The Precious Dreadful Page 8

  “It’s not just Petra’s story, though. It’s the piece I started writing.”

  “ ‘The Sad Giraffe’?” She tsks, features slipping into a subtle frown.

  “Um, no.”

  “Oh, good! I’d hoped you weren’t too attached to that one. I have feedback for you.” She fishes in her accordion folder. “Now, it’s fairly pointed. Promise you’ll take it in the spirit in which it was intended.”

  “I’m not in the mood for a critique, Eleanor. No offense.”

  “Now, let’s not be defensive. Writing demands union—creation to self-assessment—and that process, stretching the writerly muscles, becoming an authentic auteur, necessitates discomfort, even pain. You mustn’t be upset over one artistic, shall we say, dud.”

  “I’m not upset over my writing! I couldn’t care less about my writerly muscles!”

  I expect Eleanor to hit me with a classic librarian shush. Instead, smiling frostily, she squeezes her folder shut. “There’s really no call for disrespect of the craft. Whatever struggles you’re having.”

  Lord, the woman’s preposterous. Would she give a crap if I told her what’s really bothering me?

  I decide to test it. “I’ve been seeing . . . someone.”

  Her lips purse in a weirdly prim grin. “I met him, remember? Quite the achievement.”

  “I’m not talking about Aidan. Besides, it’s complicated with him. It’s not a given we’ll be spending any more time together.”

  “Shame.”

  “Whatever. Anyway—oh, forget it. You’ll just think I’m wacko, too.”

  Cocking her head, she says, “Try me.”

  She’s the closest thing to a responsible adult in my life, so I give it a shot.

  “I’m not sure whether it’s more accurate to say I’ve been seeing someone or . . . something. It started the other night in the park.”

  I spend the next fifteen minutes describing the pool encounter. How the girl vanished. Her presence inside the store.

  Eleanor’s spellbound. The way she reacts, I begin to believe I may not be entirely insane.

  She asks, “And did she interact? Seem to comprehend you?”

  Unsure how to answer, I describe the girl reaching out, lips moving, grasping toward the necklace. Eleanor actually squeals, “How deliciously eerie!”

  When I offer the pendant, she scoops it from my hands, examines it like an artifact.

  After several moments, I say, “So. Am I?”

  Softly, Eleanor asks, “Are you what?”

  Dreading her answer, I blurt, “Crazy.”

  Ken bounds toward us, Todd trailing like a tail, eager to report the observational booty collected on their Literate Green field trip.

  I’m relieved when Eleanor says, “Kenneth, be a dear and round up the rest of the group? Miss Alder and I need a moment. We’ll be down in two shakes.”

  Ken mopes toward the stairwell. Todd remains, gawking at us, like he’s on the verge of an important question or declaration. Maybe a sneeze.

  Eleanor says, “Todd, a question?”

  Muddled, he speckles deep pink; then he spins and sprints after Ken.

  Eleanor says, “Crazy? Hardly. There are three more likely possibilities.”

  “Three. Really?”

  Voice a whisper, she says, “Yes. You’re either—one: lying in some woeful bid for attention.”

  “Nope.”

  “Thought not. Option two: there’s a feral child loose, and she’s imprinted on you.”

  “That’s unlikely, isn’t it?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Then . . . what’s option three?”

  Eleanor thrums the edge of her folder. Biting her lip, she regards me seriously. “I fear, Miss Alder, this may be a haunting.”

  13

  Ears covered, Willa shrieks. Like every year, she’s missed about 80 percent of the display, ducking beneath a beach towel whenever a firework explodes. Still, she insisted we come. Together. I’m actually okay with it. Our tradition.

  This year, I’m extra glad for company. Screw independence! It’s nearly two weeks since our disastrous night picnic, and I’ve yet to get an apology, or hear a word—no call, no text—from Aidan.

  Admittedly, I’ve done my best to avoid contact. After a twelve-day hiatus from Java Jill’s, mocha withdrawals have subsided. Aidan pangs? Not so much. And Mister Graham’s not alone in having ditched me.

  Brenda fled for the holiday weekend, tagging along with Mandy and Dev to his cabin, someplace called Lake Saint Catherine, Vermont. I cannot comprehend her desire to play third wheel with her custodial crush and his girlfriend, but there’s no fathoming Mom’s questionable choices. Willa floated the possibility of some three-way action afoot, a prospect so reprehensible I refuse to entertain it. More like, Mommy couldn’t pass on a four-day, booze-filled/daughter-free holiday. Can’t say I blame her.

