Ashes and Ice Read online

  “I—I don’t…”

  “Wait a second…” Her eyebrows dance together in a scrumpled line. I wonder how she does that. “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “That settles it. You are staying with me.” She says it like an announcement.

  “No, I shouldn’t, I—I really…”

  The argument was short lived. For the next hour, Clara herds me around people and cars and trolleys, down shiny roads with pretty, white houses to steep inclines where dark, deteriorating houses loom. Clara pulls me toward one of them and ushers me into her apartment.

  Clara’s apartment is a single room with blotchy paint and photographs of hundreds of different people in dark make-up and clothes as bizarre as her own…well, as my own, now. We stand amidst clothes tossed on the floor, people staring at us from the walls, and towers of little thin boxes standing tall among the wreckage. I also smelled something rotten from the area of the kitchen. A cockroach scurries over my boot. I flinch back and knock over a tower.

  Clara laughs. “Two minutes in my house and you are already breaking stuff.”

  I fall to my knees, reaching to pick up the boxes with more faces and images sprawled on the tops of them. “I’m sorry!”

  “Don’t worry about the DVDs. Have you seen the rest of this place? It is positively atrocious.” She passes a finger over one of the thin boxes. “Let’s pick one! It is Friday… perfect movie night!”

  Our movie night stretches into two consecutive movie days. Clara doesn’t have to work the weekend and I, well, I have nowhere to be and I like the idea of not leaving the house and not leaving her because she is such a lively thing.

  When she asks me my last name and I hesitate, she says “Jade Smith it is,” and winks at me.

  I cock my head to the side and give an appreciative nod. “Yes, that’s me.”

  Chapter 4

  Connor

  I could say that I am one of those incredible seventeen year olds that makes his father proud, scores the winning touchdown at the Madisonville High School football games, drives the ‘Vette to school, and hooks up with all the cheerleaders. I could say I am so effing awesome everyone wants to be me or be with me. I could say that, but, of course, it would be a total load of shit. I’m not awesome. I’m the total opposite of awesome. In fact, if “unawesome” had a definition in the dictionary, my face would be nicely positioned beside it as Example A.

  Connor Austin Devereaux. Even my name flops flat like a dead fish. I sigh, running down the list of my “unawesomeness” as I lie in bed, willing the alarm clock to shut the hell up.

  I’m a virgin and the last time I kissed a chick, she was neither sane nor all that cute.

  I run to school because my old ’56 Chevy truck is rusted and propped up on cinderblocks in the backyard.

  I don’t play football or any other sport. I tried track, even made the team, but it was a long time ago, and I’ve never actually been in a race because…well, because it was that first race when Dad got sick. I was at the start line when he fell over in the bleachers. I ran to him that day and I’ve never worn a number on a track again.

  And finally, the kicker, the overbearing reason why I am as I am and content with the complacent suckage of my life: my dad’s dead. It’s with that thought I finally lean over and slap off the alarm.

  The silence is ugly. Before, there would have been jazz music blaring from downstairs. The house was never silent before, it was always loud, sometimes too loud, filled with sarcastic, loud whoops and hollers and music, lots of music. Now, it’s just fragile, soft voices and dead air. Dead, just like Dad. The hush fell over our old plantation style home the moment the ambulance came for him, the moment we all held our breath as he left never to come home. It’s like the house itself has a heart, and as the paramedics left with my dad on the gurney, sirens blaring, the heart stopped beating and it hasn’t started again.

  I sit up in bed, my sweaty hair sticking to my forehead. I seriously need a shower.

  Monday. Why is school such a necessary thing for kids to endure? With all the paper shuffling, book reading, boring teachers, and the constant threat of social humiliation, at least for me, I am sure the whole high school experience straddles the border of hell.

  “Connor?” My mom whispers from behind my closed door, interrupting my ritualistic morning rant.

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  She peeks in, “O.K. I just want to make sure you are up.”

