The Precious Dreadful Page 6

  “Crikey, we’ve stumbled on a camp, Terri! Must be a family of Cro-Magnons.”

  Corey nails the Croc Hunter accent, so I don’t bother correcting him. We both know there were no cavemen in the Cretaceous.

  “Look, Steve. What do you make of this?”

  It’s a picnic table; someone’s lugged it from the grove. Coated in spray paint, same as the rocks, it’s scorched, carved with crude symbols. Climbing on top, I wonder how Corey will explain this.

  “Never mind that, Terri. Look over here! A nesting area! I’ll bet there are some huge crocs around here.”

  We’ve made it. Dragonflies sew patterns into the surface; dashed stitches appear briefly, dissolving into scum-green skin.

  Drawn by ripples, Corey spots a pair of eyes; a mini snout rises and dips below slime. “It’s a baby Archelon, Terri. Isn’t she a beauty?” Moving closer, he lifts a thick sheet of bark, testing its weight like a baseball bat. “If I can stun her with this, I’ll bet we can catch her.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Steve. You don’t want to hurt her.”

  “It’s all right, Terri. I know what I’m doing.”

  Raising the slab above his head, he inches across the mushy bank, close to the water.

  “NO!”

  Ignoring my cry, Corey swings. The turtle sinks from sight before the weapon can connect—THWACK!—with the mucky surface. Knocked off balance, Corey falls, legs splatting, head and torso briefly sunk in ooze.

  Frozen, lump-in-throat, sweat slicks my forehead and armpits.

  Spluttering, Corey struggles to right himself, manages to sit up, swipes his face clean of green scum.

  Seeing he’s not hurt, I bust out laughing.

  “Dang it, Teddi!” He’s mad for just a second, eyebrows knitting. Then he joins me on the bank, coughing laughter and spitting “turtle juice.”

  I put my pencil down.

  In a case of life imitates prewriting—this is hardly art—I swipe sweat from my forehead. Exhaling slowly into the dim, I shiver. “Enough remembering for tonight.”

  Just as I close the journal, my phone rings. I quick-check caller ID. Aidan.

  “Hey! I thought you’d be comatose by now. Weren’t you supposed to turn in early?”

  Sounding bleary, words soggy, he says, “Did. Kept dreaming. ’Bout being with you. Took it as a sign. Figured I’d call, say hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “What you up to?”

  “About five six.”

  “Ha. Come out to play?”

  I hesitate. “What? Now?”

  “ ’S not like you have school tomorrow. Summer, Teddi. Let’s make the most of it. Carpe me um.”

  “Yeah, right. Try running that by Warden Alder. She’s less than thrilled about the mere idea of you. She’d piss a bullet if she caught us meeting up in the wee hours.”

  “Who says she’d catch us? Stealth is practically my middle name.”

  “Your middle name is Robert. And if you don’t want it to be Deceased, you won’t tempt fate.”

  He sighs. “But I miss you.”

  “You’re cute. But you don’t know Brenda. It’s better if I play by the rules, at least ’til she gets used to the boyfriend concept.”

  He’s quiet. I’m sure he’s hung up. “Aidan?”

  His only reply is a deeper sigh.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be presumptuous. About the boyfriend status, that is.”

  After an agonizing fourteen-second lag, he says, “Kind of an outdated term, but I’m good with it if you are.”

  “Oh, I’m beyond good.”

  “So come meet me.”

  “God, you are a persistent chap, aren’t you!”

  “Ha, chap! You really are playing it retro, aren’t you? Should I throw a pebble at your window or something?”

  “Absolutely not.” Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Aid, I’m serious. It’s a bad idea. Besides, I look like roadkill, all blotched and bed-heady.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Come to your window.”

  Slipping from bed, I tiptoe, sidestepping the creaky floorboard. Though it’s not likely to rouse Brenda, this is no time to get cocky. Brushing aside a paisley panel, I peer out, momentarily blinded by the streetlight. Then, a streak of movement: Aidan’s waving hand.

  He’s across my street, phone to ear. As he steps into the aluminum pole’s arc, I see he’s barefoot, in cutoffs, shirt artfully unbuttoned. Even in low light, those are major league abs.

