Strange Alchemy Page 10

  I close my eyes. The only place I want to go is the one place I can’t — off the island. Blackness waits inside my eyelids. The snake crawling toward my temple throbs.

  I’m so tired.

  I pull off my jeans and slide into bed next to Sidekick. I consider that moment on the porch. I don’t know much about this stuff, but I’m pretty sure that Grant was about to kiss me. Until the porch light and his dad…

  I groan and pull the covers over my head. How will I face Sara? Sara, who invited me to stay in this nice house, who offered me turkey sandwiches and a bubble bath?

  When I close my eyes, Dad’s too-pale face swims before me. So instead I study the ceiling, which is painted the pale blue of a spring sky. I remember Grant’s reassurance that Mom wasn’t watching, but the truth is more complicated — I want her watching. Imagining her watching over me has always made everything hard just a little bit easier.

  I roll onto my side and close my eyes. I wait until Dad’s face fades, and when it’s gone, it leaves behind only darkness.

  *

  Despite the need to get moving and find a way out of the whole being doomed situation, I linger as long as humanly possible in the guest room the next morning.

  I let Sidekick out the bedroom door, knowing Sara or someone would give him backyard access. And I finally managed that bath. Afterward, I paced the guest room. When I got sick of pacing, I picked a random book out from a shelf in the corner and started reading.

  The book, The Haunting of Hill House, unsurprisingly involves an old house that’s supposed to be full of angry ghosts. When the sense of dread in the book begins to mix with the one hovering around me like an aura, I toss it aside and check the clock.

  Ten a.m.

  Sigh. At least the chief is probably long gone by now. I straighten my T-shirt, and leave the room.

  I almost miss the single flower waiting on the floor outside the bedroom door. It’s a perfectly formed rose made of… duct tape. Intricate silver folds shoot up in a spray of triangular points to form the bloom, and tear-shaped leaves drop from the thick stem.

  I pick the unreal flower up and twirl it. I’m feeling a lot better about facing Sara’s disapproval if Grant isn’t going to be a cli-ché guy and ignore last night’s almost kiss. That’s what I feared, mainly because the only guys I know are jerks — witness Bone.

  I slip the rose stem through a loop on the waistband of my jeans. The motion reminds me of sliding a hammer into place on my tool belt at the theater. Concern spikes through me for the people at the show — even His Royal Majesty and demon Caroline. And, of course, Polly. Missing Polly.

  The smell of frying food tempts me the rest of the way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sara stands at the stove, transferring crisp slices of bacon onto a plate covered with a paper towel. Sidekick stares up at her with love. His tail thuds against the cabinet, and he watches her every move with great hope. A heap of scrambled eggs wait on another plate.

  I hesitate in the entry. “Should I set the table?”

  Sara’s head whips toward me, startled. I can’t stop a cringe as I wait to see whether I’m in for cold distance or a heated talking-to. I’m sure she’s of the opinion a Blackwood isn’t good enough for her son, and she’s probably right.

  But Sara gives me a non-angry, motherly smile. “Why doesn’t my son ever make that offer? That’d be great.” She waves her spatula. “Plates are right up there, silverware in that drawer. Just the three of us.”

  I take out several butter yellow plates and pick out some silverware. They’re matching sets. A novelty.

  Sara cranes her neck and yells, “Grant, breakfast!” No response, until she adds, “Grant — I know you can hear me. Oh, and Miranda is already down here.”

  Feet batter the steps in a fast drumbeat, and seconds later Grant swings around the edge of the arch. I finish the last place setting and select a chair. I hold up the rose and give him a nod, then place it awkwardly on the table next to my plate.

  Why did I do that? I’m such a moron.

  But the weirdest thing happens. I could swear Grant looks slightly embarrassed.

  He moves in close enough to the counter to grab a piece of bacon and hands me half as he sits in the chair next to mine.

  Never before has bacon seemed romantic. But, right now, it kinda does. I am keenly aware of my utter ridiculousness.

