The Haunting Thriller Behind the Hit Netflix TV Series Based on True Events
E-Book, Englisch, 327 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80075-138-5
Verlag: Swift Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Daria Polatin is a writer/producer on Stephen King's CASTLE ROCK TV series, and wrote and produced two seasons of JACK RYAN on Amazon, starring John Krasinski. She is an award-winning playwright, founding member of The Kilroys (the advocacy group for women, trans and non-binary playwrights) and holds an MFA from Columbia University. Daria is of Egyptian heritage, grew up travelling on five continents, loves hiking and inventing recipes, and lives in Los Angeles. Devil in Ohio is her debut novel and is being developed into a TV series with Netflix.
Autoren/Hrsg.
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CHAPTER 7
JUST WHEN I THOUGHT I´D GOTTEN A LEG up in the being-noticed department—Sebastian had thought of me to write and photograph the new column!—I was immediately forgotten again. Mom hadn’t arrived to pick me up at school, and because of volleyball practice I’d already missed the late bus. I’d texted and even called her, but she didn’t answer, which was weird, ’cause she always answered, even if it was a busy right now call you back text. I’d texted Dad too, but I knew that was useless. He was terrible with all things phone-related, and I was sure he was working anyway. I had been forced to get a ride home with Stacy Pickman, who lived next door and was on the volleyball team with me, and her complaining had been nonstop. Ever since my face had revealed that I thought her jeans were too tight a few years ago, she tried to ignore me in school, but the truth was Stacy had even fewer friends than I did—meaning zero—so she couldn’t be too choosy. And she’d never turn down the opportunity to have a captive audience to complain to. She complained about how spotty the Wi-Fi was in the cafeteria, how gym class should be shorter, and how upset she was that the weather had already turned cold. It seemed pointless to me to complain about things you couldn’t do anything about, but for Stacy no topic was off-limits. To drown it all out, I’d taken to counting churches as we passed them. Twenty-four. When we finally got home, I nearly fell out of the car in my desperate attempt to escape. “Bye, Stace!” I called, slamming the door to her parents’ old Ford sedan. I knew she hated being called that, but I couldn’t resist. She had just been complaining about trees. Trees. I headed down the stone walkway toward our house. It looked pretty much like the other houses on our block—two-story family homes in unassuming colors. American flags waving on the porch. Typical suburbia. Behind the row of residences were some woods. We’d played there when we were little, but I never saw any neighborhood kids back there anymore. I was surprised to see Mom’s car parked in front of the garage. If she was home already, why hadn’t she answered my text? Or returned my phone call? Maybe her phone had run out of battery. But she always carried a backup battery, in case there was an emergency. When I reached the front door, I noticed it was slightly ajar. This was some Rear Window–level creepiness. “Mom?” I called, pushing the door open and stepping into the vestibule. “Are you home?” My voice echoed off the wooden staircase. I stepped into the living room. Empty. My mind was starting to race. Was she still at work? But then why was her car here? “Jules!” My mom swooped through the swinging kitchen door into the living room, startling me. She wore her worried face. Uh-oh. “I’m so glad you’re home!” she blurted, her words coming out faster than usual. “You left the door open.” I slung my book bag onto the couch. “And why didn’t you answer my text?” “What text?” she asked, moving over to a vase and nervously picking out the dead flowers. “I sent you a text that I needed a ride. Stacy had to drive me,” I explained, with emphasis on the Stacy. Mom wasn’t crazy about her either, and thought her parents ought to do a better job at regulating her expectations of the world. “I’m sorry, honey. Work was . . .” She trailed off. She seemed like she had a lot on her plate, so I dropped it. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, reaching for the TV remote. “Is Dani home?” “She just got back from her audition and fro-yo with Taryn. Apparently it went well!” she replied, intercepting my reach. “Helen won’t be back until later.” I stared at the remote in her hand. “Can I not watch TV right now?” She took a deep breath. “I want to talk to you about something.” Mom’s “talks” were never good. They were always about things that were uncomfortable: there was the time we had a “talk” about my grandma dying; the time Mom and Dad told me they were converting our playroom into an office for Dad; and worst of all, the S-E-X talk, which was a festival of awkwardness. My mom’s tactic for dealing with awkward situations was to move through them as agonizingly slowly