The Precious Dreadful Read online

  “Teddi, where are you going?”

  “Out of here! Come on!”

  Yanking the door handle, I squeeze Aidan’s hand, drag him into night.

  11

  After escaping the store, I’m full-tilt shaking, stuttery. Aidan looks worried, but I refuse to tell what happened. We roam the neighborhood. When he mentions skunks, I quickly agree to skip the park, but I’m actually thinking of her.

  In search of snackage, we hit Round-the-Clock, at the corner of Baldwin and Welles. Trolling the aisles, we seek that perfectly balanced sugar-salt-grease ratio. At the counter, Aidan rummages in his pocket, producing a Ziploc stuffed with dollar bills and coins. Forking over $12.83 for our booty, he says, “You’re officially a cheap date. But I have two whole bucks left. How ’bout an Italian ice?”

  “Any lemon?”

  Fishing in the case, he says, “Sure is.”

  “Then I’m in.”

  “It’s good to see you smile.”

  Resisting the immediate urge to stop smiling, I answer, “It’s good to have a reason to.”

  He beams. “Well, bringing smiles to female faces is kind of my trademark.”

  “I meant the Italian ice.”

  Passing Aidan’s change, the clerk says, “Hold on to this one. She’s something special.”

  We demolish a sack of peanut butter pretzels, a four-pack of cupcakes, and a bag of Twisted Fish candies as we wander anywhere but home.

  Eventually we settle on Aidan’s house. Afraid to wake his folks, we spread our salty-sweet remnants—a bag of cheesy puffs, half a raspberry soda, the lemon ice—on a table in his backyard gazebo.

  We listen to the crickets and distant cars, our contribution to the night chorus the papery scrape of wood spoons against ice. The stillness feels perfect, sacred even.

  Brushing DayGlo cheese powder from my chin, Aidan presses his lips to mine. Then, winding a strand of my hair in his fingers, he asks, “Tell me?”

  I’m not sure whether it’s the distance from my place, or the multitude of carbs I’ve ingested. It could be how Aidan studies me by the citronella candle glow. For whatever reason, I’m brave. Pulling the slim chain, I lift the daisy free from my collar and say, “So, I found this.”

  Taking the pendant, he lets it swing between his fingers. “Wow, I wonder which Kardashian dropped this.”

  “I’m not saying it’s valuable, but it might be important.”

  “Important how?”

  “It must belong to the girl in the pool. I found it dangling from the fence the other night after she disappeared.”

  He shakes his head. “Not this again. I thought we agreed there was no girl in the pool.”

  “Well, no. We didn’t agree, actually. You decided. I went along because you’re so darn persuasive—not to mention super hot—when you’re soaking wet.”

  We kiss again, lips a perfect fusion of citrus and salt. Then Aidan draws back. “But seriously, you’re not still obsessing over the pool incident?”

  The way he says “incident” somehow implies there was no incident at all.

  “I’m not obsessing. Not exactly. It’s just . . . I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. What if she’s a runaway or something? Don’t we have some responsibility to—”

  “I told you that night! We are not getting the cops involved! They’ll just want to know what we were doing in the park at two in the morning.”

  “I never thought of that . . . but if you weren’t in the park that night, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.” I press my nose to his in an Eskimo kiss. “Funny how fate works.”

  Eyes crossing slightly at close range, Aidan inches backward on the bench. A thought creases his brow.

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

  I can’t read him; his expression seems designed to keep me at a distance.

  “Shit, Teddi, would you please just drop it?”

  Snatching the empty snack containers, he crushes them, pitching the wad into a barrel. Turning to me, arms crossed, he’s waiting for some response.

  All I can come up with is “Drop what?”

  “This Patsy Drew bullshit. It’s getting a little old.”

  I get the distinct impression I’m supposed to say something. That he’s expecting me to voice agreement or—is he shitting me?—apologize.

  Matching his angry stance, I say, “Are we on the verge of our first real fight? If we are, I want to clarify one thing. Are you comparing me to NANCY Drew, Girl Detective? If so, I’m not sure whether to be insulted or honored.”

  He scowls.

