The Precious Dreadful Page 12

  Bursting through the front door, I swoon in afternoon sun. After a moment, I steady, but can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched. Glancing back, I spot Marisol and her aunt, faces framed in the storm door. Mari’s expression is blank, but Adaluz smiles. Slowly raising her right hand, she makes the sign of the cross.

  18

  Cross-legged on a moss-freckled stone, I study the water, pretend it’s peaceful, knowing life wrestles death beneath the surface. As if to illustrate my point, two dragonflies get busy near my foot; then, with a soundless unfurling of wings, a huge gray bird appears. Darting at water’s edge, it spears an unlucky frog before lifting to sky.

  Hugging myself, I fail to subdue a shudder.

  After my useless psychic reading, I headed straight here. The pond.

  Regardless of Adaluz, I know what I know. Fawn or not, Pool Girl has a message, a memory for me. I need to put it on paper. To make it stop rattling in my head.

  Eleanor claims, “There’s solace in story—no matter how terrible.”

  I’m not sure she’s right, but I have to try.

  I will write it down.

  Now.

  Opening my journal, I face the blank sheet, mind spiraling. But as I point pencil toward paper, some cerebral door slams shut. I disconnect, as if it’s someone else’s hand trembling above crisp white.

  Eyes closed, I settle my mind, concentrate on sound, breathe in rhythm to the low insect buzz, the steady call of birds. Opening my eyes, I’m not at all surprised to find printing in the journal, the letters dark, rounded. Childlike.

  It must be Tuesday. Garbage bins line Parkview, tipped and empty. Corey and I play that they’re enemies—monsters or aliens.

  Exhaling steadily, I press pencil to page, continue.

  We meet Fawn by the pool fence like always, but she says, “I have a surprise. Today we spy.”

  Of course, Corey agrees, so I go along. No point arguing.

  We cut through the park, sweat slithering my back as we cross the ball field.

  “Ugh, not the pond again.” Figure I’ll try just once to change our course. “I’m sick of exploring there.”

  Fawn’s eyes practically glow with excitement as she answers. “Today’s special. I’m going to show you secrets.”

  That’s it. There’s no arguing Corey out of it.

  We duck beneath coils of vine and branch onto the trail. I hear the glung of frogs, the chit-chit of marsh birds.

  Corey and I start left along the trail, but Fawn stops us, stretching one spindly arm across our path. “Follow me. We need to go the back way.” Lifting a branch, she slides under. Corey follows.

  I see distant shimmer; can make out a line of lily stalks thrusting up yellow-bud periscopes. But there’s something new. A smell. This chemical bite to the air. And, just loud enough to hear, music. Laughter.

  “This way.” Gripping Corey’s hand, Fawn pulls him. They plunge deeper into the woods, giggling.

  I have to run to keep up, jumping dry patch to stone to fallen tree, dodging marshy ground. We’re circling the opposite way. As we go farther, the music gets louder. So does the whooping laughter. And that weird smell gets stronger. My eyes water.

  Something feels wrong. Dangerous. I shiver in the heat. I’m about to suggest we turn back when Fawn whispers, “Almost there. Got to be extra quiet. No telling what he’ll do if he catches us.”

  Low-hanging smoke caps the pond. Corey wheezes, can’t help coughing. It’s his asthma. The heat’s bad enough, but this smog doesn’t help.

  Ssssshhhing him, Fawn claps a hand over Corey’s mouth, her eyes round. I’ve never seen her for-real scared, even when Eli forced her into that car. But her tough mask slips, and I see it. Fear.

  Then, she readjusts her expression; that gleam returns to her eyes. She mouths into Corey’s ear, and he cracks up behind her grimy hand, his laughter ending in another coughing fit.

  “We should go.”

  This time Fawn shushes me. She doesn’t dare put her hand over my mouth, though. She must know I’d bite her finger clean off. Taking Corey’s wrist, she leads him deeper in. I want to yell, make him come home with me, get him inside, so he can breathe some AC.

  But he won’t listen. And I couldn’t deal with him picking her over me, so rather than force him to choose, I go along. The smoke’s thicker up ahead; music’s louder, too.

  As I trail them through the woods, Fawn suddenly elbows Corey sideways. Crashing through a stand of fern, they crouch and belly-crawl.