as possible. With that particular talk she had expounded on the details of various forms of contraceptives and every single sexually transmitted disease known to mankind, all of which made me not want to think about sex for a very long time. Or maybe just become a nun. But this was something different. Mom seemed distracted. Almost skittish. Something was definitely not right. “Are you okay?” “Of course!” she said brightly, clearly lying. “Did I do something wrong?” I asked, scrolling through possibilities for her peculiar behavior. “Not at all,” she answered quickly. “You’re—I love you.” While appreciated, my mother’s sudden profession of love was disconcerting. “Mom, seriously, what’s up? You’re freaking me out.” Mom smoothed down her already straight hair. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen?” She then called upstairs, “Danielle, could you come down, please?” Mom moved over to the swinging door and held it open for me. Wanting to get to the bottom of the weirdness as quickly as possible, I stepped through. The kitchen was eerily quiet, like one of those soundproof rooms where the padded walls absorb any noise. It felt airless. Sitting at our kitchen table was a teenage girl. She looked about my age, and had shiny black hair, which hung long and wet down her back. Her thin shoulders slumped forward, which gave the impression that she was trying to protect herself. From what, I didn’t know. She was wearing a too-large pink sweatshirt adorned with a cat painted in glitter. It looked like it had been sitting crumpled up somewhere. The large top made her seem even thinner than she already was, the shirt cuffs sagging around her delicate wrists. Her pants were those blue scrubs that people at my mom’s hospital wore. It looked like she’d been outfitted by the hospital’s lost and found. “Have a seat,” my mother requested. I sat down across the table from the girl. Her face was pale and looked almost ghostlike under the lamp that hung over the kitchen table. Her enormous eyes were bright green, and focused on the plate in front of her—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich Mom had probably made for her. The food lay untouched. Although she looked like she hadn’t slept in months, and she didn’t seem to be wearing any makeup, this girl was really beautiful. Like model pretty. I felt a wave of jealousy and quickly tried to shove it down. I didn’t even know this girl; there was no reason for me to make snap judgments about her. But who was she and why was she sitting in our kitchen? Mom read my mind. “Jules,” she started, perching herself on a chair. “This is Mae. Mae, this is Jules—my middle child.” I resented being called the “middle child,” but for whatever reason Mom wasn’t acting like herself, so I didn’t say anything about it. “Hey.” I half waved to the girl, who didn’t look up. “Hello,” she mumbled back, pulling the cuffs of her sweatshirt over her wrists. Sitting across from this Mae girl felt . . . strange. She had a strong pull, like there was something kind of magnetic about her. I didn’t know why this girl was at our house, but she was obviously uncomfortable, so I did my best to bridge the silence. “Cool shirt,” I offered as an ironic icebreaker. Mae looked down at the glittery feline on her sweatshirt. She then swept her large green eyes up to face me, and stared. My breath caught in my throat. I didn’t know what to say. Something about the way she looked at me made me feel exposed, like she could see inside my brain. “I—I was kidding,” I stammered, looking away. Creepy stare: check. No sense of humor: check. “Mom, they’re posting casting tomorrow online. I’m so nervous!” Danielle had arrived. She saw Mae. “Hi!” She grinned. “Danielle, this is Mae. Mae, this is my youngest daughter, Danielle.” Mae barely nodded. “Nice to meet you,” she said, so softly we all had to lean closer to hear. Danielle grabbed a bag of dehydrated peas from the cabinet and joined us at the table. “You can call me Dani,” my sister offered, holding out the bag of snacks to Mae. Mae looked at the packaged food with curiosity but declined. Mom looked at me, urging me with her eyes to continue interacting with Mae, like somehow I should be the one to hold down this awkward conversation. I wasn’t sure what else to say to her. “Danielle auditioned for her school musical today,” I said, deflecting the herculean task of talking to this quiet stranger to my chatty sister, who was an Oscar-winning movie at talking to people, while I was a student film. “I’m up for one of the leads,” Danielle piped in, taking my bait. “It’s Wicked.” Mae looked at Dani, her face contorting into confusion. “That’s the name of the musical,” my sister clarified. “It’s really good. It’s based on a book, which is based on The Wizard of Oz, and it was on Broadway.” These all seemed like foreign words to Mae, but that didn’t stop Dani. “I’m up for the role of Elphaba, one of the two main parts. I really really really want to get it but if I don’t I know I’ll at least...
