Sad. Bitch be crazy, Norah thinks about herself. That’s what Blink2002 had posted to the comments section of an online clip of Norah’s mom. The clip showed Mrs. Lewis leaving the podium mid-sentence, weeping, at Friday’s police press conference.
Another comment, this one from BroncoBrony, said, This kid was like, 12. Right? Who just dumped him off at the Thicket alone, anyway?
Blink2002 and BroncoBrony made good points.
The clip of the press conference had 2 million views already. More people than there were in the entire state of Idaho. And it wasn’t the only thing making the rounds on social media.
Channel Two had interviewed Brandon’s friends last week.
Friends.
They’d admitted to standing him up the night he was murdered. Cole. And Jace. And Andrew. “We’d never planned on meeting him at the Thicket,” they’d said. “We were just joking around with him. He wasn’t really in our group. He was … you know … on the spectrum or something. We all feel really bad now after, you know ...”
That video had 4.3 million views.
Brandon had been talking about all three boys since the start of the school year. He had started wearing Gap jeans because Jace had them. And he’d started leaving his laces undone because Cole did.
None of the boys had ever been to Brandon’s house. Last week, Norah had used a fake Facebook account to comment on the interview with Cole, Jace, and Andrew. Who needs enemies with shithead friends like you? she’d typed, clinging to the white-hot anger until it slipped back beneath the surface.
A few days later, Norah saw that Jace had posted a public photo on his Facebook wall of flowers and notes taped to Brandon’s locker at the middle school. “RIP, buddy,” it said. Norah had logged into her fake account to comment on that post, too. The comment had been quickly deleted.
Norah’s attention drifts back to the news report. “A statement released by the principal at Minico Middle revealed that the school will join other local schools in banning the so-called ‘plague doctor’ masks on school grounds. …”
Norah feels the bile rise in her throat. Plague doctor. Sometimes the name drifts into her consciousness as she tries to fall asleep. The words circle like smoke, threatening to seep into her dreams. And often they do.
Caroline acknowledges a man in a tweed jacket who has just appeared in the upper corner of the news screen. “Thanks for joining us, Professor Mickelson. Can you tell us what a ‘plague doctor’ is?”
The professor smiles. “Certainly. In the 17th century ‘plague doctors,’ were commonly retained by cities or municipalities to treat victims of the bubonic plague. Most plague doctors were not professionally trained physicians but rather young, unestablished, or opportunistic lay citizens. Most wore a waxed overcoat to repel any inadvertent contact with bodily fluids and a beak-like mask filled with aromatics, flowers, and oils to filter the smell of death and infection.
“Plague doctors used ‘bloodletting’ as a primary “cure,” a practice that often resulted in the death of the patient and in spreading the plague. In general, plague doctors were kept isolated from the public due to the nature of their craft. Unlike most doctors at the time, plague doctors were often authorized to conduct autopsies.”
Bloodletting. Norah swallows back the bile and sits up on the couch. The sound of the newscasters’ voices in the background blend together in a dull roar.
SocialBuzz featured a beaked black look-alike mask three days after the national news channels started airing the story and playing the security footage. The article shared the gruesome histories of some of the most famous plague doctors in the middle ages, along with a link to buy the exact mask used in the “plague doctor murders.”
After the predictable backlash on Twitter, the link in the article was removed. But not before the mask went viral in Southeast Idaho and beyond.
Norah finally turns off the TV and waits until she is sure she won’t throw up. The living room is so quiet she can hear the fizz of the aquarium filter in the corner, near the kitchen. A lone goldfish hovers near the top, circling the tank in a slow lap. She wonders if her dad has been feeding it. She certainly hasn’t.
Norah’s not sure where her dad is now. His car isn’t in the driveway. He seems to have stopped sleeping in direct proportion to how seldom Norah’s mom gets out of bed. As to balance the universe, maybe.
Norah watches the goldfish’s mouth open and close as the little orange creature shimmies near the surface. Waiting for someone to finally open the dusty lid to sprinkle a few fish flakes.
As Norah heads upstairs, she imagines walking by the tank in the morning to find the fish dead.
It would be her fault, of course.
