Behold the Bones

by Natalie C. Parker

  The cafeteria is silent now but for my voice and the sound of rain pelting above our heads. Even the teachers listen to my tale, their eyes watering and darting away.

  My mind churns like the storm outside. Another swamp story has come to us.

  The teachers on cafeteria duty finally collect their wits enough to start hollering. They tell everyone to move away from the windows, but no one does. How could they, with thirteen child spirits staring at them?

  “She can make them go away,” someone calls. “Candace Pickens can.”

  The crowd parts to reveal the speaker, hater Hallie Rhodes with no hint of her usual malice. She’s as frightened as everyone else and now they all look to me.

  The crowd speaks at once with too many voices to decipher—“That’s right!” “She got rid of that other one!” “Candy, you have to do something!” “Do it!” “Fix it!” “You have to!”

  Sterling, Abigail, and Heath form a rigid triangle around me, refusing to budge under this strange assault. I try to sort the faces surrounding me, but they become a blur of trembling lips and waving hands.

  “Get off her back!” I recognize the commanding tenor of Quentin Stokes and catch his blue eyes as they carve a little breathing room around us.

  But the pleading remains. My strange stigma has become the thing they want most from me. Like it or not, this is something I can do and if it’s going to be public knowledge, I may as well do it on purpose.

  I place my thumb and index finger between my teeth and rip one of the ear-splitting whistles I learned from Aunt Sarah. Sterling and Heath share a gasp and grab their ears. Abigail’s back stays tall.

  “All right!” I shout. “Keep your panties on. I’ll do it.”

  Handing my bag to Abigail, I ask, “Where are they?”

  “You really can’t see them?” Sterling asks, every bit as confused as I am.

  “Apparently, Mad Mary was an isolated incident.” I try not to sound bitter. I remind myself that I never wanted to see ghosts in the first place, but it feels like yet another failure, one more thing that’s out of my hands.

  “About four feet back from the windows,” Abigail answers my original question. “Mostly in a row, but a few are two deep.”

  “Thanks.”

  No one tries to stop me. I look straight at Mrs. Gwaltney and Principal Barlow, the latter of whom clearly ran to get here and is sweating and puffing around his gut, but neither of them does anything to indicate I shouldn’t walk outside in this dreadful rain.

  The cafeteria door is at the far end of the room. I walk along the front of the crowd, between the windows and tables, where I should be sitting with my food. Then, all alone, I push through the heavy door and out into the rain.

  Water slicks down my neck, cutting a cold path all the way down my spine. I’m drenched before I can draw a full breath. This is the sort of rain that obliterates the world—there’s no color but blurred grays and blues, no sound but the hammering of rain, no smell but the cold scent of water. I shield my eyes.

  Four feet back from the school, I see nothing. I imagine what everyone else must see: a line of hollow-cheeked children with ragged clothing and hungry frowns. I step forward and tell myself that the cold feeling against my neck is only the rain.

  Two deep, Abigail said some of them stood two deep, so I open my arms and try to hold my shoulders tall as I walk forward again.

  “Why can’t I see you?” I whisper as I walk. But there is no answer, only the pounding of rain and the threatening crash of thunder.

  When the lightning flashes, I catch the faces watching from the other side of the windows. Fearsomely watching, while I’m frigidly doing.

  I wonder how many dead children I’ve walked through by now. I should’ve asked someone to count, to pound on the glass when I’ve completed my duty.

  Cold seeps into my fingertips. I shouldn’t be this cold in August. I shouldn’t be starting to shiver, shiver, shiver.

  Blood pounds in my ears like rain. My arms grow heavy, my steps slow, and I begin to wonder if I will drown here in this blooming river, river, river.

  My head sings, my skin sings, my bones sing.

  A tree grows up through my legs and branches into my arms and head, all vibrating with this same, sweet melody. The tree it took her for its own, own, own; fond and jealous of her bones, bones, bones.

  My hand jerks. Pain flares briefly through my fingers. I turn toward it and there stands Gage King, drenched and frowning in the storm.

  “Candace,” he has to shout to be heard. “Candace!”

  “What?” I shout.

  “Are you okay?”

  Now I frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He sweeps one arm out, gesturing to the flooded field in which we stand, and then to the school very far away at the top of the hill. I have no memory of walking down that hill. None whatsoever.

  He sees the confusion in my face and with a tug of my hand begins to walk. Not toward the school, but toward the student parking lot. Our feet sink deeper and deeper into the pummeled field as we splash toward firmer ground.

  Gage leads us to a car I’d recognize as a dense black Mustang in any rain. He hits the automatic locks and I climb into the passenger seat as fast as possible. He turns the keys in the ignition, but only to blast the heat. Only a fool would try to drive anywhere in a deluge like this.

  He offers me a towel.

  “I just have the one,” he says as an apology. “We’ll have to share.”

  He’s as soaked as I am, all clothing plastered against his skin. It’s kind of him to offer me first go at the towel and I’m in no mood to play the “who’s more polite” game. I take the towel and use it to pat my face, squeeze my hair, and do a quick, hopefully surreptitious nipple check.

