The People Next Door Page 14

  The driveway was long, but she barely noticed it. She didn’t wonder why the gates were open, as if waiting for her. She didn’t notice much at all, only knocked on the door and waited. A minute passed. Maybe she had been mistaken. Maybe they didn’t need her help. The sour taste of rejection rose up in her throat, and then the door opened. No one was there to greet her, but there were voices.

  Friendly voices urging her to come inside.

  30

  ‘At the end of the letter, in our last paragraph, we want to sign off by thanking the prospect for their time and consideration, but we also need to use this opportunity to ask for the job. Or, as they say in sales – and believe me, this is sales, you are selling yourselves – to ask for the sale, to close the deal. May we schedule a time to discuss our mutual interests? The prospect is now confronted with a question he or she must answer. When might be the best time to reach you? In other words, I want the interview. Do you see what I’m saying, people? You’ve made your case, attached your résumé. Now it’s time to go to the prom, or, in your case, the interview. And we all know you can’t go to the prom without a date, right?’

  In the third row, Rudy Pieshka cupped a hand over his feathery lip and said, ‘I thought you couldn’t go to the prom unless you were cooked on loco weed.’

  Half a dozen of the others snickered, and Amy wanted to bite Rudy’s ear off. She looked at the clock. Twelve minutes left. Nothing of substance would come of that. She’d talked too long, hadn’t left enough time for writing, and because the weekend would scatter their brain cells like pixie dust, she would have to summarize the components of the cover letter all over again next Wednesday. They were at least a week behind and the interview process was going to be a circus. She’d mentioned, offhandedly, that they should start digging out their best business attire, for the rehearsal sessions, in order to get used to dressing up for the real thing. That had earned her a round of complaints. I gotta go shopping at TJ Maxx now? What if my moms won’t let me borrow her heels? I’m applying for a job as a janitor, Mrs Nash, does that mean I should bring my own mop?

  ‘Let’s take the last ten minutes to compose our background bios. We can add this paragraph to the rest of the letter next week. Remember, keep it short. No one wants your life story, just the two or three most relevant sentences. Ready? Go.’

  Groans and small talk for the most part, a lot of texting. Two of the sixteen students actually whipped open their notebooks and began scribbling.

  Amy returned to the chair behind her desk, her eyes landing on the two empty seats at the back of the class. Eric Pritchard and Jason Wells had not shown up today, and neither boy nor his parent or guardian had called in with an excuse. If one of them had been present, she might have been tempted to believe the other was ill, or had a work scheduling issue. But both at the same time meant they were ditching together. She shouldn’t be happy about it, but in truth she was relieved. They never listened, never took notes, and spent most of the three-hour sessions interrupting her and generally filling the room with an air of defiance that the others fed on.

  Amy opened her grade book and added some notes in the green margin. Angela making progress, is genuinely concerned about her baby, future finances, etc. Keith Ramsey slipping, mentioned quitting job (his second of summer), expects more than min. wage, address realistic expect. in down economy.

  She shuffled a stack of résumés she needed to take home and mark up for revisions, slipped them into a manila folder, then into her briefcase. She sipped her Diet Coke but it had gone warm. She thought of dropping it in the steel can but it was mostly full and would splash all over. She would leave it here on the desk for Dick Humphries, custodial engineer. Teach him to chuckle at her window graffiti.

  Amy caught movement to her left. Without raising her head, she tilted her chin in that direction. Out in the hall, walking very, very slowly past her classroom doorway, was Eric Pritchard. He wore the same dirty jeans, seventiesera clunking brown hiking boots with their woven red laces, and his camo-shirt-jacket thing.

  Swinging in his right hand, the one most visible from her position, was a butterfly knife. The lower gold perforated handle dipped down and looped back into his palm and the blade rotated as the upper handle swung down in the same windmill arc. He was looking right at her as he did this and he was not smiling. He wasn’t even scowling or sneering; in fact he looked almost bored. The knife pirouetted lazily in and out of his palm, and the casual ease of the display (he might have been tossing a rubber ball to himself) made her want to throw up.

