Freaks Like Us

by Susan Vaught

  “So stop scaring us.” Drip sniffs, and even though the dark’s mean and getting meaner, I’m impressed because he’s not usually so tough. Is he doing it for me? For Sunshine? She’s worth it. I’m not so sure about me.

  “I don’t want to be scary,” Mercer says. “I just want the truth.”

  Drip’s not through being tough because he comes right back with, “You’ve got the truth—or all of it we know. What good does it do to ask us the same questions over and over? We should look for her.”

  “Is that what you were doing?” Mercer’s so smooth he could be made of silk. Wonder if he’d be so smooth if he knew the night could bite him. Do darkness fangs have a name? Nangs, maybe. What about Farkness Biters? If I designed video games, I’d put in Farkness Biters and maybe I’d name the night hands, too, something like—

  Don’t give in to it Jason I know it’s all scary the stuff you hear the stuff you see but it’s not real look at me here squeeze my locket and look into my eyes and I do and her eyes they’re like midnight with candles in the center all warm and soft and right and she’s not scary because Sunshine’s never scary except one day she will be only I don’t know it and I don’t want to know it and

  —“Yes.”

  That was Drip. I suck in black night air. What if it’s poison? But that’s stupid. It’s not poison. What was he saying yes about?

  My right palm tingles in the center like I’m actually squeezing Sunshine’s locket, her magic locket that makes her not afraid and turns my voices into whispers and makes my eyes tell me the truth, at least for a little while. I can almost feel the gold, warmed by her skin, hot against my hand—but—

  But—

  Focus.

  I reach back, dig through my thoughts, try to skip past pictures of Sunshine and fangs and stuff and—oh yeah. Mercer asked if we were looking for her. Yes. That much is the truth. Good job, Drip.

  Mercer’s next question comes out slower and softer. “Did you expect to find her?”

  No. But I was hoping. Does that count? I don’t say anything out loud.

  Drip covers us both with, “We were thinking maybe she got upset and she was hiding. She might only come out for her mom or for us, so we thought—it seemed like we should look for her.”

  He lifts the beam of the flashlight, catching Mercer full in the face again, and this time the man blinks and some spell comes off me.

  “We needed to get out of the VFW and do something to find her,” I say, but my voice sounds weird to me, like I’m somebody else, like I’m talking from a room in some house miles away. Maybe the spell didn’t come off after all. “Something real. Something more than you’re doing. We know her better than you.”

  Drip glances in my direction, one eyebrow up. I must have sounded weird to him, too. Maybe the air really is poison and it’s making my throat die. If my throat dies, can I keep living? If Sunshine dies, can anything keep living?

  She can’t be dead. My chest goes tight and hurts like something’s punching me. Maybe the dark. Maybe the trees. Maybe the Farkness Biters. I can’t breathe. I want to cry but I can’t cry because I’m too old and because we have to look for Sunshine. She has to be alive. I can’t think about anything else. She’s alive. She’s alive.

  Mercer’s gaze stays steady and it’s on me, I know it is, even if Drip’s shining the light on his neck now. “What is it I’m not listening to right now, Jason—or what is it you’re not sharing?”

  “Nothing.” Nothing you need to know. Nothing that’s any of your business.

  Why is Drip looking at me like that? Like Mercer. Like I’ve done something?

  Because you have.

  Drip needs to stop. Mercer needs to stop.

  But Mercer doesn’t stop. “If something happened, if something went bad, you can tell me. We’ll work it out.”

  Short breaths. Pounding heart. I think I’m sweating in the cold. I know I’m making fists and hearing buzzy whispers and that’s bad. “You think I did something to her. You think I hurt Sunshine.”

  I’m talking to Mercer but maybe I’m talking to Drip, too, but that’s stupid because Drip would never think something like that. Would he?

  “I think it’s possible,” Mercer says, and for a second, I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but then I remember what I said.

  And my heartbeat comes back. And my breath. Because there, he just admitted it, didn’t he? That he thinks I hurt Sunshine. He thinks Sunshine is gone because of me.