  I groan. Of course I am up. Anxiety is rarely easy to ignore. It twists my gut in knots. It really doesn’t matter I am a senior. I have never moved up from the hazed-freshman status. Luckily, I am perfectly invisible most of the time. For some, it would be torture—to go in and out as non-existent in a time where all value is placed on those who are in the spotlight. Sure, I secretly imagine being the center of attention. I guess I live vicariously through others. When the quarterback makes a touchdown, when a group of kids head to the beach, when a guy smiles with his arm wrapped around his girl, I envy all of them. But if I was destined to be the invisible by-product of social deprivation, I guess I am bad-ass at it. I pull on jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of tennis shoes.

  When I reach for my messenger bag on the oversized beanbag, I realize the chair is empty. Propped up next to it is my old guitar. I shake my head as I look at it. It’s dusty, unused. I keep putting it far back in my closet, but Mom keeps dragging it out hoping one day she’ll hear me playing it like I used to. The damn guitar sits there like an accusation, like a pile of Playboys that should make me feel guilty. I grab the guitar and stuff it behind a pile of clothes in the closet.

  “Connor?” Mom calls again, this time from downstairs.

  7:21am.

  Damn, where is my homework? I pivot around trying to eye my bag with no luck. I leave my room, close the door, and run down the rickety oak steps. I skip every other step. I am not sure how old the house is, but I know it is old. I used to think ghosts lived in the crawl space under the stairs. I got accustomed to jumping two at a time so I stayed just out of their reach. The habit stuck.

  My homework and bag are on the banister by the door. I shove the homework into my messenger bag along with my notebook. I won’t be late for school. The only thing worse than having to exist in the tumultuous state of hell, aka high school, is that treacherous moment when you can’t just slump into your chair during the morning shuffle, but actually have to face twenty-five pairs of eyes watching you find your chair in silence.

  Mom is sipping coffee in the kitchen. Her curls are messily swooped together in a ponytail that really doesn’t contain them. They poke out everywhere, but somehow it works. She doesn’t look unkempt, just carefree. In a way, I think she does it on purpose. She used to meticulously tie her hair back and smooth it so it looked straight and tame. Dad liked it best on Sunday mornings, when she just woke up, rolled out of bed and drank coffee on the porch in her PJs.

  He would announce, “There she is!”

  Mom would crook her eyebrows and say, “What?”

  And dad would scoop her up and kiss her—yeah, right there in front of me, they were big on PDAs—and say, “There’s the lioness I fell in love with,” twine his fingers in her curls.

  It annoyed me at first, but then as the cancer set in and dad was too weak to scoop up anything, I started missing those awkward moments I now know were precious. So now, Mom’s hair is always curly, always free, like some wild mane caught in the wind. Looking at her, I realize that’s how I like it best on her too.

  She waves me over. “Bye, babe.” She tousles my hair in her hand and stretches on her tip toes to land a kiss on my cheek.

  “Later, Mom.” I open the front door waves of heat and moisture collapse on top of me. How is Mom drinking coffee? Slightly insane, maybe? Louisiana is not for the faint of heart. Between the hurricanes, heat, and alligators, I think we are pretty well versed in staving off wusses. But even I, being the born and raised hard-core Louisiana
native that I am, wouldn’t mind taking a dip in some Alaskan glacier water after the run to school. Against my better judgment, I take a step outside and close the door behind me. It groans shut. I roll my eyes. Even the door is lazy in the heat. I smile despite myself.

  I’ve never lived anywhere else and there’s part of me that never wants to call another house my home. Its familiarity is comforting. Rickety steps, peeling paint, wobbly banister and all. It’s home.

  And there is always the study—Dad’s study—which hasn’t been touched since he died. Mom ritualistically dusts it, but everything is just as he left it. Somehow, it feels like he is still in there, typing away on his laptop. I know not to go in because he is working, but I really know he isn’t there at all. It’s not quiet in there because that’s how Dad likes it. It’s quiet because he isn’t there. He isn’t here. He isn’t anywhere. No business trip, meeting, or afternoon ride. Just gone. His study humors me. Every time I pass it, for a moment, I forget.

