Chapter Eleven
Stranger Danger
My eyes spring open, my sun-lit room sending me into a panic. Fuck. What time is it? The craft show is today. I flail out of bed, my eyes crusty and my face sticky, and glance at the wall clock.
Seven. It’s seven in the fucking morning. Fucking summertime trickery.
The fair doesn’t start until ten and runs until five, but I have to pack, decide what to wear, shower, and start laundry before I go.
I pass my floor-length mirror and stop abruptly.
Attached to the side of my face is a macaroni-and-cheese noodle.
My eyes drift to the end of my bed where I fell asleep.
The bowl I had my macaroni in rests on its side, spilling all over the comforter.
Damnit.
I open my bedroom door and yell, “Boozer.”
Seconds later, a thundering horde of footsteps stampede up the stairs.
Boozer barrels around the corner, knocking me sideways into my dresser before diving onto my bed, his nose grazing across the comforter until he finds his prize.
I shake my head as he devours the entire thing and excessively licks my comforter.
The dresser drawer slams open, and I paw through it, looking for my nude bra and underwear. I yank a faded light blue pair of capris with tears in the thighs and a white V-neck t-shirt off their hangers, then snatch up my white tennis shoes and carry everything to the bathroom.
After peeling off my clothes from the day before, I turn on the shower and step in, leaping away as the frigid liquid strikes my chest. “Fuck,” I yell, then quickly turn the knob to the left to heat the water.
I place my hand under the pelting stream before immersing my face, rinsing the dried macaroni off my cheek.
A soft knock rattles my bathroom door. “You okay?” My mom’s voice carries through the partition.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
She must have heard me yell. Ever since the incident, any stress-related sound I’ve made has made them run to check on me. I guess having so many unanswered questions keeps them on high alert.
I wash myself thoroughly but tenderly over my still-healing calf.
Most of the red handprints have faded, with only a few leaving discolored blotches.
I’m hoping that one day they, too, will disappear.
Until then, I stick to capris instead of shorts so the marks inside my thighs remain invisible to the outside world and to me.
The craft fair will be my first public appearance since the funeral. I’m hoping because it’s in the next county over, not as many locals will show up, but I have my doubts. It’s a pretty popular fair.
My mom helps me pack Grandma’s car after breakfast. She told me before that I couldn’t drive for a while, but I think she realizes that letting me drive myself makes more sense than having her drive me back and forth.
And since Grandma June’s car has been parked in the driveway collecting dust, Mom decided to let me use it for the craft fair only.
It’s an old Nova, but according to Grandma, it runs like a dream.
I peck my mom’s cheek and drop behind the wheel. She stands there holding the door open, her face riddled with worry.
“Mom, I’ll be fine,” I say reassuringly as I grab the door handle and pull it gently.
She removes her hand, letting me close it, and knocks on the rolled-up window. I crank it down and raise my brows. “Yes?”
Her hand disappears behind her back, and when it reappears, a smile spreads across my face. I snatch the cell phone quickly, tapping the screen like a madwoman. “Is this the new iPhone?”
A heavy sigh escapes her lips as she rests her hands on the open windowsill. “It’s only for emergencies and when you leave the house. When you come home, I want it back. I don’t want you browsing the internet all day.”
“I won’t. I promise. Thank you, Mommy.”
Mommy is what I call her when I really want something, and she gets it for me, which isn’t often. But I didn’t ask for this, so I knew there would be strings.
“Don’t think about going anywhere but the fair. I have a tracker app on it so I can locate you any time.”
I place the phone in the cup holder beside me and smile up at her. “Craft fair and back. I won’t let you down.” The car rumbles to a start, vibrating my entire body.
Drives like a dream, my ass. It sounds like it’s seconds away from bursting into pieces. Mom taps the hood’s top with her palm. “And Tessa, no texting or talking while driving.”
The car staggers backward as I shift it into reverse, backing slowly out of the driveway. “I won’t.” I pull the shifter to drive and wave goodbye.
Once I reach the highway, I relax a little.
I haven’t driven since the day of the accident, and it all feels different somehow.