  You know he’s right. You know you’re scum. It’s all your fault. All your fault. Faults make somersaults. Acrobats make somersaults. Why is it so cold out here?

  Mercer thinks I hurt her and Drip probably thinks I hurt her but Drip’s saying—no—yelling—at Agent Mercer.

  “Dude! You’re more nuts than we are. You don’t know anything.” Drip’s laugh comes out like mean-dog barks in the dark woods and the flashlight beam bounces each time. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of expert.”

  Before I can count to two, Mercer pops back with, “Do you have a temper, Derrick?”

  And that’s about all I can take. My turn to yell. “So, what? If one crazy kid didn’t hurt Sunshine, it must be the other one? No wonder my mother got a lawyer before you ever showed up.”

  “Why did she bring a lawyer, Jason?”

  Could have predicted that question, couldn’t I? Of course I could. And he follows up with, “Why does everyone call you Freak?”

  “Because I hear voices!” Yelling feels good. The gray clouds puffing around my head feel good because they chase back the darkness and make me safer. “I think funny. I say stupid crap when my brain plays tricks on me. All of that makes me a freak. It makes me Freak.”

  “And my nose runs and my mouth runs, and that makes me Drip,” Drip says. Then his volume drops. “Sunshine never calls him Freak, just like she never calls me Drip. You know that, right?”

  This time Mercer’s expression does change, and it shows just enough sadness that my thoughts brake and swerve before speeding straight into fantasies of murdering him.

  “Sunshine was different,” he says, and I don’t think he’s poking at us or trying to get more information. Just stating what he’s been told, what he’s trying to understand.

  “Yes,” Drip whispers, right at the same second I do. “She is different.”

  Mercer nods. “Sunshine was special.”

  “Yes,” we both answer, and I say, “She is special.”

  Was, were—I don’t want him talking about Sunshine in the past tense any more than Drip does. It’s wrong. She’s not a was or a were or a used to be. Sunshine’s an is, and I’ll fight him over that if he makes me—

  “Do you think she ever got—ah—gets—depressed?” This question doesn’t sound smooth or planned. It sounds real. And Mercer’s using the present tense. Christ. Is he actually listening to us? That would be a first. “You know, down and sad? Hopeless?”

  Drip and I don’t say anything to this, because yeah, sure she does. We all do, but we help each other and that’s one of our private things.

  “She did,” Mercer says, no doubt adding up our silence to get his sum total. “I mean, does.”

  He gets more nothing from us, which I guess is another answer for him. “Would she hurt herself?”

  “No.” Drip sounds sarcastic and pissed off now, from zero to eighty in two seconds flat. That’s how his engine runs, even on meds.

  My mouth stays shut because I know I see different and I think different so maybe Drip’s right and Mercer’s question was totally stupid but—

  Sometimes I don’t think I can stand another second Jason do you understand that do you ever feel that way when everything goes dark and numb and you think you’re never getting out of any of this and I put my hand over hers and feel how tight she’s squeezing her locket and I tell her yes of course I do you know I feel like that a lot but you always help me and she says then help me now Jason please help me now and

&nbs
p; —I see clouds. Nothing but clouds, black and thick and I want to scream and beat my way through them but they’ll bite me and I’ll bleed and I’ll just get locked up.

  “She didn’t hurt herself,” Drip tells Mercer. “Freak and I didn’t hurt her and the sooner you get that and get busy searching for her like you should be doing, the sooner we’ll find her.”

  A pause. Then Mercer asks, “Do you think we’ll find her, Derrick?”

  “You have to.” He’s yelling again, only now he’s not mad and now I’m wanting to reach out and try to pat his hand like I did when we were little but we’re not little and big grown Drip would punch me if I tried that. “Somebody has to find Sunshine.”

  I hear his tears even if he’s not crying them, and if Mercer ever tries to mess with my brain and make me think Drip might have hurt Sunshine, I’m going to remember this and I’m going to know better because he’s sobbing inside. He’s wailing inside. I know, because I’m doing it, too.

