I'll Stop the World (17)

“She can’t find her brooch.”

His father groaned, checking his watch before tossing the magazine onto the coffee table. “Moira, we’re going to be late.”

Her frantic voice drifted down from above. “Just another minute.”

“Oh, for the love of . . .” He stomped toward the stairs. “Just pick a different one.”

Karl waited for a few seconds, listening to his parents argue above him, before slipping out the front door. Headlights were approaching up their long drive—probably Charlene coming home—so he ducked around the side of the house instead of cutting in front of the garage, disappearing into the thick trees that lined their property.

He pressed into the shadows, keeping his breathing soft as his sister parked her car and climbed out. Karl was one of the smallest kids in his seventh-grade class, including the girls. It made running away hard, but hiding easy. Charlene didn’t even glance his way as she walked inside, humming wordlessly along to whatever rock tune leaked from the headphones draped around her neck.

After hearing the front door shut, Karl sank deeper into the woods, navigating more by instinct than by sight. He’d discovered the twisted tree by accident that summer, but in the months since he’d found it, he’d walked the path between his house and the tree more times than he could count, at all times of day and night. By now, he could probably get there even with no light at all.

It was about a ten-minute walk to the tree. He didn’t know how far that made it distance-wise; it felt far away from everything, and that’s what was important. The moon was full that evening, casting the canvas walls of his fort in a soft glow. Karl swept aside the flap covering the entrance and stepped inside.

It wasn’t big, his fort. The twisted tree grew out of the ground like a question mark, its limbs twining out and up over his head. He’d built the fort off it, piece by piece, out of materials he’d found in all sorts of places. A canvas drop cloth from the back of their handyman’s pickup truck. A length of clothesline he’d found coiled in the laundry room. A short wooden bookshelf holding empty paint cans in the back of the garage. A kitchen chair from the set his mom had put out in the driveway to donate to the church yard sale.

That one had been particularly thrilling. He’d sat in the kitchen eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while his mom paced back and forth, phone pressed to her ear, assuring the volunteer on the other end over and over that yes, she was sure she’d set out all eight chairs to be picked up, and no, she didn’t have one still in the house, and no, she didn’t miscount; What sort of dining set comes with only seven chairs? and What are you, some sort of imbecile?

Karl sank into the pilfered chair, plucking a flashlight from where it hung off a knot on the side of the tree. He flicked it on just long enough to find the book of matches on the shelf, which he used to light the row of pocket-size candles he’d smuggled, one by one, out of the Food Mart.

He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his mother’s brooch. After turning it over in his hands, running his fingers across the smooth pearls, he placed it on the shelf beside his other treasures—pieces taken from his mother’s jewelry box, his sister’s nightstand, his father’s tray of gleaming cuff links—and watched the flickering candlelight reflect dimly off their shining surfaces.





SATURDAY





Chapter Nine


JUSTIN

“Are you still awake?” Alyssa whispers, hovering between the kitchen and the living room.

I look up over my phone, my feet jammed up against the armrest of the too-short couch. The lock screen tells me it’s well after midnight.

“Yeah.”

I gave up on sleep a while ago; between the cramped couch and Stan’s voice echoing in my head, screaming about how worthless I am, relaxation didn’t feel like a thing my body was capable of. So instead I’ve just been mindlessly scrolling on my phone, hoping I’ll eventually pass out from boredom.

Alyssa pads over to the couch in bare feet, clutching two mugs to her chest. I scoot into a sitting position, leaving my legs stretched out under the blankets, and she sits on my feet, handing me one of the mugs. I give it a sniff and raise an eyebrow. “Hot cocoa? What are we, twelve?”

She shrugs. “There’s no age limit on deliciousness, Jay.”

“Fair enough,” I say, raising my mug in a faux toast before taking a sip. It’s a slightly awkward drinking situation; she’s given me a mug shaped like Appa, the giant white, furry creature from Avatar: The Last Airbender. But I manage.

“Why are you still up?” I ask, keeping my voice low. Sitting here in the dark, it feels like quiet is the only option.

She sighs, holding her own mug just under her chin. Hers is printed with a picture of that distracted-guy meme, where the girl with him is “starting the day” and the one walking past is “more coffee.” “I just keep thinking about what Stan said this afternoon.” She tilts her head to look at me, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. “Are you really okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Justin.” She pivots, tucking her feet under the blanket so that they touch mine. Her toes are like ice, but heat radiates up my legs. “You can tell me, you know.”

I sigh, buying myself some time with slow sips of hot chocolate. “I guess I just . . . I don’t know, I knew he didn’t like me, but . . .”