Mr. Durbin pulls into the driveway when she points it out, and looks puzzled to see Janie’s car standing there, looking like it’s just been driven. There’s no snow built up on it, and steam rises off the hood.
“So, you prefer to walk on a frigid night like this and lug all that junk home through the snow?” He laughs.
She grins. “I wasn’t sure I’d have ol’ Ethel back tonight. Looks like she’s here now.” She doesn’t explain further. He puts the car in park and opens his door. “Can I give you a hand?”
The bags, once she got into the car, had slipped every which way, and are now a tangled mess. “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Durbin.”
He hops out and hurries to her side of the car. “Please,” he says. He gathers three bags and scoots out of her way, then follows her to the door.
Janie hesitates, knocking the snow off her boots, adjusting her bags, so she can open the door. Notices things about her house that she overlooks most days. Screen door with a rip in it and hanging a little bit loose on its hinges. Wood exterior rotting at the base, paint peeling from it.
Awkward, Janie thinks, going inside, Durbin at her heels. She flips on the entrance light and is momentarily blinded by the brightness. She stops in her tracks until she can see again, and Mr. Durbin bumps into her.
“Excuse me,” he says, sounding embarrassed.
“My fault,” she says, feeling a little creeped out by having him in the house. She’s on her guard. Who knows? It could be him they’re after.
They turn the corner into the shadowy kitchen. She puts her bags on the counter, and he sets his next to hers.
“Thank you.”
He smiles. “No problem. See you Monday.” He waves and heads back outside.
Monday. Janie’s eighteenth birthday.
She rummages through the bags on a mission. Grabs a handful of grapes, rinses them off quickly, and shoves them in her mouth, craving the fructose rush. She starts to put things away when she hears a step behind her.
She whirls around. “Jesus, Cabe. You scared the crap out of me.”
He dangles her car keys. “I let myself in. Thought you’d be here.
Heard an extra voice, so I hid in your room. So, who was that?” he asks. He’s trying to sound nonchalant. Failing miserably.
“Are you jealous?” Janie teases.
“Who. Was. It.” He’s enunciating.
She raises her eyebrow. “Mr. Durbin. He saw me walking home and asked if I wanted a ride. He was in line behind me at the store.”
“That’s Durbin?”
“Yes. It was very nice of him, I thought.” Janie’s gut thinks otherwise, but she’s not feeling like having a work discussion with Cabel right now.
“He’s…young. What’s he doing, picking up students? That’s odd.”
Janie waits to see what his point is. But there doesn’t seem to be one.
Still, she makes a mental note to record this incident in her case notebook—can’t be too cautious. Janie turns and continues to put things away. She’s still confused over how quiet Cabel was earlier.
Doesn’t say anything.
“I didn’t know where you were,” he says finally.
“Well, if I knew you were coming, I would have left a note.
However,” she continues coolly, “I was under the impression that you were pissed at me. So I didn’t expect I’d see you.” She’s visibly shaking by now, and grabs the milk, rips open the cap, and chugs from the bottle. She sets it down and looks for something that won’t take long to prepare. She grabs a few more grapes and snarfs them.
He’s watching her. There’s a look in his eye, and she doesn’t understand it.
“Thanks for bringing my car. I really appreciate it. Did you walk all the way back to school?”
“No. My brother Charlie gave me a lift.”
“Well, thank him for me.”
She’s got the peanut butter open now, and globs it on to a piece of bread. She pours some of the milk into a tall glass, grabs the sandwich, and slips past Cabel into the living room. Flips on the TV and squints at it. “You want a sandwich or something?” she asks. “Would you like to stay?” She doesn’t know what else to say. He’s just looking at her.
Finally he pulls a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. Unfolds it.
Turns off the TV. “Humor me for a minute,” he says.
He stands directly in front of her, then turns and walks fifteen paces in the opposite direction. Stops and turns to face her again.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Read this. Out loud, please.”
It’s an eye chart.
“Dude, I’m totally trying to eat, here.”
“Read. Please.”
She sighs and looks at the chart.
“E,” she says. And smirks.
He’s not laughing.
She reads the next line.
And the one after that. Squinting. And guessing.
“Cover your right eye and do it again,” he says.
She does it.