Phantom Summer Page 3

  I shake my head. "No ma'am."

  She squints through the bifocal part of her glasses. "You don't even look eighteen, lucky you."

  "Well, I'm not," I say. "I'm seventeen for the next eight months."

  "Did you do one of those early graduate programs?"

  "No, I just dropped out." Actually, I never officially dropped out, but I know I'm never going back to school. Especially not a new school.

  "Oh, dear," she says, reaching her arm out and putting it on my shoulder. "Honey, you need to stay in school, especially in today's economy."

  I can feel my one and only job option slipping through my fingers. I smile what I hope is a warm and charming smile. "You're right. I'll probably go back, I just moved here and am kind of scared of a new school."

  This seems to work, for she smiles back and reaches under the counter. She pulls a maroon polo shirt, exactly like the one she's wearing, out of a box and hands it to me. "You can start tomorrow. How many hours do you want to start out with?"

  "As many as you can give me," I say. "I really need the money."

  Her lips press together as she watches me finish the application. She shifts on her feet. "We do have something that pays twenty dollars an hour-" she starts. I look up from the paper. "Oh my god, yes I'll totally do it."

  "Well," she says holding out her hand. "Don't jump to anything yet. I really don't think the job would be good for you. It's usually a man's job and lately we can't seem to keep anyone here for more than a month or two." She shakes her head like it's some kind of sad tragedy.

  "A man's job?" I say, wondering if, with all the anti-discrimination laws out there, they can only let a man work this high-paying job. "Is it hard labor or something?" For twenty dollars an hour, I would clean toilets with a toothbrush. My toothbrush.

  "No, it's the night shift. It's some light cleaning like dusting the fixtures and taking out the trash. Once a week we will change out the displays for different charities we sponsor and special events and stuff like that. It's about three hours a day, so you could actually work both positions. We've had people try that before."

  "Yes!" I say, entirely too excited but I don't care. A full time and a part time job at an easy place like this? Hell yes. No more working in sleazy diners flipping greasy burgers. Things are totally falling into place, just like I hoped they would.

  "Well hold on now," she says. "I don't think you would like it at all. It's at night, and you'd be alone."

  "So?" I say, looking around at the museum that's so boring only old people like the couple across the room would ever visit. "It's not like I'll be mugged or anything. I would love to at least have the opportunity." I look into her eyes. "Please?"

  She sighs and shifts around the papers on the counter, shaking her head to herself. "You haven't lived here for long, have you?"

  I shake my head. Why is this the second time I've heard that? I sign the bottom of the application and hand it back to her. She eyes the paper in her hand, biting her bottom lip. "You can have the reception job and you can try the night position, but trust me you won't want it."

  I bounce on my toes. "Thank you so much." She reaches out to shake my hand. "Welcome aboard—" She reads my name on the application, "Taylor. It's nice to meet you. I'm Margret."

  Chapter 8

  Parking is sparse on The Strand. There are a few metered spots along the actual Strand itself but they are all taken before the shops open for the day. I find two parking garages but they require a special badge to gain access. Eventually I end up parking six blocks away in a Starbucks parking lot. Great, as if I'm not losing weight from barely eating already, let's add twelve blocks of walking each day.

  Margret greets me with a cup of coffee from that same Starbucks, a homemade blueberry muffin and a loving, "Good morning Taylor." I almost die from how sweet she is, like she's the only old woman in the world who doesn't harbor a hatred of a technology and the new generation of bratty teenagers. "I will train you today, but there's really not much to learn. We just stand here and greet people as they visit on slow days like today. Of course, it's good to know about your Sterling Island train history in case anyone asks questions." Margret slips behind the front counter. I follow her, pushing away the unease I feel at making myself at home in a place I've only been inside once before. I work here now, after all. Better start acting like it.

  "Do you have some manuals or something for me to read?" I ask.

  "Oh heavens, no." She walks around the counter and motions for me to follow her to a display case. "All you need to know is right here on the signs." I skim the little squares of cardstock pinned inside each display case. Margret taps on the glass. "You know my oldest sister Lucy wrote all of these descriptions."

  Random pieces of China and flatware are in this case, along with a card that describes them as being from the Renfert Collection. "Henrey Renfert donated these pieces, they are real railroad China from the 1930s," she tells me.

  "Cool," I say. Margret watches me as I make my way around the display cases, halfheartedly reading the descriptions of the items behind them. She reminds me of a grandmother, one I'm sure I could have had in another life, and as dumb as it sounds, I want to make her happy. "This place is really awesome," I say. She beams. "You know, right here where we're standing is the old waiting room from 1932."

  "No way?" I go over to the ticket booth to my right. "I thought it was just a prop."

  She shakes her head. "No ma'am. This is the original railroad station, although they built a bigger one down the street a few years later. It has survived so many hurricanes and I feel like it will never be harmed. This was once the headquarters of the Gulf. Railroads from Colorado to Santa Fe all stopped here. The state's first steam locomotive, they called it the General Robert, arrived at the Port of Sterling back in 1853. The railroads were once the lifeblood of Texas, you know."

  "There's no way I'll ever memorize all of that," I say.

