Fearscape (Horrorscape)

by Nenia Campbell

  “Honey, you haven't been down all day.” With the way Mrs. Kimble was glancing around her bedroom, as though looking for signs of drugs or debauchery, Val was glad she'd remembered to push the knife behind her nightstand before going to sleep. “Are you all right?”

  “I'll eat later.”

  “That doesn't answer my question. Are you sick?” Her mother's cool hand pressed against Val's forehead. “You're a little warm.”

  “I'm just tired.”

  “Do I need to take you to the doctor?”

  “No.” The doctor wouldn't find what was wrong with her. Not unless he cut open her head and her veins, to see how corroded Gavin had rendered her thoughts and blood, respectively.

  “Can I bring you anything?”

  “Maybe soup — and tea.”

  Her mother's frown deepened. “Yes, I can do that. What kind?”

  “Chamomile and chicken noodle … please.”

  “All right. I'll bring some up on a tray.” With a final look, Mrs. Kimble left.

  Val reached down beside her bed and pulled her laptop onto her quilt. She logged into Facebook. There were four new messages. Knowing it was a bad idea, but being unable to help herself, she clicked the red flag.

  One was from Lisa and consisted of one word: Hey.

  Another was from Rachel:

  You looked a little peaky on Friday. Are you okay? It's not that guy, right? Just let us know whose ass to kick and we'll take care of it.

  Sorry, that was Lindsay. But seriously, are you all right? Text us.

  xox

  The other two were from her stalker. One from last night:

  Soon, my dear, you will learn to love your imprisonment.

  And the other from this morning:

  Can you feel the ties that bind us? Can you feel them tightening? Because I can, and they're so tight that I can scarcely breathe.

  That made two of them.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  The next day was a Sunday.

  There were no Facebook messages that morning, but out of sight did not necessarily mean out of mind. Not when he was thinking about her, counting down the days until he would own her.

  Her mother barged into Val's room as per her usual wake-up call and decided to put an end to the lounging around in bed. “Get dressed,” she said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “You're running errands with me. Be ready in ten.”

  “Okay,” said a meek Val.

  Mrs. Kimble deposited Val at a nearby Starbucks while she went to pick up groceries, leaving her daughter with explicit orders to “have fun.” Val stared bleakly at the menu and ended up ordering a tall vanilla bean frappuccino — but it was sweeter than she expected, and she didn't have the heart to finish it.

  While her drink melted, and Nat King Cole crooned through the speakers about heartbreak, Val pulled her Health notebook from her bag and studied the list she'd drawn up several days ago. It seemed stupid now, foolish, tantamount to a child's black-and-white logic. Breaking into his house? A violent confrontation? In what world was that actually a good idea?

  Val took a sip of her drink and winced. In addition to being too sweet, it was now watery. The next day would be a Monday. If she didn't make a move now, it might be too late. If Gavin was her stalker, she wanted to know. She didn't want to be captured. She didn't want to play the lead role in his twisted fantasies. She wanted to be — well, she wasn't sure yet, but not this.

  When her mother returned to collect her she was disappointed to find her daughter just as morose as before, accompanied by an expensive — and very melted — drink. She nearly asked Val what was wrong, but had recently read an article online saying that children, when pressed, only dove deeper into their funk out of spite.

  Not that Mrs. Kimble thought of Val as a spiteful child. Quite the opposite. She was a very sweet girl — a little too sweet, actually, like the drink she was holding in her hand (Mrs. Kimble tried a sip before throwing it away, and imagined that she could feel her fillings loosening already. She would have to remind Val to brush her teeth twice). When Val was a child, and the other kids on the playground sometimes hit her with a shovel or a pail, she never hit them back. She just cried, as if the belief that someone could actually want to hurt her was too horrible to bear.

  It had always been this way. Val was delicate. Smart and sweet and beautiful, but delicate as a hothouse flower. And despite being grateful for her charmingly naïve daughter, who as a young woman looked upon the world rather as a child did, she sometimes wished that Val was a little more robust and, though she felt evil for thinking this, a little less pretty. People only picked the pretty, sweet-smelling flowers. The ones with thorns were left alone.

