by Kaitlin Ward
The front door bursts open, and Mom emerges from the house. She looks totally frazzled. “Amelia, thank God. Come help me.”
I don’t move. “With what?”
“I’m making decorations for the party next week, and I’m in way over my head. Help.”
“This does not sound like what I want to do with my Sunday afternoon.” As I’m saying it, though, I’m already getting up. My knee crackles like an elderly person’s. “Why can’t Dad help you?”
“Dad’s pricing winter tires so he and all his drivers won’t die this winter.”
I follow her indoors. Spending thousands of dollars on winter tires for all his trucks is probably less fun than helping Mom with whatever insane ideas she found on Pinterest for their annual adults-only Halloween party. Though at least Dad’s invited to the party.
Our living room and kitchen are both impressive disasters considering that I’ve been outside for only a couple of hours. Half-filled fake blood bags and half-empty bottles of juice sit on the counter. There are balloons encased in thick string all over the barstools (and floor). Empty toilet paper rolls on the table, inexplicably. Pallets on the living room floor. Fake spiders spilling all over the couch. Bottles of paint. Bins of Halloween decorations. Fake spiderwebs. Newspaper. Unused balloons. Candy.
“Did a Halloween store throw up in here?” I ask.
“Don’t start. I need you to very carefully pop all those balloons and then hot glue some of these spiders onto the outside. Like this.” She shows me a picture of a pretty string lantern on her phone. “They’re going on the porch, and I’m going to put glow lights in them.”
“Okay …” I pick up one of the balloons and just … stare at it for a long moment. “Mom, how, exactly, are you expecting me to do this with one functional hand?”
“Oh. Right.” She frowns thoughtfully. “Well, instead, maybe you could start emptying out the Halloween bins? And help me pin up some of the decorations.”
This feels much more doable, so I start in. We work quietly, me emptying the bins and Mom piping juice and alcohol into the rest of the fake blood bags. I’ve been waiting to be alone with her, and since Hunter’s off who knows where again today, now’s my chance. But the problem is, I don’t exactly know what to say.
“Hey, Mom?” I start, then hesitate. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.” She peels a blood-type sticker off a sheet and presses it onto one of the blood bags.
“Well, I just … The other day at school, I heard someone in the bathroom speculating that Maria Lugen might have … that she died on purpose. Like, you know … jumped.”
Mom frowns. The next sticker goes on much less gently. “I guess I’m not surprised. People always do that, don’t they? Form reckless conclusions and then start rumors without thinking about the impact of what they’re saying.”
“Yeah, it’s not great. But it made me wonder … I hadn’t really thought …” I pull a glow-in-the-dark cat out of the bin and hold it to my chest. “When I had my accident, did you think that I … ?”
I don’t know why I can’t say it. Why the word suicide snags in my throat.
Mom puts down the page of stickers and comes closer. “It crossed my mind, because how could it not? But I didn’t really ever think that, no.”
“It was Clarissa,” I say, blinking back tears. “She’s the one who was talking about Maria in the bathroom at school. And before I came out of the stall, she said the same thing about me.”
Mom takes the glow-in-the-dark cat from my arms, and then she hugs me tight. “That must have been really hard to hear.”
I nod into her shoulder, still trying to hold back tears because I don’t even know what I’m so emotional about. “I hated the way they were talking about it, like it was so interesting. Like Maria wasn’t even a real person, and just like … fascinated at the idea of someone committing suicide without thinking about what that really means.”
Mom hugs me tighter, and she doesn’t say anything else.
None of us noticed it really, when Hunter first started showing signs of depression. It was small stuff like moodiness and lethargy, and my parents chalked it up to puberty, while I was too young to understand the intricacies of mental health. But one day shortly after my twelfth birthday, Hunter asked me if I ever felt like being alive was just too much work, and although I didn’t know exactly what, I knew at once that something was wrong. I told Mom, who called Dad, who came home immediately, and Hunter went to therapy for the first time the very next day.
He was furious with me for two weeks, but after that, he told me I’d saved him. It’s probably part of why we continue to be not just siblings but also friends. We trust each other, rely on each other. My stomach twists as I think of Hunter’s name on my Suspicious People list.
For the first time in our entire lives, I cannot trust my brother.
“If I could shield you from all the crappy things people will say about you in your life, I would,” Mom tells me. “But unfortunately there will always be Clarissas in this world, and you’re still going to be navigating stuff like that even when you’re my age. But what she thinks isn’t what matters. Your dad and I know this was just a terrible accident, and if we thought anything else, we would already have taken steps to protect you. I hope you know that.”
“I do.” I smile at her. “I really do, Mom.”
“Good.” She ruffles my hair. “I’m glad we had this talk. You’ve been a little closed off, you know.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s all been a lot.”
“I’m sure it has. And you’ve been handling it admirably.” She goes back to her work with the fake blood bags, and I return to emptying the Halloween bins.
