Read Online A Sudden Silence by Eve Bunting - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eve Bunting
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Miss Sharps English literature class. Great memory, Jesse. Selective.
I got off the bus in the middle of town and walked around the car dealers, looking at what they had in their lots, and then going inside to pick up their advertising. Once in a while a hotshot salesman would come over. Probably thought I was some kid with mega-rich parents who were about to buy me a postgraduation gift. Or a birthday gift. I flashed onto Chloe and her little Mustang.
"Did you and Bry go driving a lot?" I'd asked.
Mom wasn't home when I got back with my plastic bag full of junk. The evening paper still lay on the path to the trailer door, and when I picked it up I saw that the reward notice about Bry was in again, upped to fifteen thousand dollars now. I wanted to hide it so Mom wouldn't have to look at it when she got home, or Dad either. But there was no place to hide from any of this.
I sorted through the leaflets I'd picked up, dumped those that had the big luxury cars or the small economy models, and spread the rest on the table. Camaros, Thunderbirds, Buicks. I was looking for a rounded back, even white circles. There were too many damned cars. Soon I couldn't tell one from another. Soon I knew I wasn't going to find what I was looking for.
Tomorrow was the surfing competition finals at White Sands. My mind kept slipping to that. Chloe would be there. Thousands of people would be there. Maybe the guy in the black Windbreaker. Maybe the death car.
I got up and went into Bry's room. Neither Mom nor Dad had touched anything yet. When would they be able to? Maybe never. The pieces of the paper clock were still neatly stacked the way Grandpa had left them. I picked up one and put it down again but I didn't slide across the closet door to look at Chloe's picture.
"I think I'm going to the White Sands competition tomorrow," I said abruptly, after dinner.
Dad pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Good idea. You should get away a bit, Jesse. We won't need the car, Mother, will we? You can take it, Jesse."
"Thanks. I thought I'd just ask around, see if anybody saw something or heard something, you know." There was definitely this need in me to make an excuse. What right had I to be going to a blast of a surf competition when just two weeks ago my brother had been killed? What right had I to be hoping to see his girl?
9
W HEN I GOT TO White Sands at eight next morning, the parking area was full. I found a space way at the back, locked everything up tight, and zigzagged across the lot, up one line of cars and down the next. Every make in the world seemed to be here. I checked bumper stickers, parking permits, logos. There were rainbow decals, dice that hung in rear windows, religious emblems. It's ridiculous what people hang and stick on their cars. It was ridiculous that I couldn't remember what was hung or stuck on that one. I gave up and headed for the beach.
No stadium could be as perfect as the one for a surf contest. I looked across the sloping silver sand of the bleachers, at the grandstand that was the pier. Already they were filled with bodies, huddled under sweats and blankets, waiting for the action to start and the day to heat up.
I moved to the far end of the crowd, inspecting each row, each cluster of spectators, but if he was there I didn't see him. Then I pushed through to the steps leading to the pier and walked behind the mob, all the way to the bait shop and the fast food stand on the end. I didn't see him. I didn't see Chloe, either. But of course I wasn't looking for her.
There was a space on the pier in the second row and I squeezed myself in. Big, official-looking White Sands Pro banners had been tacked up at intervals, and spectators had made their own posters for their favorite competitors.
I was wishing I'd brought binocs so I could see the faces of the people sitting on the beach, when I spotted Chloe. I'm not sure how I recognized her. She was on the sand, about a hundred yards down from the pier,
I got off the bus in the middle of town and walked around the car dealers, looking at what they had in their lots, and then going inside to pick up their advertising. Once in a while a hotshot salesman would come over. Probably thought I was some kid with mega-rich parents who were about to buy me a postgraduation gift. Or a birthday gift. I flashed onto Chloe and her little Mustang.
"Did you and Bry go driving a lot?" I'd asked.
Mom wasn't home when I got back with my plastic bag full of junk. The evening paper still lay on the path to the trailer door, and when I picked it up I saw that the reward notice about Bry was in again, upped to fifteen thousand dollars now. I wanted to hide it so Mom wouldn't have to look at it when she got home, or Dad either. But there was no place to hide from any of this.
I sorted through the leaflets I'd picked up, dumped those that had the big luxury cars or the small economy models, and spread the rest on the table. Camaros, Thunderbirds, Buicks. I was looking for a rounded back, even white circles. There were too many damned cars. Soon I couldn't tell one from another. Soon I knew I wasn't going to find what I was looking for.
Tomorrow was the surfing competition finals at White Sands. My mind kept slipping to that. Chloe would be there. Thousands of people would be there. Maybe the guy in the black Windbreaker. Maybe the death car.
I got up and went into Bry's room. Neither Mom nor Dad had touched anything yet. When would they be able to? Maybe never. The pieces of the paper clock were still neatly stacked the way Grandpa had left them. I picked up one and put it down again but I didn't slide across the closet door to look at Chloe's picture.
"I think I'm going to the White Sands competition tomorrow," I said abruptly, after dinner.
Dad pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Good idea. You should get away a bit, Jesse. We won't need the car, Mother, will we? You can take it, Jesse."
"Thanks. I thought I'd just ask around, see if anybody saw something or heard something, you know." There was definitely this need in me to make an excuse. What right had I to be going to a blast of a surf competition when just two weeks ago my brother had been killed? What right had I to be hoping to see his girl?
9
W HEN I GOT TO White Sands at eight next morning, the parking area was full. I found a space way at the back, locked everything up tight, and zigzagged across the lot, up one line of cars and down the next. Every make in the world seemed to be here. I checked bumper stickers, parking permits, logos. There were rainbow decals, dice that hung in rear windows, religious emblems. It's ridiculous what people hang and stick on their cars. It was ridiculous that I couldn't remember what was hung or stuck on that one. I gave up and headed for the beach.
No stadium could be as perfect as the one for a surf contest. I looked across the sloping silver sand of the bleachers, at the grandstand that was the pier. Already they were filled with bodies, huddled under sweats and blankets, waiting for the action to start and the day to heat up.
I moved to the far end of the crowd, inspecting each row, each cluster of spectators, but if he was there I didn't see him. Then I pushed through to the steps leading to the pier and walked behind the mob, all the way to the bait shop and the fast food stand on the end. I didn't see him. I didn't see Chloe, either. But of course I wasn't looking for her.
There was a space on the pier in the second row and I squeezed myself in. Big, official-looking White Sands Pro banners had been tacked up at intervals, and spectators had made their own posters for their favorite competitors.
I was wishing I'd brought binocs so I could see the faces of the people sitting on the beach, when I spotted Chloe. I'm not sure how I recognized her. She was on the sand, about a hundred yards down from the pier,
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