Behold the Bones

by Natalie C. Parker

So I do.

  When Riley ambushes me at my locker on Friday, things go from bad to worse. He stands there in a canvas jacket over a T-shirt and distressed jeans, his bald head made shiny by the fluorescent lights. The expression on his face lacks any of its usual aggression, which is disturbing enough, but the absolute worst thing about his appearance at my side is the fact that he’s obviously gone to some effort to clean himself. He doesn’t smell of sweat and grime, and everything from the shine of his head to the state of his fingernails looks cared for.

  He says, “Hey.”

  And that’s when I know I’m in hell.

  “What?” I respond.

  He stutters, but is inured to such mild abuse. “Once again, I’m just saying hey.”

  I regard him coolly. There’s no world in which this can be a good thing. He probably wants to hear me say “thank you” or apologize for the suspension he suffered. But there’s no reason he needs to act friendly first. I can already imagine how this will exacerbate the rumors of our unearthly courtship.

  He smiles. A genuine “I’m a nice guy” sort of smile without a hint of its signature cruelty. It makes his face look more human. In fact, it makes all his features fit together seamlessly: his wide lips are supported by a broad jawline, his nose has room to display all the tragedies his life has wrought, and his eyes are the clear blue of a swimming pool.

  As I consider whether they’ve always been so blue, they crinkle in amusement and I experience a sinking sensation as I realize how deeply entranced I’ve been by Riley’s eyes.

  “What?” I say. Again.

  His chuckle is self-satisfied. “I just asked if you caught any shit for Monday. At home, or anything.”

  He was thinking about me? He was worried about me? The thought throws me off my game.

  As far as fights go, I got off easy. No visible bruises to explain or attempt to cover with makeup. The worst blow I took was in my gut and if anyone saw me naked they’d know it was given with malice, but the only person who sees me naked is me.

  “Oh, um, no. No shit on my end. You?”

  I regret the question immediately. Riley’s been catching shit at home for ages whether he did anything to earn it or not. His answer is a rehearsed shrug, a darkening of the eyes, and an involuntary clench of the fists. There’s a brick wall between us where before there was a freakish field of daisies and sunshine and eyes a perfect watercolor blue.

  “Well, thanks,” I say, suddenly eager to smooth things over. “It wasn’t necessary, but thanks.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He leans away, then with a smirk adds, “Candy Cane.”

  A second passes before it registers that the nickname didn’t bother me. Two seconds pass before it registers that people are watching me. And a whole three seconds pass before I’m witty enough to wipe the smile from my face.

  Lord save me from myself.

  By the end of the day I feel like getting a tattoo or piercing my skin or drinking my weight in Old Lady Clary’s hooch. Something, anything as long as it’s destructive. There’s only one of those I can get away with in the long run, so I needle Red to get one of his legal friends to buy me a bucket of booze until he relents. It only costs me a promise to come over and clean the bathroom in the trailer. He wanted the kitchen, too, but gave me a pass on account of giving Quentin Stokes more love than he gave me.

  Clary hooch is the strongest stuff around that won’t make you go blind. Grandpa Craven loved it and that’s why it’s been the drink of choice on my birthday for as long as I can remember. It’s illegal as sin, but the last person in Sticks likely to do anything about it is our very own Sheriff Felder. The story is that the Felder family owes the Clarys a life-debt that goes back to the very early days of Sticks’s history.

  So when she cooks up batches of corn liquor, he looks the other way.

  And I get a mason jar of crystal-clear delirium to help me unremember this week.

  The list of friends to share it with is shorter than it should be. I try my best not to get totally lit in front of Sterling, and the temperature between Abigail and me is still frosty. There’s the B-string, but I’m not in a mood for sycophants.

  I’m also not in the mood for solitude. Sitting alone in my room while Mom and Dad fall asleep to a movie in the living room is definitely the worst way to end this week. I need someone who doesn’t bore me and doesn’t adore me.

  One name occurs to me. It might not be a smart name, but she’s the closest thing to an ally I have anymore. At least with her, I know where I stand. And maybe she has more information to share.

  I tap a quick text to Nova: have hooch, will travel.