  A screech of tires made Mrs. Kimble slam on the brakes. “Oh my God, Val, that boy just cut me off — at a red light.” She blasted the horn at the driver. “The light was red!”

  For her efforts, Mrs. Kimble received an upraised middle finger.

  Such disrespect! Val's mother squawked in outrage. Noting the Derringer High School bumper sticker, Mrs. Kimble said, in scathing tones, “Do you know that boy?”

  Val thought Lisa might have dated him a couple times. The beat-up Toyota pickup, with the poorly done paint-job in kelly green was fairly recognizable. But Lisa had maybe-dated a lot of people and Val had eventually lost count. She shook her head. Her mother didn't need to know any of this. There were so many things her mother did not need to know lately.

  “I thank my lucky stars every day that you're not like that.” The cognitive dissonance between her statement and her earlier thoughts made Mrs. Kimble feel guilty, more so when Val kept her eyes trained on the window and stared beyond the glass at something so far off in the distance that her mother was left with the distinct impression that she was never going to catch up.

  After a pause, she said, “Did you have fun?” Trying not to look at the melted drink.

  “Yes.”

  “I'm glad.”

  And each knew that the other was lying, but neither had the faintest idea why.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  The next day was a Monday.

  Val hoped to get the situation she had been dreading all weekend over with right away but fate, it appeared, was conspiring against her. For once, Gavin was late and James took the empty seat beside her that he usually occupied. “Hey, Val. Haven't seen you around lately.”

  Of course he'd 'seen her around.' They had art together, didn't they? She pulled her sketchpad out of her back pack and made a noncommittal sound.

  “So — you and Gavin are going out now, huh?”

  Val shrugged. “I don't know.”

  James's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, you don't know? You either are or aren't.”

  Ms. Wilcox saved her from having to respond by choosing that moment to walk into the classroom. She was wearing a purple gypsy dress, a chiffon scarf, and a smile that was considerably warmer than most members of the class warranted.

  “Well! Good morning Val, James. Did you have a nice weekend?”

  James, pleased to have an active listener in his midst, talked about football and a trip to the beach. His bright, overly loud voice sliced into Val's ears like knives.

  “What about you, Val?” their teacher said. She was setting up the day's model — a plastic playset in the shape of a castle, creamy off-white, peppered with glitter, and transparent blue sections that looked as if they could be illuminated from within by LEDs. Ms. Wilcox flipped a switch and it glowed. She turned off the lights and smiled at Val. “Did you do anything nice?”

  “I went out with my mom,” said Val, briefly. But since she smiled as she said it, Ms. Wilcox found herself thinking, What a sweet, shy girl she is. And then other students trickled into the classroom and any other thoughts or concerns Ms. Wilcox had about Val were quickly eclipsed by thoughts and concerns about the other thirty-one students who comprised her class.

  She had noticed, however, the relationship budding between Val and
her TA. She had seem them out in the quad together, before or after school. Ms. Wilcox liked Gavin. He was polite, solicitous, and saved her a lot of work grading as many papers as he did. But there was something a little chilly in the boy's smile and she worried he might be too “fast” for a girl so shy.

  But that was, again, none of her business — and she had thirty-two students to content herself with, besides. If the girl's mother hadn't called to complain, she must have seen no problems with the relationship and it was not Ms. Wilcox's place to get between parent and child. Not when there were students sneaking cigarettes in the backroom, or making off with expensive oil pants she was forced to keep under lock and key. Their parents did call in to complain.

  James had watched Ms. Wilcox's departure and waited until she was out of earshot before turning to Val and saying, “You and Lisa okay now?”

  With a flash of guilt, Val realized that she'd never bothered to respond to Lindsay, Rachel, or Lisa. She bit her lip, shrugged, and said, “I don't know. Ask her.”

  “I did. She said to ask you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you're the one who's still mad.”

  For God's sake. “I'm not — ”

  The classroom door opened and Gavin walked in. His skin was a touch paler than usual and the dark shadows under his eyes hinted at multiple sleepless nights. He glanced in her direction, then at James, and the most terrible expression crossed his face as he turned and sat on the other side of the room, next to a girl who looked very discomfited by his feral appearance.

