Five Nights at Freddy's: The Silver Eyes(36)

“My story?” He flicked his eyes at her again, a little nervous.

“Yeah, you said you got a story published, what was it about?”

“I mean, it was just a little magazine, just local,” he said, still reluctant. Charlie waited, and finally he continued. “It’s called The Little Yellow House. It’s about a boy,” he said, “he’s ten years old. His parents are fighting all the time, and he’s afraid they’re going to get divorced. They fight, and he overhears them saying awful things to each other, and he hides in his room with the door shut, but he can still hear them.

“So he starts looking out the window, at the house across the street. They sort of keep their curtains open just enough that he can glimpses inside, he watches them go in and out of the house, this family, and he starts making up stories about them, imagining who they are and what they do, and after a while they start feeling more real to him than his own family.”

He glanced at Charlie again, as if trying to gauge her reaction, and Charlie smiled. He went on.

“So, summer comes, and his family goes away for a week, and it’s miserable, and when they get back, the family in the house across the street has moved away. There’s nothing left, just a ‘For Sale’ sign hanging in front.”

Charlie nodded, waiting for him to continue, but he looked at her a little sheepishly.

“That’s the end,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s really sad.” He shrugged.

“I guess. I’m working on something happy now, though.”

“What’s that?”

He grinned at her.

“It’s a secret.”

Charlie smiled back. It felt good to be out here, good to just be driving out into the horizon. She cranked the window down and put her arm out into the air, enjoying the feel of the rushing wind. It’s not wind rushing, it’s us, she thought.

“What about you?” John said.

“What about me?” Charlie said, still happily playing against the wind.

“Come on, what’s the life of Charlie like these days?”

Charlie smiled at him and pulled her arm back into the car. “I don’t know,” she said. “Pretty boring.” There was a part of her that did not want to tell him, for the same reason she wanted him with her now: she did not want her new life to mix with the old. But John had told her something real, something personal, and she felt like she owed him the same in return.

“It’s all right,” she said at last. “My aunt is cool, even if she does sometimes look at me like she’s not quite sure where I came from. School’s fine, I have friends and all that, but it feels so temporary. I have another year, but I feel like I’m already gone.”

“Gone where?” John asked, and Charlie shrugged.

“I wish I knew. College, I guess. I’m not sure what comes next.”

“Nobody ever knows what comes next, I guess,” he said. “Do you—?” He stopped himself, but she prodded him.

“Do I what?” She said teasingly. “Do I ever think of you?” He flushed, and she instantly regretted the words.

“I was going to say do you ever see your mom,” he said quietly.

“Oh,” she said. “No, I don’t.” It exhausted Charlie to think of her mother, and she thought her mother felt the same. Too much hung between them; not quite blame, because neither of them were to blame for what had happened, but something close to it. Their pain, individual, radiated off them both like auras, pushing at each other like magnets with the poles reversed, forcing them apart.

“Charlie?” John was saying her name, and she looked over at him.

“Sorry,” she said. “I drifted for a second.”

“You got any music in this car?” He asked, and she nodded eagerly, seizing on the diversion. She bent over and picked up cassettes scattered on the floor, and started reading labels. He made fun of her tapes, she argued back, and after some playful bickering, she shoved a tape into the player and settled back again, to stare out the window.

“I think this is where the map’s usefulness ends.” John gestured to the road ahead. “The whole area’s pretty much blank; I think what we’re looking for isn’t going to be on this map.” He folded the map and tucked it neatly to the side of the seat, craning his neck out the window to see what they were passing.

“Yeah,” she said. It looked like they had returned to civilization. Single houses littered the fields, and dirt roads branched off in all directions. The landscape was mostly bushes and short trees, the whole area nestled between rows of lowlying mountains.

John looked at Charlie, hoping she would notice something that would point them in the right direction.

“Nothing?” He said, though her blank stare had already given him the answer.

“No,” she said plainly. She didn’t want to elaborate.

The houses became fewer and more scattered, and the fields of dry brush seemed to stretch wider, giving the whole area a feeling of desertion. John found himself glancing over at Charlie at short intervals, waiting for a signal, half-expecting her to tell him to stop, and turn around, but Charlie just stared into the distance, her eyes fixed on nothing, resting her cheek in her hand.

“Let’s go back,” she said finally, sounding resigned.