  Ordinarily, I’d appreciate the alone time. This could’ve been my golden opportunity for a PJ-optional overnight with a certain someone. Course, the timing’s all wrong now that we’re not speaking. And I suppose it’s for the best, in light of my baby free–teens vow.

  But since Aidan and I went poof, I’ve been abnormally needy with Brenda. When I told her about our fight, she surprised me, reacted in appropriate maternal fashion. She made a legit stab at seeming disappointed by the demise of my fledgling relationship, even reassured me, saying, “He’s not good enough for you, baby.” Plus, she stocked the freezer with Forever Fudge ice cream before hitting the road.

  Even so, I can’t shuck this lame sense of abandonment. I’ve done my best to dismiss the possibility Binks and I may not be alone. My major concession to Bren’s absence—and our possible haunted houseguest—was to leave the lights and TV on all night. But there’s been no sign of Miss Phantom since her store appearance. I pray it’s over. If there ever was an it.

  Tonight after fireworks, Willa’s sleeping over, so it’s unlikely Pool Ghoul will show. It’s clear she prefers having me to herself. Besides, despite Eleanor’s dramatic reaction, I truly doubt some poltergeist’s stalking me. Though a ghost is preferable to the idea I might be losing my freaking mind.

  The sky above the ball field is alight with sparks, red and green chrysanthemums fading to smoke in the heavy air. No break in the weather yet. Nine forty-five and the mercury’s hardly backed off.

  After a month of record temps, this relentless heat’s getting to people; cops have broken up three near-brawls. Crowd uproar—peppered with noisy arguments, yowling babies—provides a steady backdrop for the pyrotechnics. I picture Binks in the bathtub, fear-flattened by booms.

  Leaning on an elbow, I swig from my water bottle. We’re in left field, prime space to survey the crowd, a party mix of ages. Little kids shriek by, toppling lawn chairs of the elderlies. I’m careful not to dwell on the amorazzi, couples our age, leg-twining on the grass. I have this queasy feeling I’ll spot Aidan dry humping some Teddi stand-in.

  Bad enough we ran into Ed and his girlfriend, Glade. She was this sexed-up, 3D Disney princess, all boobs and glimmer. But ultra-clingy. He practically had to peel her off to say hello. And she was—ack!—super nice. She invited Willa and me to join them for chilled organic fruit cups. I totally wanted to punch her.

  Ed looked relieved when I politely declined. Following a brief exchange with Willa, who’d eagerly invaded their cooler, we took our leave.

  Later, as we lounge on our quilt, Ed strolls up and says, “Can I talk to you?”

  Willa says, “Go for it.” Knees cracking, she rises, and we watch as she weaves through the maze of people.

  Squatting, Ed says, “Sorry if that was awkward. Glade can be, um, a . . . bit much.”

  “Why should that matter to me?”

  “Oh . . . no reason.”

  He sputters, on the edge of speaking, until I say, “You going to sit?”

  “Sure.” Tickling the quilt hem with his finger, he asks, “So, where’s the Bean Stud?” When I
don’t answer, he continues. “Macchiato Man. Lou Latte. Shouldn’t he be here?”

  I shrug. “Didn’t work out.”

  “That’s too bad.” Catching himself in a smile, Ed ducks his head like a contrite pony, then says, “All right . . . uh . . . guess I’ll see you at the library.”

  Acting more nonchalant than I feel, I answer, “I guess.”

  As he strides across the field, this pang occupies my gut. It can’t possibly be jealousy, but part of me wants to follow him, and not for the chilled fruit.

  Willa reappears. Chin on my shoulder, she says, “So. He’s not unattractive.”

  Rolling onto my back, I say, “Hadn’t noticed.”

  She laughs. Then, swooping her towel in the air, she wafts it down, covering our heads. Beaming, she says, “What do you say we head home? Call it an early night?”

  “Sounds good to me. But are you sure you don’t mind bailing on the fireworks? I mean, so far you haven’t seen any.”

  “Nah, I’m good. I do this for your benefit.”

  “Really?”

  “Yuppers.”

  Slipping free of the towel, I wind it into an enormous turban over Willa’s hair.

