by Amy Huntley
accident. She must've gotten hit by a car."
I can't tell if he's trying to protect me or if he's actually
this stupid. Either way, I'm not putting up with it.
I turn my back to Cozy. I can't stand to see her as I confront
the universe with this cruelty. "She's not in the road,
Gabe. If she'd been hit by a car, she'd be in the road."
"Maybe a neighbor—"
"She's arranged, Gabe. Posed. Someone wanted us to see
her this way." I discover that I'm whispering, trying to protect
Cozy, for God's sake, as if I don't want her to hear the
truth about what's happened to her. As if she doesn't already
know. She was there.
But still I whisper. "A neighbor wouldn't stick her on the
porch for us to . . . to stumble over."
"Maddy, I'm sorry. I know you loved her."
"I've loved her for ten years. Why? Who hates us enough
to kill our cat?"
"I don't know what happened here, Madison. But I just
can't believe that someone . . . someone . . . y'know—"
"Killed her, Gabe. Someone killed her."
Words cannot express the explosion of emotion erupting
from me. It escapes in hysterical screams. I hear them.
They're loud but not loud enough to release this surge of
emotion. That's all I can do: release it. So I throw every bit
of my being into screaming louder, screaming from somewhere
deep inside me that I didn't even know existed.
Gabriel's tires screech on the cement as he pulls back
into the drive. From somewhere far away, I process that
he's coming, running toward me, so I stop screaming and
start crying as he reaches for me and wraps me in his arms.
"It's okay, it's okay," he's saying as he presses my face to his
shoulder and strokes my hair, but then he's swearing—gently,
softly. An obscene lullaby takes shape as he alternates
between reassuring me and expressing his shock in fourletter
words.
My horror converts to anger, and I push away from him,
saying, "It's not okay. It's not. She's dead. Cozy's dead."
And the worst is that "dead" doesn't even begin to
describe what she is.
Mutilated...
Broken . . .
Crushed...
Blood around her head has matted her hair in clumps.
Her legs, broken, are arranged in an unnatural shape. Her
tail, that once-proud flae; proclaiming her cathood, is limp
and bent. The saddest thing I notice is the dried blood that
"No, Maddy, I don't think so. It's bizarre, you're right,
finding her here like this, but it has to be that someone was
stupid enough not to realize this isn't how you bring someone's
cat back after it's been hit by a car. Some kid, maybe,
who doesn't know any better. C'mon."
What he's saying makes a whole lot more sense than
what I'm thinking. I let him pull me back into his arms. I
want to believe him.
But I just can't.
The air around me seems to mold itself into an ominous
shape. It presses against me so hard that I can barely
breathe. I've become prey to a new feeling I've never experienced
before. Something out there is tracking me down.
I can feel it. Something has caught the scent of my blood.
And I don't know how to escape it, because I don't have any
idea which direction the threat is coming from.
Gabe kisses my forehead.
"I never figured out what her third name was," I whisper,
holding him even tighter.
"What?"
I can tell he thinks I'm losing it. Maybe I am. "Never
mind," I say. I wish he understood what I meant, but I don't
have the energy to explain Mom and T. S. Eliot's theory
about cat names—or that I've caught Cozy over the years
contemplating this secret she's managed to keep from me.
Gabe whispers, "Go in the house. Call your mom and
l?S
dad. I'll pick up all those photos and come in to sit with
you."
I do what he tells me.
Because I can't look at Cozy again.
Because even though I don't care about my scrapbook
right now, I know I will someday.
But mostly I do because I'm afraid that whatever is
stalking me will return, and I'm scared to stay out here
any longer. I step through the front door, expecting my
house's crisp scent of eucalyptus to offer some comfort. Dut
it doesn't. I sense that the house is grieving the loss of Cozy,
too.
Is feels emptier than it ever has when I return this time, but at
least I'm feeling some hope: Maybe Cozy never did actually
know what happened to her in those final moments. After
all, I don't know what happened in my hnal moments.
And now I realize something important: .Maybe I
shouldn't want to know so badly what happened to me. 1
remember that trickle cf blood matted along Cozy's jaw,
and then 1 recall the oppressive feeling of being stalked
that hit me just before I went into the house. I'm afraid that
whatever was stalking me . . . found me.
What if...
What if my predator caught Gabriel in its net, too?
Vi
It's an appalling thought.
God, if you're out here somewhere amid all this clutter
from my life, please tell me that whatever happened to
Gabriel, it wasn't that.
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e ring
age 17
''You're paranoid," Gabe says.
