The Game of Boys and Monsters

by Rachel M. Wilson

  “What are you?” I said.

  “It turns out you don’t have to be just one thing,” Evy said. “I’m a monster in the dark. Will that do?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  It was my fault. I hadn’t fought hard enough. I had let this happen.

  “Shh, shh, sweetie,” Evy said. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not.”

  She kissed my cheek with her strange new mouth, and I had to restrain myself from shoving her away.

  “Are you ready, Evy?” Jack said from the mouth of the bridge.

  “Almost,” she said.

  “Wait, where are you going?” I said again.

  “Why? Do you want to come?” Evy asked, and the meager light from the tunnel’s mouth caught her teeth as she stretched her jaw wide.

  “No, no, I just . . . Why do you have to go?”

  “She has to feed,” Hap said. “Once that happens, it won’t be safe for us here.”

  “Feed?”

  “Life costs life,” Evy said. “It’s an exchange we all make. I’ve just moved up the food chain.”

  “You’re going to . . . eat someone?”

  Hap kicked a leg out to his side, and a shadowy lump at his feet shifted . . . and groaned. I hadn’t noticed it, had taken it as part of the landscape, until it moved.

  “It’s time,” Jack said, “while the moon is high.”

  Close to me, Evy nodded. “Come,” she said, and pulled me toward the Marsh boys.

  Evy wouldn’t hurt me—she couldn’t—but would she let them?

  “Don’t be frightened,” she said. “This is a happy time.”

  She dragged me back to the Marsh boys and passed me off to Hap, who pulled my back against his chest, wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug, and rested his chin on my head. It might have been comforting, big brotherly, under any other circumstance, but now it was one more wrong thing in a world of wrong.

  Evy, preternaturally quick, swooped down to the form on the ground. Even though he looked bigger than her, she lifted him with zero effort and cradled him against her chest.

  “Look who I picked,” she said.

  Malcolm, with the shiny-slick hair and the puppy-dog eyes.

  “No.”

  Hap squeezed me tighter.

  Malcolm seemed dazed, and his face was wet, like he’d been drooling, or crying.

  Evy looked down on him, almost lovingly. “I always kind of thought I’d come back to him, like he was going to be important in my life. I just couldn’t understand how.”

  “Evy, this isn’t you.”

  She looked up at me. “No,” she said. “It isn’t. You always liked him, Les. Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you let me mess with his head? I would have given him to you.”

  “You don’t give a boy to your friend,” I said.

  “But now you have Ben,” she said, “so it’s all right. You don’t need Malcolm anymore.”

  “I don’t want you to hurt him,” I said. “A person can’t help who he likes. He wanted you.”

  “And now I want him,” she said. And she bit.

  I woke up in my room, all tucked into my bed, wearing my pajamas even.

  It was still mostly dark out. My window was open wide—the morning chill and damp filled the air, and the scent of the woods. It could have come in from outside, but I felt like it was on me. I pressed a hank of my hair to my nose and breathed deep. I had been outside, hadn’t I?

  If the past night had been a dream, it was the most vivid I’d ever known. Feeling like an idiot, I pressed my hand to my throat, felt along the smooth skin, and, finding nothing amiss, ran my fingers along my own cheekbone—just the slightest curve to the bone, as it should be, and peach fuzz.

  I made myself move—my whole body felt stiff, achy, and chilled—wrapping the comforter around my shoulders to peer out the window.

  It scared me to stand close to it, even though that wasn’t a rational fear. After all, it had been open all night. My mom’s car was parked in the driveway, right where it should be.

  I wanted to ask my parents, did they remember me coming home last night? Did they remember who drove the car? But it was too early to wake them, and I had a feeling they wouldn’t have any answers, that they might sound a lot like Evy’s mother had sounded when I’d called.

  I tried Ben instead. He answered on the second ring, sounding groggy but very much himself.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you okay? Les, what’s wrong?”

  “I just had a bad dream,” I said. “I needed to check. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “No, it’s nice to hear your voice.”