  “So, where’s Nic tonight?”

  “Probably home practicing lines. I’m starting to regret getting him involved in the play; he’s obsessed. He’s at rehearsal practically every night, even when he’s not on call. Says he enjoys watching the process.”

  “Well, you’ve got to be there, too, right?”

  “Yeah, but not as much as him.” She sighs. “Even when we’re not there, it’s all he talks about. He’s got a Bard fixation or some damn thing. I miss the simpler times. Back when he was into WrestleMania.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  “You’re right.”

  We gather our junk: sandals, snack bags, a strictly for-show Frisbee. Snapping the quilt in the air, Willa pelts me with sunburnt grass and candy wrappers. Each taking two corners, we fold, Willa humming this skip rope rhyme from when we were kids. With everything stuffed into her big mesh bag, we walk toward my place.

  Elbowing through the crowd, I expect to see Aidan. I’d like to believe I’d serve him a helping of cold shoulder. After all, Willa and I have rehearsed, practicing for that very situation.

  Controlling herself for once, she hasn’t bombarded me with questions, though she must be dying to. When I described our fight, she accused me of being “crazy and/or nuts” to let him get away.

  I overreacted to crazy. I’d never hung up on Willa before, a feat when you’ve known someone since fifth grade. But, in my current state of psychological self-doubt, I suppose heightened sensitivity’s not surprising.

  Willa called back immediately to apologize. In solidarity, she even promised to boycott Java Jill’s. That’s true friendship.

  Passing home plate, we’re arm-in-arm, ’til Willa breaks free. Sprinting ahead, she sings the skipping song again, and I think how much simpler life would be if we’d stayed ten years old. Ten was the perfect age. I was still pre-period. And I’d gotten over Corey moving away after what happened at the pond.

  Shit. Why am I thinking about that now?

  I watch Willa shrink as she approaches the far-off pool. Suddenly woozy, legs turning to jelly, I falter. Sunstroke’s a long shot past 10:00 p.m. Must be this heat.

  My eyes are open, but my vision tunnels inward, like I’m seeing the world through a cardboard tube. Straining to focus, reality shimmers, and it’s the pond in front of me. Swaying ferns, low-hung branches. The tug of thorn and vine. I bring my hands to my face, study them, expecting—

  “T Bear? You okay?” Willa looms over me where I’ve landed.

  “What? Sure. Why?”

  “Well, look at you, ass-flat on the grass. Thought you were right behind me.”

  “I . . . I was.”

  Eyes narrowing, she says, “Teddi, you seriously look like you just saw a ghost.”

  A strangled laugh escapes me.

  Taking a water bottle from the mesh sack, Willa makes me drink. My head clears, but when I close my eyes, I see him. Corey.

  He’s laughing, yelling for me to catch up. And he’s not alone. This wiry girl, all mangy curls, dirty overalls, stands beside him, arm draped around his shoulder. Corey says, “Come on, Teddi! Fawn knows a secret place!”

  My eyes snap open, but my vision’s blue-prickly.

  Willa’s voice. “. . . can’t deny it’s taking a toll.”

  “Sure, a toll.” I inspect my palms again.

  “Teddi, are you even listening?”

  “Wait, taking a toll? What is?”

  “This whole thing with You-Know-Who.”

  Locking my eyes on her face helps me focus. “Wills, honestly, you have my permission to say his name. It’s not as if we’re dealing with the Dark Lord. It’s just Aidan.”

  She repeats the words, “Just Aidan,” grimacing as though she’s got a raunchy taste on her tongue. Then, eyes going wide, she says, “Holy shit.”

  I touch her arm. “Wills? What is it?”

  Standing, she says, “I’ve made a shocking mental connection.” Her face splits in a grin, but her eyes stay serious. “If it had worked out, someday you might’ve married that a-hole, and then your name would’ve been Teddi Graham!”

  I can’t help smiling back, as I say, “Well, in that case, the death of our relationship is more mercy than catastrophe.”

  Clicking her water bottle against mine, Willa says, “To breakups!”

  I reply, “To ditching d-bags!”

  Squealing, she douses me with bottle dregs and shouts, “To crumbling that stale, stinking cracker!” When I’m quiet, she says, “Get it? Graham? Cracker?”

  “Good one.” Grinning, I reach toward her and say, “Aidan the Flawed.”

