When They Fade (7 page)

But thankfully, Scott doesn't go there. He just nods like driving forty minutes out of the way for a mocha is something he does all the time. In fact, he does, considering he's the one with the job way out here. There are plenty of places closer where he could earn a paycheck.

“Well, I'd better get back to work,” he says as he looks over his shoulder, where the female server stares off into space. “I'll ask my grandma about the ghost. She'll love the idea of someone writing a story. She'll probably demand to read it.”

“Thanks again. Have fun.”

Scott turns and begins to walk away. Pausing briefly, he almost turns back to her, but then something must make him decide otherwise. Swishing the broom across the floor, he does a little dance step to the Nirvana song playing over the speaker. He looks back at her and winks. Tatum grins before she can stop herself.

Be careful.

No, maybe everyone in the world isn't out to get her after all. Maybe Tatum's been wrong about Scott all this time. Perhaps he isn't a loner, just more of the shy, silent type. She looks at the back of his Hendrix shirt and decides she likes the way his jeans fit. Also, he's wearing a kick-ass pair of Docs. Black with bright blue laces. Maybe if she hadn't listened to Claudette she might have given Scott the time of day much sooner.

But can she trust anyone?

Sighing, she slams her laptop closed and shoves it in her bag. Today's been nothing but wasted time. No, that's not completely true. Hopefully, Scott will be able to find out some information.

What she needs is a chance to talk to Molly again. She grabs her things and heads for the door. She'll be home early for supper, and Mom will be thrilled. And after it's dark, she's going to have to take a drive out to Frog Road again.

“What do you think?”

They were hanging in the bathroom during lunch. Claudette was staring at herself in the mirror, trying out a new lipstick. Dark red. She smacked her lips together a few times before applying a second coat.

“It's hot,” Tatum said without really looking. Juniper had just sent her a text, wondering where the hell they were. She had snagged the good table, and the cafeteria was serving burritos that looked like rancid crap. Not a good visual. But it would have to do; she'd already tossed the lunch Mom packed for her. There was only so much tofu a girl could take.

“So Barry and I are going to spend the night together on Friday. His wife is taking the kids down to visit the grandparents, and he'll have the house all to himself. Can you believe it? An entire night together.”

“What about last weekend?”

Claudette sighed dramatically and tossed the lipstick in her bag. Although she'd checked when they first came in, she bent down a second time to make sure the bathroom stalls were empty. A sure sign that something especially juicy was about to come from her lips.

“Last weekend we spent at that motel that smelled like dead fish,” she said. “Sure it was fun and Barry bought me those roses, but it's not the same. This is going to be at his place. In his bed! Oh God, Tatum, I'm going to be lying right where his wife sleeps. How weird is that?”

“I thought you said they don't sleep together.”

“They don't. Not
that
way. But I'm pretty sure they don't have separate rooms. Besides…” Claudette moved in closer until her lips were practically touching Tatum's cheek. “You and I sleep together all the time too. Does that mean you're my girlfriend?” She planted a big sloppy kiss on Tatum.

Tatum laughed and swatted her away. “Okay, point taken. But still, you're right. That is weird. I wouldn't be comfortable at all.”

“Oh, I plan on being very comfortable.” Claudette grinned. “And in the morning I'll make breakfast for him in bed. It'll be super romantic.”

“You can't cook.”

“That's so beside the point.”

Tatum's phone beeped, but she put it in her bag instead of checking. Juniper would have to wait. “What are you going to say to your mom?”

“Mom thinks I'm spending the night with you,” Claudette said.

“I don't know,” Tatum said. “What if she calls?”

“She won't.” Claudette rolled her eyes before turning back to the mirror. “We've had a hundred sleepovers. A thousand. She's never called once. You're worrying about nothing.”

Tatum nodded. Claudette was right. That was one of the best things about having such a close friend. They spent so much time together, their parents didn't bother checking up on them anymore. It had worked to their advantage more than once: going to parties, staying out past curfew, using the whole
We were just hanging out watching movies
routine.

“I guess it's okay,” Tatum said. She didn't add that they'd made plans for Friday night and Claudette had obviously forgotten. Tatum didn't blame her and wasn't angry; she knew how easy it was to forget when a guy was involved.

