When No One was Listening Read online

  Click. Click. Click.

  I push my earbuds deeper into my ears and crank up the volume.

  “I hate that sound.”

  Her eyes shift from the road and fall on me.

  “I asked you a question, young lady.”

  I turn the volume up again and continue to ignore her. It doesn’t matter if she needs this ‘crap’, doesn’t matter if she wants it, likes it, or even deserves it. Nothing I can say will change the fact that Bitsy Ramone’s mom has enough pull and charitable donations to get me expelled. So, we’re hurtling toward our old hometown … back to the beginning. Driving towards the memories we never talk about, to the place where everyone knows I’m a freak and will ultimately figure out I’m a murderer, too. My stomach rolls on itself and bile burns my throat. I swallow, quickly pushing the past back down.

  Telling her why I smashed Bitsy’s face in won’t make her turn around. She would never stomp down to Hawthorn’s office waving a fist and demanding retribution for her poor, mistreated daughter. She copes with all my faults and problems by ignoring them or offering halfhearted “quick fixes.” Not pretty enough? ‘Have my old makeup, Sloane, it might help.’ Failing math again? ‘Let me make special friends with your teacher, Sloane, so he’ll stop calling me.’ Kill someone? Ignore it like it never happened. ‘Don’t you dare say her name, Sloane!’ I didn’t know you could screw your way through bad memories, but over the years she’s become a pro.

  My thumb rolls over the volume dial one last time, pushing the earbuds to their limit. The music drowns out both her and the scream of the road. She side-eyes me now and then but gave up talking to me miles ago. We both know the real reason we’re in the car now has nothing to do with me getting kicked out of school. There’s only one week left anyway. We would have moved regardless, but it’s easier for her to blame me and easier for me to let her. My eyes go lax, blurring the scene in the windshield, as the crisp morning rolls into a stifling, muggy afternoon. The miles lull me to sleep, as we leave our former fresh start for another. Maybe this time it’ll work.

  “You’re so cute when you lie to us, sis.”

  I drift into a dream about the last time we piled into the car and ran from what I’d become. Suitcases crammed to the roof, Dad singing with the radio as we headed to a bright new future. That’s what Dad hoped when he came home that autumn day. The hospital released me after a more than a month, I missed most of summer vacation and got sent home from school three times the very first week for being a disturbance to others. Dad burst through the front door, sunshine, and Texas humidity following at his heels.

  “We’re headed to the city to start over!” he proudly announced. He got a job at a factory, near a school where I could start over. One where I was not to disturb my classmates by talking to myself or randomly screaming during class. New, where no one knew me. No one would call me a freak, and I wouldn’t have to worry about them seeing the truth in my eyes. As we drove into the sunset, I remember feeling happier than I had in an exceptionally long time.

  I was eight … I didn’t know any better.

  The music stops, and I open my eyes. The echoes of my dream leave me feeling hollow and even more alone. Leaving didn’t fix anything but coming back can only make it worse. If my grandparents hadn’t died, if they hadn’t left Sharon their house, if Dad hadn’t abandoned me, hell, us, things might be different.

  “What-ifs and woulda hads, sis.”

  I’m going to miss the city. At least we were semi-normal there.

  “No, you were just mostly invisible. You’re going to stick out like a nun in a whore house here.”

  Thanks, that’s what I needed to hear. You’re always so helpful.

  “I do what I can.”

  Sometimes, I wish I could find something to drown her out.

  “You did, sis. Remember? Drowned me right out of life.”

  The fiery reflection of the sun, bouncing off the plate glass storefront, burns my retinas, leaving tiny, white ghosts dancing in my eyes. I blink as we turn slowly onto the main road. Time doesn’t exist here, nothing has changed. Family-owned stores run by the same families since the beginning of time. One stoplight, on the solitary road through town. It’s as faded and empty as it was when we left. An exasperated sigh pushes my lips apart.

  “Finally awake I see.” She doesn’t smile; I can’t remember the last time she smiled at me.