  “Very tempting.”

  He smooches into the phone; then, turning, he drops his shirt mid-back, does a little butt shake.

  “I’m sure the neighbors are enjoying this. Did you know seven sex offenders live on Parkview? Brenda’s got the registry taped to the freezer door, updates it every Tuesday.”

  “Is this an attempt at sexy talk?”

  “Is that an attempt at sexy dancing? Because you might want to invest in lessons.”

  “Whoa, now you’ve hurt my feelings.”

  “Sorry, tiger.”

  “Come outside.”

  I stall. No way would I risk sneaking through Brenda’s room for a night rendezvous. But I could go the Narnia route.

  “Give me five minutes.”

  Crossing from the window, I flip on my bureau lamp. Freeing my hair of its ponytail, I run fingers through. Yielding to girly vanity, I dab on strawberry lip stain, retrieve my flashlight from the bureau, head to the closet.

  Inching the slider open, confident Brenda won’t hear it squeak on its track, I shove clothes aside and step into the closet. Shining the flashlight, I study the door at the back.

  Locked with a simple hook and eye, it’s smaller than average, a Wonderland-size entry. It opens to a staircase leading to the never renovated portion of the store. When I was little, this setup was horrifying, like having a gaping hell mouth inside my closet. I’d lie in bed imagining every sort of monster—vampire, demon, plain old axe murderer—pressed to the other side, sniffing the dark.

  Even now it sometimes freaks me out imagining the generations of spiders—and tribes of mice—that have lived and dreamed and died there.

  But tonight it’s my risk-free passage to freedom. And beyond it waits Aidan. So it’s a tunnel of . . . well, if not yet love, at least good old-fashioned teengal lust.

  Unlatching the hook, I push the door open, admitting it’s improbable an evil clown lurks in the gloom.

  I point the flashlight downstairs, illuminating a million vague, threatening shapes. It’s been years since I’ve been down there, but I’m fairly sure no torture devices or human remains are present. Just forgotten store equipment: shelving, a standup fan, twin coolers. Along with a decade’s worth of junk we haven’t thrown away: baby toys, bicycles, mounds of clothes we’ll never wear. Harmless stuff, thick with dust and webs.

  I will my feet to the edge of the first step. Left arm tight across my torso, I grip the flashlight in my right hand. About to descend, I hear a whisper behind me.

  “Teddi, you there?”

  I barely keep from shrieking, recognizing Aidan’s voice coming from my cell. I left it on my bureau. Stupid! Racing back through the closet, I retrieve the phone.

  “Sorry! On my way. Just a little creeped.”

  Taking the steps sloth-slow, I inch along, toes clinging to each stair edge before I slide my foot out into darkness.

  “Creeped by what? Zombie? Boogeyman?” He laughs. “Don’t tell me Malevolent Pool Child has returned!”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Sorry. What can I do?”

  “Talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “Anything. No! Something nice.”

  I shuffle across the floor, cursing as I bump a shelf edge, send a stack of boxes sliding.

  “Teddi! You okay?”

  “Fine. I’m fine. Just knocked something over.” Faking composure, I ask, “So. What’s your favorite color?”

&
nbsp; His answer comes out a question. “Orange?”

  “Fave food?”

  “Baklava.”

  “All-time favorite movie?”

  He doesn’t respond immediately. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “Of course.”

  “Milo and Otis.”

  “Wow. Really?”

  “You promised.”

  “I’m not laughing. Just . . . incredulous.”

  “C’mon, the comic mishaps of a kitten and pug pup. What’s not to love?”

  “Well, I’ve never actually seen it, so I’ll take your word. I’d just pegged you for an action/adventure type.”

  “Oh, M&O’s packed with action and adventure: rushing river, angry bear. I could go on.”

  Now I do laugh, surprising, considering my flashlight’s begun to sputter, and I’m less than halfway across the pitch-dark store.

  “Aid, I’m sort of freaking. I’m coming through the sealed-off part of the store and it’s really dark and it’s super creepy and my flashlight’s about to crap out!”

  “It’s okay, Teddi. I’m right outside.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “Across the street. Why?”

