The Insomniacs Read online

  I thought my mom would change the subject but her lips curved up slightly in a half smile. Up close, I loved her faded freckles. “Those were good days,” she said, referring to the time before we’d retreated. “That was a long time ago. I can’t believe you four are almost all grown up.”

  Me, Van, Wilson, and Max hadn’t been “you four” for years now. One more school year and I could leave and start fresh. Once our proximity to the aquatics center and Coach Mike didn’t matter, my mom could finally sell this albatross of a house and go back to a semblance of the life she’d had before my dad dropped us in this cul-de-sac. She was waiting on me. And I was so close to not being a burden.

  “Sorry about these, by the way,” my mom said. The paper shades from Home Depot had lost their stick and fallen to the ground. “Maybe next weekend we can get new ones.” I liked how she used “maybe” since she was stretched too thin to keep up with promises. She kicked aside the paper shade that lay on the ground.

  “Mom, don’t. I’ll tape it up tonight.”

  “Call the police if you hear anything, okay?”

  I nodded and we both leaned forward to look at the limestone ranch house next door. Two years ago, a quiet family, the Smiths, had bought the house. Just like us, they had one daughter and kept almost entirely to themselves. All I knew was the dad was some kind of doctor, yet he never seemed to leave the house. I’d only glimpsed the young girl with her two perfect French braids out on the street a handful of times, riding my old bike—really Van’s old bike—that my mom must have given to them. I’d said hello a couple of times but she never said hello back. I’d decided she wanted to be left alone. But she always watched me, looking lonely as hell.

  About six months ago, the family vanished, leaving all their possessions behind. No one knew where they were or if they were coming back. The house just sat vacant.

  This made the rest of the cul-de-sac anxious. My mom said it seemed like everyone was projecting all of their fears onto the house, into the void. She’d heard speculation of foul play, witness protection, involvement in a cult. Maybe it was that no one liked the feeling of not knowing, of not understanding the emptiness inside.

  And then the break-ins began. Maybe that was the real reason I hadn’t slept in four days; I was anxious because I was all alone next door to a house that had been robbed as recently as two weeks ago.

  “He’s home,” my mom said. She must have also noted Van’s 4Runner in the driveway. “Go, Ingrid. I thanked them but I’d like you to say thank you, too.”

  “You hate that the Moores helped us.”

  “I hate that I wasn’t there when you had your accident but I am so grateful that Lisa hunted me down after Van called her. Come on, Ingrid. Go talk to him.”

  I could feel myself growing desperate as she backed me into a corner. Please don’t make me do this. “It’s just that it’s not necessary. I don’t want to make a big deal about it or he’ll think we’re weird.” He already thought that, I was sure. Single mom publicly humiliated by her renowned then-husband, daughter with an old-lady name, ugliest house on the block, big, fat accident the first time he ever showed at a diving meet—the kind that makes you want to throw up after seeing it.

  “We are not weird.” My stoic, Nordic mother narrowed her eyes at me. “I am going to watch you from this window and make sure you go. Then I have to leave.”

  I was already nervous to face the long night ahead, alone. It was like the accident had changed me and broken the switch I had so easily flipped when I was ready to sleep. I couldn’t remember all of what had happened on the board and it haunted me during the night. Pieces of memory seemed just out of reach.

  “Mom?” From the slight note of whining in my voice, she knew I was about to tell her something important. For a second, I wanted to talk to her about the stage fright. How scared I’d suddenly felt up on the board and how swiftly the mental block came out of nowhere. Until that moment, I’d never thought it could happen to me; that the self-consciousness and fear were right there, lying in wait.

  “Yeah?” She said it warily and leaned back on her heels, worried about the time this might take before her shift. The shadows were growing longer and I remembered my childhood dread of night, the thick woods of the greenbelt transforming into a palpable presence outside our locked doors.

  “Nothing. I’m good.”