  "It just takes time. I've had eighty-six years to figure it all out."

  I almost choke on my coffee. "Don't take this the wrong way Margret, but you don't look or act like an eighty-six year old."

  She waves away my comment with her hand. "Thank you. I certainly don't feel like an old woman. But I'm the oldest and the bravest woman at the Railroad Museum." She leans forward and says, "You have to be brave if you want to work here as long as I have."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Honey, you really aren't from around here," she says, more to herself. She adjusts her glasses, then looks me in the eye. "This place is terribly haunted."

  Chapter 9

  When I was six, Brendan's grandmother had free passes to the space museum and let me go with them one weekend. When I look back on that trip to the museum, I don't remember anything about space or astronauts. I only remember the life-sized talking statues.

  The start of every space exhibit had a statue dressed as an employee with a motion sensor voice box. When it sensed us walking up to it, it'd start talking and tell us about whatever space object we were approaching. I was terrified of them. They had these glass eyes that never moved, yet no matter where I stood, they were always staring right at me.

  I had forgotten all about those creepy statues until Margret shows me around the museum. "These are our passengers," she says, making air quotes and giggling at how totally enamored she is with them. Ten life-sized mannequins stand around me; each dressed in Victorian clothing, holding a train ticket and big, friendly smiles painted on their faces. Now that I'm seventeen, they don't look as frightening as they would to six-year-old me—but they're still weird.

  "I like to change their clothes with the different seasons," she says, adjusting the collar on a man's blazer. "It really helps you get the feel for the place back in its heyday."

  Margret teaches me a ton of stuff, most of it interesting, some of it not, as the next eight hours go by. No more than a dozen people drop in to tour the museum, but when I bring it up, Margret says that's because it
's a weekday. She says visitors really pick up on the weekends and holidays, which is totally understandable because who wouldn't want to visit a dusty old train museum on their vacation?

  By closing time, the museum has been empty for about three hours. I help close up for the night, a strenuous task that consists of turning off half the lights and changing the calendar blocks to tomorrow's date.

  When I ask about my night job duties, Margret wrings her hands. "Honey are you sure you want to try this? I have to babysit my granddaughter tonight, or I'd stay and help you. Maybe you could try it out tomorrow instead?"

  Tomorrow would mean forty dollars less in my paycheck. That's almost a whole day of working at a minimum wage job. "I really don't mind being alone. It's peaceful."

  "Peaceful?" She walks to the light switches and turns a few more lights back on. "Don't be a martyr. If you need to get out of here, just get out. Try to lock the door behind you but even if you can't do that, it'll be okay."

  "Come again?" What the hell would make me run out of here without locking the door?

  "I said it'll be okay, no one will steal anything from here. We just lock it for insurance purposes."

  "Right." I try not to roll my eyes. The people on this island are crazy if they seriously think everything is haunted.

  After Margret leaves, I start a fresh pot of coffee and get to work. The supply closet has a stack of feather dusters so I start dusting off all the displays. I dust the statues too, but I don't look them in the eyes. I sweep the floors, wipe the counters, and clean the windows. That barely takes a whole hour. I sit on the replica of a real train seat, the one with a DO NOT SIT sign on it, and look for more ways to clean. This isn't a two hour a night job, no matter how far I try to stretch it.

  Sitting alone in here is the most peace I've had in a while. No one's barking orders at me; mom isn't snoring in the other room. Even the incessant splashing of the waves on the shore can't reach me here. I lean my head against the old train car seat and relax.

  The wall behind the old ticket booth creaks every time the wind blows. It almost sounds like footsteps, if you have an imagination that stretches like a rubber band. And the statues cast eerie shadows on the floor. I guess I can see how a timid person might get scared of being in here alone. Sometimes just being anywhere alone is scary. Not for me though. I cherish alone times.

  In an effort to waste my last hour and deserve the twenty bucks it'll get me, I walk around to each display case and read the item descriptions. I don't bother with the dates, but I try to remember some names and places. Old ticket stubs from the mayor's wife. A skeleton key that belonged to a train engineer. Cuff links, train parts, brochures. More old stuff than I've ever seen rests behind these glass window boxes, preserved against the elements. There's even a diamond necklace.

  No wonder people think the place is haunted. I'd be pissed if my precious jewels sat in a museum instead of being cherished by my relatives. I laugh, a small sound that echoes through the empty room. Who am I kidding? I'll never own precious jewels.

  I lean my head against the glass, fully knowing that my makeup will probably smudge it and I'll have to clean it again, and stare at the sparkling diamonds. I had owned a diamond once. And now I don't. It was probably my only chance to own something so valuable, and I liquidated it.

  I sigh and it fogs on the glass. Sometimes a stack of twenty dollar bills are more valuable than a stupid sparkly rock. I lift up my shirt to wipe off the fog. A shadow sweeps across the glass. I spin around, embarrassed that my shirt was raised when a visitor must be right behind me. I see nothing.

  "Hello?" I say, walking back to the welcome counter. The place is empty, except for the smiling statues to my right, and they certainly aren't moving. It must have been my imagination, or something. Maybe it is time for me to go home and get some sleep.

