"You have a really nice house, Greta." I run a gentle hand over the smooth wooden mantle. "Don't touch anything," She snapped. I quickly put my hand back in my hoodie pocket. "Dad's picking up some pizza. He'll be here soon." She leads me up the stairs into her room. It fits her perfectly.
Posters of The Bangles, Bon Jovi, and Christian Slater to name a few cover the lavender walls. Her bed is in the corner of the room, leaving quite a bit of space. I set my bag in the opposite corner, not wanting to provoke her in any way.
I look at a picture of her and another girl I don't recognize. Greta surprisingly, has a lot of friends, so why is she bothering with my sister who obviously doesn't care about her?
She stands next to me admiring her pictures and smirks. "A lot, huh?" I figure she means her friends and nod. "Too bad none of them are real." I turn to Greta and see sadness flash quickly in her eyes. Then the sincerity is gone and she gives me a bitter look.
"Don't expect us to make friendship bracelets, Lorraine," I look down at my tennis shoes. "You're only here 'cause everyone else was booked." I assume booked is equivalent to completely avoiding. A sudden knock from beyond her room makes me jump. "That's dad." She says and walks out to him. I suspect she wants me to follow, but I'm frozen in my tracks at the thought of Greta's father. I make sure to zip my hoodie up all the way and slip my pepper spray in my pocket before walking out. I stand at the foot of the stairs before I see them in the kitchen.
He's standing there whispering something to her and they stop the second I walk into the kitchen. Greta gives him an enraged look before grabbing a pizza and walking out of the kitchen. She grabs my arm gently but firmly and whispers in my ear as we walk back upstairs.
"Don't come back out here, okay?"
I nod and she closes her door. She sets the pizza box on her dresser, walking to the stereo on her desk. I watch as she turns it on, noticing her drastic change in demeanor. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." She says, regaining her sharp tone. I nod and open the pizza box. To my dismay, it was littered in anchovies. I pick them off and toss them in the box, not knowing if Greta saw me, not caring. She grabs a slice and bites into it, anchovies and all. I grimace at the faint fishy taste on mine. I decide against eating it and set back in the box.
Wiping my mouth, I walk to my bag and discreetly put the pepper spray back. I feel so relieved not to have had to use it. I slip off my jeans and quickly put on some grey sweatpants. After changing, I lay out my sleeping bag on the floor next to Greta's bed.
She looks at me for a second before pursing her lips.
"If you want, I could crimp your hair." I look up at her and smile a bit. "Yeah," I run a hand through my loose brown waves. "Sure."
I've always wanted to crimp my hair, but the climate of places I've lived never allowed it.
In Arizona, the heat drove my hair into a ponytail. In Washington, the humidity stripped my hair of any and all style. Derry might not be ideal, but in the air-conditioned space of Greta's room, why not?
Makeup litters the top of the desk, along with various brushes and lipsticks. She plugs in her large hair crimper, pushing me down by my shoulders into a salon-style chair. While she waits for it to heat up, she stares into my eyes through the mirror. "So, where'd you move here from?"
Is Greta Keene actually making small talk with me?
"Arizona," I say with a small awkward smile. "Is it hot there?"
"Oh yeah, the summers especially."
"I bet." She picks up the crimper and runs a comb through my hair. She then clamps the styling tool onto my plain brown hair and leaves it there for three seconds. Greta opens it and my hair is in a tight wave. The smell of popcorn fills my nose and I can only assume it's my fried hair.
She continues with this same process on the entire left side of my head. I think of asking her about Henry, she would know more about him then I would guess.
"So, what's up with Henry?" I ask as nonchalantly as I know how. Greta freezes, mid comb through. However, she does her best to not show her amusement.
"Henry Bowers? What do you want to know?" She shrugs. I think my next words through very carefully. "I was just wondering," Don't be an idiot. "He's really, aggressive," I say. "No shit, he's Henry Bowers."
Strike one.
"Yeah but, why?" I persist. "Is he like that with everyone?" Greta finishes my hair and turns the chair so I face her. "My best work," She mutters, examining my hair. Then she looks in my eyes with a judgemental stare.
"You don't have a thing for him or anything, do you?" Oh, God.
"Of course I don't." And that's the truth. If I'm going to survive in a place like Derry, I need to be smart about things. That includes not getting involved with people like Henry Bowers. "I just want to know more about him. Has he always been such a-"
"Fucking asshole? Yeah. He has." Classy. "Oh, yeah, cause we had a bit of a run in today." Her green eyes widen. "No way!" Greta places her hands on the chair's armrest, trapping me. "Yeah," I pulled up my sleeve to reveal the cut, which had slightly healed over but still hurt. "See?"
"Damn, Finley." She examines it. "Yeah, I didn't get around the bandaging it." Greta grabs a small plastic box and tosses it on my lap. "Don't use it all, inventory isn't free."
"Thanks..."
-
I lay in my sleeping bag on the floor next to Greta's bed wide awake. She snores.
Loudly.
Between the noise and the thought that her father could come in at any time, sleep isn't an option. So, I lay there, staring at a spot on the wall, wishing I was in my own bed. I thought about using Greta's phone to call my dad or Charlie but, just as I start to press the buttons on the keypad, I hear a low rumbling outside.
Startled, I clutch the phone to my chest and turn to see if the noise had woke Greta. I gently set the phone back on the base and walk to the window.
There's a blue Trans Am parked in front of Greta's house. At first, I have no idea who it could be. Then I check the time.
Twelve ten.
Oh my God, it's him.
I could just stay here. No, that's the coward thing to do. So I pull on my sneakers, slide up the window, and against my better judgment, crawl onto the roof.
A warm breeze hits me as I carefully crawl over to the rusty fire escape ladder. My foot slides over a loose tile and I slide a bit. "Shit," I mutter under my breath and take in the drop from the roof to the grass below.
I get to the ladder and I can hear my own heartbeat.
After hopping off the last rung, I start the walk to the car. The blue vehicle is slightly more terrifying to me than it should have been. My palms sweat as I get nearer. My feet stop in front of the passenger side door. The window rolls down and I'm met with the impatient gaze of Henry.
"Took you long enough. Get in the back."
"Henry, what are you doing here?"
"I told you I'd be here."
"Well, I can't go anywhere with you."
"Are you hungry?"
I think back to the uneaten pizza that sits on Greta's dresser as we speak.
"Fine. But bring me right back afterward." He gives me a smirk.
"I can't promise anything."
