The Precious Dreadful Read online

  Glancing at the big clock above him—it’s 10:04—I do some quick head-math. “Okay, so tomorrow at . . . six p.m. Got it. But you haven’t told me where. And before you say ‘L718,’ I’ve got the room number. Your job is to tell me where the room is.”

  “Oh, so you really are using me for my information. I thought we were more than that.”

  The guy’s brutally deadpan, but I detect a smile behind the challenge. Deciding turnabout aggression is fair play, I half-cheek it on his desk and say, “We so could be.”

  He does a reflexive You-shitting-me? double take. Then he stutters, “Uh, s-sorry, I’m spoken for.”

  “Your loss. But for reals, Joy, where the heck is L718?”

  He looks puzzled; then, glancing at the name tag, he says, “Ha, Joy! That’s not my name. I wear whatever tag’s handy. It’s a privacy thing. With our lineup of unpleasant patrons, I never use my actual name. Yesterday I was Wendell.”

  I don’t mention that so far he’s the most unpleasant person I’ve encountered in the library. Instead, I say, “Well, you’ll always be Joy to me.” Then I risk asking, “But what is your real name? Or do I qualify as one of the Unpleasants?”

  He says, “Look, you seem nice, but I really do have a girlfriend. Her name’s Glade.”

  “And I really do just want to find L718.”

  “Follow me.”

  Standing again, he’s less imposing, actually pretty skinny. Sans hostility, he seems younger, too, a bit older than me. And this time, his smile’s not constipated at all. It lights his hazel eyes.

  Still, I hang back ’til he stage-whispers, “Come on,” and trots down the steps. Following, I avoid touching the railing, which looks as if its last wipe-down was pre-Clinton era.

  He says, “Watch your step,” pointing toward loose vinyl stair covers. Sliding the last length of rail, he lands, high-tops thudding. I join him in the dim, fluorescent-jittery hallway.

  Trailing, I ask, “How long you worked here? Or am I getting too personal?”

  “I started volunteering freshman year for community service credit, decided it was cool. They hired me when I turned sixteen. This’ll be my final stint before heading to school in the fall. Not a bad summer gig. Pays better than drive-thru duty, and they have great events.”

  “Scandinavian crochet?”

  “Uh, no way. Not that one.” He smirks. “I’m more into Bolivian tatting.”

  At a loss for a textile-based comeback, I watch as he slips into a room marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Ignoring exclusivity—the lounge is as grimy as the rest of this place—I follow.

  Bank of smeary cabinets above a far-past-stainless sink. Counter piled with books, vinyl records. Heaped dish rack: mugs, plastic utensils, Tupperware. Alongside, a goldenrod fridge crowned with National Geographics. A Formica table and castoff chairs waiting dead center.

  Joy roots briefly in a sink-side drawer. “Crap. No keys. Ah well, best laid plans.”

  Heading to the hallway, he leads me past a towering oak-and-glass bookcase. Just beyond, he points toward a metal door with a brass plaque. Bingo: L718. SUMMERTEENS HQ.

  “It’s locked, but you can take a peek.”

  I lean past him; disregarding the musty smell, I press my cheek to narrow glass, surveying shadows. The room fits the rest of the library, shabby minus chic. More mismatched seating, of the folding variety, plus basement-rec-room-quality upholstered chairs. A lopsided plaid sofa. Decrepit school desks.

  “Inviting.”

  “It’s not five-star, but creative mojo’s what counts, and they say this place oozes mojo.”

  “It’s oozing more than that.” I gesture to a vaguely human-shaped ceiling stain.

  We “eeeewww” in unison.

  Ending a prolonged pause, I say, “So, you never did tell me your real name.”

  “Why don’t we wait ’til tomorrow, introduce ourselves officially in group?”

  “Um . . . what?”

  “The writers’ group, remember? The reason we’re down here.”

  “I get it. I just didn’t expect you’d be part of it.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Course not. Just a surprise.”

  “Well, I hope it’s not an unpleasant one.”

  “We’ll see.”

  With that, I follow Joy the Troll upstairs to register for my SUMMERTEENS adventure.

  4

  Sylvan Park is a rainforest tonight, temp hovering mid-80s, the air alive with night sounds: frogsong, crickets, intermittent yowls from some distant cat tryst. Binks snuffles maniacally through damp grass as we crest the hill on midnight poop maneuvers.