  And for some reason, Mercer’s nodding.

  “We’ve got a team going over her room and home, over her locker and classrooms, her family cars, and your school bus. Is there anywhere else we should look?”

  Maybe he is listening.

  I open my mouth to tell him. I open my mouth to send him down the path and through the thorns, to the river and the rocks and water, but the words don’t come out and before I can make a single sound, Drip answers with a firm “No.”

  “Is this clearing important?” Mercer gestures to the mean dark all around us, and the mean trees, which I haven’t been thinking about until just now when he points to them, thanks a lot, FBI man.

  “We’ve been here before,” Drip says.

  Smooth. I’m impressed. But I’m confused. Part of me wants to tell Mercer anything and everything because maybe he’s actually listening to us even though we’re alphabets but a bigger part of me doesn’t trust him and sort of hates him and I’m glad he seems to be getting closer to actually looking for Sunshine but I’m not sure I want a man like him to find her. I’m not sure I want him anywhere near her. There’s something dark and monster and wraith about him.

  “Don’t be dark,” I tell him. “She can’t stand any more darkness.”

  “Freak, shut up,” Derrick mutters where only I can hear him.

  “What was that?” Mercer asks, and I don’t know if he’s talking to Drip or me, so I let Drip answer.

  “He said it’s dark, and we want to go back to the VFW.”

  “Okay.” Mercer shrugs, relaxed like I’m not sure I’ll ever feel again, and turns in the general direction of the VFW. He switches on a flashlight I didn’t realize he was carrying, because he had it turned off when he snuck up on us.

  He starts walking.

  I don’t know what to do and I don’t think Drip does either because we just keep standing there until Drip finally jumps like he’s waking up, then takes off after Mercer. I follow Drip.

  Mercer lets us get a few steps into the twigs and loam and evil trees I don’t want to look at before he says, “So, what do you two think about this Roland Harks character and his minion—what’s his name—the little gangster?”

  “Linden Green,” Drip says. “And they’re jerks.”

  Oops. There’s that impulse thing. But Drip’s right so I keep my eyes on his shoulders like I did when we were running down here and I walk and I don’t say anything at all.

  “Bullies,” Agent Mercer supplies, and Drip gives him a snort that clearly says, Well, yeah, idiot, what do you think?

  “Would either of them actually hurt somebody—hurt Sunshine?”

  “Roland would,” Drip and I say in unison, like we’ve rehearsed the opinion for years, and if you really think about it, we have.

  “What about other people—like your teacher Mr. Watson?”

  Drip laughs at this, but I don’t, because the guy keeps giving me cases of the creepies, but why bother explaining. He’s only doing his job, right?

  Mercer’s moving on. “Her stepfather—any issues with him?”

  Drip’s answering everything, so he says, “Nah, don’t see him much,” but I follow my Dad-ism about shutting my mouth rarely being a bad idea, and I keep my lips tightly pressed together on this one. There’s something digging at me, something I’m trying to put words to, but it’s making the clouds come back and my head’s starting to hurt and my words, they’re running away from me like Sunshine’s words run away from her, and I wonder if it’s because she’s in my head and she’s hiding the letters and periods and commas and even the thoughts, tucking them away and closing them up in her little gold locket so I can’t see them or find them or say them out loud because I promised I promised I promised and I made the clouds and I gave the clouds fangs and they’ll kill me if I talk because anybody who breaks a promise to Sunshine should die.

  Mercer almost sounds relaxed when he throws out the next lure. “Her brother, Eli—he’s interesting.”

  “Interesting is a good word,” Drip agrees and I still don’t say anything, because I agree with that, too.

  Mercer stays quiet a second or two as we walk, and then he asks, “Is he a bully?”

  “Sort of,” Drip says. “Maybe?”

  “Not really,” I tell Mercer, and my voice still sounds off, but not as bad as it did when everything seemed dark and mean and scary, which it doesn’t right now. I don’t know why.

