58 Quinn
Quinn
Four months before the fall
Up the hill I go. It’s a mountain, really.
It takes a half hour because my terrible hiking boots have me sliding all over the place, but once I make decent progress on the incline, I know there’s no turning back.
I shed my dad’s winter coat, which I piled on top of my own for warmth.
The lights are still on in the house, and now I can see there’s definitely someone there.
There’s a dirt bike parked out back, its wheels caked in fresh mud.
I stand surveying the yard, which has been cleared of trees to offer the best views, I’m sure.
I let my eyes scan the house. There are so many windows.
The place isn’t as modern as I remember it from when we played truth or dare as kids.
The siding is a fading gray-white, and there are cracks along some of the windows.
There’s one tall section made of what looks like glass bricks.
The style is very eighties, outdated. I see a figure pass between rooms upstairs.
I tuck my dad’s coat into a ball in my arms. I’ve just walked up a mountain to investigate a house that I’ve never seen with lights on until now, which means there’s someone inside.
It could be anyone. It could be a serial killer.
I know all this, and yet my fear instinct isn’t firing like it should.
I’m nervous, yes, but for some reason, I’m not scared.
I should be hauling it out of here. But something makes me stay.
When I look back at the upstairs window, a man stands there, staring straight at me.
My heart leaps into my throat. There it is. There’s the flicker of fear.
The man looks to be in his mid-twenties, maybe. He’s wearing jeans and work boots, which I can see because the window stretches all the way to the floor. He has wild hair that looks like it could use a trim.
But the thing that catches my attention the most, the thing that keeps me from running away, is the puppy.
He’s holding a small fluffy dog in his arms and is scratching behind its ears.
I watch him come down the stairs because I can see everything he’s doing.
The house is completely lit up. I don’t think there’s a single lightbulb that’s not switched on.
In another minute, the man pokes his head out the door. The puppy wriggles in his arms. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, sorry. I was just…” I’m not sure how to finish the thought.
Curious doesn’t seem like quite the right reason to trespass on someone’s property.
I’m saved from having to come up with something because the puppy squirms free of the man’s arms and tumbles to the ground.
I gasp, thinking he’s hurt, but he rights himself in one bumbling motion and dashes toward me.
I squat down to greet him. His fur is so soft.
He licks and nips playfully at my hands and falls over.
“Pip, no biting,” calls the man. I look up to see him smiling and walking toward us.
The dog bounds back to him and then around his legs and then back to me.
We’re both breathless with laughter by the time he has made several trips between us and, exhausted, lies in the dirt watching us with his tongue lolling out of his mouth.
The man invites me to stay. He’s making nachos.
I wonder, for a second, if my dad will worry about where I am, but I know he won’t.
He’s too drunk to remember I was supposed to spend the night at his house.
Then I wonder if this is smart. I have no idea who this man is.
But I am feeling reckless, so I say yes.
We pour salsa on top of tortilla chips and then sprinkle on cheese before sticking it into the oven.
We eat with the back door open so Pip can come and go.
The man tells me his name is Robbie, and he used to live here, but he hasn’t been back since he was two years old.
He was born at Sacred Heart down the road, and I tell him that’s where I was born, and that’s when he admits he’s a little older than me, but I already guessed that.
He and his mother moved to follow her ex, Robbie’s dad, the man who had this house built.
They ended up in LA. It was a lonely childhood, or at least that’s what I gather when he tells me his mom spent more time getting dressed up and waiting for men in bars than helping him with homework.
“She did always seem to have money though,” he says.
“I think that’s why she kept doing it. To make sure I had enough.
It was all for me. That’s what she told me before she died, anyway.
It was always all for me.” He tells me that, eventually, he met a really nice girl from Italy who convinced him to take an acting class, and he loved it.
When I press him, he bashfully shuffles over to the living room where a duffel bag sits on the floor.
“We only have a DVD because my friend made it. It’s not official or anything.” It’s a movie case.
“So you wanted to be an actor, and you just…did it?” I ask, a little starstruck despite myself.
He laughs and says he has a long way to go yet.
He has dreams to hit it big in LA, but all the directors and hiring managers in Hollywood are stuck up and don’t see his potential.
He ran out of money, which is why he’s here.
He’s been living in the glass house for a few months, doing construction work over in Vail.
He thinks he’ll stay until summer. He looks at me when he says this in a way that makes me feel like he’s just decided, and I go warm with pleasure.
As we talk, I can tell he’s a genuine person.
His demeanor is relaxed and welcoming. I’m surprised I feel like myself around him.
I’m also surprised that I don’t really think about my dad or about River or anything else.
It feels like he could be a new adventure, something I didn’t realize I needed until right now.
“Nice ring,” he says, as I press my palm against the table.
“It’s my favorite,” I say.
And then we watch Pip trail in snow and mud and zoomie around the kitchen, and Robbie doesn’t seem bothered by it, which makes me smile.
He pulls out a joint, putting his lips to it and lighting it in one fluid motion.
As he exhales, he passes it across the table to me.
I take it without hesitation. He’s a little older than I am but clearly sees me as his equal, which gives me a kind of thrill.
As we smoke together, he tells me something else.
He explains how his mother told him there was something strange about Whisper Ridge.
Something like magic. I shift in my chair when he says it, trying to hide my discomfort.
He says she told him the trees here have magical powers or something and that she used to practice magic before he was born.
He laughs with self-deprecation, as if this is a ridiculous thing to say, and I can feel him staring at me, as if I might confirm or deny it.
I deflect slightly and ask him if that’s why he’s back.
“She died,” he says. “But before she did, she wanted me to come here. She wanted me to learn about the magic. Stupid, right? But I had to honor her last wishes.”
I eye the joint, which rests on the side of a plate, a finger of smoke rising from it. “Not stupid,” I say and offer him a smile.
He leans in. “Hear me out.” He’s buoyed by something, maybe the fact that I didn’t laugh at his reference to magic.
“I think there is magic here, and it’s been locked away so no one but a handful of people knows about it.
And if that’s the case, I think that’s terrible.
It’s power hungry and wasteful. If there’s magic, it should be used for the greater good, don’t you think?
If I had magic like that, that’s exactly what I would do. Help people.”
I pinch the joint between my fingers and take another deep, satisfying inhale. The high flows through me. I have found a kindred spirit.