Page 49 of Together We Rot

“I think we lost him,” she says once we’ve made it past the lights.

“For now,” I counter, but my shoulders slump just a tad. Each word is labored. “Now, where is this house?”

“Uh... look for Abe Lincoln. You’ll turn by him.” She clears her throat, elaborating. “We’re going to a family friend’s house. One of her neighbors has a yard of junk. It looks like a dump. She’s got a giant Abe. It’s Christmas, so he should be dressed like Santa. She only comes out to change him into seasonally appropriate outfits.”

Sure enough, we cross the street and Abe points the way with a candy-cane staff. He’s snow-drenched, most of him indistinguishable. The rest of the lawn is just as horrible. The bulk of it is hidden, but a decent chunk still peeks out.

“Cherry’s house is the one with the dark roof.”

“You realize all of the roofs are white right now,” I offer delicately. She groans.

“Follow my finger,” she says instead, pointing a wavering hand over to the third house down the street: 817 Phoenix Wood Lane.

We clear the driveway and topple off the bike. I try to set it down gently, but it sinks into a sea of frost anyway.

We push a path through the snow. My jeans are drenched. The cold sneaks its way inside my shoes, running over my socks until they’re sopping wet.

“Keep moving,” Wil pushes. “I want to get inside before my nose falls off or your parents kill us, thank you.”

We finally make it to the front step. My sneakers push past some of the snow, enough to make out a floor mat beneath us. It’s a sultry purple, broken up by two little words: Go Away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WIL

Cherry’s got a sturdy door.

If she didn’t, it would have splintered in two by now. I pound on it for dear life. It’s worse than cold out here. It’s unlivable. The wind has whipped my cheeks a permanent, stinging red. I fuss with my hair, but it still flies around me in a mess. Even breathing is a challenge.

“Come on, Cherry!”

My phone has started buzzing incessantly since we got to her door. One missed call... Two missed calls... Fifteen missed calls...

Dad: Where are you? Wil!

Dad: [IMAGE_0164]

Dad: Call me this second, Wilhelmina!!!!

I know this puts me in the running for Worst Daughter of All Time, but I can’t bear to listen to his frantic voice right now. All the missed calls on Mom’s phone, the same nervous energy zapping off him like an electric current.

Later, I promise myself.

Behind the door, I hear the pads of feet hitting the floor, the mraaaow of Cherry’s cat, Starlight, scratching against wood. There’s a second of hesitation—Cherry peeping through at us, probably making sure we’re not the owner of the corner store after her at long last—before the locks click open. Her makeup has been wiped off, but remnants of blue eye shadow linger on her waterline like a permanent stain.

Starlight is caught beneath her arm. He squints his buggy eyes at Elwood, trying to determine whether he hates him or not.

“Wil!” Cherry’s voice cycles between startled and confused, and confused and concerned. She clears her throat, her eyes landing on Elwood for an unsteady, hard moment. Her smile drops a tad, breaking into a severe line across her face. She throws me a sharp look and I remember her warning well. By now, though, she should know that following orders and advice isn’t my best trait. She coughs. “You’re lucky my insomnia pills are shit.”

“Come on, let us in, please; we don’t have time,” I tell her, throwing another hurried look over my shoulder.

She follows my gaze beyond the scope of her lawn, down to the cold, empty street. She lingers a while longer before breaking from the trees. Those blue eyes of hers land hard on Elwood, and something close to dread breaks in her face. She stares at Elwood with the intensity of a scientist ogling a specimen through a microscope. “What are you?”

“Human.” There’s a jagged cut to his voice.

She scrunches her face at that, unconvinced but relenting. With a crack of her knuckles, she turns to me. “If you say so. Come in. You could be bigfoot, but if Wil trusts you, I trust you.” She ushers us in with a sweep of her bony wrist. The door is a welcome barrier against the raging cold.

“I promise Starlight doesn’t bite much... well... he will bite you at least once, but it’s a form of endearment.” Her voice has an odd strain to it, but the fear has melted from her tone.

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