Page 72 of Bad Intentions

This isn’t over. But Mrs. Snickett said she’d take care of things. For the first time in years, someone besides Grandma has my back.

I walk to my bedroom, turn on the light, and my eyes instantly catch sight of my guitar. I take a seat on the edge of the bed and study it for some time.

I thought the Pittsburgh fiasco was rock bottom. It’s nothing compared to what’s going on in Burnville. Trouble has many shades. I don’t know when this ends, how this ends, if it ends at all. The ache in my chest makes it shake with a sob. Tears well up in my eyes. It’s self-pity, of course. And pity for Grandma. Ours is a generational curse. The one-eyed old Mr. Bunny stares at me from the shelf. It’s a screwed-up metaphor for my family. Torn, patched up, mutilated, burned, then washed and somehow presentable.

I don’t know how to process what happened or how to pack all the secrets that keep piling up into a box and hide it under my bed. No closet can hide a dead body either.

I close my eyes and start humming a vague tune that’s slowly forming into a song.

For the first time in months, I pick up my guitar. The moment my hand wraps around the familiar smooth guitar neck, a pleasant tingle of anticipation courses through my body. I’ve missed this.

I don’t want to wake up Grandma with the noise, but I feel like playing. I silently caress the strings, thinking about how to stitch my emotions into words and following the tune in my head.

Soon, the lyrics come together, and I pick up a pen and paper and write them down.

It’s the middle of the night. I’ve just been framed for a horrible crime. The strangers I barely knew until weeks ago covered it up. I might survive this. Or I might go to jail. Grandma might die soon. Or she might last for a while. I wanted answers about my family’s past. Now I wish the past stayed in the past. My music career went to crap, my fans despise me, life sucks, and yet, there are people who try to make it better, not asking for anything in return. Often, it’s not the brutal violence but rather random acts of kindness that affect us the most.

So I write about blue waves, like Rika’s hair. And the scent of vintage wood and smoke that is Mrs. Snickett. The secrets with sharp edges and the wishful kindness of strangers. And the dark road to nowhere, with a trunk full of my past.

It’s all in the past, that’s what I tell myself as I sing quietly and finally touch the guitar strings, weaving the words with the music. It’s all in the past.

I hear a creak outside my door, and I smile, knowing that Grandma is up, being sneaky behind the closed door, listening to me play. But I carry on singing, for her, but mostly for myself, knowing that I can’t erase what happened, but I might change what’s to come.

You can’t look into the future when all you do is look into the past.

39

JOSIE

The next day, Grandma is at the front door before I get to it.

“Good morning, Mrs. Boots,” Rika chirps, standing on our porch, smiling like nothing happened.

“This is Rika, Mrs. Snickett’s granddaughter,” I explain.

“I know,” Grams says.

Apparently, I’m the last one to find out all the news. And why wouldn’t Grandma tell me about Rika if she and Mrs. Snickett were talking again?

“Come on in.” Grandma motions for Rika.

“Oh, I’m just here to pick up this girl.” Rika tilts her head in my direction. “She said she wanted to get her car cleaned.”

Did I? It’s either a clever excuse or an actual thing.

When I put on my parka and walk outside, Rika tells me, “I’ll meet you at the car wash on Walnut Street,” and gets in her car.

“So I’m actually getting my car cleaned?” I shout into her back.

She turns on the engine and rolls down her window, the music blasting through her car speakers. “Detailed, Josie,” she says. “You are getting it detailed, yes. I already booked the slot for you.”

Once I drop off my car and put emphasis on the trunk that needs work, I get into Rika’s car. She doesn’t ask where to take me. I was planning to go home and maybe talk to Grandma more, then go for the late shift at the diner. But Rika takes Blossom Street, which leads north out of town.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To an Amish market.”

“Why?”