Whisper Down the Lane by Clay Chapman (inspiring books for teens txt) 📕

say water under the bridge. “I love you, Eli, no matter what.”

He nods.

“We just have to—”

watch out for

“—trust each other. I’m willing to do that, if you are. What do you say?”

“I love you…Dad.”

“I love you, too.”

“Will you stay with me?” he asks. “Just until I fall asleep?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want.”

I take in the room as Eli slowly drifts off to sleep. The stillness of the space is palpable. The dull glow of the building’s utility light just outside his window seeps into the room.

Something catches my eye through the open curtains. I sit up, my feet finding the floor.

Someone is out there.

I spot a glimpse of their silhouette from the other side of the window. Their ashen features linger in my reflection, like two faces superimposed on the glass.

A drab man hides inside me, the reflection of his face nestled within my own.

The gray boy stares back.

I walk to the window. Glancing out to the shadowed street, I search but can’t see him anymore. Just the halogen lamp, casting a coffee-colored patina over the patch of grass below.

There’s a car parked down the block but no one’s in it. There’s a tree kids climb and play in during the day, but its branches are empty now, buckling in the breeze.

I hold my breath, waiting for the brick. For the glass to shatter. I sense it coming for me.

Any second now.

Any second…

“Who is it?” Elijah asks. He’s hoisted himself up on one elbow, trying to see what I see.

I close the curtains, sealing us in. I turn away from the window, my back to the glass. I smile back at him.

“No one.”

Dear Sean,

The first time I found you was outside your bedroom window. I don’t know how long we stood on your lawn, watching you and your mother as she read you a story. It felt like hours to me, but I was only five at the time. I couldn’t stop shivering in my pajamas. You looked so warm inside.

“Look, Jenna,” my mother said. “Just look at them.”

I remember wishing I was at home, in my own bed with my own mother reading a story to me, instead of hiding outside yours, freezing in the dark. All I could hear was my teeth chattering. I didn’t want to be here, peering into your life.

“These are the people who ruined your father,” my mother said. “They ruined our family. Look how happy they are.”

She had brought a brick with her. I’m not sure if she had been carrying it the whole time, but I remember watching her throw it. The arc of her arm. The sudden, ear-splitting shatter of glass. The sound was so loud, it echoed throughout the neighborhood.

I remember hearing you scream.

Before I knew it, my mother yanked me away from your house. We ran down the street. My feet couldn’t keep up, but she wouldn’t let me go. She didn’t slow down until we reached our car blocks away. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said. “This will be our little secret.”

I felt giddy at first, sharing this moment with my mother. We did something mischievous together and nobody else knew. Just between us. Our own little secret.

It’s the last fond memory of my mother that I have.

Even though she would say otherwise, eventually laying the blame at my father’s feet like everyone else, I knew my mother never believed it. Your lies. She said what everyone else was saying to save her own skin. She knew that if she didn’t play along, people would start blaming her for what happened, too. She would be sucked into the same sinkhole that was swallowing up my father. I hated her for it.

Hated you.

—

I’ve known you my whole life. My earliest memories are of you. You were always there. On the six o’clock news. The front page of the newspaper. I’d turn on the television and there you’d be, talking about how my father was this monster, even though we both know that isn’t true. My father was so gentle. He loved me and cared deeply for all of his students, every last one of them. Even you.

How many people did you hurt, Sean? Have you ever tried to put a number to it? You know…just done the math? I have. You can easily tally up the teachers and administration who were put on trial and served time in jail…but your lies extended into the lives of our community. Across the country, making so many people afraid. The power of your voice, your lies, was malignant. It spread everywhere…

Growing up, it felt like I couldn’t get away from you.

And then, just like that…you disappeared. Sean Crenshaw ceased to exist.

I thought you were so lucky.

You got to vanish.

—

Nobody would let me forget who I was. Who my father was. Moving didn’t fix anything. My mother and I changed our names but that didn’t stop the stigma from following us. The stories always found us, somehow. Mom forced me into therapy because everybody assumed I’d been molested, too. By my own fucking father. I wonder if you know what it feels like to tell people the truth and not be believed.

I moved out the second I could. I tried to get as far away from my past as possible, cutting out every last little bit of who I was until nobody knew. If I could go one day, just one day, without being reminded of my dad, it would’ve been progress. Healing.

Or forgetting. Whatever you want to call it.

I was making good progress when I was living in Richmond. I had my own apartment. People who passed as friends. I even had a job at a coffee shop down the block.

When my manager told me we were going to host an art show, he asked me to close up the night of the opening. Why not? Free wine and cheese. I figured there’d be a few bottles of Two Buck Chuck left behind.

That’s when I saw the sketches in