Follow Me Home Page 2

  I freeze with the can still in my hand. The house is completely quiet. My parents are definitely still at work. The hair rises on my arms.

  Maybe I’m overreacting. It’s a can of Orange Crush, not a knife. What kind of thief or murderer takes the time to drink a pop while they’re robbing a house, much less leave the evidence behind with their DNA on it in plain view? If it is a criminal, he isn’t too smart.

  Something creaks again.

  My knuckles go white against the can. “Mom, are you home?”

  Silence.

  “Dad?”

  A thump, and then footsteps. The can slips out of my hand, and I stare at the orange puddle on the floor. It reminds me of blood. I back away and stumble into the stairs.

  I curl into a ball, waiting for someone to come from behind and strangle me. Five seconds pass. Ten. I force myself to look up the stairs. Nothing.

  I crawl up slowly. Light pours through my half-open bedroom door. The curtain blows in and out again. I swallow and push the door open further until I can see the whole room. Empty.

  I inch toward my desk and grab a pair of scissors, checking under the bed and in the closet. Nothing.

  I pause, listening.

  Still nothing. I glance toward the window.

  I can see him before I even get to it. He’s walking with his hands in his pockets down the sidewalk.

  “Hey!” I yell, leaning out the window. But my voice shakes, and gets carried away in the wind. He doesn’t even look back. I slam the window closed and try out the lock. It’s not broken.

  I watch him disappear around the corner again and give my room a once-over. A pillow from my bed is wadded up in one corner between some boxes. I pick it up and shake it out. What was he doing – taking a nap? I toss it aside and examine every other inch of my room. I even check my underwear drawer in case the guy is just a creep. Again, nothing missing. I look out the window again just as my dad’s car pulls in the driveway.

  Crap. I take the stairs in one giant leap and grab a roll of paper towels to soak up the Orange Crush.

  “Kelsey?” my dad calls from the entrance.

  “In here,” I say from the living room, stuffing the paper towels and the empty can between the couch cushions.

  I sit and grab a Home and Garden magazine off the table just before he walks in.

  “Just hanging out?” he asks. “Got that room unpacked yet?”

  “It’s the last day of summer vacation. Don’t I get a break?”

  “You’ve had a whole two months of taking a break, kiddo.” He sinks down beside me and points at a picture of a table in the magazine open on my lap. “What do you think of this table?”

  I shrug, barely looking at it. “It’s nice, I guess.”

  “See? I knew you’d be on my side. Your mother hates it.”

  I glance at the page he’s pointing at. It is kind of ugly. It’s huge and black, and so modern it will probably be out-of-date in a year. The door slams and we both look up.

  “Hey, you two,” my mom says. “How did the clothes shopping go?”

  “Fine,” I say. But it’s not enough. She makes me model the outfits I got, which sadly consists of one pair of pants I accidentally bought a size too small and two shirts that make my boobs look even flatter than they are.

  My mom frowns. “I’ll take you to the city next weekend. Don’t worry.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I’m fine with last year’s clothes.” I tug at the price tag on one of the shirts, trying to rip it off. I can’t handle one of our shopping trips. Not anymore. I remember the one last year, just before tenth grade. How happy I was then. We played this game where we each tried to find the ugliest sweater in the mall and took a picture trying it on in the dressing room. Whoever had the picture of the ugliest sweater at the end of the day won a giant pretzel in the food court. I don’t even remember who won. Just that we laughed all the way home.

  I’m not sure I can laugh like that anymore. It’s easier to hide it at home. I do my thing and let them do theirs. I get my homework done and pretend to have a social life. It’s worked so far.

  “It’s already in my calendar,” she says, punching notes in her phone.

  “I said no, Mom. I’m fine.” My voice is louder than I meant it to be. I try to smile to make up for it, but she doesn’t buy it.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” she asks, sitting down between my dad and I. “Are you angry we moved you here? Nervous about school tomorrow?”

