Under a Silent Moon

10

Chapter Ten: You Can Come In

ZACK

What the fuck am I doing? I've successfully laid low for a significant amount of time, and now I'm going to just show up at this girl's house--who I barely know--and use her shower? Why would I risk exposure so carelessly? How will I explain my presence to her family? Even as I mentally drill myself with endless questions, my feet don't stop moving forward. Lana is saying something to me, and I finally tune in.

" . . . had an argument and I ran away. I didn't plan on--" she takes a deep breath"--returning this soon, but I honestly don't know where else to go." As she talks, she hesitantly pulls out her phone and glances at it. I see several notifications pop up, but she hastily darkens the screen and shoves it back into her bag, fixating her attention on the road ahead of us. Something's bothering her, but I have too much on my mind to prod for answers.

"Did you walk to the club?" I ask over the sound of cars whooshing past us on the highway.

She looks over at me, her hair a tangled mess from the wind. "Yeah. I live close."

When we arrive at her street, things have quieted down. It feels wrong to be in town, to be in the open where anyone could spot me. I pull my hood up over my head again and stare at my feet as we walk in semi-awkward silence. I can tell we're approaching her house because all of the sudden she's slowed down, kicking rocks off the sidewalk.

"When we get there, go around to the back. There's a small tree right behind my bedroom window. You should be able to pull yourself up. This is it."

We stop in front of an older colonial home. Even through the darkness I can see the misrule that is the front porch. It's littered with soccer balls, books with warped pages, and wicker furniture that's seen better days.

Before we part ways, I stop Lana. "So, uh, I don't really know much about my . . . condition yet. If it's anything like fiction, though, I think you may need to invite me into your house?"

I feel ridiculous as the words escape me, but it's best to cover all my bases.

She blinks at me, momentarily confused. Then she says, "Oh, yeah, you can come in."

As instructed, I follow the cement path that snakes around to the back yard. When I hear Lana close the front door behind her, the muffled sounds of an argument can be heard permeating through the windows.

Although small, the tiny tree is sturdy and bears my weight with ease. I can effortlessly hoist myself up to her bedroom window, but I need to slide it open first. There isn't anything jutting out from the house to hold onto while I use an arm to lift the glass, so this quickly becomes a puzzle needing solved.

I figure, since there's a lot I don't know about my new self, that it wouldn't hurt to try and accomplish both feats. Perhaps I can hold myself with one arm while the other opens the window. I ensure my grasp is firm on the ledge above and pull myself up. Carefully, I let go with my left arm and find the lip of the window sill. To my mild surprise, I'm able to support my body weight with only my right arm. The purple curtains inside begin to escape as I slide the window upwards, taken by the cool breeze. I fight my way blindly through them until my shoes meet the hardwood floor of Lana's room.

She's not here yet. The raised, muffled voices continue downstairs. I can only hear segments of the confrontation.

" . . . called the police."

"Yeah, right." Lana's laughs loudly, humorlessly.

My eyes adjust quickly to the blackness of her room. It's a different kind of dark in here. At least outside the moonlight shines, although dull, through a thicket of clouds. Outside, you can still feel the vibration, the push and pull of the moon. But here, in Lana's sad and cluttered room, it just feels black. Empty. Lonely.

I can hear someone ascending the stairs, and I quickly stow away in the darkest corner of the room in the unlikely scenario that the footsteps are not Lana's. A small figure flings open the door and shuts it harshly behind her, gently pressing her forehead against the wood for a moment before turning around and scanning her surroundings.

She flips a switch and her bedroom is suddenly swathed in light. I blink hard and emerge from my hiding place.

"Have any trouble getting in?" she asks, and I can tell she wants to avoid discussing whatever just happened downstairs.

"Not at all."

My vision is slightly improved with the light, and I can clearly see Lana's haven. Her bed is small and cloaked with a comforter that's violet on one side and a darker shade of purple on the other. It's thin and worn, as if being put through the wash one too many times. There's a white bookshelf opposite her bed that contains thick books and a compilation of trinkets that probably only have significance to her. There's a pile of unwashed clothes next to her already full hamper, and a circular chair in the corner that has a backpack and a couple stuffed animals resting on its yellow cushion. A keyboard sits near the window I snuck in, with a few of its keys missing.

"You play?" I ask, motioning to the instrument. I realize quickly it's a stupid question, but I'm not really sure how this scenario is supposed to play out.

She shrugs. "I used to take lessons, but now it's just something I do when inspiration hits." She approaches her closet and pulls out a guitar. Pulling an emerald sweater off of it and tossing it back into the closet, she sets the acoustic next to her piano. "I used to be a one-woman band."

I scan her eyes and find humor in them. Music is something that makes her happy.

I remove the guitar from its resting place and take a seat at the edge of her bed. "I'm not very good," I warn her, pulling my hood off of my head and adjusting my grip on the wood. My fingertips lightly brush the strings and a wave of electricity races through me. Music is something that makes me happy too. I wish my dad would have gotten me involved in some sort of lessons when I was younger, like Lana, but in his eyes I was meant for the field, not the bleachers.

My fingers find a soft tune. The melody isn't of any song I know, it's more so something that appears in my brain and my fingers are subject to obey. I never learned how to read music, so anything I practice comes from sound memory or imagination.

My trance is broken when Lana asks, "Did you write that?"

Suddenly my current situation returns to my consciousness and I set the guitar aside, too eagerly I guess, because she raises an eyebrow at me.

"Yeah," I say, pushing myself up from her bed. "Just something I've been working on."

"You write music?" She's genuinely interested.

I point to my head. "All up here."

"That's amazing." The intensity in her eyes makes me uncomfortable for some reason, and I mindlessly pace the room. "Did you write any lyrics to accompany it?"

Yes. "Nope. Not really a writer."

"Maybe I can help you with that," she says, sounding hopeful. But then something dark washes over her features and I can literally see her sink into herself. She's quiet until I interrupt the silence.

"So, a shower would be nice."