Flesh

by Laura Bickle

“The police haven’t said. But they are stepping up patrols in the area, and we want all students to be vigilant. No getting into cars with strangers. Report any suspicious activity. Stay together in groups. Your homeroom teachers will be passing out safety pamphlets at the end of the day. Please study them closely.”

  The guidance counselor takes the microphone again. “Some of Amanda’s friends have put together a retrospective of her art that will hang in the hallway.” She inclines her chin toward three kids standing beside her, fidgeting. I recognize them from Amanda’s memorial page: the boy with the black hair, the girl with the pink hair, and one other girl dressed in black with fingerless gloves.

  “Amanda’s friends would like to say a few words.” The guidance counselor hands the microphone to the girl with fingerless gloves.

  She awkwardly takes the microphone, her breath brushing against it. “Amanda was a good person and the best friend anyone could ask for. We’re putting together the art exhibit so that she won’t be forgotten…”

  “I didn’t know who she was until she died,” someone whispers behind me.

  “If you would like to donate time or money to the exhibit,” the girl with the gloves continues, “we’d appreciate the help. We’re looking into starting an art scholarship in her memory. More details on that will be in the student newspaper, as we, uh, figure it out.”

  She hands the microphone back to the guidance counselor, who begins to speak again, about the stages of grief. But my gaze is on the three friends. They go back to the bleachers and huddle together. The girl with the gloves sits in the middle and winds her hands through her friends’ arms. I can’t see their expressions, but grief is palpable in the singular line of their shoulders.

  I wonder who would speak for me if I died? I glance sideways at Jenn, tapping away on her phone, and beyond, at Kaitlyn, whispering behind her hand to an upperclassman. I think back to last year, when I fell on the cross-country trail and screwed up my knee. Nobody even stopped for me. The assistant coach came to find me when I didn’t show up at the finish line and carried me back. It was humiliating.

  I steel myself to approach Amanda’s friends after the assembly. I climb clumsily down over the bleachers and tentatively touch the pink-haired girl on the shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say. Years in the business have occasionally taught me some stock phrases, and I’m suddenly thankful for that. Well, they taught me the right thing to say about normal deaths. Not body snatching. But there are a few phrases I know by heart.

  The girl with the pink hair nods. “Thanks. I appreciate it. We all do.”

  The other heads bob. The girl with the gloves has been rubbing at her mascara; it’s streaked under her eyes.

  I awkwardly stick out my hand, heart pounding. “I’m Charlie.”

  “I’m Gem,” the girl with the pink hair says. “This is Liz and Rafe.”

  Liz wiggles her fingers in her gloves. Rafe just keeps his head down, but nods. I remember them, vaguely. They were a handful of students who came from a junior high school that was closed for lack of enrollment. If I remember right, they have the longest bus rides.

  “Did you guys want help with the art exhibit?” I blurt. “I can help put stuff up…”

  “That would be great,” Gem says. She smiles at me. She’s wearing braces with purple rubber bands in them. When she seems to realize that she’s smiling, she covers her mouth with her hand.

  “Thanks,” Rafe says. “We’re gonna start putting stuff up next period.”

  “I have study hall,” I say. “I’ll get a hall pass.”

  “You just have to not mind if we get weepy,” Liz says.

  “That’s okay. I’m used to weepy.”

  I’ve seen more tears than anybody else my age. I don’t know why, but this feels so different.

  *

  Amanda’s work is spread out across all the tables in the art room. There are charcoal drawings uncurling, weighted down with boxes of chalk. Canvases are stacked against the wall, and a mixed-media sculpture of dragons, made with clay, beads, and feathers sits on the teacher’s desk.

  I touch the edge of one of the drawings. It’s a really beautiful mermaid, rendered in watercolor pencil. Some of the lines are sharp, some are faded, blended with water to create a liquid illusion. It’s stronger and much more detailed than the sketch I saw her working on during the field trip bus ride.

  “She was really good,” I say.

  “She was,” Gem sighs, pulling her pink hair back into a ponytail. “Do you draw any?”

  I hesitate. “Not for a long time.”

