Creep

by Eireann Corrigan

  Ben had brought a baseball in the front pocket of his hoodie. It felt better in my hand; it fit right. I liked winding up my body and unleashing the ball into the darkness, seeing it arc toward Ben, and then hearing the satisfying thwack of the leather of the ball meeting the leather of the glove.

  “The fight I got into—it was over a girl,” he said, lobbing the ball to me. “Her name was Andrea.”

  Thwack. I caught that one cleanly, easily. Then I threw the ball to him silently, as if passing back my turn to talk.

  “We both enrolled in this conservation camp. This rich lady near us, some kind of heiress, died and they turned her whole estate into an environmental preserve. You signed up in the beginning of the fall and you cleared leaves and did some planting. We put up fencing and helped lay out the plans for footpaths. It was actually really cool.”

  The ball kept traveling back and forth. I didn’t say a whole lot but figured every catch I made proved to him I was listening. “Anyway we got to be friends. Lots of Saturday mornings working the same projects. She had this stupid transistor radio—do you know what that is?”

  “My dad has one in the garage.” I threw the ball back, hoping he noticed the beauty of my form.

  He did not. “Well, Andrea had this radio that clipped on to her belt. It looked ridiculous. Every time we went out, she had to put in new batteries—it was that old. It was a very Lloyd-Dobler-in-Say-Anything kind of accessory.”

  “That doesn’t seem very environmentally sound.” I shouldn’t have said it out loud. The ball traveled back to me fast enough to sting my palm beneath the glove.

  “It was cool. Because she didn’t care that it wasn’t. It got the worst stations. But she tried to dance to everything, no matter what came on. No matter what we were doing—raking, mulching—Andrea just bopped along.” He had stopped, just standing there with the ball in his hand, remembering. Then he raised his arm to throw. “Anyway, I noticed her.” The ball landed in my glove.

  “I’m sure you did.” I felt mean then and threw the ball hard.

  I wanted to hear this and I didn’t want to hear it at the same time.

  The baseball cracked into his mitt. Ben stood still for a moment before curling his arm to throw again.

  “So what happened?” I asked. “You came to my house. You want to tell me.”

  “I told her I loved her, okay?” He looked helplessly at me. “I had these big feelings.” He made the word sound like a disease. “So that demanded a big gesture, right?” I nodded. “So it was January and we were supposed to be there just checking on things. A little shoveling around the visitors’ center.”

  So far I didn’t see how the story ended in violence.

  He went on. “There was this fort. Just a platform in the trees, really, overlooking a field. All the teen volunteers went there on breaks, to hang out after completing our assignments. So I made sure to get there early and stomped really carefully down in the snowy field and then I texted her. I told her to go up in the fort, that I’d left a surprise there for her.”

  “What was the surprise?”

  “I’d spelled out Andi, I love you.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Well, we agreed I needed a big gesture.” But the ball came at me fast so I knew he felt a little embarrassed.

  “Well, that qualifies. She didn’t like it?” I tried to keep my voice neutral so that it didn’t sound as if I meant I cannot believe that moment didn’t define her existence and make her whole life worth living. Even though I sort of meant that.

  “It didn’t say that anymore when she saw it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Ben sighed and stared up at the night sky as if searching for answers. “I told my friend Clayton. And he told some of his friends. One of whom happened to have a thing for Andi. Anyway, this guy, Doug, waited there. And in between me writing the message and Andi getting there, he changed it.”

  “To what?”

  He blinked a few times. “Maybe that’s not important.”

  “Ben! How bad could it be?”

  “Imagine the filthiest thing you could say about a girl. Then make it about a million times worse.”

  “Okay. I get the picture.”

  “She saw it and flipped out. I told her that wasn’t what I’d written—but how could she believe me? Suddenly she was this girl stranded alone with a guy who’d written this awful message. She ran off, called her dad to pick her up—and her dad saw the writing too, and called the police.”