  Before I can duck my head back down into my hoodie, the car rounds a corner, and the sight of a rusted, chain link fence, invaded by vines, pulls my mind years away. My breath catches in my throat, as my heart crashes against my ribs, begging to be anywhere but inside of my chest.

  Phantom laughter and the splash of cold, clear water echoes in my mind, as we pass the public pool. Shivers dive down my spine. I can’t wrench my eyes away from the pool, where the ghosts of two perfect, eight-year-old, little girls wave at me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I fend off the past.

  I am the champ of denial.

  ERIC

  I come through the door from my morning run, sweat rolling off me, as I head to the garage. Icy water sloshes down my shirt as I guzzle a drink, wetting my face and dry mouth, before loading weights onto the bar. From the corner of my eye, I see my old man watching from the doorway. Laying back, pretending I can’t see him lurking, I heft the bar above me.

  Coach rides me about lifting alone; he’s a stickler for a spotter. It’s dangerous. I could slip. Blah, blah, blah. I don’t need a babysitter to lift weights. The bar moves up in slow, steady reps of ten. My arms and chest burn after fifteen minutes but I don’t stop. I force the bar up for what feels like the thousandth time. My muscles ache and quiver with effort. My old man is still lingering there in the corner of my eye; he doesn’t say anything before he finally walks away.

  The hair on my neck prickles as it stands on end. He’s ridden me non-stop, all summer long. He never let me slack off, not for a single day. And while I know I’ll reap the benefits when the season starts, part of me resents him for always pushing me. It isn’t enough for him that he’s the sheriff or that I’m the best player on the team. He barely acknowledges how hard I try, all the work I put in, or that once I was the town hero. The harder I try, the more he yells. The faster I run, the slower he makes me feel. I hate everything about him, but I can’t stop trying to please him. Everyone else looks up to me, respects me, but not the sheriff.

  I push the bar up again, harder, relishing the burn in my muscles, the surge it gives me to lift the weight from my chest and away from me. I don’t stop until sweat runs from every pore. The air in the weight room is heavy and hot. It clings to my slick skin, making me feel trapped. Time to hit the shower.

  I listen for the sound of his patrol car easing out of the drive before I pull the small bottle out of my gym bag. The fiery burn races to my stomach, as I step into the steam. This year will be different. Ten short months in this hell is all I have left. I’ll find a way to get his attention, to make him proud, and if I don’t it won’t matter. I’m leaving the day I graduate.

  I let the hot water roll down me and loosen up the muscles in my arms and back. What the water can’t loosen is the nagging in my head, the constant ringing of his voice telling me I’m not good enough. To try harder, or I’ll never accomplish anything for him to be proud of. My fist rockets against the wet tile, before reaching through the steamy haze for the bottle that sits on the tank of the toilet. The bottle and I are good friends; it never lets me down or judges me. Never lectures me about the future or rides me about the past. It just is, and it makes me numb enough to believe I’m happy.

  SLOANE

  The crunch of gravel and the jolt of the car lurching to a stop rattles me back to reality. Gram and Gramps’ old farmhouse looms in front of us, a modest, two-story, sky blue farmhouse, hand-built by my grandfather in the late ’40s. The white storm shutters gleam in the afternoon sun pristinely painted just like the rest of the house. Picturing Gramps up on the ladder repainting them—some
thing he did just about every other summer—I let a smile escape. Gram was always down below holding the ladder and bickering that he was going to break his neck if he didn’t come down immediately. I hold my breath, hoping the wisps of their memories will speak to me, welcome me home, so I feel like this is where we should be, but they offer me nothing more than silence.

  I am also the champ of not belonging.

  As the sun slowly sinks below the tree line, I unpack boxes and swat cobwebs from the lofty corners of my room, as well as my memory. I heave a stack of jeans out of the cardboard box. The familiar sighs and moans of the old house wash nostalgically over me. I long for Gram to dance through the door with a plate of fresh-baked cookies and an open ear. Aside from Sarah, Gramps and Gram were the only other people I truly felt always loved me. Gram swore I was the greatest grandkid ever, often provoking a fit from Sarah before she would sweep us both up into her lap and squeeze us against her soft bosom. Even after I came back from the hospital broken, she would hold me and wipe away my tears, as her own eyes filled to the brim. I remember her rocking me gently back and forth, whispering promises that wounds healed over time. I think it was the only lie Gram ever told me. Time hasn’t healed a damn thing.

