Signs of You (18 page)

Chapter 19

Family Rule Extension

The moment we climb into the car, it f ills with the sounds of worrying. Noah clicks the door lock in the backseat, I tap the steering wheel as I drive, and Kate digs in her purse beside me. She f inds a pack of Flaming Grape gum and hands out pieces to each of us. For once, Noah and I chomp as loudly as she does.

“I saw, like, three different spirits in my dad last night,” Kate announces through her gum wad. “I think they were all trying to get him to apologize to my mom for being the worst husband in all of recorded history. Of course he didn't.”

I catch Noah's eyes in the rearview mirror. “Did you end up wearing the necklace? You know, when you had it?”

He leans up and rests his chin on the back of my seat. “No. I was tempted, but Peter warned me off it. Said it would drive me crazy, like him. That maybe it would be easier to hear Cam if I wasn't freaking out, you know?”

Kate digs in her purse and gets out more gum. She shoves two more pieces in her mouth. “Is that what's going to happen to
us
?” she asks. “I really, really don't want to end up as the old lady version of
that
guy. Would we all end up living together in a cemetery? Although we could probably parlay that into a reality TV series. We'd be rich. Rich and
cray-cray.
”

“I wouldn't worry,” Noah says with a gentle laugh. “We won't let it. I mean, think about it: a team of professors couldn't decipher the Magis section in the manuscript. But we did. We can f igure out how to make this stop if we keep looking. It's like the word says. There's always more, you know?”

The old lump in my throat appears out of nowhere. Noah leans back. Something burns inside me right then, and I stop my whirling thoughts and listen. What I feel is the urge to climb over the seats and hug Noah more tightly than I've ever hugged anyone. For always lightening the mood, for pulling us back from a total freak-out, for being so full of hope. The feeling I have is . . . just what he said. It's
more
. I want to ask Kate and Noah to look at me; I want to know if a spirit is here. But I think I already know.

“I hope you're right, Noah,” Kate says softly. . . “I hope you're right.”

Jay's shade is pulled
down. And he never
has it pulled down.

“End times,” Kate pronounces. She blows and pops a bubble. “This is
bad
.”

She knocks on the glass. No answer. She tries again. Nothing.

“Front door?” Noah suggests.

“I haven't gone through the front door in, like,
forever
,” I say. “But let's try.”

We hurry around to the front and Noah rings the bell. No answer. Two more rings. Nothing. He tries the door, and it's locked. Dread f ills every part of me. Something's wrong. Maybe he just wants to be alone? Or maybe he's decided to bail and run away? Or worse, has he—

“Wait,” I say, looking at Noah. “Didn't Jay say you know where they hide a key?”

He's already headed straight for the garden, and overturns a little concrete mushroom sculpture. “Bingo,” he says, pulling a key from under the stem.

I really am genuinely shocked that Jay told only Noah about the key. Though I suppose I shouldn't be. I guess we all have secrets, every one of us.

Noah puts the key in the lock and turns. We carefully step inside.

“Jay?” Noah calls. “Mrs. Bell? Hello?”

No answer. We step into the kitchen, then the living room. We head to Jay's bedroom and the door is closed. My stomach clenches.
He was so upset about his dad. We should've gone home with him; we shouldn't have let him be alone.
Noah pushes the door open slowly, and I hold my breath. But he's not here. His laptop is open on his bed; some books are strewn around the f loor. His bed is made and there's no wallet on the dresser.

“Call his phone again,” I say. “See if it rings, if he's left it in here somewhere.”

Kate dials but we don't hear anything. He must have his phone with him. Then why isn't he answering it?

“Where the
hell
is he?” Kate asks. “And why do our guy friends insist on disappearing all the time? Is this a boy thing I don't know about? Disappearing?”

“Anybody know his password?” Noah asks as he sits on the bed. He's turned on Jay's laptop, but it's locked. I crawl on the bed next to him and wager a guess.

“Pink Floyd?” I say.

“Nope,” Noah says after typing it into the password box.

“Totally-clueless-sometimes?” Kate jokes, with no humor in her voice.