  “But how does writing something offensive count as assault?” I asked.

  “No. Assault is what happened when I found out who’d changed what I’d written. But then Doug’s mom lied and acted as his alibi. So it looked like I was both a sleazebag and a liar.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Yeah. You know the worst part? When I woke up that morning, I thought it was going to be this incredibly awesome day. I thought, Today my whole life is going to change.”

  I put my glove down. “Didn’t you explain to her what happened?”

  “She wouldn’t talk to me. It turned out Andi had always liked Doug, for one thing. And then she read that and … I don’t know. We had this meeting with the community service advisor—a conflict resolution session—and she said she felt betrayed. She said I had degraded her.”

  “Did you tell her what the original message said?”

  “Well, that’s beside the point.” Ben took out his phone and looked at the time. “We really should go back before the sun comes up and the power-walkers start their neighborhood laps.”

  “You never told her what the message really said, did you?”

  “It didn’t matter. She wanted Doug. Even with his newly broken nose. You understand now why Janie and Lucy get so angry? It embarrassed our whole family.” He held his hands up in surrender. “And listen—I freely admit to pummeling Doug Remo. But at least I’m pretty sure my sisters know I’m innocent of writing that message. My parents are a different story—they seem to think I’m capable of all kinds of terrible things.”

  “And it all goes on your permanent record?”

  “It’s on my record for two years actually. With good behavior, it gets expunged after that.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that she doesn’t know the truth?” I asked him.

  “I try not to think about it a lot. But I wanted you to understand. All that stuff you heard today.” We had slowed down, maybe deliberately. Part of me never wanted to go home but the other part was so tired. I wanted to sink into my bed under the covers and go back to thinking of Ben as just a cute guy with a quick line—not someone flawed and afraid. Sometimes it was easier to feel barely noticed.

  “I wasn’t judging. It worried me.” I clarified, “For you.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” Ben said. There were so many ways to interpret that sentence.

  I stopped. “My house.” I couldn’t very well just amble up the front walk.

  “Cut through the backyards and I’ll stay on the sidewalk. If anyone’s up, you went for a run.”

  I handed him back the glove I carried. “What’s your cover story?”

  “That I’m hoping to try out for baseball. Listen, I don’t need to tell you not to tell—”

  “No way.” I tried to stay in the moment, but my eyes kept darting around, half expecting my mom to come charging outside.

  “Do me a favor—when you get inside just flick a light on and off, so I know you’re in safely.”

  “Does your parole officer know you’re such a gentleman?”

  He acted like he had seen that one coming. “Okay now.” And then he nodded at my house as if to say, Go on.

  I moved fast because it was like tearing off a Band-Aid—moving away from Ben after all that time and closeness. I didn’t let myself look back longingly. Instead I kept myself focused on sneaking in unheard. Took off my shoes before stepping onto the wooden slats of the deck stairs, slid open the screen door, clicked of
f the TV, and climbed softly up the stairs. While I switched my bedroom light on and off, I thought of Ben keeping watch on the sidewalk below and remembered the letters and the reasons we all needed to be especially vigilant. I allowed myself one glimpse through my curtains and could barely make out Ben approaching his own home. He didn’t turn and look either.

  Maybe, right at that minute, I wasn’t the only one watching. If the Sentry had seen us creep around the dark and silent streets, did it still count as a secret?

  Whether they’d admit it or not, Mom and Dad had obviously coordinated with Aunt Jillian to keep me off Olcott Place for the next day, if not most of summer break’s last week. It began with my dad poking his head into my room way too early. “Aren’t you training?”

  I’d been asleep all of three hours. “I think I’m sick.”

  “You’ve got to stay consistent.”

  “Maybe the flu.”

  “You don’t look sick. How late did you stay up last night?”

  I covered my head with my pillow. “Dad, I have four days left.”

  He seemed genuinely confused. “Well, that’s exactly right. And if you sleep in too late, you’ll be running at the hottest time of day.”

