“Later,” I tell Ashley as I hurry toward home. I’m taking the road, too shaken to follow the footpath past the lake without Jonathan leading the way. Gravel crunches beneath my feet and sticks to the rubber soles of my flip-flops. I don’t bother to stop and brush it off. “Anyway, I’m hungover. You too?”
Ashley hoots. “I knew it! You are the absolute worst. We have to build up your tolerance before you leave.”
My best friend isn’t going to college. She’s taking a “gap year,” if you can even call it that, because she doesn’t plan to travel or even get a job. Ashley’s mother had twins less than a year ago and, at late forty-something, is drowning beneath the responsibilities of being a round-two, brand-new mother. I’ll be like a nanny, Ashley says, but I know what a sacrifice she’s making for her mom.
“Not interested in being the college drunk,” I say too brightly. My head still pounds and I feel like the scent of death lingers in my clothes, my hair. I’m desperate to scour myself. “I’m taking a quick shower and then let’s go to Munroe.”
“Today?”
“Yes, today.”
“Mom wants me to watch the twins this afternoon—”
“It’s the first day of summer break!” I interrupt. The thought of being stuck at home, of being trapped with Jonathan and my angry mother for the afternoon, makes me tense. “Camp starts next week, and you know I’ll be busy every single day after that.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Ashley!”
“Fine, okay.” A big sigh whistles through the line. “I’ll tell my mom I can’t.”
I sag a little in relief. “Half an hour. Can you drive?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ashley cuts the line.
When I slip in the side door of the farmhouse, a soft rain is just starting to fall. It splats on the black hood of Jonathan’s truck and hisses at the sting of hot metal. The air is electric, charged with warm rain and summer ground, dusty and savage. It’s a relief to shut the door and be enveloped by the smell of detergent, clean clothes. Mom’s been doing laundry, and it’s heaped on the counter beside the washing machine in neat piles. Whites and lights and darks. I can see the thin blue stripes of the master bedroom sheets spinning circles in the dryer. Clearly the ominous morning sky discouraged my mother from hanging the laundry on the clothesline outside. She’s bound to be irritable knowing she won’t fall asleep in sunbaked sheets tonight. I add it to the list of things that will weigh her down today, and I’m grateful that Ashley will soon whisk me away.
I can no longer hear Mom playing cello. Save the hum and bump of the washer and dryer, the house is eerily silent, holding its breath, and as my chest tightens, I realize that I’m not breathing, either. I’m rattled, even though I don’t want to be. Even though I want to pretend that all of this is quite safe. Normal.
From the outside looking in, Jericho is as spit-polished and shiny as a pearl button. Friendly and close-knit, to be sure, but in the way that mob families are. If you fit the mold, honor the customs and routines that have been passed down for generations, you’re gold. If not, well, don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you, as Law likes to so eloquently say.
I have a feeling that’s why the Murphys have targets on their backs. They’re different. They dared to put up a political sign last year that didn’t match every other one in town. Their vegetables are organic （or nearly so—Beth told me they’re a year away from full certification）， and their chickens free-range. Worst of all, they’re smack dab in the middle of the biggest drama Jericho has ever seen. I think there are lawyers involved.
“Juniper?”
I slip into the upstairs bathroom quick as can be and ease the door shut. There’s no use pretending I didn’t hear her, but I can put off a face-to-face confrontation for a few minutes at least.
“In the bathroom!” I shout, yanking off my T-shirt and turning on the shower.
Even with the water running I can hear Mom coming up the stairs. They creak, or at least some of them do, and Mom doesn’t avoid the squeaky ones like Jonathan and I do. I kick off my shorts and hop in, even though the water is still cold. It spills over my warm skin and makes me gasp.
“We need to talk,” Mom says, sticking her head in the bathroom. I forgot to lock the door, damnit. Thank goodness for plaid shower curtains.
“I’m showering here.”
“When you’re done.”