  I hang back as the others begin to sort through Amanda’s projects. I carry boxes to and from the supply closet, digging out thumbtacks and tape so we can mount them to the walls. Amanda’s friends are handling her work with reverence, chattering as they pull one item or another from the pile:

  “Do you remember this? She glued her hands together with glitter trying to get the wings right.” Gem holds a beribboned sculpture of a fairy.

  Liz lifts a thickly-inked print of a tree from a folder. “Oh my god…these linoleum block prints…she cut herself bloody with the X-ACTO knife.”

  “Yeah. She couldn’t be trusted with sharp objects.” Rafe looks down at his shoes.

  Gem dissolves into tears, and I focus on making tape loops for the mounting. I want to tell them what I know, that she is alive. But how? Here, with daylight streaming through the windows, I even doubt myself. Maybe my mom and the doctor were right. Maybe I imagined it. Even I know how far-fetched my story about Amanda’s miraculous resurrection sounds.

  Instead of speaking up, I keep quiet and I pass the tissues. I try to help, focusing on thumbtacks and cutting construction paper to make matting.

  And I absorb Amanda’s art. She was very talented, and growing even more so. I can see how her technique has improved over time. Some of her earlier work, going back to eighth grade, is tentative, unsure. The pencil marks are unsteady and have been erased over and over. I can see it in the depictions of fairies and winged horses. Her later work has bolder lines. And it’s darker, both in color and subject matter. The fairies have shed their pastels, grown feathery wings, and become fallen angels. The winged horses have become ravens, picking at shiny things with bemused expressions.

  I flip through one of Amanda’s recent notebooks. There’s more nature, more realism, and less fantasy in her latest work. She sketches people she sees, in the cafeteria at lunch, on the street in Mooresville. The subjects she chooses all have a bit of sadness in them. There’s a picture of a girl sitting by herself at lunch, her long hair shadowing her face. There are portraits of her friends, sitting on the steps at school. These feel so personal…I’d be surprised if Amanda’s friends choose to display them. It’s like a diary.

  When I get to the end of her notebook, my breath snags in my throat. There’s a charcoal sketch of a catfish spreading across two pages. He’s swimming in dark water, his speckled flesh undulating in the murk. His whiskers spread around him, testing the depths. His dark eye gazes back at me, black as motor oil. The date on it is from a month ago. It’s titled Bob.

  I show it to Rafe. “Is there a story behind this one?”

  Rafe takes the sketchbook from me. “Yeah. She said she was dreaming of catfish. She’d been spending a lot of time by the river, drawing. Said that there was something about the light on the water. She wanted to do a series on the river for the spring art show.”

  He rubs at his nose with the back of his hand. I wonder if he was Amanda’s boyfriend, but I don’t ask.

  Instead, I gaze at the catfish, roiling in the black. A chill shoots up my spine. The catfish from my dreams was also in Amanda’s.

  *

  My mom is determined that I’m to be watched closely.

  ’Cause, you know, I might do something completely crazy.

  My folks are traveling up to the state crime lab today, and Garth is taking Gramma to the eye doctor. And that’s a
chore and a half, since Gramma’s bifocals are never right, and she bitches relentlessly about them. It usually involves a trip to the flea market afterward to get her to calm down and forget about that phantom line in the middle of her glasses. Since my parents don’t want me to be alone after school, they’re making me ride the bus to the neighbors’ house and stay there until somebody gets back to pick me up.

  I stand before the Carltons’ front door and procrastinate ringing the bell. I haven’t been here in a year. Not since the Halloween party last year, when I screwed things up with Renee. The door has been painted bright purple, and there’s a wreath made of autumn leaves on the front. Five happy scarecrows are perched on stakes by the front step, having so far evaded being stolen by Halloween pranksters. There’s one each for Mom, Dad, Ryan, Renee, and Josh.

  Before I can ring the bell, the door swings open.

  “Charlotte! It’s so nice to see you!”

  Her eyes crinkle when she sees me, and I’m immediately engulfed in a hug. Mrs. Carlton smells just like I remember her: like lemon Pledge and cookie dough. She looks a little older, with more gray streaks in her blond hair, which is pulled back from her face in a ponytail.

  “Hi, Mrs. Carlton.”