  It’s a two mile run to school. Maybe I’m not a social misfit. Maybe I simply stink from sweating, so anyone with a nose avoids me for their own good. Maybe I have to invest in some advanced-formula deodorant. I tried Axe, but it was nothing like the commercial. If anything, on me, it acted more as a repellent against any female contact. It’s okay, though.

  The girls at school aren’t exactly what I am looking for. Not that I’m picky. I mean, if a girl asked me out, I wouldn’t turn her down. Mom would probably be excited I was actually venturing out of the house on a Saturday night. But the truth is, at Wayland High there are either beautiful idiots or weirdo braniacs. Maybe there are a few who dabble somewhere in the middle, but they are so desperate to be in the “in” crowd they trade in their personality for a mini skirts and birth control. As old fashioned as it may seem, I actually prefer to respect whoever I go out with. So I guess women-repellent at Wayland High isn’t so bad.

  The run goes by fast. I pretty much ignore the little shops, the corner bakery, and the people meandering up and down the sidewalk. It’s all a blur in my peripheral vision. My eyes simply watch the sidewalk. My feet slap against the pavement and it feels good. I slow before getting within earshot of the school. The crowd outside school is a buzz of interaction: who’s dating who, homecoming, what’s happening in New Orleans, how Mr. O’Neal is such an ass, how hungover someone is, and of course the upcoming football game.

  And in the center of it all is Dominic, the team’s quarterback. He is at the core of every ounce of envy I can muster—willingly or unwillingly. Dominic is the sun the school’s universe orbits around. I never got the memo about his gravitational pull, but apparently, everyone else did. He transferred exactly six weeks ago and in that time, he amassed a following that would make any celebrity cringe. It’s just not natural. He gets here just around Mardi Gras, starts going out with the head cheerleader, and becomes star of the football team in less than two weeks. Before his name was officially transcribed on the roster, he already had girls wearing I Heart Dominic t-shirts. I mean, what the hell?

  I’ve been here for the entirety of my life and I have no one, Capital Z, zero people “hearting” me. The most attention I have ever gotten is when Jared Wilson put me head first in the cafeteria dumpster for sitting in his seat. I’ve never made the mistake again. But if I ever want to venture out of the shadow of social invisibility, I could always provoke him.

  I file into the shuffle of people. No, invisibility works just fine for me.

  A few kids shove past me and I stumble, my bag flopping to the ground. I reach down to pick it up and as I stand up, I see a few kids look at me and shake their heads.

  I shoulder my bag and sigh. Apparently, not invisible enough.

  Chapter 5

  Jade

  I wake up gasping on Monday. I know it is Monday, because Clara said she would work on Monday and she’s gone now.

  Come to me.

  It is a low whisper in my ears. At first, I think I am still dreaming, but then as I breathe in and out ragged breaths, I hear it again.

  Come to me.

  Nausea crawls up my throat. I’m dizzy. I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering my dream.

  My fingers freeze and turn blue, my screams swallowed up by water spilling into my lungs. I am always drowning in my dreams, always so very cold. This time though, the dream ends with a huge red door, a scratched eye etched into its peeling paint. The door slams closed and the water rushes away, leaving me cold and limp on the doorstep. Come to me… someone says from behind the door. Come to me.

  The voice soothes me, eases the cold and fear.

  I am in Clara’s apartment. I am fine. My name is Jade Smith.

  Come to me.

  My bones respond to the voice. They start moving, listening to the whisper, obeying. I feel like I am being pulled, pulled up, pulled across the room, pulled toward Clara’s door to leave.

  Leave? I don’t want to go. I want to stay. I want to pretend I am Jade Smith, a runaway, a complicated girl with a complicated past like one of the girls in those movies Clara and I watched. I want to stay and figure out my life. I want to know how mint ice cream tastes. I want to watch the sequel to the first two Rocky movies—how many did Clara say there were? I want to find my family, want them to love me. Surely, surely I have one… I have just forgotten.

  This is when my plan, my grandest lie, unravels. The dead girl in the woods. She must’ve had a family and someone left her there, strewn out like an unwanted doll to die. I had seen her, wanted to… possess her, taste the energy seeping out of her in scarlet ribbons.

