“Yes! And, um, well, there’s this debate she’s participating in this weekend, and we’re trying to get more supporters to attend so—”
“How do you know I’m a supporter?”
“Uh . . .” Rose’s cheeks grow hot. “I-I don’t,” she said, stumbling over her words. “I just . . . hoped . . .”
He gave a small chuckle but didn’t seem amused. “Chill out, Walters. Truth is, I don’t know much about her, but I guess I probably like her more than that other guy. Doesn’t matter, though; I’m not voting.”
He started walking toward the parking lot again, the conversation apparently over in his eyes, but Rose hurried after him, determined to keep him talking. “Why not?”
He didn’t bother to look at her. “Gotta work.”
“But we have the day off school.”
“You have the day off,” he said with a shrug.
“Oh.” It had never occurred to her to think about what the custodial staff did when school wasn’t in session. “There are other ways to vote, though. There’s absentee voting, or—”
“Not really interested in that, Walters.”
“Well, maybe if you come to the debate, you’ll change your mind.”
“Unlikely.”
“Why?”
He cut her a nervous glance. “I really don’t think that’s any of your business.” They had reached his car by then. He paused after he unlocked the door, his keys dangling from his hand. “Look, Walters, you’re a nice kid, and maybe you really are just trying to help your mama, but I think you need to find something else to do with yourself after school from now on.”
“But—”
“See you around, Walters,” he said, keeping his eyes down as he got into his car and slammed the door.
Rose stood outside the driver’s side window, desperately searching for something to say that might salvage the situation, but her mind remained stubbornly blank. She continued to stand frozen in place as he peeled out of the parking lot, leaving her clouded in the lingering smell of exhaust and failure.
She bit her lip, trying to think if she had learned anything useful at all in her half week of sleuthing. From what she could tell, he took his job seriously and did it well, so she had no idea what was going to lead to him getting fired in a couple days. She hadn’t seen anything particularly suspicious in the janitor’s closet, but it wasn’t like he was going to keep evidence of his darkest impulses at school, so that didn’t mean much. And perhaps the most important piece of the puzzle—his alibi for the weekend, or lack thereof—was still a frustrating question mark.
He didn’t seem like the type of person to burn down a school. But then again, it wasn’t like she knew a lot of other arsonists to compare him to. And she had no idea how he might react to getting fired. If she was honest, even after days of waiting after school and trying to get him to talk to her, she still didn’t really know Michael McMillain at all.
She didn’t think he’d do it. But she couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t. Which meant she basically knew nothing.
Chapter Forty
JUSTIN
After my weird run-in with Karl yesterday, I don’t have much of a desire to go to the school. But my other options haven’t gotten more appealing since yesterday either. Since Mrs. Hanley doesn’t want me loafing around all day, I walked out to Wilson Bridge this morning. But once again, I couldn’t think of anything to really do other than jump off, and I’m still not there yet.
Instead, I pace slowly up and down the sidewalk that lines the bridge, staring out over the gently rippling water. I can’t fully explain the pull the bridge has for me. Anytime I try to think about what I should be doing here in 1985, it’s the first image that pops into my head. Even though it has nothing to do with the fire, it still feels important somehow. Maybe because it’s the place I would’ve died, if I hadn’t come here instead. For others, it’s just a bridge, but for me, it’s a place of death and life and mystery.
I don’t think it can answer any of the questions I have about why I’m here, or how to get back. It’s just the only place I feel calm. Like myself. Probably because this was the last place I was ever really me, before I was here, in a place where I was never even supposed to exist.
I probably could’ve stayed there, listening to the sounds of the river all day. But in the early afternoon, the sky begins to rumble menacingly, so I head back to Mrs. Hanley’s house, grab an umbrella, and decide to walk over to Rose’s house to wait for her to come home from school.
Her family seemed to buy her weak story about me being her pen pal, so they won’t be completely confused if I show up on her doorstep, but that still doesn’t mean I want to invite myself into her living room to hang out with her parents for an hour until she gets home. So I walk slowly around her block, hunched under my umbrella as the rain first peppers, then pummels the thin fabric, counting down the minutes until she’ll be home.
I miss Netflix. And texting.
Not really social media, though. It’s funny, how quickly my anxious brain has adapted to the relative quiet of 1985. To not knowing everything that’s happening, everywhere, all the time. If not for the whole being-stuck-in-the-wrong-decade thing, I think I’d actually find it kind of soothing.
On my fourth orbit around the block, I slow as a car pulls into the driveway. A young woman gets out, wearing a deep-purple skirt suit with wide padded shoulders, her blonde hair curled into a fluffy cloud around her face. I stop and stare as she opens the back door of the car, umbrella outstretched in her free hand, and pulls out a chubby baby.
“Mom?” I hear myself say under my breath, even though it can’t be her. The woman looks so much like her, though, that for a moment, my lungs forget how to move air in and out of my body. They just hold it, frozen along with the rest of me, at the sight of this woman who has Lissa Warren etched in every curve and angle of her face.
She notices me standing on the sidewalk staring, and tilts her head curiously, hiking the baby up in her arms. “Hello?”
“Hi,” I say, waving sheepishly.
“Can I help you?” Her voice is friendly, but her smile is reserved. Probably wondering if I’m some sort of pervert.
“No, that’s okay. I’m just waiting for my friend to get home from school.”
“Who’s your friend?”
I clear my throat. “Uh, Rose Yin?”
Something odd flickers behind her eyes. “Oh, you must be the pen pal. Justin, right?”
“She told you?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, adjusting the baby again to unlock the front door. “Please, come inside.”
“That’s okay,” I say, pointing up at my umbrella. “I’m fine out here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s pouring.”
Reluctantly, I follow her inside, feeling incredibly out of place. Rose’s house is warm and soft, with rich wood furniture and framed family photos on every surface. I follow the woman, who has to be Veronica, Rose’s stepmother’s campaign manager, and also my grandmother, into the wood-paneled living room. I sit on a plump sofa covered in a blue floral pattern and accept a can of Tab from Veronica, who plops her daughter—my mom—down on the brown shag carpet in front of me.