Hidden in Sheridan (Tainted Series: Book 1)
Part 1: Chapter 6 - Backfire during Stalker Mode

Moon: YOUNG

Levi - The sun sits high in the afternoon sky. I watch Ity, her earbuds securely in her ears so that nothing can bother her. She pulls today’s red hood over her slick brown hair. It’s a thin hoodie, but definitely a pull over, the one with the big pocket across the front.

From down the hallway I follow her, as she goes through her after school routine.

She hoists her beige backpack onto her shoulder, then sinks her fists deep into her pockets. She navigates flawlessly through the hall of hyper students, her footsteps so light I wonder if any of the echoing squeaks come from her sneakers. After a few sharp turns I follow her out into the sharp piercing afternoon sunlight.

She flinches at the brightness of the sun, but instead of shying away from it she pauses, allowing it to rest on her face before sliding a thick pair of oversized sunglasses on the bridge of her nose.

She trails along the grass, across the road and out into the gravel parking lot. I stay as far back as I can without losing her, just out of sight until she reaches the road.

It’s a fact that no one pays as much attention to Ity as I do. Yes, I realize how creepy that makes me sound. But I do replace it odd that no matter who I ask, no one can tell me how she gets home after school. Not even Rhydian takes her home. She can ride with anyone, the whole school loves her. She can even take one of the crowded buses, but no one has seen her do it. Regardless of that fact, on the days I have followed her, this is where she goes but I’ve never seen her beyond this point.

A safe distance back, I shuffle my feet to a stop. Senior cars pass by her and still she remains unfazed. I blink. It’s a normal blink, but when I open my eyes she’s peering over her sunglasses directly at me. Her gaze holds a gentle wonder and her soft smile, though a bit hollow, pulls across her face as she gracefully walks toward me. She crosses the gravel parking lot closing in the distance between us.

Now standing in front of me, Ity waves a simple hello before making a pleading hand motion. It’s a sign I haven’t quite learned in my brief study of sign language, but I felt I could guess what she was trying to say.

“You need a ride?” My voice cracks.

She nods, her one hand touching her chin and moving out in a light hearted thank you.

“Yes,” I nod before shame floods over me. My car is not in this parking lot. in fact, Wendy is no where near our current vicinity. Beads of sweat form on across my hairline and I swallow back the largest lump of pride in my chest.

Maybe Ity won’t notice, I lie to myself and motion for her to follow.

Mr. Watson is a huge fan of old cars, and he claims it was fun for him to work on Wendy. But it is a flat out miracle how he saved her. Like, a better than Christmas, miracle and I paid for the free labor by purchasing a brand new set of all weather tires, totally worth it. Because there she sits, in her parking spot, with all her red rusted glory.

The passenger door creaks as I pull it open, and gesture for Ity to climb inside. She doesn’t shrink back at the site of my unkempt interior. The seat even moans welcoming its new occupant.

I slam the door and take a deep breath to calm my shaking. Rounding the car I repeat a silent prayer, “Please work. Please work. Please work.”

The drivers side door groans much less than the passenger side did. Which may, or may not, have something to do with the passenger door taking the brunt of the accident.

I bounce into the drivers seat before sliding the key into the ignition. My prayer continues, as I twist the key and listen to the taxing sound of the engine turning over.

No luck. Not the first time. The second time sounds worse. My jaw tightens and I fight the urge to look over at Ity and apologize. Just a few more tries before that’s necessary. Third time, Come on baby! The engine turns, the starter kicks and the old girl rumbles to life. Now I turn to Ity and flash her a triumphant smile. We latch our seatbelts and I shift the stick into drive.

Thank you, Watson!

I pause at the stop sign, and watch her profile carefully to see what she might indicate next. Her glasses still on, she slips the hood off of her head to reveal her hair. It’s perfectly straight, not the same kind of straight that comes from hours of ironing it, like my mother usually has too. Her hair is just straight. Each strand shimmers like it was glossy and alive. Her slender fingers raise, the tips of them split her hair into four separate rivers as she runs them through the dark chocolatey locks.

Ity’s eyes turn to meet mine and blessed be, they are still covered by sunglasses and expensive ones by the looks of them. Clear frames with deep tinted lenses. I suspect she can’t see me to clearly through them, and with that new knowledge the nervous fidgeting all through my body, steadies. That’s when I realize I haven’t asked her the simplest question.

“Am I taking you home?” I ask. Above her sunglasses a eyebrow twitches and she motions with a nod instead of her using her hands. “Home. Your home. Got it.” I accelerate and a five year old dark green Nissan lays on its horn. I promptly slam on my brakes and allow the little car to speed past. Again I’m mortified, but this time for almost get in a second wreck.

“Sorry,” I say. I exaggerate looking in both directions before pulling out onto the road.

The drive remains quiet for a while, which makes sense for Ity, she can’t talk anyway. Plus, it’s probably dangerous for me to drive while starring at her as she answers my questions with her hands. However, mindless rambling is my M.O and the quiet is steadily becoming too much for me to handle. Determined to for her to leave this car with a good impression of me, I resist the urge to open my mouth.

My grip tightens around the steering wheel so much my knuckles turn white. From the corner of my eye I can see she’s sitting very relaxed. Her back is pressed against the seat, her legs stretched out in front of her. Not like she’s sitting in a Lazy-boy recliner but definitely loose enough to be interpreted she’s comfortable.

The trees thicken as Wendy rounds the bend onto the twisting mountain roadway. It’s been a week since the last snowfall, the spring breezes successfully melting the monster snow drifts into large muddy swamps next to the asphalt. The ground cover plants look vibrant and alive again and I remember how painful it had been to be dragged through that thick brush. The scratches on my legs suddenly itched at the memory and I ignored the urge to scratch them.

But it was a fleeting beauty. Every Wyoming native knows that spring holds no promise of winters end. In most cases all this vegetation will be plunged back under four feet of snow any day now. My skin tingles at the thought and I take a deep breath. The smell in the cab is stuffy, I really need to clean it, but the air that comes in from the vents gives me a distinct feeling that winters return is on its way.

I pass one car on the lonely mountain drive and round the narrow corner before Ity’s hand gently taps me on the shoulder. I glance at her and recognize the request for me to pull the car to the side of the road.

Still several miles from the Allen home I hesitate. On both the left and right there are no turns or driveways in site. Just a small shoulder to the road where I can safely park Wendy.

The Bronco bumps and moans as I pull off the flat surface onto the rocky roadside, but Wendy’s new tires were proving to be worth the purchase. She came to a smooth stop securely in the mud.

I had barley shifted Wendy into park when Ity unlatches her seatbelt, opens the car door, and slides to the ground below. She slings her backpack over her shoulder before pausing to thank me.

“Where are you going?” I blurt. Realizing I failed to control the shock in my voice, my words end up trailing off toward the end. Flustered, I look behind Ity at the trees. There is no sign or indication of where she is planning on going. Maybe the silence was too much for her. Maybe if I’d have talked to fill the silence she would have let me take her all the way home instead of abandoning ship at the halfway point.

However, at my question she motions to the space behind her. Her motion so causal it suggests her reply is a simple, ‘out there of course’.

“There’s nothing out there.” I insist.

She shrugs and closes the door, with high steps she tromps through the brush across the visible obstacles. I shift uncomfortably in the my seat.

Was I just going to let this girl go out into the woods alone? Out into a place I had just been bitten by a wild dog?

CHAPTER END