CHAPTER 16
The Channel Two jingle plays with a frenetic burst of jazzy elevator music after the commercial break. He leans closer to the screen, bringing one hand to his mouth to suck on the tip of his pointer finger as he settles back against the couch.
The TV has been on for days now. Each news segment, no matter how repetitive, is another small shot of adrenaline.
As the two anchors reappear on screen, Caroline Tolley states—again—that the Thicket has announced its plans to reopen this coming Monday Her jaw tightens as she says the words.
He can see the flash of relief on her face when the weather forecaster takes over to drone on about a chance of snow in the forecast—get that ice melt ready!
Satisfied for the moment, he stretches and walks to his bedroom. The mask is in his bottom drawer, covered by an assortment of black socks and white briefs that could use a good bleaching.
The copycat “plague-doctor” masks are spreading like wildfire. A couple of the masks have even appeared in the community Buy-N-Sell group he’s a member of on Facebook, to the anguish of local parents. All of this makes him feel better about keeping the original. The clown mask, on the other hand, is safely buried in the dump by now. The soft, tufted red hair on the sides concerned him. Porous things were more dangerous than rubber or metal.
He takes the mask with him into the living room and holds the thin latex up to his nose. The acrid rubber is now squeaky clean, but it still evokes the memory of blood.
As Gary yammers on about something weather-related and inconsequential, he wriggles his fingers through the dark eyeholes of the mask. In and out, like thin white worms.
He remembers the flash of outrage on the staff member’s maskless, acne-covered face. And the way that outrage suddenly evaporated when the knife appeared.
He remembers the way the second kid’s eyes widened. And then how his scowl went suddenly slack a few minutes later.
That’s the moment he loves most of all—even more than the blood. The moment of knowing.
Knowing that something very bad is about to happen. And that it’s too late to stop it.
CHAPTER 17
October 19
Taylor holds both tubes of fake blood up to the fluorescent lights overhead. One is a dark, viscous red. The other is brighter and looks runnier in the tube as she tilts it back and forth. “Guys, which one of these looks more real? Guys?”
When no one responds, she places both tubes of blood in her basket and peers into the next aisle. Maren and Jamie are standing in front of a full-length mirror, holding up costumes. Jamie’s bottom lip is curled into a deep pout that makes her already high cheekbones look almost comical. Maren is pouting too, but only because she’s making fun of Jamie—who hasn’t noticed yet.
Maren zeroed in on a sexy skeleton costume right off the bat. Jamie is still debating between a sexy unicorn and a sexy devil.
Maren looks up and sees Taylor, waving her over to the mirror. She drops the pout and holds up the skeleton costume against her chest. “I guess I’ll have to wear it with tights,” she mutters, eyeing the short black skirt painted with glow-in-the-dark hip bones. Black-and-purple garters connect the hip bones on the skirt to the rib bones on the plunging drawstring corset. “Can I keep this at your house, Tay?
I told my mom I was wearing the same costume as last year.” Maren smiles crookedly.
Last year, Maren dressed up as a very modest black cat. Officially, anyway. As soon as she arrived at Taylor’s house on Halloween, she’d exchanged her black sweatpants and sweatshirt for a skin-tight, sheer leotard and stripper boots. Taylor’s dad was the designated cool parent in the group.
Taylor shrugs and plucks the tube of thick, dark blood out of her basket. She’s pretty sure that real blood is on the thinner side. “Um, sure. My dad doesn’t care. Jamie, how about you?”
Jamie deepens her pout and leans closer to the mirror. She holds both the devil and unicorn costumes against her chest. “Unicorns are still, like, a thing, right? It’s not too middle school?”
Maren tugs on a lock of Jamie’s auburn hair. “Unicorns are endlessly and forever cool. And with that mane, you’re basically a boss-bitch unicorn already.”
Jamie rolls her eyes and giggles but doesn’t put the devil costume down. “But is it the right costume for the Thicket? I mean, it’s just so … wholesome. I just feel like maybe I should go darker.”
