Trying To Endure

Chapter Fourty-Seven

SONG: Doja Cat - Streets (slowed + reverb)

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Derek Matthews

"Hello?"

I blink at the screen. "What?"

She smiles that illegally-perfect smile. My chest somersaults. "You've been staring."

I slant back in the cushioned chair, stretching my arms above, disguising the mortification. "I need your help. I might not use the Manor, so I'll have to build a replica. Can you redraw the blueprint? I need your creativity. Let's figure out which room should be what."

"Sure. We can meet in the rooftop. Six?"

"Eight."

"Six. No, five."

"Eight."

"Boy, five."

"Eight. I know it's late, but—" I flicker to my set of, "—I got homework to finish."

"How about tomorrow at six?"

"That's too far. I want to see you."

"Tomorrow, six, or no."

I sigh. "Fine."

April bites onto a cheese sandwich. "Are you going to have a party for your birthday?" 

"If you come, yes. We need your chicken dance."

"You want that embarrassment on your eighteenth birthday?"

"It's cute."

The call ended at three in the afternoon.

"What are you looking at?" I mutter to the dogs. 

Duke and Atlas exchange a look. Then, they stare at me, heads tilted to the right.

I hold my hands up. "I like her, OK?"

Duke, the distinguished gentleman himself — so goes by the name — barks. Are they smirking?

The mansion is a limbo. I stare at the palm-sized polaroids on my desk. The scenery. Mum and three women. I discerned a new aspect I haven't before — Mum was pregnant in the photo. Luke or me?

I watch a Japanese drama to bypass the time. The polaroids are so miniature, vibrant to leave large claw slashes of longing on my skin.

1856. Circled in recent-black in Florence's logbook, beside the victim's name. What was it? Negaso? Nilayo? No — Negasi. Negasi ... Hailu! Negasi Hailu.

I mentally play memories with my father, figuring out if he mentioned strange, strange things that might have a potential link to this. I envisioned the three-hundred-year-old edifice. The hunted stags. The brilliant books. The screaming floorboards. The pictures on the walls —

I lurch upright. Atlas yelps and falls off the bed. He lifts to his feet, glaring at me. I rub his ears and kiss his head, apologising. For the first time, he grunts like Duke, Fuck you, circling on the black sheets, sinking to another siesta.

Names weren't only in Florence Everston's logbook. 

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Everstons:

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