Indelible

by Dawn Metcalf

  “I’m off,” Dad called from the hallway with a jingle of keys.

  “Night, Dad,” Joy said, bouncing her feet in time to the music. She waved her mismatched blue polka-dot and pink-and-purple socks. “Have fun.”

  “You, too,” he said. “Emergency numbers are on the door.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “And don’t be afraid to call the cell.”

  Joy leaned back and enunciated pointedly: “Good. Night. Dad!”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going.” His hand rested on the doorknob. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Dad!” she warned.

  “Bye!”

  The door clicked closed. Gone.

  Joy spent a few minutes clicking around the TV. Channel surfing was hard on her eye, so she shut it off, figuring she’d save it for the movies.

  Hauling herself out of the couch, she went to double-cut the pizza into long triangle strips. Monica only liked to eat pizza that didn’t smudge her lip pencil and Joy had adopted the habit. Now she didn’t eat pizza any other way. She put her playlist on shuffle and grabbed a couple of plates.

  She was singing and sawing the pizza slicer deep into grease-soaked cardboard when the phone rang. It was Monica on caller ID.

  “Hey, there,” Joy chirped, shouldering the cordless phone.

  “Hey...” Monica hesitated.

  Joy stopped slicing. “What’s up?”

  “Please don’t kill me or make me out to be the worst friend in the world.”

  Joy laughed and lowered the volume. “Well, with an introduction like that, how could you go wrong?” she said, switching ears. “Spill.”

  “Gordon asked if I could meet him at Roxbury downtown.” Monica paused, sounding unsure. It was weird. Monica was cocky and confident when it came to boys asking her out. She’d be the first to say that she’d had lots of practice. “And since we got interrupted last night by, well, you know...” Several things clicked together.

  “Gordon’s the guy?” Joy asked. “Mr. Wide from the Carousel?” She put down the pizza slicer.

  “Yeah.” Monica sounded guilty, maybe even shy. “But I told him I had plans tonight.”

  Joy filled in the blanks. “Plans that maybe you could get out of?”

  “Only because you’re my very best friend.”

  Joy smothered the pathetic feeling that she’d be home alone with a patch over one eye and too much food for one person. Monica sounded so hopeful. “This must be some guy.”

  Monica’s voice warmed with relief. “I’ll let you know!”

  “Spare me the details,” Joy said as she placed one of the plates back on the shelf. “Go have fun, and remember—don’t be stupid.”

  “I know. No Stupid. Sorry it’s last minute.” Monica’s voice slowed, clearly wanting to sound torn. She wasn’t fooling anyone, though. Gordon won, Joy lost. Score one for Team Penis.

  “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” said Joy. “Rock the Rox for me.”

  “And you go enjoy some Joy time.”

  “I’ll try,” Joy said, but Monica had already cut her off with “Bye!”

  Joy hung up the phone and sighed. The last time she’d watched this movie, it’d been with her mom. There was a tight, hollow feeling in her stomach and a dry twinge in her eye. She brought her plate of pizza to the couch, tucked herself under the afghan and thumbed the remote to Play.

  Well, she still had ice cream and pizza.

  Hooray.

  * * *

  She fell asleep in the middle of Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist and woke to the sound of scratching. Joy sat up, clawing at the unfamiliar obstruction over her eye. Then she remembered: Weirdo in the club. Knife. Scratched cornea. Her fingers came away from the latex weave as she adjusted to the idea of being awake.

  Alone. Dark. Ditched by Monica. Decent movie. Cold pizza. The TV was a blue screen. The clock said 2:18.

  The scratching came again.

  Joy threw off the afghan, removing the warmth from her body. The condo felt chilly and very, very empty. The automatic thermostat was set for sixty-two. Energy-saving mode. She shivered and got to her feet, accidentally knocking cold pizza slivers onto the floor. Grumbling, she knelt and tossed them back on the plate, ruffling the thick carpet with her hand to mask the stain.

