Connor continues. “Mind if I ask what’s going on?”
One of the officers clears his throat. “They found Monica Jackson’s”—my stomach lurches into my throat—“shirt. They found a piece of her work shirt in the woods out behind the park.”
I swallow air and heave. Connor’s hand finds my elbow and squeezes firmly, but not too firmly. “But they didn’t find her?” he confirms.
The officer looks back at him soberly. “No, they didn’t find her.”
The mood inside the Canteen is subdued; people are huddled together over tables, whispering, their arms wrapped around each other, the occasional shoulders shuddering with muffled sobs. Connor and I grab our grease-laden food and make our way to our—I think I can call it ours now—usual table. Cynthia is there, along with a few other green shirts I vaguely recognize, but they all shove over to make room for Connor and me.
“Did you hear?” Cynthia says. She isn’t talking to me or Connor. She’s talking to the table. “They found her shirt.”
“It doesn’t mean anything, Cyn,” Connor says, but his voice is rough and even I can tell he doesn’t mean what he says.
Cynthia throws her arms on the table, rattling all our trays. One of the girls across from me jumps and her eyes fill with tears, but Cynthia doesn’t seem to notice. “It doesn’t mean anything?” she says. “Tell me, then, oh wise one, how finding Monica’s shirt after she’s been missing over three weeks can possibly be anything but bad.”
“She could have…” Connor’s mouth hangs open. I can practically see the cogs in his head turning. “She could have…”
“She could have been running and had to slip out of her shirt to escape.” I swoop in like the roller coaster overhead, which roars in agreement as it shakes the floor beneath our feet. “Someone grabbed her, but she broke free and ran. These shirts practically glow in the dark; she knew she’d never be able to outrun him or hide in it, so she ripped it off and ran.”
Connor is looking down at me with something like awe. My cheeks burn, but I don’t look away from Cynthia. “So finding her shirt doesn’t mean anything,” I finish. “She could still turn up. You can’t lose hope.” The words feel tacky and wrong in my mouth, but I let them go anyway.
“I just don’t think you’re being realistic,” Cynthia grumbles, but her fingers curl out of their fists, and she shoves a fry into her mouth. She chews hard, like the french fry’s done her some great personal affront.
“I just don’t think you should assume things,” I say. “You know what they say: it’s better to be missing than dead.”
“People keep telling me that,” Cynthia says. That fills me with relief. “People” is more than one. “People” means others besides Katharina.
“Imagine what Monica will say when she turns up again and she hears what you’ve been saying.” Connor reaches across the table and grabs one of Cynthia’s fries, earning a swat. I don’t know why he needs to steal hers; he has plenty of his own. “She’ll be so insulted.”
“I hope so,” Cynthia says fervently. Her eyes are shiny.
She’s able to sit with us for only a few more minutes before she’s called back to work by a crackly “Code eight” over the radio clipped to her belt. She quickly excuses herself as Connor mutters in my ear. “ ‘Code eight’ means attempted burglary,” he says. “Probably some kid caught pocketing an action figure.”
The other green shirts have to leave not long after, and soon enough it’s just me and Connor at the table. Our table. “That was great, Scarlett,” he says. “Way to go.”
“What are you talking about?” I snatch one of his fries. He deserves it.
“That story you spun for Cynthia,” he says. “I thought she was going to have a meltdown, but you pulled her back up and saved the day.”
“Saved the day,” I say. “You make me sound like Skywoman.”
“Trust me, if the other kids on the south side knew what you just did, they’d be worshipping you like that weird cult of cheerleader boys who always seem to pop up when Skywoman does something heroic,” he says. I know what he’s talking about. Whenever Skywoman vanquishes the Blade or rescues an innocent civilian from a pit of sharks or encroaching spikes or a stampede of rampaging wildebeests (or, on one memorable occasion, all three), there’s this crowd of devoted fans, all male, who pop up and swoon, hearts exploding from their anime eyes. I think it’s supposed to be a play on girl groupies, but honestly, it creeps me out. I mean, they all look the same.
