“Well, I think you look just great,” he says in an overenthusiastic voice. “Beautiful! It shows off your face, honey.” Then he pats my back.
“Mom went a little crazy with the scissors, today,” I snap. “You should ask her about that.”
I drop the knife on the counter (clang!) and throw the potatoes into a steel bowl and send it skidding down the counter toward my mother.
Without a word, she bangs out the door, into the little side yard filled with herbs growing in pots. “I'm getting some oregano,” she says over her shoulder. This is code for my father to follow her, so they can talk privately. This I know because steak guisado does not have oregano.
I can hear her voice going up, going down, going up, going down. Oh Marty, you don't know what she's put me through...I just don't understand...so dramatic!
Dinner is awkward. I refuse to look at my mother and halfway through the meal she starts dabbing her eyes with a napkin. My dad reaches over and squeezes her hand. As I sit there, watching this little display, she shoots me one of her, see, at least somebody loves me looks.
When my dad asks me for an update on Monica Goodman, the memory of that awful photo Chloe had taken pops into my head. The steak suddenly tastes greasy, and it's all I can do to swallow. Bile rises in my throat. For an awful moment, I think I am going to throw up.
I'm getting to my feet when my mother says, “Oh, and Samantha. I signed you up for a good deed tonight. Camille has a little boy and she was desperate for a babysitter since hers canceled at the last minute. I said you'd be happy to do it. They're dropping him off in about half an hour.”
I stare at her. This is unbelievable, even for my mother. “Are you kidding?”
She shakes her head and her eyes widen, the picture of innocence. “No. You aren’t busy. Why not help our new neighbor? It's a nice thing to do.”
“Mom! You should have asked me first. If it's so nice, why don't you babysit him? And besides, I am busy. I have plans. I promised Destiny we'd hang out tonight. At her house.”
My mother crosses her arms in front of her chest. “That's a lie and you know it. Vanessa told me. Alfie said there's a party tonight and that you were both going.”
My dad is looking at us both, rubbing the back of his neck.
My mouth opens, then closes. Damn Alfie! He tells his mother everything. I should have known. I should have warned him. Asked him to lie or something.
All the fight goes out of my body. Whoosh. It's no use. It's no use fighting against her.
Chapter 10
There is no way my mother is going to let me go out tonight. And if she finds out what kind of party it is, she will lock me in my room. It’s a memorial party for Monica Goodman in a vacant warehouse in the industrial area of Hillside in the flats. With alcohol.
Later, when my mother isn't looking, my dad places his two hands on either side of my face and kisses my forehead. “She's just worried about you, mija,” he says. “You're all she has.”
I nod, but my chest tightens. It is not my fault I am an only child. It is not my fault she worries over everything.
I text Alfie the situation. Resist, chickenshit! is his reply. Madison's just about as sympathetic. That's bullshit. Just go. From Chloe I get, Oh no! I'm not going either! Photos aren't uploading to Clarion CMS so working on that. This makes me feel guilty because I have no business wanting to go to a party. I should be working on my story. Destiny's response is a bunch of sad faced emojis.
Soon enough the doorbell rings and Camille is standing in our family room, looking like a goddess in a red strapless dress. Her little boy is clinging to her hand and when she introduces Mitchell, he shakes his head and stares down at the floor. Not good. Not only do I not get to go to a party, I'm stuck babysitting one of those kids who flip out the second mommy leaves.
My mother starts talking to him in the same high voice she uses on babies and this only makes things worse. Mitchell hides behind his mom. Even my father gives it a try. He brings out a soccer ball and tries to tempt Mitchell into the backyard for a little game. Now Mitchell just looks terrified. Camille smiles. “He's not sporty, this one,” she says, squeezing his shoulder.
Mitchell is small and thin. He is six, but he looks five. And he's cute, with enormous dark eyes and long lashes. Then I have an idea. I race to my bedroom, rummage around in my closet, and return with a pillowcase filled with Beanie Babies I'd inherited from a cousin. I dump them out on the floor in front of the big window that overlooks the hilly backyard and the creek below.