  In the five minutes that pass before her response, I entertain the idea of taking this week from bad to worse and going to have a nice long heart-to-heart with the swamp. I’ve only seen the one haint. It’s the outlier, the exception to the rule that I, Candace Craven Pickens, do not do crazy. But if what Nova says is true, if the Blind Bone always has a weakness, then crazy might be very much in my future. There’s no other explanation for seeing Mad Mary Sweet and only her, for hearing her dizzying song in my mind on so many occasions. Maybe I should take my jar and go camp at the base of that damnable cherry tree until the sun rises. If insanity is going to happen, why not hasten its approach?

  It’s a horrible idea, but I can feel the resolve forming in my chest.

  I’m saved from myself by Nova’s text: pack a bag and come over. how would you like to get revenge on stokes lol.

  I can’t get to the Lillard House fast enough. In the driveway, I pause long enough to search for Gage’s Mustang. It’s the first stroke of luck I’ve had all week that it’s conspicuously missing. That probably means he’s out helping his dad harvest all the swamp stories this town has to offer, but right now, I don’t really care.

  Nova greets me with a half-full bag of chips and a tray of cupcakes.

  “I could kiss you,” I say, making myself at home in her worldly temple of a room. I kick my shoes to the corner and settle into the sleeping bag she prepared for me.

  “I wouldn’t turn you down,” she sings. “What is that?”

  I can’t help my laugh. “This is a bottle of Sticks’s finest home brew.”

  She takes the jar from my hand, wrinkling her long nose as she reads the label—a mailing label printed on the Clarys’ home machine, circa 1985. “When it’s red, you’re dead, but Clary burns clear?”

  “Moonshiner wisdom. You don’t drink any old hooch, you have to test it to make sure it’s not full of poisons. The test is simple, burn it. If the flame turns red, drink it, you’re dead. If the flame is clear, drink it, you’re still here.”

  Her grip on the bottle turns delicate. “You’re sure we should drink it?”

  “Nope,” I admit. “But I’m not in a mood for things I ‘should’ do. I won’t be offended if you keep it sober.”

  She ponders the jar in her hand. When her gaze finds me, it’s topped up with mischief.

  “Great,” I say and twist off the top.

  It doesn’t take long before my head swims in that perfect place between being able to list the presidents in chronological order and not caring when I forget Howard Taft.

  That’s when Nova springs to her feet. “Are we in a revenge-having mood?”

  It’s hard to imagine Sterling or Abigail ever indulging me like this. In our trio, I am the mastermind. Having another one around feels decadent. I willingly give her the reins. Quentin may have gotten in trouble for the fight, but I sense things between us are far from over. There’s no way I can get my secret back from him.

  “I’m in whatever kind of mood you want me to be.”

  Nova’s smile spreads like butter and before I know it, we’re outside beneath a glittering black sky.

  I should know by now that my friends will always, always lead me to the swamp. At least this time, I’m in jeans and feeling extremely agreeable. Nova leads us down her preferred path to the fence and a short ways beyond. We trip an
d giggle as the ground gets softer and softer.

  “According to Mr. Calhoun, there’s a herd of wild boar somewhereabouts,” I warn when something crashes nearby.

  “The same Mr. Calhoun who wears Velcro-strap shoes and mismatched socks?” Nova asks, skeptical.

  That makes me laugh. “Good point.”

  “Of course, with my luck recently, they’re probably wereboars who hunt young girls instead of truffles, have bad breath, and a fetish for tusks.”

  Nova pauses to give me a bewildered look.

  I shrug. “Blame it on the hooch.”

  After a few more minutes, Nova stops. All around, the swamp is settling in for autumn. A few bugs snap, but for the most part, everything is quieting down. The trees are making room for more sky, and the ground is collecting a winter coat. In my growing expertise on all things swamp, I have to admit this is my favorite excursion yet. It feels so calm, there’s almost a sense of order.

  “I just need a little bit of Shine,” she says after a few more minutes. “It’s always stronger if you can get it closer to the source.”