  Tears fall absently onto my hands, as I look back down at the waiting boxes. Reaching over to my desk, I twist the volume knob on the portable CD player, filling the room with a raging bassline and bitterly screamed lyrics. Loud music is my drug of choice because it blocks out the world. It numbs my mind, and while nothing ever quiets Sarah, sometimes she’s happy enough just humming along. The sky outside of my window fills with stars, and I slip beneath the cool sheets, falling asleep among the scattered remains of my broken life.

  I awake to the all-too-familiar sound of my mother’s drug of choice.

  My God, how did she find a man overnight?

  “1-800-get-a-guy.”

  Maybe she airdropped flyers before we got here.

  “‘Special friends’ needed. No applicant turned down.”

  Booming laughter echoes up the stairs, my mother’s shrill laugh nipping at its heels. Fully dressed but half-awake, I creep down the steps to peer into the kitchen. The morning sun blazes through the window, shining down on my mother and a tall, mountain of a man, dressed like a lumberjack. They’re sitting at the table laughing and carrying on. Sharon with a rigid spine in her satin robe smiles widely at Lumberjack, who sits with his broad, plaid-shirted back to me.

  “Paul Bunyan much?”

  She lets out another deafening bray of laughter, as I step through the doorway.

  “Oh, good morning, Sloane.”

  I want to glare at her, stomp my feet and demand she be a parent for one second. I wish she would disappear and finally abandon me as physically as she has emotionally. But I can’t be angry. How long can I expect her to wait before making new ‘special friends’?

  “At least a day, out of respect for the dead.”

  “Morning.” I clamp my un-brushed teeth down over the tip of my tongue before I call him Mr. Jack.

  “This is an old friend of mine. He stopped by to say hello and see if he could lend a hand unpacking.”

  He gives me a wide, toothy grin and waves casually. She smiles at him, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand like he already has done something amazing for her.

  “Maybe he did!”

  Gross, shut up!

  Her nails tap at the edge of the table. I wait for them to rocket toward her mouth so she can click her way through the awkward silence that forms around us. I ignore it, as well as her glare, and begin scavenging through the cabinets, hoping for a box of cereal or some forgotten Pop-Tarts, but there’s nothing.

  “There’s nothing to eat,” I grumble, my frustration punctuated by the slamming of the cabinet door.

  “We’ll go to the store in a bit,” she says, her eyes never leaving Lumberjack’s face. They beam at one another across the table.

  “Okay, you’re right, gross!”

  The smirk on his bearded face says it will be a lot later before we leave.

  “Take the car. Let’s go.”

  “Can’t I take the car? I mean, it’s not like I can get lost.”

  She’s shooing me out the door, jamming the keys, and a few wadded-up twenties into my hand before I even finish.

  The door slams behind me, the deadbolt sliding home. Disappointed but not at all surprised, I climb into the already-steamy interior of Sharon’s run-down Chevy Malibu. Even though we haven’t been back since Dad moved us away nine years ago, it isn’t a hard place to navigate. Town is only ten minutes down the road; four of those minutes are spent on the long, desolate, gravel drive that slithers like a snake up to the farmhouse.

  The sun hangs high and hot in the sky, and the air already thick and wet with the Texas heat, making my legs stick to the seat. Turning onto Main Street, I want to cry at the emptiness. Rundown storefronts sag with age. Dust blows across the empty road. This isn’t a place to live; it’s a mirage of a town, masking hopelessness, just like it was when we left. I ease on the squealing brakes, pulling into the side parking lot of the solitary grocery mart in town. Only two other spots are taken. One by a rundown, rusted out, old truck, the other by a faded green Buick. I pass the truck, looking at the places where the paint holds on for dear life. Rust speckles the truck like freckles on a child.

  The bell jingles overhead as the door swings open. An elderly man on a rickety stool skims a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. One bushy eyebrow raises in my direction, then dismisses me and dives back into the warm curves of women that will never know a place like this still exists.