  I rinse out the coffee pot and flip off the extra lights. With the lights off, the museum feels cold and drafty. I shrug off the goose bumps on my arms and remind myself to bring a jacket next time. Then I make one last look over the place, ensuring that it's all clean and presentable for tomorrow morning. I feel through the darkness to the front door.

  And that's when I hear the screams.

  Chapter 10

  Mom isn't home when I get back from work. A freshly laundered pile of sheets and a brand new pillow sit on the couch for me. It's a small motherly gesture, but it means a lot to my crippled heart. I dive on the couch and sink into the smooth sheets.

  I hate admitting it, but without Brendan here, Mom is my only friend.

  And I barely know her.

  Rolling over, I bury my face into my new pillow and pretend I'm in a different place. With my eyes closed, the scratchy fabric of the couch doesn't have to be Mom's couch. It could be the couch in a rented beach house, in a life where I have tons of friends who all pitch in to get a place for spring break. And I could be tired right now because I just came home from a night of partying with Brendan. He'd have my perfume smeared all over him, and I'd have his arm around my waist.

  Although deep in my brain, I know it isn't the truth, I find solace lying in peace for a few moments, pretending to have a different life. And then I realize I'm breathing in my own hot air through the pillow and flip over, totally grossed out. It's not even midnight yet, and I'm not exactly tired, despite working all day.

  Insomnia was easy nine months ago. I'd slip on my flip flops and plod through the thick grass that separated our trailer from Brendon's yard. To avoid the motion light on the side of their house, I'd walk a wide berth around the front and then sneak up to his window. Usually, his TV would be on and I'd just knock on the window. If his TV was off, I'd still knock, but feel slightly guilty about it.

  He'd pull up the blinds and slide open the window and say something stupid like, "Hey beautiful."

  Then we'd hang out for hours, watching TV and eating junk food. He'd let me talk about the crazy things Dad did that day, and I'd listen to him rattle off about how his parents keep nagging him to go to real college instead of Mechanic school. We'd follow the same routine we'd perfected over the years, as Best Friends Forever.

  Only lately, the routine had taken a different turn in my mind. Our hugs weren't like best friend hugs. Our chilling on his futon became cuddling on his futon. When he smiled at me, warm tingles would zap straight through to my toes.

  I was falling in love with him.

  But he had a girlfriend.

  I sit up on the couch and shake myself. I can't keep thinking of the past. Charlene was Brendan's girlfriend, and I had no right to try and steal him from her. He had told me about her the year before, saying he knew it was awkward and all to talk about girls to me, but I was his best friend so he just had to tell me about his new crush. I wasn't bothered at first. We were so very clearly JUST. FRIENDS.

  Sure thing, I had said. Ask her out. Go for it. I don't care, I'm your bestest friend in the world. I'm like a sister. Yeah, like the sister who isn't really your sister and is horribly in love with you.

  I should have said no. I should have told him how I felt back then. He wouldn’t have asked her out and she wouldn't have turned out to be the most amazing girlfriend ever, and she wouldn't have torn us apart.

  And if I had said no, then none of that stuff would have happened with her. I wouldn't have had to steal him back. He would have been mine first and forever if I had only said what I was thinking, instead of what I thought I should say.

  I wouldn't have killed him.

  I look around my new home. I'm not friends with any of the neighbors here. And if they're anything like what the hoopties in the parking lot implies, they're all a bunch of crack heads anyhow. If luck is on my side, I won't fall in love with any of my new neighbors. I won't ruin any more lives. No one else will ever have to die because of me.

  Fully awake now, and knowing I won't sleep, I get up and step into my flip flops by the front door. The thing about Sterling Island is that everything is within walking distan
ce and you can never get lost. Eventually, you'll come to a beach and you'll have to turn around. I kind of like the comfort in knowing that I'll always be able to get home. Even if home is a crappy apartment in the ghetto. I go for a walk.

  There are so many places on the island that I haven't yet explored. This place is just crawling with history. Well, my part of town is probably crawling with syphilis and the bad kind of hepatitis. I think I'll check out the old rail road station I read about today in the museum. It's located a few blocks away from the museum, by the harbor. The harbor is somewhere to my left, so I start walking.

  After two blocks of scraping along in cheap flip flops, I realize I should have driven since the station is about ten blocks from home. But screw it, I'm already walking. At our old house I would have never walked anywhere at night. That's a recipe for being murdered. The island doesn't seem that way. But then again, I don't really care.

  And as creepy as it sounds, part of me wants the adventure. Not that I want to be confronted with a psycho aiming a gun at me, but I've always felt that I'd handle the situation well. That I'd be some sort of cool, quick-witted badass who could escape even the scariest of situations. So although I don't want to run into trouble per say, nothing is going to stop me from making risky choices.

  I walk a few blocks with this look of confidence plastered on my face. It's stupid because no one is out here. The college-aged party kids hang out in beach houses on the other end of the island. There's nothing but historical land marks and old people on this side. Murderers…yeah right. What was I thinking? The only creepy shadows around me are coming from the big oak tree that hangs over the road, its branches threatening to snap off and crush a car in a storm.