"I am notl" This whole home-alone-with-Gabe thing
isn't going the way I thought it would. Here I am, with my
boyfriend, in my own bedroom where we could be comfortably
horizontal on the bed together, no parents barging in
(they're with Kristen, helping her paint the baby's room),
and what are we doing? Fighting.
"You are, too," Gabe says. "This is just silly."
Okay, being told I'm silly and paranoid? This takes me
to an all-new level of anger. It isn't helping any that I'm still
1JB
shaking from the car accident—even if it was three hours
ago. I was so upset right after it happened that my parents
weren't going to leave me alone to go do the painting at
Kristen's. I convinced them to go, thinking time alone with
Gabe would help me more than hanging out with my parents
would, but now he's not even concerned about the way
his ex-girlfriend almost killed me.
More than t h a t . . . he's defending her.
"You weren't there, Gabe. I'm not being silly and paranoid.
I'm telling you, she hit me on purpose. We were both
stopped at a stop sign. I had the right of way. She looked
directly at me and then drove that Mercedes straight into the
driver's side of my car. She wanted to hurt me."
"That doesn't even make sense. Why would she mess up
her parents' car?"
"Uh, hello? Because she wants to hurt me? Because she
still wants you back?"
"Jesus, Maddy. You and I have been together for a year
and a half now. It's not like she would think I'm going to go
running back to her a
nytime soon. And hitting you with a
car wouldn't do anything to get her back with me anyway,
unless she killed you or something. She's not a murderer.
You're the one who's jeal—"
He's just admitted that he'd go back to her if I were
dead, and he thinks he's going to go on happily accusing me
of being silly? "See?! You just admitted you'd get back with
m
her if I were dead!"
"I did not'. How crazy can you ge:, Moody? You know
that's not at all what I meant! Your jealousy is driving me
insane. You've never been able to let go of thinking that I
still have a thing for her. No matter what I do, I can't get
you to let go of that."
"Well, gee, Gabe, it might help if you'd stop defending
her. Maybe then I'd believe that you cared about me more
than you do her."
"I do! But I'm not going to believe that Dana hit you
on purpose with her parents' Mercedes. Sometimes she's
awful. I admit it. But she's not that crazy. And she isn't trying
to kill you."
Okay, I start crying. I can't explain to him how . . . insecure
I've felt since we found Cozy deed on the front porch
a few weeks ago. That strange sense of being hunted hasn't
gone away. It's just intensified. And today, as Dana was pulling
that car straight into me, it was like my predator finally
Lituijhi me. Tune seemed lu slow, lo lauuli al ilie way I'd
been captured.
"This isn't just me being paranoid or jealous, Gabe. I
mean it. She wants me dead. I think she even killed Cozy."
The strangest look crosses his face. It's terrifying to me
because I can tell he thinks I've gone off the deep end on
this one. I feel more alone than I've ever been in my life.
And all those feelings roil inside me with anger. How dare
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biitp.?.d;.9illns.Pyfeiis!)Sfj.
o s i n j myself or disney world
oge 6
Hot, . . h o t . . . hot. The sun beats down on us. I love the
Magic Kingdom, but I'm tired of the heat and just plain
exhausted. The sun glares off of everything. And my face
feels gritty with sweat. My hair is soaked. Mom and Dad
have even decided that we all need popcorn to replace some
of the salt we've lost from sweating.
1 like that idea.
I take a piece of popcorn and drop it, watching it fall. It
seems to float slowly in the heavy air. When it finally hits
the ground, I kick it with my foot. This place is so glittering
IBi
he not believe me? I thought he loved me.
I grab a small ring off my vanity (I'd use something bigger
if it were in reach) and whip it at him where he's standing
in the doorway.
The I-don't-know-this-girl look that crosses his face is
too much I'm humiliated. He's right—I am psycho right
now. I owe him an apology, and yet, even though I know
this, and even though humiliation has just been added to
the emotional stew I've been cooking, I feel like I hate Gabe
right now.
And I hate him even more when he turns on his heel
and simply walks away from me. His feet pound quicklv
down the stairs, and then I hear the front door slamming.
Still crying, I wander over to the doorway and get down
on my hands and knees to start searching for the missing
ring. It isn't valuable or anything. It's just a ring that my
grandma gave me for my twelfth birthday. But it seems
incredibly important that I find it right now. I've lost so
much else—iny cat, my boyfi lend, my samly. I LUII'L beai lu
lose this r:ng, too. It feels as if finding it might help me find
all the other things I've lost.
Something metal brushes against—
IB1
and clean, I'm happy to see the lonely popcorn piece on the
ground.
"But 1 want to go back on the Big Thunder Mountain
Railroad ride," Kristen moans.
