The Precious Dreadful

by Steven Parlato

  He put his arm around my neck then and said, “I’m sorry, Teddi. We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.” Then, low in my ear, he said, “You’re my best friend, not her. For always.”

  That was all that mattered. Shoving him, I said, “Let’s go, then.”

  Turning the tear-splotched page, I reach for a tissue. After dabbing my cheeks, I check my reflection, shocked by the face in the mirror. It’s me, but I look seven years old again. Like Pool Girl, but not scary this time. Terrified.

  Touching fingers to glass, I say, “You can do this, Teddi. Remembering can’t be half as bad as living it. And you did that. You did it and you were so little.”

  Climbing back on the bed, I scoop Binks onto my lap. When I squeeze his furry shape to calm my nerves, he squirms on the edge of sleep.

  I kiss his forehead.

  Open the journal.

  Write.

  We’re crouched near the big stones, picking through splinters of broken glass and little baggies, when Fawn’s brother bursts through thorny brush. Scratches ribbon his forearms and cheeks. Eyes lit, wild, he’s smiling, the same jagged grin he wore that day at the soup kitchen. But there’s no humor in it, not even the mean type I saw in the parking lot.

  He looks . . .

  I’m stuck for a moment, struggling for the right word. Suddenly, it’s in my head. I write the word in my book, and Binks flinches as I speak it to the dim room.

  “Rabid.”

  He looks rabid.

  Then, he’s on us.

  Fawn tries to protect me, throwing her spindly body between us, but Eli tosses her aside. Her brief spark of courage flicks out as she crumbles alongside the old picnic table, head in her hands.

  He comes at me again—fists clenching, unclenching—close enough that I smell his breath, this eggy mix of alcohol and decay.

  Arms shielding my head, I brace for his blows.

  But a scream from behind distracts Eli just long enough that I’m able to dash aside, diving for cover behind one of the trees that share my name.

  Eli grunts as Corey grabs him around the waist. They oof in unison as Eli’s big feet tangle, crashing them to the dirt.

  For a moment it seems to be over, as if Eli’s decided to let it go. Standing slowly, palms upward, he says, “No harm, hot shot. You took me down fair and square.”

  When he grins again, Corey laughs, his front-tooth gap seeming to wink.

  I want to warn him, but I’m petrified, mashed to the trunk, finding brief comfort in the press of bark against my cheek.

  Eli bends, extending a hand to Corey where he sits on the ground. “Come on, little man.” He winks. “Friends?”

  Smiling up at him, Corey reaches out his hand, and the world goes dark.

  Rejecting memory, I drop the journal on my comforter, as if it’s a scorpion primed to strike. The giraffe pencil seems to brand my palm. Snapping it in two, I fling the pieces beneath my bed.

  Penciled or not, the memories hiss, demanding to be seen.

  Pacing my room, I’m desperate to resist the open book, but it taunts me in the blurred light. I’ve dared myself too deep to stop.

  Scrabbling through floor dust, I retrieve the pencil halves.

  Sprawled on the bed with the sharpened end, I continue writing.

  After helping Corey to his feet, Eli smiles at me. Then, slamming Corey backward, Eli pins him against a tree.

  “What were you doing, you little shit? Spying?”

  Corey can’t answer, can barely speak with Eli’s ropey forearm pressed to his Adam’s apple.

  Fawn makes this sound, a low moan, from beneath the picnic bench. Where are her guts now when we need them?

  Peeling my cheek from the tree, I take a halting step forward. Eli turns on me again, and I stop at the sight of his eyes. Gone black, all pupil, they sear through me, and I feel warmth trickle down my thigh.

  Eli growls, the sound freezing me in my tracks. Even when he turns back to Corey, I’m paralyzed. Then, I spot a rock, Frisbee-sized, half sunk in dirt.

  On my knees, I dig at moss and muck with my fingernails, freeing the rock. All instinct, I throw it as hard as I can. Aiming for Eli’s head, I don’t factor in the height difference, or the fact that he’s yards away.

  Missing my target, the stone connects with the small of Eli’s back, just below the tattoo. Howling outrage, he swings his fist behind him, feeling for damage.

  Corey takes advantage of Eli’s distraction; arms pinwheeling, he kicks to free himself.

