Silence Read online

  But there was a store down the hill with a sign with a bicycle on it. And Dad had given her a debit card.

  And Beth had said that if she wanted to get any cell reception at all, she was going to have to go up to Makeout Hill. Plus…groceries.

  She’d been thinking she’d be able to use that card to get herself stuff in cute little boutiques, and she hated to think about wasting that money on something as blah as a bike. A bike…ugh. But if she didn’t…

  She glanced up at Makeout Hill. It was a long way away. She thought about the yawning emptiness of the fridge. And she headed for the bike shop.

  * * *

  A half hour later, she was pedaling away from the grocery on a new bike with a cart, like some sort of hemp-wearing hippy or a second-wave hipster. She hated it…but at least she could get groceries once a week, then take it off and leave it at home. And at least now there would be something to eat in the house. It sucked that it was uphill all the way from the store, though, and she hadn’t thought about how heavy all that stuff was going to be when she was buying it.

  I am gonna give Dad the guilt trip of a lifetime over this.

  She was actually sweaty and panting by the time she reached the house. Mom was already gone, and all but one slice of the pizza she’d bought had been eaten. I guess it was a good thing I did the grocery thing then…She put the stuff away, snarfed a snack cake, and went out to the living room to start hauling the last of her things upstairs.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Now that she was doing more exploring of the house, it was clear that none of the furniture was Mom’s. It was all old…nothing seemed to be newer than the 1950s and a lot was like, Victorian old. Most of that was big, heavy pieces, too big to get out the door, like huge dressers and sideboards, and big beds. None of it had been taken care of well, most of it had been painted and repainted and repainted again, and where there were chips you could see six or seven layers of paint.

  The bedroom she had picked out for herself had a couple of those big, heavy dressers, a wardrobe instead of a closet, and a white-painted iron bedstead, the kind that “shabby chic” people would kill to get their hands on. But it had a set of saggy bedsprings instead of a proper set of box springs, and the mattress was flat and hard. The cover was faded to a sort of unpleasant uniform yellow-gray. She still had aches from trying to sleep on it last night.

  Maybe there’s something better in the attic. She knew better than to ask Mom to get a new mattress. It would be like asking a butterfly to do it. If she even remembered, which was doubtful, she’d just say there wasn’t enough money, and why pay for something the landlord had already supplied?

  There was an actual set of stairs up to the attic, and a kind of hinged, drop-down door to it. She listened hard before opening it, thinking about mice. And rats. And bugs.…As a New Yorker she was no stranger to cockroaches, but you could usually get rid of the things by fumigating the place every so often. She rather doubted anyone had ever fumigated this house, and who knew what kind of scary bugs or spiders were lurking up there?

  On the other hand, if you had to get up high to get any cell phone coverage, maybe the attic was high enough she might be able to get a couple of bars. That thought finally made her push the door up.

  During her unpacking, she had discovered some things missing—which explained why Brenda had been so eager to “help.” All the jewelry she had inherited from her grandma was gone—three rings, a pair of diamond earrings and a diamond necklace. They were all that Staci had to remember her by. Only the cocktail ring was worth much money, but they were all hers; Gramma had wanted her to have them, to keep and to cherish, and Brenda had no right to any of it! A couple of her sexier dresses were gone too, including the cute beaded minidress she’d worn for New Year’s Eve. And she knew darned well she and Brenda were the same size.

  So if she could get some cell reception, bringing that up ought to be enough to get Dad to cough up something like a new mattress, and should be good enough for an increase on the allowance on that debit card.

  The attic was thick with dust. It was pretty obvious that not only had Mom never been up here, neither had anyone else for a long time. The two windows, one at either end of the peaked roof, were lightly coated with cobwebs, but there didn’t seem to be any active spiders or other bugs up here. She went to the nearer window to see if it could be opened.

  After she beat the cobwebs away with what looked like a piece of old curtain, she did manage to pry it up. Gingerly, she eased herself out and perched on the window ledge, holding her phone up into the air, and got…one bar. Which was a heck of a lot better than no bars.

