by Kay Camden
Then the soreness of my arm and shoulder hits and wow, that’s something.
“What’d I miss?”
Of course she doesn’t hear. She had to notice me sit up but from the way she’s staring ahead at the road, I might think I hadn’t moved at all. She’s lit by the orange glow of the sun setting through the window beside her. There’s a shiny line on her cheek. This girl is even silent when she cries.
I reach into my bag in the back and come out with a sock. It’s clean, but it’s still a sock. She’s already spotted me with it though, so I hand it over. Total stud move. Instead of handing a girl a tissue to dry her tears, hand her a sock. What a reject.
She uses it like she doesn’t care it’s a stupid sock. The tears keep on coming despite being wiped, hitting harder like they’re out to prove. Tension curls her shoulders, her body wanting to bend and really give in, but she’s fighting it with deep breaths that have me looking away for how uncontrolled they are.
I tell my phone, “Pull over and I’ll drive.” Show her the screen.
She puts all her fingers squished together against her mouth. That has to be the sign for eating, and my stomach must know sign language because it’s growled before I figure that out.
This time we order food and stay inside to eat. Or, she orders food, and I pretend to be as deaf as her. To speak and show my ignorance of the world outside my house would make me the freak, and I’d rather her keep that title. One problem: watching her interact with people proves how unfit she is for that title and how fit I am for it. Self-loathing is getting worse and getting old the more I hang with her, but the shame? Screw shame. It’s never plagued me before, and I’m not letting it in. So what if the deaf girl’s adapted to the world like a pro. Has no bearing on me. Only more and more it feels like it does.
I get the tray and Sloane leads me to a table around a half wall so the cashier can’t keep staring. Sloane must be used to it, has learned how to head it off. She has a strange tremble going on with her hands, probably due to this place being cooled to deep freeze levels. Her eyes are still red from crying. I’m glad I’m the one whose face has been beat to hell. If it was hers, this would look bad. Might even trigger a 911 call.
I go for a burrito. She goes for my phone. Don’t ever look at me like that again.
“What—when?”
At the counter.
Whatever she caught, I’d rather her not be clued into any of it—my fanboying, my inadequacy, my shame. “Shut up and eat. I didn’t look at you any way.”
You did. I don’t accept pity.
It takes effort to swallow—not because I inhaled half of my Spicy Beef and Cheese, but because pity is so far off I wonder if it was some other dude she was looking at. “It’s not pity.”
Stupid response. She’s going to ask what it was instead, and I have nothing ready.
“I mean, it’s not anything. Shut up. