by S.A. Bodeen
He would not have let the sun set on Friday without talking to me.
So was it Saturday? Had to be.
When Billy couldn’t reach my cell, he would have called my house and talked to my mother. And Mom would have tried to call me, and then she would have gotten worried. She had all the contact information for the retreat.
The retreat!
They had already sent me part of my fee and would have absolutely flipped when I didn’t show up. Among the conference organizers, my mom, and Billy, someone had to realize something was wrong.
They would be searching for me. For my car. And they would find it.
Right?
But how far was my car from where I was now?
Maybe miles.
But Flute Girl had been barefoot. Even with soles of leather—or cloven hooves—she couldn’t have been all that far from home. Plus, if they had both dragged me to their house …
My car had to be nearby.
And as soon as anyone saw it, they’d call the police. And they would come looking for me.
“They’ll find my car.” I breathed out, trying to relax. “And then they’ll find me. They will.”
Outside a motor started up. Gravel crunched, and a vehicle drove by the window. The sound disappeared. I rolled to my right, sat up, and slid off the bed onto my feet, careful to avoid the broken plate. I gimped over to the door and pressed my ear against it. Music and canned laughter drifted down from above, one of those dumb kid shows on television. A chair scraped.
I stood up straight. Mrs. Dixon left Flute Girl home alone?
A door slammed. Then nothing.
I went back to the bed and sat down, perusing the mess of spaghetti and broken china that lay scattered on the green floor. I sighed. I still didn’t feel like cleaning up. I leaned over. Maybe some of those noodles were still edible.…
A door slammed overhead.
I sat back up.
Quick footsteps covered the floor above and came down the creaky stairs.
I slid off the bed and went over to the door. I pressed my ear to it. “Hello?”
Someone was definitely there. Probably that little freak Flute Girl, messing with me.
Click!
I stepped back, waiting.
The door opened. A small brown cardboard box slid to a stop in front of me as the door slammed.
Click!
I carefully knelt by the box. With the makeshift sling holding my shoulder immobile, my movements didn’t hurt as much as they had at first. Or maybe I was adjusting to the constant pain.
Without touching the box, I did a close examination. The edges of the top were tucked snugly together, but there wasn’t any tape. With a few fingers of my right hand, I nudged the box.
What was that sound? I bent over the box.
A buzz. Definitely a buzz.
“Oh my God.” Flute Girl had brought me my phone! I smiled and murmured, “I take back everything I said about that little jack wagon.” I sat down and pushed the box between my two legs, anchoring it. “Don’t hang up, don’t hang up!” I slipped the fingers of my right hand under the edges in the middle and pulled. The top of the box flopped open all at once, freeing the four angry bees that had been trapped inside.
Two flew straight for my face. I screamed and waved my hand at them. I kept screaming, first because of what my hysterical flailing was doing to my shoulder, but then because of the sting in my right hand as one nailed me.
I kicked the box away and fell back on the floor, then rolled over and painfully crawled to the wall. I got myself upright and leaned against it, legs out straight.
I’d been stung. And I was allergic.
I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen. The first and only time I’d been stung was when I was far too little to remember. But when I was ten and put up a fuss about wearing my MedicAlert bracelet, my mother told me, “You nearly died. It was the only time I have ever seen your father cry.”
As I leaned there against the wall, a wave of heat coursed over my entire body, like I’d stepped into a furnace. The sting on my hand was already a blister about the size of a quarter. My heart began to race—was it because of my freak-out? Or was an elevated heart rate part of the allergic reaction?
A second later, my breathing grew rapid and shallow.
I screamed, “Help! Please!”
My vision swirled a bit, and my heartbeat sped up even more. I shut my eyes for a moment. “Calm down, calm down.” When I opened them, my hand was red and swollen, already a third larger than my other hand. I tried yelling again. “Somebody! Please!”
My throat felt funny. Tickly. I swallowed once, and then tried again, but a knot thickened there, partially blocking my swallows. And it began to hamper my breathing.
Click!
The door opened. Flute Girl stood there, wearing a dirty gray Mickey Mouse shirt and a nasty grin on her face.
I managed to spit out a whisper. “You little bitch.”
She shrugged and backed out, shutting the door.
Click!
I tried to get my feet under me, possibly stand up. But my legs trembled and wobbled, then gave out. I collapsed onto my right side. The four bees lazily circled overhead as I lay there.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Nasty suckers probably wondered how long it would take for me to die.
My breaths turned to wheezes, high pitched. My lips and nose tingled.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Vaguely, I caught the crunch of tires on gravel.
I squeezed in a breath, which only half entered my oxygen-starved body.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
A door slammed.
I squeezed in another breath. It felt like a fourth of the air I needed.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Faint voices murmured overhead.
I breathed again. Tried anyway. Barely any air that time.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Click!
The door swung open.
“Oh, balls.” Mrs. Daryl Dixon stood there, staring at me.
I reached up a hand to her, with only enough breath for one word:
“Epi.”
She whirled around and disappeared, leaving the door open.
Oh, would that I had enough energy to do something about that …
I closed my eyes and rolled flat on my back.
Calm down, calm down.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Breathe.
Innnnnnnn.
Ouuuut.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Innnnn.
Ouut.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
In—
In—
In—
That one caught.
No more breaths.
And no more air.
My eyes snapped open, my mouth shutting and closing like a pathetic guppy. I was a fish, stranded on the beach, aching for water.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
How apropos, that the bees’ mindless droning was about to sing me out of existence. I had breathed my last and was going to die sprawled on the floor of a strange basement. My gaze darkened around the edges as my eyes brimmed with tears. As much as I wished for air, my lungs remained empty.
No one would ever know what happened to me.
Bzzz.
A blurry face, leaning over me. Mrs. Dixon was back, brandishing the EpiPen I kept in my purse.
In case she had no clue where to administer the shot, I clumsily reached out the fingers of my left hand, bending my wrist that way as much as the sling would allow, trying to motion to my thigh.
My eyes closed, tears squeezing out.
Bzz.
I tried, once more, a last-ditch effort for air.
But my paralyzed diaphragm refused, my locked-up throat denied me. I was done. My parents would never know what happened to me. Rory would go on and kiss some other girl before me. All of my dreams were done.
Bzz—
But there was no air to cry out with the pain.
Seconds passed. Seconds I didn’t have.
The pain from the shot gradually receded as the fist clenching my chest began to loosen.
I gasped my first ragged breath.
Bzzzz.
Another breath came, then another, each marginally less raspy and laborious and painful than the first. I began to hope, to believe in the possibility that—for the time being—I would not be dying after all.
My eyes opened.
Mrs. Dixon squatted a few feet away from me, her forehead scrunched up. Was she actually worried about me? She noticed my open eyes and blew out a breath. Relief?
Bzzzzzz.
As I lay there, slowly coming back from my near-death experience, she rolled up a magazine.
I dropped my head to the side. She stalked the bees, slamming the magazine down. I imagined their bodies crushed, innards oozing out. They’d get no sympathy from me.
I set my swollen right hand on my chest, relaxing as it rose up and down, calming more as my breaths grew deeper and stronger.
Mrs. Dixon should have been worried. Kidnapping was one thing. But having your kid murder someone? That was something else entirely.
The buzzing finally stopped. She tossed the magazine on the table and walked back over to me.
I wasn’t sure if I had the power of speech yet, but I had to try. My voice was soft and shaky, but still audible. “She tried to kill me.”
Mrs. Dixon shrugged. The casual gesture implied she couldn’t give a crap. But the tightness of her arms to her sides betrayed her. She had been scared, perhaps still was. Yet she tried her best to seem uncaring as she held her chin high. “Well, now I saved you. So that makes us even.”
Even? What was she thinking? Even if I had wanted to speak, there were no words.
She pointed. I couldn’t see exactly where, but knew exactly what she meant when she said, “And you’d better clean that up or you won’t be getting any more food.”
Then she walked out and slammed the door.
Click!
That was it? I could have died on her watch, and that was it?
Lacking the power to yell anything after her, I simply raised my red, swollen right hand. As viciously as my zapped, anaphylactically shocked body would allow, I snapped up my middle finger.
{6}
EXHAUSTED FROM THE ordeal of almost checking out for good, I couldn’t do anything but lie there, my right cheek on the green indoor/outdoor carpet. In addition to all my previous aches and pains and bruises, there was a new laundry list of afflictions:
My face was hot and sweaty.
My thigh ached from the EpiPen assault.
I was still not entirely convinced that each breath would not be my last.
My stung hand throbbed and resembled a swollen, misshapen claw.
I remained on the floor, listening to the hubbub upstairs as Mrs. Dixon yelled at Flute Girl.
“What were you thinking? What do you think would happen if she had died? What would we have done then?”
Despite my current state of misery, I managed to smile a bit. The little freak came across as ignorant, but was she? I didn’t think so. She knew exactly what she was doing. And exactly what would happen.
The whole thing was planned.
Flute Girl not only had to find a box, but she had to capture the bees and wait until her mom left. So Flute Girl absolutely did know right from wrong. At least, enough to know that her mother would not have approved. A sociopath was conniving and deceitful. A psychopath was sinister and violent. One of the differences was that a psychopath lacked remorse.
Flute Girl definitely had the cunning of one and the proactive cruelty of the other. Remorse? That would be the true test. I’d have to wait and see if I was dealing with a future monster or just a child who didn’t have her moral compass screwed on right.
Mrs. Dixon kept yelling. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
There were certainly some suggestions floating around in my woozy, pissed-off head.
I groaned and managed to sit up. I leaned back against the wall and bent my knees. Carefully, I tucked in my slung-up arm and set my right elbow on my knee, elevating my stung hand as much as the pain would allow. Maybe that would help reduce the swelling.
“Don’t you dare go near her again! Understand?”
I found myself slightly comforted by the fact that Mrs. Dixon was at least bothered that I might have died.
So she didn’t want that to happen. Me neither.
I needed that not to happen.
I had to stay rational, organized. Flute Girl was obviously aware of my allergy, which meant that she had read the back of my MedicAlert bracelet. And Mrs. Dixon knew exactly where my EpiPen was, which meant she had done an inventory of my purse.
Had she spent my money? Used my credit cards?
If my mom or anyone tried to trace my whereabouts, they’d be certain to check that. I hoped she was stupid enough to use my cards.
What really gave me the willies was what these two lunatics could find out about me. My journal was in a secret pocket of the custom carry-on that had been in the trunk of my car. If they found it, they would know a lot more about me than anyone else knew, except maybe Rory.
I was so careful about what I revealed to my fans. Bloggers constantly interviewed me for this or that, but I managed to give them enough to keep everyone satisfied without giving them too much. And I blogged myself. Social media was a requirement for authors.
Honestly, when hundreds of people commented on my posts, it was a total ego boost. But there was so much I kept for myself. Rory was the only one I told everything to. Nearly everything.
Part of me was afraid that the readers wouldn’t like the real me. I put on a good show, of course: Successful teenage author has the world by the proverbial balls.
If they only knew how insecure I really was about everything except writing. Which was why, at first, I didn’t tell Rory quite everything.
For a long time, he had no idea that he was not only my first boyfriend, but also my first friend. From kindergarten to eighth grade, I’d attended a small charter school that billed itself as unique, different from the local public school. With all the bullying in public schools, it found a publicity niche: a kinder, gentler environment.
What a load of crap.
The first day of kindergarten, I wore black Mary Janes, a black-and-white-striped T-shirt, denim skirt, and perfect lacy black-and-white-striped socks. Mom did my hair in one long braid down my back, almost like a tail. Maybe the braid was the mistake. Or maybe it was the shirt. Most probably the black and white.
I didn’t know. How could I? I was five.
I simply wanted everything to be perfect.
Every day when my mom went to work, the last thing she did was walk into a cloud of perfume. So I sneaked into her room, plucked a bottle off the bureau, and spritzed several pumps of perfume in the air, walking through the mist, turning, and walking through again.
“Olivia!” Mom took the perfume out of my hand. “Oh, sweetie.” She smiled. “Well, at least you’ll smell nice.”
So I packed up my new pink book bag with pristine crayons and shiny safety scissors and colored pencils and everything else on the school supply list for East Cascades Charter School. I was breathless with anticipation.
My grandma had always watched me when my parents were at work, so as an only child, I hadn’t had a lot of interaction with children, other than some children of my parents’ friends. But I had been looking forward to starting school because I was smart, liked learning, and loved to read.
Above all, I desperately wanted a friend. We ran a little late that morning, and I knew there was something I’d forgotten to do as I buckled my seat belt. I told my mom, “I’m going to find a best friend today
.”
Mom smiled. “I bet you will.” When she was a lawyer, she always dressed in smart suits and heels, her dark hair in a perfect bob that required regular trips to the salon to maintain. She had no doubt that I would turn out to be smart and talented and, above all, popular.
At the circle drive at school, I hopped out and ran up to the front door. A sweet gray-haired lady introduced herself as Miss Nola and pointed me to the classroom. The soles of my Mary Janes clicked happily the entire way.
Inside the room, I stopped to take a breath. A piano stood in the corner, an art table ran across the entire back wall, and a glass fish tank sat on top of a short, squat filing cabinet. The room smelled enticing, like Elmer’s glue and finger paint.
“Olivia.” The voice was musical. Miss Molly was short for a grown-up, with a blunt red bob and freckles sprayed across her nose. To me, she was perfection. Miss Molly opened her arms, and I ran into them. “Welcome, welcome! Can you go over and put your bag in your cubby? Then find a chair in the Happy Time Circle.”
I was reluctant to leave Miss Molly’s embrace, but I bounced over to the wall across from the windows and found my name, then placed my bag on the hook. I felt a pressure between my legs and realized what I had forgotten.
I wondered if I should ask Miss Molly where to go, but she was surrounded by other children, so I skipped over to the circle of chairs and sat down next to a girl in a pink dress with short, brown hair who smiled at me. Her name tag read SAVANNA. I smiled back as I pinched my legs tightly together.
Another girl, with brown curly hair, red shorts, and a blue T-shirt, name tag bearing CECILLE, sat on the other side of the girl, as a boy sat next to me.
I didn’t know very much about boys, and I didn’t want to sit by one. He wore a red polo shirt and jeans and what looked like a smaller version of my dad’s weekend work boots. His name tag said DONNY.
Donny told me, “You stink.”
Savanna said, “That is not nice to say.”
Donny leaned closer to me and took a big sniff. He scrunched up his nose. “Well, she does. She stinks.”
I said, “It’s my mom’s perfume.”
Cecille stood up and walked over to me. She sniffed and then quickly pinched her nose shut with her fingers. “Oh, she does.”