  “Thanks,” I say, returning the towel and angling the heater vents more directly at my chest. “No offense, but why are you here and not Saucier or Beale?”

  He laughs once. “Right after you left, Principal Barlow forced everyone away from the door and back to class. I saw your little posse caught right up front.”

  “And you came after me because . . . ?”

  This time he doesn’t laugh. “You walked through that whole line of ghost kids and they vanished the second you touched them. I was at the far end of the cafeteria. I could see your face the whole time and right at the end, you sort of blanked out and wandered off.” He pauses, remembering to pat himself dry with the towel. “I was worried.”

  Blanked out. That’s not how it felt. But if he hadn’t come after me, who knows where I’d be by now? “Thanks,” I mutter.

  The car warms up fast and even though the windshield is fogging like the river, Gage turns the wipers on full. They do nothing against the storm except remind us it’s the victor in this situation.

  Gage sits angled toward me, water soaking into the black cloth of the seat and smoothing his not-from-around-here henley against his chest.

  Everything about this car is slick. The dash and dials are all polished like gems, I spot three pair of black sunglasses placed strategically around the cabin, each more battered than the last, and Gage rests his hand casually on the steering wheel as though the car is a beast that requires his touch to keep calm. It’s magazine slick, James Bond slick, against the laws of decency slick.

  “You guys really do rain down here. These storms don’t mess around.” He peers through the windshield before flipping the wipers off, convinced they’re useless.

  “I thought you were from Washington. Doesn’t it rain all the time there?”

  “Yes, but not like this. It’s more of a committed drizzle. Just enough to make you question if you were supposed to be born a fish.” A smile creeps up one cheek. “You’ve been checking up on me?”

  “Due diligence,” I say, leaning toward the heat vents. I’m warming up, but not fast enough. Grateful as I am to be somewhere dry, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be here. I should be somewhere quiet and alone, where I can think str
aight thoughts about whatever keeps happening to my head.

  “You okay?” Gage asks after a minute.

  “I’m just kind of confused.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Gage speaks against the rain. In comparison his voice is musical.

  “Not really.”

  Lightning flashes through the downpour a second before thunder vibrates the car. Gage taps the wheel with his index finger and studies me. I study him right back and feel the chill drain right out of my bones.

  “Me, either,” he says. “But I like you, so I think we should.”

  I’m floored by his honesty. I nod. This thing exists between us and there’s no getting around it so we might as well barrel through.

  “You don’t see them. Ghosts.” It’s a statement, not a question. Like Nova, he seems to know more than the rest of Sticks combined.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. No, I suppose, but I saw the one behind your house, so I must just get spotty reception or something.”

  “You saw that woman?” His confusion suggests a wealth of knowledge I’d really like to have. “That’s good.”

  “What? Why?” My questions and frustrations mount with equal speed.

  “There’s something here we need,” he responds, casually ignoring my questions. “And when we find it, my father will take it. He won’t have a choice.”

  Immediately, I think of Nova’s questions about the source. He’s talking about the everblooming cherry tree.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because my mother is very sick,” he says simply.

  The storm fills the silence that follows. Gage fills nothing except his lungs, breathing in and out while his fingers tighten against the steering wheel. I want to put my hand on his and ease his pain, but it feels intrusive.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “My dad thinks you know something,” he blurts, leaning forward with one hand now braced on the seat above my shoulder. “He and Nova.”

  I start to nod, but he cuts me off again.

  “Don’t tell him anything,” he says, and now his hands grip my shoulders.

  “But—”

  “No. Don’t tell him anything. Don’t tell her anything. Don’t tell me anything. Just . . . don’t, Candace, please,” he pleads.

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  He breathes a sigh of relief. “Good,” he says.

  But before he relaxes too much, I add, “Then you have to tell me something. Tell me what you know. Tell me why what I know is such a big deal.”

  “I can’t,” he says, remorseful but unbending.

  “Then tell me something. Give me a reason to trust you.”

  The look on his face hovers somewhere between regret and defiance when he says, “You shouldn’t.”

  I can’t believe how accepting he is of this, how cowardly it is to simply warn me away as though that’s enough. If you see someone moving down a dangerous path, you don’t tell them that the signs are unreliable, you tell them that the road ends in water or fire or ghosts. The thing he doesn’t seem to get is this: if he blocks my way on this path, I’ll just make another because I’m not afraid.

  But I guess he is.

  “No problem,” I say, thrusting the door open amid a cathartic rumble of thunder. And this time, I leave him and walk out under the roaring sky.

  15

  THE NEXT MORNING, I WAKE to find five texts from folks asking me to please come banish a ghost from their bedroom/shed/kitchen/truck/pants. The last is from none other than Quentin Stokes and it, at least, makes me laugh. The rest, I ignore.

  At school, people no longer look at me like I might banish them with a touch. Now they look at me like I’ve become a superhero, which is better but too pandering for my taste. People expect things from superheroes, they feel entitled to their gifts and powers, and they’ll turn on them in a heartbeat if they don’t have full access to them. Well, to that, I say no, thank you very much! I’d much rather be the girl I was before. The one people gossiped to and listened to, the one who controlled the crowd and not the other way around.

