On Zig’s left, a United 737 buzzed low in the night sky, its engines roaring as it came in for a landing.
“Don’t look so shocked,” Elijah teased. “It’s why people love big cities—so you can hide in plain sight.”
“Wait . . . so Grandma’s Pantry,” Zig said, still glancing around, “you’re telling me it’s—”
“You were expecting a neon sign? Make a left,” Elijah said, pointing with his chin. “We’re almost there.”
86
Keenley, Pennsylvania
Fourteen years ago
This was Nola when she was fourteen.
Acne Steve had brought cigars to poker night. Nola didn’t mind the stench—it was actually better than what Royall’s friends usually smelled like. But when they smoked, they drank more, which meant they made more of a mess, which meant, for Nola, there was more to clean.
“C’mon, dickface, use an ashtray,” Royall shouted at Repeating Francis, who smoked cloves just to be a pain. “Nola . . .”
On it, she said with a glance, already rushing to the kitchen to grab an extra ashtray.
Royall started to say something else.
“And pretzels. I saw,” Nola added, eyeing the empty pretzel bowl on the foldable side table.
Across the room, Steve’s son, Trey, looked up from his newest device—a T-Mobile Sidekick, a high-tech phone with its own QWERTY keyboard—then glanced back down, going back to whomever he was texting.
“Possible to get some more ice, please?” said chubby Digger from the gas station, who’d started wearing a Bluetooth earpiece to remind everyone he was now Assistant Manager Digger from Tire Kingdom. Nola knew it made him look like a tool, but Digger was the only one who ever said please.
“And a blow job. Can you get us one of those, hon?” Hartley Spencer teased, his narrow penny-colored eyes locked on Nola’s ass.
“Hartley, don’t be a turd,” Digger scolded.
Nola ignored the joke—she’d heard worse—though she did take the long way around so Hartley wouldn’t have a chance to sniff her.
As she passed Trey on the couch, the sulky tenth grader looked up, shaking his head at the adults. It was a moment of solidarity, though Nola didn’t know how to read it. She just liked his light brown eyes, the color of iced tea, and was mesmerized by the all-knowing maturity and general hostility that he was endlessly directing at his own dad. Nola understood that better than anyone.
As a new hand was dealt, Royall and his friends debated their usual topics, like whether the girl at the Vin’s Groceries deli counter had real tits or falsies, which quickly devolved into tearing Acne Steve apart for using the word falsies in front of his son.
In the kitchen, as Nola refilled the pretzel bowl, even she laughed at that. In truth, she liked these nights—life was better, or at least easier, when there were friends to keep Royall busy. She even found herself rooting for a few of them, like Repeating Francis . . . and for Digger, who would probably do better if he ever figured out that he would clench his teeth behind his lips and start counting everyone’s chips every time he bluffed.
“Okay, donkeys, out of pity, I’ll keep this small . . . one, two,” Royall counted, tossing two orange chips—a hundred dollars—into the pot.
“I’m gonna push—I need to get my kid home,” Acne Steve said, raising with four chips, everyone knowing that whenever he sounded like he was in a rush to leave, that meant he had a fantastic hand.
Not as good as Hartley’s, though. “Check,” Hartley said, trying to play it cool.
In the kitchen, Nola had pulled an ice tray from the freezer, twisting it back and forth, then grabbing a nearby knife to pry out the stubborn cubes.