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Cabel paces.
They wait.
Slowly Janie can make out shapes. The world fades back in. “Phew,” she says. Smiles shakily.
“I’m driving you home,” Cabel says as the janitor comes into the library, eyeing them suspiciously. Cabel shoves Janie’s books into her backpack, a grim look on his face. He searches around in the pack and comes up empty-handed. “Don’t you carry anything with you? I’m out of PowerBars.”
“Um . . . ” Janie bites her lip. “I’m okay now. I’ll be fine. I can drive.”
He scowls. Doesn’t respond. Helps her stand up, slings her backpack over his shoulder, and they walk out to the parking lot. It’s lightly snowing.
He opens the passenger-side door of his car and looks at her, his jaw set.
Patient.
Waiting.
Until she gets in.
He drives in silence through the snow to a nearby mini-mart, goes in, and returns with pint of milk and a plastic bag. “Open your backpack,” he says.
She does it.
He pours half a dozen PowerBars into it. Opens a bar and hands it to her with the milk. “I’ll get your car later,” he says, holding his hand out for her keys. She looks down. Then hands them over.
He drives her to her house.
Stares at the steering wheel, his jaw set.
Waits for her to get out.
She glances at him, a puzzled expression on her face. “Oh,” she says finally. She swallows the lump in her throat. Takes her backpack and the milk and gets out of the car. Closes the door. Goes up the steps and kicks the snow off her shoes. Not looking back.
He pulls out of the driveway slowly, making sure Janie gets inside okay. And drives away.
Janie goes to bed, confused and sad, and takes a nap.
8:36 p.m.
She’s awake. Starving. Looks around the house for something healthy and finds a tomato, growing soft in the refrigerator. There’s a tuft of mold on the stem. She sighs. There’s nothing else. She shrugs on her coat and slips on her boots, grabs fifty dollars from the grocery envelope, and starts walking.
The snow is beautiful. Flakes so tiny they sparkle, sequins in the oncoming headlights and under street lamps. It’s cold, maybe twenty degrees out. Janie slips on her mittens and secures her coat at her throat. Glad she wore boots.
When she reaches the grocery store a mile away, it’s quiet inside. A few shoppers stroll to the Muzak piping from the speakers. The store is bright with yellowy light, and Janie squints as she enters. She grabs a cart and heads to the produce section, shaking the snowflakes from her hair as she walks. She loosens her coat and tucks her mittens in her pockets.
Shopping, once Janie actually gets there, is relaxing to her. She takes her time, reading labels, thinking about things that seem like they might taste good together, picking out the best vegetables, mentally calculating the total cost as she goes along. It’s like therapy. By the time she’s spent her approximate allotment, she slips through the baking aisle to get to the checkout. As she meanders, looking at the different kinds of oils and spices, she slows her cart.
Glances to the left.
Recalculates what’s in her cart.
And hesitantly picks out a red box and a small round container. Puts them in the cart next to the eggs and milk.
She wheels to the front of the store and stands in a short line at the one lonely check-out counter. Janie glances at the periodicals while she waits. Rides through a wave of hunger nausea. Loads her things onto the belt and watches the scanner anxiously as the number creeps upward.
“Your total comes to fifty-two twelve.”
Janie closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I have exactly fifty dollars. I need to put something back.”
The checker sighs. The line behind Janie grows. She flushes and doesn’t look at any of them. Decides what’s necessary.
Hesitantly picks out the cake mix and the frosting.
Hands them to the checker. “Take these off, please,” she says quietly. It figures, she thinks.
The checker makes like this is huge deal. Stomps on the buttons with her fingers.
People thaw, drip, and shift on their feet behind Janie.
She ignores them.
Sweating profusely.
“48.01,” the checker finally announces. She counts out the $1.99 in change like it’s breaking her back to lift so many coins at once.
Janie strings the pregnant bags over her arms, three on each side, and flees. Sucks in the cold fresh air. Pumps her arms once she reaches the road to get in her workout for the day, trying not to crush the eggs and bread. Her arms ache pleasantly at first. Then they just plain ache.
After a quarter mile a car slows and comes to a stop in front of Janie. A man gets out. “Ms. Hannagan, isn’t it?” he says. It’s Happy. Also known as Mr. Durbin, her Chem. 2 teacher. “You need a ride? I was a few customers behind you in line.”
“I’m . . . I’m okay. I like the walk,” she says.
“You sure?” He flashes a skeptical smile. “How far are you going?”
“Just, you know. Up the hill a ways.” Janie gestures with a nod of her head up the snowy road that disappears into the darkness beyond Mr. Durbin’s headlights. “It’s not that far.”
“It’s really no trouble. Get in.” Mr. Durbin stands there, waiting, arm draped over the top of the open car door, like he won’t take no for an answer. Which makes Janie’s skin prickle. But . . . maybe she should take the chance to get to know Mr. Durbin a little better, for investigation purposes.