  “I’ll run tonight.”

  “Jillian’s coming to pick you up.”

  I sat straight up in bed. “Since when?”

  “I don’t know.” He fiddled with the doorframe, as if examining it for flaws. Why did my dad always have to fix things? “She arranged it with your mom. She wants to take you school shopping.”

  “No one told me.”

  “I don’t know, Olivia. Your aunt, who loves you very much, wishes to spend some time with you.” And that is how I knew something was up: My father passed up a chance to express annoyance at Jillian. “Tell you what—go back to sleep for another hour. Go prop up the economy with your devoted aunt at ten. We’ll fit in a run at night.” He didn’t normally let me run after dark. I squinted at him, looking for the angle. “I’ll follow you in the car if I have to.”

  As soon as he shut the door, I burrowed back under my sheets and willed myself to sleep. But each time I closed my eyes, Ben materialized—all brooding and broken-spirited. I sat back up in bed. What the heck was that anyway? I checked my phone but I had no texts. All of a sudden a feeling of profound familial love swept over me. I needed a day without the Donahues. Especially because I wasn’t sure what, if anything, I could say to Janie about what had happened.

  Nothing actually happened, I reminded myself, right then as I rolled out of bed and then later in the passenger seat next to Jillian. She had the air on full blast and I had goose bumps on my arms as we passed 16 Olcott.

  “I’m glad we could do this,” Jillian said as we turned off our street. “Thanks for making time for me.”

  “Are you kidding? This is awesome.” I turned my head to face her. “I know Mom made you do it, though.”

  “Your mom doesn’t make me do anything. I wanted to spend the day with you.” Jillian kept her eyes on the road. “But yeah, the whole interviewed-by-the-police thing gave her an anxiety attack.”

  I laughed. “To her credit, she stayed really calm.”

  “Totally faking. You should have heard her on the phone with me. You would have thought that the Donahues had brought you with them to Guantanamo.” She looked at me. “It is a lot, though, Liv. You kind of have to give her a pass.”

  Outside my passenger seat window, the well-maintained lawns of Glennon Heights blurred by. I figured I might as well get everything out in the open. “Did she tell you about Mrs. Donahue and Mr. McGovern?”

  “Oh yes. She did pass along that tidbit of information.”

  “Is that okay?”

  “Well, it doesn’t sound like it was okay with Mr. Donahue. Listen—if the cops really had to pull him off Ned, then I don’t care what your mom says, I like that guy a little more than I did before.” I was relieved that it was sassy Aunt Jillian driving the car, grooving to bad eighties music and never using her blinker. I’d seen Mr. McGovern reduce her to a different Aunt Jillian, hollow-cheeked and red-eyed, and ensconced in our family room watching The Bachelor on demand.

  “I don’t know that the cops had to pull him off. I never told her that.”

  “Nope. I got that from Madeline Gorham, who still works as the receptionist at Harrington’s. She said the agency opened a file on Ned, because the Langsom house is such a premier property and Mr. Donahue raised such a ruckus about Ned’s attentiveness.”

  “I don’t think anything really happened between him and Mrs. Donahue.”

  She glanced at me, surprised. “Well, look at you. Maybe you are ready for high school, Olivia. You’re out of a booster seat and gossiping like a grown-up.”

  I don’t know if it’s from selling so many houses or just ardent consumerism but no one can cover square feet in a shopping mall like my aunt Jillian. My mom always tells her she has a good eye and it’s true. Jillian can sift through an entire rack of clothing and pick out the piece that I expect to look least flattering on me and then, when I actually go to try it on, it makes me look amazing. “Do you even recognize yourself?” she asked me as I stood in the dressing room. “It’s killer.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Jillian. Really.”

  “Well, we’re not done. You can’t just have one good outfit. That’s showing everyone your potential and then refusing to live up to it.”

  “I’ll just wear this every single day. They’ll call it my signature look.”

