … and it doesn’t quite read like fiction. And I read a lot of fiction. These characters feel too real—like autobiographical, or a memoir.”
A curtain comes down over Holly’s face, veiling her emotions. I can’t tell if I’ve given her a great compliment or majorly pissed her off.
“Could I see the book, please?” she asks in a low voice.
I go to the little nest I’ve constructed out of old clothes and some ratty, yellowing pillows. I dig around and find the dilapidated box holding the book.
“Here you go,” I say. “I just want to know how it ends.”
“Me too,” says Holly, her voice distant and sad. “Why don’t you come downstairs? You can take a shower. I’ll make you something to eat.”