The Number 7 (13 page)

The house was empty when we got home.

“Did Greta say where she was going?” Dad asked.

“I can't remember.”

“Neither can I.” Dad scratched his graying temple with his knuckle. By ten o'clock, Dad was anxious, but I knew Greta would come waltzing through the front door without offering an explanation. She'd always felt entitled to more privacy than the rest of us. Dad had taught her well.

“Could you text her?”

“I already did. Three times.” I scanned through my sent messages.

Greta, where are you?

Greta?

Greta, Dad's worried about you.

“Nothing?” He swallowed.

“Nothing.”

He spent the entire night sitting at the bottom of the steps staring at the front door. He didn't call the cops; he knew, as I did, that she'd left of her own free will. She'd been smart about it and had bided her time until Dad and I thought she was okay. We'd believed, perhaps naively, that Greta was transitioning as well as the rest of us. Now she was calling our bluff. It was midnight before I resigned myself that she wouldn't be back tonight and went to bed. Dad stayed by the door. We didn't say good night. We didn't say anything.

I made coffee Sunday morning in silence, but I banged the pot around a bit more to remind Dad that
I
was still around. I poured us both mugs of coffee but then tossed his down the drain. I angrily let his mug crash into the sink and didn't bother to see if it'd broken.

What made Greta think it was that
easy
to just leave?

I'd wanted to run plenty of times: run away from home, from North Carolina, from the hospital, from Mom's funeral, from everything and everyone. Right after Mom died I once went so far as to print directions to Kill Devil Hills, believing that if I could just get to the beach and put my feet in the cold water I'd wake up from some terrible dream. I didn't make it past the end of the street before I realized how selfish it seemed. Dad and Greta were just beginning to grieve for Mom; I didn't want to be responsible for more loss. But deep down
I'd
wanted to run away.

I clenched the sink until I thought my fingernails would fall off, and I finally allowed myself to feel the thing that I'd tried to convince myself I wouldn't feel. The emotion of which I was most afraid.
We needed to look back. We were incapable of moving forward.

Greta came back Sunday night while Dad and I were eating dinner and went straight to her room. Dad didn't go after her like I thought he would. He got up from the table and disappeared. Now it was he who was running. He couldn't face her. He didn't want to hear what she had to say, what made her leave. He left me alone to clean up the dishes.

Was I really the only sane person in the house? The only person who wanted to sit down and actually
talk
about the state of our family? Even if it would be painful? I threw everything in the trash as noisily as I could before going to bed. The plates crashed the loudest. I wanted them both to hear me. I wanted them both to know I wasn't running away.

On Monday morning I was eager for a distraction. But instead of finding a respite, for the first time I found myself in the line of fire of another type of scandal—teenage drama. I became aware of my situation when Allison pulled—or rather, forcefully dragged—me from my locker into the girls' restroom before first period.

“You and Gabe Weaver spent Friday night together?” Her tone demanded an answer.

“Yeah, we made cookies—” I said before she shushed me to silence.

“I thought I told you he was off-limits?”

“You said to stay away from him, but you never explained why—”

“Sssh!” She hushed me again, crouching down to look for feet under the stalls.

“What? Are you interested in him?”

“Are you kidding?” she snapped before growing quiet when a toilet flushed. She turned fearfully to see who would open the stall door. I followed her gaze. But when she saw a freshman emerge, Allison continued her distraught rant.

“Jennifer Adams has been trying to date Gabe since last year! She's already told every girl in school that he's going to prom with her. They're practically together.”

“So?” I silently remembered seeing a very pretty brunette sitting next to Gabe in the cafeteria.

“
So
,” she sarcastically repeated, “you're dead.”

I just stared back at her, unable to wrap my head around the idea that one batch of cookies could cause so much trouble.

“Jenn Adams is one of the most popular girls in school. Maybe you don't know that yet because you're new. So maybe she'll have mercy on you.”

I laughed. Allison was obviously hysterical. Before I had to listen to any more of her gross overreaction, I muttered something like, “See you in English,” and pushed my way out the door.

I thought that was the end of it. But then, in the middle of History, Chris leaned across the aisle to me and whispered, “So, you and Weaver, huh?”

I felt myself cringe in my seat. I literally must have sunk two inches in my chair.

“What?” I asked back, defensively.

“You and Gabriel Weaver? You're like a thing now?”

I rolled my eyes, already tired of the gossip—the details of which I didn't even fully know.

“Who said?” I zipped up my hoodie and tried to recoil within it.

“He did. Word around school is he's telling everyone he spent Friday night with you.”

“He did not!” I blurted a little too loudly.

The entire class, including Mr. Duncan, turned to look at me before continuing the lesson. Chris chuckled to himself.

“He came over my house—” I whispered.

“And made cookies, I know. That's all he's saying, Louisa. I hope you didn't think I was insinuating . . . ” Chris grinned at me, the whiskers on his chin a rough contrast to his tan skin.

“So, what's it to you?” I seethed from a clenched jaw.

“It's nothing to me. I just,” he paused in reflection, “I would have pegged you as someone who lived more dangerously than Gabriel Weaver. Then again, you are messing with Jenn Adams's property, so maybe you're more daring than I thought.”

“Christopher and Louisa,” an annoyed Mr. Duncan glowered at us, “is there a problem?”

“No, sir,” said Chris as I vigorously shook my head, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

When the bell rang, the class stood to leave, and I couldn't help but notice my female classmates glancing at me with curiosity. Were they reading me my last rites? Silently humming a farewell taps?