  It works.

  Eli curses, calling Corey “Fucking little nutsack.” Under different circumstances, we might laugh at that, but not now.

  Our escape efforts have sent Eli over the edge. He’s actually foaming, saliva swinging from his chin in a frothy web, as he turns on his sister.

  Before Corey or I can react, Eli’s flung himself to the ground. Raking his big hand beneath the table, he takes hold of Fawn’s ankle.

  I expect her to scream, punch, bite, but Fawn keeps eerily quiet—it’s as if someone’s removed her batteries—as her brother hauls her across the dirt toward pond’s edge.

  Hands on Corey’s wrists, I lock eyes with him. I’ve never seen such fear. He just stares, like he doesn’t recognize, or even see me. Squeezing his wrists harder, I shake him, fingernails leaving tracks. I pray the pain will pull him back to me.

  As Corey flinches, I pour all my force into a one-syllable command: “RUN!”

  But, shaking his head, he pulls free of my grip and screams, “We can’t leave her!” Then he launches headfirst into Eli’s back.

  The monster stumbles, bringing one heavy boot down on his sister’s thigh. Fawn screeches agony, but then she just lies there. Facedown.

  I’m wondering whether she’s dead or unconscious, when I hear her moan, frail as some wounded creature. I barely have a chance to wonder whether actual fawns make that same noise when all thought is eclipsed by Corey’s shriek.

  Eli’s lifted him off his feet. Beast bellowing, he swings violently, hurling Corey airborne. A wet thwack sends clouds of dragonflies out over the pond as my friend lands chest-first in the brack.

  Spluttering, Corey pulls himself onto the slick bank, but Eli stops him. Straddling Corey’s back, Eli pushes his head under. Corey thrashes, losing a sneaker. As his legs jerk, he churns the scummy surface with his arms.

  Then my friend goes still.

  Backing off, Eli hoots as Corey’s limp form spirals slowly at pond’s edge.

  I hold my breath, praying for my friend to stand.

  Finally, with a single, explosive cough, Corey lifts his head. Slogging up the muddy bank again, he collapses, inches from Eli’s feet.

  From my spot on the bed, I watch the rest unfold in front of me. My pencil nub can barely keep up as the dreadful scene plays out.

  Lunging, Eli twists grimy fingers through Corey’s hair. His face goes purple as he shouts, “What are you, a fuckin’ bullfrog?”

  Lifting Corey’s head, he says, “Let’s finish this.”

  Unable to move or scream, I finally stumble toward them as Eli spots the rock. It’s big brother to the one I threw at him; that seems hours ago. He works it free, rocking it until—with a wet slurp—it loosens from the pond bank.

  Next, fists raised high, Eli trains his icy glare on me for just a second, long enough to chill me with that horror-show grin. Then, with a force that pitches him forward into ooze, he slams the stone down, striking Corey’s skull.

  Binks yips. I’m squeezing him, fingers snarling his fur, as I rock on the floor next to the bed. I have no idea how much time has passed, how we got down here. I release him. Retreating to the bean chair, he shoots me an annoyed look, closes his eyes.

  I confront the journal, splayed on the bed. Standing, I flip it faceup, read over the last paragraph, and implode. Grinding my giraffe’s eraser end into the page, I scrub. As I obliterate the words, I command my memory to vanish with them.

  It’s no use. Micah was
right.

  My best friend is dead.

  Murdered.

  And I watched it happen.

  Suddenly calm, I’m truth-stunned. Smoothing the page, I scribe the ruined letters with my broken pencil, etching Corey’s fate back onto paper.

  “There’s more.” It’s Mirror Teddi.

  “This is enough for one night.” It’s a plea more than a statement, but she shakes her head, dark eyes sad.

  “Finish, Teddi.”

  I turn the page, not expecting to have anything to add. It’s been more than eight years, and I’ve never once remembered anything beyond the pond—and then the arrival home.

  Until now.

  Standing over Corey, Eli says, “God dammit, Fawn! Look what you made me go and do.”

  As he grabs his sister’s forearm to lift her, flinging her over his shoulder, I try again to be invisible against the alder trunk.

  Opening my eyes, I find them gone. Crying as I crawl to Corey at pond’s edge, I keep repeating, “God, let him not be dead.”