  It was fine. There was no reason to be scared. Since I knew what had caused my mental block, I could banish it on my own. I’d face Van and then make myself forget him. I’d get through this forced break and then I’d climb the ladder again. Everything would go back to normal. And, tonight, I was so tired, I was sure I would sleep like a baby.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SATURDAY, APRIL 2

  It wasn’t that I’d wanted to stop going over to Van’s house. It was that I’d imploded inside when I saw the boys the morning my dad left. They were waiting for me on the street as usual and witnessed the end of it all.

  I remembered them in a row, stunned as my dad stalked to the waiting black Town Car, blatantly ignoring my cries. When the car pulled out, it ran over the tire of my bike that I’d left in the driveway the night before. The sedan kept going, my mangled tire popping out from under it like a demented jack-in-the-box.

  Max looked at me, then at my mom and, in a moment I would never forget, he cracked up.

  It was the reaction of a kid. I knew that now. But it still haunted me. The humiliation of my strong mother, crying. The sound of my friend’s laughter at her tears.

  The world of a nine-year-old is free and open—or at least I’d felt that way on our cul-de-sac—and then, bam, I saw everything as a landscape of divisions like tiles in a mosaic. It actually wasn’t so different from that moment on the diving board. Everything went still for a second; I felt naked, and then there was a fracture.

  Later that day, I discovered Van’s old bike on my doorstep. A note written in Van’s handwriting was taped to the handlebars and read, You can have this.

  As soon as I saw the present, I quietly wheeled it to a dark corner of my garage and never touched it. For some reason, I couldn’t. For years, whenever I glimpsed Van’s bike in the corner, I thought of it as the pity bike. Eventually, I forgot about it until, one day, I saw the little girl from next door on it, flying past.

  Now I was embarrassed that I never thanked Van, or gave the bike back, or played with the boys again. At first they’d avoided me—probably out of awkwardness—but then they’d knocked on my door a few times to see if I could play. I didn’t answer and they finally quit trying. They seamlessly tightened without me and no one beside my mom questioned why I was no longer a part of things.

  Now, seven years later, I stood on the sidewalk in front of Van Tagawa’s beautiful home. I heard the distinctive rattle of my mom’s aged, kelly-green BMW station wagon behind me as she pulled out of our garage, headed to work, her eyes surely on me as she drove past. I spun to catch a glimpse of her but I was too late. Instead I saw our house across the street, painted white though the color had taken on a dingy, gray cast. The thatch of weeds in front made it stand out from every other house on the block, except for the now-vacant one next door.

  I eyed the greenbelt in the encroaching darkness, the cedar elm forest black against the lighter sky. Who had been breaking in so close to my house? From what my mother had heard, the electronics had been stripped out. Everyone speculated that a homeless person had come up from the greenbelt and then spread the word about a place to sleep. I didn’t even want to know about the night foot traffic that had always passed through our block from the trailhead that led into the wilderness. Everyone had paid for beautiful views but knew to secure their doors when the sun went down.

  In the near dark, an outdoor lighting scheme thoughtfully highlighted the spare, native plants and clustering oaks at Van’s. I was just across the street from my house but it was like escaping to a different world—a Disneyland. In addition to being beautiful, Van’s was the f
un house, the one where all the kids had always hung out.

  Everything about Van and his home was, in my opinion, perfect. The house was a large two-story made of silvery Texas limestone with a bronzed metal roof. Olive trees flanked the path to the front door, lush emerald squares of evenly cut grass to either side. The sounds of Van’s three younger brothers playing soccer carried from the backyard.

  With my mom out of sight, I considered immediately going home, but when I glanced around, of course someone was watching me. Someone was always watching someone on Scarlett View. Max was a distance away but we made eye contact as he walked across the street, presumably to find Wilson after being separated for only a matter of minutes. It occurred to me that it had been weeks since I last saw Van hanging out with his two best friends.

  I paused on Van’s front step and glanced behind me again. Max was now at Wilson’s door but still observing me. For a long moment, Max steadily held my eyes, not betraying if he was surprised that I was standing on Van’s property for the first time since I was nine.

