Read Online Amelia Anne Is Dead and Gone by Kat Rosenfield - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kat Rosenfield
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pointed at a larger dot on the map. “But what about Boston? That’s a nice, big city, and an easy trip home on the weekend.”
I shook my head. “It’s not about living in a city.”
It wasn’t. Back then, it wasn’t just about getting away. It was about not coming back. It wasn’t just the size and sensibility of this place that made it unbearable, but its pull—the weird magnetism that could sap your ambition, clip your wings, leave you inert and fascinated and sinking ever deeper into the choking quicksand of small-town life. I’d seen it happen, how hard it was to get out. Every year, one or two kids would visit from college for a long October weekend and simply never leave. They came home, cocooned themselves in the familiar radius of the town limits, and never broke free again. Years later, you’d see them working in the kitchen at the pizza place, or sitting at the bar in the East Bank Tavern. Shoulders hunched, jaw set, skin slack. And in the waning light of their eyes, the barest sensation that once upon a time, they’d been somewhere else . . . or maybe it was only a dream.
When I found myself home at the end of the day, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, I would look in the mirror and see that same dimmed-out dream, losing its luster somewhere behind my own eyes.
* * *
Inside the house, the atmosphere was heavy with things undiscussed: Dad’s continued absences in the evening, the empty bottles that seemed to appear overnight in our trash bin, the lines that formed around my mother’s eyes. The dead girl was there, too—she had taken up residence in our house and in my head, drifting in from her resting place on the side of the road to look over my shoulder. At night, I would sometimes dream of her—that she was there with me, head resting gently on the pillow, staring at the ceiling with eyes like peeled grapes, whispering a gravestone verse from one of the monuments in our town’s old boneyard.
Stop and think as you pass by, she hissed. As you are now, so once was I.
She was. She had been. She had died that night, less than a mile from the wide-open field where I’d parked with James. She had died, probably, just as I had gone to sleep. I lay awake and stared into the dark. I wondered who had killed her, whether she’d known him, loved him. Whether he’d loved her.
Not all of the empty bottles in our trash belonged to my mother. I had gotten a taste for cheap red wine, the heavy, grapy stuff that my parents uncorked at parties once everyone was too drunk to appreciate something more refined.
* * *
The crunch of gravel in our driveway alerted me to James’s arrival, and I padded down the stairs. In the kitchen, my father was shaking his head with trademark disapproval.
“. . . a real piece of work,” he was saying. “Gave the chief a bunch of attitude and wouldn’t let anyone in. They had to come back with a warrant, just to search the damn yard.”
“James is here,” I said.
“Call us if you’ll be out late,” my mother said, her voice tired, without looking up.
James leaned against the truck, arms folded, as I slipped out the front door and waved with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. My hand floated through the hot, hazy air.
“What’s up?” I asked, padding across the thirsty grass to stand in front of him.
“Party tonight at Craig’s place,” he said. “Want to come?”
“I haven’t seen you in more than two weeks,” I said, folding my arms to mimic his stance. “This is what you want to do tonight?”
“I thought it might be better for you. Ease back into it, sort of.”
I snorted. “Being around Craig doesn’t exactly relax me.”
James looked hurt. “I’m trying, Beck. We don’t have to go. I just thought it could be fun.”
I touched his forearm.
“Hey,” I said. “Sorry. I know you’re trying.”
“You don’t have to decide right now.”
* * *
We drove out of town instead, weaving from asphalt to curb as
I shook my head. “It’s not about living in a city.”
It wasn’t. Back then, it wasn’t just about getting away. It was about not coming back. It wasn’t just the size and sensibility of this place that made it unbearable, but its pull—the weird magnetism that could sap your ambition, clip your wings, leave you inert and fascinated and sinking ever deeper into the choking quicksand of small-town life. I’d seen it happen, how hard it was to get out. Every year, one or two kids would visit from college for a long October weekend and simply never leave. They came home, cocooned themselves in the familiar radius of the town limits, and never broke free again. Years later, you’d see them working in the kitchen at the pizza place, or sitting at the bar in the East Bank Tavern. Shoulders hunched, jaw set, skin slack. And in the waning light of their eyes, the barest sensation that once upon a time, they’d been somewhere else . . . or maybe it was only a dream.
When I found myself home at the end of the day, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, I would look in the mirror and see that same dimmed-out dream, losing its luster somewhere behind my own eyes.
* * *
Inside the house, the atmosphere was heavy with things undiscussed: Dad’s continued absences in the evening, the empty bottles that seemed to appear overnight in our trash bin, the lines that formed around my mother’s eyes. The dead girl was there, too—she had taken up residence in our house and in my head, drifting in from her resting place on the side of the road to look over my shoulder. At night, I would sometimes dream of her—that she was there with me, head resting gently on the pillow, staring at the ceiling with eyes like peeled grapes, whispering a gravestone verse from one of the monuments in our town’s old boneyard.
Stop and think as you pass by, she hissed. As you are now, so once was I.
She was. She had been. She had died that night, less than a mile from the wide-open field where I’d parked with James. She had died, probably, just as I had gone to sleep. I lay awake and stared into the dark. I wondered who had killed her, whether she’d known him, loved him. Whether he’d loved her.
Not all of the empty bottles in our trash belonged to my mother. I had gotten a taste for cheap red wine, the heavy, grapy stuff that my parents uncorked at parties once everyone was too drunk to appreciate something more refined.
* * *
The crunch of gravel in our driveway alerted me to James’s arrival, and I padded down the stairs. In the kitchen, my father was shaking his head with trademark disapproval.
“. . . a real piece of work,” he was saying. “Gave the chief a bunch of attitude and wouldn’t let anyone in. They had to come back with a warrant, just to search the damn yard.”
“James is here,” I said.
“Call us if you’ll be out late,” my mother said, her voice tired, without looking up.
James leaned against the truck, arms folded, as I slipped out the front door and waved with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. My hand floated through the hot, hazy air.
“What’s up?” I asked, padding across the thirsty grass to stand in front of him.
“Party tonight at Craig’s place,” he said. “Want to come?”
“I haven’t seen you in more than two weeks,” I said, folding my arms to mimic his stance. “This is what you want to do tonight?”
“I thought it might be better for you. Ease back into it, sort of.”
I snorted. “Being around Craig doesn’t exactly relax me.”
James looked hurt. “I’m trying, Beck. We don’t have to go. I just thought it could be fun.”
I touched his forearm.
“Hey,” I said. “Sorry. I know you’re trying.”
“You don’t have to decide right now.”
* * *
We drove out of town instead, weaving from asphalt to curb as
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