The End of the World (3 page)

And my future looks bleak. Unless…

“I don’t think I’ll like it here after all,” I say. “It looks a little scary.” Even I hear the pathetic ring of hope in my voice. Hope that Todd will tell me I don’t have to stay. Hope that he’ll change his mind and come to the conclusion that I’d make a halfway decent nurse to his wife after all.

He looks over at me, and I remember right then that things never work out the way I hope.

“Sometimes the things that scare us also teach us the best lessons,” he says as he opens his car door and climbs out, a little too enthusiastically if you ask me. Maybe it’s fake, maybe it’s forced, but I don’t appreciate the smile he’s giving me. He should be crying or at the very least wearing a sad expression worthy of a circus clown, if only to make me feel better.

Having no choice except to follow him, I open my door and ease my way out of my seat.

I look up at the towering home in front of me, again bugged by the nagging feeling that this place is weird.

A crane sits on the south side of the house—I can imagine it being used for lifting pallets of shingles or an especially heavy section of copper onto a roof. One of my former foster fathers was a builder, so I know these things. Sometimes the most random information sticks with you, even when you’re not quite ten. And I remember enough to know that a crane doesn’t belong beside a mansion, especially when it’s covered in rust and brush and enough cobwebs to indicate it’s been sitting there for years.

Then there’s the dirt and gravel driveway, yard, and sidewalk that surrounds the house. There’s no reason to it, like someone around me brought in a truckload, dumped it in a giant pile, and relied on rain and wind and occasional passing vehicle to spread it out. In fact, the entire ground around me looks like a construction site—nothing but broken bricks and cut lumber with zero evidence to indicate the completion of a building project. A wheelbarrow filled with nails and splintered boards and leftover pieces of dried out mortar lies on its side, half the contents spilled onto the hard earth, the other half clinging to the wheelbarrow’s insides.

As we walk past, I accidentally kick the edge of the handle with my shoe and a little more debris spills out. For some reason, I feel a pang of disappointment…the same kind of disappointment one might feel if they unearthed a body left undisturbed for centuries and accidentally brought it out into the open.

Stupid, but that’s the way my brain works. Everyone always tells me my internal age is older than my actual age, even though I think they’re just being nice because they feel sorry for me.

“You sure you’re ready for this, buddy?” Todd says one more time.

I wish he’d shut up with these types of questions, because of course I’m not sure and he knows this. Plus, every time he asks I’m tempted to tell him the truth, but the truth usually leads to trouble. And with me, history shows that trouble just isn’t worth the mess it makes.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “Might as well get it over with.”

“That’s the attitude I like to see.” Todd runs his knuckles over the top of my head. “You know we’re going to miss you, right? And we’ll be sure to check up on you from time to time.”

I glance up at him and nod, trying to force the tears back down where they belong. I know they’ll miss me. Everyone always says they’ll miss me. Just not enough to keep me around longer than the pre-scheduled time allotted.

“Good, because we will.”

We reach the top step and Todd knocks on the large oak door. It’s impressive, even with the finish chipping and splintering onto the ground in front of our feet.

It doesn’t take long for footsteps to approach. It’s easy to imagine the disappointed look that will inevitably flash across the face of whoever shows up to greet me. Because even though I’m almost fifteen and everyone knows I’m this age, the hope always remains that a miracle will occur last minute and I’ll wind up being an adorable toddler. The look is always there. The hope is always there.

But nothing in the world prepares me for the face I see when the door finally swings open.

*

Shaye

I feel my
mouth open and my eyes widen and my forehead push together and all I can think is thank God he didn’t wind up being a toddler. Sometimes that happens, and in my opinion it’s never a welcome surprise.

That thought is quickly chased by another, simpler one.

Wow.

Wow for a lot of reasons, but mostly because the sight in front of me catches me off guard and because I’m staring into the face of the most beautiful boy with the most haunting eyes I’ve ever seen before. Dark hair. Intense blue eyes. The tiniest but most interesting looking birthmark on the right side of his neck—almost like a star or a heart or a pair of angel lips.

I heard about angel kisses once, and this kid has definitely been kissed by one.

It breaks my heart a little.

Because this kid has no idea what he’s in for.

“Are you Cameron?” I test my voice out with these words, then clear my throat when it catches on his name. When he nods without responding, something about the scared look in his eyes tears my chest open a little more. I stuff the gaping hole with cotton and step back. “You want to come in?”

“Sure,” he says, his meek voice barely rising past ground level, where he’s been staring since I opened the door. He trips over the door frame but catches himself against the doorknob. The smooth save does nothing to prevent the pink stain that crawls up his neck. He’s embarrassed. I look away and pretend not to notice.

“Just put your bags down here.” I point to a small landing at the bottom of the stairs.

Painted white spindles line the curved staircase, which winds upward toward a block of clear glass transoms that flank a four-bedroom second level. Each step is carpeted in pale beige and lined with glossy oak, and it looks impressive. It
is
impressive. Unless you know—like I do—that this place is falling apart. Two decades of neglect will do that to an incomplete structure. Carl and Tami practically stole this place from the bank—the former owners having fled the place after a bankruptcy forced them out of business and out of the state. Better than winding up in jail, as the story goes. They left their unfinished house behind, along with enough cats to keep America bred with felines for a year. I only know this because I’ve gathered bits and pieces from the many arguments they’ve had about this hellhole.

And it is. A hellhole, that is. In more ways than anyone knows.

“How high does that thing reach, anyway?” Cameron asks, finally looking at something besides his feet. I glance over to see two wide eyes taking in the ceiling, the woodwork, the painted yellow walls recently touched up to conceal things no one is allowed to speak of unless they want to suffer the consequences.