  “ — mad,” Val finished belatedly. Oh god.

  “What do you see in the guy?” James persisted.

  Val couldn't answer. Because she realized she didn't know herself. And having been given a taste of the thoughts that lay behind that completely intelligible facade, this sent a chill shooting down her spine, as cold and as tangible as a cupful of ice water being poured down her back. Val locked her shoulders and refused to shudder.

  “Val?”

  She chewed on her lip some more and returned to the castle that was slowly emerging from her sketchpad. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, thick and viscous and reminiscent of old pennies. Her stomach rebelled and she only just managed to say, “I don't know.”

  Did Gavin drink that blood at the pet store?

  Is there something wrong with him?

  Am I in danger?

  “Lisa's very worried about you. She told me to tell you that.”

  Val looked up. “Why didn't she tell me herself?”

  “She's tried. But you haven't exactly been around lately.” And his eyes went across the room.

  Oh.

  Val could feel the weight of Gavin's gaze, hot and unwavering as the dry heat of an oven. James had a point. Maybe. She worked on the castle's outline, sketching the turrets, the complex design of the portcullis, and avoided looking at both boys. No, he's right.

  James gave her a disappointed look, but at her pointed silence he left her alone and when the bell rang he left without saying goodbye. She had never put much stock in James's opinion, so she wondered that his silent disapprobation could elicit such a wave of guilt inside her now.

  Ms. Wilcox clucked over James's messy work station, but she smiled at Val's picture. “Good use of perspective.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Wilcox.” A smile, but unmistakable flush of pleasure rose in her cheeks, overriding for the moment the feelings of despair and guilt and anxiety that blended to form a spectrum of hazy emotions from her own internal palette. “I used to have a playset like this, I think, when I was a little girl.”

  Ms. Wilcox smiled again; it was a sad smile. “This was my little girl's. She grew up, too.”

  For a moment the same unspoken thought hung suspended between them, like a bead of water clinging tenuously on to an edge. Things are so much easier when you're young. Then Ms. Wilcox gave a flippant little shrug and began to straighten up the messy desks.

  If only Val could shake off her own feelings so easily.

  Gavin seized that moment to approach, his footsteps firm and sure. As if, she couldn't help thinking, in his mind he already owns me. “Good morning,” he said, and he leaned over the desk and kissed her, causing her eyes to open wide. She glanced at Ms. Wilcox, but she hadn't seen.

  “I — um, hi,” she said, and could have kicked herself. She sounded like she'd overdosed on helium. “What do you want?”

  “Only to say hello.” He paused, “I hope you're well.”

  Val blanched. “Yes, I'm fine.”

  “Good. You've been acting so strange lately. I've been concerned.”

  Threat lanced through his words, but to whom? And about what? Or was she imagining it?

  “I'm fine,” she said again.

  Gavin nodded thoughtfully, turning away. No, I didn't imagine it. Val, on her feet by now, hurried after him. “Wait!”

  He turned. “Yes, Val?”

  Her name from his lips was like a piece of velvet being pulled through a shredder. “Remember when you drove me home that one time in the rain? And taught me how to play chess?”

  “That happened recently.” Something in his eyes snapped into focus. “How could I forget?”

  Val swallowed. Or tried to. A persistent lump kept rising in her throat. His eyes, she found herself thinking again. His eyes were beautiful: textured, metallic gray with bubbles of onyx and crystal caught in the twin pools of his irises — but they were shallow, empty, cold, and nothing, not even the thick lashes which framed them, could soften the arctic chill in that gaze. “I was wondering if maybe — do you think you could teach me more?”

  He smiled, and she wanted to run. It was the smile of one who had eaten cat, cream, and canary alike. “It would be my distinct pleasure. You can come tomorrow, if you like, or after my shift tonight — I get off at seven.”

  “Tomorrow is fine,” she made herself say.

  “Tomorrow it is then. Shall I pick you up at home? Around, oh, shall we say five?”

