Saint Anything

  A pause. Then my mom said, “Layla, it’s not my place to butt in, but it’s really not safe to be exposed to carpet and latex fumes, especially when they’re so fresh. Off-gassing is serious. Of course, ideally, you’d be using products that would not have chemicals, but I understand that’s not always possible.”

  Layla widened her eyes, as if my mom could actually see her reaction. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t sleep there?”

  “Well, ideally, no. Is there another room that uses a separate ventilation system?”

  “Not that isn’t already taken. But seriously, I’m sure it’s fine. They’re supposed to finish up the painting tomorrow, so . . .” She was still looking at Ames as she said this. The sight line between them was so strong, it was almost visible, if not vibrating.

  A pause. Then my mom said, “Sydney? Could you take me off speaker, please?”

  I did, then put the phone to my ear. “Okay. It’s just me now.”

  There was a muffled noise: her hand was covering the phone, or she had it tucked against her. But I could still hear my dad saying something, and then her replying. After a moment, she came back on. “Honey? How well do you know this girl?”

  I got to my feet and walked into the kitchen. “I told you. She’s the only friend I’ve made at Jackson. She’s been really nice to me.”

  “Hold on.” More muffled conversation. Then she said, “If that’s the case, I think, under the circumstances, she should stay over tonight. And honestly, if they’re still doing work there, tomorrow as well. I’d just feel better, if she’s your good friend, knowing what I do know about toxins.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Mom, that would be so awesome of you.”

  “Awesome?” She sounded surprised. And pleased. “Well, I think it’s just common courtesy. Do you think I should call her parents and make sure it’s okay?”

  I walked back to the living room. Ames was still giving Layla the side-eye, but she’d resumed watching TV, the lollipop back in her mouth. “Hey. Do you want to stay for the weekend?”

  She blinked at me, as if I hadn’t already asked her this. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  “Yeah. My mom just wants to know if she should talk to yours first.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, clearly and loudly. “The new meds she’s on make her really tired, so she’s probably already in bed. I’ll text my sister so she can tell her in the morning.”

  “Her mom has MS,” I told my mom.

  “Oh, what a horrible thing.” She gave this a respectful silence. “All right, then. Make sure she has everything she needs, okay? The air mattress is in the guest room, and there are extra blankets in the linen closet, as well as a spare toothbrush.”

  “Okay.” I turned my back, lowering my voice. “Thanks, Mom. Really.”

  “Oh . . . well, you’re welcome.” She sounded like she was smiling. “Now let me talk to Ames again, would you?”

  I walked over, holding out his phone. He put down the popcorn bowl and wiped a greasy hand on his jeans before getting to his feet and taking it from me. Then he walked out of the room, waiting to talk until he was out of earshot.

  From the floor, Layla said, “This movie’s really good, isn’t it?”

  I looked at her: she was watching me, not the TV, and smiling wide.

  “It’s great. I think it might be my favorite.”

  To this she said nothing, just turned back to the screen. I sat down beside her, accepted another YumYum, and settled in.

  For the next hour, on the screen, a couple fell hard for each other, were tested mightily, then were torn apart before rediscovering each other, and their love, at the last possible second. In the real world, Ames got off the phone, went to smoke, and made noises about how late it was getting until the final credits rolled. When Layla and I finally did go upstairs to go to sleep, I offered her the bed, but she declined, saying she was happy with the air mattress. I figured she was just being polite, a good guest. We set her up on the floor right next to me.

  After the lights were off, we talked for a little while, and at some point I drifted off. When I next woke up, it was two a.m. When I rolled over to check on Layla, she wasn’t there. Confused, I sat up on my elbow and rubbed my eyes, then spotted her. She’d moved her bed so it rested against the closed—but unlocked—door, and was curled up there. Keeping watch, keeping safe. I slept better than I had in months.

  CHAPTER

  8

  MY MOM and I had not discussed Family Day at Lincoln since she’d brought it up the first time. I’d thought this was a good sign. Four days before it, I realized how wrong I was.