“These Beanies are out of control,” I say to no one in particular. “They need some organizing.” Then I pick up a couple of birds—a pink flamingo, a blue robin, a white swan—and begin lining them up.
Mitchell inches out from behind his mother. "Want to help?" I say casually, holding out my hand.
And he comes, his eyes serious. He drops to the floor and sits cross legged next to me. Then he looks longingly at the enormous pile of little stuffed animals. “Maybe start with the dogs?” I say. “There's so many of them.”
“That one's a Husky,” he says pointing at a gray and white Beanie Baby. Mitchell has a surprisingly husky voice for a little kid. “And that one's a Dalmatian. And this one is a Cocker Spaniel.”
“Wow! You really know your dogs! Do you have one?”
Mitchell smiles shyly. “I do. But he’s at my auntie's house because we're moving. He's a Weimaraner. That means he's all gray. His name is Buddy.”
“You're lucky. I'm not allowed to have a dog,” I say, shooting a look at my mother, dog hater and crusher of dreams.
“That's sad,” Mitchell replies, scooting closer to me.
Camille kisses Mitchell goodbye and rushes off. I wave off my parents. They smile, a little sheepishly, and disappear. It's me and Mitchell for the rest of the evening. Not exactly what I had in mind, but he’s so excited about our project that it’s actually fun.
By the end of the first hour, we've sorted the Beanies by type. Cats, fish, monkeys, birds, reptiles. This includes talking through the problem of how to deal with Humphrey the Camel (new row for animals with hooves) and Digger the Clam (“he's not a fish!”). When we reach the second hour, Mitchell leaps up and announces we need to organize them by color, so we do that. I'll do anything as long as he doesn't start crying. And he doesn't.
By the end of the second hour, we're eating popcorn and watching The Land Before Time. By the time Sharptooth attacks Littlefoot's mother, Mitchell is sitting on my lap. And there he sits until the end of the movie.
It's almost nine, so I grab some pillows, blankets and a comforter from the guest room and create a nest on the floor. He's never seen one of these before, so he dives right in and burrows down. But not before he digs out a book from his backpack and hands it to me. I'm in luck. It's Half Magic by Edward Eager, my favorite book when I was a kid. When I hit the second chapter, “What Happened to Their Mother,” Mitchell falls asleep. And I suddenly feel utterly and completely alone. Alone with my dark, ugly thoughts. Alone with my worries. Alone with my memory of that nasty, horrible picture Chloe had taken of what was left of Monica Goodman.
Still, it's been a nice evening. It's probably the first time in a while that I've been able to relax. I'm not sorry I didn't go to the party. The party where everybody is crying, freaking out, throwing up. That's according to Destiny's updates.
I snuggle next to Mitchell and pick up Half Magic again and begin reading, this time just for me.
The next thing I know my father is shaking me awake and when I sit up, dazed, and groggy, a tall guy is looming over me. He is way too young to be Mitchell's father. About my age. And while I am still half asleep, I can see that he's cute. Really cute.
As this sinks in, so does the realization that the side of my face feels wet. Which means I've been drooling. I could kill my dad for letting the guy walk in without warning me first.
“This is Mitchell's big brother,” my dad says brightly. “Daniel, right? You sai
d your name is Daniel?”
Now this is a surprise. No one mentioned a big brother. No one mentioned a big brother might pick up his little brother. Because if I had known that, I would not have changed into my baggy-assed sweats. I would not have passed out in a nest clutching a kid’s book surrounded by dozens of Beanie Babies.
Daniel grins down at me. “My folks are running late, so since I got home before they did, they asked me to pick him up.” Daniel pauses to look around the family room, which is totally wrecked. “Looks like you guys partied hard,” he adds.
If I could pull a blanket over my head, I'd do it, because my face is all tight and hot with embarrassment. Daniel crouches next to Mitchell, frowning, like he's debating whether to wake him up. I quickly wipe the drool off my face with the back of my hand.
“Samantha had a great time, didn't you, Sam?” my father says. “Gave her an excuse to play with her old Beanie Babies.”