  Stooping behind them, I bite my tongue. Let them get poison ivy. Serves them right. Pushing aside a low-slung branch, I follow. Sweat peppers my forehead.

  As we glide through the brush, smoke surrounds us. It’s coming from Stone Loop, where Corey and I play on the broken-down picnic table.

  Music thuds, and I notice the lack of other—usual—pond sound. No birds warble. The frogs are hushed. Even the bugs seem to have vanished. Must be the smoke, this potent mix of burning black licorice and Barbie hair. It makes me feel almost sleepy, as if my brain’s wrapped in a wet, wool scarf.

  My eyes sting as I creep closer.

  Catching up to Corey and Fawn, I’m annoyed with their wild laughter, but can’t help joining them. Then Fawn gets this serious look. Nostrils pulsing, she says, “This is it.” Corey blinks solemnly, and they take turns peering through leaves.

  Finally, eager to be included, I ask, “Guys, what is it?”

  Corey turns slowly back to me. The look on his face is one I’ve never seen. His eyes shine, somehow frightened and hungry all at once.

  Fawn shoves me onto my knees, pressing me through tickling ferns toward commotion. Eyes darting, I consume the scene rapid-fire.

  A hibachi balances on one of the boulders. On it, a dented paint can fumes, the source of the greenish haze.

  Two guys—bare chested, shoeless—sway in front of it, eating smoke.

  A third, Fawn’s brother, Eli, stands, his back to us. He’s naked. I gape at the snarling wolf inked across his broad back, a demon, horned with blood-red eyes.

  A girl I’ve seen at the pool—she’s maybe sixteen—kneels before him, mouth open. Her bikini top hangs at her waist.

  We shouldn’t be seeing this, but I can’t manage to move, to look away.

  A surge of ancient guilt floods me. I feel dizzy. Journal closed, I place it beside me on the rock. Leaning forward, I dip my hands in the water, bring damp fingertips to temples. As I do, I recognize that sulfur smell, the one that almost made me puke at the library. This time, unable to muffle it, I gag, spit on the ground.

  Sipping from my water bottle, I study the air. Late afternoon sun slats through branches, patterning the pond’s pollen skin. Curls of algae punctuate a crimson koi that hovers, angel-like, just below.

  Then, a havoc of wings and water, a squad of Canada geese land, paddlefeet churning the slime. Skimming in bowling-pin formation, they patrol; their calls are mechanical, more bark than birdsong.

  Pivoting, they glide toward me, and I call to them, mimicking their rusted-hinge squonk. Floating closer, they bow in tandem. Their onyx caps, ivory chinstraps, synchronized head-bobs remind me of soldiers in some black-and-white documentary.

  Crossing the surface, they startle the koi. It flits deep, disappears. As they advance, I’m wary, too, wondering if I’m on some hidden camera show, When Geese Attack!

  As I contemplate grabbing my things and retreating, the lead goose snaps its neck, emits a sharp whistle. The others follow suit, hissing, woofing in flustered honks. I’ve spooked them.

  Or something has.

  Flattening, necks to water, they stare toward the woods, heads wagging violently. Then, a collective shriek, the group flaps wild. Lifting off, they scatter, fleeing the pond.

  I call after them, “Was it something I said?” As I bend to collect my journal, I sense a presence. Spinning, I spot a figure in the shadows. Not Pool Girl, a guy.

  He’s tall, rangy. Menacing even at a distance, he just
stands, feet planted wide. One hand’s below his waist.

  Fear-choked, I blurt the name before the thought’s fully formed. “Eli?”

  When he doesn’t respond, I pocket-fumble, grasp my cell, promptly drop it.

  With a mixture of relief and revulsion, I realize he’s peeing in the bushes, hasn’t noticed me. But for a sec, my fight/flight instincts were firing. Could it be him?

  Dropping to the grass, I retrieve my phone and slide it in my pocket. Then, willing him to zip, I study him. The resemblance to Fawn’s brother—general shape, hair color—is minor. Even accounting for the lapse in years, he looks too old to be Eli. Besides, on some gut-deep level, I’d know if it was him.

  The guy finishes his business, and—resisting the urge to fish in my bag, toss him some hand sanitizer—I step forward. That’s when I notice his hand. Toddler-small, fingers curled into a vague croissant shape. His eyes are deep brown; nothing like Eli’s wicked ice-blue.

