II

The first time Ava went missing, I was in eighth grade, and it took Dad four days to own up and say that Mom was lying, and Ava was indeed not at my grandparents' place a few towns over. She was in grade eleven and that was her first time in the Farmhouse, and the last I thought.

She was put in the hospital for alcohol poisoning, Noah came to us that day to tell us. By the time I saw her again, it’d been a week. I can remember walking into her shared hospital room with two old people who moaned and cried about gibberish -- Ava doesn’t have to be here, with them, I thought. I had used one of her nail polish shades while she was gone, and it was along the sides of my nails. My fingers, wrapped around her phone, were shaking despite my grip.

“Here,” I said, dropping the phone on the bed, “I bought this for you. Noah gave it to me.”

“No thanks, Lotty.” Her tone is sharp. She turns back to Mom who stands with her arms crossed and her hair limp, she hadn’t been pleased that we had to come before she could finish getting ready. “Get out,” she grumbles. “This is bad enough.”

The next time, she turned up in Toronto, a city of about a million a two-hours drive away. For once, Mom and Dad agreed on something, so I wasn’t told any of the specifics. All I know is that Noah wasn’t with her.

Ethan’s rusting truck sprays muds up onto the side windows and my stomach lurches. My hand latches onto the handle and Ethan ignores my concern, while he maneuvers us out of a flooded hole along the once dirt road.

“Careful!” I shriek, as more mud lands on the windshield. The wipers don’t do a good job of clearing it.

“No more comments,” Ethan says, “please.”

Agitated, I just look at him.

I guess the ‘no talking’ was only for me because he speaks again no more than thirty seconds later. “You have an umbrella right?”

I slump. What an idiot I am. “No sorry, I forgot.”

“No worries.” His tone is sarcastic. “I’m sure the rain will stop just for you.” Despite his harsh words, he doesn’t seem genuinely upset. I suppose, he can’t be: I’m wearing a raincoat, he’s wearing a hoodie.

I chew the inside of my lip, waiting for the truck to stop. I zip up my jacket to my throat and throw the hood over my head. Opening the door, I don’t see if Ethan is doing the same, right now, I don’t really care if he is.

My feet land in a puddle up to my mid calves and some water makes it into the top of my boot. With sloshing socks, and teary eyes, I make my way towards the dark silhouette of the farmhouse. The sun has set, though some light remains through the forest in the distance, as twilight hasn’t ended.

I click my flashlight on as Ethan’s sloshing feet get closer to me. At the porch, I yell over the rain: “How are we going to get in?” The front door is boarded and so too are some of the windows. Some are just smashed.

Ethan follows the beam of my flashlight with his eyes. “You stay here. I’ll check around back.” Before I could say we have all the time in the world and that we can go around the house together, he’s down and off the rickey porch. I turn back to the house as Ethan retreats into the darkness. Oh Amelia, this wasn’t a good idea. Ethan Stock? He’s a good company as a corpse.

What I assume to be the once white siding had chipped, and been dirtied after years of neglect and heavy rain. Much like the pillars supporting the overhang I stand under, I don’t know if I should touch it.

The wind whips around me, yanking hair from my braid to blind me; I stumble practically blindly towards to house, arms stretched out. Chilled and tired, I follow the support of the brick wall as I search for a way in.

A window with shattered glass and a rotting frame sits only a few feet away. Some pieces still stick out, their jagged edges making me debate finding Ethan and telling him I didn’t find a way in. No, this is fine, I’ll get in here.

Pulling my sleeve down over my fist, I knock out most of the remaining glass. I lift my foot and place it on the window frame -- it squishes under the weight -- and grab my flashlight with my mouth as I stabilize myself, hands gripping the sides. Lifting myself in, there’s a pain up my arm, then a snag as the glass rips a piece of my jacket.

Grabbing the flashlight with my good hand, I shine it towards my left arm: there’s a bloodied line spreading about three inches between my elbow and shoulder. The blood drips around my arm, covering my yellow jacket maron. “Goddamnit,” I growl to myself.

I try not to breath through my nose, really not wanting to inhale mold or asbestos. Beneath the beam of light, there’s smashed beer bottles and trash. Destroyed camping lanterns and sleeping bags decorate the garbage.

“Water?” Ethan calls from outside. “Where are you?”

“In here.” I make my way back to the window, he’s there, looking in towards me. Hair soaked, glasses disgusting, nearly slipping from the bridge of his nose.