“Like … a zombie?” Taylor picks up the latex makeup kit and the remaining blood vial from her basket. She shakes them behind Jamie’s reflection in the mirror. “Check this out. It’s makeup, not a mask. So you could wear it to the Thicket and school.” She tugs on the sleeve of Jamie’s devil costume. “Come on. There’s never just one zombie. I need a whole horde.”
Jamie tosses her long hair as she turns to look. She frowns when she sees the photo on the cover of the latex kit Taylor is holding. Bloody strips of skin hang in ribbons from the model’s cheeks, and her forehead is pocked with crusting red sores. It’s incredible.
Jamie frowns. “It’s just . . . Russ will see it. So I don’t want to intentionally look, like, bad,” she says with a shrug.
Taylor rolls her eyes and drops the makeup kit back in her basket. “Thanks.”
Maren flips her feather-down blonde bangs to the side as she bats her thick black eyelashes. “You don’t have to worry, James. Bae knows what you look like under your costume.”
A woman in a faded pink tracksuit hurries by with a toddler clutching a tiger mask. The woman glances disapprovingly at Jamie, who has flung both costumes into her cart to tackle Maren. “Shhh,” Jamie hisses, glancing at the hastily retreating backside of the woman in the tracksuit.
The Saturday morning after homecoming, Jamie had sent everyone a text saying she had “big news.” However, she refused to share it until Monday morning. After gathering everyone in the bathroom after the first bell, she had solemnly announced that she and Russ had “made love” on Friday night after homecoming.
Maren had laughed so hard and so loud that a female teacher in the hallway heard and escorted them out into the hallway and back to class. Jamie had refused to talk to Maren for the rest of the day. This meant that Taylor got to hear all the juicy details of the La Quinta lovemaking first. Which was kind of fortuitous, since it meant she could ask all the questions Maren would have laughed at.
Maren had done it ages ago—freshman year—with a super-senior named Josh who exclusively wore cargo pants. Taylor assumes that Maren and Jamie know she is still a virgin since she’s never actually admitted to anything beyond handsy makeout sessions. However, nobody has ever actually uttered the word “virgin,” and Taylor prefers to keep it that way.
“Are we going to Maisie Barrett’s party on Friday?” Maren asks, steering the cart toward the registers at the front of the store. Jamie reluctantly places the tiny unicorn costume back on the rack and throws the devil costume into her cart, then hurries to catch up.
Taylor shrugs, stopping to examine a display of false teeth. “I think we should skip Maisie’s party and go to the Thicket that night instead. Maisie’s boyfriend is trying to turn it into a pharm party. Apparently, Maisie’s going along with it. She talks about her mom’s stash of Xanax all the time.”
Jamie grabs the edge of the cart and stops to examine a red sequined headband with plastic devil horns. “Russ knows Maisie pretty well. She’s not going to turn it into a pharm party.”
Maren pushes the cart forward again and smiles. “Well. If Russ says so.” When Jamie gives her a dirty look, she laughs. “I’m freaking kidding. But I’m with Tay. Let’s skip Maisie’s and go to the Thicket on Friday. Saturday is going to be nuts. They’re doing that dumb ‘Double-Dog Scare’ promo.” She pulls her wallet from underneath the costumes at the bottom of the cart, quoting the radio ad: “Double the fun, half the price!” Ignoring Jamie’s frown she adds, “Tay, could we stay the night at your house afterward? Will your dad care?”
Taylor shakes her head and grins. On paper, Scott Bennett is most aware of the risks teenagers take—and therefore most likely to worry. He’s been a criminal defense lawyer at Hall, Blanton & Bennett for as long as Taylor can remember. Taylor can rattle off the stats on illegal drug use in Rupert, the average fine for a DUI, and the top three counties in Southeast Idaho for rape reports. But Scott’s approach to parenting, like law, is innocent until proven guilty. In general, he’s pretty content to treat Taylor and her friends like rational—albeit standard-issue—teenage girls. It’s the unspoken agreement they’ve had since Taylor’s mom, Wendy, moved to California with her new husband. And it’s worked out fine.
While they stand in line for the one open register, Jamie scrolls through Snapchat. She suddenly shrieks, then laughs. “Oh my gosh. Quick, look.”