At this, I want to scream. Throw a pillow at my dad. Grab the ceramic Mexican howling dog from the corner of the room and crack it against his ankles to shut him up.
Daniel's mouth twitches. He scoops up Mitchell, who grunts at being moved. I scramble up and shove Half Magic into the backpack, along with a Beanie Baby. “In case he wakes up,” I mumble, hitching up my sweats. “It's Baylee. He liked that one the best.”
Then Daniel pauses, looks at me thoughtfully and gives a short dry, laugh. “You saved me, neighbor,” he says, slinging Mitchell over his shoulder. “If you hadn't been able to babysit, I was going to have to cancel my plans. I owe you one.” He holds out a hand for the backpack and I give it to him. And then they're gone.
Chapter 11
It's a struggle to get all the stories together for The Clarion.
The editorial meeting is at my house. We’re camped out in the family room. Most everyone who went to the party the night before is still hung over.
Destiny looks like crap. She comes in, lays down on the couch and closes her eyes. Then she disappears into the bathroom. When I check on her, I ask her how much she drank. But she shakes her head.
“I didn’t. Hardly anything. Chloe showed up late and got shitfaced and I spent the rest of the night trying to make sure she didn’t tell anybody about the picture she took. Or any of the other stuff she said.”
“Do you believe her?” I ask. “What she said about the presence in the bathroom?”
“Can we please not talk about this again?” she says as she brushes past me.
Chloe is on her second bottle of sparkling water. Her head snaps up when Alfie bursts in the door. He’s carrying boxes of pizza. Everyone cheers.
“I've got a new lead story!” Alfie says. He’s wearing a vintage Earth, Wind and Fire T-shirt. Then he takes out his laptop and begins typing, pushing me away when I try to look over his shoulder.
Chloe has fixed whatever was wrong with the website and is working on the front-page layout. Destiny has pulled herself together and asks me to read her article about international news coverage of the girls’ deaths.
“It's really good!” I say, and I mean it.
I’m about to say more when I notice Mary McKissick. She's sitting off by herself in my dad’s favorite chair by the window. Her laptop is open, but she's not getting any work done. She's shaking her head and patting an ear and every few seconds, looks over her shoulder like she expects someone to be standing there. I cross the room to see what's going on. When I walk up, her eyes are glazed and she's mumbling something under her breath. I can't quite catch what it is.
“Hey, Mary,” I say.
She reacts as if I'd screamed in her face. Her shoulders jerk violently. Her response is so extreme, so unexpected, that I jump. My sudden movement snaps her out of her little trance. Then she's looking at me with newly focused eyes, but when she speaks, she sounds confused, like she's just woken up.
“Oh, hey,” she says vaguely.
“What's going on?”
Her blue eyes widen, like I'd asked her a trick question. “Nothing,” she finally says, her eyes darting from side to side. She's playing with a silver ring on her hand. One of those Celtic knot designs. She rubs the side of her head. “I just have a headache, that's all. Want to read my story? I'm almost done.”
I get her some ibuprofen and a glass of water. Then give her story a read. She takes something complicated, spontaneous combustion, and explains it in a way that anyone can understand. Then she goes on to explain how a human might ignite without any apparent reason. Something, like a cigarette or a spark, acts as a wick. And then, what makes the whole thing seem so mysterious, whatever started the fire is destroyed by it. It’s well-written. Fascinating. And scary.
“Good to go, Mary, just let me see that final graph when you're done, okay?”
Mary doesn't respond. She's looking out the window, at the creek below, a vacant expression on her face.
Raj comes over, carrying a plate with a slice of pizza. He stands there awkwardly, clearing his throat, until she finally notices him. Her face lights up with a shy smile.
“Mary's got a future as a science writer,” I say to Raj.
Mary turns her smile on me. “I'd love that. Writing about melting glaciers, black holes,” she says wistfully.
Raj sets the plate down on an end table next to Mary, hands her a napkin, then turns to me. “I'm almost done with my piece. The lead needs punching up, though.”
But it's Alfie who has the big story.