Noah moves over just an inch, his hip touching mine. “Here,” he says, moving his shoulder even closer. “I'll be your pillow. Rest while I try about a billion passwords. You look tired.”

So I do. I rest my head on his shoulder and immediately feel guilty because I get the tiniest urge to just . . . stay there.

“Should we really be trying to get into his computer?” I ask. “I feel bad.”

“We're worried about him,” Kate says. “This is just the technology extension of the Family Rule. If we're seriously worried about you, we get to hack into your accounts.”

After blessing Noah's hacking efforts, she starts snooping through Jay's drawers and shelves. Noah tries and fails at password after password. Finally, I force myself off the bed and pace. I accidentally run my toe into Jay's guitar and knock it over. And I hear the clinking of glass. Three mostly empty beer bottles roll across the f loor.

“You guys,” I say, holding them up and sniff ing inside. They smell fresh. There's still a little beer in the bottom of each one. “I think Jay's been drinking.”

“Drinking?” Noah says, looking up from the computer. “He decides it's a good idea to
drink
? At eight in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Kate says, “that's like super cliché. Like a repeating-family-patterns lecture in health class.”

I don't know what to say. She's right. He's always said his dad's drinking is what ruined his whole life. So now he wants to do it, too? I lean down and pick up the guitar. As I put it upright again, memories of Jay playing Pink Floyd on a loop f lood my mind. And I have an idea.

“Try this,” I say. “
Wishuwerehere
. No spaces.”

Noah types away.

“Bingo,” he says. He f lashes a goofy grin at me, but it fades just as fast. The screen lights up. “Let's see. Browser history. This morning Jay searched his dad's name, a few of his dad's archeology books, and Dick's Sporting Goods.”

“He's upset and missing his dad, so he's drinking,” Kate said. “But what could he possibly want at Dick's? Unless they sell guitar strings now?”

“Let's start there,” I say. “Something isn't right.”

Noah sighs and closes the laptop. “So. Looks like we're skipping school again, huh?”

Dick's Sporting Goods is
a remarkable place in that it makes you feel like a slacker the second you walk in. It's massive and freezing and smells like a giant, brand new sneaker. It practically commands you to get in shape. There's aisle after aisle of outdoorsy stuff—tents, lanterns, f ishing gear, rolling coolers, survival kits—arranged as if to induce maximum guilt and to tell you that the people who matter are
outside
all the time, doing all these amazing granola-bar-commercial things. If these tents could talk, I know what they'd say:
Why aren't you
tromping up a mountain and breathing the thin air of high-altitude victory, like all the awesome people?

In my defense, I do have an activity. And it drains me physically and emotionally. But I don't need a four-hundred-dollar backpack to listen for spirits inside my body and try to f igure out what they want from me. I wonder what equipment Dick's could sell for this St. Ignatius spirit-listening sport. Earplugs and blinders so you can listen to the departed even in the worst of conditions? Spirit mood rings that change color depending on who's inhabiting you? Psych ward survival kits for when spirit discernment f inally gets the best of you?

“Jay!” Noah calls out as we search the store. No one answers. We do get a few annoyed looks from the employees, however. I can't blame them. It's obvious we're not here to stock up for a camping trip.

“Guys?” Kate says. “This is the portable camp toilet aisle. I don't think he'd be
here
.”

I head for the exit. “Yeah, let's go.” Maybe he decided to run away, or camp out under the stars? Maybe he came here for a sleeping bag and a lantern? But my worst fear is that he feels so awful about not forgiving his father that he's looking for something more permanent than gear for some time away. Like a rope to fashion a noose. I shake the thought from my head.

“OMG they sell bags you can poop in,” Kate says as she meets me by the door. “Is it wrong that part of me wants to try one?”

“Yes. Wrong,” Noah says, joining us. “Very, very wrong.”

“Jay!” I call out again, desperate.

Noah places his hand on my arm. “He's not here, Riley. Let's try school.”