  I wait for the question that naturally follows that statement: Will you take me to the tree? But it doesn’t come. Progress. Maybe whatever preoccupation the Kings have with the swamp isn’t as dire as Gage implies, and Nova and I can be real friends instead of convenient ones.

  She goes through the motions of a priest blessing the host or wine. I don’t hear what she says, but for a moment, I imagine I can see what she sees—the soft, ruddy glow of Shine against the dark of the swamp. Light flashing against her skin like a cigarette. I close my eyes and see the flash against my eyelids. It flares, bright as a motion sensor.

  I imagine the swamp is carpeted in light, the brilliance of Shine carving veins and arteries through the meat of the swamp, turning the mud, the brush, and every single tree into part of its body. Every single thread leading to the same place. Every single thread searching for me. Me, the middling magician, the Mary, the mad, mad, mad me.

  None of my thoughts make sense. Tipsy. This is a serious hooch-soaked tipsy.

  I look down and find my feet are ringed in Shine. I see it. Do I see it? I stand in the black-hole center of millions of little tendrils, all thrumming with the pulse of the swamp. It fills my ears and arrests my heart, forcing it to tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump like a good little soldier.

  Nova’s voice layers over our heartbeat. “Perfect. Time to go.”

  She grips my hand in her icy one. Or is mine icy? I follow when she tugs, reluctant to leave this unique and heady sight of the swamp.

  I hear laughter—Nova’s—as she trips her way toward the fence. When I look down again, the swamp is black and thick and dull.

  We emerge into crisp air and a black sky full of stars. I feel no pain. I feel perfect as we race up the hill and climb into Nova’s car.

  There’s no way she should be driving.

  “There’s no way you should be driving,” I say.

  She presses a reassuring hand against my thigh. “I didn’t have as much as you, remember?”

  I think back. How much did we have? Not much. I’d only been in her room for a few minutes before we set out for revenge. One small glass. Each. There must have been more. But I don’t remember more, I remember being mad, mad, mad, she’s so very bad.

  My heart roars with the engine, roars like furious water filling my lungs, roars like the voice trapped beneath.

  Nova guns it down the driveway and up the side road. I open the window so the cool air can sharpen my senses and convince me that there’s nothing wrong. Because there is nothing wrong. I repeat the phrase in my head, breathing deeply.

  By the time Nova stops the car, I almost believe it. But the night swirls around my ankles like snakes.

  I am Candy Cane Pickens. No. I am Candace Marie Craven. No. I am mad, mad, mad. No.

  “Candace Craven Pickens!”

  “You okay over there?” Nova asks.

  I pinch my own thigh. Hard. It’ll bruise, but the pain is just bracing enough. The only voice in my head is my own.

  “Just psyching myself up,” I lie.

  We hop out of the car and Nova meets me at the nose. “You wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  I blink and she’s back. With Quentin Stokes.

  Behind them, I finally take a minute to notice that we’re parked in front of the Stokes’ house—a double-wide with ten cars representing as many decades parked in the yard. We’re all the way across town.

  Quentin approaches warily. Good for him. Even so, he looks dangerous in a destroyed way. He’s in a destroyed red hoodie and an equally destroyed pair of jeans. His hair, similarly, is a devastation of blond spikes, sharp as gator teeth. Beside him, Nova flashes me a devious grin. Whatever she has planned, I’m suddenly very eager.

  “What do you want?” Quentin asks, prickly.

  Nova says, “Candy’s brought you a peace offering, haven’t you, Candy?”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, but she nods meaningfully at my hands and I find I’m holding a smaller jam jar of Clary hooch. When did that happen?

  “Um, yes.” I lift the jar and offer it to Quentin. I guess I’m apologizing. “Sorry, Stokes. No hard feelings?”

  He takes the jar, as uncertain as I am about what’s happening here. “Whatever.”

  “Have a sip,” Nova urges.

  The image of four strawberry daiquiris comes to mind. The jar of moonshine glitters in Quentin’s hand. But it’s not just moonshine, it’s Wasting Shine. And I realize that this won’t be a typical revenge scenario. I weigh my curiosity against the discomfort I feel in this moment. It’s not right to use Shine against people like this, but it’ll serve Quentin right for being such a dick.

