The Accidental Siren Read Free Page A

Fatty. I’ll
give you Roslyn if you give me that camera.”
    Was he serious? Apparently, the brainless
bully had some concept of value, authority, and the difference
between petty and serious crimes. If he stole my camera, he knew
I’d tattle and he’d get busted. But if I gave him the camera
fair-and-square, it would be his to keep.
    The gun sank deeper into the crook between my
stomach and ribs; the farther Danny pushed, the more I could feel
my heart beating against the tip.
    “Well?” he said. “You want Roslyn all for
yourself?”
    A.J. tightened his grip on my arms.
    “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s trade.”
     
    * * *
     
    The bullies were gone. They had my
camera.
    Roslyn’s photo was in my jeans. I lifted my
shirt and inspected the grey bruise webbing across my chest. I
wasn’t sure if I had done the right thing; either way, my parents
were gonna kill me.
    “They’re jerks,” Whit said as he rolled along
the path.
    “Yeah,” I said. “Real jerks.”
    “So...” He paused as if it was my job to fill
in the blank.
    “So?”
    “So are you gonna look at the picture?”
    I pulled the Polaroid from my pocket and
creased it in half, then quarters.
    Whit shook his head. “Do you even know that
girl?”
    A Coke bottle protruded from the dirt beside
the path. I tore the picture along each crease, crumpled the
squares, then jammed them into the neck of the bottle. I added some
dirt, then stepped on the glass until the soft ground swallowed it
whole; another treasure lost forever in my castle forest.
    The storybook shafts of sun had dissipated,
leaving the woods in stagnant light. As we walked toward the house,
I felt a soft poke in my side. I looked down... Whit was offering
the Butterfinger.
    I took the candy bar, ate it, and pushed my
friend all the way home.
     
    * * *
     
    We emerged from the trees just as a burgundy
minivan came weaving down the paver-brick driveway. I waved to Mrs.
Conrad, Whit’s mom, then gave her a hug when she got out to help
with the chair.
    She made a big deal about the scratch on my
face. She held my chin, inspected the depth of the cut to rule out
stitches, thumbed the bruise around my jowls, and recommended a dab
of peroxide and three small bandaids. Good thing she couldn’t
see my ribs.
    When I finally convinced her that I wouldn’t
drop dead on my way in the house, she kissed my good cheek and
helped her son into the passenger seat.
    “Summer in two weeks,” Whit said.
    I nodded and waved. But it wouldn’t be
summer without a camera.
    The van’s brake lights drifted left and
right, flickered between tree branches, then disappeared
completely. Sunday was “family day” in the Parker house–no
exceptions–so Whit’s Saturday evening pick-up had become
routine.
    I turned around and looked at the castle. It
was supposed to be in my movie, The Girl’s final destination, a
spectacular set-piece for the epic climax. I already drew the
storyboards for the Spielbergian shots for the sword fight between
The Girl and the evil prince... but without a camera, I was
screwed.
    My fingers grazed the coarse stucco retaining
wall that held the dune away from the driveway. I hop-scotched a
fallen scooter, a bucket of sidewalk-chalk, and a tipped bag of
fertilizer awaiting the geranium trough along the garage.
    I should pause for brief explanation of the
castle, as it was one of the few quirks in my otherwise normal
childhood.
    With an infant at home, a bun in the oven,
and the promise of more foster kids, my parents decided that it was
time to upgrade from their two-bedroom apartment above Dad’s
architecture firm to a place more appropriate to raise a family.
Through her old realty connections, Mom discovered a deal on a
1920’s Spanish-style castle in money-pit disrepair. There were
leaks in three rooms. The kitchen was trapped in the seventies with
rust-brown linoleum counters and a yellow linoleum floor. The
inside walls were slathered in lead-based paint, and the basement
was a