  “That’s a heart attack waiting to happen, Pops. What an old perv.”

  Shut up and help me find the mac and cheese.

  Jerking on the handle of a wobbly cart, I start down the first of the vast eight aisles, praying they have name brand sodas and real mac and cheese. Absently, I sweep cereal boxes into the basket. The hum of the flickering overhead light and the ka-thump of my lopsided cart fill my ears, as I wish for my iPod. Rounding the corner, I almost mow down a sobbing kid. He’s tall enough to be ten or eleven, old enough to not be crying like a baby in the middle of a store. The back of his plump fist swipes tears and snot across his face as I cringe.

  “You lost, kid?”

  “He stole my quarters!” he sobs. He holds up a pudgy finger and points to a small, dingy room filled with extra stock, something posing as a restroom, and two circa 1970’s pinball machines. The first one stands dark, waiting hungrily for someone to feed it coins. The second is a blaze of lights and sounds, as a tall, broad-shouldered boy slams the flippers, sending the tiny, metal ball flying through a series of bumpers and seizure-inducing lights. He’s a good five inches taller than me, making him a solid foot or so taller than the snot-faced kid. His tan shoulders protrude from a white tank. Faded jeans sit low on his hips. A trucker hat with a greasy brim sits backward on his head.

  “Daaaaaaamn, look at him.”

  He looks dangerous.

  “No, he looks sexy as hell.”

  I step toward him, the kid steps away. My nerves are lightning bolts as I inch closer. The hum of the fluorescents and clang of the pinball echo in the empty store. My pulse is snatching the air from my lungs before I can catch my breath. I stand at the threshold of the storage/closet room, torn between fight or flight. It’s not my problem, I don’t know this kid, what do I care he lost a dollar? But I hate bullies. Sarah sighs, tired of my indecision.

  “One … two … three … Jump!”

  A cold sweat breaks out like wildfire across my shoulders. Every fiber of my being begs on a shaky knee to turn and mind my own business.

  I hate bullies.

  “I love bad boys.”

  Technically, you’re eight. You can’t love boys.

  “Oh, I love boys, and I’m the same age as you, so get over there so I can get a better look at him!”

  “Hey, did you take that kid’s money
?” I bark, trying to sound authoritative. It’s a struggle keeping a steady voice, while every muscle in my body shakes.

  His dark eyes cut to the right toward me.

  “What are you, his mommy?”

  His hands never miss a beat as he stares me down. The flashing and ringing from the machine are distracting, and I fight to keep my eyes on him.

  “No, but don’t be a jerk. He’s just a kid.” My voice wavers with my courage, as he steps away from the machine, closing the distance between us with two mere strides. Sarah wells up inside of me, holding me up.

  “You think I’m a jerk, princess?” An evil smirk crawls across his lips. My heart tries to fly from my mouth. The tiny breaths I’m taking stop instantly when he slams his hands against the wall on either side of my head. My knees are merely broken hinges struggling to hold me. Digging deep, I pull together the last of my courage.

  “I don’t think you are. I know you are. Now give it back.” My voice is a whisper. His head tilts, his lanky muscled body so close I can feel the heat rolling off him. I tremble. He edges closer, examining my face.

  “Look at those eyes.”

  I see them, they look … violent.

  “Violently sexy.”

  Dropping his hands, he lessens what little space hides between us, his forehead nearly touching mine. My body quakes as I suck shallow gasps of cold air between my teeth. Smirking, his hand fumbles behind me and slides into my back pocket.

  “You’re one crazy little girl, you know that?”

  “You have no idea.”

  Feel free to show him anytime now, Sarah.

  He turns with ease and strides away, leaving me heaving for air against the wall. My fingers probe shakily into my pocket, folding around a wadded-up dollar bill.

  He’s nowhere in sight when I unglue my body from the cheap particle board. Rushing down the remainder of aisles, I drop the dollar at the kid’s feet, when I pass him at the candy rack, and hurry through the checkout, bagging my things so I won’t have to wait.