I kick the piece of popcorn along as we walk. This is
one of my favorite things to do. Walk . . . kick . . . walk . . .
kick...
"We will," Mom reassures her. "But your father wants
to take you on the Jungle Cruise first."
"You said we could go through the Pirates of the Caribbean
ride again," I whine. I feel betrayed. I give my popcorn
piece an extra-hard kick. It skitters off and I lose sight of it.
This. Is. It.
The end of the world. It's too hot. I don't want to see
anything else except the Pirates of the Caribbean ride,
where it's dark and cool. I'm tired. My eyes hurt. My feet
hurt. My head aches.
And now I've lost a piece of popcorn.
A piece that was very important to me.
I can't help it. I begin to cry.
My family hasn't even noticed that they've left me
behind. They keep right on walking. Fine .. . if they don't
care about me, then I don't care about them, either. I'll run
awav and live in the Swiss Family Treehouse that we saw
earlier today. All by myself. Forever.
Only . . . that's not sounding quite so great now that I
193
can't even see my family anymore,
I panic.
I start crying even harder.
Suddenly, Mom and Dad are standing in front of me.
"Madison, stay with us!" my mother starts to chastise me, but
then she notices how hard I'm crying, so she wipes my face
with a Kleenex instead. "C'mon, sweetie," she says. She reaches
for my hand and pulls. I yank my hand away from hers.
"What is i t , honey?" Daddy asks.
"My popcorn," I wail.
"It's right there in your hand," Daddy tries to reassure
me, gesturing to the bucket I'm still holding.
"No," I explain through my sobs. "I was kicking a piece
and I lost it."
A strange silence descends between them, even as all the
noise of the Magic Kingdom surrounds us.
Then Mom says something really strange to Dad, I
hear something that sounds like "object attachment." Even
though I don't understand those words, I know Mom's tone
of voice. It's the one she uses when what she really means is
"Maddy's difficult. I can't wait until she's older"—even if
those aren't the words she's saying.
"C'mon, sweetheart," Daddy says. "I'll give you a piggyback
ride."
I climb on Daddy's back, and we move on toward
Cinderella's Castle.
IS*
But let's face it, I'm not talking about "you" right now.
I'm talking about me.
The same me who—even in death—is incredibly
attached to these things because they take me back to who
I was. Somehow, though, it doesn't seem quite as fulfilling
as it once did to have a relationship with a piece of popcorn
that I'm kicking along on the pavement...
Kicking... I suddenly realize I haven't tried that yet with
the pinecone. I've imagined myself doing every other possible
thing that can be done with it. But I never envisioned
myself kicking it as I walked along. Could that be . . . ?
I swim myself through the currents of space until I find
the pinecone, and . ..
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
is
MOM AND DAD'S COMMENT about "object attachment" suddenly
makes perfect sense. I've always had some kind of
connection to the things I've owned. Losing them left me
feeling bereft because they were linked to everyone and
everything in my life that was important. And unlike the
people I loved, I could control them—at least I could when
I wasn't losing them.
Objects are safe, too. I mean, they don't change much. A
pen stays a pen and a set of keys always unlocks something.
You can go back to the object, hold it, remember who you
were when you loved it. That's something you can count
on.
I:i
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HaggfialllMfafelJslM
the pinecone
age 17
"What am I going to do, Maddv?"
I kick the pinecone along as we walk down the trails
of the park. I know I need to get out of my head, where
the image of Gabe's and my light last week is on automatic
replay 24-7. We still haven't talked to each other, and I can't
stop wondering if this is the end of our relationship. Our
gazes have met across the hallway several times, and I keep
wanting to go up and tell him how sorry I am that I threw
that ring at him.
But I just can't. I guess it's the humiliation. And the
IB' IB.1
fear . .. that he won't accept my apology. And—let's face it,
I'm still angry at him, too, about Dana.
I keep expecting to see him walking down the hall with
her or something.
Only—thank God—he doesn't.
He just looks at me like he wants to talk to me, too, but
can't.
It's hard to stop thinking about all that and pay attention
to Sandra. But I have to do it somehow. She needs me
right now.
Some friend I am . . . only half concentrating on what
she's saying.
And the thing is . .. the decision she makes about this
whole mess is going to have an impact on me. What if I lose
my best friend, too? I can't bear that. It almost makes me
want to give her what I know is the wrong advice. Because if
she does what's right, I will lose her.
Sure, if she moves to Oregon with her dad, she'll still
email me and call. Even come to visit sometimes. But it won't
be the same. Gradually the emotional distance between us
will match the distance between .Michigan and Oregon.