  “Do me a favor. Come to the back of my building. There’s a glass door across from the garages. That’s where I’m headed.”

  “On my way.”

  “And, Aidan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep talking.”

  My flashlight dies. I can barely see by the glow of my cell display. Every time I speed up, I collide with something, a tarp-draped cooler, a stack of picnic umbrellas.

  Fortunately, Aidan’s memorized the plot of Milo and Otis ; he relates it in detail that, under other circumstances, would be excruciating. In this case, absorbed in his retelling, I make it across the room without losing it.

  Running my hand along exposed plywood, I find the electric box, debate whether to hit the overheads. There’s no way Brenda can see them, and the windows are draped with old quilts, so it’s unlikely anyone outside will notice.

  I thumb the switch. Nothing. Then, a low hum. Wading in blackness, I’m blinded as my half of the room goes fluorescent bright. I rub my eyes. As details come into focus, I’m embarrassed how ordinary—if skanky—it is in here. Turning, I review my path, a shuffle trail across the dusty tile.

  I note the giant fan, not particularly threatening, except for the hopefully vacant wasp nest inside its wire cage. Judging by the constellations of mouse poop, the umbrella pile doubles as a rodent timeshare.

  Along one wall a heap: black garbage bags marked TEDDI SUMMER and TEDDI WINTER, my ancient bouncy horse—his name was Pharaoh—and loads more I haven’t seen in years. An Alder Time Capsule. I make a mental note to research HAZMAT suit rentals; might want to wade through this mess one day.

  I briefly consider restacking toppled boxes—drinking straws and French fry containers—when Aidan raps on the glass behind me. His voice plays in stereo, from my phone and outside.

  “Teddi, let me in! It’s mad buggy.”

  “One second!”

  I stop short at movement in the shadows by the ice cream cooler. Bracing for a herd of mice, or worse bats, I stiffen. There are footprints, smaller than mine, oozing up from the dust, muddy. They lead behind the cooler.

  Head voice practically screeching NO!, I glide toward the prints. Forgetting Aidan, and everything else, I slide my phone into my PJ pocket. On my knees, I inspect the tracks. Smudges of dried mud. Whoever made them had to be small—and walking on tiptoe.

  Sniffing, I note a faint chlorine smell.

  The temperature drops.

  I expect to see my breath.

  I hear my name again.

  This time, it’s not Aidan, but a whisper from behind the freezer. Followed by this eerie giggle.

  Crawling toward the cooler, I jiggle the dead flashlight, squeeze the battery compartment. The beam appears, weak, wavering. Training it on the tarp, I edge closer, reaching with my other hand. When I yank the fabric free, a form swims into focus through the dusty glass cooler lid.

  “Who are you?” My voice is a pinched rasp.

  No answer.

  A word passes my lips, “Fawn?” then thins like mist. “You can’t be her.”

  Hair hangs, a matted net, her features obscured. But I sense her gaze, can make out one eye, round as an owl’s. Her skin’s translucent, milky-quavering.

  As I reach forward, her hand lifts. Bone-pale fingers clutch toward me from behind freezer glass.

  Her mouth opens slightly. I hear a low hiss, catch this damp scent again, not chlorine. Vegetal, murky.

  Lips moving, she points to the lump beneath my tank top.

  Lifting the daisy charm, I raise my trembling hand. “You want your flower back?” I slip the chain from my neck and whisper, “Take it.”

  Pounding on the door behind me, Aidan shouts, “Teddi!”

  I yell over my shoulder, “Coming!”

  As my head snaps back, the flashlight dies. I hear frantic scuffling behind the cooler. Ripping the tarp aside, I plunge into the gloom, just register the gray rush as a mouse flattens, slips through a crack in the wall.

  Surprise. No sign of a child—or anything besides cobwebs—back there.

  Stunned to tears, frustration bolting me in place, I stare at the pendant in my shaking hand. “She was here. I know it!”

  Inspecting the floor, it’s impossible to spot any tracks, even my own. If hers were there, I’ve obliterated them crawling across filthy linoleum.

  Shoving the charm in my pocket, I stand dead still—no idea how long—willing her back.