  I spend all of Wednesday brushing off any compliments about my superpowers with a laugh, a flip of my hair, and a roll of my eyes. Anything to suggest it’s no big deal and maybe anybody could do it if they’d just try. Sterling and Abigail prop me up, but I know they’re worried. Hell, I’m worried, I just don’t know what to do about it.

  Thursday morning, I wake to the surprising news that school is closed. It doesn’t take long to find out the reason is that Featherhead Fred was driving through town not long after volleyball ended on Wednesday evening when he encountered an entire regiment of the Confederate Army marching down the road. He was bleary-eyed and spooked and he swerved to avoid hitting them. His efforts took him right smack into the side of Sticks High.

  Sterling, Abigail, and I decide to use the day to our advantage and do as little as possible. They arrive midmorning and we spend our time listening to Abigail’s music, painting our nails, and trying not to talk about anything related to ghosts.

  Around noon, we hit up Nanny for some sweet tea and take a leisurely stroll through wilting backyards to her house at the edge of my own neighborhood. It’s nothing fancy, but a respectable brick house on twenty-seven acres including one small pond, one abused trampoline, and our beloved family graveyard. The good thing about Nanny’s house being so large is that it’s easy to slip in and out without ever being seen. And with her legendary sweet tea waiting in the fridge, the risk is always worth it.

  When we emerge from our shortcut through the woods, there’s a shiny red pickup truck in the driveway, bleeding in the sunlight.

  “What’s Old Lady Clary doing here?” Sterling wonders aloud.

  “She and Nanny have started swapping gossip,” I answer.

  It’s actually a good thing. Having company at this time of day means Nanny’s likely to be on the front porch or in the sitting room at the front of the house. If we go in through the back porch, we’re good as golden.

  We’ve done this a hundred times over the years. Sterling and Abigail know as well as I do where to step and how to avoid being seen. We switch our phones to silent, ditch our shoes on the porch, and slip inside like the thieves we are, walking on the balls of our feet. Abigail reaches for three glasses while I ease the fridge door open and grab the pitcher of tea. Sterling creeps up to the corner where the kitchen wraps around to the foyer and flaps her hands to indicate that the grannies are inside and not on the front porch.

  We move as quickly as absolute silence allows, but Old Lady Clary’s voice travels just far enough to be heard as she says, “Something’s wrong with Candace.”

  The girls heard it, too, and for a second our eyes connect. An impulse flashes through me, to scream and stop Nanny from sharing my secret with the town megaphone, to rush the girls from this kitchen so I can be the one to tell them, but instead, I freeze.

  “Don’t you blame my granddaughter for this, Ida Clary.” Nanny’s voice rises to meet Old Lady Clary’s.

  The adrenaline rushing through my ears gives way to curiosity. There’s no chance we’re leaving now.

  We set our glasses on the island countertop and move farther into the kitchen, where we’ll be close enough to hear better but still hidden from view.

  “I know it ain’t her fault, but you know as well as I do what she is.”

  “That clap is your business, not mine. Candace is just a girl like any other.”

  Old Lady Clary makes a noise I can only call a scoff. “You know that isn’t true. Do you think it’s coincidence that these ghost sightings are following in her wake?”

  My mouth falls open as I realize she’s right. All the real ghost sightings have occurred in places I’ve been or been recently—Calhoun Creek, my birthday party, the Flying J, the locker room, the Kings’ house, and the list only goes on from there.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Ida,” Nanny says the same way she might warn Carol or Irene aw
ay from fresh cookies.

  But Old Lady Clary’s not intimidated. She continues right on. “You know how I can tell who’s telling a true story and who’s callin’ the dog? Because Candace was present right before each of the real sightings—behind the school, twice at the racetrack, and in the field by the Stokes’ house where the kids like to—”

  “Stories! And nothing to them but imagination,” Nanny cuts in.

  “You of all people should know better, Margery Craven. Kids could have been hurt if Fred’s accident had happened even an hour earlier, and Candace can stop all of this.”

  That sends a shock through the three of us. Most of all me. Old Bat Clary must be drinking more than tea to think I can do a blessed thing about these ghosts. How can I do anything about ghosts I can’t see? It must shock Nanny, too, because all is quiet for about a solid minute.

  “How, do you reckon?” Nanny asks begrudgingly.

  “That, I’m afraid, is still a mystery to me. But she’s the Shine Child. She’s the only one of us who can do something.”

  Sterling throws her hands up and rages silently for a moment. She finds Old Lady Clary a source of pure frustration, but really the answer isn’t surprising. Old Lady Clary is two parts mystery and grandeur and one part mysterious shrugs and coffee. She and Sterling have a history of unanswered questions.

  “Then you leave my granddaughter out of it, hear me? Until you have something useful to say, you leave Candace alone.”

  We hear the creak of a chair as Nanny stands up to bid Old Lady Clary a good afternoon, and with that, we steal through the kitchen to collect our sweating glasses of sweet tea and retreat through the back porch.

  From the front of the house, we hear Old Lady Clary’s truck rev and drive away. We cross the yard and climb into the sagging cradle of the old trampoline to drink our somewhat tainted rewards.