A sliding glass door leads to the deck. In the distance, I see both actual pine trees and their reflections mirrored in the glassy shine of a pond. I knew this neighborhood looked familiar; Stefan’s backyard runs up against the new golf course. Ma laughed when she saw listings for these houses online. “They’re calling them waterfront,” she said. “I guess a pond is as close as you’ll get in Carlton.”
Stefan St. Clair is sitting on the edge of the porch railing, holding court with half of Carlton High’s dance squad. He ignores me as I approach, because of course he does. Stefan might have graduated last spring, but he still considers himself the king of the school. The guy who knows everyone and everything, who’ll throw a party every night of the week. Even the night that his former classmate died.
Stefan shakes his hair out of his face the same way his younger brother does when he laughs at something one of the girls says. I wind my way through his audience, until I’m so close that he can’t ignore me any longer. “Hey, man,” he says, tilting his head to guzzle the last of his beer. “What’s good?”
“Have you seen—” I start, and then I break off as I catch sight of someone hovering at the edge of Charlie’s yard, near the bushes that separate it from the golf course. Someone who’s taking a leak, from the looks of it. “Never mind.”
“Good talk,” Stefan calls as I turn abruptly and head for the stairs that lead from the deck into the backyard.
I don’t try to be stealthy about it. I want him to see me coming, because I need to see his face. He’s weaving a little, though, and doesn’t notice me until I’m almost halfway across the lawn. Then he stops in his tracks and snorts out an irritated half laugh. “Well, look who it is. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hey, Gabe,” I say, closing the last few feet of space between me and my cousin’s loser boyfriend. “Or should I say, ‘Hey, Weasel’？”
Startled alarm flickers in Gabe’s eyes. “Dígame,” I add, echoing the voicemail greeting I heard over Boney’s phone while staring at Autumn’s bulletin board.
And then I take a swing at him.
CAL
I’ve only been here once before—last week, when I gave Lara a ride home from school while her car was in the shop. “You want to come in and see my new charcoal pencils?” she asked with a flirty smile when I pulled into her driveway. I thought that was a euphemism, maybe, for taking the next step in our relationship, but I was wrong. All we did was sketch until she had to leave for a date with Coach Kendall.
After weeks of anticipation, I’m glad now that she never did anything except string me along. It makes all of this easier to deal with.
There’s no sign of her car in the driveway, but she has a garage, so that doesn’t mean she isn’t home. I go to the front door and ring the bell, first lightly, and then I press hard on the buzzer. “Hello?” I yell. “Lara?” I’m not worried about the neighbors; Lara doesn’t have much in the way of those. “I need to talk to you.” There’s no response, so I grab the doorknob and twist. First left, then right, but no luck.
I stand on the front step, considering. The last time I was here, Lara complained about a back door lock that didn’t work properly. “I should get it fixed, but why bother?” she said. “I’m going to move soon anyway.” I didn’t want to talk about that; about the house she kept saying she was going to buy with Coach Kendall. I couldn’t believe she’d actually go through with marrying him. She was avoiding a lot of stuff the whole time we were hanging out, and I hope that still includes home repairs.
I jog to the back of the house, which is ringed by trees that form the edge of dense woods. It’s getting darker now, and cooler, and crickets are out in full force. Their chirping is all I can hear as I follow an overgrown stone path to Lara’s back door. I grab the scratched brass handle and tug—first lightly, then harder as I can feel the flimsiness of the lock. I jiggle the handle every which way, tugging with ever-increasing force until the door finally pops open.
I slip inside and shut the door behind me. I’ve never been back here—it’s like an indoor porch, with a bright green rug and wicker furniture everywhere—but Lara’s house isn’t big. I follow the only exit—a narrow hallway—until I see the familiar yellow paint of Lara’s living room. And then I see…
Lara’s scream is so deafening that I let out a yell, too, and back into the wall with my hands up. “I’m sorry!” I call as she continues to shriek. “I didn’t mean…I just…the door was open. I’m sorry!”