I stared down at the phone in my hand. What was all that? Tell me you want me? My heart raced at the crazy notion that he might actually be asking what he was asking. “No way,” I muttered. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“Who’re you talking to at this hour, Squeak?”
“Shut up.” I didn’t really hate the nickname, at least not like I used to, but sibling rivalry was a time-honored tradition in our home, and I wasn’t about to be the mature one about it. I set my phone face-down on the counter beside my plate and watched my brother as he approached. “Nice boxers. Especially the open front window.”
Jordan stopped mid-schlep and glanced down. Of course there was nothing showing. And even if there was, it was too dark in here to see, especially with him backlit by the hall light he’d left on. I laughed at his gullibility and went back to my food.
“You find Campbell’s replacement yet?” Tom had been Jordan’s friend before he’d been mine, but Jordan wasn’t the possessive type and was totally cool with sharing the love.
I pulled the ear buds from my ears and dropped them in a tangled heap on top of my phone. “Actually, I think we might have. Tom really, really wants him, but Tom isn’t the one who has to stay and play nice with him. I think he’s a bit of a diva, if you know what I mean.”
“Really? Can a band survive with two divas?” Jordan pulled a jug of orange juice from the fridge, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig. I didn’t even flinch. As the only girl with four older brothers, swapping saliva on milk jugs, juice cartons, and community water bottles was par for the course in the Ransome home. Cups and glasses were reserved for special occasions or to impress visitors.
“You’re a funny guy.” I threw my wadded up napkin at his head.
“Who is he? Anyone I know?”
“His name is Sebastian Jeffries. Heard of him? He was in my music theory class this last semester, but I don’t know anything about him. He was kind of a loner.” Understatement of the year, T-Bird.
“Jeffries?” Jordan frowned. “The name isn’t familiar. Want me to check around a little?” Having a brother who worked at the university was a double-edged sword for me. I had access to pretty much anything happening on campus that wasn’t strictly confidential. The flip side of it was that he had access to pretty much anything happening on campus, even if it was strictly confidential. Including my grades.
But Jordan was all right. He was the set designer for the university’s theater department. He’d graduated a year ago from his artsy-fartsy school in LA, and we had all assumed he’d be creating backdrops for superstars by now. Instead, he’d moved back home, holed up in his old bedroom for about two months, then got his act together and applied for the job at Midtown University. It was only part time, but he’d also managed to get his foot in the door with the thriving local community theater, as well as the high school drama department, so he stayed pretty busy. I hoped Dad and Mom were charging him rent, but it was none of my business.
Jordan never acknowledged it, at least not to me, but I’m pretty sure he’d had his heart broken in Los Angeles, probably by some little wannabe starlet. And even though he was settling in back here in his hometown, to me, he seemed a little bit lost, too. Aimless. Not that he didn’t have friends and a life. He did. Put it this way; the drama program had seen a huge boost in enrollment since Jordan started working there, and he never lacked for volunteers when it came time to construct and assemble props. He didn’t even mind that the majority of those volunteering showed up in shoes and clothes not conducive to heavy lifting and operating power tools. He just recruited the boyfriends who tagged along to keep an eye on their significant others around the hot set-design instructor. My good-natured and admittedly handsome brother wasn’t interested in dating any co-eds, though; another reason I thought something must have happened to him while he was still in school.
“Um, sure. See what you can dig up on him. But honestly, unless you find wife-beating or kiddie porn on his record, we’re probably going to bring him on. You didn’t hear it from these diva lips, but he’s really, really good. And he can sing, too.” I was quite proud of how casual I sounded about the whole thing.
Jordan reached across the counter and snagged the last piece of bacon off my plate, and even though I was quick, he was quicker. It was in his mouth before my open palm connected with his forearm. He flinched at the impact, but grinned, chewing with his mouth open.
“You’re such a butt-barnacle! I was saving that so I wouldn’t have to brush my teeth.” When I was little, we used to feed our beloved Betsy-Dog bacon-shaped treats that were good for her teeth. I think I might have been twelve when my mother finally convinced me that real bacon did not share the same oral hygiene benefits.