  Making her way to the door, Joy wondered if Dad had lost his keys. Why didn’t he just knock? Her brain waded through the fuzz. That didn’t make sense. She yawned. It was late. Or early. She was too tired to think straight.

  The scratching came again. But it was coming from the kitchen window.

  Turning around, Joy squinted. The sky outside was a patchwork of blue-orange low-glow. The wind was blowing through the backyard. She could hear it whistling outside. Maybe a branch was scraping the glass?

  There was a long, drawn-out scrrrrrrrrrrrick!

  A large shadow with glowing eyes loomed in the dark. The eyes were shaped like arrowheads and fiery, electric white.

  Joy stumbled.

  The eyes slanted in amusement. There was a scratch at the glass again.

  Joy’s back hit the wall, her whole body tingling. The kitchen phone was still on the couch, impossibly far away. So was her voice. So was her breath. She stared, quivering.

  A large palm pressed flat against the glass, thick fingers ending in points. There were only four of them. The hand flexed and dropped into darkness, but the eyes were still there, burning.

  Joy blinked her one eye over and over, gripping the edge of the sliding closet door. She couldn’t be seeing what she was seeing. She wanted to hide behind the coats, but she didn’t dare let the thing out of her sight. If it didn’t stay where she could see it, it could be anywhere.

  Wake up, she told herself. Wake up, Joy!

  The eyes narrowed. The claw reappeared and thumped dully against the glass. Once. Twice.

  Joy could feel her head shaking. No no no no. Her fingers gripped the fake wood. No—go away!

  The heavy hand retreated and reappeared as a fist. It struck casually, with a little more force. The window shivered. Sealant creaked. She watched the hand draw back again and slam down, spiderwebbing the first double pane.

  Joy screamed on the third impact. Screamed again when the web spread. Her heart skittered as a single gray talon tapped the splintered glass, skipping on a shard or jag, white light shimmering as the finger drew words:

  Joy stared at the words as they slowly flickered and died. The eyes and their owner faded from sight.

  She wanted to move, bolt for her room or the couch or the phone and 911.

  Smack! A bulbous nose plastered itself against the window. Joy shrieked and grabbed the flashlight out of the closet. She threw it at the broken window, knocking the light over the sink. The hanging lamp swung wildly, throwing erratic light and shadow.

  The monster laughed, lips peeling back over fat brown tusks, and slid its tongue recklessly over the shards. The mouth opened wider. Its tongue curled and shot forward, shattering a waterfall of glass.

  Joy sprinted for the couch. Laughter followed her like a rusty saw through wood. She dove, clearing the cushions, tucking smoothly into a tight, upward crouch. Her fingers shook as she grabbed the phone and dialed, botching the numbers. Joy hung up, swearing, and glanced back at the window.

  Nothing.

  She froze.

  Joy glanced around, breathing hard.

  Where was it?

  She squeezed the phone, shaking, refusing to let go. Behind the patch, her eye burned, salt tears stinging. She was dreaming. Wasn’t she dreaming? She’d been watching old movies. She’d fallen asleep. It could have been a nightmare.

  Joy peeked over the couch into the kitchen. The window wasn’t webbed in sha
ttered glass. It reflected nothing but shadows and the light above the sink.

  She sank back and blinked her one good eye, feeling her heart pound. Had she just woken up? Had she grabbed the phone, half-asleep? Her body tingled with leftover adrenaline splash.

  Vaguely wondering if she had subconsciously picked up some horror movie preview, she dropped the phone, glad that she hadn’t dialed an emergency operator in her sleep. Joy rubbed her patch. She’d had one too many emergencies lately, thanks.

  She shook out her hands and checked the clock: 2:29. Joy shivered and wondered what Dad was doing out so late. She grabbed the pizza plate—something for her hands to do—and went to dump it in the sink.

  Froze.

  There were shards of broken glass in the four corners of the window, like jagged photo holders.