  Quentin takes a sip with a placating smile for Nova. “Great. It’s great. Now this is getting weird so . . .”

  “Not so fast.” Nova whips out her phone and begins flipping through the applications. “I have a request to make of you, Quentin Stokes.”

  “I don’t have time for this shit.”

  When he turns to go, Nova says a single word: “Obey.”

  I expect Quentin to argue, I think even he expects to argue, but as soon as his mouth opens, his expression relaxes. His eyes go glossy.

  Nova is pleased. She steps closer to Quentin and says, “Candy is going to ask you who you secretly wish you could kiss and when she does, you’re going to say Riley Wawheece and then you’re going to explain that is why you’re so jealous of her. Got it?”

  He nods.

  Nova lifts her phone, ready to film. “Your turn, Candy.”

  I think I should be horrified—I know I should—but it’s delight I feel. If not for Quentin, all of my problems would be cut in half. Or, at least in thirds, because I wouldn’t be in this gut-rotting fight with Abigail. This will feel good.

  “Stokes,” I say, briefly wondering how theatric this should be. I decide not much. Blackmail material doesn’t have to be pretty, just present. “Who do you have a crush on?”

  He shakes his head but is compelled to speak. “Riley. Riley Wawheece. But he likes you and that pisses me off.”

  “Tragic,” I say.

  The laugh that comes from Nova is teasing and sharp. She pats Quentin once on the cheek, whispers something in his ear, then trots to the car. There’s a sense of urgency now and when I look again at Stokes, I see why. A wash of emotions is dawning on his face. Whatever it is she did to him, it’s expiring.

  Just as we’re peeling down the driveway, his shouting assails the night. Nova tosses the phone into my lap. Mine, I realize. She’s made the recording on my own phone, not hers.

  As soon as we’re safe once again in Nova’s room, she raises the jar of moonshine. “Here’s to giving assholes exactly what they deserve!”

  Together we laugh and sip at the clear liquid. I’m really no better at it now than I was on my birthday. Just a sip brings tears to my eyes and tempts me to cough. It doesn’t matter. I make
it a healthy sip.

  Nova uses my moment of weakness to snatch my phone. She says, “Time to make this tragic love famous.”

  “Wait, what?” A sober feeling comes over me. “No! You can’t post that.”

  “Why not? I thought you wanted revenge.” She presses play again. “This, my friend, is what revenge looks like. If we post it, he’s ruined.”

  And suddenly, all my delight flees. I know what it’s like to have this sort of threat hanging over your head—if Sterling doesn’t go chat with Mr. King next weekend, I’ll know what it’s like to have that video posted. No way can I do this to another person.

  “It’s not only him, it’s them. Wawheece is involved now, too, and I’ve got no beef with him.” Abigail’s words ring in my mind. Posting this kind of thing would hurt her, too. Not because there’s anything wrong with boys loving boys or girls loving girls, but because using the video like this implies that there is.

  I get it. Exactly what Abigail was trying to say to me. I get it and I wish to high heaven that alone was enough to repair the damaged bridge between us.

  I say, “Look, you may not have spent a lot of time in the South, but this is the sort of thing that’ll bring hell down on those boys. The fact that Stokes knows I have it is more than enough.” This video ensures that Stokes won’t tell a soul about my reproductive issues. My secret is safe, I had a little fun, and that’s more than I expected to get out of this. “We have to delete it.”

  We sit in the small pool of light cast by her bedside lamp. It pushes shadows up the walls, where they fill every crevice of her Venetian masks, making them sinister.

  “Here’s the thing, Candy, I want something from you.” Now Nova smiles and her face shifts from playful to dangerous. She holds my phone close to her.

  “What?” Shock brings me to my feet. “Give me my phone.”

  The room tilts ever so slightly. I panic. Either I’m tipsy, or about to blank out for a tremendously awkward hour. Focus, Pickens.

  “Sure.” Nova tosses her head, making the feather by her ear flutter. “Take me to the tree and I will.”

  “No.”

  “Take me to the tree, or I post this video.”