  And then he was gone, continuing beyond the door-frame, hiking boots thunking slowly down the hall until the only sound was the rising chorus of her students’ voices as they anticipated the bell. Well, there were no bells here, or if there were, they weren’t used for summer-school sessions of Workplace Econ. But the kids didn’t need a bell, they knew three o’clock the way roosters know sunrise. Amy remained glued to her chair, eyes on her papers, her mind empty as the authoritarian in her reeled away to some deeper corner of her self. The sweeping second hand cruised past the black twelve, and her students erupted from their dirty, scratched desks and filed out – to her relief – as if she weren’t even there.

  She thought of waiting until they had all gone before checking the halls to make sure he wasn’t there, waiting for her, but decided it would be safer to move with the herd.

  She did not see Eric Pritchard on her way out, his white Honda was not in the parking lot, and his codependent sidekick Jason Wells was nowhere to be found. They couldn’t be bothered to attend class, and yet Eric had dropped by to send her a message. Impossible to pretend now that the graffiti had been a one-time prank. They were coming for her, and they would keep coming until they got her.

  She did not cry on the way home this time. She was too numb to cry, and when the numbness wore off, there was only a white-hot brick of anger. She thought, I hope something bad happens to them. I don’t care how hard their lives have been, or that they are only kids, or that they are lacking good role models, I really don’t. Because I am all out of sympathy and empathy and politically correct nurturing teacher bullshit. I hope Eric Pritchard and his dangerously dumb cling-on just have themselves a nasty fucking fall and never get up. I hope the skinny little mouth-breather pulls that knife on someone who can teach him how to use it.

  The intensity of her sentiments made it a kind of prayer. The strangest part was that, when she got home, her fear and anger were gone, all gone, the burden lifted. As if someone powerful had been listening.

  As if someone had heard her sin, and absorbed it.

  31

  Ingrid got back to the Nash place with time to spare.

  Briela was still sleeping on her bedroom floor, balled up like a little lamb. The sitter stood in the bedroom doorway, watching her mysterious charge, as she had been hired to do. The degree to which her life had changed in the past hour filled her with an ecstatic terror. The money was going to set her up for a long time, she had been handed a kind of security she had never known. But more than that she no longer felt adrift. She had a purpose now, as if the compass needle that had been spinning inside her had found its true magnetic north. She still didn’t understand everything they had planned, but she knew enough, and she had to be careful now. Do exactly as she had been told.

  Carry on as usual. Observe. Report. Come to us if their routine changes in any way, no matter how minor. Above all else, tell no one we are watching.

  We will protect you. Always.

  Her legs never got tired and she stayed there, focused and unmoving, until the front door slammed thirty-seven minutes later.

  Amy’s voice carried down the hall. ‘Hellooo? Anyone home?’

  ‘In here,’ Ingrid said, barely able to contain herself.

  Amy came in behind her. ‘There you are – oh.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘She’s napping. Everything all right?’

  Ingrid nodded and they stepped into the hall. ‘She went
down about ten minutes ago. I was just checking on her again because it’s so unlike her.’

  ‘Were there any …?’ Amy winced in preparation for another report.

  ‘Not at all. We had a swim. She must have worn herself out.’

  Amy sighed with relief. ‘It’s this heat. I might take a nap myself.’

  ‘Tough day at school?’ Ingrid said. ‘I hope those two boys weren’t harassing you again.’

  Amy frowned, stopped. ‘How did you – did I mention Eric and Jason to you?’

  ‘Your car window,’ Ingrid prompted. ‘No girl comes up with that.’

  Amy nodded, studying her. ‘But how’d you know there were two of them? I don’t remember telling you about that.’

  Ingrid laughed, surprised at her own insight. ‘I don’t know. Lucky guess? I mean, don’t hyenas always travel in packs?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Amy walked into the kitchen and Ingrid trailed. ‘Did Mick sneak off to work again?’

