“Hi, Burke,” she says.
He turns, startled, and then his dumb, stoned face breaks into a grin, and I can tell that he’s shifting into his patented “speaking politely to adults while stoned” mode.
“Oh, hi there, Mrs. Gerrard,” he says. “What brings you here to the, uh, Fuel-Up?”
She laughs. “Just needed to pick up a couple of things.” His eyes widen as if he’s had an epiphany, and he turns to me and beckons me over. “Hey, Dee,” he says. “Come here for a minute.”
Reluctantly, I slide my phone into my pocket and walk over to them, trying to look friendly while doing my best to send Burke “I hate you” vibes. I don’t enjoy talking to adults the way Burke does.
“Mrs. Gerrard, this is my friend Dee,” he says. “Delia. She used to live in your house!”
I realize too late that my mouth has dropped open in shock and scramble to slap a normal look back onto my face.
She also looks surprised, while Burke seems oblivious to the impact his bomb has had.
“Oh, no way,” I manage to say. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says. “The Gerrards moved into your old place just a couple of months ago. They’ve got a cool little girl named Layla.”
Mrs. Gerrard is still looking at me as if she’s trying to figure something out. “Are you a Price?” she asks.
“Uh, no,” I say. “Skinner. The Prices bought the house from us.”
“I see,” she says. I can see the wheels spinning as she realizes who I am, and I brace myself for the inevitable questions, but instead she just purses her lips into a somewhat unconvincing smile. “Well, I have to grab some milk,” she says. “Nice meeting you. See you later, Burke.”
Burke pays for his chips and I follow him outside.
“Hey, look,” he says. “There’s Layla over there.” He points to a car parked by one of the gas tanks, and sure enough, there’s a girl sitting in the backseat, waving at him.
Before I can ask him not to, he’s striding to the car.
“Hey, Layla!” he says. She rolls her window down and smiles at him. She’s a small girl, tiny in fact, with a serious look on her face.
“Hi, Burke,” she says.
“This is my friend Dee,” he says, pointing at me. “Guess what? She used to live in your house. I think your bedroom used to be her bedroom. Pretty cool, hey?”
She regards me curiously. “You lived in my house? When you were my age?”
“That depends,” I say. “How old are you?”
“I’m eleven.”
“I was a bit younger than you, then,” I say. “We moved out when I was eight.”
“Why?” she asks.
Her question throws me. It’s not like I feel that it’s actually a secret or anything, but I’ve never put it in words for anyone before.
“My dad and mom wanted a bigger house,” I say. “We still live in town.”
“My mom doesn’t like our new house,” says Layla, matter-of-factly. “She says it isn’t our forever house. She says we’ll move somewhere nicer someday. When we can afford it.”
“What about your dad?” asks Burke.
“He likes it, I think?” the little girl says, and then she twists her face into a knot, thinking about the question seriously. “Actually, I don’t know if he likes it. He didn’t say. I guess I should ask him.”
“Cute kid,” I say to Burke, as we’re walking away.
“Yeah,” he says. “My mom babysits her sometimes. She’s real smart.”
We reach the corner and I turn to glance back at the car. From the window, Layla Gerrard is still staring at us. When she sees me looking back at her, she raises a hand in a calm, simple wave.
As I wave back, I register with some surprise that I feel vaguely unsettled. It’s been ten years since Sibby disappeared, but the memories of that day keep finding new ways to haunt me.
8.
My house is really loud when we get home. Music is blasting through the main hallway, screeching guitar and pounding discordant drums.
“What the hell is your dad listening to?” asks Burke as we kick off our boots.
“I don’t know,” I say, pushing through the glass porch door into the hallway. A song comes to an abrupt, screeching halt, and I yell into the house. “Hello?”
“I’m in here!” my father calls back.
Burke follows me down the hallway, munching from his giant bag of chips. I walk into the kitchen, Burke hanging back in the doorway, as another song kicks into high gear.
My father is dancing around the island, furiously chopping something. He’s wearing a track suit, royal blue with stripes up the sides of the legs.
“Hey!” he calls over the music.
“What the hell are you listening to?” I yell.
“It’s Soundgarden!” he calls back. “Amazing, hey?”
I walk to the stereo and turn down the volume. “What is going on?” I ask. “What are you wearing?”
He looks down at himself, then looks back up, laughing.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “I almost forgot. I was telling Jaron and Pickle about the time my buddies and I drove all night to see them in concert, then back again so we could make it for an exam. Made me dig out my old CDs from the attic, and I found this tracksuit. Man I miss the ’90s.”
“Jaron and Pickle?” asks Burke.
“They’re Dad’s midlife crisis friends,” I explain.
“Oh, hey, Burke!” says my dad excitedly. “I didn’t notice you there!” He comes around the counter and gives Burke a friendly man hug from the side. If an adult did that to me, I’d spontaneously combust, but Burke takes it in stride.
“How’s it going, Mr. Skinner?” he asks.
“Doing great, my man,” says Dad. He looks down at Burke’s open bag of chips. “Can I have some of those?”
“Uh, sure,” says Burke, holding out the bag. Dad takes a big handful and shoves them into his mouth, then turns to look at me, a goofy smile on his face. “She’s funny,” he says through a mouthful of chips, pointing at me. “It can’t be a midlife crisis if I’m not middle-aged.”
“You’re forty-seven,” I say. “Average life expectancy for males is about 77, which means you’re well over the hump. If that’s not middle-aged, I don’t know what is.”
He stops chewing and stares at me with wide eyes.
“Oh my god,” he says, through a mouthful of chips, “you’re right.”
I lean in closer and stare at his face. He shifts his gaze, but not before I notice that his eyes are glazed over, slightly bloodshot.
“Are you stoned?” I ask incredulously.
There’s a long, awkward pause. Dad swallows loudly. “Please don’t tell your mother,” he whispers.
“Something’s burning,” says Burke.
We turn to see a plume of smoke rising from a pot on the stove, just as the fire alarm goes off. Dad rushes across the kitchen and grabs the pot, throwing it in the sink and turning on the water. I hurry to open the windows, and Burke stands in the middle of the chaos, taking it all in and methodically working through his chips.