  I flip through the magazine on my lap, holding it closer like I’m trying to read. “No, I’m fine.”

  She puts her hand on my knee. “We just ask for you give it a try here. If you’re not adjusting well we can reevaluate things. This move has to be right for all of us.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.” This time it comes out hard. Cold. She closes her eyes for a second like she can’t believe I’m acting like this. Little does she know I’ve been acting all year. Pretending to be the model child so neither of them will ask the questions I don’t want to hear.

  “Kelsey, I don’t –”

  “Don’t what, Mom?” I ask, standing up. “Don’t know what it’s like to be me? No, you have no idea.” I toss the magazine on the floor and stomp up the stairs. Both my parents’ eyes are definitely piercing into the back of my head, but I don’t look back.

  I flop myself onto my bed and force myself not to cry.

  Now I definitely can’t tell them about the pop can. My mom is probably ready to pack up and leave; likely talking to my dad about how I’m not adjusting well here. As if you can adjust to something in three days.

  I can’t go back. When I was in Tulsa, I convinced myself I could get through it. But now no one could force me back into that school with a gun to my head.

  I reach over and switch on my radio. Some awful emo-type music blasts through the speakers, and I scramble to turn it down.

  Weird. I could have sworn I left it on my favorite pop/rock station this morning. I switch it back and stare at the window. Maybe my parents were in my room again, trying to organize. Even if my dad listening to emo is a bit of a stretch, it makes more sense than the alternative.

  I pull myself off my bed and slide the window open, letting the fresh air take the sting out of my eyes. I’m about to close it again when my hand slips on the latch.

  There’s something dark leaning against the tree at the edge of our yard.

  I squint and lean forward. The dark thing moves.

  It’s him.

  He stands and brushes himself off, shaking his head again so his hair falls into place. It’s long – not girly-long, but shaggy, like he needs a haircut. He glances back at the house just once before he walks away. I grip the windowsill. This is getting ridiculous.

  I grab my sweater and creep down the stairs, bypassing the living room to the back patio door, closing it as quietly as possible behind me. I see his black hoodie as soon as I turn the corner at the end of our road. He has it up over his head now, like some kind of movie star who doesn’t want to be recognized. I pick up my pace until he turns into an older neighborhood with an apartment building on the right. Maybe he lives there with his mom or something.

  But he passes those by too, his head down and hands stuffed in his pockets. I can’t take my eyes off him – partly because I don’t want to lose him, and partly because the way he walks is so rhythmic. It’s like there’s a song only he can hear playing in his head.

  I check my phone, hardly breaking my gaze. Fifteen minutes before my parents call me for dinner, but I can’t bring myself to go back now.

  He pauses in front of an old building, and I duck behind a parked car. He looks at his watch, and then the sky. Is he trying to decide whether to break into this place too? It might be an old warehouse or something. He paces in front of it for a few seconds, and I hold my breath. Please don’t break in. Don’t make me call the police.

  I dart to the next parked car, trying to get a closer look at the building. Some of the re
d bricks on the side are crumbling, and the stairs leading to the door are crooked. I can’t imagine what could possibly be of value in there that he’d want. Then again, there’s not much of value in my house either, but he still seems to like breaking in there.

  “Hey, Jay.”

  I tear my eyes from the building to see the older man who greeted him. He’s scruffy and unkempt, with his button-down plaid shirt hanging partially untucked from his jeans. His father, maybe? And now I have a name. I slide out my phone and punch in the three letters.

  He says something else to Jay but I can’t make it out. I need to get closer. I glance through the car’s tinted windows and spot a van in the parking lot. Before I can think twice, I sprint toward it. Just before I duck, I swear I see Jay look at me from the corner of his eye.

  My heart stops. I wait three seconds. Ten. Then I creep up and glance through the van window. They’re still talking. I watch them, waiting for Jay to look up again. To let me know he knows I’m here, but he doesn’t. I glance from him to the older guy again. He can’t be the guy’s father – they look nothing alike. He doesn’t have Jay’s dark brown hair, or eyes, or long arms.