  ‘He was here when we went out back for a swim, but when we came in to watch a movie, he was gone. He must be feeling better, right?’

  ‘As if he would tell me.’ Amy went to the fridge and studied the contents.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ingrid said. ‘I totally forgot to make your salad. Want me to run to the store?’

  Amy shut the door. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not even hungry. That’s my problem, you know? I eat when I’m not even hungry. When I stop and think about it, I realize half the time I’m bored, or pissed off, or who knows what.’

  ‘You look like you’ve lost some weight,’ Ingrid said, not sure if she really meant it. It simply came to her and seemed like the right thing to say right now.

  Keep up appearances. Confirm their own self-image to them.

  ‘I do?’ Amy looked down at herself. ‘I doubt it. Funny you say that, though. I haven’t eaten all day and that’s so not like me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re beautiful, Amy. I wish I had your skin.’

  ‘Aw, Ingrid.’ Amy took down a cup and held it under the faucet, beaming at her. ‘That is so nice. See, that’s why I love knowing you’re in charge of sleeping beauty down the hall. You have the sweetest manners and set such a good example.’

  Ingrid shrugged. ‘She makes it easy. Same time tomorrow?’

  Amy began to blabber about her schedule and plans for the party next week and a bunch of other meaningless crap. Ingrid smiled and nodded and said, ‘All right, see you then.’ She walked to the bus stop in a much brighter mood than when she had arrived this morning. She wouldn’t be taking the bus much longer.

  She had so many fun things to do before she left for Portland. And yet, the more she thought about the possibilities, the more she realized maybe Portland wasn’t the thing any more. Maybe the thing, the real thing, was right here with the Render family.

  32

  Saturday night. Kyle was at the fourth party at Sha heen’s house, in the development behind Boulder Country Club, when he saw her again. He was standing by the pool, unsure of his purpose here. Ben and Will were hovering around a table with two steel tubs full of ice and the last few cans of beer. Tiki torches bordered the golf course, and kids were walking around barefoot, pulling tubes and trying to grill frozen pizzas. Lucas was out on the fairway, swinging Shaheen’s dad’s Ping 5-iron. The sixth or seventh time a ball banged off someone’s roof, Shaheen came out and told Lucas to cut the shit, did he want someone to call the cops?

  Lucas laughed and handed over the club. Kyle knew most of the guys were afraid of Shaheen, and some of the girls too. He was mellow, but he had scary serious eyes, and he was body-builder yoked at age fifteen, his skin so dark in places it was like smoke-streaked stone. Everyone found it chic being buddies with a Persian dude, but that didn’t stop them from staring at him in weird ways. He was only five-five, with flecks of gold highlights in his thick black hair and he always wore dark sunglasses, even at night. Kyle sort of wished he was Shaheen. The hair, the build, the skin, the cool knives and little motorized bong he carried in his leather satchel – all in all Shaheen was kind of sci-fi, a graphic novel dude come to life.

  There were maybe forty people, they were down to five beers, and the party was far from over. Michelle Harper was standing on the other side of the pool, next to the portable fireplace, where Samantha Turner and Steph Jameson were smoking and sipping wine spritzers. But ever since he saw that girl in the park, Kyle barely thought about Michelle Harper. She had touched his arm at the last party, and he’d spent the rest of the night following her around like an idiot, not knowing what to say, her friends giggling at him before moving on to a more interesting corner of the party.

  Tonight Michelle seemed to be sagging in some new way, and in a rare moment of insight Kyle realized when she was old she was going to be one of those hunched women. Her hair was sort of just hanging there. Twice she gave him a little wave and her thin smile. C’mere, that smile seemed to say. I won’t laugh this time.

  Kyle smirked and looked away, nervous about what was coming. He had waited in the car earlier – Will had stolen his mom’s Corolla while she sat in her condo watching the Witches Lane marathon – feeling sick while Ben, Will, and Lucas went into the Gunbarrel King Soopers to get some beer. He knew they were boogying the beer. Ever since Will’s fake ID got grabbed that day at Cornucopia, they had no connections. They were in the store for ten minutes or so, and when they came back out, they weren’t even running. Will was just walking calmly, a suitcase of Bud pulling his skinny frame to one side. Lucas and Ben were carrying bags of snacks.