The way the road appears before me, the other drivers on it —everything feels surreal.
I slow the car down, something in the distance catching my eye.
On the side of the road, there’s a cross with white flowers wrapped around it, staked into the ground beside the bridge railing where my car went over.
Maureen’s name is etched across the front.
I gasp as I continue driving by it, realizing I stopped breathing momentarily.
I take a deep breath, drawing in a large gulp of air before blowing it out slowly, trying to hold back the tears threatening to form.
I blink away a stray one and slap the turn signal up, taking the exit toward the sign that reads “Craft Fair Today” with an arrow pointing to the right.
The parking lot is packed full of vendors and early shoppers waiting eagerly to browse this year’s selections.
I find my table and canopy set up and ready to go.
I paid extra to have everything prepared, so all I had to do was place my tablecloth on the table and line up my ten creations with my cash box.
It’s supposed to be hot today, so I brought my rechargeable clip-on fan, clamp it to the table, and turn it on low before sitting in my cushioned metal chair.
Multiple shoppers pass my table without a second glance once the clock strikes ten. I keep checking my phone, waiting for my mom to send me a message checking on me. When I glance down at the phone a third time, a shadow darkens the space before me. “Hi,” a man’s voice says. “Did you make these?”
I can’t help but scan his outlandish and eccentric outfit.
His sunglasses are tinted purple, and his bright floral scarf seems out of sorts on such a hot day.
He lifts the raccoon skull from the table, his black painted fingernails gripping the edge tightly so as not to drop it.
He studies its detail, every inch of it, before resting it on the table.
“Wow. I love it.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet wrapped in duct tape.
“The name, Scarce, is spot on. Great work.” He removes a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and passes it to me.
“I’ll take it. Do you have a box?” My jaw hangs open.
Here, I thought I priced my art too high, but the amount of time it took me to make them seemed appropriate at the time.
Now this man’s eagerness to whip out his wallet and drop fifty on my dead raccoon has me second-guessing my prices.
Maybe I’m better at this than I thought.
“You’re my first sale,” I say to him, unable to stop my grin as I place the raccoon gingerly in a box.
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his long, pointy nose and says, “Well, I won’t be the last after I show your work to my colleagues.”
Colleagues. Is he an art professor?
I pass him his box as another man stands beside him, uncomfortably close.
He holds his business card out to me and shifts away from the intrusive customer beside him.
“Here’s my card. If you want to visit my table, I’m down there.
” He points to a purple and black canopy with a sign dangling from its opening.
“I’m Ethan, and my business name is Ethan’s Oddities and Eccentrics. ”
The card slides from between his fingers as the man beside him removes it and places it on the table. “She gets it, buddy. Now, move on.”
Ethan takes one last look at me before storming away, taking his raccoon with him.
“That was rude,” I say to the man, placing my hands on my hips as I stand.
The man ignores me. I study his face as he picks up every one of my pieces and sets them back on the table.
His skin is flaky and dry with acne scarred pits, and he smells like day-old booze and unwashed armpit.
The front of his jeans is torn at the knee.
His eyes, dark and sinister, creep across the table to me and land on my cleavage. “So, beautiful.”
I pull the front of my V-neck up and place my knuckles on the table. “Which one do you want to buy?”
He leans forward, placing his knuckles in front of mine, his fierce and lust-filled gaze piercing through me. “None.” He pushes off the table, shaking it. I grip the edge as he slides his hands in his front pockets, purses his lips and strolls away, whistling an unfamiliar tune.
“Fucking creep,” I murmur to myself.
A woman wearing a long rainbow dress, her blonde hair pulled back in a matching headband, floats to my table. She picks up the mouse display, my smallest of all of them, and her eyes light up. “I can name him Mr. Jingles.”
“You sure can,” I say with a smile as she pulls out a crumpled twenty from inside her cleavage and passes it over to me.
I unfurl the moist, sweaty bill and shove it to the bottom of the pile in my cash box.
After boxing it up for her, I wait until she’s far enough away before loading up on hand sanitizer.