Dead to You

She stares at me a minute more, all round cheeks and pouty baby lips, surrounded by a mop of brown curls that bounce when she shakes her head.

I try again. “Do you go to all-day school? So that’s your lunch?”

“No. I go to kindergarten. It’s half-a-days.”

“Hmm, I see,” I say, still pretending to figure out what’s in the box, but I’m getting tired of the game now.

“Mama said to wake you up and tell you to take a shower. She put some clean clothes in the bathroom for you. Grandpa and Grandma De Wilde are coming later. And the newspaper people are here.” Only she says it like noose paper, and I picture an animated rolled-up paper with those moving black eyes and eyebrows, a big old rope around its neck, or whatever, hanging from a tree and choking to death.

“Noose paper,” I say softly, trying out the local accent. “Wait, what? You mean reporters, or the delivery guy?”

Gracie just stares at me. Shrugs.

“Okay, uh . . . where’s the washer and dryer?”

“Down the basement,” she says, and puts a hand on her hip, too big for her britches.

“And . . . what’s that cat’s name?”

“Russell.”

“Rustle? Like what leaves do?”

“What? No. Like . . . Russ-oll .”

“Oh. Is Russ-oll in your lunch box?”

Gracie scowls. “You’re dumb. Any more questions?”

“Besides ‘what is in your lunch box?’ No, I don’t think so.”

“It’s my private property, Efan.”

I laugh. Precocious little lisping brat. “Okay, well, have a good day at school, then.”

She turns to go. “Mama says you’re going to school Monday. She has to unroll you first today.”

“Oh,” I say, and her cuteness is lost on me for the moment.

School.

CHAPTER 7

I roll over on the couch and watch the morning activities from my dimly lit corner of the living room.

Mama rushes around the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel and grabbing her coat and purse. “Come on, Gracie,” she says, and they go out through the mudroom. “I’ll be back in a bit, Ethan. Blake’s still here and Dad’s in the shower. Don’t answer the door for any reason, okay? Reporters are starting to show up. . . . I should have known word would leak . . . but don’t worry. Back soon.” The door slams shut.

Blake, his hair wet, rounds the corner from the hallway and glances at me, and then heads for the kitchen. Stares out the window for a minute, then grabs waffles from a box in the freezer and puts them in the toaster. “You want some waffles?” he says. A peace offering, maybe.

I sit up on the couch and unwind my legs from the sleeping bag. It’s nice to wake up warm. My stomach growls. “Yeah, sure,” I say, and shove my legs into my tattered jeans, walk over to the kitchen in my bare feet and stare out the window at the two vehicles along the road. Blake pushes the box toward me. I look at it. Look at him. We wait in uncomfortable silence for his waffles to pop up.

“Look,” I say finally, feeling like our conversation from last night needs to be finished. “I don’t know why I went with them. I don’t really remember anything about any of it, or my life before, you know? She messed with my head. A lot.”

Blake shifts on his feet and doesn’t acknowledge me. It’s quiet again.

The toaster pops up and we both jump. He puts the waffles on a plate and pours syrup on them.

I put mine in and press the lever. “So, I’m sorry,” I say. “If I just went with them, if that’s what happened . . . I’m really sorry.”

Blake swallows hard. I can see his little baby Adam’s apple move in his neck. He goes to the table. “Yeah, I know,” he says quietly. “I mean, it totally wrecked everything here.”

“What was it like?” I try to sound simply interested, but my legs are shaking from the anxiety—as much as Mama wants to know where I’ve been, I want to know what happened here, after. I control my face so he doesn’t see how badly I want it.

“A disaster.” Blake takes a bite. He chews, and then shoves the plate away and stands. Scowls, like he’s trying to decide something, and then looks at the clock. “I gotta get to the bus stop.” He wipes his mouth on a napkin. “Dad?” he calls out. “Am I just supposed to ignore the reporters, or what?”

I turn away, groaning inside. Wipe my hand over my face, trying to smooth the stress away. I just want to know. Is that so much?

Dad doesn’t answer, so Blake walks down the hallway to the bathroom and bedroom. I hear them talking, and then Blake returns with his backpack. He nods when he passes me, like he’s the older brother and I’m the younger one. Like he knows I want information and he’s punishing me.

I know I’m paranoid. I am. “Don’t talk to them,” I say. Another TV news truck pulls up.

“Whatever,” Blake says. I hear the door to the mudroom opening, the sound of boots, the outer door creaking and slamming shut. From the little window over the sink I see reporters get out of their vehicles and rush toward the house, and Blake heading for the bus stop. He moves faster. Dad flies through the kitchen to the mudroom, hair still wet and buttoning his shirt. He gets into his coat and boots and I see him jogging through the Minnesota snow, talking to the reporters, protecting Blake. One of the reporters is trying to talk to some of the kids at the bus stop, but he moves back to our driveway when Dad comes out.