Free Truest by Jackie Lea Sommers Page A

thought, then called Silas and biked over to his house.
    I had this thrill of nervousness, returning to Heaton Ridge so soon after Laurel’s banshee cries had rocked my world, but knowing the Hart family’s secret felt like my reinforcement.And when I arrived, the only sound I heard was some unbelievably loud music blasting from Silas’s bedroom stereo. I tiptoed past the first door in the hallway, which I was pretty sure was Laurel’s, and knocked on Silas’s door.
    â€œCome in!” he called, and I entered, seeing him fussing over something on his bed. “I found some awesome garage sales,” he said, proudly presenting his discoveries to me before turning down the volume on his old CD player.
    â€œSo this is why you need a summer job,” I said as I surveyed his finds, which were laid out across his unmade bed like cheap museum displays: a dollar-sign ice-cube tray, a medium-sized box of ancient eight-tracks, a pair of lightsaber chopsticks, and a “D-Bag Poet” Magnetic Poetry set. I held up the magnet collection. “Really?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s missing ‘dayam,’” he said, trying not to crack a smile, “so I won’t be able to write a poem about you, sorry.”
    I burst out laughing but tried to stifle it. On his nightstand, his cell phone vibrated. I picked it up, glancing at the screen. “Beth,” I said, handing it over. He pushed a button to ignore the call, then slipped it into his back pocket.
    Hmm.
    â€œWhat are you going to do with a box of eight-tracks?”
    He shrugged. “Dunno, but aren’t they great?” I noticed his shirt for the first time then—it featured a unicorn rearing before an American flag. “Pearl of great price,” he said, looking down at it with tenderness.
    The thrift-store scent of used goods mixed with the smell of his room: boy, sweat, and sandalwood, all rich and milky and fresh-cut cedar. “You . . . are so . . .”
    â€œEnchanting? Delectable? Ambrosial?”
    â€œ Weird. ”
    He grinned at me.
    â€œI saved the best for last,” he insisted, and I realized that he was hiding something behind his back.
    â€œDon’t tell me,” I said. “Macaroni art of Steve Buscemi?”
    â€œI wish! ” he teased. “But no.” Silas revealed a carrot-colored plastic transistor radio. It was a little larger than his hand—an awkward size, like an old Walkman on steroids.
    â€œWhat do you want that for?” I asked.
    â€œBecause it’s awesome. Durr ,” he said. “And because we’re going to use it to listen to that radio show of yours. Yes?”
    Just a small token—but it felt like he’d just promised to build me a house or buy me an island. For the first time this summer, I felt like someone had heard me.
    I couldn’t find my voice for a second, but pressed my lips together and nodded. “I’d like that,” I said softly.
    That evening, Silas and I returned to his house to listen to August Arms. Mr. and Mrs. Hart were in the kitchen—and they were arguing. From the front door, I couldn’t hear much of what was said, but I had little doubt it was about Laurel. “Well, just don’t let her!” Glen insisted. “Just don’t— let —her.”
    â€œI’d like to see you try, Glen. And instead you’re planning—”
    â€œHi,” Silas shouted awkwardly, announcing our arrival. “We’re going up to the roof!”
    Teresa came out of the kitchen and into the hallway. “Westlin! Hello! How are you? How’s your family?” Big smile, no trace of conflict. My parents could turn it on just as quickly. How many times had Dad been yelling at us kids and then answered the phone in his best pastoral voice as if he were a totally different person?
    â€œEveryone’s good, thanks, Teresa.”
    Glen stood in the doorway to the kitchen.