  One pane left.

  The plate shattered against the floor as Joy grabbed the phone and called her dad’s cell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JOY GAVE THE same statement for the third time, bundled in a sweatshirt and her tea growing cold. She kept forgetting to drink it. She held the mug in her hands, letting the warmth seep in. She said she’d seen a “monster face” at the window and had thrown the flashlight at it, but decided not to mention the words written in light. She remembered hearing stories of her great-grandmother seeing things, and they’d ended up putting her in an asylum. The idea of being crazy had haunted Joy throughout her childhood.

  “Could’ve been a prank,” the officer said. “Someone wearing a Halloween mask. Having any problems at school, Joy?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone bothering you on the bus? On your way home?”

  Joy rotated the #1 Dad mug in her hands. “No,” she said and took a lukewarm sip.

  “What happened to your eye?”

  Her father glanced up at the question, too.

  She set the mug down, not liking to link the two things together. “I got a scratched cornea at the Carousel—a splinter, I think. I was looking up when something fell.” Joy pointed at the patch. “I have to wear this thing for two more days.”

  The officer glanced at her, then Dad, forehead crinkled in a what-can-you-do ripple. He dug into his pocket and held out a business card. “Well, we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary outside. We’ve got your statement. If you remember anything else you want to add, my number’s on the card. Feel free to give me a call.” He handed the card to Joy’s father, who nodded.

  “Thank you, Officer Castrodad,” he said with a firm handshake. “I appreciate you coming out.”

  The policeman nodded. “Just doing my job.” He cast a last look at Joy, who hid her face behind the cheap ceramic cup. “Mr. Malone. Joy.” The officer let himself out.

  Her father flipped the card onto the table and took a stroll around the room.

  “Well, that was some excitement,” he said, setting his hands on his hips. “You certainly got my attention.”

  Joy frowned. “You think I made this up?” She felt more angry than scared, but he was obviously angry, too.

  “I don’t know, Joy, did you?” he snapped. “You weren’t particularly truthful with the man when he asked you about school.”

  “Dad—”

  “No. Don’t ‘Dad’ me,” he said. “Grades slipping, quitting gymnastics and ignoring calls from your mother may be par for the course after something like this....” Mothers leaving their families for younger men in California was apparently considered a something like this. “All the damn books say acting out is normal, and, yes, getting suspended last year for knocking over chairs is a little rough for a zero tolerance–policy school, okay, but lying, Joy? The E.R.? Police? That’s not like you. And you were lying tonight.”

  “I wasn’t lying!” she insisted. Joy hated when he threw the suspension in her face. That was forever ago. Just like Mom leaving, or quitting gymnastics and giving up her Olympic dreams, not to mention her entire social life.

  Dad threw his keys hard into the couch. “Oh, really? Where’s Monica, Joy?”

  Joy gaped. “She ditched me!” she said, but knew the facts were stacked against her. “That wasn’t my fault! I didn’t know she was going to back out last-minute to go dance with some guy!” She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry. It was so unfair! She was half inclined to tell him what had really happened yesterday, but he already thought she was a psychopathic liar.

  “When I called the Reids to tell them I was on my way, I woke them up, Joy! Monica was asleep in bed after telling her parents that she’d been here all night.”

  Joy groaned. “So Monica’s a liar and I get the blame?”

  “Were you covering for her?”

  “No!”

  “Did you make this all up?”

  “No.”

  He crossed his arms. “Joy, I won’t be any madder than I am right now—”

  “No!”

  Dad softened a little; he was still mad, but he wanted to believe her. She could tell. They had to trust one another—they were all they had left. It was like he was thinking the same thing. He deflated over his belly.

  “I get that you’re angry, Joy. We’re all angry. But there’s defiant, and then there’s reckless. The constant moping and lashing out...” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Did you break the window, Joy?” he asked softly.