  “I’ve been worried about Evy,” I said. “You know, Evy?”

  My heart thudded while I waited to hear if he recognized the name, or if she’d been erased, leaving me as the only one with the knowledge she’d been here at all.

  “Yeah, I know Evy,” he said, sounding wry but troubled. “I’m worried too. For your sake. If you want, I’ll go with you and we can visit her after school.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said, knowing already the lights would be out, no one home.

  I could call Malcolm’s house. That would tell me for certain whether last night was real. But that might be dangerous if he’d gone missing.

  It was better to stay quiet, wait and see.

  I hung up with Ben and reached to pull the window shut.

  Way off in the woods, something, several things, howled.

  The moon had set. The stars were fading from the sky. Soon they would move on.

  I slammed the window shut.

  Excerpt from Don’t Touch

  Read on for an excerpt from Rachel M. Wilson’s

  Don’t Touch

  1.

  * * *

  “Cadence Finn? Take yourself right out there, hon.”

  The office lady points toward the academy’s courtyard and goes back to her magazine: Crafting for the Southern Home.

  “I think I’m supposed to get a Peer Pal?”

  “Hon, yours is late. I’d stick you with another group, but you’re our only new junior. You just wait right on out there.”

  “I can’t wait inside?”

  Outside, the air’s thick and wet, the sun scalding. It’s like the sauna at Mom’s fitness club with the temperature dialed up to hell.

  Instead of answering, the lady sniffs and sets down her magazine to pour me a Dixie cup of lemonade from a pitcher on the dividing wall. “You’re not dressed for the heat,” she says with a pinched smile.

  That’s an understatement.

  It’s ninety degrees out, but I’m wearing jeans, long sleeves, and a scarf. The humidity’s plastered my hair to the back of my neck in a sticky shield. Alabama in August calls for pixie cuts and ponytails, but I don’t dare leave my skin exposed.

  Don’t touch.

  “I guess I wanted to wear my new school clothes?”

  She holds out the cup, saying, “This will keep you cool.”

  I wait for her to set it down and move her hand away before I take the cup. Her smile’s puckered into a knot with my delay, so I say my politest, “Thank you, ma’am,” and head out to sit on the courtyard’s brick wall, where I squint at the sun, sip watery lemonade, and shake.

  Don’t touch. Don’t touch.

  The words chime in the background, a constant and nagging refrain. The threat of touch pulses and swells the way skin gets raw after a burn. It’s constant and secret and eager to catch me off-guard.

  There’s too much empty space behind me. My Peer Pal could sneak up, put her hand on my shoulder—or his hand! There I go shaking again.

  If somebody asks why, I’ll claim that I’m cold.

  They probably won’t challenge me, but I plan out the script anyway:

  NOSY PEER PAL: (eyeing my long sleeves) What’s with the shivers?

  ME: (throaty) I guess I’m cold-blooded.

  NOSY PEER PAL: There’s some
thing about you. What is it?

  ME: (confident, mysterious, a little tragic even) I’m just me.

  NOSY PEER PAL: You have got to try out for the fall play!

  ME: That’s part of my plan.

  Ridiculous.

  My life is not a play. I am not on stage.

  People talk about stage fright, but life is what’s scary. In a play, you know where to stand, what to say, and the ending’s already been written. I’ve played crazy characters, emotional wrecks, but not one of them ever stopped breathing.

  Don’t touch.

  The magic words help my pulse slow, if only for a second. It’s like scratching an itch that won’t stay in one place. I shouldn’t give in, but thinking the words feels right, safe.

  I almost want to call Dad—he’s always been good at calming me down—but Dad chose to remove himself from our lives, and I’m going to respect that. I’m going to respect that choice till he feels what he’s making us feel.

  If I called, he’d play I-told-you-so: “This might all be too much for you, changing schools? Hanging out with a bunch of temperamental artsy types?”