“You know that boyfriend problem you have? The lack of a boyfriend thing? Might have something to do with the whole bacon breath thing,” Jordan teased. Then he paused and cocked his head to one side, reconsidering. “I take that back. Bacon breath is a total turn-on.” He leaned forward and breathed in my face. “See?”
I pushed his face away roughly. “Ew.” I ignored his boyfriend comment.
“Or maybe it’s because you hit like a girl.”
In our home, boys weren’t allowed to hit girls. I really wasn’t supposed to hit my brothers, either, but they got such a kick out of antagonizing me when I was younger, knowing that no matter how hard I slapped, kicked, head-butted, or punched, I couldn’t hurt them. They refused to let up on me, regardless of the consequences, and I stopped getting in trouble for retaliating. Either that, or by the time I arrived on the scene, poor Mom was too exhausted to step in and referee. Besides, between the four brothers, someone always sported a black eye, bloodied knuckles, bruised ribs, or even broken bones. Not all of it was from fighting. I wondered if all boys experimented with bicycles, skateboards, wagons, and scooters the way my brothers did. And sticks and stones. Tools and weapons. Cars and motorcycles. It really was a miracle all four had survived this long, but each of them was fearless in his own way, and not one of them ever stepped down from a challenge.
Except for Jordan these days. I eyed him across the counter. He’d changed. I wouldn’t say he wasn’t fearless, but he certainly didn’t rise to the occasion like he did in the old days.
“Hey, kids.” It was Mom. Dang it. We must have been too loud.
“Hey, Ma,” Jordan murmured, sending her a sheepish smile, completely unabashed by his state of dishabille. But then, Mom didn’t even seem to notice. She just patted his cheek gently in greeting. “Didn’t mean to wake you. We wake Dad, too?”
“No, no. You know how he is. Once he’s out, it’s the sleep of the dead.” She ran a hand over her shoulder-length waves, once the same blue-black tones as mine, now softened by the silver shot through it. Not many women could pull off going gray naturally, but on Mom, it looked classy. Elegant. I hoped I’d be so lucky when I was her age. “Oh good. You found the plate of food I left you.” She came around behind me and squeezed my shoulders. “You doing okay, sweetie? Tom seemed a little worried about you earlier tonight.”
Jordan raised a questioning brow at me, but I turned away, not wanting to see the knowing look in his eyes. He and Tom were close, and if anyone else knew that Tom still had a thing for me, it would be Jordan, although he’d never said a word to me. Probably more out of respect for Tom than out of any sensitivity toward me and my feelings, though.
“I’m okay, Mom. Just grieving a little about the changes coming. Tom leaving, Ani thinking about Italy again. You know, growing up and all that nonsense.”
“I know, Tish.” Mom patted my cheek, too, and I leaned into her hand. Her palm wasn’t smooth and soft like most women her age, but that was because Mom worked in the small botanical gardens at the local museum. She spent her days up to her elbows in dirt and water, and no amount of lanolin or bee balm could completely rid her hands of their slight sandpaper texture. Mom didn’t mind. She loved her job, the tranquility of spending the day beautifying her little piece of the earth, as well as the opportunity it provided her to share her love of all planty things with anyone who would stop and listen. I had a feeling getting this woman to retire would be a task Dad might not be able to accomplish alone. But that was still years away. And her hands, rough skin and all, were beautiful to me.
“Sorry about the noise. It’s Jordan’s fault. He stole my bacon.”
Mom filled a glass with water from the sink, then leaned against the counter and took a long sip. “You didn’t wake me,” she said, shaking her head. I could see frown lines between her eyebrows. “I had a long talk with Beatrice Clark earlier and my heart is just hurting for her and Ron.”
Jordan flinched noticeably. I eyed him curiously, but he was watching Mom with narrowed eyes.
Mom continued, her voice heavy with emotion. “She received a Mother’s Day card from Savannah today, but it was simply signed, nothing personal. Savannah has always written something on her cards, even if only a few sentences. This time, it was just her name, and even that was barely legible, like she’d been in a mad rush or something. They worry so much about her.”