  Brenda may not be home for hours. On night maintenance at the community college—mopping, wiping whiteboards—she generally hits Spanky’s for a few brews with her coworkers, Mandy and Dev, after clocking out.

  Plagued with reluctant rectum, Binks does his “urgency dance,” trotting, whirling. Mid-squat, he stops—I swear, he shrugs—and drags me several yards for another attempt.

  I don’t mind. I love roaming on nights like this. Admittedly, not the safest pastime, but I’ve got my mace-blaster flashlight and my cell in case any weirdoes emerge from the leafy dark.

  Sylvan sprawls a mile-plus long, at least a half-mile wide, with a ball field, playground, and a wooded section with a series of ponds, in addition to the pool. Dense trees frame the park on three sides, and our street, with the rather obvious name, Parkview, borders the fourth.

  We live just past the pool house, the perfect locale back when our building was a store. There was a snack bar with umbrella-ed tables in the driveway. Brenda remembers working there as a kid, spending summers reeking of fryer oil.

  The store and snack bar are long gone, but swimmers still mob the pool from Memorial to Labor Day. Corey and I swam there when we were little. Until he moved. It was no fun going alone. These days if the lifeguards are especially chiseled, I’ll take a book, pretend-read, and scope them out. Rarely do I dip more than ankle-deep, even on the hottest days.

  Not a big swimmer. It’s not fear, exactly, but ever since I slept over at Willa’s at nine and her older brother forced us to watch Jaws, well, sometimes, even in a pool, I end up searching the water, scouting fins. Never underestimate the effect of a giant neoprene fish on an impressionable, young mind.

  Pool season changes our neighborhood. It’s normally dull, a commercial/residential mix, but hot weather brings an influx, rowdy pool-goers who park in our driveway and parade their oiled flesh. June through August, the calliope tunes of Mister Melty’s truck are inescapable.

  Every summer we call the cops about a hundred times. There are constant daytime fights; at night, kids climb the chain link, or savage it with bolt cutters, and sneak in to swim.

  Nothing tonight. Cops did a sweep earlier, loaded a noisy bunch into their patrol van. An arrest usually translates to a peaceful night or two.

  “Any luck, buddy?”

  Binks plants himself in the grass, glowers like I’ve insulted him. Then he rolls belly up for a scratch. The damp delivers a welcome chill as I sit and strum his wooly ribs. Stretching, I squint at weak city stars, just visible through humid haze.

  My mind spins through thoughts of Aidan’s Miranda remark, Joy smiling. Why am I nervous about this writing group? Just a dumb summer activity. To stay busy.

  Rolling onto my side, I gaze down the bank at the pool.

  The spotlight paints the surface, illuminating each ripple. The filter purrs. Water like undulating glass, so clean I can read depth marks on the bottom even from this distance. Almost looks inviting, makes me wish for my own bolt cutters. Then, several years of sleepless nights crashing down, I close my eyes. Picturing Aidan with Joy’s green hair, I smile.

  Binks nudges me alert, his nose to my chin.

  “Ah, Binksy, what am I going to do with you?”

  He stares intently, sad cockapoo eyes seeming to reply, Keep me. Then, sitting at attention, he growls low and bolts for the woods, leash sn
apping free.

  “Shit, Binks! Get back here!” Last time he ran off, we suffered skunk stink for a week.

  As I jump up to chase him, my sneaker skids. I yelp, airborne. Slamming flat, my head whiplashes, whams against a grass-sunk stone. Teeth clacking, the wind oofs out of me. Lying stunned, I try to find my breath.

  Whether from the damp ground, or my shock at falling, I shudder. Goose bumps rise. The frog symphony abruptly cuts off. Noiseless, the one sound’s internal, this seashell shush in my ears. How hard did I whomp my head? Slipping my hand up under my nape, I run fingers through the waves there. No blood. Small favors.

  I breathe deep to shake this peculiar dread.

  When I hear it—Splishoosh—I sit up quick, suffer a dizzy disconnect. Sparks flick the edge of my vision. Squinting, I face the pool. Nothing. Then . . .

  A small figure, thigh-deep on the stairs. I don’t consider how a child got in the pool, but the kid’s too young to be there alone. In the middle of the night. When I call, “Hey!” the kid turns toward me. Though I can’t see features, I sense a smile, the slope of the head somehow familiar.

