One - Black Memories

A sharp shriek jerked me from sleep, and I yanked my blanket from my head and sat up in an effort to find and destroy the source of the noise. My brown eyes turned to the bedside table and zeroed in on my alarm clock.

Target sighted. Obliterate.

Instead of smashing my clock to a million bits of plastic and wiring as I so wanted to, I restrained myself and merely switched the alarm off, effectively silencing the shriek. I didn't bother trying to go back to sleep, though, since I didn't doubt that the Terrorizor would be in to wake me if I did, and she was even less pleasant than the alarm clock.

With a yawn that tapered into a sigh I pushed my blanket aside and got out of bed, stretching my arms up over my head. Stumbling about in my sleepy stupor I managed to shower and brush my teeth without bumping into anything, and by the time I was getting dressed I was awake enough to do so without strangling myself.

As I brushed my blonde hair in the mirror, my gaze fell to my dresser, where my amulet rested. It had been there for a long time, ever since I'd first gotten it - ten years ago, when I thought about it. I had worn it around for a few weeks before putting it on my dresser and leaving it there to collect dust.

I stared at it for a moment, studying the embedded stone thoughtfully, before I set my brush down and went to grab my jacket from the back of my desk chair. I picked my black messenger bag from the floor and pulled it on as I left my room, trotting down the stairs.

Mom was already in the kitchen, which came to me with little surprise. Slightly more surprising was that the Terrorizor, otherwise known as my younger sister Tabitha, was already awake and halfway through her bowl of Fruit Loops.

"Morning," I greeted.

"You're already up?" Tabby asked, looking up at me as I passed to fetch an apple for myself from the bowl on the counter.

"I thought I was going to have to send Tabby up to wake you," Mom added with a smile.

I wrinkled my nose a little. "Unnecessary." I took a bite of my apple, chewed the sweet, yet slightly sour fruit, and swallowed before continuing. "I'm going out with Jean today, yes? You said I could."

"I know, I know." Mom waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, go out with Jean. But Adam's going to be home at six, so make sure you're here, all right?"

I pursed my lips and almost asked why, but Mom stopped me with a look and nodded toward Tabby, who was focused on her cereal and paying no attention whatsoever to my distaste. I shrugged. "I'll try."

"You'll be here, Amber."

"Eh." With that intelligent repartee I mussed Tabby's red hair, earning a cat-like hiss, before I headed out the door. I would have come up with something a bit more witty if not for my little sister, who didn't much care for it when I mentioned my dislike for her father.

I walked along the street instead of taking my bike; Jean lived close enough, and besides that I was wearing a skirt, knee-length though it was. I enjoyed walking, especially in the fall, when the air was crisp, no longer hot but not cold yet. The leaves were just starting to change color from the bright green to softer reds and oranges.

My attention so focused on the colors, I didn't notice the moving van blocking the sidewalk until I nearly ran into it. Disturbed from my observations, I turned to the truck before looking to see what house I was in front of, curious to know whether I was getting new neighbors or losing old ones.

My eyes widened and I dropped the remaining half of my apple in surprise.

I was standing in front of the Black house. It was two stories high with a third floor dedicated to an attic that had often been used as a playroom. One of the windows on the second story was open, the wind stirring red curtains that had been left by the previous owners. There was a large wraparound porch with a swing still intact, though covered with leaves by now. The house had gone unoccupied for ten years, empty and silent, serving as a constant reminder for what I had lost.

And now there was a moving van in front of it. In the driveway, even.

The front door was open. I stared for several moments but no one appeared, and I didn't know whether to feel disappointed or grateful. My heart was pounding so loudly I could almost hear it and I was sure the color had rushed from my face, as stricken as I was with shock.

Finally my senses returned, giving me back control of my body. For a wild moment I was tempted to go knock on the door, see who would be moving in to our neighborhood, but apparently I didn't have as much control as I thought because without giving my legs permission I turned and ran, around the truck and along the sidewalk. I wasn't sure where I was going, but it wasn't long before I determined that I didn't care. I had to go somewhere, anywhere to get away from that house, because there was no way the people moving in were the ones I thought they might be.

No, not ones. You're not expecting more than one person. Just him.

