What You Hide

by Natalie D. Richards

  “That’s when you separate from your parents, right? You’re like an adult, early. I thought there had to be awful abuse to get approved for that?”

  “At your age and in your situation, it wouldn’t be an unreasonable request. If your mother agrees to the move, it’s mostly a matter of paperwork.”

  “But emancipation only helps me. I’d leave her. And the baby.”

  She lets the line stay quiet, giving me space to let my words sink in.

  I shake my head hard, to push them away. “I can’t. She’s my mother. I love her.”

  “I know that. But I hope that there’s still room to love yourself too.”

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “What if you came here? I’ll drive you over to the Mulberry Manor myself.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “It’s almost Thanksgiving,” she says. There’s a softness to her voice now. A warmth I don’t remember from before. “I don’t like the idea of you out there alone.”

  I laugh. “That makes two of us.”

  “Will you at least think about it?”

  I promise I will before I hang up, but I’m not sure it’s the truth. Before I knew my mother had called there, I thought maybe I could convince her to let me stay at the shelter. Just for the night. I could call my mother and check in. Maybe come up with a plan.

  But if Mom called Ruth, then they definitely called the police. I don’t even know what that means. Could I get in trouble for leaving home? Am I breaking some kind of law?

  I tap the phone against my shoulder while I think. It’s been too long since I checked in with my mom. She’ll be worried about me, and I don’t want that.

  “Can I make one more call?”

  “You make as many as you need.”

  In that instant, she is more than a girl with a tattoo behind her ear. She is a girl who heard enough of that conversation to snap her out of her haze. There’s a hardness to her face that makes me think she’s angry, but not at me. Maybe for me.

  I dial my mother’s number with shaking fingers. Charlie won’t like the unknown number, but Charlie can bite me. I have to try to tell her about Billie. I have to try one last time. To keep the baby safe, if nothing else.

  Her number rings seven times. I’m sure it’s going to voice mail when the line clicks.

  “Hello?”

  It is not my mother.

  Charlie’s voice is a cold shock, stiffening my spine. My grip tightens on the phone, the blood draining out of my face. I open my mouth, but nothing comes. My voice is trapped inside of my throat.

  I have to hang up. I should have hung up already.

  “Hello?” he says again, his voice different. It sounds like he’s working on a problem, but I don’t want him to solve our problem.

  I move my thumb to the button to end the call, the speaker away from my ear. But his voice scrapes through the speaker again, tinny and distant.

  “Mallory, is that—”

  I end the call before he finishes. I hand the phone back with shaking hands and thank the girl, who barely acknowledges me. Whatever fleeting connection we shared is gone.

  The door shuts behind me with a soft whump, and the darkness stretches out. It’s 8:17 p.m. so I need to hurry. I already know where I’m going, and I’m not afraid of repeating the walk.

  The dark street and the bridge stretch before me, but I don’t care. I’m not thinking about strange cars and scary men when I set out. I guess there’s not much that scares me more than the man on the other end of that phone call.

  • • •

  It’s twenty minutes till closing when I get back to the library. This time, I take every possible precaution to avoid winding up on camera. I walk in right behind a large man and slip behind the front displays so the circulation staff won’t see me.

  Before, staying in the library didn’t feel scary. But now my mother is looking for me. Mrs. Keller knows my name. And there’s someone else here—someone the police are looking for. Spencer said they’d bring in dogs after the holiday, but maybe something changed.

  This could be a bigger risk than I know.

  As risky as turning myself in to Mulberry Manor, where they’ll call and try to twist my mom’s arm into letting me stay, regardless of what Charlie would do? I don’t know anymore. Maybe Ruth is right about thinking about myself.

  But if I let go of my mother, does that mean Charlie wins?

  Nothing but hard choices are around me, and maybe that’s why this one was easy. It’s better than the Suds and Fluff. Especially since being here makes me feel close to Spencer.

  I use the bathroom trick again, but weirdly, the lights don’t go out after the closing announcements. With my phone still dead I don’t know the time, but the soft murmur of voices outside goes on and on. God, I wish they would stop talking and go home.

  My legs cramp from being folded up so long, my feet going numb on the toilet seat. I crouch as long as I can, finally propping my legs on one of the stall walls. It’s an improvement, but it’s not a solution. I need to get up and move.

  I can’t stay in here forever.

  What on earth is taking them so long? A meeting before they close for the holiday?

  Sweat beads drip down the back of my neck, and my shoulders ache from my backpack straps. I listen with my eyes closed and my senses on high alert. I’m almost certain the voices are coming from the lobby area, and that doesn’t make sense. No one would hang out in the lobby this close to a holiday, would they?

  Unless it’s a radio. Or—God—it’s the cleaning crew! They might be here early because of the holiday week. I know this pattern because I’ve listened to it before from the basement, but I’m a long way from the safety of the puppet theater.

  Okay, stop. Think it through. What’s the pattern? They clean the front, then they’ll work their way to the back and lock up when they leave through the loading dock doors.

  Which means… They’ll be in the bathroom any minute.