“Everything will be fine,” Claudette said. “You'll see.” She paused and looked Tatum carefully in the eyes. “Are you okay? You're not going to say anything, are you?”

“No. No, of course not.” Tatum swallowed, worried that her face might be giving away her disapproval. “But…”

“But what?”

Tatum swallowed again. She had to tread carefully. Claudette wasn't always rational when it came to thinking things over. “Don't you think you're going really fast with this? I think it's cool and all, but what if someone finds out? You could get in a lot of trouble.”

“No one's going to find out anything,” Claudette said with a frown. “Unless you tell them. You're the only one who knows.”

“What happens in the summer when Mr. Paracini leaves his wife? They'll all know then.”

“I'll be eighteen,” Claudette said. “It won't really matter what they think then.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Tatum thought that line of reasoning was blurry, but there wasn't any point in trying to convince Claudette. Turning eighteen and immediately going off with a man would give the impression that something had happened way before her legal birth date. And something like that could easily land Mr. Paracini in trouble. If he was taking all these precautions to keep the whole thing secret, why would he suddenly be open about it?

Tatum had her doubts, but she chose not to say anything. Why burst Claudette's happiness? Even if nothing ever came of it, hopefully her friend would find some new guy to attach herself to. Claudette wasn't exactly known for sticking with a guy for more than six months anyway. No, best to stay quiet and let her get it out of her system.

“But enough talk about me,” Claudette said as she tapped Tatum in the chest. “We need to find you a man next. Someone mature. Super hot. None of these high school boys. I'm telling you, Tate, there's nothing like an older man.”

“I dunno,” Tatum said. “Mr. Paracini's almost old enough to be your dad. You don't find that weird?”

“The difference between Barry and other people my dad's age is that Barry is hot. He's Brad Pitt hot. There's something to be said about older men. They have far more experience. And they aren't going to leave you unsatisfied in the back of their mom's car. Really, Tatum, don't knock it till you try it.”

Tatum shrugged. Claudette definitely had a lot more experience than her when it came to the opposite sex. But Tatum found boys her own age to be intimidating enough. She didn't think she could ever go after an older man. Especially someone like Mr. Paracini. Even if he was divorcing his wife, Tatum still felt like he and Claudette were doing something wrong. She remembered how upset Claudette had been when she'd found out Graham had cheated on her with a sophomore. It ended up being a huge fight in the parking lot, with Claudette almost slapping the braces off the poor terrified girl in question. According to Graham, they'd only kissed. But it was enough for Claudette to cause the scene to end all scenes.

Being married was a whole lot more complicated than simply kissing a sophomore. And even if they were no longer in love, Tatum was positive that Mr. Paracini's wife wouldn't be that thrilled about Claudette spending the night in her bed.

“Don't look so worried,” Claudette said. “It's not like you have to date a man like Barry. You could go after a college guy. Then you can spend weekends cruising the dorms and kegger parties.”

“Yeah,” Tatum said. “That sounds more my speed.”

“It'll be happening soon enough. Six more months till graduation. I can't wait to get out of this hellhole. No more small town. I sure won't look back. Just think of all the stuff we're going to do. You just have to get into UDub. Then you can come over on weekends and visit us on the boat. Did I tell you about that? We're gonna spend the summer sailing down to Mexico. Just Barry and I.”

“Yeah, you might have mentioned it a few hundred times.” It bothered Tatum that Claudette no longer included herself in the college talks. Since she started seeing Barry, she didn't seem to think she needed it anymore. All the discussions about courses and careers had been swept under the rug. Instead Claudette would launch into the boat story, about how she and Barry would live at the docks and spend their free time searching out white sand beaches. Tatum hoped it was a phase. Claudette always had a one-track mind. She was too busy thinking about summer to focus on fall. Things would change once she got it all out of her system. Tatum couldn't blame her. Sailing down to Mexico with the man of her dreams sounded pretty darn good.

“I'm just so excited. I love boats. Oh my God. Sailing and sex. That's my future, Tatum. Lots and lots of sex.” Claudette tossed her hair behind her, looking like she'd just stepped off a runway in Milan. She spun around for Tatum, singing off-key, “If the boat's a-rocking, don't come a-knocking.” She grabbed her friend by the arms and tried to bring Tatum into her dance.