  So far, I’m not hanging out with anyone. The other new students sit in tight, buzzing rings among the statues on the courtyard lawn. There’s a plaque explaining this sculpture garden as a student project made of recycled materials from Birmingham’s old steelworks and mines. The statue nearest me has a wire frame filled with chunks of limestone roughly in the shape of a giant man. Small stones have been allowed to slip out in a pile at the giant’s feet as if he’s crumbling.

  “Titan of Industry,” the giant’s called. Somebody passed his class in irony. I resist the urge to help the Titan by stuffing his stones back in his frame.

  Maybe they couldn’t find a Peer Pal willing to take me. Maybe I’m not supposed to be here—there’s another Cadence Finn, a freshman one, and I got her acceptance letter by mistake.

  And then Mandy Bower waves at me, an honest-to-God Peer—and I hope, hope, hope Pal. Mandy glides through the circles of freshmen as if barely tethered to earth, the half-human product of some Greek god’s indiscretion. She’s forever cursed to fraternize with the merely mortal, and it bums her out.

  Still, Mandy smiles for me. A perfect Greek-goddess smile. “I’m your new Peer Pal. Aren’t you so excited you could puke pink?”

  She doesn’t rush to hug me. That’s a good thing, I guess, a safe thing, but Mandy used to squeeze me nearly to death every time we saw each other.

  “Hi, Mandy.”

  This year, she’s fashioned herself as a boho badass with rings of black eyeliner and a long, flowing skirt. She still has a ton of blond curls, but now there are streaks of pink on the undersides. Pointy sticks pretend like they want to keep her hair up, but it’s an act. Messy curls fall in just the right way all around Mandy’s face.

  “What did your mom say about the pink hair?” I ask, knowing Mandy’s pageant-obsessed mom would never approve.

  Mandy pouts mischievously. “She threatened to cut it out. I told her I’d dye it back for competition but that if she cut it, I’d switch my dance to a dubstep.”

  “Can you do a dubstep?”

  “No! But I sure can make an ass out of myself faking it.”

  She does a couple of twisty moves with her legs, some robot arms, and I laugh.

  Mandy and I spent every possible second together from birth into middle school. We started drifting even then, but since she started at the academy, we’ve only seen each other at her family’s Christmas parties or the occasional mom-daughter brunch.

  We made plans.

  They fell through.

  Mandy bounces on her toes. “How’s your life?” she says as if it’s been a few days and not a few years since we were friends. “Did you miss me?”

  I’m afraid to answer: Yes, of course, every day.

  “How’s Bailey?” Mandy asks, naming the girl who became my closest friend by default after Mandy.

  “She says Oregon is nice. She moved away in the middle of freshman year.”

  “Oh.”

  “How’s Lena?”

  “Beats me,” Mandy says. “Lena was a capital B.”

  I want to holler applause, but I just say, “Ah,” and nod.

  “You still dominating the science fair?” she asks, and I sigh my assent.

  Starting in seventh grade, thanks to Dad, I won four in a row. I love that Dad says the world needs more female scientists. I just wish he’d stop pushing me to be one of them.

  “Okay, here’s a fun game,” Mandy says, hiking up her skirt to straddle the wall, her knees just a couple of inches away from me. Touching through clothes doesn’t count, but having Mandy within poking distance still doesn’t feel safe.

  I scoot back, trying to pass it off like I’m just making room.

  Mandy goes on. “The freshmen are split up by discipline. Can you tell who’s who?”

  She’s always been good at filling up awkward spaces, making things fun that weren’t fun before. Let it last. Please, please let this last.

  I scan the circles of freshmen. Any group of mostly girls is likely to be dancers, but the prevalence of bunheads and unnecessary stretching clinches it. When I guess, Mandy says, “No doubt.”

  I decide one group is studio artists based on creative wardrobe choices. One girl wears feather epaulettes like wings, and a guy wears a T-shirt that’s been cut in half and stapled back together.

  Mandy goes “Annhh!” like a game show buzzer. “Musicians,” she says.

  I thought the musicians would be more reserved. “How can you tell?” I ask.

  “Context clues.” She points to the girl with the feathered shoulders—who has her arm draped over a cello case.