  Dad was hopeless when it came to texts, so she opened her email app and furiously thumbed out a long, long email, beginning with the discovery that her stuff was missing. She didn’t outright accuse Brenda, but she did say “the only person that ‘helped me’ was Brenda.” Then she told him what the waitress had said about no cable, no Internet and no cell phone except on the hill—though she didn’t call it “Makeout Hill”—and told him how Mom didn’t have a car, she’d had to get groceries herself (“Just like always”), and how hard it had been to sleep on a mattress “from 1800.” She told him she needed more money on her card (“if I’m going to have to keep buying groceries”) a new mattress, and a motor scooter. Her first draft came off way too…mean. She revised it a couple of times; her dad could be sensitive, and the last thing she needed was to get him upset…only to have Brenda there to comfort him. She put in a lot more about how Gramma had specifically put that jewelry in the will for her to have and no one else. When she thought it sounded reasonable, she tried sending it.

  It took almost fifteen tries, and her waving the cell frantically over her head, before it finally went out. She sighed, stuck her phone back in her pocket, and took a look at the neighborhood before she climbed back in. It wasn’t much better from this vantage, and she still couldn’t see any people. But maybe they were all at work.

  Then she climbed back inside the attic, though she left the window open for now. It looked out over the backyard—which was a weedy wilderness—but if she found anything up here that was useful, it would probably be a better idea to pitch it out the window than to try hauling it down the stairs. Anything up here would probably be full of pounds of dust. And maybe dead bugs.

  There were some locked trunks she was kind of itching to break into, just because they were locked. They certainly weren’t her mother’s, and she had to find some way to entertain herself. Maybe another day. There were some open ones that were full of chewed-on cloth that smelled like old mice. Ew. She guessed the cloth was old blankets, linens and curtains, but there was nothing there she was even remotely interested in trying to use.

  Finally, in the far corner, she found a featherbed wrapped up in yellowed plastic. She only knew it was a featherbed because she’d slept on one before, when she and Dad had gone up to Vermont to ski and stayed at a little bed and breakfast place instead of one of the lodges. That trip hadn’t gone well so far as the skiing was concerned; there hadn’t been enough snow and all of the beginner slopes were closed, so they’d gone back home after one night. The featherbed had been all right, though. Had to be more comfortable than that antique mattress, anyway.

  After an initial struggle, she managed to stuff it out the window; it rolled down the roof and pitched into the unmowed grass, sending up a cloud of dust. She wondered if Mom was expecting her to do the mowing, the way Mom always seemed to expect her to do most of the housework. Well, unless a fairy turned up and materialized a brand new mower, that was just not going to happen.

  Even if a mower did materialize…I’m gonna have to be pretty bored before I go mowing a lawn for fun. But in this town, that might not be such a ridiculous possibility.

  She plodded down the stairs, after making sure her phone was still in her pocket. There had been something that looked like a wire tennis racquet in one corner; that would do for beating the hell out of the featherb
ed. She managed to get the thing draped over the fence and beat on it until her arms were sore, then dragged it back inside just as it was starting to get dark. You couldn’t say “the sun was setting,” since you couldn’t see the sun through all the overcast.

  When the bed was done—and it was somewhat more comfortable than just the mattress alone had been—she realized that she was starving and more tired than she ever remembered being in her entire life. It took an act of will to go down to the kitchen and heat up a frozen dinner. There hadn’t been any brands she recognized in the store, but at least it wasn’t gross and it didn’t smell like dog food.

  She had just about enough energy left to climb into bed and watch one of the DVDs she had brought before turning out the light. She didn’t even hear when her mom came in.

  * * *

  There was no sign of Mom in the morning, other than her purse on the kitchen table and more small bills and coins in the jar. From experience, Staci knew that the highest probability was that her mom was drunk-asleep and would sleep until at least 5 P.M., since this was Sunday and a bar wouldn’t be open. Hopefully, she was sleeping alone…the times Mom had brought guys home, they had all been creepy, and Staci had never stayed around when they were there any more than she had to. And if those guys spent more than one night, she always locked her bedroom door.

  I hope this door has a lock.