“Nice.”

The phone in Tatum's bag began to ring.

“Come on,” Claudette said. “Juniper's gonna have a heart attack.” She put her arm around Tatum and gave her a big hug. “Thanks so much for doing this for me. You're the only one I can trust. What would I do without you?”

Mom and Dad go to a movie that night. It's one Tatum actually wants to see, but she declines, saying she's got too much homework. She waits until they leave before grabbing her coat and car keys.

She drives up and down Frog Road about ten times before finally admitting defeat. Wherever Molly is tonight, it's not on the road.

Time may not be passing in our world, but I know the days are slipping by where I'm needed. I sit on the log and watch the Canadian girl appear and disappear several times. When she's here, she rocks back and forth, talking quietly to herself. I don't dare try and get close enough to listen. As I said, she's angry, and she might start a fight. She haunts her record studio every single night, or so everyone says. That means that since I've started watching her, almost an entire week has gone by.

Is Tatum still alive? I wish I could get a handle on this. I've spent all this time Fading back and forth, and I've never really wondered what happens after I disappear from people's cars. How many people did I actually help? Or hurt? I think back to the first: that nice salesman. I wonder if he went home and accused his wife of cheating. Maybe he decided that such things were beyond what he wanted to know. Either way, I hope I didn't hurt him. He was such a nice man. He deserved better.

We all do.

I try and think about what I know about Tatum. Sadly, it's practically nothing. She looked like an average girl. Pretty. Not the sort who might get herself into trouble. There's nothing to suggest she's a bad girl. Of course, I wouldn't have any way of knowing. I'm living in the past. I'm a relic. Back in my day, “bad girls” were the ones who wore too much makeup and hung around with the boys at the garage. There used to be one girl in particular—she was always the one parents used as an example when warning their children. I can't remember her name, but I met her once. She wore shirts that showed cleavage and she had a loud, harsh laugh. She used to smoke cigarettes and go out drinking with the guys on weekends. When I was younger, I remember trying to figure out what made her bad. She didn't seem like trouble. She seemed lonely to me. Like all she wanted in life was to be loved. She moved away when I turned thirteen, so I never found out what happened to her.

Is Tatum like her? “Bad”? Is she the girl parents lecture their kids about? No matter how many times I think about our short conversation, I can't see it. In a way, Tatum reminds me of myself. If you had told me I'd be the kind of girl to end up dead in a field, I wouldn't have believed it.

Did I become a warning? Was I the example of what happens to young girls who run away with the boys they love?

Parker came back a while ago. Before I could question him, he said he needed to go spend some time in the woods. He followed the path down to the right of the lake, and the trees swallowed him up. I want to go looking for him, but Mary talks me out of it.

“Who knows where he is. Them woods go on forever. You'd be chasing after your own tail. He'll be back soon enough.”

“He knows something,” I say. “He said so himself. That some things can be changed.”

“Then you'll just have to wait till he gets his cryptic arse back.”

I am too restless. I stand up and sit back down on the log several times. I even try walking around our little beach. I step around the wrought-iron tables, nodding at the people who occupy them. No one talks. They stand their guard, silent sentinels, waiting for their moment to be called back to the real world. Why? Is it because they believe they have no choice? Is there a choice? I reach up and bat at one of the paper lanterns, wondering why we behave this way. We can't all have been this quiet when we were alive. We lived. We loved. I know I'm not the only one to have raced across a meadow or played on the school swing set at two in the morning.

My fingers caress the paper of the lantern, and I get an idea. I swat at it, harder and harder, trying to tear through the tissue. I pause, waiting for someone to call out or ask me what I'm doing. Nothing. I swat harder. It's become a challenge. If I can make this stupid thing fall off its wire, maybe I can accomplish something. Finally my nails catch it and the lantern comes tumbling down to the ground.

I turn around to look at the closest faces. No one notices a thing. They're too busy stuck in their own emptiness. When I look back up, the lantern has replaced itself.

I've decided that I hate this world. I hate being dead.