It’s nice that she thinks I’m handling things admirably, but I’m not sure that’s true. In fact, I know it isn’t. Here I am, fixating on finding out the truth about what happened to me at the expense of my relationships and my trust and everything good about my life.
Guilt needles me. Whether it was clumsiness or something more sinister, I almost died. And as awful as that feels on my end, I was unconscious when I was found. My death, had it happened, would have been so easy and peaceful. I would have floated off to whatever comes next without any pain or suffering to speak of. But the suffering I would have left in my wake is immeasurable. I’ve been pretty wrapped up in my own thoughts about all this, and I haven’t stopped to think—really think—how my parents must feel. It’s one of those universal truths that parents are supposed to die before their children, and when the opposite happens, it’s devastating. They shouldn’t have been forced to face my mortality yet, and they were. They still are; my cast and my dizzy spells and all the rest of it are constant reminders of what happened.
I should make things easier on them, and on Hunter and on myself. I should stop trying to solve an unsolvable mystery and I should move forward with my life. I should just let it go, as the mystery text instructed.
Unfortunately, all that’s much easier said than done.
I know the Liam crush situation is getting more serious because when I head to my free period on Tuesday, nerves and excitement spark in my stomach. There’s an interesting-looking moth on the door of the library when I arrive, and usually I’d stop here and take pictures of it and try to figure out what kind it is. But today all I can think about is seeing Liam and telling him about the text message from Saturday.
He’s not here.
My heart sinks, and I feel dumb. He never promised we would spend every free period together, and he doesn’t owe me anything. It’s my own fault I feel let down.
I slump into one of the faux leather chairs near the front of the library and pout. Honestly can I not have one thing go my way?
The universe rewards pouting, apparently, because about thirty seconds later, Liam shows up. He spots me immediately, and a smile lights his face. There’s something truly exhilarating about knowing someone’s excited to see you when you’re also excited to se
e them.
He beelines straight for me, sits in the chair next to mine, and sets his backpack on the floor at his feet.
“You look like you have something to tell me,” he says. He’s leaned into the corner of the chair, body angled toward mine, arm resting on the back of the seat.
“I might.” I clutch my notebook tight for a second, but then I spill the whole story about the text message and the burner phone with a Nebraska area code. “So I didn’t learn anything. But I did get to at least, like, do something.”
“Finding your calling?” He grins at me, and I don’t like that I can’t tell if he’s being real or teasing.
“Yeah, no. I’ll stick to studying bugs. Their actions always make sense, you know? People are totally unpredictable and illogical, and I don’t think I’d want a career where you have to delve deep into the ones that are even more unpredictable than average.”
He chuckles at that. “I’m with you there. People are a disaster.”
His weight shifts and his knee touches mine. I hold very still, like a spooked deer.
“I guess I did learn one thing, though,” I say. “I learned that someone definitely did try to hurt me. No one would have sent me that text if not.”
Such a simple statement, but I hope he can’t tell how terrified it makes me to admit it. Part of me still thinks this is all in my head, an elaborate scam my concussed brain has schemed up. But the evidence that I should trust my instincts sure is piling up.
Liam frowns. “Are you afraid?”
Such a simple question, and the obvious answer—yes—slips to the edge of my tongue, but it stops there. “Sometimes.” That’s the honest answer. “I think— It’s really hard to be scared all the time. Holding on to fear is just … it’s exhausting, and it’s hard to do when there’s not an active threat. What I feel is more just this constant awareness of my own mortality, and a paranoia about every single person around me. That probably doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it does.” He adjusts the angle of the backpack at his feet. “Have you ruled anyone out yet?”
I shake my head. “Only the people who weren’t on there to begin with. And, I mean, they’re only ruled out until they make me change my mind.”
“Ruthless.”
“I can be.” I grin at him. “You’ve been warned.”
“I will beware of getting on your bad side.” He pauses. “Or your suspicious list.”
I curl my fingers tighter around the notebook, instinctively. I’m sure he’s dying of curiosity as I would be, but I cannot show him this list. I don’t want him to see the names of my brother and best friend and wonder how truly untrusting I am.
“Don’t you worry about my list,” I say lightly. “It takes some work to get on there. You have to give me a good reason to mistrust you.”
“That’s pretty much the opposite of everything in my plans,” he says, and my fingertips tingle with nerves.
After that, the conversation moves away from my notebook and my suspicious people, and it’s just kind of flirty. I’ve never had a free period go by so fast, and when he leaves for his Spanish class, I wish I could go with him.
I start to pack up my notebook, and I think about the list of names on its first page. Determination pits in my chest. I shove it into my bag and pull out my phone.
I need to see u, I text Sky. Then, I have to know what’s up. If somethings changed in our friendship then ok but you’ve gotta let me in on it. I need it all out in the open. Tell me whatever it is. I don’t even care, I just want to know. Please.
It is the most desperate and pathetic text I’ve ever sent, but it’s honest. She doesn’t reply right away, and it stresses me out even though I know she’s in class. I stay in the library an extra five minutes after I should have left for my next class, and still nothing. Will I have to have a confrontation with her in the car on the way home? I extremely hope not.