  Clasping my hand, Willa hoists me from the grass, declaring, “Aidan the Bastard!”

  “Aidan the Prick!”

  We raise fists in triumph, and I yell, “Aidan the Shit-Heel, Dream-Crusher Graham!”

  “Hey.”

  We’ve practiced repeatedly, but this was never part of the script. I spin, and he’s standing there, working his best sheepish grin.

  Glancing at Willa, I’m jealous, wishing I could channel her tough cool. Then, praying he won’t assume my unsteadiness has to do with him, I baby-step forward.

  “Happy Fourth, Teddi. Willa.”

  He’s clearly spent our away time basking, because even in night shadow, I see he’s about two shades more beautiful than when last we met. I just stand there, mouth slightly open, feeling my cheeks darken as well.

  Stepping between us, Willa says, “Oh, hey. Didn’t expect to see you here. Figured you’d suffocated or something.”

  “Willa . . .” I wish, not for the first time, her braces included some kind of jaw-locking mechanism.

  He regards her with a quizzical chin dip. “Suffocated?”

  “Yeah, from having your head buried so far up your ass.”

  They assess each other. Aidan looks unsure if Willa’s joking. I’m sure. She’s not. That girl takes our sisterhood dead serious. When she heard about Ryan Hecht’s Class-A Dickery, she plotted a revenge scheme worthy of Poe. Luckily, I found out before she lured him into a catacomb. She’d have landed in juvie for sure.

  My wonky legs undermine my desire to push past Aidan and bolt for my front door. As if I’m wearing thirty-pound shoes, the best I can manage is a halting wobble. Attempting to turn away, I swoon again. Aidan and Willa each grab an elbow, supporting me.

  Going limp as our picnic quilt, I visualize them each taking a pair of limbs, team folding me into quarters, stuffing my deflated form into the mesh bag. We stand in awkward kick line position for a minute more, until I’m stable enough to walk on my own.

  “Sorry about that, guys. I felt a little dizzy for a sec. This heat . . .”

  I don’t mention my weird, psycho-vision. I can imagine Aidan’s reaction. He’d probably call me crazy again. Instead, I
turn to Willa and say, “Come on, let’s get out of here. Binks must be climbing the walls.”

  Disregarding Aidan’s pout, I link arms with Willa. Legs back to normal, I plod slowly anyway, half hoping he’ll catch up. Stop us. Sweep me into his arms as fireworks explode in the sky. Nauseating.

  Mounting the hill above the pool, I’m careful not to glance waterward. Last thing I need is another freaky visitation. I’d suggest we crash at Willa’s place instead, but her folks are hosting a bunch of relatives for the holiday, a major houseful. That’s partly why she was so psyched to sleep over in the first place.

  Approaching the driveway, I feel Aidan’s presence behind us. It takes every drop of determination I possess, plus Willa’s vise grip on my wrist, to face forward.

  At the park edge—the tiger lily border I call Binks’s sniffing station—I hear my name.

  Turning, I find Aidan a few yards away. Nic is with him. They both hold sparklers.

  As I stand, speechless, Willa storms across the driveway. Squeezing Nic’s arm, she drags him behind an oak. I should warn them about poison ivy, but I’m transfixed in Aidan’s gaze. He comes no closer, regarding me from asphalt’s edge.

  Genuflecting, head lowered, he’s balanced on one knee in the grass. Lifting his chin, he extends a hand toward me, and, barely perceptible, begins to stir the air, his sparkler trailing these fleeting shapes, almost too bright to look at.

  Scarcely aware of Binks’s barking, or of the hushed argument from behind the ancient tree, I recognize this as some half-assed attempt at grand romance, an iconic ’80s movie moment, Aidan’s Say Anything. Of course, he’d probably call it Say Everything. Frick, why do I find that so charming?

  I’ve resolved to shut him down, go inside, slam the door. But then it clicks. He’s spark writing. Unable to look away, I edge across the blacktop.

  Aidan’s arm sweeps and loops. Slowly, words take shape, sizzled into blackness: Teddi I need you. He swirls a final flourish, and briefly, this perfect heart hangs between us.

  As it wafts upward into smoke, a tear tracks Aidan’s cheek. Rising to his feet, he smiles, arms open to me. My own eyes pooling, I move toward him.