Page 2 of Whatever Will Be

The first floor bedroom where my mother now sleeps alone is dark and stuffy and reeks of a bad habit. She supposedly quit smoking when I was in grade school but now puffs through two packs a day in between crunching on butterscotch discs. When she’s not smoking or eating candy, she’s either sleeping or wailing that we’re all doomed.

She’s sleeping now.

I wait just inside the doorway for a few seconds and listen to the dry racket of her snoring before sliding out. I’ll tell Jules we enjoyed a nice farewell if she asks.

She doesn’t ask.

My sister, who should be getting ready for tonight’s prom and looking ahead to a carefree summer before she starts college at NYU, plasters a cheerful smile on her face.

“This time away is going to be so good for you, Gretch. Don’t worry about your finals. I’ve already talked to the school and they’ve agreed to let you make them up at the end of the summer. Your math teacher waived your final exam completely because you already have a high A.”

This news will probably mean more to me when I’m able to think clearly again. In normal times I’m obsessed with my grades. Perhaps in a few years I will manage to earn a scholarship to NYU like my sister, although lately she hasn’t said much about the fact she’ll be leaving in August.

Danny tries to smile and make an awkward joke. “That’s right, loser. I have faith you’ll be back to geeking up the place in no time.”

He’d like me to answer with some sarcastic remark so we can bicker back and forth as usual. I would if I had the energy but I don’t. I say nothing and walk outside behind Jules.

Danny heaves a sigh before following.

Last night I heard Jules tell him that he needs to come along for the ride today whether he wants to or not. Danny has never been in the habit of letting himself get ordered around but that was before. Lately when our big sister tells him to do something he tends to cooperate with no argument.

Jules holds open the passenger door of the Prius that used to belong to Dad, who won’t be needing it anymore.

Danny jumps into the backseat without a protest. He knows he can take the shotgun seat on the way home from Ithaca since I won’t be in the car.

“Seatbelt,” Jules singsongs brightly as she starts the engine. She pats my leg like I’m four years old.

I snap my seatbelt into place.

It’s only when Jules begins backing out of the driveway that I remember I’ve never spent more than two days away from Lake Stuart. My eyes search for the flat green hill hugging the horizon. It is too shallow to be called a mountain. From here its lonely shape looks like someone began painting stage scenery and soon walked away in boredom.

The Rosebriar Resort is there.

What’s left of it, anyway. A moldering summer corpse that has changed hands four times since my father sold it and still awaits a different destiny.

The local teens trespass up there all the time, drinking and partying and doing god knows what else. The rumors around school point to Danny as one of the ringleaders. Both him and his best friend, Trent Cassini. I’ve never been invited and don’t care to see for myself what my brother’s crowd does amid the bones of our family’s lost inheritance. Rosebriar gives me the creeps even without the mental image of teenage orgies.

“FUCK!” shouts my brother, starling me into a gasp.

Thoughts of things I’ve never seen vanish. There are flashing lights ahead and I remember things I did see and wish I hadn’t.

“Damn.” Jules exhales heavily and slows the car so she doesn’t hit the crookedly parked police cruiser at the end of the street.

Now I understand why everyone is upset.

The house on the corner resembles a sleek collection of boxes outfitted with floor to ceiling windows. The design is modern to the point of ugliness but I’ve heard my father grumble that it’s worth twice what our house is worth. I’ve never been inside but Danny has. His best friend lives there and now his best friend is being led from the house in handcuffs by a pair of granite-faced cops.

Danny rolls the window down. “TRENT!”

Trent Cassini freezes. He’s barefoot, wearing only a pair of red plaid boxers and a gold cross on a chain. A savage bruise discolors the space beneath his left eye and the tattoo on the right side of his chest must be new. Trent loves to show off his chest and I haven’t seen that tattoo before. I can’t tell if the shape is supposed to be a dragon or a snake but this shouldn’t be a point of focus right now when Trent is clearly in the middle of being arrested.

Trent’s eyes, dark and angrily impenetrable even in good times, are now downright blazing as they bore into me.

Trent is Danny’s age, a year older than I am. I’ve known him nearly all my life and can’t recall sharing a single conversation worth remembering.

We aren’t friends and we aren’t enemies.

We’re nothing.

---