  She looked at the stuff in the fridge, but… Hell. I am not making my own breakfast. Especially since she wanted pancakes and they were a pain to make. She grabbed another handful of money from the jar, locked the house up behind herself, and got on her bike.

  The nice waitress—Beth, that was her name—wasn’t at the diner when she got there; it was an old lady this time, who wasn’t mean, just tired-looking, and didn’t seem even remotely curious about anything other than getting Staci’s order. So she ate in a hurry, left an okay tip, and got back on her bike. Time to find out if the story about cell reception on Makeout Hill was a fairy tale.

  It was a long, hard ride. The grade wasn’t too steep, but the road itself was gravel once you left the pavement of the main streets, and it switched back and forth a lot. If you had wings, it probably wasn’t all that big a trip, but by the road it must have been two miles, at least. She was too busy peddling up to the top—or stopping, getting off, and walking for a while when her legs got tired—to pay any attention to the view. It wasn’t until she made it to the top that she caught her breath and looked around.

  There was a huge old tree at the edge of what turned out to be a pretty steep drop right down to a little bit of beach at the edge of the water. The grass was all worn away between the road and the tree, proving that people did a lot of parking up here. Then the gravel road continued on into some woods. Staci didn’t think she’d ever bother exploring that way. It wasn’t that the woods were spooky, because they weren’t. They just looked tired, and uninteresting. Pretty much the same as the town.

  On the road side of the bluff, you got a good view of the entire town, which didn’t look quite as shabby from here, although it certainly didn’t look any more inviting than the woods. Staci dug the placemat-map out of her pocket and compared it to the view, and it was pretty clear the map had been drawn from this vantage. She picked out all the “landmarks” Beth had drawn for her, then, holding her breath, she pulled out her phone.

  Three bars! And the phone started beeping as the texts came in.

  She sat down in the roots of the tree—it wasn’t bad, not uncomfortable at all—and began answering them. There was something close to the sensation of being a little high, like she’d had a couple of puffs of grass, as she finally got connected back to the real world. It was so euphoric that she took her time answering each one, even though under any other circumstance, she’d have done them with a “reply all.”

  She could have done just that, since she answered all of her friends pretty much the same way. It’s horrible here. The town is nasty and gross, stuck in 1950 and not in a good way. There’s no cell, no net, and no cable. The only way I can get cell is to get to the top of this hill and it’s like five miles to get there. Mom is worse than ever, I don’t think I’ve seen her sober for a minute. She offered me beer for breakfast! Then she decided to throw any pretense she had at pride right out the window. Is there any way I could move in with you? she asked. Or at least, she asked all the girls. There wasn’t a single guy she knew that she’d be willing to shack up with, even if his parents were okay with that.

  The reception was only 2G, which was like, Dark Ages, but she did manage to get Facebook to load, and she posted pretty much the same thing to her Facebook page, only without the begging to move in with someone. She didn’t want Dad to see that. Not yet, anyway.

  Then, finally, she got email to load, although it was agonizingly slow. It was pretty much the same as the texts, only longer. This time she did a group reply, which was just a longer and more elaborate version of her text replies. Since it was her friends…she got a little bitter about Brenda’s sticky fingers. Several of them had their own problems with a parent’s “new wife” or “new husband,” so she figured she’d get some sympathy. She also got pretty bitter about Mom. It looks like she hasn’t cleaned since she moved in, so guess who she expects to be Cinderella?

  Then the return texts started to come in. All of her friends were supportive, commiserating with her and agreeing about how unfair it all was. But whenever it came to the question of if she could move in with any of them…most of them were silent. A few actually replied…maybe out of guilt. All of them had excuses for why it wouldn’t work out, and how it wasn’t possible right then. They all had plans for the summer, and their folks wouldn’t go for it…and so on.

  Finally, after getting text after discouraging text, she got to an email from Dad.

  And guilt practically dripped from it.