  She ushers me inside, taking my book bag from me and hanging it by the front door. The living room is the pleasant chaos I remember—folded laundry on the couch, a few toys scattered here and there. I always envied the Carltons because they didn’t have to keep everything perfect, just in case some relatives of the Dearly Departed were to drop in unannounced.

  She touches my hair. “You look so pretty as a blonde.”

  I squirm. “Thank you.” I’ve been blond for a while, but I forgot that Mrs. Carlton hasn’t seen it.

  “Come have some cookies,” she says. “I’m just finishing up feeding Josh.”

  I follow Mrs. Carlton to the kitchen. Josh sits and gurgles in his high chair, happily flinging Cheerios across his tray. He has what looks like applesauce on his face as he burbles at me.

  “Hi, Josh.” I wiggle my fingers at him. I remember when he was born. I don’t really do well with babies, and I’m thankful as hell that nobody asked me to babysit.

  Not that the Carltons would. They’re around all the time. Mr. Carlton is a farmer and Mrs. Carlton stays home. I sometimes find it weirdly anachronistic, but they’re nice people, and it seems to work for them.

  “There’s milk in the fridge and cookies on the counter,” Mrs. Carlton calls. She’s hovering over Josh and doing something with a spoon and train noises.

  I haven’t been over here in at least a year, but Mrs. Carlton is treating me as if I were here yesterday. And that’s something of a relief. I get a glass out of the cupboard—they haven’t moved anything—and pour some milk.

  “The cookies look delicious.”

  “They’re macadamia nut chocolate chip,” Mrs. Carlton says.

  I grin. Those are my favorite. It’s been a long time since I’ve had them. I take one off the wire cooling rack and bite into it. It’s soft and gooey and nutty and just perfect.

  “How’s school?” Mrs. Carlton asks.

  I bite my lip a bit. This is an awkward subject. Mrs. Carlton homeschools her kids now, after the incident with Renee at the Halloween party. Maybe it was the whole reason, maybe it was just part of it, but I don’t know what to say. “Good. We went to the museum last week.”

  “Oh fun. I saw in the paper that they just re-opened.” Mrs. Carlton sticks her tongue out at Josh, and he mimics her.

  “Yeah. I’m going to intern there this year.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find all kinds of great stuff to get into. I heard they had a big diorama set up.”

  I nod. “It’s really nice.”

  I’m relieved that Mrs. Carlton is just making small talk, that she’s not asking about Amanda or missing bodies or what’s going on at our house. I’m hoping that my mom didn’t tell her that I’ve gone around the bend and need to be watched.

  “Renee and Ryan are upstairs,” Mrs. Carlton says. “If you want to bring them some cookies, I’m sure they’d be thrilled.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I load up some cookies on a plate and head to the stairs.

  I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, up the carpeted steps. I follow he hallway until I hear voices coming from Renee’s open door. My heart pounds, and my breath snags in my throat. I pause outside and knock on the doorframe.

  The chatter I heard ceases.

  “Come in,” Renee calls.

  I take a deep, quivering breath and enter.

  Renee’s room is pretty much the same as I remember it. The walls are painted a soft shade of lavender, and one side is painted with green chalkboard paint, to allow for the doodles of the day. Today, her obsession seems to be airplanes. Her bed is covered in the same calico quilt and has the same stuffed animals on top. Very detailed sketches of airplanes are pinned up around her desk, on which a computer perches.

  Renee has changed, though. Her long brown hair has been cut short in a pixie haircut. She closes down a Skype window as I enter. A year ago, she was a full head shorter than me. But that girl has mysteriously vanished, leaving behind a long-limbed creature, barefoot in T-shirt and shorts.

  “Hi.” I offer the plate of cookies. “Your mom asked me to bring these up.”

  “Thanks.” She twists around and snags one from the dish.

  I glance at the floor, where her brother is sprawled. I offer him the plate, and he takes three.

  Ryan, two years older than us, has changed, too. I remembered him as being bespectacled and sort of awkward. He’s managed to turn that into a nerdy-chic look. His carefully styled hair is worthy of any magazine cover. “Hey, Charlotte.”

  I don’t bother to correct him. I perch on the edge of the bed with the plate on my knees.

