The Precious Dreadful Page 9

  Just then, Willa stomps from behind the tree, Nic following her.

  “—not what I meant, baby!”

  “Just save it, Nic! And don’t try to baby yourself out of this one!”

  “Come on, Willa, if you’d give me a chance to—”

  She turns to me. “Can you believe these two, Teddi? Mister Perfect has Nicky brainwashed or some damn thing!”

  Trance broken, I turn attention to Willa as Aidan’s sparkler spits its last faint stars.

  “Wait, Willa. I don’t get it.”

  She steps between us. “Neither did I, but apparently—”

  Flinging his sparkler to the dirt, Aidan grinds the final glimmers with his heel.

  As he walks off, Willa yells after him. “That’s right, jackass, run away! You’ve caused enough trouble for one n—”

  “Can’t you ever just shut up?” Aidan towers over Willa, leaching ferocity.

  Nic’s jaw drops open like a busted mailbox.

  I freeze.

  Willa stands her ground as Aidan scowls down at her, fists clenching and unclenching. Then, rounding on Nic, she says, “Anything you want to say to this shithead?”

  He coughs twice, hard, but manages only, “Uh.”

  “Typical.”

  Cracking his knuckles, Nic scuffs the ground with one sandal.

  “Just go, Nicholas. I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”

  Apparently relieved to be granted a tomorrow, he slopes away.

  Shoulder to shoulder with me, Willa says, “So, that means it’s in your hands, Teddi.”

  “What is?”

  “My honor. You’re not going to let this maniac talk to me that way, are you?”

  Aidan makes no move to apologize, just looks from me to Willa with this stony expression. His nose wrinkles.

  I stammer, “Willa, I . . . I don’t think Aidan meant to . . . And . . . and you guys did sort of interrupt a special moment.”

  “Don’t even tell me you’re going to give him another chance.”

  “Wills, don’t do this.”

  “Do what? Make you choose between your best friend and Roid Rage? Pretty simple choice.”

  It actually takes me a moment. Two sets of steely eyes boring into me, I weigh a lifetime of friendship against a boatload of romantic potential. I’m about to speak, not quite sure how to phrase my answer, when Aidan shakes his head.

  “Skip it, Teddi. It’s not a competition, whatever Medusa says. We’ll figure it out another time.” Stepping forward, he brushes lips against my forehead. “I’ll call you.”

  Willa’s eyes bulge. The girl’s as fierce as Binks.

  Pushing his luck, Aidan addresses her. “Give Nic a break. He’s a good guy.”

  She shoots him a glare so withering, I’m amazed he doesn’t turn to stone. Then she grabs my arm and we head inside.

  14

  Willa sprawls on my bed, hair a giant inkblot on the pillow. Her talent for falling asleep regardless of circumstance generally makes her a lousy sleepover guest. Tonight, I’m relieved when she fizzles to a stop and commences snoring.

  She has reason to be tired after two hours of ranting. Aidan’s crime was persuading Nic to break up our sleepover. I was initially flattered he’d tried to get me alone. Couldn’t admit that to Willa, though. She was fixed on Aidan trying to “get rid of” her.

  The more she griped about his “plot,” the more I saw her point. After complete silence for two whole weeks, he shows up expecting . . . what, exactly? And he goes behind my back, gets Nic to help? Pretty sleazy, come to think of it.

  But, oh, that sparkler thing. Kind of brilliant.

  Anyway, I couldn’t let Willa see I was conflicted. Cripes, I practically had to make a blood oath I’d pick her over him. Girlfriend has serious attachment issues.

  My game of emotional Ping-Pong, coupled with repeated white lying to Willa, has me worn out. Splayed on my beanbag, I practice purging all Aidan thoughts. Lids closed, I breathe rhythmically, attempt to join Willa in dreamland. No luck.

  Frustrated, I gaze at the ceiling.

  Journal on my lap, the giraffe pencil rests atop splayed pages. Letting my vision melt into mid-distance, I inhale through my nose. Exhaling through my mouth, I begin to relax. Focused on the collage frame—I brought it up from the downstairs shelf—studying my school pictures, I move from grade eight backward.

  Beginning the task of traveling back to age seven, I write.