  Max’s fiery red hair stood out in the dusk. He also had intense freckles to match, which had faded only marginally over time. Maybe from years of being teased about his freckles, Max always struck first, his sense of humor cutting. Yet, when we were only seven, Max was the one who had carried me on his back for more than a mile when we all got lost in the woods and I twisted my ankle slipping in the creek. Just last week, there was a moment when my car strained to start in the driveway and, in my rearview mirror, I saw Max begin to jog across the street to offer his help.

  Max’s parental supervision was almost zero even though his hippie parents had retired early after selling their fruit-leather business for millions. Wilson’s parents, on the other hand, watched their only child’s every move. Wilson’s mother was originally from India and a successful restauranteur. Wilson was named after his other mom—Leigh Wilson, a Texan—carrying on her Southern family’s surname.

  Just then, Wilson came out of his house. He joined Max on the doorstep and plopped down on the bench gracing the wide porch, sprawling his legs out in front of him, folding his fingers over his middle. Wilson was tall and lanky with longish, silky black curls and doe eyes that made him look eternally innocent. I still couldn’t reconcile this seventeen-year-old Wilson my friends thought was so sexy with the little kid I’d splashed with in the creek wearing nothing but my Hello Kitty underwear.

  Now both boys’ eyes were on me.

  I realized I was staring back at them. I remembered where I was standing and I was about to quickly knock, when Van’s mom whipped the front door wide open, surprising us both.

  “Ingrid.” She put a hand on her heart.

  “Hi, Mrs. Moore.”

  She relaxed and smiled. “I don’t think you’ve ever called me Mrs. Moore. Always Lisa. I was just getting the mail. How are you feeling?” She touched my shoulder very gently, like she was worried I might break.

  “Oh, fine.” I said it like it wasn’t a big deal. As if I didn’t have staples in my head.

  “I’m glad you’re good. Concussions are terrible.” She sucked in her breath. That bystander yikes.

  I made myself look into her expectant cornflower-blue eyes. I missed her. Everyone loved Lisa. A former preschool teacher, she was the parent who had played with us, stretched out on her stomach on the living room floor. One time, early on a Saturday morning, Lisa had painted my nails while we waited for Van to wake up. Before Mary Seitzman moved onto our cul-de-sac, I was the only girl and I loved being doted on. Back then, I took it for granted.

  “I just wanted to say thanks for tracking my mom down at work after the accident. My coach probably had her number buried in paperwork but it would have taken a while to find it.”

  “Of course! We all look out for each other,” Lisa said. It didn’t feel fake coming from Lisa but we hadn’t been part of her circle for a long time.

  “Thanks again.” It would appease my mom if I said thank you to Lisa. I was about to say goodbye and head home to rest my head and stare at the ceiling, when one of the twins—Anthony, I guessed—knocked into Lisa and she caught herself on the doorframe. In a whirlwind, Gus, the other twin, came in a close second, and shouted over his brother who was actively telling on him. Lisa was immediately thrown into a whirl of chaos and negotiations. I cleared my throat, which jarred my head and made me acutely aware of the circumference of my skull.

  “Bye. Thanks so much, Lisa,” I croaked. I was concerned about the tendrils of cold that had begun to spread through my limbs, always a precursor to throwing up.

  Lisa barely looked up but opened the front door even wider and gestured for me to come in quickly before their bull terrier escaped. “No, Stella!” To my horror, Lisa grabbed my arm, pulled me into the rectangular entryway and slammed the door shut just as Stella’s muscular, gray body heaved into it, then slipped on the carpet. Her paws were muddy and Lisa grabbed Stella’s collar to pull her into the large, bright kitchen just to my left. Van’s brothers ran behind and in front of their mother, almost tripping her.

  Van’s stepdad sat at the white marble kitchen island, his back to me, laptop out and loaded with stock market data, phone in hand. His large frame was bearlike. Kevin didn’t look up at the fighting or help Lisa as she struggled with Stella near the kitchen fireplace. But then he twisted slowly on the barstool and gave me a little smile.

  “Van’s in his room,” he said.

  “Oh, I’ve got to go,” I said quickly, and brushed my unkempt, sickbed hair from my face.