  A door to the building opens, and I duck.

  “Jay, Harvey, come on in. You’re early today.”

  It’s a woman’s voice. I peek through the windows again, but she already disappeared inside. Jay and Harvey are trailing behind. I take out my phone and snap a picture. My heart doesn’t stop pounding until the door closes behind them.

  I take a breath and step out from behind the van, studying the building again. There’s no sign or anything – just a number. I take out my phone again and type in 46 Water St next to Jay.

  When I get back in my driveway I zoom in on my picture of Jay’s face. There’s still something about his eyes that pull me in – that make me think he can’t possibly be dangerous. The sadness, maybe. Even in the picture, I can feel it. I slide my phone back in my pocket and watch his face disappear just as the front door bursts open.

  “Where were you?” My mother’s standing in the doorway, the wooden spoon in her hand dripping pasta sauce on the porch.

  “Just needed some fresh air. I’m sorry about earlier.”

  My dad pokes his head out behind her. “We’re worried about you.”

  “I’m a teenager. You’re supposed to worry.”

  “You know what he means, Kelsey.” My mother sighs and lets me slide past her.

  “Yes, I know what you mean. I said I was sorry.”

  My mom dips the spoon back into the pot on the stove. “You can talk to us, you know.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Is dinner almost ready?” I ask. But my attempt to change the subject doesn’t work. She launches into a story about when she moved from California to Tulsa with my dad when they were nineteen. As if it’s any kind of comparison.

  When I finally escape to my room, I type 46 Water Street, Sherbrook in the search engine on my laptop. About the fifth item down is a link to Andrew’s Place. I click on it, and a picture of the building I saw today appears.

  I click around the site and scan the description.

  Andrew’s Place is a non-profit organization providing emergency food, clothing and shelter to the homeless.

  I sink back in my chair. His picture stares at me from my phone on the desk. Homeless? I swallow, studying the picture for signs. Sure, he needs a haircut, but it suits him. And his clothes look new and clean. Maybe he’s just a volunteer.

  I study his eyes again. The sadness. Given his inclination to take up residence in my house during the day, I have a bad feeling he’s not just trying to get some volunteer hours in.

  I shove my phone in a drawer and go downstairs.

  My dad’s dumping dishes in the sink, and I pretend to search the fridge. “Didn’t you say this house was a foreclosure?” I ask.

  He looks up. “Yeah. We got it at an auction. Either a foreclosure or an estate sale.”

  “So that means it was empty for a while, doesn’t it?”

  “Could have been. Depends on the situation. Sometimes it takes a while to sort out all the paperwork. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I say. If the guy is homeless, maybe he took advantage of an empty house. But it still doesn’t explain why he keeps coming back even after we moved in. Wouldn’t he be scared of getting caught?

  I grab some juice from the fridge and watch my dad rinse the dishes. I should tell them about this guy before I find out the hard way that he is dangerous. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  Maybe when you don’t have a home, finding a place that feels like one can mean the world. Maybe he just likes to pretend things are different for a few hours each day. Can I blame him for that? I know what it’s like to wish for just a second you could be someone else.

  I take a drink of my juice and lean against the fridge. As long as he doesn’t steal anything or break anything, I will turn a blind eye. But if he doesn’t want to get caught, he’s got to start being more careful.

  “What did you do with the lamps?”

  I look up to see my mom walking back toward the living room. My dad stays focused on the sink.

  “I put them back in the boxes,” he says.

  “I thought you said we should keep them.”

  “They were starting to bug me.”

  “I told you we should have gotten the gold ones.”

  “No way. The black ones with the wide base would be perfect.”

  I shake my head. “Why didn’t you guys just keep all the old furniture?”

  “We didn’t like it,” they both say in unison.

  “This house is never going to be furnished at the rate you guys are going.”

