Spiral (16 page)

“Are you kidding me?!” I finally shout. My car – my beautiful car – soiled with the grossest, slimiest substance in the world. The sight alone makes me wretch, not to mention the smell.

I can only think of three possible, logical culprits: Claudia, Chloe, and my newest nemesis, Cherie.

“Which one of you did it?” I bellow, storming through the front door of the house. My strides eat the ground beneath my feet as I soar toward the stairs.

“Jack?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “What’s wrong, honey?”

I’m so angry that my voice rumbles through the house like thunder. “My car! They egged my car; there’s yolk all over the hood – whoever did it is dead!”

Mom’s nose scrunches. “What? I’m not following, dear.”

“Go look!” I command, pointing to the front door. “Someone trashed my whole car with eggs! It’s one of the girls – or all of them. You’ve got to do something, now! Or I will.”

Jim appears in the foyer, his hands resting on his waist, looking me over like I’ve gone nuts. “What happened?”

I grind my answer out between my teeth, “Your niece happened. My car’s covered in eggs!”

Neither of them seems to believe me. “Let me see,” Jim says, and he follows me out to the driveway. He pauses in mid-step when he sees my beautiful, black coupe polka dotted with white egg shells and dripping with slimy yellow yolk.

His first question doesn’t surprise me. “How do you know this was Cherie?”

“Really?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest and pitying his uselessness as a father and as an intelligent adult. “If it wasn’t her, it was your daughters.”

“Well, I know you’re convinced it’s one of the girls, Jack, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s just some crazy fan of Cherie’s or some of those paparazzi folk.”

Paparazzi folk
. I’m reasoning with someone who calls them “paparazzi folk.” I hang my head and rub my eyes with my hand to avoid grabbing the man and shaking sense into him.

“I guess we can check the video surveillance cameras,” he says suddenly, and I look up.

“Huh?”

“The property has a pretty good security system of cameras. I haven’t really tinkered much with them yet, but we can do it together if it will help us get to the bottom of this,” he says with a smirk. I want to punch the smirk off of his face.

But I’m willing to do anything to catch one of those rats in the act. After her threats this afternoon, I can’t think of a guiltier party than Cherie.

“Fine. Let’s go,” I reply.

Jim leads me to his study, which used to be his brother’s study, based on the nameplate on the desk. One wall is covered with full, oak book shelves that span from the floor to the ceiling. The other walls are garnished with family photos, awards and trophies belonging to Cherie, and her parents’ college degrees.

“Let’s see here.” Jim turns a giant computer monitor on an angle and double clicks on a small icon in the bottom left corner of the screen. I lean down and peer over his shoulder.

The screen instantly divides into 8 squares, each displaying a corner of the massive property. I can see the heads of some neighbors walking past the front gate, the entire pool area in the back, the garage, the driveway, and two gardened portions on the sides of the house. I marvel at this little piece of technology and exchange awed glances with Jim.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he says. I nod, and I watch him nimbly type and click his way into the main controls of the videos. He manipulates the square showing the driveway and makes it rewind, but he goes back to two days ago.

“Too far,” he mutters, adjusting the playback over and over as he skips forward and back in time. I’m growing impatient, already past the fascination with the cameras and refocused on the witch hunt for my car’s vandal.

“Well, this is just a few hours ago,” he murmurs. My eyes flicker around the screen, hopeful for a glimpse of something. Wouldn’t it be my luck that my car is just beyond the periphery of the camera’s point of view? I can see my front bumper and that’s it.

“Ugh. Of course,” I groan.

“Hold on, let’s watch and see if anyone walks by,” he suggests. He speeds up the video, and I watch intently, hoping for a glimpse of something viable. The only thing we see is a dark shadow that flickers past the screen like a ghost in a horror movie.

“What the – come on!”

“Look,” Jim sighs, defeated. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, okay? I will talk to them about this, but you and I both know they’re going to deny it. I can’t punish them for something I can’t prove, especially when there are a lot of sick people out there who would do this out of anger or jealousy toward you.”

I stare at him. “Huh? Me? Like who?”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Well, people who don’t like Cherie would do this, but it’s more likely people who do like her and are mad at you because they think you’re her boyfriend.”