  “Have you read any of those books, Aidan? Have you? Because if you’re going to make a literary allusion, you ought to know what it is you’re referencing. So, sample titles: The Secret of the Old Clock. The Haunted Bridge. The Clue of the Dancing Puppet.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Well, in spite of the crap dialogue and blatant gender stereotypes, Nancy was always right. But inevitably some Doubting Douchebag questioned her every move.”

  “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “The Douchebag was generally forced to apologize to Nancy at the end of the story.”

  “So?”

  “So do us both a favor, Aidan. Don’t be Mister Douche.”

  Shouting, “Screw this!” he strides toward the porch.

  I call after him, “I’m sorry, Aid.” Crossing dew-damp grass, I clutch his arm. “You’re not a douchebag. I’m just—”

  Shaking me off, he says, “Why is this so important, Teddi? You had to be seeing things the other night. If not, it’d be all over the news—or there’d be about a million Have you seen me? posters tacked up! Wouldn’t there be some sign? If there was an actual missing kid?”

  “I guess, but . . .”

  “And have you? Gotten a text alert? Seen anything on TV or online? Nothing, right?”

  “No . . . but—”

  “But what?”

  “Sometimes, kids get taken, and . . . no one notices. Or . . . or . . . what if she’s out there someplace, hurt, and nobody cares?”

  “Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

  I take a moment to answer, and probably should take another to reconsider, but instead I say, “I saw her again tonight.”

  Aidan just gapes like I’ve sprouted a third boob.

  Finally, he says, “What do you mean you saw her?”

  “In my house. The closed-up-store part. My getaway route. Where you met me. Mom and I use it for storage; I haven’t been in there for years. Anyway, when I was inside. It was pitch-black . . .” I’m shaking again. This time Aidan makes no move to comfort me. “I saw her.”

  “Inside your building?”

  “Yes, hiding. Behind an old ice cream cooler.”

  “How could she get in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she still there?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure?” Expression morphing from concern to frustration, he says, “Wait, don’t tell me. She disappeared again.”

  “Yes. My flashlight went out, and then she was gone. And there was just a mouse. I know how impossible it sounds, Aid. But you’ve got to believe me!”

  He pauses to absorb what I’ve said.

  “Did she say anything?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  “Teddi, did she talk to you?”

  “She . . . she kind of whispered, ‘Give it back.’ I think she was asking for the necklace.”

  I’m preparing for him to put his arms around me. He doesn’t. Instead, he laughs. This brief, humorless bark. Then he says, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I don’t quite know how to answer.

  After a minute standing there, Aidan says, “Right. Well, it’s late. I’ll talk to you.”

  As I watch him slip through the screen door, my heart shrinks a size. But, vowing not to cry, I activate emotional autopilot. I walk home detached, pondering h
is question. What is wrong with me? I honestly have no answer.

  12

  Petra perches on the edge of a folding chair. Laptop balanced on tawny knees, she purses her lips. Then, smiling warily, she begins.

  “I was ten, it was Sunday. I remember begging to wear my party dress to morning mass. It was lilac with a beaded belt; my mother said it was too showy for church.

  “But I insisted. Olivia’s party was right after, I didn’t want to miss a minute, going home to change. I’d helped pick the theme, Unicorn Princess Pageant, and wanted to get there before anyone, so I could check out the decorations. Mrs. Castillo always cut corners; I was nervous we’d end up with Bargain Mart tablecloths and shit.”

  Pausing to smooth her hair, Petra asks, “It’s okay to say ‘shit,’ right?”

  With a soft “Yes,” Eleanor gestures for Petra to continue.

  An exaggerated throat-clear draws my attention to the corner. Ed slouches there, practicing his eye roll. Coughing to stifle a laugh, I refocus on Petra’s story.

  “Our Odyssey rolled up Carnival Drive toward Olivia’s. First thing I spotted was the balloon arch out front. Hunter green with yellow streamers! All I could think was That is so anti-princess! They must’ve had select colors on clearance.

  “Mom shot me a look in the rearview when I said, ‘Eeeww!’ her lips all pursed, like she was drinking through an invisible straw. She warned, ‘Petra, be nice.’ When wasn’t I? But there’s a universe of difference between being nice and lying. I wasn’t about to tell Olivia those balloons were anything but embarrassing. She was my best friend!”