  Sara joins us and sets the plates of food in the center of the table. She raises her eyebrows at the fake rose, but doesn’t ask about it. Snapping her fingers, she says, “Biscuits,” before turning and attending to the oven.

  Grant lowers his voice and says to me, “It’s a steampunk rose — I didn’t make it, bought it from another delinquent at school. I was going to give it to Mom next time she came to visit. But… I had it with me, and I thought maybe you’d like it.”

  I have to say something. “Well, um, thanks for giving it to me. It’s beautiful. And it’ll last forever.”

  “Yes, it will.” He smiles at me, and I wish with everything inside of me that the snake would disappear, and I could live in a normal world with this strange boy who — for some reason — has decided he likes me.

  I crunch my bacon and take in the fluffy, golden tops of the biscuits Sara carries to the table. They look like someone who grew up around here made them. I reached over and take one as Sara sets the plate at the table.

  “Where’d you learn to make actual biscuits?” I ask.

  The question brings a strange stillness over the sunny kitchen, and Sara gives Grant a look before answering. “The recipe is Grant’s grandmother’s,” she finally says. “She taught me before she passed away.”

  The Witch of Roanoke Island. I’m desperate to ask about her, given what Grant has told me about the spirits and the conversation I overheard with his father last night.

  “I never met her,” I say instead. After Mom died, I sometimes fantasized about the Witch of Roanoke Island becoming my defender. Giving the jerks at school boils if they taunted me, or passing me a magical potion that made me normal. Broke the Blackwood curse. I reach up and touch my father’s birthmark. Sara doesn’t seem to notice it, which makes me feel a little better.

  If only I could forget it’s there.

  “She was a strong woman,” Sara says, again watching Grant. He doesn’t react except to keep chewing his eggs. “She couldn’t stand the thought of someone living here who couldn’t make her son and grandson the right kind of biscuits. The house has been in the family for generations, but it’s always passed down to the daughters before. Biscuits are part of its legacy.”

  I can’t remember if the chief has any sisters or brothers. “Why not this time?”

  “She only had a son — there’d always been a girl child in the family line, as far back as anyone remembered. And they’d always lived well into their nineties, active right up to till the end.”

  Grant stops eating, but he doesn’t interrupt.

  “Technically,” Sara says, “the house belongs to Grant. His grandmother felt strongly it should be his. That this was the place he was meant to be. We don’t really know why. We only know the island’s not good for him.” I realize Sara is fishing. She wants to know what the letter from his grandmother said.

  Grant says, “Mom,” but she goes on.

  “He and his father are both tied to this place, in different ways. I don’t think I can fully understand. I never had that. My roots moved when I did. My roots are my family.”

  Grant’s hands land on the table on either side of his plate, and he gets up. “We really should get going.” He casts a pleading glance at me and adds, “Unless you aren’t finished eating?”

  My plate is still half full, but I owe him. If he wants me to stave off awkwardness, I’ll do it. “Sure, let’s go.” I grab a biscuit. “Thank you for breakfast.” And for the bits of info. “Should we take Si
dekick? Is he trouble?”

  Sidekick gazes at Sara as if she might drop a crumb or a piece of bacon on his head. She scratches behind his ear, and he leans into her fingers with a good-dog groan.

  “You guys go on, do your investigating,” she says. “We’ll make do. But be careful. Grant, we’ll talk later.”

  I don’t realize until Grant steers me through the front door with his hand on my back that he hasn’t given any hint of where we’re headed in such a hurry.

  “Where are we going?” I ask. “Your dad’s work?”

  “Dr. Whitson’s place.”

  The name means nothing to me. “Who?”

  “You know, local expert on all theories Lost Colony. Looks like a professor?”

  No way. There’s only one guy like that in town — Bone’s dad — but I’ve never called him by his real name. In my mind he’s always been Dr. Roswell since I assume he probably believes in alien abductions too. After all, he seems to believe in everything else conspiracy theory-like.