  Noticing me, he does an automatic fly-check, smiles shyly. Then, baby-stepping toward me, he speaks. His voice is soft.

  Extending his regular hand, he says, “My name is Carl. What’s your name?”

  Sidestepping the hygiene issue, I flash him a peace sign. “I’m Teddi.”

  As if reciting a script, he says, “Very pleased to meet you, Teddi.” Then, forehead rippling, he stops to consider. “Wait,” covering his mouth with his baby hand, he giggles and says, “Teddi? Like the bear? That’s funny.”

  “If you say so. Anyway, Carl, what brings you to the pond?”

  Bending, he retrieves a plastic bag from the grass and shakes it, clanking the bottles and cans inside. “On my rounds. Collecting. Not much luck today.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah, used to be lots more cans and bottles back when the store was open. Course, you’re too young to remember any of that.”

  I think better of telling him I live there. Though he seems harmless, you never can tell.

  Clinking his bottle bag against his leg, he asks, “So, Teddi. What brings you to the pond today?”

  Something in his voice makes me want to tell him everything. Instead, I say, “I’ve been trying to remember. Some stuff that happened when I was really small.”

  Dark eyes grave, he asks, “Bad stuff?”

  When I don’t answer, he whistles, a slight intake of air, and says, “I’m real sorry.”

  “Thanks, Carl.”

  “I’ll pray for your friend, Teddi.” And then he turns and just sort of fades into the tree line, leaving me shaking.

  I call, “Carl, wait! How’d you know about my friend?” But he’s gone. Examining the ground, I note the shamble-tracks of his work boots, the dark circle where he’d peed.

  So, that’s a relief, he was real.

  Or else, I just encountered Carl the Urinating Ghost.

  Angel.

  The word forms in my brain like an itch.

  Scrubbing at my eyes to swipe it away, I mutter, “There are no angels in these woods, only ghosts. And devils.”

  After a few cleansing breaths, I return to the rock, open the journal, and reread the last sentence aloud. “We shouldn’t be seeing this, but I can’t manage to move, to look away.”

  Channeling Eleanor’s brand of polished encouragement, I steeple fingers beneath my chin and whisper, “You can do this, Teddi. Keep going. Write it out.”

  Bracing for whatever’s next, I continue.

  Corey’s “Eeww!” pierces my trance.

  Her face right in close to his, Fawn says, “One day you’ll learn, and you won’t think it’s so nasty.” Clamping his mouth to hers, she grinds their lips together. As Corey tries to pull away, she flits her tongue into the space where his front teeth should be.

  Pushing Fawn off, he looks sick. I actually think he’s going to cry.

  I touch his wrist and say, “Should we call the pool cop?”

  Fawn yanks my hair. Tugging with her dirty fingers, she says, “Do it and you’ll end up in trouble, too. You babies shouldn’t even be out here.”

  “We’re not babies! Besides—”

  “Besides what?” She leers. “It’s just an adventure.”

  Giving my hair another tug, she laughs, and now I’m the one fighting tears.

  Corey says, “Come on, Fawn, quit it. She didn’t mean nothing.”

  Releasing my hair, Fawn turns on him. Balling her fists against his chest, she shoves, knocking Corey backward into a clump of skunk cabbage.

  One of the hibachi guys shouts, “Hey! Who’s over there?”

  This time Fawn does slap her palm across my mouth. I don’t bite, make no attempt to remove her hand. We’re caught in silence as the music halts. The missing pond noise is even more noticeable now, but the stillness barely registers before Stone Loop erupts.

  Eli’s friends hustle to snuff the smoldering bucket. The girl squeals. I glimpse her between branches as she struggles with her bathing suit top.

  The confusion lasts less than a minute before Eli ends it. Not bothering to cover himself, he stands mid-circle and bellows, “FAWN! I know you’re out there, you shifty little bitch!”

  The guys stop in their tracks, and Eli’s girlfriend—if that’s what she is—busts into loud sobs. Throwing a towel at her, he says, “Shut up or get lost, you dumb shit.”

  With one last explosion of tears, she yells, “Screw you!” and stamps down the path, the guys trailing behind.

