“I left Joe a letter last week, and when I checked it was gone, and he left me a present.”
“What kind of present?” Juniper has a good imagination, and I don’t usually call out her stories, but this doesn’t sound like one of her games.
Juniper reaches into the pocket of her jeans, and then opens her fist to reveal a shiny blue marble.
“Joe left you this?” I take the marble and roll it between my fingers.
“I didn’t see. But I think it was a crow. I left the note and some crackers. You won’t tell I fed them, right?” I shake my head and hold up the raisins as evidence of my own guilt. She continues. “I came back and they were gone, but there was a marble and a feather.”
It feels like a stretch to me, but I reach for my notebook and write another note to ask an expert about crow behaviors. They’re really smart. Maybe it isn’t a coincidence. Maybe Juniper is getting presents from the crows.
“He’s not leaving presents, Juniper. He’s dropping garbage,” Campbell says from behind us.
“Well, aren’t you a little ray of darkness,” I say. “Don’t listen to her, June Bug. I think it’s possible Joe is leaving gifts, and I’ll even find a bird expert so I can ask them.”
“Thanks, Leighton.” She stands up with her letter, but Campbell reaches out, snatching it from Juniper’s grasp and holding it above her head.
“‘Dear Joe,’” Campbell reads. “‘My teacher says it’s bad for the town that you are here now because you are loud and messy, but I’m loud and messy, too.’” Campbell pauses and rolls her eyes. “You’ve got that right.”
“Stop that! Give it back!” Juniper jumps, trying to get her letter back.
“‘Tell your friends they should stay. When I see you I feel safe’—”
On the last word, Campbell stops short, her arm lowering enough that Junie can grab her note back.
“Cammy,” I say, but the look on her face tells me that she feels bad already.
“Here, Leighton, you believe me, so you’re allowed to read it,” Juniper says.
I read the end of the letter silently.
Your fethers are pretty. I found six so far and I’m starting a collecshon. One is gray so I think it is yours. Love, Juniper Barnes, Age 9
“It’s a lovely note,” I tell her as I return it. “Joe is gonna love it.” Her frown softens at my words, and she’s off, folded note in hand, running toward the tree at the far end of our property. She kneels under the branches and looks up. Her mouth moves, but I can’t hear what she’s saying to the birds.
“You’ve gotta be nicer to her,” I tell Campbell.
Campbell starts to walk away. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her when you go to college.”
There’s so much resentment in her voice. I struggle to think of the right thing to say to her this time.
“Campbell, I won’t—”
The sound of a truck roaring onto our road distracts us.
“Oh no,” Cammy says, running. She races around to the front of the house, but she’s barely rounded the corner when I hear a horrible screeching sound.
I leap to my feet and follow her. He’s back, his truck thrown into park but still on, and he’s in front of it, tugging on something.
Campbell is frozen in the yard.
“What is it?” I ask, but then he wins his battle.
Campbell’s crushed bicycle is pulled out from under the front of the truck.
Shit.
“What the fuck was this doing where I park?” he yells, throwing the mangled bicycle into our lawn. “The front bumper is fucking scratched to hell. Dammit, Campbell!” He screams the last at her as he passes, storming into the house and slamming the door as he calls for Mom. But Cam doesn’t flinch, or even act as though she’s registered his existence. She’s just standing in the yard, looking at her bike where it lies bent in half. She stands there, and I see it: how hard she is thinking. She’s probably thinking of how to fix it—impossible. Thinking of how she can save money for a new bike—unlikely. Thinking about how her best friends ride their bikes, and if she doesn’t have a bike—
Campbell thinks. She thinks so hard. And I realize that’s all she’ll be able to do now that her bike is gone.
Chapter Sixteen
I HAVE CREEPY-BASEMENT-INDUCED INSOMNIA.
Sometimes I lie awake at night and think about the crawl space in our basement. It isn’t anything special—a little creepy, but it’s nothing more than a hole in one of the stone walls. It’s maybe six feet off the ground and opens into a space as wide and long as the foyer it lies beneath. There are some pipes visible inside, and a floor made of insulation and years of dust.
I don’t know why I fixate on that crawl space, but I do. Maybe because it is dark and moist and feels like it’s hiding things. Maybe because it is behind the staircase, so that most people would miss it entirely. Especially if something were covering the opening.
Maybe it is just because I am in a shitty situation and was blessed with an active imagination.
So I lie awake, waiting to see if anything is going to happen. And even when the house stays quiet and calm, I can’t sleep. Even when his mood is good and money is okay and he laughs with her and brings her flowers, I can’t sleep. Because I know that maybe tomorrow night it won’t be darkness and the deep breathing sounds of a peaceful house. Tomorrow night might be all of the lights in the house turned on. The trash bin hurled across the kitchen, leaving a trail of eggshells and crumpled bills and cigarette butts. His incessant, angry voice, repeating the same words over and over as he moves around the house looking for more things that will piss him off even harder, because once he gets going, I swear to God, he loves it and tries to feed that flame.
I’m not scared of the dark. I’m scared I won’t make it to morning. So I lie awake at night and I think about that crawl space. I think about how it might be where he hides our bodies one day.
Chapter Seventeen
MY VISION BLURS AND I READ the same sentence for the fourth time.
It was a weekend of unbroken tension in our home. The voices arguing Friday night, the lost construction bid, Campbell’s bike. More problems to solve. Less time to do it.
Tension like that works its way into every nook of the house, until it feels small and tight and so full you can barely breathe with all of that worry packed inside the walls.
I’m balancing a huge stack of loose papers, still warm from the library printer. I’ve been running back and forth because the newspaper room printer is down. The pages in front of me contain crow myths and folklore, from almost every historical period and major geographic region in human history. Medieval. Babylonian. Celtic. Crows have been used as symbols for as long as we’ve told stories.
I’m not looking where I’m walking.
“Whoa there!” shouts a voice from the floor, too late.
I walk into Liam where he was crouched at his locker.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as my pages fly everywhere.
“It’s a little late for a prayer on this one, don’t you think?” Liam scoops up my scattered pages and climbs to his feet. We talk every day when we exchange books, and we debate each other in lit class all the time, and I like how familiar he is to me now. How I’m starting to think of him as a friend. His eyebrows shift into concern.