The Locket (3 page)

Before my grandmother died last year, she had lived in this house as well. She and my aunt had always been together. My aunt had never married or started a life of her own. She seemed to really enjoy living with her parents and taking care of them. My grandfather had passed away about a year before my family moved. I was always curious if Maggie ever met someone who later realized she was a package deal, so things didn’t work out. It was silly for me to think about it as Maggie seemed perfectly content with her life and choices.

“You’re going to be late if you keep day dreaming,” Maggie interrupted my thoughts. She pulled a bag of potpourri from the pantry, opened it and started pouring it into a bowl. I sneezed.

“Bless you.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “Maggie, that stuff is so strong. Do you have to put it all over the house?”

My aunt displayed potpourri-filled baskets in every room and the smell was overwhelming. It was a mixture of pine cones and berries and I found it repulsive.

“I love it, Claire” she replied cheerfully.

“Can you love it in smaller doses?” I teased, kissing her on the cheek.

She laughed. “You better get going, dear.”

“All right, all right, I’m going.” Readjusting my backpack over my shoulder, I headed outside to the car.

“Have a good day,” Maggie called from the kitchen.

Once outside, I turned back to the house – my house – and smiled.

The house was a typical New England cape. It had been in our family since it was constructed during the 1700’s, with original wide pine floors throughout. The paint on the outside was faded from years of winter and was now the color of nearly-burnt toast. The windows were old and warped giving a kaleidoscope appearance when peering out. The streaking forest formed pixels of greens and browns, patterns twisting and changing shape, with each ray of sunshine through the weighted glass.

As I looked at the house, memories flashed through my mind of my childhood and how happy my family and I were then. What had caused us to move so suddenly? What kept us moving? I often felt as though I had been lied to my entire life. I wondered if Maggie knew the truth – and if she did – would she ever tell me.

Quit procrastinating and get to school.
I rolled my eyes at my subconscious. We had been battling frequently since my parents passed. I found her extremely bossy and overly annoying most of the time.

The smell of pine was overbearing in the old Buick, even though I discarded the pine tree air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror yesterday. I had left the windows open hoping the smell would dissipate soon.

I startled when I heard a knock on my window. Looking up I saw Aunt Maggie’s smiling face.

“You forgot your lunch, dear,” she announced warmly, holding the brown paper sack in front of the window.

Rolling down the window, I noticed her facial expression change, looking almost angry. I reached for my lunch, and pulled it through the window, tossing it on the seat next to me.

“Where is the pine tree that was hanging from my mirror?” Maggie barked.

“The smell was awful, and no offense, but a pine tree doesn’t exactly scream seventeen years old,” I teased, hoping to lighten the mood.

“I don’t care what it screams!” Maggie yelled. “I like it, and it’s my car, Claire. I have another one in the house. Stay here and I’ll get it,” she instructed, starting towards the house in a huff. I was entertained by her efforts to replace the air freshener and I smiled.

“Maggie, wait. I’ll be late. You can replace it after school,” I yelled, stepping on the gas as I drove out. I saw in my mirror she was running behind me. Watching her made me chuckle.
Jeez Mags, it’s just an air freshener.

Eating my Pop Tart, I drove the long road to school noticing the overgrown trees and shrubs from a hot, damp, New England summer. The elaborate maze of greens and browns in every direction always reminded me of the children’s song about going over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house.

Colonial and ranch style homes were tucked away behind the wall of trees lining the streets of Northfield. Each house was similar other than siding choices and an occasional log cabin that broke things up. Some preferred very bright colors while others stuck to traditional wood. This was so different from the homes in San Diego which were made of stucco and Spanish tiles; all painted a varied shade of tan. Their houses were cramped into streets along a grid, cookie cutters of their neighbors. It was easy to peer into the house next door to you because they were no more than six feet away. Here in the country, there was more acreage than structure. It was only possible to get a good look at a neighbor’s house in the winter when the leaves had stripped themselves from the trees.

The houses on Main Street really stood out. Built in the 19th century by a family of local artisans, they were dramatic and classically New England. Other than the houses, there was a small market, a hardware store and a café.

My stomach was in a knot, which constricted the closer I got to school. I really hated being the new girl.

“Shit!” I cursed, swerving when I saw a man standing in the road. My Pop Tart crashed into the front window, crumbling into the dash.

His dark stare was commanding, putting me on high alert. The car started to spin from the strain I put on the brakes, while turning the wheel. A rainbow of colors streaked around me, making it feel like the car was moving in slow motion. Jerking to a stop in the center of the narrow road facing the opposite direction, I clung fearfully to the steering wheel.

“What the hell are you doing in the street?” I screamed, peeking over the dash nervously. Glancing out of each window, I searched for him but he was gone.

Did I just imagine that?
No, I knew it was real, so where the hell did he go?
Oh no, did I hit him? Oh my God, I hit him. I must have.
Even without proof, I was positive he must have broken down up ahead and was without his phone. He decided to walk to find help and I killed him.

Calm down, Claire. Don’t be so dramatic. Go check.