  “The couch is coming this week,” my mom says.

  “What couch?” my dad asks, finally looking up.

  I set my glass by the sink. “I’m going up to my room.”

  “Make sure you unpack those boxes,” my mom calls after me.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’ll unpack my room when you guys buy furniture.”

  I stare at the computer screen again, but I can’t figure it out. Why come here during the day? Why not just go to a library or something? Or school for that matter.

  Something flashes at the bottom of my screen. Julie has just logged in. The words blink twice and then disappear – just another piece of my past I wish could disappear permanently. Julie Garrison – a.k.a. my ex-best friend.

  I slam my laptop shut and grab the first box in front of my closet. It’s full of dance outfits, trophies and framed photos my mom took at competitions. I used to dance five days a week. It was my life. I wasn’t half bad either. I did ballet, jazz, lyrical, almost everything. I’d won competitions in every genre.

  But I haven’t danced since my freshman year of high school.

  I stare into the box again. My first pair of ballet shoes. And my last pair. Julie and I switched to contemporary dance when we were thirteen, but I still took a ballet class on the side.

  I pull out the shoes and slide one on my foot. It feels like a missing part of me. I ache to slip the other one on – to tie them up and turn on some music.

  Instead, I shove them back in the box and close it up, pushing it away from the closet until I can inch the door open.

  I drag one of my suitcases closer and inspect the space. The inside could use a paint job. The paint is peeling, and scratch marks cover the inside wall. I drop a shirt on a hook and stick my head in further.

  They’re not scratch marks at all. They’re numbers written next to lines – children’s heights and ages. People actually do that? I crouch down to try to make out the names. Laura and Jason.

  Cute. I wonder how tall they are now. The height markings stopped at age ten for Laura and twelve for Jason. Too old after that, I guess. I run my hand over the names and freeze.

  Jason, I think. Jay.

  Chapter Three

  I throw myself down on my suitcase. I had three different outfits picked out
for my first day and none of them are right anymore. The fact that I still haven’t hung my clothes up is not helping either. Half the things I want to wear are wrinkled.

  I grab my makeup case instead. Maybe I’ll feel better about choosing an outfit once the rest of me is presentable. Not getting much sleep last night is not helping my first day look. Between worrying about today, and thinking about Jay breaking in through my window, I was not in the right frame of mind for sleeping. I kept picturing him sleeping on the floor in a crowded shelter and wondering how that happens. How someone my age can go from living here to living like that.

  My eyeliner pencil slips for the third time, and a thick black line runs down from my eye. Crap. I’m still not used to wearing this stuff. I’ve washed my face and reapplied my make-up three times already.

  It’s like I’m a badly paid actress who can’t afford a makeup artist. Too bad I haven’t actually taken any acting classes. I need to be someone different today. Someone other than Kelsey from Tulsa.

  I glance in the mirror and straighten a strand of hair. Maybe this is me. I’m not playing a role – I’m being the person that’s been in hiding all these years. I fish through my makeup bag for my brown pencil and carefully fill in my eyebrows around the sparse hairs. Not perfect, but it will have to do. Hopefully no one will look close enough at me to notice. In a few more months they should be grown back in and no one will know the difference.

  Feeling better already, I grab a black v-neck T-shirt with tiny, white polka-dots and pull it on. It makes my boobs look non-existent. Not that there’s much there to begin with. I always assumed I’d get my mom’s boobs. Thirty-six C. The perfect size. I used to dig through her drawers when I was little and hold her bras up to my chest, imagining what I would look like when I had a matching pair. Little did I know my boob genes would come from my paternal grandma, who I always thought must have had breast cancer at some point because when she wore a bathing suit on our yearly trip to Florida, her chest was the same size as my eleven-year-old one. I asked my mom about it once and she laughed. “Women’s breasts come in all shapes and sizes. But they are all beautiful.” I didn’t start to worry about my own until four years later when I realized they were as big as they were going to get.