We arrived at Woodstock two days before the event began. The radio had been talking about it for weeks, and Andrea and I knew we'd have to get there early or not get in at all. Already the roads were swamped with cars. The traffic went on for miles, and there was talk about shutting down the interstate. After being stuck in a car for what seemed like forever, Andrea and I were ready to have fun. But first we had to get situated. That would be the big problem. We'd heard on the radio that they were expecting hundreds of thousands of people in a location that would only accommodate fifty thousand.

The lack of space hadn't stopped anyone. Already there were thousands of people roaming about. We found a parking spot between a painted-up school bus and a group of motorcycles. Dozens of people sat around in the grass talking to each other. They passed around beers and smoked pot. Two girls flashed the peace sign at us as they wandered by. One of them seemed to have lost her shirt somewhere along the way. I blushed and turned away, which made a few of the bikers laugh at me.

“Should we even bother trying to set up the tent?” I asked as I climbed out of the car and stretched my legs.

Andrea stood up on her toes to try and get a better look. In the sea of people, we could see the occasional tent. But we'd have to walk for what seemed like miles if we wanted to find an open patch of land. “We might be better off sleeping in the car,” she agreed.

“Probably drier,” I said. The news reports were predicting rain. I glanced over at the group of bikers. One of them lazily massaged his leg and winked at me. His friends laughed a bit too loudly when I quickly looked away. “Safer, too,” I added under my breath.

“Let's worry about that later,” Andrea said, ducking behind me as two little kids rushed past. “Come on. Let's go check things out.”

Andrea paused to ask the peace sign girls where we might find the stage, and the topless one pointed us in the right direction.

“Just keep walking. You can't miss it. It's huge. Stay groovy.” She flashed the peace sign again and then lay down on her towel.

“Did you see her eyes?” Andrea whispered as we walked off. “I'd say she's been grooving all day.”

“Probably most of last night, too,” I said with a grin.

“So many people,” Andrea said. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “I've never seen so
many
in one place.” She paused to check out the faded jeans of some gorgeous, long-haired young men as they walked past. “How come they don't look like that back at home? Seriously, I'm in heaven. That's got to be it. We died back on the road and now we're here.”

I caught the eye of a guy with a straw cowboy hat covering his curly dark hair. He smiled at me. Andrea was right. The men from North Carolina weren't nearly as interesting as the ones we were now seeing. Of course, our town of Dixby only had about a thousand people, and the majority of them were over the age of thirty. Most of the guys our age were high school dropouts like my brother. Boys who spent their days working down at the factory, driving trucks like Dad, or hanging around the mechanic's shop, hoping to get a job fixing cars like Marcus. Going to college wasn't usually a viable option in our town. People didn't leave. They settled in and dug deep roots.

Me? I wanted to travel the world. I wanted to see all corners of the earth and everything in between. I didn't want to end up like my mother, trapped in a small town with a family she never wanted. Maybe if she'd gone off and experienced things first, she wouldn't have needed to run away in the middle of the night.

I planned on living life before I settled down. Being at Woodstock would be my first adventure in a string of many. I had plenty of wild oats to sow. A million lives to live. And so much music to hear.

Andrea let out a low whistle. Somehow, in the time it took us to park the car, the traffic seemed to have tripled.

Hundreds of parked cars blocked the roads. People set up shop selling all sorts of things. Thick, juicy slices of watermelon for fifty cents: green rinds littered the ground. Corn on the cob seemed quite popular: lots of people had kernels and butter smears stuck on their faces. Bare feet kicked around empty bottles of Coke. Love beads were passed around, beautiful bright colors in all sizes and styles. A few people sold clothing out the backs of their vans: Leather belts and bell-bottom jeans. Peasant shirts. Long, flowing skirts. Andrea and I paused a few times to feel the quality of the cotton and press the beautiful items against our skin to compare sizes.

And although no one straight-out advertised, several people whispered to Andrea and me as we walked by, offering drugs to sweeten our experience.