Before the Snap disappears, Taylor and Maren lean in to see the grainy image on screen.
Taylor’s stomach turns. It’s a photo of a bloody eyeball. The photo Brandon took. A bubble caption at the bottom reads, “Old McDonald had a farm. HAD.”
Taylor looks away. “I don’t want to see that, you guys.”
Maren pulls the phone closer. “It’s not real, you know.”
Taylor tries to make her voice lighter. “I know. It’s just … he took the photo. That’s all.”
Maren shrugs. “You’re gonna see it at the Thicket on Friday.”
Jamie tucks the phone back into her purse. “Sorry, Tay.”
Taylor feels her cheeks go red and pretends to study some glitter lip gloss near the counter. It’s fake blood on a fake eyeball. Same as the vial in her basket. So why is her hand shaking? She wonders if Norah has seen all the memes. “Yeah, the effects are, uh, really good this year. I mean … I guess they must be, considering.”
Maren plucks a tube of lip gloss from the stand near the register. “Maisie went the day the Thicket reopened. She said they’ve completely redone the room where it happened. Scrubbed it out, stuck some animatronic crap inside. There’s a dedicated security guard stationed there now, too. Maisie said that if you bring a black light, you can still see some of the blood. But if they catch you, they’ll confiscate the light.”
Jamie shakes her head and puts the devil costume behind a bar at the register. “People are such freakin’ morons. The Thicket is probably going to end up being totally lame. I mean, did you hear about the new ‘security protocols’?”
Maren sighs and opens the lip gloss while the cashier frowns at her. “They only mention them in every single article. No masks, no backpacks, metal detectors, 3X security, we care about safety so much, blah blah blah.”
Taylor giggles softly. “I heard Andy M. say he was trying to sell his beak mask on eBay for two hundred bucks, since he can’t wear it to the Thicket now. He read a SocialBuzz article that said searches for ‘Halloween beak masks’ are up 2,000 percent.”
Jamie rolls her eyes and hands her card to the cashier. “What if we hit the Thicket early on Friday night and then stopped by Maisie’s party afterward. You know, if there’s time? It gets dark by like five now. The lines are going to be shorter the earlier we go, anyway.”
Maren places her sexy skeleton costume on the conveyor and smiles at the stone-faced cashier, who is pretending not to eavesdrop. “Let me guess—Russ is going to Maisie’s party
. Tell him to come to the Thicket with us instead.”
Jamie shakes her head. “He said he doesn’t want to go. His little brother Clark was science partners with Brandon. He’s like, having a hard time with the whole thing. We’re taking Clark trick-or-treating next weekend.” Jamie holds up the sheer red fishnet tights for the devil costume and frowns. “Which means I can’t wear this. So maybe I should join Taylor’s zombie horde.”
Taylor laughs and grabs Jamie’s arm, pretending to take a bite. “I think it’s adorable that he’s taking his little brother trick-or-treating. And I don’t care when we go to the Thicket. My dad might even let me drive us there if we go early enough on Friday, though.”
Maren’s face lights up. She signs her receipt with a flourish and grins. “Done. Let’s do this, bitches.”
CHAPTER 18
Norah refreshes the Facebook page for the Thicket’s “Double-Dog Scare” event again. The names in the “going” and “maybe” sections blur before her eyes. They’re the names of her classmates. She wouldn’t call them friends. Especially not now.
They’re all going to the Thicket this Saturday. For half price.
She pauses on some of the names, then keeps scrolling and refreshing. Three thousand people and counting have RSVPed.
The RSVP list includes Aaron, her pot dealer from Raft River, whose last text in her saved messages still reads, Sry. Ur brother sounds like a D.
It includes Maisie Barrett, who is also hosting a party on Friday night for the entire sophomore class.
And it includes Maren, Taylor, and Jamie.
Two weeks ago, Norah got a flurry of text messages, asking how she was doing. Some from numbers she didn’t even recognize. Last week, she got three texts. This week zero. Not that she responded to any of them. Instead, she’d carefully rationed the last of her pot gummies, which is running dismally low. She might have to talk to Aaron again after all.
The Thicket Page 6