Harmony House - Nic Sheff Page 0,9

and then tells me, “Hold on,” and starts making up another plate for me.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Aunt Rose’s pies,” says Christy, smiling. “The cornerstone of every nutritious meal.”

I take a bite and smile, too. “It’s good,” I tell her.

She pats me awkwardly on the head.

“Sweet of you to say.”

I drink the hot good coffee and eat the hot good pie.

Christy and her aunt both laugh at how hungry I am.

“So are you gonna be startin’ high school here?” Christy asks me. “At Beach Haven?”

I shake my head.

“Uh, no,” I say, haltingly. “I’m gonna be . . . uh . . . taking a break, I guess. I’m supposed to be a junior. But . . . uh . . . my mom died a couple months ago, so . . .”

I trail off—not sure why the hell I just let that out of my mouth. I take another bite of pie to try to shut myself up.

“Oh God,” Christy says, startled. “That’s terrible! I’m so sorry.”

She puts a small, fragile-looking hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah, no,” I say, stumbling over my words. “It’s been hard, but . . .”

“Well, I tell you what,” she says. “I’m working at my family’s store down the block all winter—selling beads.”

I make a face. “Bees?”

She laughs.

“B-e-a-d-s. Ye Olde Bead Shoppe. Most businesses close this time of year. But we’re open right up ’til Christmas and then all through January. ’Cause, you know, people might have . . . bead emergencies . . . I guess.”

I can’t help but laugh a little at that, too.

“I’m there most days after school gets out,” she says. “You come by any time you need anything, okay?”

“Thank you,” I say. “That’s super sweet. Are you a senior?”

“Yeah,” she tells me. “Doing all the college application stuff right now.”

I groan.

“So not looking forward to that.”

“Well, at least you’ve got a good thing to write an essay about.”

She covers her mouth, flushing a bright red.

“Sorry, that wasn’t funny.”

“No, you’re right,” I say. “Some girl at my old school got attacked by a bear while she was on one of those Outward Bound trips and she got into every school she applied to. Maybe you should just pretend you’re a bulimic cutter with ADHD, OCD, and bipolar disorder.”

Christy keeps on blushing.

“Believe me, I’ve thought about it. But I’m sorry just the same. That was a stupid joke.”

I tell her, again, that it’s really okay.

We continue on talking for a while more—eating pie, drinking coffee, and listening to the twangy cowboy music coming from the jukebox.

“Maybe you’d like to come over sometime?” Christy says.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” I tell her, trying to be polite and all. “If my dad lets me.”

Aunt Rose comes over then and refills our coffees and presses her wide, wrinkled, hand with the knotted blue veins down on the Formica countertop.

“You be sure to make him,” she says, surprising me that she’d been listening to our conversation. “You don’t want to let yourself get too isolated living up in that house just the two of you.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say.

“Really should’ve burned that place down years ago,” she says—more to herself than to me.

“Oh, you hush now, Aunt Rose. There’s nothing wrong with that house.”

She turns to me then and says, “Aunt Rose used to work there when she was a girl. Don’t pay any attention to her.”

I force a smile, not sure what the hell they’re talking about.

“Well, in any case,” says Rose, handing me a paper menu. “Here’s our phone number if you need anything. And, here, I’ll write my niece’s number and my home number on the back, too.”

And then she adds, “Please don’t hesitate to call either one of us.”

I thank them both, thinking that if everyone in this little town is as nice as these two, then maybe Beach Haven won’t be so bad after all. I stand and try to pay, but Rose won’t let me. I fold the menu up and put it in the side pocket of my black parka.

Outside it is cold, so I pull my hood up over my head and put on a pair of woolen fingerless gloves. The moon has risen higher and there is the steady sound of dry leaves rattling in the dark. I can hear a train whistle way off in the distance.

There’s a path behind the diner that winds through an overgrown field of weeds and dead blackberry bushes. A smell like damp and rot rises up