Mind + Body, Aaron Dunlap [smart books to read TXT] 📗

I got home in the late afternoon, setting my new keys on the kitchen counter and looking the place over. I’d been home alone only since Friday but somehow I’d let the place get quite a mess. The empty pot still sat on the stove, empty soup can on the counter. Documents, bags, and boxes scattered the kitchen table. I took a while getting the kitchen cleaned up, then moved on to the living room.

This house had been built before wide-open rooms were common. The kitchen is separated from the living room with a wall, the dining room in the corner has its own walls, and the stairway upstairs was down a hall with even more walls. It takes far too many steps to get from one room to another, and you can rarely see any room except the one you’re in. All the walls made for a lot of echoes. I grew up in this house, so I’m accustomed to it and a bit attached, but now am beginning to notice its problems more and more often.

I arranged the pillows on the couch in the living room and tried to organize the remote controls on the coffee table and picked up more clutter. I gathered the trash I’d collected, added it to the kitchen trashcan, then took the garbage bag from it and brought it out to the garage and dumped it in the big trash bin. The garage was empty, save for the few gas cans, rags, and garden tools that can be found in every garage on Earth. I could have parked my car inside, I realized, but I didn’t have a clicker for the garage door. My mom had one in her car, and the other would be in my dad’s car, and I didn’t feel like having to use the wall button each time I came or went.

I realized I hadn’t gotten the mail yet, so I unlocked the side door in the garage and went outside, around the garage, and emptied the mailbox. If my mom had gotten the mail on Friday this would be Saturday’s and today’s, otherwise it’d be three days worth. Either way, it seemed like a lot, but nothing looked interesting. A few bills and other automated correspondence were still coming addressed to Daniel Baker, which was more annoying than disheartening.

I brought the mail in the front door and set the items that obviously weren’t junk on the counter by my keys and threw the junk away, then moved my housekeeping patrol upstairs.

At the top of the stairs you have to turn either left or right down a hall. To the left is my parents’ room, to the right is mine. In the middle was a guest room, spare bathroom, and assorted closets. My room was bigger than some I’d seen, smaller than Amy’s. I have just a small desk on one wall for my old computer, a twin bed parked against the far wall. I’d had twin beds since I was tiny and had wanted something bigger for a while; if for nothing else but to feel like more of a grownup. Also I sometimes rolled out of this bed at night. I had to stop keeping a nightstand by the bed because I smashed my face into it one time.

Next to my bedroom door is a small walk-in closet that remains a perpetual disaster zone. It has shelves on all three walls, lined with boxes of crap I could never catalog without looking through them. I gathered as much of the clothes strewn on the floor and around my room as my arms could hold and dumped them in a hamper, stuffing them down with a huff. I could either do some laundry, I decided, or throw all of this stuff away and go buy a whole new wardrobe from those expensive teen stores. Not the ones that use pseudo-porn as advertising, but the ones you only find in upscale malls that charge $100 for a pair of jeans. I always hated people who got their clothes from there, but now that I could somewhat afford it I wouldn’t mind checking it out. Laundry would come first, though.

I crossed my room and opened my curtains. My room has huge windows that would usually be a luxury were it not for the view. Like a few houses on my street, this one was practically built into the side of a hill, so at the back of the second floor you’re basically at ground level.

Content that I’d done as much cleaning as I was willing to do, I sat down at my computer and started at my real work.

Teachers and principals rarely have their addresses and phone numbers listed, hoping to make their personal lives invisible to any students who may want to look them up. I gave it a shot anyway, and found no listing anywhere online for Nathan Comstock anywhere in Virginia that’d be close enough to commute to my school. I mulled that over for a while, looking at some web comics to pass the time. After I had completely zoned out and found myself staring at the wall, I had an idea.

I picked up the landline phone in my room, pressed *67 to block caller ID, then dialed the number to my school’s main office. I glanced at the clock on my computer screen, it was just after 5 PM and the school office officially closes at that time. I listened to the rings in my ear, hoping that someone happened to work late or was slow to gather their things to leave. After seven rings I gave up, and had the phone in mid-arc to hang up when I heard the handset click and heard “East Fredericksburg High School.”

I brought the phone back to my face, tried to compose myself and said, “Hello, this is Mark from Routing at the local FedEx distribution center. We have a package for an ‘N. Comstock’ at this address and phone number, that was meant to be delivered today, but unfortunately there was a routing error and the package was unexpectedly delayed. Because it was our fault and the package was sent Overnight Priority, we’d like to get it delivered today. Is Mr. or Mrs. Comstock there now to accept the package?”

The ease in which I’d put all that together amazed me. I hadn’t stopped beforehand to script this or even come up with a fake name.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then a woman said, “Mr. Comstock is not here right now, and our office is actually closed as of a few minutes ago.” She sounded rather displeased; she probably wanted to get home and watch whatever big shows are on Mondays.

“I see,” I said. “Well is there another address, perhaps a home address, we could re-route to so we can get it there tonight? As I said, someone paid for Overnight Priority on this parcel and we’re obligated to have it delivered today.”

A pause, then a sigh. “I can get the home address from the directory, just a second.”

Time dragged on, the seconds pulsing in my ear. Some paper shuffling and drawer-opening noises filtered over the phone line.

“Okay,” she said, “here’s his home address. I don’t know if he’ll be home, so I’ll give you his phone number so you can call and check.”

“That’d be great,” I said as passively as I could.