“Wow. How awful.” I studied my own mother who was about the same age as Mrs. Clark, and it struck me how much younger my mom looked and acted, in comparison. “Do they have any idea where she is these days?”
Mom shook her head slowly, a mother hurting for another mother. “It’s been almost two years already, can you believe it?” It had been the news of the hour for Midtown. Savannah Clark, seventeen, the daughter of a local pastor, had crawled out her window in the middle of the night, the day before she started her senior year of high school, and disappeared. She’d left behind a note stating she loved her parents deeply, but that she did not want to be found. Savannah was an only child, doted on by her parents, and her running away from home had been a terrible shock to all who knew her.
The Clarks lived at the end of our block, and even though I’d known Savannah, she was a few years younger than me, so we never hung out much together. But that didn’t seem to bother Savannah. She was pleasant and sweet to everyone she came in contact with, a serene little half-smile on her face at all times. Granted, the smile seemed more habit than any expression of any inner joy—her eyes often had a far-off look to them, an emptiness that made it hard to know if she was all there. She was home-schooled to boot, the only kid I knew who was, and I always thought she was just the slightest bit off, if you know what I mean. The fact that she ran away seemed so incongruous with what I knew of her personality.
“The police have found nothing?” Jordan stood nearby, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, his question oddly intent. I tried to catch his eye, but he was watching Mom, his own brow furrowed in a frown.
“No, Jordan. She’s a legal adult now. Between her age, the fact that she left a note, and that she sends postcards home every couple of months, the police have stopped looking for her. They say she’s not technically missing or even a runaway anymore.” Mom’s voice trembled a little. “Whenever she does write, it’s in her handwriting and she assures them she’s alive and well. But there is never a return address and the cards are handmade and untraceable, and the postmarks change with each one. The police believe that although she wants to put their minds at ease, she still quite clearly doesn’t want to be found, and as an adult, that’s her choice.” Mom sighed deeply and pressed her nearly-empty glass to her cheek. “Ron and Beatrice simply can’t accept that, and I don’t blame them. And now Beatrice says this last card feels different somehow, like something is different, even wrong, and she’s just sick with worry for her baby.” She smiled sadly at me, her eyes drinking in my features in the low light. “I can’t even imagine losing you like that, Titia, sweetie.”
“No wonder you’re not sleeping.” I stood up and went to her, wrapping my arms around her, thankful for my happy, healthy parents. “I’m not going anywhere.”
My parents were active members of the church where Pastor Clark preached. The Clarks weren’t from Midtown; they’d relocated here after our old pastor had retired. Although the Clarks were quiet and conservative compared to our family, my Mom had reached out to Mrs. Clark when they first moved into our neighborhood and she liked the woman well enough, from what I could tell. Mom called her a gentle soul, a perfect counterpart to her scholarly and impassioned husband. After Savannah left, however, Mrs. Clark had withdrawn quite noticeably in her grief. Mom said it was a little like watching someone shrink from the inside out.
“Well, Dad and I are playing tennis in the morning. I’m going back to bed. Night, Mom, Squeak.” And with that, Jordan headed back to his room.
“Crabby pants,” I muttered.
“Says the girl who’s not getting up in less than seven hours,” Mom teased. She rinsed out her glass and left it sitting on the counter. “Don’t stay up too late, okay? And wash your plate. Don’t leave it in the sink. Ant season.” She kissed the top of my head and left me to my own thoughts.
Several minutes later, I climbed into bed, my belly full, teeth brushed, and wearing an old INXS T-shirt I’d stolen from a box of my dad’s high school memorabilia stored in the attic. I set my phone on my bedside table and rolled over to look out the window at the night sky filled with stars.
A moment later, I reached back, picked up my phone, and texted quickly before I lost my nerve.
JollyRockerTBird: Don’t worry. It’s you. I’ll call you on Saturday to make it official.
SebastianJack: I’ll be waiting.