  I can’t stay here.

  I have to leave. My body knows where to go. The voice knows where to guide me.

  I scuttle back to pick up the messenger bag Clara bought me. It has buttons all over it. Each one makes me smile.

  “Clara?” I say, but no one answers.

  On the counter, I see muffins and a note.

  Hey Girl, fun night. Do you know you sleep like the dead? I made so much noise this morning and you just kept sleeping. Had to go to work. I’ll be back at lunchtime. If you need to go, though, take the $50 and take care of yourself. P.S. Put on the boots NOW. ;)

  I smile and stuff the fifty and the muffins in my new messenger bag. I take my time, running my hand over the chipped tile of the counter. The pull in my belly toward the door turns into a violent tug. I swallow, walking over and turning the doorknob. I survey the apartment—the absolute wreckage of it—and realize how much I like it. I don’t flinch when a cockroach runs past my shoe. “Thank you, Clara.” I say to the air… “Thank you.” Somehow, I know I won’t see her again. Somehow, I know I shouldn’t.

  I leave her building and follow the strange magnetic pull leading me east. Everything is crystal clear until I round the corner onto 23rd street.

  I wake up in the hay at a farmhouse, a horse drooling into my hair, a shadowed figure in the wide-open doorway of the barn. I don’t even remember standing up, my memory blinks right off again.

  Humidity chokes me. I am lying flat on hard wood. I can feel the grain of it under my fingertips. I slowly peel my eyes open and gasp.

  Water.

  It is everywhere. I am on a dock right on the edge, nearly tipping in. The water is close, too close; it will kill me. I can’t move even though I know I have to scoot down the dock toward the shore. I am paralyzed in place, screaming—when did the screaming start? Soon, the water will come and swallow me whole. I feel the cold penetrating my bones, freezing me to the core. My throat is ragged, raw. The screams are shrill, ugly sounds, and they pierce the air.

  Warm, doughy arms wrap around me. I don’t flinch away from them because I am too scared to move at all.

  “Shh, shhh, darlin’, you gon’ be alriiight.” It is a warm drawn out sound, barely audible because of my screaming. “Shhh, shhh, Nanan is here. Shhh, shhh. Fine young thing like you should not be screamin’ like a banshee. C’mon, darlin’. Ya safe. Ya alright. Nanan won’t let nothing happen to ya.�
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  Her voice is a lullaby. My screams taper down, but don’t stop. The water. My eyes lock on that water. I don’t want it to take me. I don’t want to drown. Not again. It hurts too much.

  Warm hands the color of hot cocoa rest on my cheeks, slowly turning my face away from the water and toward the voice, toward her round brown eyes. “Ya listen here, darlin’. Ya alright.”

  I stop screaming, quaking from the aftermath, weak. I want to cry. I want to sob onto this woman’s shoulder. I want to release this pain behind my eyes, but I don’t. I can’t. But I believe this woman, this woman with warm hands, and I don’t flinch away or even attempt to pull away, because her soft brown eyes have me. They are not lying eyes.

  For now, the water will not take me.

  The woman pulls me to my feet and keeps her arm wrapped around my shoulder as I stumble down the uneven wood planks. “You gon’ come home with me, darlin’, you gon’ come home with me and ya be all right. No young thang will be left alone in Madisonville, Louisiana. No sir, not while Nanan is here. Ya be all right.”

  The water will not take me now, but this woman—this Nanan—will.

  I lean into her and let her warmth seep into me.

  Chapter 6

  Connor

  Monday spills into Tuesday, Tuesday into Wednesday. It’s all a blur. But today we are outside and about to start PE so I know it’s hump day. I like hump day.

  “All right kids. We are going to run today and see if you can beat your last mile record.” Coach Edmond plants his fists on his sides creating a triangular opening between his elbows and his torso. He looks like he is superman about to take flight. He just needs a cape.

  A couple of girls groan behind me. “We are going to mess up our make-up.” They quietly strategize how they are going to fake heat stroke, but then resolve just to walk together and talk about what they are going to wear this weekend.