  I stop on the steps down to the yard. The day is cooler than the one before, a promise of fall dressed in late summer colors, and a strong breeze wraps around me. The breeze isn’t unusual — there’s always a breeze, whirling in from the outer islands and the ocean, flying across the salt-free sound. But this wind doesn’t come from the ocean. It seems to come from somewhere else and now dances around us, the whole island in its cooler embrace.

  Of course it comes from the ocean, I scold myself. Where else would it come from?

  An image flickers in my mind of that enormous black ship on the horizon, moving fast toward the island, sails filled with uncanny billowing speed on a windless day. I shake my head to clear it from my thoughts.

  I choose my next words carefully. “I need help, not a kook.”

  “Dr. Whitson was my shrink. He knows more about the island’s history than anyone around, and we’re in kooksville here. We need a kook’s perspective.”

  I sigh. I have no real feelings about Roswell one way or the other — other than him being Bone’s dad. He’s just a local weirdo I mostly avoid.

  “Fine,” I say. “He’ll probably think aliens murdered my dad.” Grant takes my hand and tugs, and in that moment, I know I’ll go anywhere he suggests. “But do you mind if we swing by and pick up Pineapple? I miss her.”

  “Pineapple?” Grant asks.

  “Oh, my car. I named her.” I’ll get to see how Grant reacts to the tangible, mean-spirited reminder of my status here when he catches sight of the graffiti on Pineapple’s side. Not to mention confirming Bone’s the culprit behind FREAK when I see his reaction to my car at his house.

  Grant hesitates, but not for long. “Sure.”

  My hand warms in his as we walk to his mom’s car. It’s as weird a sensation as the rest of this, having someone on my side. But I suspect this day has something in store for us that will wreck the fragile connection between us.

  I ache in advance. Because sure as the ghosts in Hill House, that something is coming. The speaking breeze tells me that.

  Chapter 14

  GRANT

  When we get to Miranda’s house, I park, then follow her over to where her little yellow car sits beside the curb. I figure I’ll stand in the grass and wait to see if it starts. It’s not until I step over the curb that I see the word FREAK scrawled along the driver’s side.

  Miranda ignores it and gets in. Which I take it means that the word’s presence isn’t a surprise to her. But… who did this?

  I frown. Miranda was quiet on the way here, and I let her be. I had plenty to think about. Sure, my last-second gift of the rose went over well — I wanted to do something to let her know that I regretted Dad’s interruption the night before. I don’t want things to be weird between us. I want them to be good. But there’s been some distance post-breakfast. She’s not happy about going to Dr. Whitson’s, that much is clear. I wonder if coming here to get her car was a test of some sort, to see how I’d deal with the FREAK.

  The engine sputters on Miranda’s first try at starting it. She makes another attempt, and this time the old yellow beast roar-coughs to life. She rolls down her window. “Get in.”

  I shake my head and walk around to the passenger side. “Who’s responsible for the graffiti?” I ask, climbing inside and dropping the keys to Mom’s car next to my feet. I’m careful with the question’s tone, not wanting to make a bigger deal of it than she is, despite my anger at the word’s presence. If this is a test, I hope I pass. “Should we hit a car wash?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says.

  I can’t mistake the sudden prickliness of her tone.

  She goes on. “Part of the price of being me. There’s no a/c, so you might want to put your window down. And give me some directions.”

  I open my mouth, but then close it again. I crank down my window.

  “Where are we going?” Miranda asks, putting the car in drive.

  “Wanchese,” I say. “That’s where Whitson’s place is.”

  At the end of the street she turns out onto the highway, heading for the far side of the island. “Why does he live all the way out there? Do you know?” she asks, cutting me a look.

  I’m not watching the scenery, so I catch it. I lean against the door, angled in toward her. The snake is on the other side of her face, hidden for the moment.

