Four Rubbings

Chapter Nine: Josie Bids the Others Farewell

I KNOW WITHOUT TURNING AROUND that three jaws drop as I wave a curt goodbye over my shoulder and stomp solo through the cemetery gates. Their eyes burn into the back of my head and my ears itch from the chatter I can't quite make out, the wild speculation my exit is sure to have touched off. What's wrong with her? Is Josie sick? Do you think this is about her mother?

It doesn't matter. I can't do another second of fake happy. What did I expect tonight? That my mom would come sauntering out from behind her tombstone and read me a bedtime story? I'm a fool. I didn't rub my mother's grave, so what? But, it matters after all. That's why I can't stand company right now.

Ms. Reliable has left the building. No down time at the coffee shop; no sleepover with Casey. Figure it out yourselves. I pass a jack-o'-lantern with seeds and pumpkin guts hanging from its gaping mouth. "That's right. One more fake smile and I'm gonna throw up, just likeyou."

My freedom comes with a price. As much as I wish it away, guilt and fatigue settle across my shoulders like a wet woolen blanket. My legs feel heavy, like the marrow inside has turned to concrete. I loll my head from side to side to ward off a pending migraine. My mood flits from tired to tense to happy to crushed, in time with my heavyfootfalls.

I run a hand along the iron fence that borders LakefrontCemetery as I walk until I run out of fence at the end of the block. I search for dead leaves to crunch; smashing things will keep me moving forward. The load of hope and desperation in my satchel, the one I forgot to leave at my mom's grave, feels like a bag of stones. I switch the thick strap to the other shoulder and thank God Owen's backpack is so light. I pat my side to double-check that the plush-loaner is still in place, but hit my hip instead. "Crap! I forgot Baby Sacagawea!"

For a blink, I consider backtracking to fetch it from the grave, but dismiss the idea in the same instant. By the time I get home, Owen will be asleep. He'll never know if I pick it up tomorrow instead.

As I mentally rearrange tomorrow's schedule to make time for a quick visit to Lakefront after school, the little cat from the cemetery darts out from the shadows and pounces a fat leaf, shredding it to bits. He shoots between my feet and I nearly trip and fall. "Little menace," I mumble.

As we pass the corner coffeehouse, rowdy customers push through wide wooden doors with steaming hot paper cups in hand. Wisps of live blues escape the closing doors. The cloud of music and smoky aroma drifts to the street and I breathe in the musky scent of espresso. My gaze stops at an empty table, the one by the rugged outdoor pit surrounded by five empty chairs. That's the table where we were supposed to cap off the night.

I hang my head in shame. I pride myself on being the reliable one, but tonight I am not myself. That's what I try to convince myself of, because I can't consider the alternative, that the real Josie Jameson is an emotional wreck.

A muffled ding comes from deep inside my satchel and I stop to check the text. I've missed not one, but three, texts from Casey and one from my father. I read his first.

"J. Need more candy. Went thru ALL. Hope treaters don't get violent! D."

Dad sent the message over an hour ago. A wave of guilt washes over me as I realize I let him down, too. If I come home to a yard wrapped in toilet paper thanks to empty-handed trick-or-treaters, I deserve it.

I finger through Casey's texts sent seconds ago and wince when I blow up the photo she's sent under the words, "Just in case I die." A sketchy man stares into the phone with drug-fuzzy eyes. His dirty hands clutch a piece of shiny silver metal. Is that a knife?Taken from the back of a bus, I feel a pang of guilt. She was supposed to walk home with me tonight, but instead had to ride a bus alone because her house is miles from Lakefront.