The Eighth Day by Dianne K. Salerni Page B

ask a question. “Is it Mrs. Unger’s?”
    She nodded. “She put it in a drawer and forgot about it, I think.” Her voice sounded rusty, like it was rarely used.
    Jax picked up his bike and straddled it. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I was just trying to be friendly. Maybe that breaks some kind of rule. I didn’t know.”
    â€œYou don’t know much, do you?” She tucked her hair behind one ear nervously, and it rippled down her shoulder like a silvery waterfall.
    Jax shook his head. “Not really, no.”
    â€œWhy hasn’t he explained things to you?” She nodded toward Riley’s house.
    â€œHe did tell me not to bug you. But I’m not a good listener.”
    She smiled, finally. “You don’t have to leave,” she said. “I haven’t talked to anybody in a long time. I’m out of practice.” She twisted the pepper spray closed and put the can into her back pocket.
    Jax didn’t need any more invitation than that. He got off the bike, grabbed one of the rusted folding chairs that had probably been left leaning against the house by the previous owner, and deliberately placed it over the property line, on Mrs. Unger’s lawn. Then he unfolded another one opposite, on Riley’s lawn, and sat down.
    The girl dragged the chair a little farther away and saton the edge of it, poised to run. She reminded Jax of a half-tamed deer.
    â€œHow long?” he asked. “Since you’ve talked to someone?”
    â€œ Long ,” she said.
    Jax wasn’t sure what to say next, and while he fumbled for a topic, she filled in the silence. “Maybe five years, for me. Longer, in your world.”
    â€œIn my world?”
    She held up one finger. “I have one day for every seven of yours. Figure it out.”
    Did she mean what he thought she did? “Are you saying you haven’t talked to anyone in thirty-five years ?”
    She plucked at her shirt. “Can’t you tell?”
    Now that she mentioned it, she was dressed strangely. Her jeans were studded with fake diamonds and crisscrossed with zippers. Her shirt had batlike sleeves and diagonal stripes.
    â€œThese clothes belonged to Mrs. Unger’s daughters,” she said. “I’ve been wearing them since they were in style.”
    Jax stared at her, completely floored. This girl looked only a couple years older than he was, but she’d been living in the Unger house since the eighties . She met his gaze sadly as he took it in. At that moment, Jax would have happily thrown a brick through the window of any store in the mall and stolen whatever clothes she wanted just to make her smile again. “You don’t have access to anything more . . . recent?”
    She shrugged. “Magazines. Newspapers. Books.”
    â€œLibrary books,” Jax gasped. “I’ve been getting them for you all along.”
    â€œThank you,” she said.
    He couldn’t believe it. Mrs. Unger’s ghost was real and not a ghost at all. “Soda,” he said, remembering. “I promised you a soda. How about I go get a couple?”
    For some reason, that made her bite her lip. It looked like she was trying not to laugh. “Okay.”
    â€œWait here. I’ll be right back.” Jax dashed into the house, praying they actually had soda. He threw open the refrigerator, found half a six-pack, yanked two cans out of the plastic rings, stuffed a half-empty bag of chips under his arm, and hurried outside.
    He was afraid she wouldn’t be there, but she was sitting on the edge of her chair and looking nervous, as if she couldn’t believe she was still there either. He handed her a soda and set the bag of chips on the ground near her feet. “I’m kinda surprised we have any chips left,” he said as he sat down. “Riley can eat a whole bag in one sitting.”
    Jax popped the top on his soda and looked up to find the girl eyeing