He’s found out that some girls are not just staying home because they're too scared to come to school. Girls are being sent away. By their parents. To stay with family. To other schools. Far from Hillside. Some families have had enough and are trying to sell their homes. Alfie has it all nailed down, confirmed, complete with killer quotes and first and last names. No anonymous sources. All on the record stuff.
I sit there feeling resentful, trying to keep the sourness that is rising from somewhere deep off my face, which feels frozen.
When I look over at Destiny, she’s staring at Mary McKissick as if she’s never seen her before.
Chapter 12
It's eight o'clock when Chloe finally hits “publish.” Then we get to work sharing our stories on social media. By nine o'clock, everyone has gone home and our posts are taking off. Especially Alfie's article, “Frightened parents take drastic action.” The headline is my contribution and I feel a little thrill to see it doing so well.
Chloe texts, saying the website numbers are the biggest we've ever had.
At eleven o'clock, Chloe calls, panicked. The website is down.
“What's wrong with it?” I set my toothbrush down and head back to my bedroom where my computer is.
“It's a 404! The site's down.”
“Oh my god, now? Really? Is it overloaded? Did we crash the server?”
Chloe sighs. I can imagine her running her hands through her long, black hair, staring down at her computer. “No. No way. Not possible. It's like someone deliberately took the site down.”
Alfie begins texting. When I don’t answer immediately, he calls. I jump off and pick up his call. “I know,” I say. “I was just on with Chloe. The website is down.”
“Yeah, it's down. Because Nutskin took it down.”
“What the hell? Are you kidding?”
“No. I’m not. He's lost it. Totally, completely lost his shit. He called and I could hardly even understand what he was saying because he was screaming so loud. He says all the stories are negative and damaging so he had the I.T. department yank the site.”
Even though I do not want to be screamed at by the principal, I am also annoyed, really annoyed, that Buskin called Alfie and not me. “As in permanently?”
“As in I have no idea, Samantha, because he hung up on me. But set your alarm. I'm picking you up at 6:30. I demanded a meeting tomorrow morning so we're in his office at 7:30.” Not asked. Demanded. It's amazing Alfie can walk with balls that big.
“Okay. He has no right to do this, Alfie. I
t's censorship. Straight up censorship. We have the facts on our side. It's the truth.”
“And he can't handle the truth!” Alfie says and clicks off. It sounds like a line from one of those old movies he likes, with big, dramatic speeches. Still, it's a reminder of what we're facing. Facing off against someone who wants to shut us up for all the wrong reasons.
The night lasts forever. But by morning, I’m ready for battle with a long list of arguments ready to go. I spent the night researching freedom of speech and freedom of the press, instead of sleeping.
I can hardly swallow my quick breakfast of toast and hot tea my throat feels so tight. Like it's closing. You can do this, you can do this, you can do this. But there is another voice inside my head, louder, taunting. You're going to chicken out. Again.
On the ride to school, I share everything with Alfie. He listens carefully, nodding. He gets it, he does.
The morning is still new. The air is cool, but it’s promising to be a beautiful warm fall day. The start of first period is still half an hour away, so there aren’t many cars yet in the student parking lot. As we pass through the eucalyptus grove to campus, a little group of goth girls scurry ahead of us, arms linked, “RIP Monica Goodman” stickers pasted to the backs of their black hoodies.
“Is there a memorial for Monica today?” I ask Alfie.
He shrugs. “I haven’t heard of one, but I’m beginning to see those RIP stickers everywhere.”
In the principal’s office, Buskin is sitting behind his desk. He hardly looks up when we walk in. “I’m not sure why you’re here,” he says dismissively. “You’ve crossed the line and I’ve made my decision. It’s final.”
I'm the first to speak up. But the words come out in a jumble. I keep going because I am determined to say what I have to say because I am right, The Clarion is right, and Buskin is wrong, wrong, wrong. But none of that matters because the words will not come out right.
I stop and look helplessly at Alfie. He takes a deep breath and plunges in. Alfie has no trouble presenting our argument, my argument, because he's got the Alfie magic. He repeats what I said on the drive to school. “We stand behind our publication, our stories, our writers and this is a violation of our right to free speech.”
The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery Page 4