  “You look different,” Renee says. I can see the same uncertainty in her eyes that must be reflected in mine.

  I offer a small smile. “So do you.”

  “I like your hair,” she says.

  “Thanks. I really like yours, too…when did you get it cut?”

  Renee runs her fingers over the back of it. “About six months ago. I got bored and attacked it with scissors. So Mom had to take me to get a real haircut to fix the damage.”

  “Isn’t anyone going to ask me about my hair?” Ryan huffs, grinning. He flips his highlighted bangs to the left.

  “Your hair looks nice,” Renee says. “But I wish you’d quit stealing all my hair gel.”

  Ryan gives her a dirty look. “You buy all the good stuff.”

  “But you smell like a girl.”

  “Chicks love it when a guy smells like acai berry.”

  I munch my cookie, listening to the familiar banter. It makes things a bit less awkward.

  Renee leans her arms on the back of her chair and rests her heart-shaped face on her arms. “We read about what happened to that girl in the newspaper. Amanda.”

  I lower my gaze to the plate of cookies. “Yeah. It’s really sad.”

  “Is that why your mom sent you over here?” she asks directly.

  This is the question I’ve been fearing. I can see a glimmer of hope in Renee’s eyes, that maybe I’ve come over here to see her. I buy some time chewing my cookie before saying anything. “She didn’t want me to be at home alone after school. She’s been sort of overprotective.”

  “So we get to babysit you?” There’s a sting of hurt there. Still.

  “Yeah. I guess.” A crumb falls from my lips to Renee’s bedspread. I pick the crumb up and eat it.

  “Well, it’s not like we don’t know what it’s like to be with an overprotective mom.” Ryan stretches out on the shag carpeting and laces his fingers behind his head.

  “Your mom is great,” I say. “She bakes cookies. I can’t remember my mom ever baking cookies.”

  Renee casts a withering glance in my direction. “We’re here with her. All day. Every day.”

 
“Trust us,” Ryan says, “we know about smothered.”

  “I thought…I thought you guys liked being home-schooled,” I say.

  “It was okay at first,” Renee shrugs. “I mean, I didn’t have to worry about anybody threatening me or anything. And the food is better than school food.”

  I look her in the eye, heart pounding. I have to address the elephant in the room. “Renee, I’m sorry. I was terribly, awfully wrong. I didn’t stand up for you, and I’m sorry for it.” I just blurt it all out, the words finally spilling over after a year of being trapped in my throat. I didn’t stand up for my friend, and she dropped out of my life entirely. And not just my life…her own, too.

  Renee looks down. “It’s okay. It’s not…It wasn’t your fault, really.”

  “I should have done something.”

  She looks at me, and her eyes are clear. Not mean, just assessing the truth. “I know. But you’re just not built that way. You were always the last kid to speak in class, and that one time you even froze and called the teacher ‘Mom.’”

  I stare down at the floor, my cheeks burning. I want to be more than what I am. I do.

  Renee reaches out and touches my arm. She’s trying to be gentle. “It’s okay.”

  But it’s not. Not really. And never will be.

  *

  Renee is right. I am a mouse.

  I want to be a beautiful butterfly, but I’m just a small nervous creature scurrying in the dark corners. I wonder if it’s possible to change, and I despair that I don’t have the strength to turn into something with wings.

  Ryan and Renee pull out some old board games. We play a few rounds of Settlers of Catan. It feels sort of like when we were younger, but my heart’s not in it. I feel like too much time has passed and I’ve done too much damage to our relationships to participate at more than a shadow level.

  Mrs. Carlton makes dinner, and we all clomp down to the kitchen when we’re called. It’s meat loaf and mashed potatoes. I screw up and take a bite before Mr. Carlton says grace. I feel like a moron, but bow my head while he says it.

  I know, deep down, that I can’t do anything right with them. My instinct is the same as it was before: to flee. It’s just way too normal around here. I might crave it, but I’m also afraid of it, afraid I’m not good enough to deserve it. I feel the weight of it on me as I eat and Mrs. Carlton tries to make benign conversation. My breath flutters in the back of my throat, and I swallow my lurching heart.