  Watching them go, Eli just laughs. Then he turns in our direction, and in this liquid singsong, he calls, “Little sister? Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  A chill shakes me as all color drains from Fawn’s face. I’m about to run when she pulls us into a desperate huddle and whispers, “Don’t move.” Then, before Corey or I can even think to stop her, she stands up and says, “Put your pants on, asshole.”

  “Why? It’s nothing you ain’t seen before.”

  As Eli stoops to gather his jeans, Corey and I shrink into fern, stare at the ground.

  Pulling his pants on, Eli calls, “Get over here.”

  Careful not to disturb our leaf shield, Fawn picks through weeds and pricker branches to enter the clearing across from our hiding spot.

  When she steps onto the flattened grass of Stone Loop, Eli turns to face her. “What you doin’ way out here, baby girl?”

  Like her namesake forest creature, Fawn looks ready to flee any second, but, voice strong, she answers, “I came to warn you. Saw a cop headed this way.”

  “That’s a good little sis.” Down on one knee, he opens his arms to her.

  Apparently sensing no danger, she sits on her brother’s knee, smoothes his wild hair. When Eli nuzzles Fawn’s neck, Corey starts to rise, ready to defend her.

  Grabbing him, I pull him close. As we watch—eyes bulged like Gordy the Frog on Corey’s shirt—Fawn peers in our direction over Eli’s shoulder. Waving us away, she mouths two words: GO. NOW.

  I don’t delay, but it takes a frantic moment tugging Corey’s sleeve to get him to leave his friend. Practically begging with my eyes, I convince him to come with me.

  Slowly at first, we press through brush, careful to make as little noise as possible. Then, when we’re far enough so we’re sure we can’t be seen, we get to our feet and flee through the woods, gripping hands.

  Finally stopping to catch our breath, something—shock at what we’ve just seen, relief at our escape—causes us to laugh.

  Corey says, “Oh, man! Did you see his thing? So gross!”

  “And the way the other two were sucking in that smoke?”

  We can barely stand, we’re laughing so hard, but our moment’s cut short by a stifled scream from Stone Loop.

  “Fawn!”

  Again, I restrain Corey as he tries to fly back to Stone Loop to save her.

  “She can take care of herself, Corey. Please let’s go!”

  “No, Teddi! We’ve got to—”

  I nearly leap from the rock straight into pond water at t
he sudden pressure of a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey.” Aidan stands behind me, grinning.

  “My God, Aid! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  I’m startled a second time by a laugh from behind him. Whirling on my butt, I see Nic’s with him, waiting beside an arched willow.

  “What are you guys doing here?”

  They exchange a brief look; then Aidan says, “I was going to ask you the same question. This is not the safest place to be hanging out alone. Even in daylight.”

  “Well, thanks for caring, but I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. I’ll survive.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So, Nic, since Aidan didn’t answer my question, I’ll ask you. What brings you guys out here?”

  When Nic falters, Aidan says, “Nicky wanted to run lines. Someplace private. I said I’d help. Right, Nic?”

  Too energetically, Nic says, “Yep, that’s it, lines.”

  They trade another odd glance, and I get the feeling I’ve missed some inside joke. I’m not sure why, but it makes me uneasy.

  As I’m about to ask why they don’t have a script, Aidan drops beside me. “So tell me. What are you doing here, Terry?”

  The deliberate wrong name catches me off guard, makes me grin. Closing my journal, I say, “Just working on some writing.”

  Depositing a kiss on my forehead, Aidan stands. “Well, don’t let us interrupt.”

  They turn toward the path that loops around the pond, and I call, “Hold up! Can we talk?”

  Aidan stops. Nic takes a couple steps toward me, hands pocketed.

  I feel a little guilty as I say, “Um, I meant just Aidan, actually.”

  Offering a shy smile, Nic raises his hands in a no-prob gesture.

  Once he disappears down the trail, I stand, placing my hands on Aidan’s shoulders. He’s motionless; then his arms circle me.

  “So, I’ve been missing you, boyfriend.”

  He looks away before producing a smile. Tilting his face to mine, he kisses me. Soft, nice. Then, hands straying down my back, more forcefully.

  My own hands kneading the muscle of his shoulders, I kiss him back. Cheeks hot, I’m awash in the sensation of his hands on me, the warmth of his mouth.