Read Online The Far Empty by J. Todd Scott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Todd Scott
Tags: Mystery
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wasn’t a battle worth having. Besides, she didn’t want to spar over
Heart of Darkness
; she couldn’t blame the girl if she wasn’t into it. At her age, Anne wasn’t, either. Still wasn’t.
Then the bell rang and it was as if all the air in the room sucked upward. A dozen students stood at once, suddenly talking, picking up conversations they had left in mid-sentence at the earlier bell. The room became constant motion and sound, kids swarming past her desk, dropping off their quizzes.
She politely thanked the kids as the hastily thrown papers piled up, drifting higher. A few of them were talking about some reality-TV show they’d gotten hooked on. In the aftermath of Austin, Anne had treated the TV like a live snake, fanged, something to be avoided. For four straight months the nice flat-screen Marc had bought—the one he used to park in front of with a beer too dark and thick for her taste—had sat idle in their apartment, fleeced in thick gray dust, until she’d packed it away with many of their other things. Even turned off, unused, the TV had felt dangerous, poisonous. It held too many memories: shows they’d once liked and all those they’d never have the chance to see. It posed another threat too: of hearing her old name, that other name; or worse, of catching a glimpse of that other her on the news.
She’d looked different then, her dark hair now blond. She no longer had a tan, either. In fact, she felt completely colorless, a pale reflection of what she’d been—ready to disappear again at a moment’s notice—and was even back to wearing her old glasses. Now if shecaught a glimpse in the mirror, she didn’t quite recognize herself, unsure of the eyes staring back at her.
That was good, had to be, because it also meant that other version of her was finally, mercifully, fading away. Her parents paid more attention to it than she did, and although they never said it exactly this way,
that
version had become old news. Last time they spoke, her mother reported there hadn’t been anything written, nothing new—no mention or oblique reference—in more than six months. Anne’s sixty-one-year-old mother, who thought the microwave was too much trouble, spent her days Googling her daughter’s name.
The thought of her mom’s face—anxious, lit by the glare of the laptop she and Marc had bought her parents—still hurt. It had been an investment, a down payment on their future, Marc once said. They’d wanted it for FaceTime, thinking they might soon get a chance to hold a baby up to the laptop’s camera—the grandson or granddaughter that Anne’s parents were more than ready for. Marc had joked they needed to have lots and lots of sex to justify the cost of that damn laptop.
Maybe today was the day to get over her fear of the TV. Tonight she could watch her rented set while she sat on her rented couch in her rented living room, grading quizzes on a book she didn’t even like. Maybe she’d search for that reality show, gawk over someone else’s life. There were worse ways to spend an evening. She’d learned that.
She looked up, expecting to be alone, ready to be alone, only to be startled that she wasn’t. He wasn’t in her classroom, not exactly, more like hovering at the door, hanging back a bit. It was as if they’d both hit pause at the same time, trapping them together for a moment. Caleb Ross stared at her from beneath the shadow of his hoodie, lost in thought, contemplating . . .
what?
Her? Or was he just debatingwhether it was okay to ask a perfectly normal question about the quiz or
Heart of Darkness
? Or to mention he’d dropped off his father’s note for her. To fill her in on the fall carnival or that stupid TV show, welcome her to Murfee.
To mouth
You’re so beautiful
where only she could hear it.
No, that was someone else, somewhere else.
She held her breath or just couldn’t breathe at all.
Please don’t, please don’t.
She willed him to disappear, closed her
Heart of Darkness
; she couldn’t blame the girl if she wasn’t into it. At her age, Anne wasn’t, either. Still wasn’t.
Then the bell rang and it was as if all the air in the room sucked upward. A dozen students stood at once, suddenly talking, picking up conversations they had left in mid-sentence at the earlier bell. The room became constant motion and sound, kids swarming past her desk, dropping off their quizzes.
She politely thanked the kids as the hastily thrown papers piled up, drifting higher. A few of them were talking about some reality-TV show they’d gotten hooked on. In the aftermath of Austin, Anne had treated the TV like a live snake, fanged, something to be avoided. For four straight months the nice flat-screen Marc had bought—the one he used to park in front of with a beer too dark and thick for her taste—had sat idle in their apartment, fleeced in thick gray dust, until she’d packed it away with many of their other things. Even turned off, unused, the TV had felt dangerous, poisonous. It held too many memories: shows they’d once liked and all those they’d never have the chance to see. It posed another threat too: of hearing her old name, that other name; or worse, of catching a glimpse of that other her on the news.
She’d looked different then, her dark hair now blond. She no longer had a tan, either. In fact, she felt completely colorless, a pale reflection of what she’d been—ready to disappear again at a moment’s notice—and was even back to wearing her old glasses. Now if shecaught a glimpse in the mirror, she didn’t quite recognize herself, unsure of the eyes staring back at her.
That was good, had to be, because it also meant that other version of her was finally, mercifully, fading away. Her parents paid more attention to it than she did, and although they never said it exactly this way,
that
version had become old news. Last time they spoke, her mother reported there hadn’t been anything written, nothing new—no mention or oblique reference—in more than six months. Anne’s sixty-one-year-old mother, who thought the microwave was too much trouble, spent her days Googling her daughter’s name.
The thought of her mom’s face—anxious, lit by the glare of the laptop she and Marc had bought her parents—still hurt. It had been an investment, a down payment on their future, Marc once said. They’d wanted it for FaceTime, thinking they might soon get a chance to hold a baby up to the laptop’s camera—the grandson or granddaughter that Anne’s parents were more than ready for. Marc had joked they needed to have lots and lots of sex to justify the cost of that damn laptop.
Maybe today was the day to get over her fear of the TV. Tonight she could watch her rented set while she sat on her rented couch in her rented living room, grading quizzes on a book she didn’t even like. Maybe she’d search for that reality show, gawk over someone else’s life. There were worse ways to spend an evening. She’d learned that.
She looked up, expecting to be alone, ready to be alone, only to be startled that she wasn’t. He wasn’t in her classroom, not exactly, more like hovering at the door, hanging back a bit. It was as if they’d both hit pause at the same time, trapping them together for a moment. Caleb Ross stared at her from beneath the shadow of his hoodie, lost in thought, contemplating . . .
what?
Her? Or was he just debatingwhether it was okay to ask a perfectly normal question about the quiz or
Heart of Darkness
? Or to mention he’d dropped off his father’s note for her. To fill her in on the fall carnival or that stupid TV show, welcome her to Murfee.
To mouth
You’re so beautiful
where only she could hear it.
No, that was someone else, somewhere else.
She held her breath or just couldn’t breathe at all.
Please don’t, please don’t.
She willed him to disappear, closed her
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