  Because you’re stupid. Because you can’t see the truth any more than you can tell it. Truth is creepy and spooky. Truth is truth. You should always tell the truth, Freak.

  “You sound pretty definite on that point,” Mercer says to me, and I have to think a few moments to remember he’s talking about Eli, and the fact that I said Sunshine’s brother isn’t a bully.

  “Eli takes care of Sunshine,” I explain, wishing I had a better way to put it. “He looks out for her. Sort of. When we were younger, he was a pain—but now, since he got back from juvenile—he’s different.”

  Mercer lets this sit, and when Drip doesn’t say anything, he prompts with, “Any disagreement, Derrick?”

  “Nah,” Drip says. “Eli’s a dill weed, but not to Sunshine.”

  Yeah. Late dose of meds or not, Drip’s tired. I get that, because my brain’s misfiring like an engine about to throw a rod.

  A strange sound bounces through the woods, and it makes me jump, then stumble. I bump against Drip, who doesn’t stop walking, and it takes me at least three steps to realize the weird sound was laughter.

  Agent Mercer… laughed.

  Crap. Maybe the forest is about to eat us.

  “I think I could come to like you, young man,” Agent Mercer says to Drip.

  “More than I can say for you,” Drip says.

  Agent Mercer actually laughs again, and he asks Drip if he’s ever thought about going into law enforcement.

  We leave the edge of the woods, walking into the park, and there’s a crowd ahead, a crowd full of the colonel and Dad and the lawyer and Drip’s mom and his brothers, and Drip’s mom is crying and the colonel’s holding her hand and they see us sort of all at once and sweep toward us like a flashlight tide, all talking at the same time—

  “Where have—”

  “What—”

  “You found them! Thank—”

  “What did you say to them? If no parents were present—”

  “Derrick, I’m gonna kick your—”

  And the colonel’s got me, pulling me to her, and Dad’s got me, too, and they’re smothering me, and hugging me tight, and I can’t hear much of anything and I hug them back until the colonel goes a little stiff because there’s a new voice in the mix and it’s a man, a strange man, and he’s saying, “Excuse me, sir. I think you should get back to the VFW. We found something in the girl’s room.”

  NINE HOURS

  Agent Mercer leads the way back to the VFW, along with the agent who came to find him. Drip’s on my right with his mom and two of his brothers, and the colonel and Dad are on m
y left. The lawyer’s behind us somewhere.

  We found something in the girl’s room…

  What did they find? Did Sunshine leave a note after all? The thought makes my pulse thump hard and loud in my ears. I want there to be a note. I want to know where she went. I want to know she’s okay.

  But what if she—

  We round the last bend toward the hall, I almost don’t recognize where I am. The VFW, it’s—

  This isn’t the VFW. They’re lying to you. This is somewhere else. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong anywhere. Belong is wrong. Belong is wrong. Maybe you should belong?

  —The VFW looks different.

  Trucks have been pulled into the drive—big trucks. And there are two towers on the lawn, one with two satellite dishes on the sides. Mist rises around big glaring lights that have been set up on the sloping front lawn, almost like spotlights on the front of the hall. Everything is so white-bright it’s hard to make out the long tables lined with wide boxes, long yellow pads, and cups holding markers and pens. There’s a person behind each table, and a handful of people in front—mostly folks from town with faces I know but can’t name. They’re signing the pads, writing their names on big white tags, picking out orange vests from the boxes, then lining up in front of one of three women carrying clipboards. The women seem to be dividing people into teams and giving them something that looks like a cell phone or a small handheld radio.

  It’s the government. They’re here. They’re here to get you, you freak, because they know all about you. Know and show. Know and show. Why don’t you tell the truth?

  My alphabet voices yell so loud it makes me blink. As we start up the main sidewalk, I have to work not to shake my head and work harder to shift my focus from all the lights and people and tables to Agent Mercer.

  He says, “People are responding to the Amber Alert and our requests for volunteers. We’re organizing a grid search of the area to begin at dawn.”