  They’re giggling. New Girl leads. I call her that because Corey and I only just met her—even if she acts like they’re best friends. Plus, she claims her name is Fawn, but I’ve never met anyone with that name, and everybody knows a fawn’s a baby deer, not a person. I’d have believed it if she’d told us her name was “Fox” or “Snake.” She has that sort of slippery menace.

  Ever since she came around—has it only been a week?—things are different. It’s all double-dares and you-scareds? We never play our games anymore. She’s trying to get my neck broken with her challenges—Bet you can’t jump from the top of the garage!—but it won’t work. I have sense. And strength. And Brenda says, “Enough will for three seven-year-olds.”

  Brenda’s my mom, but she lets me call her by her real name; sometimes she calls me “Little Sister.” She says I’m as stubborn as her, and that’s “major league stubborn.” And she tells me it’s no accident we’re named Alder, and that’s a tree. She says, even as a baby, if I made my mind up not to move, it was as if I’d put down roots.

  Speaking of roots, we’re playing this dumb game. Have been for the past four days. New Girl says the ground is acid, the only safe place for walking’s on the rocks and roots that slither across the path.

  It was a challenge, making our way around the pond without setting foot on grass or mud, but now I’m bored. Corey would play this stupid game forever, though. If she said so. He must be in love with her. Even shared his favorite sour apple candy, when I practically have to beg for one. Dummy.

  And she’s not so great. Sure, she’s older—almost eleven—and pretends to know stuff, but I’m always catching her in lies. Like she says she lives by herself in a tent in the woods, but that can’t be true. She’s just a kid, double digits or not.

  I followed her yesterday after Corey went home. Said she was going to ride the bus downtown, sneak into the movies. Corey and I never get to ride the bus on our own, and we sure wouldn’t risk sneaking in. You could end up in jail.

  I could tell he was impressed when she told her plans, even though he did his best to act all cool, pushing his chest out. Said he’d been sneaking into the movies since he was real little. He claimed he stole popcorn, too. Great lie. How could you steal popcorn, when they keep it behind the counter in that glass case?

  And she pretended to believe him, or else she’s just that stupid.

  Anyway, I tracked her, like one of our old missions, diving behind bushes, low to the ground. She cut through yards, and even though I felt funny, I trailed her, crouching in gardens, behind sheds and pool fences. She never did go near the bus stop.

  But she did head downtown. It got way harder to follow, once we left the neighborhood. There were fewer hiding places, and I had to be careful she didn’t see me. I slipped behind buildings and parked cars, even pretended to be part of a family crossing the street.

  I lost her for a few minutes, and when I spotted her again, I almost blew it. Came around the corner of this building, and she was sitting right in front of me. I was sure she saw me. Ducking back, I spied on her, but she just sat there.

  I figured she was resting. She certainly wasn’t anywhere near the movies on the stoop at Saint Anthony’s. I usually avoided that place. It’s not nice to say, but the people who hung around waiting to be fed creeped me out. And I didn’t like remembering when I was real little, and Brenda and I went there for supper.

  She said it was better taking handouts from strangers than from her parents, but I didn’t think so. I always gagged on shame as we lined up with
our Styrofoam plates. Some of the people seemed nice, but I never talked to anybody.

  ’Til the day I met Corey.

  He plunked down at the long table, right across from me, and said, “I’m Corey. I’m going to drive a FedEx truck when I get big. Let’s be best friends.”

  After that, we just were. Not sure whether our shared dadlessness helped bond us—I doubt we discussed it—but we did everything together. And seeing Corey made Saint Anthony’s someplace I almost looked forward to going.

  But this was different. No Corey. No Brenda. I was here to catch New Girl in one of her lies.

  From behind the bricks, I watched her as she sat. She didn’t seem interested in talking to anyone. Some people waved, some called to her. She wouldn’t offer more than a word or two, even though she seemed to know them.

  I felt jealous of how she could talk to anyone without being afraid. But I felt bad for her, too, acting so at home at the soup kitchen.

  After a while, this guy came and sat next to her, right up close. I got a bad feeling then. Something changed. It was the way she was sitting, shoulders folded in, knees up under her chin. When he slid closer, tried putting his arm around her, she scooted to stoop’s edge.

