From Where I Watch You Read online

  We couldn’t stay in the house once my dad left. He wasted no time sticking around after Kellen died.

  When I was little and hated dinner, I’d swipe bits of food into my napkin every time eyes were off me, so each time someone looked there was less food on the plate. I think of my dad and how he started leaving us in the same way, bit by bit.

  Pieces of him fell away—or were swiped away—long before my sister died, with every shift change, every new case.

  But I really noticed Dad’s departure when Kellen would talk about college, and he’d find a way to leave the room. As the time got closer, he went out on more calls.

  Swipe.

  And then he’d pick more fights with Mom and always leave the house. Where did he go?

  Swipe.

  Kellen went off to college, and I don’t think he or Mom even knew I’d entered high school. He started taking phone calls in the garage, and in the bathroom.

  Swipe.

  The chores Kellen used to do were left to me, including laundry. Hard not to notice that distinctly not-Mom smell on Dad’s shirts. Mom was allergic to all perfume.

  Swipe.

  By the time Kellen died, he was all but gone. A few pieces of him were left, but all of them were too sad to stay in a house of memories. Mom didn’t care. She was already lost inside herself, not seeing the last bit of him slip away. My dad couldn’t even stand the memories of being on this side of the state, so he moved three hundred miles east to Spokane and I have to spend summers with him. Until I turn eighteen.

  I walk down to my favorite store because it always makes me happy. This is how I fool myself into pretending I don’t have another note, unread and burning a hole in my backpack.

  Wind gusts up from Puget Sound, stinging my face. It delivers the aroma of the bagels and coffee and grilled meat. I pull up the hood on my jacket and tighten the drawstrings under my chin.

  On Queen Anne Avenue—“the Ave”—I pass five people, each holding the leash of a big-ass dog in one hand and a latte in the other. The Hill is very coffee-addicted and very dog-friendly. I’m sure if all the coffee shops found a way to sell dog water, everyone on the Hill would buy it. All the shops set out water dishes for the dogs, year-round. The Moon Bar’s water dish is frozen and yellow, with two dead flies and a cigarette butt in it. They’re just putting on an act.

  The pet shop where Noelle works has three dishes out front, all clean with fresh water. I slow down enough to peek through the window to look for Noelle, even though I know she’s with Mason in my mom’s café; it’s a reflex. It’s hard to see around the display of organic, vegan dog treats. I’m pretty sure dogs would rather eat meat.

  On the next block, I pause at the display window of Hill Kitchen. It’s only November but cookie cutters dangle from a twinkly Christmas tree; sprinkle jars with bows on top sit underneath. This is my favorite store. I collect cookie cutters and sprinkles like other girls collect makeup or shoes. But this time I can’t have them. I have a plane ticket to save for.

  Something catches the corner of my eye and when I turn, I see my former friend Jen. She stands a couple doors down, in front of Queen Anne Pizza, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s by herself, so the disgust I sometimes see on her face when she looks at me is only half there.

  I’m used to odd looks from people; I’ve been putting up with it for almost two years. Because I’m her, the daughter of that crazy lady who used to be an ass-kicking lawyer and now sells sandwiches and Jesus soup on the Ave. I’m her, the sister of that dead girl, Kellen McKinley, who spent her time mouthing off to teachers, cutting class, and basically blazing a trail of shit and splattering it all over the faculty—making them hate any future McKinleys who might walk through the door.

  Jen disappears into the pizza shop and I turn back toward the window. More people pass behind me, their reflections in the storefront window distracting enough to make me notice.

  A boy wearing a Mariners ball cap stops to look at the Christmas tree. He meets my eyes in the reflection, holding them for a moment before he walks away. I think I’ve seen him at school with Noelle before.

  I shiver and walk toward home. I’m freezing and I don’t like the way that boy looked at me.

  And I have another note to read.

  June: Thirteen-Year-Old Carrot’s

  Summer Fun Before High School

  Kellen sits on the bathroom counter, watching me.