I told my mind to shut up.

To my surprise, I didn't run to Jean's house as I'd been half-expecting.

Instead, my feet led me two miles away, across three intersections and over a stone bridge that arched over a wide river. I kept running until I reached the park in the center of town, where the colorful trees were plentiful and ducks were still swimming about in the lake.

And there was that bench. That old, worn bench, the dark wooden planks sagging ever so slightly, iron frame rusted from age and weather. I knew without looking that on the back two pairs of initials were carved; A.R. and C.T.

I stopped next to the bench and doubled over, hands on my knees as I panted for breath. I wasn't exactly what one would call out of shape, though I'd never been athletic, either, and sprinting for two miles straight was definitely something I was not used to.

My reason for coming here wasn't a huge mystery; this was the last place I had seen my best friend in the whole world. More than that, it was the last place I had even spoken to him. After he'd moved it was like he'd fallen off the face of the Earth, never to be heard from again.

Except now people were moving into his old house, and I didn't know what to make of it. No one had ever moved into his house in the ten years he'd been gone, and I'd speculated that his father had kept ownership of the place even after moving. How he could afford something like that was beyond me, but I'd never thought too much on it.

I didn't know if I was expecting to see him here by the bench, but if I had been I was sorely disappointed; the only other people in the park were a few kids playing in the trees and an old woman sitting on another bench by the lake, tossing bread to the ducks. She was there every morning, though I'd never spoken to her.

I looked around for a few minutes, frowning to myself. I supposed that I might have been waiting for him, as though he was actually supposed to be meeting me here.

You're being stupid. Do you remember when you got so excited when the phone

book was brought up, and you spent three hours looking for his name and couldn't find it? You were so disappointed, and you're doing the same thing to yourself right now.

My frown deepened, but I knew my jerk of a subconscious was right. With a weary sigh I turned to leave, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets and wishing I'd brought my bike, after all.

---

The walk to Jean's house had been shorter than I'd expected, though I supposed it had been partially because my mind had been elsewhere during the trip. Either way, it felt like only a few minutes had gone by before I found myself ringing her doorbell.

Her mom answered the door, greeting me with a shriveling smile that I was fully used to. "Good morning, Amber. You're here awfully early, aren't you?"

"I guess." I shrugged my shoulders and gave a not-very-pleasant smile of my own. "Is Jean up yet?"

"Yes, Jeanette is awake. Please, come in." She moved aside a bit, probably half-hoping I would offer to wait outside.

Instead I thanked her and entered the house, which often felt more like a museum than anything. The foyer was enormous with a wide staircase leading up to the second floor, the landing over-looking the front door. The entire house had white tile floors and white walls covered in paintings and lined with fancy vases and even a statue of an armless man's torso. I imagined it all was very expensive, probably paid for by Jean's father, who was an architect; her mother was a housewife, and a very snooty one at that.

She didn't care for me very much, and I knew why. I dressed according to comfort before fashion, a concept that she with her pencil skirts and blouses and pointy high heels probably didn't understand. Her hair was dyed blond and tied back in an elaborate knot on the back of her head, the red nails on her fingers obviously fake. As if to complete the Pampered Princess look she even had a little dog tucked under her arm, a tiny gold-brown Chihuahua wearing an equally tiny blue sweater. To be fair, though, the dog was Jean's.

With my simple views toward clothing and lack of concern for fashion, I was a dark stain on the elite lifestyle Jean's mother seemed to be convinced she was living.

"Hey, Amber!" a voice called from above. I looked up to find my second best friend in the whole world, Jean, leaning on the banister on the second floor, grinning down at me. "Come on up."

"Jeanette, I hope your room is clean," Mrs. Jean's Mother chided. I supposed that with Jean fully dressed and showered she had little else to complain about but the potential untidiness of her daughters bedroom.

"It is, Mom." Jean rolled her eyes. "And will you stop dressing Capone like a priss, please?"

"Oh, he likes it."

"He does not. Please give the dog to Amber so we can help him re-masculate himself."

Her mother rolled her eyes the same way Jean did and begrudgingly handed the dog over to me. "Fine. I'll be in the den if you need me."

"Like we will."

