Page 6

I know where his basketball is…
And it’s a secret I’ll take to the grave.
Jace
I can see the entire world from my bedroom window, or at least the world as I’ve always known it. Most nights, I crawl out of the window and sit on the roof just to get away from it all. Obviously, since the neighbors moved in, my view of the world has changed. The house they now live in had always been dark. Not just physically, but because of its history. Now, it’s a living organism, moving and breathing and full of life. Or, at least, it seems like that at first glance. Too bad for them, I’m far beyond first glances.
Because I’ve seen more than I should.
Know more than I want to.
For example, I know that most nights, the crazy mom leaves. I assume she goes to work because she doesn’t return until morning. The dad, who drives the eighteen-wheeler, stuck around for only three days after they moved in, and then he was gone for days on end. He’s only returned once since they moved in two weeks ago, and that was only for a couple of days before he left again. The other man who helped them move left the following morning and hasn’t come back since. And then there’s the girl…
The same girl who just walked into the skating rink—where I’m currently working behind the counter—with Lana, the owner of the rink, at her side. “I’ll be in my office interviewing,” Lana, a woman in her fifties with natural blonde hair and an easy smile, says as she passes me. “You’re in charge, Jace.”
I nod, and when the girl smiles over her shoulder at me, I nod again.
Like an idiot.
And then I get back to work.
Lana said I’m in charge, and that means… absolutely nothing. I’m the only one behind the counter, and besides Jonah in the kitchen and the few families with little kids on the floor, the place is empty. That doesn’t mean we’re not busy, though. The parking lot is the only spot in Rowville large enough to accommodate over five vehicles, which means it’s where most kids go to hang out.
A fucking parking lot.
At a fucking skating rink.
How ridiculous.
A few years back, Lana decided it was time to upgrade the place, but instead of doing anything to the main attraction—the rink itself—she knocked out a hole in the wall from the kitchen to the parking lot, thus creating Rowville’s first ever drive-through.
I hate it. For no other reason than it forces me to engage with people from school, or worse, people from my team. And don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I don’t like people. I just don’t have the mental capacity to deal with bullshit. And if bullshit had a home, high school would be it.
“Was that fresh meat?” Jonah says, sidling up next to me—perfectly timing my point.
Spraying disinfectant into the rental skates, I mutter, “Fresh meat? The fuck?”
Jonah sighs, then lifts himself up on the counter. “I hope she gets the job. Give us something new to look at.”
I look at her enough.
“You think she’ll be going to our school?”
I’ve thought about this, and I’ve decided that it’s likely. Rowville isn’t a place where people go to live out the rest of their lives post-high school. If you’re born here, you either leave for college right after or you’re stuck here forever. The ones who are stuck here choose to be, and I’ll argue that point until I’m dead on that hill. Jonah will live anddie here because he’s spent the past few years doing nothing more than the bare minimum. This includes school, work, and basketball.
This girl—whoever she is—definitely didn’t have a choice when it came to moving here, because if she did… there’s no way she’d be here. Which leads me to believe she’s not old enough to get out from under her parents’ thumb (unfortunate for her) and therefore… she’s most likely a junior or senior and unless she’s homeschooling, then she’ll be attending Knox Heights High like the rest of us.
How tragic.
“I wonder where she’s from,” Jonah continues, changing the song that’s playing through the speakers even though the previous one hadn’t ended. “You think she’s down to party?”
By party, Jonah means hanging out in the parking lot, pretending to get drunk off whatever booze kids can steal from their parents’ stash.
I shrug, hoping that it’s answer enough.
I may not know if the girl likes to “party,” but I know other things about her.
I know she spends most nights in that house alone and that she’s either afraid of the dark or has trouble sleeping.