"A proper meal you mean?" I received a curt nod and a further narrowing of her eyes. "Around the time Aimee Graham died."
The truth was the last thing I'd intended but it slipped out of my mouth anyway. The queen of avoidance was also an awful, awful liar.
Ms. Custer nodded. The skin around her eyes softened. "That was three weeks ago, young lady. How are you surviving?" I waited as she yelled for Izzy, who hauled the mashed potatoes to the dining table.
"Not sure," I said. What was wrong with my mouth?
Way to go, Bryn. A secret stash of smartass quips, a thousand snarky responses and you spew out the bald truth?
"Are you eating anything at all?" Concern and fear swam back into her warm brown eyes.
I shook my head. "Food tastes like sawdust. And makes me ill." I gripped the chair in front of me, needing the solid wood to ground me.
"But you don't look like you've survived on nothing. Not skin and bones at all. You look fine." Ms. Custer spoke below her breath. Since she didn't seem to expect an answer, I bit my tongue. "Maybe you need to see a counselor?"
My head shook a violent response while inside my mind I screamed, panicked. I drowned in memories.
My mother's voice echoed in my head, harsh with pain. Her accusations. My fear when I figured out what I'd done by admitting I could see the glow.
The visits to the psychiatrist who persisted in his treatment, delving deeper, searching for a reason for the visions. A reason that would match one of his textbook definitions. Even the quiet understanding of my father hadn't made it any better.
"No!" The skin on my knuckles went taut as I gripped harder, terrified I'd lose control. The word barked out, harsher than I'd intended. "I'm sorry, Mom. It's just . . . I've had my fair share of counseling. If anything, they make things worse, not better."
She paused and I just knew she wouldn't let the issue slide. But her next words surprised me. "That's okay, Bryn, honey." Her smile, like the soft pat on my shoulder, was gentle and sweet and enduring. "Did it go well today?" She reached out and gently touched my bandage.
Ms. Custer had intended to come to the funeral but I'd asked her to stay home. Didn't want the kids exposed to more grief. And my sorrow craved solitude. I wasn't sure why, but I knew I'd shatter into a million shards of grief if my little family were with me.
I just nodded. No sense in telling her about Cherise and her malicious machinations. Ms. Custer's face tightened but she let it be.
Tender garlic and herb-roasted chicken and butter-glazed carrots made it safely to the table. I went through the motions, pretending to eat under the stern supervision of my foster mother. Washing up was easier to do and I escaped the kitchen, both dishes and myself in one piece.
A wide veranda hugged the front half of the house, dark and private, especially in the evenings. I surrendered to its comforting embrace. Enjoyed the thrill of having the porch swing to myself, reveled in the enveloping dark night and the sweet scent of Ms. Custer's pink climbing roses. I sat alone, enclosed in my little private world, with just the crickets and cicadas to vie for my attention.
I stayed home, under doctor's orders to take things easy after the accident and the blow to my head. A week dragged by. A week in which I relished the chattering of leaves outside my window, as the wind frolicked through the thick branches of the red maple. A week I wanted to last forever. Not because the end of it meant I'd have to run the North Wood High gauntlet again, but because I'd lost my support. My strength. My only friend who I'd just let die, without doing a thing about it.
The porch swing creaked, and I sighed, loving the silent, fragrant darkness. A fake haven where I remained invisible and the world walked by without knowing I watched. I should have seen Aimee's father walking his dog, trying to maintain a sense of normality after losing his only daughter. Should have seen Anna and Cherise slip into Anna's house and throw vicious stares at our house as if the building itself had taken their hunky quarterback from them. But all I saw were lonely pink petals falling and falling into nothingness.
Until the black and chrome Ducati roared, loud and intrusive as it turned into our driveway.
Chapter 5
Biker-dude cut the engine and swung off the machine, his movement like a river of mercury. He strolled to the front door. Walk wasn't the most appropriate word for the rolling gait he used to go from bike to door, but it did strange things to my heart and my breath. Deliciously nice things.
I stared from the darkness, half a smile on my lips, one foot on the wooden deck so the swing didn't give me away with a random creak, holding my breath. He thumbed the doorbell and peeled off his helmet. Long black hair dripped over his forehead and caressed his nape. He fluffed the dark mop, not in the vain I-look-so-hot way, but in an unconscious get-out-of-my-face way.