  My body coils like a spring. If I stay, the crew will come, and I will get caught. If I run? I don’t know. My chances aren’t good either way. My thoughts are trapped hummingbirds that flutter with my thumping heart. Eventually, the stress pulls me to my feet. Better a small chance than no chance at all.

  I slip to the door as quietly as I can, and push it open an inch to listen. Nothing changes. The radio goes on, newscasters are talking about the weather over the Midwest. I hear a slosh in the other room, then a heavy wet slap. A mop.

  A chill moves down my body from my cheeks to my toes. The mopping starts at the front and will move right down the center aisle. I need to get to the carpet. The stairs? No, they’ll see me. The browsing room? I think it’s carpeted everywhere.

  I creep out of the door, my stomach clenched and my limbs clumsy as I keep myself close to the wall.

  Just go. Move.

  I don’t think or breathe. I dash into the browsing room, slipping between two tall shelves holding old sheet music. Everything smells of paper and ink, faded by time. I thank God for the ugly carpet that muffles my steps. Then, a vacuum roars to life at the opposite end of the room.

  Trembling, I shift my body around the back of the tall shelf and crouch down. How did I not think of this? I’ve heard the vacuum before. I should have known better.

  My breath shakes. I press my hand to my chest, forcing calmness. It doesn’t work. Not yet. If I can figure out where the sweeping will end, tracking its path, I might know how to get out of here without getting caught.

  And then what? I still have to take the stairs, and whoever is mopping will definitely see me. I try to visualize the stairwell. The steps leading to the second floor are closer. I’ll be hidden by the wall after the first three or four and will have a better shot at concealing myself, but what if I can’t find a place to hide? I have no idea w
hat’s up there.

  One problem at a time. The vacuum, first. I can’t tell if it’s coming from the windows at the north end of the room or by the south entrance, which is my only way out. I peek around the edge of the shelf at the middle aisle, scanning the room.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  There.

  I whip my head back, swallowing hard. My throat is painfully dry. It hurts to breathe. I only caught a glimpse of the man with the vacuum in the corner, broad-shouldered and stout.

  Was he facing away from me?

  I check again. He’s facing away from me, backing out of one of the aisles along the west half of the room. When he finishes that, he’ll cross the middle aisle to my side. Okay, new plan. I’ll take the far east wall all the way to the southeast corner of the room, then I’ll follow the south wall back to the entrance. It’ll take longer, but I want to spend as little time as possible in that wide-open middle aisle. The second I’m out of the browsing room, I’ll take the stairs to the second floor.

  And hope to God I can find a place to hide.

  I walk fast toward the far east wall, where another set of bookshelves, perpendicular to this one, leads south. Okay. I follow this and—

  The shelves abruptly stop, opening into a reading area I had forgotten. I drop to all fours and hold my breath, checking the area. It’s meant to be a quiet space, but there’s a wide rectangular cut-in along the wall. They probably couldn’t find standard shelves back here due to wiring. So voilà—a reading nook. Also known as the place where I probably get caught because nothing but armchairs and round tables live in this whole area.

  Still. The vacuum is in the other half of the room. I could make it. Maybe. I hope.

  I make myself as small as possible. Crawling on public carpet isn’t particularly appetizing, and this section has never seen the business end of a dust mop or cleaning rag, in my opinion. It’s filthy back here. Gray-black smears cover the wall and the backs of chairs, and there’s a vaguely charred smell to the air. Even the carpet feels gritty.

  The next rows of tall shelves are in sight. I push aside my distaste and crawl into their shadows. I’ve never been so grateful in my life to see old audiobook CDs. I turn right two aisles from the southeast corner to glimpse the entrance before I bolt for the stairs.

  The angle is awkward. I can see the entrance, but I have no idea where the mopping situation stands. I lean in, ducking my head between two shelves so I can get a clear view. I just need to—

  “Hey, Dillon!”

  I leap up and crack my head hard on the edge of the shelf above me. White seizes my vision, turning the room smeary and bright. Pain explodes across the back of my skull, and I stumble back on one knee.

  A man walks right past me in the middle aisle—not four feet away. I hold my breath, my heart in my throat, because he must have heard me.

  But he doesn’t glance my way. He heads straight for Dillon and his trusty vacuum. I wobble when I try to stand, catching myself on a shelf. The palms of my hands are black with grime.

  What the hell is this?

  I can’t think about it. I try to run. The world tilts like a boat rolling over a wave. The vacuum switches off, and the sudden quiet reveals the stutter in my breath, amplified by my plodding steps that sound like drumbeats.

  The men are muttering across the room. Still on the western half? My vision swims. I’ll have to run for it. The stairs are right there. Ten feet from the entrance, maybe.

  Just do it.

  Pain drives me forward in a hapless stumble. I don’t know much about head wounds, but this feels bad. Beats of lightning burst behind my eyes in time with my pulse. Each breath comes harder than the last. I’m sure they’ll hear, but I fumble onward. I have to try.

  I brace myself, sure they’ll spot me and shout out. Somehow, they don’t. I stumble out of the room, too bleary and off-balance to care when I fall down on all fours. Something wet slides down my cheek. Drips on my hand.

  Blood.

  Don’t think about it. Keep going.