  “Corey?” Can’t be.

  Rushing the fence, I yell, “You shouldn’t be in there! Where’s your mom?”

  No answer, just a tinkling laugh.

  Remembering my flashlight, I push it through the fence gap, catch the tiny form in its beam. Hands lift, shielding the face. Flimsy sundress, tangled hair, a daisy pendant draped against her chest. Giggling again, she slips beneath the surface.

  The spotlight doesn’t reach this end. I can just trace the trickle trail as small feet flutter-kick to the far side. Minutes lumber. I pace the fence. Then, wedging my sneaker through the taut grid, I raise my body a few feet to see into the water. No sign of her. Rattled, I drop to the grass and race along the fence, yelling “Little girl!”

  No response. No head breaking the surface. Yanking off my sneakers, I mount the fence. Halfway up, I hear my name. Tightening my hold on the chain link, I swing my head around to find Aidan on the grass.

  Grasping my calf, he looks like he’s spotted some exotic animal, perhaps an alien—rather than an everyday crazy person—dangling above. Extra reasonable, he asks, “What are you doing?”

  Jerking my leg free, I strain toward the top rail, and shout, “There’s a kid in the water!”

  “Seriously? Shit!”

  The fence sways, nearly jolting me off, as Aidan rises. Joining him, I’m unsure how to make it past the barbs. Jamming the toe of his left sneaker through the fence, he steadies, swings his right leg over. Straddling the top, he stands, as if riding a unicycle. Gripping the top bar, he does a shaky handstand and vaults over. He hangs for a moment before dropping to the deck, sneakers slapping cement.

  I follow his lead, swinging one leg over the fence, but, attempting to clear the points, I slip. Screeching, I lose balance, spiked metal jabbing my thigh as I fall. Luckily, my cutoffs snag on the barbs, and I’m suspended—upside down. Hearing my squeal, Aidan turns to help, but I shout, “I’m okay! Find her!”

  Depositing wallet and phone on the deck, doing a quick visual sweep, he dives. I track his underwater progress, his body eerily elongated against glowing turquoise.

  I do a mid-air crunch. Clutching the fence again, I wrench free, tearing a strip from my shorts. Hardly aware of the pain as my bare feet smack the deck, I run, training my flashlight on the shallows.

  Beam skimming the murk, I search for signs of a submerged child. Nothing. Thinking she may have slipped from the pool during our frenzied climb, I sprint the perimeter, beam bouncing. There’d be tracks if she’d left the water, so I fan my light across the deck. Dry. Except for a small puddle from Aidan’s splash.

  Surfacing mid-pool, he strokes to the ladder, hoists onto the deck. Doglike, shaking water from his hair, he bounces, unblocking his ears. Striding from the pool edge, he says, “There’s no one in the water.”

  “But . . . I saw her.”

  On the edge of anger, he asks, “Was this some frigging joke?”

  When I don’t answer, he stomps past me, pissed. Bending to retrieve his phone and wallet, he grumbles about losing his contacts in the pool. Then, without looking at me, he says, “Can you make it back over on your own?”

  I stay silent, and he turns toward me.

  He can tell from how I stand, tears filling my eyes, this is no prank. Tension in his jaw easing, he approaches.

  Taking my hands, he asks, “Teddi, are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry about your contacts. But I saw something, Aidan.” Inhaling deeply, I add, “Honest to God, I did.”

  “Right.”

  Shivering despite the muggy night, I step toward the pool. Unsure why my next question feels so important, I ask, “Do you believe me?”

  “Well,” he hedges, “I believe you believe you saw something.”

  “Which translates roughly to ‘let’s not upset the crazy girl.’ Right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “Isn’t it possible you just thought you saw someone? Like a . . . mirage. It was pretty dark.”

  “Great theory, but we’re not in the desert, it wasn’t a palm tree, and I’m not in the habit of hallucinating mischievous children in peril.”

  “Look, I won’t pretend to have a better explanation. But if a kid was in the pool, she must’ve dissolved.”

  “We should call 911.”

  “And say what? We saw an evil night creature?”

  “I never said she was evil.”

  “What then, an apparition? A mergirl? We’d just score a ride in the back of a cruiser.”