  Voice cracking, Petra stops reading, slams her laptop. Since we’re in large-group-sharing mode, Right Barbie, who’s really named Jeanine, sits alongside Petra. She strokes her friend’s bare arm and says, “I’m right here, Pet. You’re doing great.”

  Eleanor moves knee-to-knee with Petra. Holding her gaze, she murmurs, the way you’d whisper a skittish dog. “You’re teetering on the edge of something, aren’t you?”

  Petra nods, big-eyed.

  “You mustn’t run from it, Miss Rio. Please, continue. We’re here to support you.”

  Petra sniffles, a mascara-tear plinking her lap. Gauging our reactions face by face, she exhales and opens her laptop. After entering her password with trembling fingers, she scrolls down, continues reading.

  “My mom jolted to a stop, half in the driveway, half in the street. With the engine running, she jumped out, calling over her shoulder, ‘Stay put.’ ”

  Eyes wet, Petra glances up from her screen. I note Jeanine’s Honey Cat nail tattoos as she folds her tan hand over Petra’s.

  “That’s when I noticed the flashing lights. An ambulance had pulled right onto the Castillos’ lawn, squashed their tulip bed.

  “They had one of those wheelie-stretchers; Liv’s baby brother, Oscar, was strapped to it, his face puffy, blue-tinged. One ambulance guy pressed a mask over Oscar’s mouth and nose. The other pushed this big needle into his chest.”

  Silence. The circle feels tighter, even though no one but Eleanor has moved a single chair. Ed’s joined us, perched on the couch back, completely devoid of smirk.

  “I don’t remember getting out of the van, but all at once, I was beside the stretcher, close enough to see a string of yellow foam coming from Oscar’s mouth. Close enough to catch the dark smell. I tried not to look, but couldn’t help seeing the stain spread across his soccer shorts.”

  I’m plagued by sudden sweat; my stomach burns. I block my nose against the dark smell she mentioned. But how can I be smelling it now? In the library? Petra’s not that good a writer.

  I need her to stop. Now. I almost say so. I could insist, tell Eleanor. Suggest it might be best for Petra if we take a break. But really, it’s not Petra I’m worried about. I bite my lip to trap a scream.

  Petra continues, but I barely hear. My temples beat. Images flood my head. The sandal smack of running feet. The tug of thorn and vine. My bloodied palm.

  “Teddi? Is everything all right?” Ed’s voice, low in my left ear. He’s squatting just behind my chair. But I won’t open my eyes.

  Petra keeps reading.

  “Olivia flew from the side yard, a streak of taffeta, her face warped in this horrible clown mask. Holding a big tissue flower, she ripped it, pieces dropping like dead moths at her feet.”

  My eyes fly open.

  “Mrs. Castillo stood mannequin-stiff as Olivia wailed. ‘Don’t let him die! I didn’t mean it! I don’t hate him! I’m sorry, Oscar! I’m sorry!’

  “That’s when my mother grabbed Olivia’s shoulders. Shoved her into a sitting position on the grass. Jabbed her finger in Liv’s face and yelled, ‘STOP IT!’

  “At first, Olivia’s mom was so calm, but then, when the paramedics loaded Oscar into the ambulance, she totally unraveled. Falling in a heap next to Olivia, she—”

  Launching to the center of the circle, I stall, swaying slightly. Their eyes seek explanation, but the words shrivel on my tongue. Ed reaches for me. Shoving him aside, I bolt from the lounge, upstairs, straight to the restroom.

  Locked.

  I’m about to sprint to the info desk for a key when a little girl steps out of the bathroom. Pushing past, I bolt the door, race to the sink.

  Head down, avoiding my reflection, I blast the water, scooping a handful to my face. Rather than help, the warm splash—its familiar sulfur whiff—worsens my nausea.

  Ignoring toilet stench, I gulp oxygen, and examine Mirror Teddi. Stress and insomnia have etched mauve crescents below her eyes. I risk offending her and say, “You look awful.”

  Turning tables, she says, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Teddi?”