Connor continues, “An upset Cynthia makes everybody miserable.”
It’s kind of exciting, warming almost, to be the source of something helpful. Maybe this would happen more if I talked to people more often. “Well, I’m glad I could help her, I guess,” I say.
“You didn’t just help Cynthia,” Connor says. He’s staring intently at his fries, and I wonder if he’s afraid I’m going to try to steal more. “You helped me, too. I’ve…I guess I’ve kind of been losing hope too.”
“Did you know her well?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Pretty well, I guess,” he says, and peeks at me through a coppery fringe. “We weren’t friends, really, but we worked together for two years. And she and Cady were practically best friends. Besties?”
I don’t want to talk about Cady. I want to talk about anything other than Cady, actually. I’d rather talk about Pixie.
No, self. Don’t go that far. “I’m sorry,” I say. “If she was best friends with your girlfriend, you must have known her pretty well anyway.”
“Cady’s not my girlfriend,” he says immediately. “She…no, forget it.”
“No, what?” I say, too quickly. I am failing at casualness. I am the opposite of casual. Fancy. No, I’m not that, either. But seriously, I saw them kissing. Katharina said they’d been together for two years. Something isn’t right.
He sighs. “I loved Cady, and some part of me will always love her, but I fell out of love with her a while ago,” he says. He’s barely even moving his lips. “I knew we’d have to break up, but I put it off because I still care about her, a lot, and I’d really miss her.”
“I get it,” I say. My whole body thumps in tune with my heart. “Plus, you work together.”
“Exactly,” he says. “But I finally got up the courage to do it a few weeks ago, right before Monica went missing, and we went for a walk and I…broke up with her, and we both cried and it was as awful as I thought it would be, but I was still relieved.” He pauses and licks his lips. “I knew it had to be done. And then we got back to Cady’s house, and we found out about Monica. That she’d gone missing. And so I stayed there with Cady for a while and let her cry on me, and then I left, and she was texting me and calling me and everything like usual. And it doesn’t feel like anything has changed. I’m not sure if it has, for her.” He’s squinting at the table like it’s a treasure map.
“You’re saying that she just…forgot you broke up with her?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think she forgot. I think that with everything going on with Monica, with all the grief coming from that, she just…decided to ignore it.”
“But she can’t ignore it,” I say heatedly—probably too heatedly. I take a mental step back. Casual. Stay casual. “Can’t you remind her?”
Connor sighs again, and I try not to imagine the way his breath would feel brushing against my ear. “I did, once, but it didn’t change anything. Her best friend just went missing,” he says. “We both know the relationship is over, but I don’t want to be cruel to her. She needs me.”
I need you. “You’re a good person,” I say. Better than me.
He looks me straight in the eye. “It’s just that—” His radio crackles, and we both jerk in surprise. “Sorry. One second.” It crackles again, someone—a robot, perhaps—saying something indistinguishable, but he frowns, and the crease between his eyebrows deepens. “They want me back,” he says. “It’s difficult, Scarlett. To be so beloved.”
“I’m sur
e,” I say drily. “What were you going to say?”
He shakes his head. “I forget,” he says, and fiddles with a fry. I keep waiting for him to pop it into his mouth and put it out of its misery, but he only continues toying with it, picking it apart the way a cat plays with a mouse. “It’s just about time for us to be heading back anyway.”
We toss our food and leave the Canteen. The cops are still waiting outside; I feel suspicious eyes trained on my back, but when I turn around to check, I see the cops are looking in the opposite direction. When I turn back around and trot after Connor, though, my back still prickles.
Halfway through the secret passage, Connor’s radio crackles again, and he swears. “They’re saying they need me in the north right away.”
“Why do they need you in the north?” I say. “You work in the south.”
He doesn’t answer. “Quick. We can run back to your store and then I’ll run up to the north.” He pretends to flick sweat off his brow. “It’ll be good exercise.”
His radio crackles again, and I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t they need you right away?”
“I can walk you back,” he says, and he smiles. There’s nothing patronizing or impatient about his smile, but I can’t help feeling silly that he thinks—no, he knows—that I can’t walk the secret passage alone. Which is ridiculous. Because there are plenty of people around and it’s the middle of the day.
I don’t want Connor to think I’m a coward.
“Go,” I say, waving toward the north. “I’m fine. I can go the rest of the way by myself.”
“You sure?” he asks.
I nod vigorously, like that’s going to convince me. “It’s stupid for you to have to go all the way to the south with me and then run all the way back. I’m okay. Anyway, it’ll be nice to enjoy the fresh air without your stench getting in the way.”
His mouth falls open in mock dismay. “If I didn’t have to run, I’d so tell everybody about you, you Sky-fanatic.”
“Blackmail doesn’t become you, Mr. Wallace.”
He’s already moving backward; he’s remarkably graceful, fluid like an ice-skater. He doesn’t so much as look behind him. If I tried to walk backward without looking, I’d probably manage to walk off a cliff, and there isn’t a real cliff around here for miles. “You just wait,” he says, and then he’s gone.
I take a deep breath. There isn’t any other option but for me to walk the rest of the secret passage alone; if I go into the park, I won’t make it back to my store on time. At Five Banners, if you’re late, I’m pretty sure your supervisor is allowed to eat you, and Cynthia looked pretty hungry, even after lunch.
So I walk alone. It’s fine, I keep telling myself. Look, Scarlett, at all the people walking beside you. Listen, Scarlett, to all the tourists being cheerful on the other side of the fence. Bask, Scarlett, in the rays of the beaming sun. Bad things don’t happen in sunlight.
I conveniently ignore that I joined the club under rays of beaming sun.
I was alone then, though, and now there are people streaming around me everywhere I can see. I let myself melt into the crowd, lose my identity. It’s nice not to be Scarlett for a little while.
Until I hear “Scarlett?” that is. Then everything comes crashing back. I turn to the voice, which is coming from the open door of one of the metal buildings, and see Katharina.
I could run. I could. But I don’t.
“Scarlett?” Katharina says again. “Can you come here for a second? I want to talk to you.”
I take a step toward her but don’t go any farther. Over her shoulder I can see the inside of the shiny metal building stuffed with boxes and shelves labeled with things like T-SHIRTS, 2013 or BROKEN SNOW GLOBES, 2015. (Why in the world would Five Banners need to keep around a full box of broken snow globes?) The corrugated metal walls practically bow out with the strain of keeping all this crap inside. Everything, from the vacant-eyed old action figures to stacks of Wonderman-emblazoned light-up sneakers, is covered with a thick, plush-looking layer of dust. My eyes itch just looking at it. What in the world is she doing in there? “What is it?”
Since I’m not moving toward her, she moves toward me, closing the door behind her. “I just wanted to talk to you and apologize for what happened at the vigil,” she says. “I don’t know what I did, but I clearly did something to really freak you out.”
I don’t know what to say to that. If I say, Yes, you did, she’ll ask me what, and I’ll have to spill everything. Ask her if she’s a dead girl.
So I go for no. “I just wasn’t feeling well,” I say. “It had nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, good,” she says, though she’s still eyeing me like I’m a radio that could burst into the Wonderkidz sound track at any moment. “Melody thought I might have done something.”
“She talked to you about me?” The words burst out before I can stop them.
She shrugs. “Your sister’s a cool girl,” she says. I want to ask her why she’s so cool, what they were doing without me, when Katharina snaps her fingers. “That’s what I wanted to ask you. We should do something sometime. Are you working the night shift tomorrow?”
I might have absolved Katharina of her guilt—as far as I know—but that doesn’t mean I want to spend time with her. “I can’t,” I say. “I have a…thing.”
She cocks her head. Waves of hair flow over her shoulders. I didn’t realize a human head could grow so much hair. “Melody said you’d be free,” Katharina says. “She’s the one who suggested the three of us get together. Oh well. Another time, then.”