  Mom has finally started letting me use makeup. I begged her to let me buy some with my allowance so I could become a pro at putting it on over the summer. A week ago Mom took me to Bartell’s to pick out my own stuff. I’ve given up on waiting for her to show me how to put it on.

  “You’re such a baby, Carrot. I was wearing makeup to school when I was eleven. You should’ve snuck it to school like I did. Mom never knew.”

  Focused on not poking my eye out, I don’t say anything. She’s right. I’m thirteen. I’m wearing makeup and growing boobs and Kellen still calls me that dumb baby name.

  On the day I was born, my sister learned two new things—one she hated right away and the other she learned to hate later. At the hospital, Grandma made her eat cooked carrots for the first time. A few hours after that, Kellen was introduced to me. She confused “carrots” and “Kara,” which Mom and Dad thought was so adorable that they never corrected her.

  “Hey, dumbass, you’re supposed to put the eye shadow on first, then the mascara. And you stretch out your face. Like this.” Kellen opens her eyes and mouth wide. “So you don’t get mascara all over.”

  I pretend to ignore her, but really I don’t because she’s showing me and I want to learn. But I’m sunburned and it hurts the top of my cheeks to stretch out my face.

  Kellen pulls her legs up on the counter and sits cross-legged. She smells like aloe vera lotion. “Why do you wanna wear makeup anyway? Are you hot for someone? Hmm, Carrot?” She smiles wide and her eyes almost pop out as she reaches in front of me, almost making me stab my eye out with the mascara wand.

  “Stop it,” I whisper.

  “Speaking of hot for someone . . .” She grabs her makeup bag. “Almost forgot it!” She makes a big show of taking out her birth control pills.

  I only know what they are because she’s told me at least a hundred times. She punches one through the foil, pops it in her mouth, and chases it with a swig from her Bud Light. She sets down the beer and smiles as she opens the pill case again. Then she snaps it shut, opening it, shutting it—in my face, practically clipping my sunburnt nose.

  “You know, Carrot, you’re going to need a lot of makeup if you ever want the chance to use these.”

  I blink hard and get mascara under my lower lid.

  3. Remove from heat before it melts.

  ..........................................................

  Kara,

  always watching you. always waiting.

  My name, printed in careful handwriting, always has the same monstrous K that looks as if it’s trying to eat the rest of my name. And like the other notes, the paper is folded twice and tucked into a matching envelope.

  Tired hardwood planks groan under my feet when I cross the room. The old floor makes different sounds depending on where you tread, warning me anytime Mom’s approaching my room. And since I started getting the notes, I’ve memorized where in the apartment each creak originates.

  Warm air thaws my cheeks, but I still wrap a quilt around my shoulders. My hands shake. I read the note again and then stuff it back into my backpack.

  This ancient house, like many others on the Ave, has a shop on the bottom floor and an apartment on the top. Our apartment has a window seat where I sit now, staring blankly at the vine maple that grows out of the sidewalk below. The top branch reaches a few feet above the window and has shed most of its fiery leaves for winter.

  Pigeons stare i
n, framed by branches and puffs of gray cloud against a darkening sky. I wonder if he can see me up in this window, because in another week, when the rest of the leaves fall, the tree will barely hide it.

  Who could get into the classroom and leave me a note without Mr. King noticing?

  An hour passes and I’ve moved to my bed, to the sofa and back to the window, trying to get comfortable. I can’t. Each time a note shows up I run through a list of possible suspects, but I come up with nothing.

  Every note has come from school.

  Before the notes, I was starting to relax because with each new gossip-worthy scandal, the spotlight moved off me, little by little, until I was back in the dark. High school used to be just an annoying thing to slog through. Now I can’t even feel safe there.

  When I come downstairs I smell coffee and celery and something brown and meaty. But the first thing I notice is Hayden. He sits by himself at his usual table. He’s concentrating on his laptop screen, his eyes narrowed like he’s angry about what he sees. Or maybe he needs glasses. I think he’d be adorable in glasses. The baseball cap he always wears is turned backward and pieces of his dark blond hair stick out through the backside. I don’t want to bother him because he’s probably studying. Even so, I slow down when I pass his table, my heart sinking when he doesn’t say anything.