  He’s probably right, but I know what I saw.

  “So that’s it?”

  “For now. Look, Teddi, all I’m saying is tomorrow, in the bright of day, things might make better sense.”

  It’s already starting to seem unreal. Could I have imagined it? Could the little girl be some kind of insomniac delusion? A result of the bump to my head?

  “You must think I’m a total nut.”

  He shakes his head no.

  “What then?”

  “You’re brave, Teddi. The way you went over that fence—”

  “I don’t feel brave. I feel stupid.”

  One hand on my shoulder, he brushes the hair from my eyes and says, “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Put yourself down.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re pretty fierce, Teddi.”

  “Aidan, what were you doing in the park, anyway?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, leaning closer, he cups my chin with his right hand, lifts my mouth toward his.

  I barely have a chance to process the kiss—soft, mildly chlorinated—when I hear a familiar, low jingle, a license plus vet tag ting-ting, followed by harsh panting. Binks skids, stopping short of the fence. Black lips rippling, he launches against chain link.

  “Yikes! Talk about evil creatures! Who do you suppose owns this little fucker?”

  “Um, that’d be me.”

  “Oops.”

  Laughing, I kneel and, fingers through the fence, tousle Binks’s fluffy bangs. He calms. I’m about to stand when I notice it: a painted daisy pendant dangles, clinking gently against chain link. Afraid to touch it, I force myself to twist it free and slip it into my pocket. Somehow, I’m sure it’s best not to show it to Aidan.

  As he walks me home, I say, “You never did tell me what you were doing in the park.”

  He hesitates. “Just taking a shortcut home.”

  “From?”

  “My girlfriend’s house.” Breaking into a grin, he says, “I’m busting you, Teddi. I was just out wandering. Thinking.”

  We cross my driveway in silence. It’s shattered by Binks’s wailing when I shove him inside. As we move toward a genuine lip link beneath my outside light, a moth invades Aidan’s ear.

  He fidgets like a little boy as I remove the fluttering intruder. Then,
smiling, he says, “Well, this was . . . unusual.”

  “But nice?”

  Leaning against my building, he says, “I don’t suppose you’d invite me in? You know, for a closer look at my ear.”

  “Bad idea. Enticing as I find your ear, my mother will be home soon, and—”

  “It’s okay, Teddi.” Wrapping me in a quick hug, he says, “It’s pretty late, anyhow.”

  When I say, “See you around?” he makes an X over his heart and answers, “Count on it.”

  5

  I’ve barely made it inside, can still see Aidan heading down Cedar, when a single headlight plays across the multi-bay garage behind our place.

  Spying through the blinds, I watch Dev’s cycloptic Saturn rumble up the drive, burping smoke from tailpipe and passenger window. God, I hate when Brenda smokes! Of course, she denies it, claims I’m smelling Mandy’s secondhand.

  I debate dashing to my room, playing possum, but it’s not as if I’m a kid caught past curfew. Instead, I open the fridge, grab the nine-grain, some ham and Swiss, the mayo jar. It’s a given she hasn’t eaten anything beyond stale popcorn, a couple hot wings, and it’s my job to keep some meat on her bones.

  Binks stands sentinel by the door. You’d expect he’d arf himself silly, but he’s used to the noisy drop-off signaling Brenda’s arrival. Dashing past me, he snags a favorite squeak toy, Cinnamon Girl, and flies back to his post. In quizzical pup mode—head cocked, eyes twinkling—he chomps his plush girlfriend with anticipation.

  I can gauge Brenda’s condition based on her struggle inserting key into lock. Tonight it takes three instances of keychain hitting asphalt, and a stream of PG-13 language, before she gains entry.

  I make no move to intervene. She gets pissed if I offer help, says the implication is she’s incompetent. I’d go beyond implying. Besides, the correct term is shitfaced.

  Once she’s in and sunk into the living room chair, I approach, sandwich in hand. I always lead with food. Though she initially balks, I can usually get her to eat at least half a sandwich. As she does, I unlace her sneakers and ask about her night.

  Her mood is decent, sadly owing to the fact that she got “those elevator doors gleaming.” But who am I to judge her accomplishments? I mean, what have I done lately—other than possibly hallucinate a child in peril and, oh yeah, potentially score a hunk? Hmm, not bad.