For the first time in my sad and predictably unlucky life, my heart lurched in my chest. All the soppy, mushy stuff was present: lightheartedness, breathless expectation, deep rosy blushes. Exactly the way girls fell for the male lead in chick flicks or the way the simpering heroines swooned in great romance novels.
I barely heard the porch door squeak open. I even missed Ms. Custer saying, "Oh, it's you. Come in, come in!" He followed her inside and I waited while they talked. Crickets chirped, reminding me to get my head out of the clouds. A steady breeze tugged at the branches of our red oak and cooled my heated cheeks. I didn't dare enter the house. Or leave the veranda.
I peered through the drapes as they talked in the living room. Though I strained to make sense of their conversation I got nothing but muffled sounds. When they shook hands and walked back toward the door, I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heaven. He was leaving.
Ms. Custer let him out and shut the door behind him. I waited. He took the two porch stairs in a single stride and slung his leg over the bike. Right before he put his helmet on he turned and looked straight at me, through the darkened branches of the climbing rose, which should have hidden me from view.
"It's rude to spy on people, you know?" He softened his words with a smile, teeth glittering even in the fading evening light. The darkness hid the hot red of my cheeks. His deep laughter echoed as he shoved the helmet onto his head. He shut the face-piece of his helmet, cutting off the stomach-tingling sound of his voice, and revving the engine. Silver gleamed at his neck and then he disappeared into the gathering shadows.
I shoved off the swing, sending it into a creaking frenzy. Caught, embarrassed and fuming I'd even done such a thing. I pushed the front door open and barreled into the living room.
Ms. Custer's knitting occupied her generous lap; needles flashed this way and that, keen on creating her next rainbow-colored scarf. On the TV Hannibal smiled and chewed on his cigar.
"Who was that guy?" I asked, keeping my expression as neutral as possible, hoping the color in my cheeks had faded away.
"Oh, that nice young man is our latest foster." Ms. Custer had fallen for his smile, too. "He'll be moving in tomorrow bright and early."
Fabulous.
Mr. Hot Wheels, who'd made my pathetic heart race, was moving in. Just great. I harnessed my embarrassed rage, ignored the temptation to run upstairs, slam my door shut, throw myself onto my bed and scream into my pillow. Instead, I gazed through the window at the shadows that had swallowed Biker-dude. I still couldn't wipe the stupid half-smile off my face. Guess it would do no harm to have some eye candy around. And though Joshua had qualified as eye candy, he'd been my friend.
Biker-dude didn't look much like just-friend material.
Sleep eluded me, and when at last I succumbed, my dreams were hazy, filled with the bright golden gleam of Joshua and Aimee, screeching tires and crunching metal.
And the faint echo of the rev of a motorcycle engine.
Chapter 6
Morning rushed in on quicksilver feet, clear and bright and at odds with my musty sentiments. Another school day. Running the gauntlet with Cherise and her friends at North Wood High. Just great.
Before Joshua, I'd never cared much what other people thought of me. But then Joshua died and I'd survived. And now Craven deepened its hatred for the interloper, the new girl who'd come into their lovely town bringing darkness, death and destruction.
If I hadn't figured out the true meaning of the glow, I'd have done the same: blame Bryn.
I pushed scrambled eggs and pieces of hash brown around on my plate under Ms. Custer's disapproving gaze. The little yellow globs stuck to the roof of my mouth, while oily bits of fried potato tickled my throat. I had to choke down the urge to hurl.
Poor Ms. Custer was certain I was eating elsewhere and though I wished I could express my fear that my metabolism was shot to hell, I knew she'd never believe me. People believed what they wanted. Foster parents had to believe the child coming to them would be a problem. The preferred stereotype because they didn't dare to wish for a good kid and end up with a rotten one.
Ms. Custer wasn't the standard out-of-the-box foster parent, but how could anyone believe a person could survive a whole month without food? Me and my big mouth. I was simply unable to lie to her. I sighed. She thought I'd lied anyway.
I scraped off my plate when she turned away, then dragged the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Outside, I tucked my chin in against the cool wind and walked fast. The brisk trip to school cleared my head, refreshing me until I reached the sidewalk in front of the old redbrick structure of the main building. Huge windowpanes stared out, glassy eyes reflecting the clear blue sky above. The pretty picture did nothing to ease the dread in my gut.