I perk, feeling like a dog who’s just heard the can opener click. “Melody wants to hang out?”
“Yeah,” Katharina says. “It was her idea. She thought it would be fun.”
My heart is racing. “I might be free,” I say. “I have to…check my schedule.”
“Good,” she says. “Check it and let me know.”
My heart races the whole walk back to my store, and not just because I have to run to make it there on time.
I slide into my store in the nick of time; the digital clock on my register screen tells me it’s been exactly one hour since I left. Cynthia, who’s there to take my replacement off the register and send her to cover someone else’s lunch, doesn’t even give me side-eye.
“I just ran into Katharina,” I say, making conversation as she signs me on. Maybe trying to prove I’m a normal person. “We had a normal conversation.” Way to go, ace.
Cynthia squints at the register. “That’s weird,” she says. “Katharina’s not scheduled to work today.”
My breath catches in my throat. I want to ask her if she’s sure—absolutely, positively sure—but I’m not sure I want to hear the answer. So I say nothing.
Why would Katharina be hanging out in the park, in uniform, if she’s not working?
I think it over, but it’s difficult, considering the number of distractions surrounding me.
I’m working alone in a south-side candy store today, which is both the best and the worst. For one thing, there’s no sound track, and after Wonderkidz, I can’t help but note the music (or lack thereof) every time I step foot in a new store. Also, it smells like heaven: my register is right next to the fudge counter, where rolling acres of fudge stretch toward walls lined with giant, swirly neon lollipops and strips of button candy. The store has stations where guests can fill superhero- or supervillain-shaped plastic bottles with candy sand all the shades of the rainbow.
The worst part? I’m surrounded by all this mouthwatering sugary goodness, all this fudgy, chocolatey perfume, and I’m not allowed to eat even a single tiny sliver. I’m not sure if I’d want to, honestly; flies tend to hang out on the fudge’s surface. That doesn’t stop it from smelling amazing, though.
There’s a brief burst of after-lunch sugar buying, and then the store quiets down. I should wander the store and straighten items on shelves, make sure nobody’s opened a package and left the wrapper crumpled on the ground. But
I’ve done enough cleaning for a lifetime, so I don’t think any god would penalize me for being lazy this one time. Instead, I find myself having a staring contest with the peanut butter–chocolate fudge.
“Do it.” Connor strolls in the front door. “No one will know.”
All thoughts of Katharina vanish. I gaze wistfully at the bricks of candy. “You will.”
“I don’t count,” he says. “Go. Do it. Do it. Eat it. Eat it.”
“The cameras will know too,” I say. I don’t even have to look up to know there’s a camera lens aimed right at my register, ready to document any rule breaking or idle behavior.
“Most of the cameras don’t work,” Connor says. “It was a big deal when…you know. When Monica…because the cameras were supposed to be on, but all the cameras in her store and on the way out were broken.”
“Oh,” I say. “That sucks.”
“Yeah. They’re in the process of getting them fixed, but it takes time. This one’s still on the list, since there are other cameras right outside. So go. Do it.”
I sneak another glance at the fudge. It glistens with its sheer deliciousness. “It’s stealing.”
“Delicious stealing.”
“True.” I look again at the fudge, then at the camera. “A tiny sliver would probably be okay.” I use the fudge tool to slice a tiny sliver from the end of a piece of fudge (the next guest to be rude will get the smaller piece), but Connor stops me with a touch to my elbow. Sparkles shoot up my arm to my shoulder.
“Scarlett,” he says with utter seriousness. “Go all in. Do it.”
I swallow hard. Before I can think about it, I grab the entire piece, shove it in my mouth, and chew. And choke. It’s like paste, with a note of chemical and a burny aftertaste. I scrabble for an abandoned strip of receipt paper and spit it out. “God, that’s awful,” I say. My face is squinched tight. “Are you sure that’s fudge and not rat poison?”
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