Black Bird of the Gallows(2)

“I’ll see you tonight, Dad,” I say.

He points to his cheek. I give him a kiss and scoop my backpack off the counter. Weird food aside, living with my dad isn’t a hardship. I could have been dumped on a far worse doorstep five years ago.

I pull on wooly, fingerless gloves and head out to catch the bus. Yes, the bus. For the record, I have a car—a ten-year-old Civic. It’s so generic, it’s virtually invisible, but I don’t drive it to school. There’s a cool, quirky explanation I hand out readily: I can do homework or study or fold paper cranes while riding. I tell people it’s like having your own personal chauffeur. But the darker answer is, I worry obsessively about leaving my car unattended in the lot all day. Anyone could break in, steal it, or just do something to it. And yes, I’m familiar with the word “paranoia.” I come by it legitimately. A big chunk of my childhood was spent in an old VW van that was broken into all. The. Time. Occasionally, while my mom and I were sleeping in it.

So I ride the bus. Aside from the part about standing on the corner in bad weather, it’s not a terrible way to start the day.

I walk gingerly down our very long, very steep driveway, crunching on the mix of salt and ice. Mount Franklin Estates, otherwise known as my neighborhood, was built into the side of Mount Franklin itself, in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains. As far as mountains go, Franklin is less of a “mount” and more of a pretty, wooded hill with some expensive houses on it. Still, the roads can be steep and, because I shun practical footwear in favor of aesthetics, I have to watch my step.

The bus will arrive in eight minutes. Mrs. Pierce is as exact as an atomic clock. I pick up the pace when I hit the sidewalk, which is scraped right to the concrete and gritty with sand. Sure enough, the house next door is bustling with activity. The forlorn For Sale sign is gone and a champagne Lexus SUV sits next to the moving truck.

I pass big, gracious trees, driveways twisting off toward large homes, until the bus stop comes into view. I slow down. I’ve had the corner to myself since sophomore year, so it’s jarring to see two boys standing there. One is backpack boy—my new neighbor—and a quick glance confirms that he is, indeed, binocular worthy. The other guy is… I can’t tell. At first, I think there’s something wrong with my eyes. He looks a little blurred, like I’m viewing him through a smeared lens. His lack of a bag of some sort tells me he’s not waiting for the school bus. Also, his attire—wool cap and puffy coat—is ordinary enough, but not high school-style. He holds himself in the way one would if he were about to bolt. Even from a distance, something about him sets off my finely tuned creep meter.

It’s obvious that backpack boy and creepy guy are not friends, although they appear to know each other. There’s tension in their stances, underlying the hum of their low-pitched voices—it’s like they’re squaring off. I slow my pace and look for something to duck behind, but their heads turn toward me at the same time. I falter, feeling like an intruder. Silly, considering this is public space.

Puffy Jacket takes a step backward. Closer up, he comes into clear focus, and I can see he’s young—twenties, with a hooked nose and thin lips that turn down at my approach. The inexplicable scent of warm honey cuts through the late February chill. It should be a pleasant smell, but there’s a sharpness to the aroma that makes the hair on my neck stand up.

I feel Backpack Boy’s gaze on me. I’m still trying to gauge the other guy when, impossibly, his face changes. Not his expression—his actual face. Instead of a hooked nose and thin lips, wizened eyes peer back at me. His nose is small, almost feminine, and a mustache scruffs his upper lip. His gaze turns to mine with a cold intensity that makes my footing falter. He pulls his lips back over clenched teeth in what is perhaps meant to be a smile, but it’s just not. My heart rate picks up. I drop my gaze, disturbed by what looked like hunger and menace and an unnatural familiarity in that strange guy’s face. Caution escalates to the first prickles of actual fear.

It’s okay. Don’t freak. Mrs. Pierce will be here in a few minutes, and that baseball bat she keeps next to her seat is not for an impromptu game.

Puffy Jacket turns away. He mutters something to Backpack Boy and starts off down the street in the opposite direction.

Relief—that he’s leaving, that I don’t have to look at him anymore—eases my racing pulse, but already, I’m doubting what I saw. That couldn’t have been real. I mean, it’s impossible for a person’s face to take on a whole different set of features without a ton of plastic surgery. There’s a better explanation—deceptive lighting. Sleep deprivation. Too much sugary cereal.

Yeah. One of those things.

I turn my attention to Backpack Boy, whose face has not appeared to change, thankfully. My head is still a little fuddled, and I get stuck staring at him. Worse, I find it impossible to get unstuck. He’s got more than a nice walk. He’s got a nice everything—high cheekbones, straight nose, and expressive eyes to go with a tall, athletic body that just screams I play all the sports. Not my type, but the only thing I know about my “type” is that it hasn’t been any of the boys at Cadence High. Except for this new one, apparently. It’s irritating, because I could do without a hot neighbor. An attractive boy living next door adds a pointless layer of nerves, like stress about wearing my ratty sweatpants to the mailbox, and I don’t want to be tempted to spy on him with my dad’s binoculars. It’s an exercise in futility. A waste of perfectly good energy, as in my experience, the noisy boys who play the sports don’t notice the quiet girls who play the music. And that’s fine. I have no problem with the natural order of things. I have no idea what a girl like me, who spends most of her free time in the basement with laptops and sound mixing software, would talk about with a guy who throws balls and runs for fun.