  I drag myself up the steps one after another, my blackened fingers digging at the carpet. At the top, I’m sweating and sick. I heave once without warning, but nothing comes up. I’m still dizzy and spinning. I’m going to be sick again. I reach at the back of my head where my hair is wet and the pain screams. My fingers come away red.

  Not good.

  I stumble to my feet, hand smearing streaks of black and red along the pale paint. It gets darker as I move down the hall, so I feel my way from one locked door to another. Finally, one door opens into a wide carpeted space with a gleaming table and leather chairs. No—I don’t know how often they clean up here, but I’ve had enough vacuum dodging for one night.

  Saliva pools in my mouth, and my stomach clenches. I pause to steady myself. The world feels muddled, full of strange cottony sounds. I keep moving, finding another door at the back of the hall. It pushes easily under my fingers, so I slip inside.

  Shelves rise up on either side of me, cardboard boxes and rows of unused binders. A closet, and it will do nicely. I pull the door closed and slide down the wall, my shoulder resting against a tower of heavy boxes. Cases of paper maybe.

  I feel awful. Even sitting, I feel wobbly. I might throw up, and I’m sure I’m still bleeding. It occurs to me distantly that if they clean up here, they’ll see that mess on the wall. I’ll have to clean it up when they leave. I need to check the stairs too. I was dripping. But now I can only wait. The pain blooms brighter, and the topsy-turvy world begins to spin. I open my eyes, but my vision has gone gray. I’m passing out.

  Thin, cold fingers touch my arm.

  The world goes black.

  Spencer

  Wednesday, November 22, 7:18 a.m.

  After our final match last night—a nightmare of a game that we lose over some ugly ref calls—we’re done with the tourney. It had been a wreck of a performance, but none of the parents cared. They were all smiles, bumping fists with us as we trailed off the ice. I get it. With Thanksgiving this week, there’s plenty to do.

  Mom wasn’t in the line of parents greeting us. She was the one giving the silent treatment.

  After a quick practice this morning, I undress quickly in the locker room, ignoring the symphony of resentment and bruised egos. I try to slip out without being spotted, but Alex corners me in the hall outside.

  “What’s going on with the at-the-elbow escort?” he asks, bumping his chin toward the lobby where my mom is likely waiting to pick me up. She hasn’t let me out of her sight, hovering in the background, eyes firmly on her wayward son.

  “Mom’s pissed.”

  “Because of the Mallory thing?”

  I tense, and he holds up a hand. “Blame Ava.”

  I nod. I can’t be mad at Ava. She was nice enough to check in on Mallory yesterday and to text me with details.

  “How much did Ava tell you about all this?”

  Alex shakes his head. “Not all that much. Ava gave her cell number to Mallory in case she needed somewhere to crash. Not that anyone would want to crash at the mausoleum.”

  “It’s not that bad,” I say.

  Alex grimaces. “They probably keep a mummy in the attic.” Then he drops his voice. “Spence, is she—is Mallory pregnant?”

  I give him a hard stare. “What the hell, man?”

  He shrugs. “Hey, I don’t know, all right? You’ve been distant since school started, and there’s this girl. I figure maybe there’s something to it. Then there’s some showdown at your house with your mom, and you show up in Michigan looking like someone shot your dog.”

  “I don’t have a dog.”

  “You know what I’m getting at. What was I supposed to think?”

  He has a point. It wouldn’t kill me to extend a little trust. “She’s not pregnant. That’s not even close. Things ar
e bad for her at home. She was staying with me. Just staying there.”

  “Then your mom finds out about it,” he says, putting the pieces together.

  “Yeah, the timing wasn’t great. She didn’t catch us knitting scarves for orphans.”

  Alex laughs. “What are you going to do?”

  “What can I do?”

  “I don’t know. Talk to them.” Alex tugs off his jersey, his hair sticking up in a hundred directions. “Maybe when you do, you’ll tell them you’re freaking out.”

  “I’m not freaking out.”

  “Like hell you’re not. Dude, Ava had this showdown with her folks years ago, and it was fine. Maybe you need to calm down.”

  “Ava’s already in college! She’s not letting anyone down.”

  “Yeah, she’s in art school. In a family of lawyers that goes back five generations. Believe me, no one in that house was praying for Ava to want a bachelor’s in fine arts.”

  “At least she knows what she wants.”

  “Whatever, just talk to them. Because you’re getting to be a worse drag than Jarvey.”

  We both laugh. Shawn calls for Alex from the locker room, and he shakes his helmet. “I’ve got to get in there. Let me know how this all shakes out.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  When he leaves, I feel his words pressing on me. I have no idea what to say to my parents about me or about Mallory. But my guess is there are a hell of a lot of ways for me to screw it up. Then again, after the pool house incident, how far do I have to fall?

  Not that far, if I’m honest.

  The worst is quiet disappointment and a few super tense family dinners. But Mallory? If I don’t explain that part right, she might end up in real trouble. Back at home. Or maybe even blamed for all the things going wrong at the library. I’m already worried that a review of the camera footage will be a quick hop, skip, and jump to the one patron who went in, but did not come out.

  The locker room door bangs open, and Isaac sticks his head out. “Spencer!”