Page 55 of Fragments of the Lost
“Seriously?” Caleb’s eyes bored into Sean’s, and I remembered that night from November, when the lights turned off, because they hadn’t paid the bill.
“It’s just a surge,” Sean said, his words on the offense, instead of the defense as I had expected.
Caleb rolled his eyes. “This house is falling apart.” Then he grabbed the flashlight from the kitchen drawer and opened the door to the garage. I followed him into the darkness. Then he called back into the house, “What do you do with the money, Sean? Really?”
The door slammed shut behind me, the lock turning. I felt the gust of air from the swinging door, pushing me inside.
“Watch your step,” he said. There were two wooden steps down until I hit the concrete floor.
They didn’t put cars in here—it was mostly for storage. It smelled of paint stripper and gasoline and wood shavings. He flipped the flashlight on and made his way to the circuit board, where he flipped the switches back and forth in one smooth motion, like he’d done it a hundred times, and the house rebooted.
Then, staring at the door back into the house, he hit the garage door opener instead. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
We both went to Max’s house, and stayed there until after dinner. His mom ordered pizza for us. Max didn’t ask what we were doing there, and Caleb didn’t offer up the information. My parents had called twice—once to wonder if I’d be having dinner with them (no), the second to ask if I was still at the library. I hated lying to my parents. I was terrible at lying to my parents.
“I’ll tell Julian to pick me up here,” I mumbled. I’d owe him one, I’d have to put up with the questions in his silence, but I knew he’d at least keep it between us.
“No,” Caleb said. “I’ll drive you.” But I thought of Sean with his keys, in that house. Still, he didn’t seem to want to talk about it in front of Max, so I agreed.
He handed me the flashlight and we walked through Max’s backyard, shining it in our path.
“Turn it off,” Caleb whispered as we approached his gate. We walked in the dark through his backyard, the frost-covered grass from the remains of an early spring snow crunching under our steps.
At the back door, we could hear his parents arguing, muffled through the walls.
“Probably about me,” Caleb whispered. “Don’t move,” he said. He took the light and shone it into a window on the second floor. Then he turned it off and did it again. Eventually, Mia’s face came into frame. Caleb mimed opening the window.
“Mia,” he said. “I need you to get the spare keys. They’re in Mom’s purse.”
We waited in the darkness until Mia reappeared. She held out her small hand and dropped the keys into Caleb’sbelow.
He shone the light in his face, so you could see his smile, now eerie from the angle. He mouthedThank you,grabbed my arm, and we left.
—
I wonder now if he snuck back upstairs after dropping me off. If he kept the flashlight because he didn’t want to make any noise.
I asked him the next day, what happened, and he said,Nothing, Jessa. Nothing happened.
I use the flashlight to illuminate the corners of the closet, to see if there’s anything else I’ve missed. Other than the wooden bookcase in the corner of the closet, stacked with old textbooks, spines cracked through the labels, I believe I’ve finished the closet.
I empty them out, heap them in the middle of the room, ready for a box of school supplies to donate. Caleb would like that. He was big on that.
He didn’t get why we had to buy textbooks each year; why they couldn’t be property of the school, used year after year. Instead we had to purchase them fresh, or make it down to the basement book sale where people purchased used versions from each other, for a discount.
But these are all from last year: Physics, Trig, Spanish 3. Where were the rest, from this year? They should be here, or in his school locker, but his locker was empty.
I don’t remember seeing them in his car, in his backpack, or on his desk, and something eats at me.
I don’t remember seeing them at all.
—
I’d gone down to the basement the first day of classes, looking for Caleb after school. But I’d only seen Max. I’d asked for Caleb, and he shrugged. He had a stack of books he was carrying and said, “I guess we can share, if he needs to. Or he can buy the new ones.”
But I worried Caleb had just forgotten and would be upset later. I’d sent him a text:Want me to get books for you? Send me a list if so.
He’d never responded, and I added it to the list of calls and texts that felt like they were disappearing into the abyss. After practice, when he was giving me a ride home, I asked him about it. “What?” he said. “Oh, I took care of it.”