  Bending over my friend, I try to pretend his head isn’t caved, tell myself one side’s not crumpled in. Laying my hand on his forehead, it scares me how fast my palm turns red. His eyes stay closed. That means he is dead. I know from TV. But as I press my fingers to his chest, smoothing the wet fabric of his Gordy tee, Corey’s eyes flutter open.

  Just for an instant, his lips move; he’s struggling to speak. But I can barely hear him. I lean down close to catch the words.

  He says, “Teddi, sorry I called you Chicken Baby.” Sucking shallow breaths, he winces. “You were real brave.”

  I answer, “No, Corey. You’re the hero. You saved me and Fawn.”

  He must like that because, just before his eyes go milky dim, half his face smiles, and he says, “Hero? Like Croc Hunter.”

  As I whisper, “I love you, Corey,” and cradle his head—my hands slick with blood and something thicker—he silently mouths my name. Then, as I beg God to leave him with me, my best friend dies.

  So I have my answer. Corey is gone.

  Forever-gone.

  I want nothing more than to close the journal. Or even better, take it outside and burn it, pretend it and its contents never existed. But this isn’t over. Images continue flooding my head. I need to drain them off, exorcise memory, if only onto paper. Pencil to page, I keep going.

  “You can’t go, Corey. I can still save you.” The words spill out angry, but really, I’m so scared.

  Picturing what I’ve seen on Brenda’s hospital shows, I press my mouth to Corey’s. I don’t let the blood on his lips bother me as I blow. And I try not to imagine what Micah would say if he caught me and Corey on the ground, our faces mushed together like boyfriend and girlfriend.

  After a while, I can tell it’s no use. That Corey’s eyes will never go back to brown, will never spark with laughter. Never spot another snakeskin, never twinkle at the sight of the ice cream truck. Never see me.

  Ever again.

  I try lifting him, can’t leave his body—it’s strange, Corey being a body not a person anymore—here on the ground. He’s heavy, but I might be able to drag him out of the woods, run for help.

  As I’m deciding what to do, I hear the voice again. Eli. And there are others, maybe those same ones from last time.

  My joints lock; I’m pasted flat with fear. I remember how Corey fought me, refused to leave Fawn. Chose not to run away. To protect his friend.

  Lifting his head, I press his face to my chest, not caring about the dark smear on my shirt. Holding him, I whisper, “I won’t leave you.”

  Then Eli yells, “Over here!”

  And I run.

  Ripping through branches, not caring about spiders or mud or poison ivy, I’m aware only of the smack of my sandals, the tug of thorn and vine. Bloodied fists swinging, focusing on sky through the trees, I run. For my life.

  So I ran off, left him dead by the pond. Now that I’ve seen it, I’m betting there’s no forgetting that part. Ever again.

  I don’t need to write what came next. It’s already recorded here, minus the run home. And I have so little memory of that. Just fragments: sandals slapping, leaf and blood.

  Did no one see me? I must have looked like something from a horror movie.

  The next clear image is the muddied kitchen.

  Brenda at the table.

  Heat of the bath; soft, white robe; the bitter mug.

  Finally, sleep.

  Sleep.

  If ever I’ve needed to sleep, it’s now, but I’m wracked by waves of recall. Corey’s whisper, his caved-in skull. Their voices coming for me.

  I fling the journal against the wall, startling Binks awake. Yipping once, he scuttles downstairs.

  Reality in shreds, I fall on the bed. Sorrow-gagging, I pray for sleep’s arms to enfold me.

  28

  Elbows on the table, I work to meet the gluey challenge in the black, plasti-tray. It’s one of Brenda’s microwave dinners. I use the term dinner in the loosest possible sense. Nine grams of protein, under 300 calories. Anti-delectable.

  Binks presses his chin firmly to my knee, in hyperbeg mode. My boy’s operating strictly on habit. I can’t imagine he finds the smell enticing.

  I’m honestly not hungry. I’ve barely consumed a thing today, beyond a few sips of ginger ale and some cracker nibbles when Brenda insisted. But she’s mostly left me alone.

  I am empty.