  Aidan’s voice slaps me back to reality. “If you’re not coming out, I’ll head home. I’m getting eaten alive out here!”

  Blinking, I taste blood. My thumb’s gnawed raw, cuticle ripped away. “God, sorry, Aid! Be right there.”

  I lunge for the door, toward Aidan’s arms, away from this craziness. Shivering, I grasp the dead bolt. His expression stops me. His eyes—vicious. Clearly, he does not enjoy waiting.

  When I mouth “Sorry” through the smeary glass, his eyes lighten. Pressing his face to the outside pane, no longer menacing, he’s little-boyish, with his pig-squashed nose.

  Wrestling the bolt, I twist left. It unlocks with a snick, and Aidan pushes in, shoving me off balance with the heavy glass door.

  “Thank God, you’re here! I almost—”

  “What took you so long?” His eyes flash anger, but—swiping a hand across his face—he produces a smile.

  “I . . . I got scared, Aid. There was . . .”

  He’s not listening. Pushing the door shut, he rebolts it.

  “I missed you, Teddi.”

  His eyes make me hesitate, but he advances, stride shaky.

  “Aidan, are you drunk?”

  He doesn’t answer. Opening his arms, he repeats, “I missed you.”

  I back up a step.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “What? No, I’m not drunk. Shit! Why are you being such a bitch?”

  Now I step toward him, past him actually, to swing the door open. “This was a bad idea. You need to go.”

  “Make me.”

  I just glare at him, fists rammed deep in PJ pockets, trying to look tougher than I am.

  Stepping back, Aidan squints as if trying to focus. Pouting, he’s a little boy again, disappointed to leave the playground.

  I have this urge to embrace him. Make everything better. Allow him ten more minutes on the jungle gym. Instead, I say, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Hands raised in an I-surrender stance, he backs toward the door, head hanging. I recognize this shame face from years of Brenda regret.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what exactly, Aid?”

  “Um . . . the bitch comment. Being a major dick. You didn’t deserve that. I just, I really wanted to see you, and I . . . it felt like you were trying to get rid of me.”

  “Why would I
do that?”

  “I don’t know. But why’d you take so long to let me in? I thought you changed your mind.”

  “About what? Coming out with you?”

  “More than that. About me. Us.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not trying to convince me you of all people have low self-esteem. Because honestly, I’m not buying it.” Pulling his shirttails, I lead him to this antique soda machine. Standing him in front, I brush the hair from his eyes and say, “Look.”

  He studies his dusty reflection, offering a tentative smile. “Not bad.”

  “No, no. Not ‘not bad.’ Very good indeed.”

  Peering into my eyes, he says, “Teddi, I really am. Sorry, I mean. Sometimes I just . . . I have these,” he speaks to his feet, “moods.”

  “Moods?”

  “Attic-black moods. The last thing I ever wanted was to be like my father.” A single tear trails his cheek. “The way he treats her.”

  “Your mom?”

  He seems not to hear. “We almost left once when I was small. She said she was done. But . . .” He shudders.

  “What happened?”

  “I was in my car seat when he broke the windshield.” He smiles remembering it, the corners of his mouth lifting, eyes overcast. “Glass everywhere. Her forehead bleeding.”

  “My God.”

  He coughs. “But we went for counseling. And things got a little better. We learned to duck when the rage-clouds rolled in, and he mostly quit breaking shit. So we stayed.”

  “Aidan, I’m so sor—”

  Pressing a finger softly to my lips, he says, “Anger’s cost me girlfriends in the past, but I’ll prove I’m more than my father’s son. You, Teddi Alder, deserve nothing but my very best.”

  As we kiss, the tension of the last few minutes drains away. It probably had more to do with Pool Girl’s visit than with anything Aidan said or did.

  “What is it, Teddi?”

  Now it’s my turn to study my little piggies. “A couple days ago I barely felt worthy of ordering coffee from you, and now—”

  “You shouldn’t ever think that way. You’re amazing.”

  “Me?”

  He leans toward me, lips slightly parted. As I close my eyes to kiss him, an image seeps in: bone-pale fingers reaching toward me, lips moving. A chill creeping through me, I break Aidan’s embrace, rush for the door.