After scouring the school
parking lot for his car, we drive off before we get spotted and cruise all over town looking. We try his favorite spots: Vintage Vinyl, Patchman's Music Shop. We drive along the river, looking for his car ditched by the road; we drive slowly down the main drag of Brecksville. When we don't f ind him at the bagel place or any of the fast food joints, we exchange silent glances.

This is bad
, I say to myself again.

I think back to what Kate said earlier, about how the boys in our family disappear. She's right; Kate and I have been the most stable ones throughout this whole ordeal. Which makes me sort of proud. And question the stereotype about girls freaking out in a crisis. As far as I can tell, the typical guy response to an emergency is to bail. My Dad, up until last night, anyway, f it that category, too.

“What now?” Kate asks from the passenger seat.

“I don't know,” I say. “I don't know where else to look.”

We pull off the main drag and I absently head back home. But a funny thing happens. When I pass the sign for Arthur's Autobody—the white paint perennially f ilthy and peeling, its logo featuring two guys in overalls tugging at either side of a broken engine—I can't help but think of the boys: Noah on one side and Jay on another.

And I remember coming once here with Mom, too, when our car needed a repair. Wandering down the aisles, staring up at all the silly dashboard decorations . . .

And all at once I am reminded of what I felt last night. I am a door that has just opened.

Now, maybe, I think I have a glimpse of what's on the other side. “I think I need to run into Arthur's,” I hear myself say.

“In
where
?” Kate asks.

“Arthur's,” I say pointing at the sign. Even though we're all worried about Jay, I have to follow through with this. And I have to do it now. “You coming?”

“Um, why?” Noah asks from the backseat. “My dad got a set of radial tires from them and was totally ripped off.”

I hop out and dash into the store without answering. There are racks of air fresheners, bumper stickers, and little things to hang from your rearview mirror. I see miniature dice, beads, and even rosaries. But I know exactly what I'm looking for; I saw it all those years ago with Mom. I approach the counter and speak to the bald dude behind it. His shirt is embroidered with the name Stan.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Um, Stan? I'm looking for—”

“Car broke down?” he interrupts. “Cause mechanics have all gone home for the day.”

“It's not even lunchtime yet,” Noah moans as he joins me at the counter. “And do you know a Mr. Digman? Because he's my dad. And he bought a set of radials in here about a—”

“
Noah
,” I whisper, elbowing him in the side.

“My car didn't break down,” I explain to Stan. “I'm looking for something for my dashboard. You know those little-bobble things? A hula girl. I saw one in here once.”

“A what?” Stan asks.

“You know, those little hula girls that jiggle when you drive? You stick them on the dash? You used to have them . . .”

“Oh, yeah,” Stan says gruff ly. “I think we still have one. But she's broke. Took her off the shelves a while ago. She's in the back. Hang on.” He disappears through a Staff Only door that swings in his wake.

“Why are we getting a hula girl?” Kate whispers.

“I'll explain later.”

Stan reappears with a small ratty box. He opens it up and pulls out the even rattier looking hula girl. Still, she's pretty much as I remember her: she has long frazzled black hair, a chipped red bikini top, and a frayed hula skirt. And she's in one piece.

“Sell her to you for three bucks,” Stan says.

“Wait,” Kate says. She takes the hula girl and turns her over. “Riley, do we need her to stick on the dash? Like, do we need this hula girl to be functional? Because the sticky stuff on the bottom is totally not sticky
anymore.”

“Excellent eye,” I say. I turn back to Stan. “Throw in some duct tape and you've got a deal.”

“Deal,” Stan says. He roots around under the counter and pulls out a big roll of silver duct tape. He pulls off a couple of inches, loops it back on itself and slaps it on the bottom of the hula girl. “There,” he says. “She'll stick like glue and jiggle like a crazy woman.”

“She's perfect.” I hand over the money.

We ride back to
my house in silence. We've run out of places to look for Jay, and we've run out of ideas. I know what we're all afraid of.

After I cut the engine, we sit in the car. “You don't think?” Noah says. “I mean, he was so upset when we left. But he wouldn't do anything crazy . . . would he?”