  But, ironically, it feels as if there’s no space inside me. Grief’s crowded out my organs, its bulk crushing them paper-flat. I’m inside out. If I did eat anything, it would just seep, pooling on the floor, leaving my guts raw, exposed.

  But rational sense says I must eat. And Creamy Tuna Medley it is. It’s my first real attempt at anything in the last two days.

  The contents brim, a mass of pale noodles, studded with neon peas, the sporadic blob of tuna rubble. A thin, brown crust collects in one corner. Piercing it with my spoon, I stir.

  This aggressive, gassy smell rises from the tray. Swamp. Stomach rebelling, I belch disgust, bend and scoop, dumping the slop in Binks’s dish.

  He gives it a quick sniff, shoots me an oh-hell-no, and heads to the couch. Leaving the lump to congeal, I turn back to the counter. My journal’s there beside the plastic film from the top of the tuna tray. I’m close to tossing both in the garbage, but don’t.

  Although I haven’t been brave enough to look inside, I’ve kept the journal with me every second since that last entry. As though it’s turned sacred. Become some depository of horrible truths. Outlining the Celtic-knotted cover, as if my finger’s roaming a mini-labyrinth, I try to clear my head.

  The last two days have been a blur. I told Brenda my stomach’s gone rogue, warned her away when she tried to check on me, saying, “Stay back! If I’m contage, believe me, you do not want to catch this!”

  As if it’s possible to catch what I’ve got. Which is what, exactly? Horror? Revulsion? Despair? Insanity? Acceptance? My personalized five stages of grief. Honestly, acceptance is the most horrible possibility of all.

  Brenda has hung back quite effectively. I’m sure she suspects it’s my past, not my stomach, that’s gurgling, but she’s chosen to take me at my word. Can’t blame her for seizing any opportunity to disengage. Her distance has allowed me to burrow deeper into sheets, into numbness. For this, I am thankful.

  But numbness takes effort to sustain. I’m hoarse from humming to block out the sounds. Of Eli’s gang crashing through trees. Of the bathtub blasting its scalding stream.

  Worst of all, the sound of the rock coming down on Corey.

  The thud.

  The rupture.

  Sure, I’m only imagining that sound—a ceramic jug exploding—but it’s real enough.

  I barely manage to remain afloat by talking myself out of belief. It’s possible, isn’t it, that my journal entries aren’t memories at all, but some kind of fabrication? Spontaneous generation, cells dividing or something? My brain h
opped up on imagination.

  Isn’t that the point of SUMMERTEENS? Writing stories. Creating fictions. Making shit up. What if my mind somehow got too good at it, doesn’t know how to stop?

  “No, Teddi.”

  The voice is Corey’s. I’ve been hearing him plenty these past two days. His little boy rasp. I wonder how he’d sound now, at nearly sixteen—if he’d had the chance to get here. If he weren’t bashed and dead gone. Maybe he’d sound like Micah.

  “God, Micah. I’ve got to tell him.” I say it out loud, and it’s funny, because I’ve barely spoken at all since writing that last passage.

  Lifting my laptop lid, my hands shake. I press it shut. “No. I can’t do this. It’s too horrible to be true. Too much to think, never mind tell.”

  “Too much to keep.” Now it’s Mirror Teddi. She’s been talking, too. It’s possible I truly am losing my mind. Who’d have believed that might be preferable to finding out the truth?

  I speak to my reflection in the microwave door. “Corey is dead.” I see the words form against smoked glass, feel them settle in my chest. They hold the weight of truth.

  Who can I tell?

  Not Brenda. Not yet. I have too many questions for her. About what she really knew. And when. If I open my mouth to say, “I’ve remembered what happened to Corey,” what’s likely to come out is “If you were a better mother, my friend might not be dead.”

  Of course, Micah would probably say something similar to me. “If you were a better friend . . .” But that’s not fair.

  A laugh, this bitter bleat, slips out at that ludicrous concept called fair.

  I imagine Willa saying, “Get a grip, girl.”

  She, at least, would be a help. To hold on to, to cry with. But I’m not willing to fasten this anchor around her neck just yet. Not Willa’s.

  Or anyone else’s.

  It’s why I’ve stayed home, in bed mostly, only getting up to use the bathroom and see to Binks. When sleep has come, it’s flattened me. But mercifully, there have been no dreams.