He approaches the window but halts, and my flashlight follows his line of sight. A spear of glass coated with blood sticks out proudly. Stomach aching, I take a small step back, the blood along my arm suddenly seems hot. He’ll surely make us leave if he sees the gash: he’s callouse but not an idiot, I could surely get some infection or tetanus in here.

“Come in,” I say, “the coast is clear.”

He pushes away the glass then double checks that it’s all gone, before crouching into the farmhouse. He doesn’t ask but I pass him my flashlight and let him lead his search. Hands free now, I can put pressure on the gash.

“This place is nasty,” I say. “I don’t know how Ava could stay here.”

Ethan bends down to pick up a sleeping bag. He passes it to me, I know the bag and the handwriting on the tag he look at. It’s my Dad’s sleeping bag from his camping days.

“Ava made it this way.” That shuts me up.

He moves to take it back from me but I jerk back, holding it to my body. It wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve done because Ethan gets a glimpse of my blood, which has now made a trail down to my fingers.

He grabs my forearm and twists it to get a glimpse of the cut, I don’t look at it, I prefer to look past him. “We should go,” I say.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“There were more pressing matters,” I insist.

“Are you going to faint?” he asks. “I can’t have another Waters sister disappearing.” He drops my arm and tosses the sleeping bag back onto the heap of garbage.

“Are you threatening to put me down?”

“No, just to leave you bleed out in the fields. Tell me, Waters, ever wanted to be a farmer’s worst nightmare?”

Through the house, through the window, through the rain and mud, we make it back to the car. Ethan had offered his hoodie to cover the wound, something about ‘rainwater being absolutely disgusting’ so he now only sports a T-shirt.

In the truck, I lay his sweatshirt over the seat, not wanting to get blood all over it. He protests and tells me to worry more about bleeding out on his seat and dying over a ‘bit of blood’. I use practically an entire tissue box to wipe the blood from my arm, hands, shirt, and even on my face. Soon, the backseat is flooded with red tissues, his hoodie, my jacket, and my knit sweater. I’m down to just my black undershirt, and a makeshift bandage made of a spare shirt he had in his glove box.

Ethan’s in a sort of daze, driving around back roads slowly as to give me as much time as I need and to not get stuck in the growing amounts of mud every second it continues to rain.

“You’re going to need stitches,” he says. “Or medical attention.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I say. “I’ve seen worse.” I really haven’t but it seemed like something that would reassure him. I was wrong.

His face turns towards me, an unreadable look on his face. Then, as quickly as he looked to me, he looks back to the road.

“We can start heading back to my house now,” I say, following his actions and looking only to the dark road ahead. “I best not be out too late, my Mom will worry.” I don’t know if ‘worry’ is the right word.

He nods.

I clench my jaw. “And thanks for your help.”

“It was a pleasure.” He’s sharp.

“Are you always this sarcastic?” I ask, not really taking his mood into account.

Ethan shakes his head, some of the tenseness gone. “Sometimes I sleep. Not often though.”

A thumping on my door wakes me; I roll over, only to swear under my breath when my weight falls on my left arm. I sit up, only to fall back face down onto my pillows when I see the brightness of my room -- I forgot to close my blinds last night.

“Get up, Charlotte!” Mom yells, her knocking ceasing only for her voice. “You’re going to be late!”

I hesitate before responding, sitting up for real this time, my feet find the floor. I don’t mirror her tone when I respond: “Sorry. I’ll be down in a minute for breakfast.”

“No,” Mom clips, “you should have thought about that before you slept in. Now hurry up, or you can forget about your lunch money too.”

Her heeled shoes recede and I’m left to debate how worthwhile it is to actually get up today. I decide, after only contemplating for a second, that it isn’t worth it, but too bad. I get up, head the to the washroom, fix the bandage, brush my hair, and then return to my room to get dressed.

I should learn to keep my backpack in my bedroom.

At the kitchen table, Dad wears his black shirt and slacks, his clerical collar on his neck. In his hand is the mug of foul herbal tea he drinks every morning and every night. A ritual, he calls it. A waste of cupboard space, I call it.

As I expected, at the head of the table, there’s no placemat. I’m without breakfast this morning. Mom comes behind me and takes her normal spot across from mine, a steaming mug of black coffee in her hand. I grip the back of Dad’s chair.

“Morning,” he says, “I hope dress shopping went alright -- you got back quite late.” Dad sips his tea, and I know that unlike mom, he wants me to speak.

“Yeah.” I eye his omelette. “We got stuck in the mud.”

“As long as you and that car of Amelia’s are alright.”

