The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,21
need to be good.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I just need an extra pair of hands to get the back, but the box only comes with one pair of gloves, so you might as well just do the whole thing. You don’t really mind, do you?”
Timothy thought about that. After everything that he’d been through that week, helping his new friend dye her hair shouldn’t be a big deal.
His new friend? Was that what they were now?
“Okay,” said Timothy softly.
“Great.” Abigail reached into the open box and pulled out a pair of plastic gloves. “See if these fit. I’ll start mixing.”
Hepzibah followed as they set themselves up at the long dining room table. Abigail spread out some old newspapers underneath their supplies, then sat in one of the high-backed chairs. Grabbing the plastic bottle, which Abigail had filled with pungent-smelling chemicals, Timothy squeezed a lavender-colored gel onto her head.
“Ooh, it feels gross!” she said.
“Sorry,” said Timothy.
He remembered the reason he’d come here: to talk to Abigail about her grandmother. But he still didn’t know how to tell his story.
“Why did you want to do this anyway?” he said instead.
“I guess I just want to be someone else for a change. I’m cutting it all off next.”
“Really? All of it? Like a crew cut?”
“Nah, sort of, like … ear length. I’ve got the scissors in the bathroom.” She glanced up at him. “Make sure you get it all even. Then just start combing it through.”
Even through the gloves, the gel was squishy. “Is it just you and your grandmother here?” he asked.
“No. I came with my mom from New Jersey when Gramma fell again last month. Mom thinks she’s getting sick. I just think she’s getting old and doesn’t want to admit it. She says to my mom, ‘If I’m sick, you’re sick.’”
“Is your mother sick?”
“Not in the conventional sense of the word.” Abigail suddenly burst out laughing. “My mother suffers from a disorder called Freakazoidism.”
Despite all the talk of illness, or perhaps because of it, Timothy couldn’t hold back his own laughter. “So do my parents!” he said.
“Yeah,” said Abigail. “My mom left my dad … like, left-left him, and didn’t tell me, and thought I wouldn’t notice that they weren’t living together anymore, you know? In the same state?”
“But I thought you came here to help your grandmother.”
Abigail raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “There’s always an ulterior motive with my mom. She really just needed a place to go. Voilà—New Starkham, here we come!”
“Wow,” said Timothy. “That’s harsh.”
“That’s the truth. The funniest thing is that she thinks she has me fooled, that I’m just so young and gullible.” She sniffed. “So why are your parents freaks?”
“They’re not freaks, exactly. They just don’t really seem to know how to talk to me.” Abigail didn’t say anything. Before he knew it, he blurted out, “My brother’s unit was attacked overseas. He got hurt. Bad. They’re keeping him in a coma, I think to protect his brain.”
Abigail shuddered and brought her hand to her mouth. “He’s in the—what, the army?” she asked. Timothy nodded. She grabbed his hand, and he flinched. “I’m so sorry … I had no idea.”
“No—it’s—” Timothy stammered. “Nobody did. That’s the thing … My parents didn’t want me to tell anyone.”
“Why not? It’s public information anyway. Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I think they felt ashamed. Like his injury is their fault. They don’t want their friends to blame them.”
“That alone is ridiculous, but what on earth does that have to do with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Haven’t they thought that you might want to, I dunno, talk about it with someone?”
Timothy shook his head. “Guess not.”
“I mean, ever since I moved here, all I’ve wanted to do is talk to my cousins back in Jersey about everything that’s happening. It’s good that they listen on the phone, you know, about Gramma, and Mom and Dad, but still, there are things I feel like I can’t tell anyone … not even them … and it’s kinda driving me crazy.” Abigail blinked, as if she expected him to ponder that last statement. “So I sort of know what you’ve been going through.”
“Thanks,” said Timothy, secretly wondering what it was that she couldn’t tell anyone. Would she tell him now?
“So where is your brother?”
Guess not. “He’s in a military hospital somewhere in Germany. He’s been … critical for a while now. They say they’ll send him home when he’s healthy enough to travel, even if he is unconscious,”