Trying not to grin, I rubbed the little dog behind the ears as I carried him up the stairs. Jean met me on the landing and led the way into her room, closing the door behind us.

Every time I entered Jean's room I imagined that her mother didn't come up much because she'd probably have a heart attack if she did. While the rest of her house was spic and span (thanks to her housekeeper) Jean's room was a disaster area; not liking cold floors in the morning, Jean had covered the tile with three different rectangular throw rugs. Her bed was the centerpiece, queen-sized and made up with black sheets, matching curtains hanging from the four posts. Her walls were covered with posters of rock bands and action movies. Rock music was playing from a stereo atop her dresser, though she went to turn it down a bit before flopping herself on her bed.

As though in an effort to mix modern furniture with old, she had a television set placed on a low black table in front of an old armchair that she likely bought from a yard sale. It was a deep red with a few small tears, though I doubted she'd even noticed. Her desk was old-fashioned, burgundy with gold handles on the drawers. It was topped with a black laptop computer, a stack of CD cases and a jar of pens and pencils.

All in all it spoke volumes, either of Jean's personal tastes or of her desperation to rebel against her mother's pristine lifestyle. Probably a bit of both.

"So what's up?" she asked, grabbing one of her pillows and resting her chin on it as she looked at me. "You look pale."

I shrugged and set Capone on the floor before moving to sit in the armchair, tucking my legs up under me. "I got freaked out on the way here."

"By?"

"A moving van."

Jean quirked a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "I was not aware you had an irrational phobia of moving vans. What, did one kill your parents? Are you going to become Cardboard Box Girl, protector against all things moving-van related?"

I frowned at her. "It's not the moving van."

"Do elaborate."

Ah, Jean. So uplifting, yet so deserving of a good punch to the jaw.

"It was outside the Black house," I explained finally, picking idly at my fingernails. Her eyes widened a little in surprise, and I knew I'd caught her sympathetic attention. She and I had been the ones to name it the Black house after all; black, named for the feelings I had when I thought of that place.

"I see." Jean sat up and crossed her legs, holding her pillow on her lap. "So what does it mean? Did you see… anyone?"

"No." I told her about my irrational reaction, waiting for her to call me an idiot. She didn't.

"It could be someone else moving in," she reasoned, watching as Capone sniffed about the floor hopefully in search of food she might have dropped.

"Doesn't necessarily have to be him, does it?"

"No," I relented. I stood and put my bag down before pacing a bit; it was hard to sit still for me on good days, never mind now when I had something to be nervous about. "But what if it is? I mean, it's been ten years. What do I do if I see him? What if I don't recognize him, or if he doesn't remember me?" I found myself wringing my hands and quickly stuffed them into my pockets again.

"Hey, what's your last name?"

I looked at her to find her watching me, freckled nose wrinkled in distaste. "You know it's Reed."

"Really? Because for a minute there, I thought it was Capulet." She suddenly threw her pillow at me. "Quit your bitching, Juliet, it's not like you. Since when do you care? About anything? Nevermind some dude who ditched you over a decade ago and never had the decency to call."

I blinked at her, not wholly surprised by her less-than-sympathetic reaction.

"He didn't ditch me."

"He had to move or whatever, sure, but when he never once contacts you it's ditching," Jean retorted. "What're you going to do if you see him and he recognizes you? Go all jelly-legged? No." She stood up on her knees, glaring at me. "You're going to go straight up to him and say 'where's my phone call, b***h?'."

"What is he, my boyfriend? He never owed me a phone call."

"But he promised you one. It counts."

I sighed and slumped back into the arm chair. "You know I'm not as bold as you are."

"What, you want me to do it? Because you know I will."

I grimaced. "I know you will. Please don't."

"Fine." Jean shrugged and sat down on her bed again. She leaned over and scooped up Capone, carefully tugging the little sweater from his body. "I swear, Mom is turning him into such a princess. You know he won't eat regular dog food anymore? He just eats the fancy s**t now."

I didn't spent a lot of time thinking on the rather sudden change of topic; I knew that Jean wasn't very good at talking about relationships. Not that I really had a relationship to talk about. Just the potential return of a ten-year friendship with no contact whatsoever during the decade.

This was going to be awkward.