  “So,” she said from the stove, where she was stirring a pot of soup she’d made for dinner. “We should probably touch base about this weekend.”

  This was a typical conversation—she liked plans and schedules, and always made sure both were set days ahead—so I didn’t realize what she was referring to. “I’m going over to Jenn’s for her birthday on Friday. And Layla invited me over for dinner on Saturday, if that’s okay.”

  She took a taste of the soup, her back still to me. Then she said, “Friday’s fine. But we’ve got Family Day on Saturday. We might be back late, so it’s probably not a good idea to have other plans.”

  I was silent for a minute, taking my time to figure out how to react. Finally I took a breath and said, “So Peyton said I could go with you guys?”

  A pause. Then, “Your father’s got a conference. So it’ll just be us. And he did submit a form for you, so I’m taking that as a yes.”

  Unlike my mom, my father did not visit Peyton that often. He’d made the first couple of trips with her, always returning looking haggard before disappearing into his office. For someone who made his living fixing things, seeing his only son in a situation for which this was not possible couldn’t be easy. He did talk to Peyton and made sure he had everything he needed in terms of commissary money and other allowed incidentals. But I had a feeling that, for him, it was easier to think my brother was just away, and not know too much about the place where he actually was. Out of sight, pretending it was out of mind.

  Clearly, I was not going to have this option, even if my brother and I both preferred it. When my mom was set on something, she rarely backed down. Like it or not, I was going on Saturday.

  “Wow,” Jenn said after I told her about this when we met to study at Frazier the next day after school. “I’ve never been to a prison.”

  “Most people haven’t,” I replied glumly, taking a sip of the complicated coffee drink Dave! had yet again talked me into. It was frozen and thick as mud, barely able to make it up the straw, but delicious. “Just us lucky folks.”

  Meredith, who was having a rare free afternoon, looked at me from across the table. “It’s gotta be weird, right? Are you freaked out? Like, about the other people that will be there?”

  This actually had not even occurred to me. Other convicted criminals I could handle; it was my own brother that made me uneasy. “I just really don’t want to go. I wish I didn’t have to.”

  They both looked at me, their faces sympathetic. Then Jenn reached over, squeezing my hand. “We’ll have fun Friday night, though, okay? Margaret’s coming, too, so you can finally meet her.”

  A couple of weeks earlier, Jenn had mentioned that she’d made friends with a new girl at school who’d just moved from Massachusetts. Since then, we’d hardly had a conversation where her name had not come up. Apparently, Margaret was incredibly funny, so cool, and even smarter than Jenn, something I wasn’t even sure was possible. Even Meredith, who was impressed by very little except anyone who could vault better than she, had told me Margaret both spoke Mandarin and had once dated a guy who was a cousin of an actor on one of our favorite shows.

  “Great,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “You will love her,” Jenn said. “She’s s
o funny.”

  “Oh, my God,” Meredith chimed in. “The other day, during PE, when we were doing vinyasa? She fell sideways out of her tree pose and hit the floor. It was hilarious.”

  They both laughed at this, and I’m sure I would have, too, if I’d been there. But even after just a few weeks at Jackson, I couldn’t imagine doing yoga for PE. The life I’d had at Perkins seemed so vastly different now. It didn’t help that we weren’t hanging out as much. With Jenn’s tutoring job at the Kiger Center and Meredith’s always-busy practice schedule, we were lucky to see one another at all. I hadn’t thought our friendship was so based on school until we didn’t have it in common anymore. The truth was, I’d changed.

  Most of this—okay, probably all—was due to Layla. Since the weekend she’d stayed with me, we’d been in pretty much constant contact. It was like one day we weren’t friends, and the next she was the closest I had. It seemed impossible that someone I’d not known at all six months earlier was now often the only person who understood me.