Finally, just as I slip into my desk—the last person to enter the classroom—my screen lights up. Class is starting, but I risk a glance anyway.
Ur right we should talk. Take ur atv up to the screen tonight??
I text back a simple ok, but my heart is in my throat. So there is something. The thought of going to the screen alone with her actually terrifies me. Not knowing what she’s going to say, and this nagging worry that’s been plaguing me with her for months, going alone to the screen—on top of the mountain, poised nicely on a ledge—seems like a bad, bad idea.
But I’m going to do it anyway, because I’m desperate and I need to know where I stand with my best friend.
I want Sky off my list, and it’ll happen tonight.
One way or another.
“I don’t know how I feel about this,” Mom says, holding the key to our RZR tight in her fist.
Dad’s sitting on the couch pretending to have no interest, because I asked him first, hoping for an easier yes, and he said, “Ask your mother.”
He’s not usually home midweek, but one of his drivers had faulty actuator wiring, so he swapped trucks, and he’s stubbornly fixing the broken one himself in his shop. He was out there when I got home, swearing quite creatively at the vehicle, but he followed me in after I asked about the ATV. He’s curious what Mom will say, I think.
“You know I’ll be careful,” I plead. “I’m always careful.”
Mom’s lips purse, and I know she’s thinking, Well, except that one time.
“Fine,” she says. “I can tell by your father’s complete silence that he thinks I should let you go, so …”
“I would have said yes to it,” says Dad, finally glancing over the back of the couch at Mom. “But to be fair, I say yes to everything.”
I can tell Mom wants to make a gross joke in response to that, and I’m so glad she restrains herself.
“Skylar has to drive. You’re still not cleared. And tell her to be very careful,” she says, pressing the key into my palm but not letting it go yet. “And don’t go on any of the steep paths; stick to the gentler ones. Do not go to the screen, it’s too— I don’t need you near any ledges. It’s starting to get dark earlier now, remember.”
“I remember.” I close my fist around the key. “And I will let Sky drive.”
* * *
We go to the screen.
Technically, I never promised not to, and Mom should be glad this is as rebellious as it gets for me.
The screen is exactly what it sounds like: a huge white screen. It’s not that different from the ones you see at a drive-in. It’s all metal, and to be honest, I have no clue what it’s for because I’ve never asked. It just sits here on top of the mountain, covered in graffiti that you can’t see looking at the mountain from afar but can see all too well up close. It’s reachable via a rocky trail you can traverse with an ATV—or by hiking, if you’re feeling ambitious.
People have been coming up here for a long, long time, for all sorts of reasons. I like it here for the same reason I like—liked—walking out behind the dam: the view. My house, my road, the Connecticut River, and Vermont’s mountains all sprawl before me in full autumn splendor. It’s almost more beautiful in the fading golden light of dusk than during the day. Looking down at the world below makes me feel so peaceful. My hometown has always felt like a haven to me. It isn’t perfect, of course. Some of us could stand to get out of here once in a while and meet other people who aren’t exactly like us, and small-town gossip can get pretty brutal. But it has always felt so safe. A lot of people don’t even lock their doors still, or don’t even have locks.
I don’t feel safe anymore, and I hate that that feeling was taken from me. I still don’t trust my instincts, but even if I’m wrong about what happened to me, I still lost that sense of security. Maybe it was naive to hang on to that feeling for so long, to think I was untouchable by anything bad in this world because I live in a small town, because I know full well that’s not true. And maybe it’s good for me to let go of that innocence, to peel back the glamour from my world
and see it for what it truly is, both the good and the ugly.
Sky doesn’t like sitting on the ground because ants creep her out, so while I sit on a rock with my knees pulled to my chest, she leans against one leg of the screen. I let an ant roam onto my finger and watch it scurry over my skin with its quick legs and its constantly roving antennae.
“What if it bites you?” Sky says.
“It won’t.”
“You are such a weird, brave person.” She sighs.
“Am I?” I lower my arm back to the rock and watch the confused ant scurry gratefully back to more familiar terrain. “Brave, I mean?”
“I wouldn’t hold an ant, or a spider, or any bug at all for that matter.”
“I’ve just never really thought about it, you know? Whether I’m brave or I’m not or whether it even matters.”
“I guess bravery is in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it?” Sky comes and sits tentatively beside me on the rock, like she’s proving herself brave. “Like, I’m afraid of bugs, so I think it’s really brave that they don’t even bother you. But I’m not afraid of snakes, so when someone picks one up, I’m like, who even cares?”
“I think it’s probably just about doing things that scare you, no matter what those things are. And I don’t know. I just don’t know if I’m brave or not. Sometimes I am, I guess.”
“Same.” Sky inhales deeply, shakily. I can practically feel her vibrating with nerves. “And on that note … it’s time for me to tell you … the thing I have to tell you.”