  He seemed not to care that he was bothering her. Worse, it looked like he enjoyed it. His lips spread to reveal a wedge of teeth, some splotched, lots missing, but his eyes—blue ice—never smiled. Rubbing the top of her head with one large palm, he fuzzed her hair into a nest of snarls.

  Then, snatching at the corduroy knapsack she always carried, he snapped it free of her shoulder, pawed inside. When she tried grabbing it back, he held it high above her, jiggling it, like teasing a dog.

  Leaping at his hand, she yelled, “Give it back!” but he just laughed, some of the others joining in.

  After a couple minutes, bored with pesking her, he bent low and said something in New Girl’s ear. I couldn’t hear, but she wasn’t happy, whatever he’d said. Her eyes flashed same as when I told her I was sick of playing everything her way.

  I knew I shouldn’t go closer or I might get caught, but I was frantic to hear. As he gripped her waist, talking right in her face, I took my chance. Inching nearer, I squatted alongside the mailbox by the stairs. If she turned, she’d see me for sure. But so what? She didn’t own the sidewalk. And if she got ashamed I’d seen her here, it would serve her right for telling her lies.

  Even with my eyes closed, I couldn’t have missed what happened next. The guy muttered something I couldn’t make out, and she yelled, “You can’t make me! You’re my brother, not my father!”

  So at least I’d learned one thing. New Girl was a liar, saying she lived by herself in the woods. She had a brother. Even though he looked nasty—grimy, wild haired, with that big, dirty smile—and bossed her around, I envied her for that.

  It was lonely sometimes having nobody but Brenda. And of course, Corey. But if New Girl stuck around, I was afraid I’d lose him. Seemed Corey liked her better.

  Grabbing her arm, New Girl’s brother hauled her from the stoop so fast her feet came right off the ground. I could almost feel the tug in my own armpit. If he yanked any harder, her arm might snap, rip free like a chicken wing.

  New Girl started yelling then, every kind of dirty word. Some of them I’d never even heard Brenda use, and she’d swear all crazy when she was mad. The worst part was no one in the lot seemed to care. A couple old guys actually started hooting. One yelled, “Show her who’s boss, Eli!”

  Giving New Girl a little shake, Eli winked and answered. “Oh, she knows I’m boss. You better believe, that’s the one thing my little Fawn knows.”

  Fawn. So, she’d been telling the truth about that.

  Knowing she’d told us her true name sort of made Fawn my real friend. Now I was anxious for her, wanted to do something to help. I figured if I stepped out from behind the mailbox and walked right up to her, her brother might let her alone.

  But I didn’t get the chance to find out. I took a few breaths for strength, and then it happened.

  Still laughing, Eli dragged Fawn over to this car alongside the building. Ugly, rotten-vegetable green, it was so dirty you could hardly see in the windows. Fawn quit fighting then; when he opened the back door—reaching in through the window—she hopped right in.

  Shaken by the car door slam in my head, I drop my pencil. The carved-wood shaft disappears beneath my bed in a wobbling roll. I hesitate before retrieving it.

  I’m on spongy turf here, the land of dreams and echoes. Eleanor claims emotional truth is what’s important, but does that mean I should believe whatever bubbles up from memory’s bog?

  I’m losing grip on the line between memory and fabrication, can’t quite get traction. My mind skidding, I picture my thoughts leaving streaks like . . .

  “Muddy flip-flops on the kitchen floor.”

  It barely registers that I’ve said that aloud. Sliding from the bean chair, I belly-crawl halfway beneath the bed. Spitting dust, I shove aside a Lego-stuffed shopping bag and reach toward my pencil.

  Edging onto the bed, careful not to wake Willa, I prop pillows behind my back and open the book again, pressing lead point to page.

  I begin writing, the words seeming to form within my hand, rather than my brain. I hardly look at the pencil as it scratches.

  “Mama.”

  She nearly drops the heavy glass, amber liquid drenching the kitchen table. Standing, she lunges at me across the speckled tiles, forehead scrunched. She always starts angry, furious right off, when I get hurt. Skinned elbows earn a spanking, so as she comes closer, I back away.

  “Teddi, stop!” Her shrill voice makes me wince.

  Head down, I see my sandals have mucked the tiles—a crazy hopscotch path painted in mud. Crawling the floor, I swipe with my palms, but as I smear the mud, the color darkens from brown to maroon. Lifting my hands palms-up, I frown at the biting scent of blood.