  “No, Dad.” Joy punctuated her words with a fist on the table. Frustration shivered through her body. Why wouldn’t he believe her? Her voice broke like glass. “I didn’t! The outside pane’s broken and we’re two floors up! There was someone at the window and I was all alone and I was so scared!”

  He wrapped her in his arms, rubbing her shoulders through the sleeves as if she were cold. Tears trapped under gauze were suddenly dripping off her chin. She sniffled as he rocked her slowly. Everything felt twisted and wrong.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispered, but she couldn’t say what she was sorry for.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he said with a squeeze. “Tomorrow I’m getting an alarm. We’ll both sleep better then.”

  She gave his forearms a last bit of hug.

  “Did I ruin your date?” she asked. Joy felt her dad pause.

  “Do you want me to answer that?”

  She thought about it. “Not tonight.”

  Her dad sighed and stroked her hair. “Deal.”

  * * *

  Monica trailed behind Joy in the hall.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!”

  Joy trusted her hair to provide some cover for her anger and the frayed, peeling patch. It looked hideous, like an old wound, gummy and gross.

  “You’re sorry,” Joy muttered. “Dad’s nearly got me under house arrest.” She picked at her patch in irritation, then stopped. Dad had caught her trying to remove it this morning and threatened a serious grounding. Joy hated the way she kept bumping into things and misjudging distance. Plus the nausea. And the stares in the hall. She hadn’t felt this awkward since she’d dropped out of training. “I’ve gone from being invisible to Public Enemy Number One!”

  “Sorry to infinity,” Monica begged. “Sorry to infinity plus one!”

  Joy thumped her head against her locker.

  “Stop it,” she said, working the combination. “Just tell me it was worth it.”

  “It was worth it,” Monica said dutifully.

  “Really?”

  “No,” Monica said. “Not if it got you into trouble.” But a smile crept into her voice and over her lips. “Otherwise, yes. It was totally worth it!”

  “Small comfort,” Joy said, but added, “I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks.” Monica relaxed against the bank of lockers and poked at the plastic fob on Joy’s key ring. “So, what’s up with this?”

 
Joy stacked books in her arms. “Dad had a security system installed. Either he doesn’t believe me and he’s locking me in, or he believes me and he’s locking everyone else out.” Neither option sounded too appealing.

  “Did you find out who it was?” Monica asked. “At the window?”

  Joy felt guilty feeding Monica her cover story, but the truth was just too crazy. “No,” Joy said, but something else slipped out. “It was a message.”

  Monica raised her eyebrows. “Mmm-hmm? Somebody whacks your window with a baseball bat and you might take that as some sort of message,” she said. “Before we came to Glendale, my daddy was from Arkansas and he talked about growing up with all kinds of ‘messages’ left burning on the lawn.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Joy said as the locker door squeaked shut.

  “What? The burglar left a Post-it?”

  Joy shook her head behind her hair. She was momentarily glad she had the excuse not to look at Monica; she felt as if she’d somehow said too much. Joy didn’t know what 48 deer run midnight meant, and she didn’t know how to tell ink, but Joy could still see the glowing words and the giant tongue pressed flat against the glass. She hugged her books to her chest and scrolled through her text messages for a distraction.

  Alice June Moorehead, 1550 Hewey, Apt 10C, Strwbry

  4 INK: RAZORBILLS SOUTH 40 OVERPASS, 4PM—SEVER STRAIGHT & DON’T BE LATE! THX

  Joy had the crazy instinct to smash her phone against the wall. She eyed the mob of students chatting and banging locker doors under a chorus of squeaky shoes and six hundred ringtones. A flash of bright orange in the crowd made Joy’s head turn, but she couldn’t see the source. She curled against her locker and cupped her hand over her phone’s screen. She checked the numbers: both unlisted. She wished she’d programmed Officer Castrodad into her contact list.

  How did these people get my number?

  Monica glanced at the cell in Joy’s hand. “Mom again?”