I drop my hand from the top of his chair and head to the kitchen, where I assemble my bag for the day. Too, there are dishes to be done. I’m not done reaching my backpack when Mom speaks, her voice low but purposeful:

“The Weber brothers were arrested last night. Again,” she says, running her finger along the edge of her mug. “Shameful boys.”

“Where’d you hear that, dear?” Dad asks, though with fake interest.

I continue to pack my bag: binder, textbook, pencil case.

“Word travels fast, I suppose.” Her hubris turns to me: “You remember the Webers don’t you, Charlotte? Noah and Blake.”

Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I say, “They’re unforgettable. You’ll be happy to hear I have no classes with Blake.”

Mom’s lips tighten and I’m left with my eyes so wide they burn dry as I await her response. “Stay away from that boy.”

“Do you even know him?” I ask quietly, making my way to the fridge to grab a water bottle. “He’s not Noah. I wouldn’t be so quick to judge him, you could be arrested for being an atheist in this town.”

Mom stands and her coffee spills onto the table, then down onto the floor. “And I wouldn’t be so quick to defend him. You’ve not spoken to him in four years, be careful before you blindly care for people!” She’s venom and it’s me she’s after.

“Nora,” Dad warns, “sit down.”

“Charlotte Ann Waters, I am your mother and you will obey me when I tell you never talk to Blake or Noah Weber.” I want her to put her hand in her boiling coffee. I want her to shut up, so I make her.

“You’re right,” I admit, barely above a whisper.

“I can’t hear you,” she says.

“You’re right!” I yell, slamming the fridge.

She exhales and sits down, her dress pants having narrowly avoided her coffee. “That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

She huffs again, reaching across the table for a napkin. Or a handful. “Mayor Scythe and Sheriff Stockholm say ‘they’re just youth’, but they’re not. Those boys are stupid, don’t be like them, Charlotte.”

I bow my head, Yes, Mom. I’d speak if my simmering insides could calm down before the awkwardness sets in. Based on the look in Mom’s eyes, it’s not worth it.

I grab my backpack and my water bottle and wait on the porch, Amelia’s due here in ten minutes anyway.

Without fail, Tuesdays are always worse than Mondays. That fact turned out to be true when my Trig substitute was a bag of bones with a temper worse than my mom, and when Amelia asked me what happened to my arm after she gave me a hug -- because she knew I was crying when she picked me up -- and I couldn’t come up with a good explanation so she now thinks Mom hits me, and when I realized Mom had, in fact, taken my lunch money from my wallet. And my debit card.

“I’m not that hungry,” I say, stashing my wallet back in my bag. “I’ll find us a table or something.”

Amelia turns to me, still walking towards the cafeteria, she says, “Okay, but if I buy some fries would you help yourself.”

I can’t help but smile. “As long as there’s-”

“No ketchup, I know.”

I slow down when I notice the black-clad figure leaning against a locker. Amelia playfully claps me on the back: “He called you last night, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he did,” I say, watching him scroll on his phone.

“Good thing. I was worried he wouldn’t.” Amelia tightens the straps of her backpack. “Text me if you still want those fries.”

Then she leaves, and I’m alone, trying to figure out if I should go to Ethan or not. I decide I should.

“Hey,” I say as I cross the hall. “Longtime no see.”

He looks up and for a second, I can tell he’s wondering to whom I’m speaking. It isn’t until I’m right beside him that he knows it’s him my words are directed at.

He looks over his shoulder then mine. Quietly, he demands, “Why are you here?”

I drop my act of confidence. “To talk to you?”

“Not here with me, here at school. Shouldn’t you be resting or something?” Ethan makes an attempt to cover his face with the binder in his hand.

“Oh right, last night.” I’m not as dense as he thinks I am. I’m fully aware of his anxiety. I lower my voice, “Say, what do you think the student body would think if they saw us talking?” Truthfully, I don’t think anyone besides Mom would care, but there’s a sense of fun in frustrating the boy in front of me.

Ethan’s not as dense as I’d like to think he is. He straightens up, dropping his binder to his waist. I decide to talk before he gets a chance, if he and I keep going at it, we’ll never get anywhere.

“I’m going to talk to Blake Weber. He’ll know something.”

Hoping Ethan does as I want, I stand up off the locker and start to walk down the hallway. It’s cleared significantly since I first spotted him here, but not so that if Ethan were to leave me walk away it wouldn’t draw eyes.

He catches up to me. “He won’t know as much as Noah.”

Trying not to cringe at the time. With false conviction -- the only kind I know -- I say, “That’s what I’m hoping.”