I smiled nervously, turning everyone down. It wasn't that I was against weed; I'd smoked once or twice. But I'd never really enjoyed it the way others seemed to. People said marijuana was supposed to enlighten the mind. All it did was make me tired and paranoid. It made me want to curl up in a ball and hide away from the rest of the world. Hardly mind-blowing, in my opinion. And not the sort of feelings I wanted to explore that weekend. So when Andrea offered to buy some, I shrugged her off. She could do whatever she wanted, but I had come to hear the music. That was a natural enough high for me.

The closer we got to the stage, the busier things became. Soon we were elbow to elbow with all sorts of people. A group of feminists handed out pamphlets and I took one, putting it in my purse for later. We were women of the sixties. We had a right to get an education and a job. A guy screamed “Fight the power!” several times in my face, to the point where I covered my ears with my hands. “Don't let the man get you down. This is America! We need to let the government know we don't want to fight in their corporate war. Down with Vietnam. No draft! No draft! Girlies, support your men. Let those government pigs know you will march against Washington.”

Thankfully, some elderly men stopped him from following Andrea and me farther.

I paused to look at some wooden beads spread out across a table. There were two men behind the table. The first had a bushy gray beard and matching long hair. He wore a tie-dye shirt and a bandanna. He sat on the back bumper of a Volkswagen bus, a cigarette between his fingers. He looked older than my father, and I couldn't help grinning to myself, wondering what Dad, with his crew cut and trimmed mustache, would say if he could see what I was seeing.

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

I glanced up into the most amazing pair of brown eyes I'd ever seen. I'd been looking at the old man and hadn't seen the young one standing across from me. Long sandy-blond hair spread across his shoulders and halfway down his back. He was tall and slender, and his shirt fit his body perfectly.

“Um, yeah,” I said. That was it. One glance at him and he'd rendered me stupid. My conversational skills went out the window. I swallowed twice and gave him what I hoped was a nice smile.

The guy reached across the table and picked up a set of beads. They were brown and red. He lifted them over the top of my head and let them drop gently across my chest.

“They're from Mexico. We picked them up last winter.” Tilting his head to the side, he squinted with a critical eye, studying the way the beads looked. Frowning, he removed them and tossed them back on the counter. “Wrong color,” he said. He studied the collection and chose again, this time beads that were yellow and brown, the same color as his hair and eyes. “These are better,” he said as he draped them down around my neck. “Yellow is prettier. Sunshine. They'll make you glow.”

“Thank you,” I said. He held up a cracked mirror, and I studied my reflection in the glass. They were truly lovely. “How much?”

“For you? I'd ask for a smile. But my business partner”—he nodded back in the direction of the man sitting on the bumper of the bus—“he's not going to be as generous. So I'll have to up my bid to a dollar.”

The answer was so unexpected, I couldn't help but laugh. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bill. I could have turned him down. I wasn't so enamored by his looks that I would buy anything he might be selling. Yes, his smile was bright and genuine, and I loved the way his hair naturally waved around the collar of his shirt. I was sure a lot of girls fell for his charms. That didn't mean he'd be able to sell me just anything. But the beads were beautiful and the cost was reasonable.

He took my dollar and handed it over to the bearded gray-haired man, who nodded in my direction, but didn't say anything. He dropped the money into a rusted can and then stomped his cigarette on the ground beneath his shoes. I turned around to show Andrea, only to discover that the crowd had swallowed her up. Apparently she hadn't seen me stop and had kept on walking.

“Lose someone?” the young guy asked.

“Yeah, my friend,” I said. “I could have sworn she was right behind me.”

“Lots of pretty colors here,” the guy said. “Plenty of distractions. It's not that difficult to get lost in the crowd. Want me to help you find her?”

“That's okay. If I don't catch up with her, I'll meet her at the car later.”

“I hope so,” he said. “In case you didn't notice, there's a major concert going on.” He leaned in close to whisper in my ear. “I hear there's going to be a lot of people. Total party. Great bands, too.”

“I hadn't heard about it,” I whispered back. “But that explains a lot of things. Hope someone clued in the farmers. Looks like their fields are getting trashed.”

“I hear some unpleasant wrongdoers have been raiding the corn,” he said, “and then selling it back to the masses at inflated prices. Whoever said these guys are a peaceful bunch was lying. All those farmers better lock up their livestock next. And their daughters.”