  Something grabs the back of my hoodie, making me jump.

  “I see how you are, sneaking by without a hello,” he says impishly.

  Of course I act like I never saw him. I whip my head around and say, “Oh! Hayden, hi, how’s it going?” I’m a little too cheerful.

  He smiles, playful and confident. I guess that’s the difference between high school boys and college men.

  “Better now.” He turns his cap the right way around. “Are you baking? I could stick around and eat the broken cookies for you.”

  Now he watches me from under the frayed bill. Hayden has this way of staring at me, like his eyes could suck out all my secrets. When he does this I have a hard time talking; I mean, I have a hard time talking anyway, but especially now.

  He reaches his arms up and clasps his hands behind his head. “You okay?” he asks, the smile returning.

  I fidget with my fingers behind my back. “Um, I’ve, uh, had a lot of caffeine today.”

  He nods.

  Nice. I’m boring him because I have nothing better to say. Because I have no life that would be interesting to someone who’s already escaped high school.

  I don’t even have time to think before Hayden’s up and out of the booth, towering over me so that my eyes are inches from his Seattle Pacific University Falcons sweatshirt. It looks like it would be soft if I touched it. He smells of wood smoke and a faded scent of cologne or deodorant.

  Hayden’s arm circles part way around my back but he doesn’t touch me, though I wish he would. And maybe if he didn’t have a skanky girlfriend around I might lean back into his arm a little. He says, “Maybe you should lay off the caffeine.”

  I nod and then shake my head before I pivot and walk toward the kitchen because I can’t conjure up a grown-up college girl response. I’m such a dork. The noise Hayden makes behind me—shoving papers and books into his backpack—seems amplified.

  My hands are still shaky when I pull sugar cookie dough out of the walk-in fridge. After flouring up the board, I roll the dough out as thin as possible and press into it with a turkey cookie cutter. I should be decorating hearts because the contest has a Valentine cookie theme. But who can get in the mood for Valentine’s Day in November?

  While the cookies bake, I mix up royal icing and imagine I’m in my own bakery, far from here. Mom and I have a deal. I get this little corner of her kitchen to make up for losing the gourmet kitchen in our old house. In return I let her sell my cookies. It’s doubly nice because I’m blocked off from Mom’s business by the dishwashing area, so I can avoid her and the cook.

  My corner smells of warm, buttery sugar. By the time the cookies have cooled, I have three piping bags full of icing in shades of chocolate, pumpkin orange, and gold. During the contest we’ll have a time limit so I need to practice tinting the icing a little faster.

  I outline the edge of my first turkey in chocolate icing, making a dam, before outlining the feathers. Then I flood random feathers inside the dams so the icing doesn’t escape the edge of the cookie. Then I do the same with the other colors. An idea has me up on a chair, sifting through my collection of sprinkle jars . . . until I reach too far.

  I teeter and catch myself but my other hand accidentally knocks three jars to the floor. Broken glass and sprinkles surge out onto the dirty floor, in between the holes of the black rubber mat.

  “Shit!” There’s no way I’m fishing those out. I see the dirt and crap that would wind up under my nails. I’d probably end up with a flesh-eating disease.

  “Whoa!” a voice shouts.

  I hop off the chair as a boy emerges from the dishwashing area. Mom said she hired a new dishwasher. But I had no idea it would be Charlie Norton.

  “Sprinkles?” he asks, staring at the floor.

  I ignore him and mourn the colored gems, pooled and sparkling inside the mat holes.

  “Kara McKinley,” he continues. “I wondered when I’d finally see the daughter of the famous pea soup lady.”

  I haven’t seen Charlie since he left town our freshman year.

  What the hell?

  Why is he back?

  “You are Kara McKinley, right? Or should I call you Sprinkles?”