That someone being me, since I’m the only one old enough to understand and translate the story right.

“I don’t know,” I say to him. “Maybe twenty feet. Twenty-five?”

“Eighteen, if you want an exact number.” Tami’s raspy voice fills the dusty atrium that’s been recently sprayed with Lysol. The scent erases everything. Especially secrets. “Lord knows I’ve measured it a dozen times just to make sure furniture would fit before we had it delivered.” Tami smiles at Todd and holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she says to him. “And you must be Cameron.” Her smile widens. It’s a practiced smile, a forced smile. But to any outsider—from the social worker who will show up any minute to the mailman who will deliver sometime before dinner—it looks genuine enough. Almost flirty. Definitely happy.

I copy Cameron’s actions and study my feet.

Besides, all I want to say is that every stitch of furniture in this house came from a garage sale or second hand store and not one piece of it was delivered by anyone but me, Carl, and his old Ford pickup. But I can’t say that. I can’t say anything.

The floor needs to be swept.

“Well, I like it,” Cameron says. His words sound sincere. Almost…excited.

The sound of screeching tires from what I can only assume is his arriving social worker catches my attention, and I blink. The sight snatches me out of the present and straight back into the day I was dropped off here. A frightened girl that no one wanted, grateful to finally have a home that didn’t involve four rows of metal bunk beds and seven constantly bickering orphans like myself. Back then, I thought nothing could be better than this place, nothing could be better than having a family that wanted me.

Within days, I knew how misplaced that elation was.

But for now, at least, I’m glad she’s finally here. Because her little red sports car is the one thing that stands between Cameron leaving here intact and being forced to stay. Because if there’s one thing I know, it won’t take more than a few short days for Cameron’s excitement to die.

And for dread to resurrect in its place.

Cameron

I
lied.

I hate this place. Each square inch seems toxic, from the staircase that seems as twisted as the lady who just described it to me, to the windows that were out of date two decades ago, to the woodwork that looks new but I know for a fact hasn’t been in style since the mid-eighties. I don’t say this to sound uppity because I don’t give a crap about windows and woodwork and windy staircases. I say this because I
know
. I know because when you’re ten and you spend a happy July afternoon drinking Mountain Dew while watching your former, former foster father cut two by fours across a pair of rusty metal saw horses for a remodeling job he’s doing down the street and then you wake up the next morning to the news that you’re being relocated to another house and no one bothered to tell you even though they’d known for weeks that awful day was coming…

You research.

You research things like whether oak or cherry wood trim is in style and which kinds of windows reflect the best light and how many steps it takes to construct a full working staircase. Because if you know this information…really know it…you might become useful. Indispensable. And then maybe no one would want to give you up, ever.

“Shaye, show him to his room,” Carl says.

“Okay,” Shaye says in a barely-there whisper without looking at my new, temporary dad. “Follow me.” And I do, I follow her straight down a very dark hallway that just might lead us both to the Devil himself.

Despite the unease caused by this creepy house, walking behind Shaye gives me the chance to study her. Her shoulders are hunched over like she’s tired. They’re the shoulders of an old lady, the same burdened shoulders Mrs. Miller walks around with, and she’s in her sixties. It doesn’t help that the still-whimpering baby is on Shaye’s hip or that dirty clothes litter the floor and she has to kick them out of the way with her bare feet while she walks. Her jeans are a size too big and they make a
whoosh whoosh whoosh
sound as they drag the floor, but she’s tall. Nearly a whole head taller than me. I don’t like feeling so little.

Something is wrong with her. Something I can’t put my finger on. It leaves me with an itchy feeling in the center of my gut.

We’ve hardly taken ten steps when she stops in front of an open doorway. Even from here, I can see there’s barely room for one person, but it’s clear I’m sharing with someone. Weird to share in a house this large. The list of oddities is growing.

“Here’s your room,” Shaye says. “I went ahead and gave you the top bunk since Pete is only five and there’s a good chance he might fall off if I stick him up there. I hope that’s okay.” Her words sound sincere in theory, but her bored voice makes it clear my opinion is the last thing she’s concerned about.

“It’s fine. I like the top bunk.” I don’t say that I’m afraid of heights and the thought of sleeping on a top bunk scares the living crap out of me, especially a rickety top bunk that’s exactly seven-feet four inches off the ground—too high in my estimation. This bunk bed looks about as stable as sleeping across a string of paperclips tied between two oaks trees swaying in the wind. But I’m a guy. I need to look tough here. Especially because even though I don’t like this girl and her bored-with-me attitude, I’m not blind. She’s kinda hot. “The top bunk is great.”

She shrugs. “I’m glad you’re happy.” Again with the couldn’t-care-less tone. “So you’re in here with Pete and Alan.”

She glances at the baby on her hip and shifts his position. I can only assume from the way she’s looking at him that the kid is Alan. And now my life sucks even more. I’ve never shared a room with a baby, and this one is a champ at crying.

“And sometimes they both cry at night,” she continues. “But if that happens, just tell them to go to back to sleep. That usually works.”

My sweatshirt feels tight all of a sudden. I pull at the collar. “And if it doesn’t?”

Her eye roll is one of the best I’ve seen. “Wake me up, I guess. My room is across the hall.” She points to a closed door with the words ‘Keep Out’ written in black ink on a piece of spiral notebook paper taped to the door. “I’m in there with Maria, but so help me God if you wake her up…” She shakes her head. “She does
not
go back to sleep at night.”