  “Oh, duh.”

  One circle screams theater, dressed to impress. There’s a Louise Brooks clone with a bob and cloche hat, and a guy going for steampunk cowboy. This group’s louder than the others, splashy and bright, but one sure clue tells me they’re in theater: they’ve barely met, and already they’re touching.

  I take a deep breath—I can breathe—and hug my hands tight to my ribs. There’s my chest moving up and down. An accidental touch is so easy. The words are my antidote: Don’t touch, please, please.

  I thought I’d outgrown this game or at least squashed it down into something I could ignore, but the moment Dad left, it started again, and this time it feels deeper and harder to shake.

  Mandy never knew about my “games”: See if you can hold your breath as we take the next curve or the car will fly out into nothing; try not to blink while you’re looking at Mom or else she might get cancer and die. Touch another person’s skin and Dad will never come home.

  The danger feels even bigger than that. Touch another person’s skin and Dad will evaporate. We’ll never see him again. Mom will die of a broken heart. I’ll have panic attacks, a complete and total breakdown, and get carted away to a hospital for crazy people. My brother will hate me forever and ever for failing him.

  And I will be alone.

  Every little thing in this world that has fallen apart will stay broken.

  It’s a lot, I know.

  Dad would tell me to stop catastrophizing. Mom would tell me to drink some herbal tea.

  There’s a name for these imaginings: magical thinking. It almost sounds nice, but it isn’t. The weirdest part is that I know my stupid games shouldn’t have an effect on real life. But when I try to stop, the doubt creeps in—what if it does matter?

  Dad left in June. I haven’t touched a single person since.

  “You okay?” Mandy asks.

  “What? Yeah, I’m fine.” I force a smile.

  Mandy squints at the freshmen. “Let’s find someplace more private.”

  Birmingham Arts Academy sits on the long ridge of Red Mountain, overlooking the city. Mandy leads me across the drive, past a row of flowering hydrangeas to the sloping woods. We’re in the foothills of the Appalachians; I should be used to steep hills, but it ma
kes me anxious to see the tops of trees angling downward so sharply.

  Luckily, there are steps, a small amphitheater built into the side of the hill. If we sit on the bottom round of seats, we can’t be seen from the courtyard.

  The woods seem to close around us, a tangle of light-dappled leaves, mossy bark, and climbing vines. It reminds me of how Mandy and I used to build hideouts in the woods behind my house.

  Mandy leaves space between us. My skin doesn’t feel so on edge if I have room to maneuver, but the way Mandy keeps her distance makes me sad, too.

  “I’m glad I got you,” I say.

  Mandy nods without looking at me. “Sorry I was late. Boy drama.”

  Always, with Mandy.

  “What happened?”

  She makes eye contact, so briefly, like she’s checking if it’s okay to share. Then, just as fast, she looks away, through the trees toward downtown.

  “Nothing worth talking about.”

  We used to tell each other everything.

  Mandy lights a cigarette.

  “Does your mom know you smoke?” I ask.

  “Where do you think I got the cigarettes?” She absorbs my surprise with a flat smile and goes on, “She’s convinced that it helps with my weight.” She blows out a long stream of smoke, and I turn my head.

  The sound of a slamming car door makes me jump. Mandy holds the cigarette low between her legs in a practiced way and twists over her shoulder to check the tree line. Getting caught might make me the first person in the history of the academy to get expelled at orientation. I want to grab the cigarette, grind it out on the seat between us, and bury it under a mountain of leaves, but Mandy just waits. No one comes.

  “I was sorry to hear about your dad,” Mandy says, picking up a shiny yellow leaf from the amphitheater’s stage and twirling it by the stem. Her eyes stay on the leaf as if it holds more interest than my reaction, but I know better.

  My mom must have told hers, and that makes it more real somehow, that other people know. I pretend I don’t mind. I want Mandy to be my friend again. It’s supposed to be okay for your friends to know what’s going on with you.

  “They’re just trying it out,” I say. “It’s not like they’re getting divorced.”