  Mama lifts me, whispers, “All right. All right.”

  I don’t resist as she strips my clothes, checks me all over. Carrying me through the living room, she lowers me into the empty tub. When she blasts the shower, I shrink into the far corner, where the spray can’t catch me. Mama plugs the drain with the rubber cork thing. Concentrating on the shower curtain, I memorize rows of ocean fish.

  Steam clouds surround us, bubble-gum smell rising as she scrubs my hair. Mama’s hands come up redder each time she plunges them beneath the suds. Water so hot I want to scream.

  Water so hot, scared I might melt.

  Water so hot . . .

  Why can’t I stop shivering?

  Mama lifts me from the tub, wraps me in her soft, white robe, carries me to the couch. Kissing my forehead, she says, “All right, baby. No one can hurt you now.”

  She pours liquid from the tall bottle into my giraffe mug, stirs in Splenda, makes me sip. Bitter . . .

  I sleep.

  Why isn’t she here? Freaking Vermont of all places! She warned me there’d be no cell reception, said she’d check in tomorrow from a pay phone at the general store. What is she in, some time-warp colonial village?

  I need her now. Need to ask her what happened. Who she was talking about. Did someone hurt me? Can’t remember. When I approach the pond, I hit a cinder block wall. Memory slips from my grasp, a balloon string in the wind. A snake’s tail through dark water.

  I see Fawn and Corey, smell that chemical stink in the air. Not the usual swampy smell. There’s a scream and I’m—

  Running.

  Branches whip me. The journey is gone.

  The next solid thing, those sandal smears on the kitchen floor, shivering in the tub. The bath-scrubber against my skin. Choky brown liquid, bitter even with sweetener.

  Then . . . nothing.

  One other person might hold a clue to what happened, but we haven’t spoken in almost nine years. I have to find Corey, because I’m certain of one thing.

  Something terrible happened at the pond. Fawn never came back. And m
y memory of after is foggy as the bathroom when Mama soaked me in the tub.

  Retrieving my laptop from the bedside table, I power on. My screen winks, the new screensaver—a stand of alder trees—sheds a pale glow across my bedspread.

  Opening a browser, I log into my friend site, and tap search.

  When I type the name Corey Boatwright, thumbnails cascade down the left column. I study them one by one, hoping to catch an echo, the now version of Corey’s childhood grin.

  A few faces are possibles, though none strike a gut chord. I spot one potential Corey, from Alpharetta, Georgia. Something about the tilt of his head, the sparking eyes, calls to me. I click the thumbnail, his info displays. No match. He’s ten years older than my Corey; plus, he’s a winter baby. Corey’s a Leo, same as me.

  Moving on, some are girl Coreys, some are white. I rule them out, doubt he’s changed that radically.

  I spend twenty minutes scrutinizing faces, but none of the details match. There must be a faster, surer way.

  Clicking to that Peopleseek site, I rifle my mental storage box, retrieve a pair of names, Corey’s mom, his older brother.

  Her name was Adele, same as the singer. There’s a listing in Framingham, Massachusetts, for an Adele (Boatwright) Kingston. She’d be the right age. It’s possible Corey’s mom got married.

  Below her name, another entry: Micah, age 19–24, same address. Has to be them, but there’s no mention of Corey. I doubt she’d remember me, but Micah would. He used to tease Corey and me constantly.

  When I click more info, a number displays. I’m tempted to call, but it’s way past midnight. Switching back to the friend site, I type Micah Boatwright Framingham MA in the search box.

  Jackpot: a photo. Older, obviously—goatee and glasses—but I’d recognize Micah anywhere, his grin the big-bro version of Corey’s. Even with his page set to private, I see he’s remained a Red Sox fan. His wall’s plastered with their logo; in his thumbnail, he wears a Sox jacket.

  I can’t view his info, but there’s nothing to stop me from messaging him.

  Stomach souring, I stiffen, fingers stalled above the keyboard. Willa stirs beside me, and for a second I debate waking her. I mean, we share everything. She’s the closest thing I’ve got to family. No offense to Brenda, who’s barely more emotionally present when she’s here than she is now, a couple states away.