My chest tightens instantly. “How do you know about that?” I demand, feeling the back of my neck burn.

Jim shrugs. “I see the news and the magazines in the stores, Jack. It’s impossible to ignore. I just ask that you keep things like that in mind before you blame the girls for crazy things like this. I know they like to tease you, but I don’t think they’d go as far as to throw eggs at your car.”

“You don’t know Cherie that well,” I mutter under my breath, still unwilling to believe that some nutty stalker is so obsessed with Cherie that he or she would take it out on
my
innocent car.

His mouth twists to the side. “I know this whole thing has been rough on you, kiddo. It can’t be fun to have your name in the papers and stuff, and then things like this happen and you don’t know who is to blame. The other day, I found a stuffed animal covered in red paint in the mailbox with some death threat attached to it, addressed to Cherie.”

“What? That’s nuts!” I shake my head at the gruesome picture in my mind. “Did you call the cops?”

“Of course, but it’s not the first time I’ve received something like that unfortunately,” he sighs. “And the cops, they’ll investigate and find some sicko who hates that she wears fur. So, you see, it’s possible the girls didn’t do this. Just try to take it all in stride, okay? It was probably some nutcase with a crush on her. How they got the eggs over the gate, I’m not sure…but I’ll look into that in the morning….”

He squints up at my doubting frown. “Can we squash it for now at least?”

I purse my lips and nod. “Yeah.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder as he stands and says, “C’mon, I’ll help you clean the car off.”

I
can’t pretend it doesn’t give me just the slightest bit of satisfaction that it’s raining today and the twins can’t go to Venice Beach, a venture they desperately wanted and begged Jim to do. It took their father and me two hours to clean the eggs off of my car, eggs I’m still convinced those girls are responsible for. Last night, as I was picking shells off the middle of its roof, I realized I was conveniently parked below Chloe’s bedroom window. If my car was a dartboard, my roof was practically her bulls eye.

So this morning, when I glanced out my window and was met by gray skies and fog, I actually laughed out loud. It wasn’t the type of Karma I really wanted them to encounter, but it was good enough for now. Unfortunately, I had no one to share the perfect moment with.

That’s when I realized I had slept alone for the first time in years. Britney wasn’t there to jump on me or force me to cater to her whims or whimper that she needed me to follow her to the bathroom because she was scared. Mom wasn’t coming in to remove her from my bed and get her ready for breakfast or school. She and Jim actually kept their promise and made Britney stay inside.

Oddly, I was kind of bummed.

When I first settled in to go to sleep, I tossed and turned for a good hour. I checked the door, opened it and closed it, just to make sure Britney wasn’t wandering around the pool in the dark. I put the TV back on and watched highlights from the Knick game on ESPN for a little. It must have been almost 2 o’clock in the morning before I finally fell asleep.

The silence in the room is deafening. There are no arguments or shrieks of discontent outside my door. My mother’s big band music and Jim’s NPR blah-blahing radio can’t be heard for miles. Brenton isn’t asking me to play with him.

I could get used to this. I immediately put the TV on and hang out in bed, because what else is there to do on a crappy day during winter recess? It isn’t like I have to be at school yet.

School. Just the thought of the word gives me a chill. Mom and I are going in extra early next Monday to get me registered for my classes. I’m consumed by the realization that I don’t know this building, I don’t know these teachers, and I certainly don’t have any friends there. I will be on my own, except for the twins, who are definitely going to drop me like a bad habit the second some tool says hello to them.

I turn over and reach for my cellphone to flip through pictures. The first few pictures are from my going away party. I linger over one of Josh and Frank performing a keg stand, smiling at the memory. I forward it to them along with the message, “Thanks a lot for the party.”

When they don’t respond immediately, I’m sort of confused. Usually, I’m the one who is slow to text responses. I send them a few pictures of my new room and tell them about all the cool things Jim put in it. No response. I wait and wait, watching for their replies, but then I remember that California is three hours behind New York time. School also started for them this week. Mom planned our trip out perfectly so I wouldn’t have to miss a day of classes in either state.
Thanks, Mom.