  Honey…Brenda and I went out last night, and while I’m no fashion expert, it wasn’t hard to notice she was wearing your gram’s ring and your New Year’s dress. I waited until we got home, but after your email, I had to confront her on it. She said she’d taken them because they weren’t “age appropriate” for you. I don’t know, I suppose she could be right, but you’re right too, that doesn’t excuse stealing. I didn’t say anything about the dress, but I couldn’t let the jewelry thing pass, and I got it all back from her and locked it in the safe. And I’m going to make it up to you, because that just was rude and wrong of her, and there’s no excuse. I’m sorry your mom is so…irresponsible. I’ll be putting what I consider to be good child support on your debit card; you’ll have to manage your own finances, but you’re smart, and I know you can do that. If you get sick or hurt, you’re still on my insurance, so that’s okay. If you need anything more than that, get an email to me and I’ll take care of it. I’ve already ordered you a mattress and bedding.

  Well…it wasn’t anything like the You can come home now, we’ll work something out that she had been hoping for. But it was better than nothing.

  We’ll see about a motor scooter when you prove to me you have a valid driver’s license—not a learner’s permit, a real license.

  She sighed deeply. How was she supposed to get a license without a car?

  Maybe the school has driver’s ed?

  Or maybe she could make friends with someone who had a car and he—or she—could teach her?

  At least he hadn’t outright said “no scooter, ever, no way.” Which he sure would have if she’d asked for a motorcycle or a whole car. Though right now…a motorcycle like Dylan’s…that would be way, way cooler than a scooter or a car.

  I wonder if Dylan would teach me how to drive? The line of daydreaming that thought took her towards definitely helped to take the sting off of all of the earlier texts.

  * * *

  She spent the rest of the morning up on the hill until her phone ran out of power. She’d never had that happen before in such a short period of time—but then, she’d never done nonstop textin
g and emailing before without a phone charger nearby. Her thumbs were sore and she was hungry, so she tucked her phone back in her pocket and moved to the town side of the bluff, staring down at it.

  The diner, the pizza joint, or the drive-in? She could see the roof of the drive-in from where she was standing. It was pretty obvious what it was, since she couldn’t think of any other building that would have six covered walkways radiating from it like spokes on a wheel.

  At least the drive-in would be new. And she might run into some of the local kids there, and get some sort of feel for them. Maybe she’d see Beth there? She climbed on the bike and headed back down into town, grateful that going downhill was a whole lot easier than coming up had been, but still dreading the return leg.

  About halfway down, it occurred to her that she was going to look unbelievably lame, turning up at a drive-in with a bike. Who did that? Nobody, at least not in any of the movies she had ever seen.

  Her fears about looking lame vanished once she got closer to the drive-in. It was certainly not like any of the ones she had seen in movies, or anywhere else, for that matter. Staci should have known better; it was exactly like the rest of this town. Worn out, run-down, and old as dirt, and riding up on a bike was probably no different than walking up.

  The circular “hub” of the drive-in had inside seating, and a bike rack with two other bikes in it, so she obviously wasn’t the only one who came here on a bike. And—oh my God!—it was actually called the “Burger Shack”! Clearly it had not been renamed since it was built. She locked her so-called “ride” into the rack, and went inside.

  Once again, it was 1950s throwback time, but it would take someone who was really, really into the ’50s to get excited about this place. There were vinyl-upholstered booths at the windows around the curve of the building, with a no-kidding jukebox at the far end of the dining area, and a curved lunch counter with circular stools along the inner wall. It was done up in turquoise, chrome, and black-and-white checkerboard—but the turquoise was all sun-faded, the vinyl of the seats was cracking and patched with tape, the chrome cloudy with age, the linoleum of the floor faded and worn, and the only things that looked new (or at least, not faded) were the black and white ceramic tiles of the trim. When she sat down at a booth and the carhop, who evidently serviced the inside and the outside, brought her the menu, it too looked to date from the ’50s. It was a single plastic-coated sheet, the paper inside faded with age so that the colors of the food pictures were an unappetizing greenish and bluish, and the prices had been redone with little white stickers that had been stacked on top of each other over the years. It wasn’t hard to choose, since the limited menu was “burgers and fries” with a “fish sandwich” and “grilled cheese” stuck over by themselves, like exiles. So that was the main difference between here and the diner; the diner served “meals” and not burgers, and the Burger Shack served burgers. The diner closed after lunch, the “Burger Shack” was evidently open until the crazy hour of 10 P.M.!