  The difference between the skinny freshman arms I remember and the ones now crossed over his chest is a lot of physical labor out in the sunshine. His dark hair is shorter than it used to be, close cropped everywhere except the top, where it’s sticking up. A few strands fall over part of his forehead because of his cowlick, reaching toward his coffee-colored eyes.

  “Aw come on, Sprinkles, you’ve forgotten me? You’ve known me since we cut each other’s bangs in kindergarten. But since I’m a gentleman I’ll reintroduce myself: after all, it’s been a while.” He bows before offering me his hand. “Charles Norton the Third, at your dishwashing service.”

  “I remember,” I manage, turning back toward my cookies.

  My jitters show again when I pick up the piping bag, and my icing dam results in a loopy mess that I’ll have to wipe off before it hardens. A shadow grows over my left shoulder.

  “Hey do those turkey cookies taste like real turkey?” Charlie asks.

  “Don’t you have some pans to scrape?” I hear myself snap. I don’t want him to leave. Even though he already smells a little like bleach.

  “Just checkin’ to make sure you’re okay, Sprinkles. I know when I’m not wanted. If you get lonely, I’ll be around the corner—”

  “Playing with your bubbles, I’m sure.”

  He says nothing, and I wait until he walks away before I turn and look. I’m so dumb. I’m sixteen going on ten when it comes to Charlie Norton!

  From around the corner I hear him above the tinny buzz of water hitting a stainless steel sink. “Hey, Sprinkles!” he yells. “If you need help with the giblets, let me know!”

  I rearrange shelves until my hands are steady enough to pipe straight lines again. Charlie’s whistling rises above the noise of clinking dishes and the pinging spray hose, and a whole half hour passes before I think about weird notes and being watched.

  Eleven-Year-Old Carrot

  I hate PE, and I especially hate dodgeball day.

  Mr. Scott has blown the whistle because I’m on the floor.

  “Sorry about that, Kara McKinley.”

  It’s skinny but athletic superstar Charlie Norton. He holds out his hand. He always calls me by my first and last name. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes it ticks me off. Always it embarrasses me.

  I rub the scraping burn on my cheek where he
nailed me with the ball. He pulls me up so I’m standing and I don’t want him to let go of my hand. We’re eye to eye and I stare at the soft brown freckles dotted across his cheeks and nose.

  “Here you go.” He hands me the ball like my hands could break. “You get me back.”

  He walks away, and I know that I love him. I hear giggling along the perimeter. I try to sneak off the floor, pretending I’m hit, but Sara Nguyen calls me out, threatening to tell Mr. Scott.

  I throw the ball as hard as I can and Charlie steps into it, taking it in the chest when he very easily could’ve caught it and brought back one of his teammates. He winks at me as he crumples to the floor. Everyone is laughing. I think I might crumple to the floor, too.

  4. Space three inches apart.

  ..........................................................

  The next day at school, I look for Charlie. Not in an obvious way or anything because I don’t need Noelle giving me crap about it. There were rumors about why Charlie left freshman year, but I wasn’t sure anyone knew the truth. He hung with my crowd, sort of. Even when I had a crowd to hang with, I was still the quiet one. So I pretty much never talked to Charlie. I just stared at him a lot. Everyone loved him. Even the seniors invited him to their parties.

  Why does he have to work at my mom’s café?

  Why haven’t I noticed him back at school?

  When did he move back?

  “Hey, sista,” Noelle says, slamming her shoulder into mine.

  “Hey!” I sidestep to keep my balance as a rush of adrenaline takes me out of my own head. “You scared me.”

  “Why? What, were you picturing yourself under Hayden again? I called your name like two times down the hall.” She flings her backpack over her other shoulder.

  “No. Nothing. Just thinking about plane ticket money. Wanna give me some? I really don’t want to work at Crockett’s.”

  She smirks. “American Express, dear one. My parents didn’t notice the jeans I bought you, but I don’t think even they are stupid enough not to notice a plane ticket on their bill.”