Everything We Didn't Say(13)

“Not interested in being the college drunk,” I say too brightly. My head still pounds and I feel like the scent of death lingers in my clothes, my hair. I’m desperate to scour myself. “I’m taking a quick shower and then let’s go to Munroe.”

“Today?”

“Yes, today.”

“Mom wants me to watch the twins this afternoon—”

“It’s the first day of summer break!” I interrupt. The thought of being stuck at home, of being trapped with Jonathan and my angry mother for the afternoon, makes me tense. “Camp starts next week, and you know I’ll be busy every single day after that.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Ashley!”

“Fine, okay.” A big sigh whistles through the line. “I’ll tell my mom I can’t.”

I sag a little in relief. “Half an hour. Can you drive?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ashley cuts the line.

When I slip in the side door of the farmhouse, a soft rain is just starting to fall. It splats on the black hood of Jonathan’s truck and hisses at the sting of hot metal. The air is electric, charged with warm rain and summer ground, dusty and savage. It’s a relief to shut the door and be enveloped by the smell of detergent, clean clothes. Mom’s been doing laundry, and it’s heaped on the counter beside the washing machine in neat piles. Whites and lights and darks. I can see the thin blue stripes of the master bedroom sheets spinning circles in the dryer. Clearly the ominous morning sky discouraged my mother from hanging the laundry on the clothesline outside. She’s bound to be irritable knowing she won’t fall asleep in sunbaked sheets tonight. I add it to the list of things that will weigh her down today, and I’m grateful that Ashley will soon whisk me away.

I can no longer hear Mom playing cello. Save the hum and bump of the washer and dryer, the house is eerily silent, holding its breath, and as my chest tightens, I realize that I’m not breathing, either. I’m rattled, even though I don’t want to be. Even though I want to pretend that all of this is quite safe. Normal.

From the outside looking in, Jericho is as spit-polished and shiny as a pearl button. Friendly and close-knit, to be sure, but in the way that mob families are. If you fit the mold, honor the customs and routines that have been passed down for generations, you’re gold. If not, well, don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you, as Law likes to so eloquently say.

I have a feeling that’s why the Murphys have targets on their backs. They’re different. They dared to put up a political sign last year that didn’t match every other one in town. Their vegetables are organic (or nearly so—Beth told me they’re a year away from full certification), and their chickens free-range. Worst of all, they’re smack dab in the middle of the biggest drama Jericho has ever seen. I think there are lawyers involved.

“Juniper?”

I slip into the upstairs bathroom quick as can be and ease the door shut. There’s no use pretending I didn’t hear her, but I can put off a face-to-face confrontation for a few minutes at least.

“In the bathroom!” I shout, yanking off my T-shirt and turning on the shower.

Even with the water running I can hear Mom coming up the stairs. They creak, or at least some of them do, and Mom doesn’t avoid the squeaky ones like Jonathan and I do. I kick off my shorts and hop in, even though the water is still cold. It spills over my warm skin and makes me gasp.

“We need to talk,” Mom says, sticking her head in the bathroom. I forgot to lock the door, damnit. Thank goodness for plaid shower curtains.

“I’m showering here.”

“When you’re done.”

“Ashley’s coming. We’re going to Munroe.”

“It’s raining.”

“It’ll stop.” I duck my head under the lukewarm spray and silently curse myself. The beach is hardly appropriate for a stormy day. “We’ll kill time at Starbucks, or Target.”

I can’t hear her sigh, but I know it’s there. My mother’s signature move, a low exhalation that’s almost a groan—as if she’s seventy instead of newly forty, and plagued by arthritic knees, failing vision, a lifetime of bittersweet memories. Mom is nothing like she sounds in those moments. First of all, she’s gorgeous. The boys in my class have always made sure I understood that I’ve fallen short of the family standard. I’m cute, in a freckled, girl-next-door sort of way, but Rebecca Baker is capital-S stunning. A raven-haired, dark-eyed classic beauty. Of course, she doesn’t realize it, and that just makes her all the more appealing.

Mom wears the same trend-blind clothes she wore when I was little, wide-legged pants when the fashion is skintight, and dresses that hide her slender figure instead of accentuating it. I’d kill to dress her just once. I’d put her in a pencil skirt that hugs her waist and some low heels. Her hair loose and just a little wavy. My mom wears her hair in a knot at the nape of her neck, bobby pins ensuring that no face-framing tendrils will ever escape. I’d have to hate her a little if I didn’t love her so much. And when I look in the mirror, I can’t help but wonder why Jonathan is all her, and I’m made up of the bits and pieces of a stranger.

Lawrence isn’t my real dad. I don’t know who is.

“Mom,” I call, reaching for the shampoo. “Can I have some privacy?”