“Well . . . ” Janie’s starting to get shaky with hunger. “Thanks,” she says, opening the passenger-side door. He slips back inside the car and moves four or five plastic grocery bags to the backseat, and she gets in. “Straight ahead, right on Butternut. Sorry,” she adds. She’s not sure why. For the inconvenience, maybe.
“Seriously, no problem. I live just across the viaduct on Sinclair,” he says. “It’s right on my way.” The blast of the car heater fills the silence. “So, how do you like the class? I was happy to see so many students. Ten is big for this one.”
“I like it,” she says. It’s Janie’s favorite class, actually. But there’s no need for him to know that. “I like the small size,” she adds, after more silence, “because we each get our own lab station. In Chem. 1, we were always doubled up.”
“Yep,” he says. “Did you have Mrs. Beecher for Chem. 1?”
Janie nods. “Yeah.”
Mr. Durbin pulls into the driveway when she points it out, and looks puzzled to see Janie’s car standing there, looking like it’s just been driven. There’s no snow built up on it, and steam rises off the hood. “So, you prefer to walk on a frigid night like this and lug all that junk home through the snow?” He laughs.
She grins. “I wasn’t sure I’d have ol’ Ethel back tonight. Looks like she’s here now.” She doesn’t explain further. He puts the car in park and opens his door. “Can I give you a hand?”
The bags, once she got into the car, had slipped every which way, and are now a tangled mess. “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Durbin.”
He hops out and hurries to her side of the car. “Please,” he says. He gathers three bags and scoots out of her way, then follows her to the door.
Janie hesitates, knocking the snow off her boots, adjusting her bags, so she can open the door. Notices things about her house that she overlooks most days. Screen door with a rip in it and hanging a little bit loose on its hinges. Wood exterior rotting at the base, paint peeling from it.
Awkward, Janie thinks, going inside, Durbin at her heels. She flips on the entrance light and is momentarily blinded by the brightness. She stops in her tracks until she can see again, and Mr. Durbin bumps into her.
“Excuse me,” he says, sounding embarrassed.
“My fault,” she says, feeling a little creeped out by having him in the house. She’s on her guard. Who knows? It could be him they’re after.
/> They turn the corner into the shadowy kitchen. She puts her bags on the counter, and he sets his next to hers.
“Thank you.”
He smiles. “No problem. See you Monday.” He waves and heads back outside.
Monday. Janie’s eighteenth birthday.
She rummages through the bags on a mission. Grabs a handful of grapes, rinses them off quickly, and shoves them in her mouth, craving the fructose rush. She starts to put things away when she hears a step behind her.
She whirls around. “Jesus, Cabe. You scared the crap out of me.”
He dangles her car keys. “I let myself in. Thought you’d be here. Heard an extra voice, so I hid in your room. So, who was that?” he asks. He’s trying to sound nonchalant. Failing miserably.
“Are you jealous?” Janie teases.
“Who. Was. It.” He’s enunciating.
She raises her eyebrow. “Mr. Durbin. He saw me walking home and asked if I wanted a ride. He was in line behind me at the store.”
“That’s Durbin?”
“Yes. It was very nice of him, I thought.” Janie’s gut thinks otherwise, but she’s not feeling like having a work discussion with Cabel right now.
“He’s . . . young. What’s he doing, picking up students? That’s odd.”
Janie waits to see what his point is. But there doesn’t seem to be one. Still, she makes a mental note to record this incident in her case notebook—can’t be too cautious. Janie turns and continues to put things away. She’s still confused over how quiet Cabel was earlier. Doesn’t say anything.
“I didn’t know where you were,” he says finally.
“Well, if I knew you were coming, I would have left a note. However,” she continues coolly, “I was under the impression that you were pissed at me. So I didn’t expect I’d see you.” She’s visibly shaking by now, and grabs the milk, rips open the cap, and chugs from the bottle. She sets it down and looks for something that won’t take long to prepare. She grabs a few more grapes and snarfs them.
He’s watching her. There’s a look in his eye, and she doesn’t understand it.
“Thanks for bringing my car. I really appreciate it. Did you walk all the way back to school?”
“No. My brother Charlie gave me a lift.”
“Well, thank him for me.”
She’s got the peanut butter open now, and globs it on to a piece of bread. She pours some of the milk into a tall glass, grabs the sandwich, and slips past Cabel into the living room. Flips on the TV and squints at it. “You want a sandwich or something?” she asks. “Would you like to stay?” She doesn’t know what else to say. He’s just looking at her.
Finally he pulls a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. Unfolds it. Turns off the TV. “Humor me for a minute,” he says.
He stands directly in front of her, then turns and walks fifteen paces in the opposite direction. Stops and turns to face her again.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Read this. Out loud, please.”
It’s an eye chart.
“Dude, I’m totally trying to eat, here.”
“Read. Please.”
She sighs and looks at the chart.
“E,” she says. And smirks.
He’s not laughing.
She reads the next line.
And the one after that. Squinting. And guessing.
“Cover your right eye and do it again,” he says.
She does it.
“Now cover your left.”
