Vintage: A Ghost Story Read Online Free PDF Page B

back, under my arms. I tried to shift about in the seat in the hopes of finally finding the secret of being comfortable, but with the duffel bag on my lap and the person next to me leaning over more and more into my personal space, the task seemed impossible. I breathed through my mouth, disgusted at the stink of so many bodies packed tightly.
    But the worst was the girl crying. I might have drifted off except for her.
She sat diagonally across from me, thin knees bent up to her chest. Her floral print dress rode up slightly and I could see scuff marks on her knees, bruises on her shins. Her face was almost always turned toward the windows—weird because the night had made the glass into reflective mirrors—so I only caught part of her profile: thin, angular face peeking out behind limp hair. She held a tissue in a clenched fist, bringing it up to her face and down to her lap steadily.
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    She never stopped crying. Deep, heaving sobs that pinnacled with her shaking. High-pitched huffs and heavy groans.
I looked around the bus amazed that everyone else was fast asleep. How could they? Didn’t they hear her?
I stared hard at her, wishing many evil thoughts upon her while silently begging her to just shut up so I could sleep. I’d be in New Jersey in only a couple hours.
Her hand smacked the armrest suddenly making me jump. She turned around to look at me. All I could see were her eyes. They bled dark mascara. Empty eyes.
    I woke from the nightmare with a gasp. While the bus ride to my aunt’s town had been awful, and the one girl’s constant crying very real, she had never looked at me once the entire trip. I was just thankful she didn’t leave at the same stop. Why dream about her and not Josh?
    As I stumbled out of bed, I caught a whiff of something burning. My aunt was cooking. Wearing crumpled boxers and a worn T-shirt, I made my way out into the hall, trying not to inhale the stink of something sickly sweet and charred that hung thick in the air.
    In the kitchen my aunt stood by the toaster, staring at it with rapt attention. I shuffled toward her but stopped when the cool tile floor brought back the memory of Josh’s touch. Twin browned remains popping up from the toaster startled us. My aunt gingerly removed whatever she had been “cooking” and dropped it onto an already full plate.
“Hey,” I said softly.
    She gave me a smile. “Good morning.” She held up the plate overloaded with different squares. Some looked too toasted, a uniform blackish brown, others multicolored and more festive than anything I wanted to see before noon.
    Needless to say my aunt was not a chef. Convenience was her favorite ingredient. The microwave received more attention than the stove. Takeout was preferred. The fact she had bothered to take the time—even two min utes per Pop-Tart, which I figured amounted to almost a half hour’s work— to make me breakfast struck me as wrong. Very wrong.
    I slowly sank into one of the chairs surrounding the small kitchen table. She set the plate down right before me and the smell, a mix from some cata strophic bakery, hit me full in the face. She began rooting in the refrigerator and missed my whimper.
    She brought over a carton and two glasses. I ached for coffee but a glance at the counter showed the machine sitting idle. She poured orange juice into each glass and pushed one forward. I cautiously tipped it toward me. The stuff looked too bright to be served at breakfast.
“So I thought we’d have a chat.”
    Damn. Chats were bad. Adults “chatted” when they wanted to tell a kid he’d done something wrong. I grabbed a Pop-Tart and started chewing; with a mouth full, I wouldn’t be able to have this “chat.” Gagging at the sudden taste of some nameless and artificial berry, I washed it down with a gulp of juice.
I was in hell.
    “At the store I wasn’t sure what flavor you’d want so I bought a variety pack. Made them all. Do you like?”
I managed to make a “Mmm” sound