  “Nah, go on up,” he coaxed. He seemed to laugh at some private joke as he turned back to his screen.

  The picture frames on the entryway table caught my eye. They all showed the Moore family, blond—with the stark exception of Van—and smiling on different expensive vacations. All the way in the back, I saw a token picture of Van’s dad. In the photo, he appeared much younger than any parent I knew today, but he had been pretty young when he died. He looked so similar to Van with the same high cheekbones and direct, amber eyes.

  Van had been five when he moved onto our street with his mom and her new husband. Lisa had been very open about being widowed and remarrying and I remembered every detail of what the neighbors had repeated to one another when the Moore-Tagawas first arrived—Van’s Japanese-American dad had died less than a year before, he had been a medical resident, and he’d been killed changing his tire on the side of the road. Lisa didn’t mention the last part; someone discovered it in a Google search.

  Before Van’s arrival, Wilson and Max and I had been our own tight circle. We’d let other kids play with us but no one became a lasting member of the group. When Van confidently wandered over to where we were setting up our orange cones that read KIDS AT PLAY, that all changed.

  Almost immediately, we became a foursome but we divided into two teams—Wilson and Max, me and Van. If Max and Wilson were like my brothers, Van was my best friend. I remembered feeling like I recognized him instantly, that we already knew each other somehow. I’d never felt that way before. Or since.

  Van’s stepdad was still watching me, expectant.

  “Okay,” I heard myself say. Why in the world had I just agreed to go up to Van’s room?

  I recognized the adrenaline rush and the urge to challenge myself. It was my response to fear. My coach had pointed it out: consistent, consistent, explode. In one week, I could learn three new dives. He said it was the quality that made me continuously level up. Now I had that same feeling. I craved and hated the sensation: exciting and horrible.

  I took the narrow staircase, freshly painted on a regular basis to cover the boys’ greasy handprints. At the top of the stairs, the house more closely resembled what I remembered from years and years ago. The artwork was the same and so was the long runner that ran the length of the landing and was always bunched from kids tearing through the house.

  Van’s room was two doors down to the right and I could hear the sounds of Lyrics Born’s �
�Callin’ Out”—a song I knew because Van had played it nonstop this past month and it carried through his open window. Pretty soon it would be so much hotter and Van would shut his windows and it would be another year before I knew what he was listening to. He had great taste, in my opinion, except for the hits he played that were produced by my dad. I always wondered if he knew they were his. Then I’d think, Of course he does.

  The bedroom door was partially open. I touched the handle and my heart began to pound.

  “Van?” I said softly. Too softly, apparently.

  My eyes caught on the Zildjian poster on the wall straight ahead. It was identical to the one my dad had given me when I was little: the drum kit and the giant cymbal. It had been flattened but white creases marred the print, and it occurred to me that it might be the exact poster that had hung on my wall before I’d crumpled it up and jammed it in the trash. I was wrapping my mind around that when, from the corner of my eye, there was a flurry of movement.

  Van shot up quickly from his bed and stood next to it. Then I got all the confirmation I ever wanted or needed that they were, in fact, dating, when Caroline Kelly sat up much more slowly behind him. She looked down at the front of her shirt as though making sure it was buttoned all the way.

  I unfroze. “Sorry.” I quickly turned and left the room. He was nothing to me. This didn’t matter. There was no reason to want to be sick.

  “Ingrid.”

  I looked back at Van, who’d followed me into the hallway. My cheeks were flaming. He was barefoot and wore jeans and a band T-shirt. He looked completely unflustered. His eyes dropped to my chest for a millisecond and I instinctively pulled the old T-shirt I’d been wearing for two days away from my body.

  We both paused, not saying a word. I hadn’t heard him say my name since eighth grade.

  He was waiting for me to speak, to explain why the hell I’d walked into his bedroom. Van Tagawa’s inner sanctum. Which Van was he? The one I’d played Legos with? The one who had accidentally/not accidentally held my hand in eighth grade? Or the one who was six-two, gorgeous, and a king of our school?