Pulling to the side of the road, my legs were shaking and I struggled to calm my breathing. I got out, checking the woods nearby to make sure he was all right. The brush was thickly covered in poison ivy. I decided against going into the woods to avoid days of itching. My fair skin was relentlessly unbiased when it came to contact with plant life. Once I brushed against poison oak while playing in the woods. The result was spending the next two weeks in bed covered in steroid cream trying not to claw my skin clean from my bones.

Resting against the car, I looked up and down the road but saw no one. My body was shaking violently and I tasted bile in my throat. I expected to see some poor man – lifeless – bleeding in piles of oak leaves and pine needles. I envisioned his poor family at the hospital waiting for news about his condition. They would be glaring at me with hate in their eyes – the freak everyone thought I was had hurt their loved one. But, there was no such sight, no injured man, not even road kill on the windy road.

Reaching for the car door, I decided I imagined the entire incident. Why could I still see those black eyes? As though he was penetrating my thoughts, his face was burned in my mind as clear as a piece of art hanging in front of me with his dark hair, strong jaw and large dimple in his chin. It struck me as odd how I had such a clear picture of him given how briefly I saw him. I must be crazy. Surely if someone was in the road, he didn’t just disappear. There was nowhere for him to go.

After collecting myself, I sat back in the old car, listening to my rapid heartbeat. Suddenly, I was overcome by worry, feeling as though something more was happening to me than an overactive imagination. A soft breeze rushed up my body. All of the hairs on my neck poised themselves towards my hairline. I stared out the window watching the trees for movement but they were motionless, frozen to the landscape. An eerie feeling came over me as I darted glances in every direction, positive I was being watched. I saw nothing more than forest and road.

“You really have to pull yourself together, Claire,” I murmured out loud. Great, now I was talking to myself.

Deciding it was best to brush off the strange occurrences of the last five minutes, I started the Buick, feeling that same rush of wind throughout my body. This time I was scared. Pulling away from the side of the road towards the school, fear tugged at how I rationalized what happened. I drove faster than usual, focusing my attention on my first day blues, hoping to overcome the incommodious feelings I was having.

Turning into the school parking lot, I smiled as I saw the sign to River Town High School. I drove past the sign a hundred times as a child. I realized how long I had been away as the red paint was now blanched. The wood post seemed to have been devoured by years of relentless weather. Only the large overgrown shrubs kept the sign from falling over.

“Today will be different,” I whispered, over and over, continuing my earlier mantra.

The school itself was older, seemingly smaller than I remembered it. The front building was obviously original. It was brick and had been patched with grey mortar in several places. A more modern building had been added on, protruding from the side with glass windows and green metal.

My previous school had been newly built and enormous compared to the superannuated structure in front of me. Having been terrified on my first day, I remembered being sure I would end up lost. Most of my classes happened to have been on the opposite side of the campus from where my locker had been assigned. I had kept everything in my backpack the first week so I wouldn’t be late for any classes. Smiling to myself, I exhaled with relief that this campus should be easier to navigate.

Driving around the crowded parking lot, I searched for an empty spot as the brigade of teachers and students made their way into the school, a sea of backpacks blurring my vision. After making a complete loop of the parking lot, I was unable to find a spot. I made my way across the street to overflow parking, locating a spot in the back near the woods, whipping in before it too, was taken.

Opening the door, I felt another rush of air across my body. Again, the trees were stagnant and the feeling of someone watching me returned. I glanced around, but other than two boys a few spaces away pulling backpacks from the trunk of a car, I saw no one.

Get a grip, Claire!

Anxiety was getting the best of me. I needed to get to class and get this over with. I was thankful Maggie already picked up my schedule. Having to pick it up from the office on the first day usually resulted in being assigned a buddy to show you around and I wasn’t quite ready to socialize.

Stepping out of the car, I dropped my brown bag lunch on the ground. My bottled water escaped the bag and rolled to the front of the car, wedging under the front tire.
Perfect!

Kneeling to pick up the water, I was struck from the side and pinned to the ground. Every trace of air was forced from my lungs, and I fought to inhale. My face was smashed into pine needles, and a combination of dirt, dead bugs and leaves. Tiny granules of sand crunched between my teeth wreaking havoc on my already shot nerves.

Feeling someone on me, I twisted under the weight to see who attacked me. I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze. It was a boy, roughly my age, with dark brown hair, pouty lips and blue eyes that reminded me of a swimming pool. He was insanely attractive in a “bad boy meets geek”, sort of way. A plethora of inappropriate thoughts ran through my head as I examined him. I was unable to move. He regarded me intently, causing me to suddenly feel like I was naked.

What the hell just happened?

It felt like I was five years old again, having a staring contest, wondering which one of us would blink first. A swirl of butterflies in my stomach threatened to force this morning’s Pop Tart to make an appearance. Anger replaced all my feelings and I blinked twice, breaking the trance.

“What the fuck are you doing, get off me!” I belted out, pushing against his chest with my fist.

Usually, I was not the sailor mouth type, but was so surprised by what happened that it slipped out. My dad had always said swearing was for people with an inept vocabulary. I thought some situations deemed it necessary. Regardless of the fact I let the foul word slip, I probably would have used it anyway. Guilt coursed through me knowing my dad would be disappointed in my choice of wording no matter the situation. I held my lips together firmly, trying to hold in another string of obscenities just in case he was checking in on me from above.