  But that was the thing: Layla got it. Not just my uneasiness with Ames, but also how I felt about Peyton. Rosie might not have been in jail, but her problems had spilled over to affect all of the Chathams in one way or another. I knew Jenn and Meredith loved me and were always willing to listen. But there was an element of anger and shame involved they just could never understand. Now that I’d found someone who could, I realized how much I had needed it.

  * * *

  “Ugh. These are so subpar. You can tell I’m in a bad state. Normally I wouldn’t even consider them.”

  I looked at Layla, who, despite this statement, was still preparing the fries she’d gotten from the ice rink snack bar with her typical meticulousness. A double layer of paper napkins covered part of the bleacher between us, the fries arranged in a single row across them. Two ketchups had been mixed in a plastic cup. She hadn’t bothered with her custom blend, which she treated like gold.

  “The thing is,” she continued, picking up a fry from the center and dipping it, “nobody frustrates me like Rosie. If annoying people were her sport, she would have made the Olympics. No question.”

  I smiled, then took a fry of my own when she offered it, pulling my sweater around me with my other hand. It had been years since I’d been to the Lakewood Rink, where my mom used to bring Peyton and me sometimes as kids. He went on to play hockey there a couple of seasons in middle school, but I myself had never graduated from the caved-in ankle stage. It was the last place I’d expected I’d end up when I’d gone to Seaside after the final bell, but I was learning that when it came to the Chathams, anything was possible.

  That day, we’d put down our backpacks and were just about to order our customary slices when Layla’s phone rang. She contemplated the screen for a moment before she answered.

  “Hey.” A pause. “At the shop, where else?”

  Mac, who was studying behind the counter, a pencil tucked behind his ear, glanced up at her. By now, I was almost able to look right at him when I had his attention. Almost.

  “Well, you should have thought about that when you said you’d be there.” Layla listened for a moment, sighed, looking at the ceiling. “No, Dad’s not here. He drove the Camry to Tioga’s to talk to him about what’s wrong with the truck.”

  “Other way around,” Mac said quietly.

  “What?”

  “The Camry’s the one in the shop,” he told her. “Truck runs; the starter’s just being wonky.”

  “Whatever,” Layla said. This, too, I had gotten used to. The Chathams had two vehicles, both of which were always breaking down. “The point is, we don’t have a car right now.”

  Rosie clearly had something to say to this, because Layla didn’t speak for a long time. Finally, in a way that made it clear she was having to interrupt, she said, “Rosie! You can talk all you want; I can’t help you. Yeah, well, right back at you.”

  “Hey,” Mac called out. “What’s up?”

  “She claims she needs a ride to the rink. It is apparently a skating emergency.” Layla made a face, then held the phone away from her ear as Rosie responded loudly. To me she said, “When Rosie wants something, it’s always an emergency.”

  “We can get her when Dad’s back,” Mac told her. “Half hour or so.”

  Layla relayed this, then reported, “No, that’s unacceptable. And yes, that is a direct quote, in case you were wondering.”

  Mac shrugged, going back to his book. Rosie was still talking. “I can give her a ride,” I offered. “I mean, if you want.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she replied. Then, into the phone, she told Rosie, “Nothing. Sydney’s just being entirely too nice to you.”

  “I really don’t mind,” I said. “I don’t have to be home until six.”

  Layla looked at me, her expression caustic. “You do not have to do anything for my sister.”

  “I know. But I’m offering.”

  I felt it was the least I could do. Though I’d tried to buy Layla breakfast both mornings she slept over and pay for the movie we saw, she had refused. “I got to stay at your house instead of with my crazy family,” she said. “I should be thanking you.” If I couldn’t repay her, this was the next closest thing.

  Ten minutes later, we were turning onto a small residential street only a few blocks from Seaside. The houses were small, many of the yards cluttered with cars, swing sets, and lawn furniture. At the very end was a brick ranch with a detached garage. The grass was missing in huge patches, and at least four partial cars in various states of deterioration were parked in the side yard. A decorative flag by the door said HAPPY HOLIDAYS, even though it was September. And then there was the woods.