  “Yeah?” She grinned at me. “Who’s they?”

  “I don’t know. Whoever it is who rules high school.”

  We strode through the mall, carrying all our packages. I felt like the lady from Pretty Woman, only less hookerish. “Here’s the thing, sweets: You have to become the they. Judge the judgers, you know what I mean? Otherwise you’ll spend the rest of your life waiting for permission to be yourself. Let your pure spirit attract others. Confidence draws in confidants.” I love Aunt Jillian, but sometimes talking to her felt like downloading every self-help audiobook ever recorded. Still, somewhere in Northampton, that girl Andrea gardened with her transistor radio blaring beside her. That kind of confidence worked for her after all.

  It was only when we stopped for lunch at the Sip and Sandwich that I realized I had my aunt’s undivided attention. If I had enough confidence to ask, Jillian might be able to explain one of Miss Abbot’s more mysterious remarks.

  “I know Mom was friends with the Langsoms, but was Dad? Not as adults. But before, when you were all in high school.”

  Jillian looked me strangely. “Where is this coming from?”

  “Something someone said. About the Langsoms.”

  “We shouldn’t talk about it.”

  “What? Mom and Mrs. Langsom were friends, right? Was Dad friends with Dr. Langsom?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “So did Dad know Mrs. Langsom too?”

  Jillian couldn’t help herself. She snorted and said, “You could say that.” Then she realized she was talking to me, not my mom, and tried to take it back. “Don’t listen to me.”

  But it was out there. “Dad and Mrs. Langsom?” I asked. Aunt Jillian’s mouth dropped open. “I knew it.” And somehow I did.

  The antennae of our fellow coffee shop clientele practically buzzed. Jillian leaned forward, her voice low and cautionary. “Olivia, this is totally different from discussing who’s going together to the eighth-grade dance, or even Ned McGovern’s misdeeds. This involves your mom and dad and you have no idea how hurtful it all was way back then. Way back, because we’re talking years ago.”

  “Before or after I was born?” I don’t know why that felt important, but it was.

  Jillian glanced around furtively and our neighboring tables dutifully pretended not to listen. “It was before they got married. Listen, please trust me on this. You have to let this one go.” She pushed aside her coffee and started gathering bags. “We should head out.” And then she sp
oke more loudly. “I just love your vivid imagination.” She looked around to make sure people heard her and then stood up.

  We walked out together. Outside, in the mall, I asked, “If it happened so long ago, why was that necessary?”

  “Because it’s none of their business. Because this is Glennon Heights and sometimes the people we know and love so well act like jackals gnawing on the bones of our worst moments.” I knew Jillian wasn’t only talking about my parents then.

  “Are you mad at me?” I asked once Jillian and I had gotten back in her car.

  Seconds ticked by before she answered, “I just wish you’d consider what you’re stirring up and how little it matters now.” She reached over to wrap an arm around me. “I’m not mad. I’m mad at myself because I shouldn’t have told you anything.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I confirmed. But that’s all you get, Liv. Because really, it doesn’t count for anything now. Some people would argue that it didn’t count then. They both made a decision to work through it. Asking questions would really just hurt your mom. I know you don’t want that.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Here’s the thing about other people’s relationships: They count as their own planets with just the two of them as occupants. Your orbits might cross but you can’t really visit. You can’t ever fully know what’s going on.” She looked over at me. “I promise you, it’ll make more sense when you’re older.” She grimaced. “I hate saying that—it sounds so condescending, but maybe it’s hard to understand without actually logging in time in a relationship.”

  Aunt Jillian and I rode in the car quietly for a while. Then, right as she pulled onto our street, she told me again, “Olivia, you have to let this one go.”

  And I nodded, because what else could I do?

  After dinner, my dad and I got set to go for a night run.

  “Night run?” My mom did not sound thrilled. “Brad, do you think that’s a good idea? Given what’s going on?”

  “You mean with the Stalker?” Aunt Jillian asked.