  “Funny. You’re the second person in about twelve hours to ask that.”

  Eyes glazing, I surrender to glimpses of last night.

  I had no reply for Aidan, am no closer to answering my mirror self now. Turning from my reflection, I lean back against the sink. I honestly might be going crazy. Just now, losing it in front of the group . . .

  “What is wrong with me?”

  Breathless, I dry sob. Pacing the cramped space, I grind fists into my eyes, repeating, “Okay, Teddi. You’re okay.”

  I wish it were true.

  Minutes pass.

  Breathing human-style again, I inspect Mirror Teddi for damage. She looks awful. Puffy, splotched. I risk the water again—no funky smell now—wash my face without inciting queasiness.

  A gentle tap and “Ahem” spin me. Wrestling a wad from the paper towel dispenser, I dab my cheeks, blow my nose.

  “Who is it?”

  “Ed. Are you all right?”

  Now there’s a trick question. But in true Alder Woman fashion, I reply, “Great, thanks.”

  “Come out, Teddi.”

  Twisting the handle with my soggy bouquet, I peek out. “Um, it kind of reeks in here. You might want to stand back.”

  He inspects me like a seedpod under a microscope, barely allows me to exit the bathroom before repeating, “Are you all right?”

  His tone’s so comforting—so different from Aidan’s last night—my tear ducts kick-start. Ed folds me into a stiff embrace. Snuffling against his chest, I struggle to answer.

  Before I can, an elderly totters up. Tapping her cane against the doorframe, she says, “Waiting for the toilet?”

  We step aside, and Granny sidles into the tiled cubicle, locking the door.

  Eyes shooting sympathy rays, Ed says, “Eleanor sent the group on a descriptive field trip with their journals. They’ll be back in twenty minutes. Want to sit?”

  “Why not.”

  We head past the computer workstations, behind Nonfiction. It’s empty back here. Ed and I settle into a pair of frayed armchairs facing the window.

  Outside, Petra and Jeanine inspect an azalea. In the distance, Todd appears to take notes as Ken interacts with a parking meter.

  Picking at loose upholstery threads, I say, “So. You must all think I’m distur
bed, the way I ran out. Is Petra pissed?”

  Ed grins. “Nah. You made her night. She said she felt ‘validated as an artist.’ ”

  “Way to go, Petra. That’s some literary killer instinct.”

  Serious again, Ed inches closer. Concern radiating, he says, “It was an intense story, but something else is wrong. Am I right?”

  Fearing compassion will reboot my tears, I shift away. But Ed leans forward and says, “Let me help.”

  “What makes you think you can?”

  Eyes boring into mine, he breathes deep before saying, “Is it Ai—” then breaking the gaze, he continues, “your boyfriend?”

  “Aidan’s the least of my problems right now.”

  “But you’re saying he is one of them.”

  “Why are you so interested in our relationship, Ed?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I start to get up.

  He stops me. “You’re a nice girl, Teddi. And he . . . don’t let him mess with your head.”

  “God. Why would you say that? You don’t even know Aidan.”

  “I know . . . his type. Just,” taking my hand, he says, “be careful.”

  I plan to offer a rote “I’m fine,” so my actual answer surprises us both. “I’m scared.”

  Tightening his grip, he asks, “Of him?”

  “No, not Aidan. It’s . . . I’m afraid I’m going nuts.”

  From behind us, Eleanor asks, “Why would you say that?” Eyebrow raised, she shoots a look at Ed.

  Letting go of my hand, he springs from his chair, stammering, “I . . . uh . . . should check in at Reference.”

  Eleanor says, “Splendid idea.”

  I rise, but she urges—in a tone I’ve used on Binks—“Stay.”

  Once I’m back in my chair, she says, “Petra’s piece had real emotive heft. It’s hardly crazy to react authentically, Miss Alder. You needn’t employ the strength of trees in all things. Vulnerability is an asset equal to strength.”

  Tempted to ask if she also moonlights as a fortune cookie scribe, I restrain my tongue.

  “One of my Lit and Comp students said the beauty of literature is its power to provoke emotion. I rather like the use of that word: provoke.”