  The trees behind their house were some of the tallest I’d ever seen. In the Arbors, the foliage varied: oaks, scrubby brush, some big cedars. Here, there were only tall, wide pines, close together. For the first time, I understood what it meant for a forest to be thick. As if the houses were laid out like bread crumbs along the road, leading you into the darkness beyond.

  “Welcome to paradise,” Layla said wryly as we parked by the curb. When we got out, I immediately looked up at the vast spread of greenery above us. “The woods are crazy, right? When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares about it. I still sleep with the shades pulled.”

  She climbed the short stairway that led to the front door and I followed. Up close, I saw the HAPPY HOLIDAYS flag was so old and weathered, it was translucent, the sun shining right through. She twisted the doorknob, pushing it open. “It’s me,” she called into the darkness beyond. “And Sydney. Rosie, you’d better be ready to go.”

  She was stepping inside, holding the door open for me. Once we were inside, it took a minute for the house to fall into place around me. When it did, I realized we were not in a foyer or entryway, but already in the living room.

  It was very neat, but cluttered. Framed pictures crowded the mantle. Standing on the coffee table were little boxes of all varying sizes and materials: smooth wood, delicate mother-of-pearl, shiny chrome. A collection of beer steins lined a bookcase; a frame held nothing but aces from card decks. A large couch was covered with afghan blankets of varying patterns, while a smaller loveseat, stuffed with needlepoint pillows, faced a flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. And then there was the chair.

  It was a recliner, well-worn and flanked by two low tables. On one was a large insulated cup with a straw poking out of it, a jumbo-size can of mixed nuts, and a box of tissues. The other held a tall stack of magazines, two remotes, a phone, and a row of pill and vitamin bottles. While the chair itself was empty, it was obvious that whoever sat there owned that room, present or not.

  Layla crossed the powder-blue carpet into the kitchen. Finding it empty, she sighed, coming back out and dropping her bag on the couch. “Typical,” she told me. “Have a seat. I’ll go find her.”

  As she
disappeared down the hallway to my right, I moved to the couch, reaching down to push aside one of the blankets to make room so I could sit. As I did, my hand made contact not with mere fabric, but with something heavy and warm. With teeth.

  I shrieked, drawing back my hand. I was still standing there, holding it to my chest, when Layla came back down the hallway.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked me.

  I shook my head. “There’s something . . . I moved a blanket. And then . . .”

  She walked over, yanking the afghan off with one hard jerk, like a magician doing that trick with the tablecloth. Left exposed were three very small, very ugly little dogs, who looked none too pleased to see us.

  “Sorry,” she said to me. “Did they get you bad?”

  I looked down at my hand. There was no blood, although the tip of my index finger was throbbing. “No.”

  “Such miserable, awful little animals,” she said, reaching over and scooping the largest one up into her arms. It was very short-haired, with stubbly gray fur, a bald head, and little beady eyes, one of which it turned on me as she scratched behind its ears. The other two, still on the couch, were slinking under the remaining blanket, presumably to lie in wait for their next victim. “But we do love them, God help us.”

  “What kind are they?” I asked as the one she was holding let out a belch that seemed more appropriate for an animal twice its size.

  “They don’t really have a name. They’re just desperately overbred freaks of nature.” She gave it a kiss on its bald forehead. “This one’s Ayre. The other two are Destiny and Russell.”

  I just looked at her. “Like . . . on Big New York?”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Don’t tell me you watch that show.”

  “I do,” I admitted. Although “watch” was putting it mildly. Before her, it was the only thing I had in the afternoons. “I watch all of the Big franchise, actually.”

  “I knew there was a reason I liked this girl!” I turned to see Mrs. Chatham, in a red tracksuit, using a walker to make her way down the hall toward us. Rosie was behind her, carrying a Nike duffel bag and what I already recognized as her standard dissatisfied expression. “Are you Team Rosalie or Team Ayre?”