The thought of my mom gets my stomach growling, which encourages me out of bed. I brush my teeth and, for the first time in a long time, take my time in the bathroom. When I am finally ready to leave the casita, I find a folded note on the floor just beneath my door. I scan it quickly.

Jack – Went shopping. Be back by 3. Please finish unpacking.

“Sure thing,” I mutter to myself. I look out at the house. Does that mean the girls went with them? Is it possible I can explore the castle freely? I decide to take my chances and cross from the patio to the kitchen door. When I slide the door open, I poke my head inside and listen. Nothing.

“There is a god,” I whisper. I close the door behind me and immediately raid the fridge. I glower at a near empty carton of eggs. Below them, there are a few pieces of string cheese and some apples, so I grab one of each for my journey and begin to explore.

I wander around the quiet house, strolling through the long halls and staring up at the high ceilings. Along the walls, Mark and Camille have placed a gallery of expensive-looking paintings and family portraits. Often, they are pictures of Cherie. Sometimes they are stills of her in her TV show, and sometimes they are regular kid pictures made to look fancy on large canvases. Despite how much I don’t like her right now, I can’t ignore how gorgeous she is when she smiles. I haven’t seen her smile since the night she came home wasted with Carl, which seems like years ago now.

She never even thanked me for taking care of her drunk ass that night,
I think bitterly. She passed out on me after demanding I stay, and I never had the gumption to get up and leave. I must have sat on the basement floor for hours, fading in and out of consciousness, listening to her breathe, my arm stretched out so that she could hold my one finger inside of her fist. I’m a sucker and an idiot. I was hoping I’d earn myself a one-way ticket back into her good graces that night, but no such luck. I went upstairs before she even woke up, and then somehow she was ushered out and onto a plane before I could see her. I don’t even know if she is aware that I helped her. If she is, she still hates me enough that nothing I did for her even mattered.

Cherie will hold my words against me forever, and now this casita business has really cemented her distaste for me. Cherie hates me so much that I don’t think there is any way we can get back to being friends again.

Shaking my head, I continue down the hallway to the elaborate staircase. I make my way up to the second floor, which is huge. The rooms are all pretty far apart from each other, and now I have no idea what Cherie is complaining about. This is more than twice the size of our home back in New York.

She has no idea what it means to not have privacy!
I think bitterly.

I walk through each room, marveling at the size of each one and how every bedroom gets its own bathroom. One room is hunter green and full of Brenton’s toys. The bed is well-made, complete with a brand new comforter dotted with rockets and moons. A poster of the planets hangs just above his bed, and a giant telescope faces a broad window.

“Looks like we all got an upgrade,” I murmur, examining the telescope closely. It’s hefty and expensive, and perfect for nerdy Brenton. I’ll bet he could rattle off the model number and everything. I lean down and peer into the eyepiece. I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but I know it’s something in space. I wonder if it’s only a matter of time before Brenton starts using this to spy on girls in neighboring houses.

Brenton must have gone nuts when he saw this gift. I step back and shake my head, realizing we may have all received bribe gifts that would take the sting away from being uprooted.

Next to Brenton’s room is a pink, frilly room designed with Britney in mind, I’m sure. I’m positive when I see the ridiculously big dollhouse in the corner. It looks custom made to match this house, as if Cherie passed down her own dollhouse to my sister.

That’s all I need,
I think bitterly.
A mini-Cherie
.

My old Care Bear is sitting merrily atop the watermelon colored bed and snuggled against more pillows than any one child should need. On her white dresser is something that looks like a walkie talkie. I can only conclude that this baby monitor contraption must be Jim and Mom’s big plan to keep Britney trapped in her pink prison.

“Good luck with that,” I scoff, turning the monitor over in my hand.

Much further down the hall are two rooms, side by side, covered in clothes and half-hung posters and smelling familiar of sugary perfumes and flowery body lotions. I shudder and keep moving, not even curious enough to look inside of the twins’ rooms to see what lavish presents Jim and Mom gave to them. Much to my delight, I find Jim and Mom are taking up residence in the bedroom across the hall from the twins. Jim must be prepared to keep a close eye on his menacing daughters. I can’t help but laugh.