  Wordlessly, she nodded. If she opened her mouth she was afraid of what would come out. Or wouldn't.

  “See you then,” he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Getting dressed that morning was an exercise in futility. What did one wear gearing up for such a confrontation? And how did one don armor for a weakness of the heart? Normally, Val went to her mother for fashion advice but in this case she knew what the answer would be. Don't confront him. Run.

  It was good advice. Sensible. Val disregarded it.

  She settled on a white camisole, a green button-down henley, and a pair of mid-length khaki shorts that made her butt look big. Lisa would not have approved of the outfit at all, shorts aside. She would have pointed out that Val looked like she should be going door-to-door, peddling copies of The Watchtower. Val put her hair into pigtails for good measure.

  Her mother blinked when she saw her. “Is that what you're wearing?”

  “Yup.”

  Mrs. Kimble seemed about to say something. Then she closed her mouth and shook her head. “Are you ready to leave?”

  As ready as I'll ever be. Val nodded.

  “I have a doctor's appointment, so you'll have to take the bus home today. Do you need money for the fare?”

  “No.”

  “All right then.” Her mother dropped her off at the front gates. “Have a good day.”

  Val walked to her classroom, unable to shake the feeling that the other students were laughing at her. She sat in the corner of the art room, sandwiched between two girls she didn't know who kept shooting her dirty looks. Val tried not to notice and spent the next half hour pretending nothing existed beyond the bowl of fruit Ms. Wilcox had placed up front for that day's lesson.

  As she sketched, she studied Gavin from the corner of her eye. He made no attempts to talk to her, which she took as a good sign. He did smile at her, though. It chilled her, that his smile could make his face look so handsome and yet still be so cruel. And then she wonde
red if she had imagined the cruelty, because she had never really fixated on it before.

  You're supposed to be drawing.

  It was just that Gavin was so fascinating. Val had never met a boy like him before: he was so mature, so intense and mysterious — oh, and brilliant. Even sexy, she admitted to herself. But what did she really know about him as a person? She had spent more time with him than she had with Lisa these past few weeks, and yet she knew him about as well as Emily Abernathy.

  No. Less. Something that did not bode well.

  Don't think about that. Draw.

  Her fruit kept coming out lopsided. She couldn't keep her hand steady. The eraser on her pencil had been worn clear down to the metal cap.

  James kept shooting her these incredulous little glances. What James knew about fashion could fill a thimble and leave plenty of room for one's finger besides, and Val began to worry that she'd overdone it. If James had noticed then Gavin almost certainly had, and unlike James, he would know why.

  Val glared at her drawing of the fruit. Stupid James.

  She sighed.

  No. Stupid Val.

  School drudged on, slowly as a day in purgatory.

  English was no better. Val's essay on Titus Andronicus, which she had done in place of the film, was returned to her by Mrs. Vasquez with a grim-looking “C” at the top. Her reading quiz for Wuthering Heights, which they had started just last week, earned her an equally dismal 6/10.

  Preoccupation with the stalker and Gavin's intense and unequivocal attention had diminished her ability to focus on schoolwork. Val had mixed up quotations from Nelly Dean and Zillah, and had written a hackneyed, self-referential response to the question regarding whether or not Heathcliff was “evil” or a “victim of evil.”

  Val's argument had been, simply, that Heathcliff had not always been evil, but he had been bad, and 'bad' had progressed to 'worse' as he was gradually corrupted by the morally stunting environment of the manor, which eventually culminated into a pretty good approximation of evil.

  The teacher had written, Next time provide more concrete examples and include quotations from the text.

  If only she had taken the quiz this week instead of last. She certainly had more concrete examples of evil under her belt now. She only half-listened as Mrs. Vasquez used Wuthering Heights to segue into Romeo and Juliet. She lectured about star-crossed love and screwed-up characters so ill-suited to one another that they repelled even as they attracted, thus dooming their stories to certain tragedy. All Val could think about was 5 o' clock, and whether or not she was dooming herself to certain tragedy. The closer she got to 5 o' clock, the more she began to suspect that she was. This was a bad idea.