  “I never asked him. It’s probably cheaper out there?” I reach a hand over to brush a hair off her cheek, and she hiccups the wheel. I laugh in an attempt to break the tension in the car. “Am I making you nervous? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not just you.” At least her voice softens a little.

  “Good,” I say, keeping my tone light. Then, “Not good that you’re nervous, good that I’m not why. Whitson’s okay, I swear. Is that all you’re worried about?”

  “If you vouch for him I guess it’s fine.” But her fingers tighten on the wheel.

  Maybe there’s more to her dislike of Whitson than I thought. I assume he’s harmless, but… “Has the doc done something I should know —”

  “So did you know your grandmother that well, Mr. Homeowner?” she interrupts.

  I have whiplash from the extreme subject change. I can’t read her behavior. Should I tell her about Gram’s letter? No, that might make things worse. Instead I turn in the passenger seat to look out the window at the green forest.

  “Not that well. My dad always made sure we had limited time together. He didn’t want her teaching me… stuff.”

  “Did you want her to… teach you stuff?”

  I exhale. “No, we never had the chance. I was normal until she died. After… I only wanted it to go away. To go somewhere so I could be normal.”

  “That would be nice,” she says. “Being normal.”

  “That’s not what I —” I tap my fingers against the door, a repetitive pattern. It’s something I do to calm myself sometimes. “You are normal.”

  “Just what every girl wants to hear.”

  I want to break into the silence that follows, but I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing. Again.

  Wanchese isn’t that long a drive — even the far side of the island isn’t actually that far — but it may as well be a world away. Unlike the tourist haven of Manteo, Wanchese possesses a wilder feel. Despite having a couple of bed and breakfasts, a few boat rental places, and a harbor packed with commercial fishing vessels, this isn’t where the big money is — it’s where the fishing village is. There is no picture-prettified downtown to echo Manteo’s, not even a Main Street. Most of the locals here hope to remain lost to the tourist flood by keeping a firm hold on this tip of the island. It’s the perfect place to live if you don’t want to be bothered.

  “Turn here,” I prompt Miranda, pointing to a familiar road ahead that shoots through trees. She obeys, and a short way into the woods, we come
to a small rise with a nice cottage on top. Whitson’s place.

  “That it,” I say.

  Not for the first time, I think the house must have been originally intended for a timeshare. The sandy paint has faded over time, though, and now the place looks more like a home than a getaway. There’s a pickup truck occupying the driveway. That’s new, and I have a hard time picturing Dr. Whitson behind the wheel.

  “I figured,” Miranda mutters. She puts Pineapple in park at the side of the road in front of the cottage.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “Never mind,” she says.

  I climb out of the car, only to realize that she’s not following. What is going on with her? I poke my head back in after a moment’s deliberation. “You coming?” I ask.

  “Against my better judgment,” she mutters. Her car’s motor dies with a rattle of agreement.

  I get out and walk toward the cottage. A deck at the back stretches into the woods, the edge of the railing just visible. I stop at the front door, and, once again, realize I’m alone. I turn and call, “Miranda?”

  She’s still waiting beside her car but finally starts in my direction. The door swings open as she reaches my side, before I can ask if she’d rather not do this, and a skinny boy with hollow cheeks opens the door. He’s wearing a light blue Tarheels shirt and exhales in surprise when he spots Miranda.

  “If you’re here to try to get me in trouble, I didn’t have anything to do with your car,” the boy says. “So forget it.”

  Wait a second. I shoot Miranda a questioning look. “Did he —”

  “Forgotten,” she says, not to me but to the boy in the doorway. “I know it was you, but we’re here to see your dad.” The boy’s mouth opens to say something else, and Miranda sighs. “Not about you, Bone. About something else.”

  Miranda looks over at me, and I shake my head at her. I can’t believe this loser did that to her car. She should have told me. I was right about the test.

  I turn back to the door. What did she call him? Bone. Right. “You must be the Boner,” I say.