“So, about this almanac project . . . ” Chris began as he swung his army-green messenger bag over his shoulder.

Internally, I groaned. Chris hadn't done his end of the group work.

“You haven't started have you? The almanac is due on Friday, and you haven't started,” I blurted accusingly. He looked surprised, then scoffed.

“Yeah. I haven't finished. You think maybe you could help me with my part?”

“What? The weather report too difficult for you?” I sneered.

He looked hurt, and I regretted snapping at him. I took a deep breath, brushed my hair aside, and exhaled. I was on edge from being the center of the gossip machine, but that was no excuse to be so mean.

“Sure.” I managed a weak smile.

“I work at the coffee shop, Fat Bottoms, in town. I take my break at five-thirty. Do you think you could stop by?”

“Sure.”

“Great. See you then.” As he left the classroom, I couldn't help but remember what Rosemary had predicted about Chris:
Finds people doing things for him—women, especially—because they're just naturally drawn to him. And he knows this. He's a sly one.
Bemoaning my gullibility and feeling especially chump-worthy, I dragged myself to second period.

Allison didn't talk to me in English. I figured she wanted to distance herself from the dead-girl-walking. I sat alone at the end of a different table at lunch, and no one even attempted being nice to me. Later, Gabe was missing from Photography. Someone said he left school sick.
Worst school day ever
. On the car ride home from school, Greta was quiet behind the wheel. I wasn't in any mood to talk either, so we rode for a while in silence. Not only did I not
want
to talk; I found myself incapable. I was sure if I opened my mouth, I'd start crying. Or yelling. Or both.

I stared out the Subaru window remembering the night before. I'd heard Dad climb the stairs at midnight and enter Greta's room. He didn't knock, and Dad
always
knocked. Whatever limited conversation they'd shared, it had lasted only three minutes before the door slammed shut. I don't know if Dad or Greta slammed it, but whoever it was left an exclamation point echoing down the hallway.

“You know, Louisa, if Gabe wants to hang out with you, he should be able to,” Greta eventually said as we turned down our street. So she was just going to ignore her own issues and focus on mine? Fine. Whatever.

I threw my head against the headrest in defeat. “I'm not going to worry about it. If people at school don't like me, it's predestined. I'm used to doing my own thing.”

Greta drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Well,” she began, staring ahead, “I think it's kind of sweet how Gabe bragged to everybody about your date. I mean,
everybody
knew about it.”

She was right. He had spent Friday night with me, but was it a date? He'd told everyone about it, but did that make it official? Shelving my anger for the time being, I called a temporary truce with my sister.

“Thanks, Greta.”

“Yep,” she smirked, nodding her head as we pulled into our driveway.

Fat Bottoms sat on historic Main Street in an old two-story row house. Wrought-iron café tables dotted the veranda. Inside the entry of the house was an ornate, antique wooden bar defaced with multicolored fliers announcing local music concerts, community events, and apartment rentals. Behind the counter stood a girl with dyed black hair. I thought I recognized her as Chris's friend, someone I'd seen him sitting with in the cafeteria at school. A gold nose ring pierced her nostril and rubber sparkly bracelets lined her forearms. She glared at me as I walked in.

Chris stood at the industrial cappuccino machine and steamed milk. His Levis were holey, his shirt tight around his biceps, and his hair pulled back into a rubber-banded ponytail. There was no other way to describe Chris than he looked hot. Smoking, drool-worthy, hot. I was suddenly excited to see him.

“Can I get you something?” the girl greeted me, unsmiling.

I stared at the chalkboards above her head; the menu was scripted in pink. Chris looked up and smiled.

“She's with me, Lacey,” his deep, monotone voice actually sounded peppy.

Lacey rolled her eyes and turned around, disappearing behind a beaded curtain. I guessed they weren't as close as they'd appeared at lunch.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Chris informed me. “
Recent
ex-girlfriend.” He looked up at a clock hanging on the wall and said, “I'm not on break for another ten minutes.”

“That's okay, I'll wait,” I shifted my backpack to my other shoulder.

“What can I get you to drink? I make a really good hot cocoa,” he smiled, and I realized I wasn't mad at him anymore for dragging me into helping him with his assignment last minute.

“Sounds good.”

“Help yourself to any table. There are two rooms in the back, too. I'll bring it to you when it's done.”

I started to walk away.

“Thanks for coming, Lou,” he called after me.

I was caught off guard by his use of my nickname, but it sounded kind of natural coming from him. I was obliged to Chris for getting me out of the house—even if he was just using me for schoolwork.

I found a little two-top table in one of the corners of a back room. A fire of sorts cracked in the fireplace; it was one of those synthetic logs that made green and blue flames. This place was so beatnik, so hipster, so Chris. A white-waxed candle burned from the inside of a Mason jar on top of a mustard-yellow vintage tablecloth. A Spanish guitar streamed soft Christmas songs from a stereo at the front of the shop.

Chris brought me an oversized mug of liquid chocolate before returning to the front. While I waited, I started thinking about the old man from the museum and about how I wanted to talk to Grandma on the phone. I pulled out my notebook and scribbled:
Who was Gerhard Magnusson? Murderer? Father? Grandfather?
I tapped my pencil on my notebook. So many questions unanswered. Would I ever find out the truth?

Chris joined me at my table, interrupting my thoughts. I stuffed my notepad back into my backpack as he dropped a packet of twelve pages in front of me. Curious, I leafed through them. Twelve completed months, January through December, day-by-day weather reports and forecasts. And the workmanship was good. He'd completed his part of the project.