  ‘So easy,’ Will said when Kyle asked how they did it. ‘You go get all the food first, your chips, some brats and buns, a six pack of Coke, whatever the fuck. You pay for that shit, get the receipt, smile at the checkout bitches. Then you circle back to the cooler and grab whatchoo need.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Kyle said.

  ‘But you gotta be smooth,’ Ben said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Will said. ‘The thing is, you got to let them see you. You just stroll, and if some manager asshole face at the photo booth sees you, you just smile and keep walking. He sees the bags, Lucas here holding the receipt, he figures, well, no way those kids are crazy enough to walk right under my nose with a case of beer. It’s all about confidence.’

  ‘What if he stops you?’

  ‘Lucas swings the bag of groceries at his head, we drop the beer and run like a motherfucker. But they never stop you.’

  ‘You gotta go at rush hour,’ Lucas said. ‘Like when people are stopping by on their way home from work. Look around, Nash. See how full this parking lot is? There’s like fifty people going in and out of that huge front door every thirty seconds. They have no clue.’

  ‘It’s not even really a boogie,’ Ben said. ‘It’s, like, the mellow boogie.’

  Since school got out, Will had done seven beer boogies: four at King Soopers and two more at the Safeway off of Iris. Lucas had done at least five, and Ben was constantly stuffing forties of Busch into his sweatshirt. They had become heroes at every party, charging the other kids full price to boogie for them, pocketing the cash. Lucas was all like, damn, maybe boogying is my part-time job this summer.

  Kyle hadn’t boogied yet, but they were losing their patience with him. He had offered to pay for the few beers he drank, but that wasn’t the point.

  ‘Nash, hey, Nash,’ Ben said from behind the table. ‘Get your ass over here.’

  Kyle went to them. They pointed into the tub, where two cans of Bud floated.

  ‘Guess who’s up,’ Will said.

  ‘Oh, man, come on,’ Kyle said. ‘My dad will kill me.’

  ‘You’re not gonna get caught. Why would you get caught?’ Ben said.

  Kyle glanced around nervously, as if they were already in the store. Another group had come in, four guys and two girls. Kyle recognized them as Fairview kids, maybe one from Boulder High. The girls were kinda goth, but in that expensive way, one of them six feet tall, a bas
ketball player Kyle had seen at Baseline games, scaring the other girls with her black sprocket of hair. They filed around the island, fist-bumping Shaheen, the host with the most. Even Shaheen was counting on him to step up.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kyle said.

  Will shrugged, pulling his pajama bottoms up off his hips. ‘Just get it over with. Lucas will be your wingman.’

  Kyle imagined his father staring at him with that look of beaten disappointment. His dad had been a party guy in his youth, Kyle knew. He would look the other way over a beer here and there, a C on the report card. But he was a business owner. When he talked about his employees stealing, his face turned purple. Stealing was a line you didn’t cross.

  ‘Guys, look, I just can’t …’ Kyle was ready to say no and take the consequences, even if his tribe cast him out for the remainder of his high-school tenure.

  But then he saw her. Not Michelle Harper. Her. The perfect girl. The one from the park. The one who had looked at him and mouthed some secret words. She was right here, in the kitchen behind the others, standing next to the cordless phone on Shaheen’s wall, tucking a lock of her Pantene commercial hair behind her ear – shy or above it all, he couldn’t tell. She didn’t seem attached to any-one. It was as shocking and terrifying as seeing a ghost.

  ‘Whoa, daddy, who is that stone cold Steve Austin?’ Will said, and Kyle felt his heart sink. They were onto her already. She was a gazelle thrown in with lions. They would devour her before he got her name.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Ben said. ‘Oh, sweet Dairy Queen. Who is that girl?’

  ‘No idea,’ Will said. ‘But she’s clean.’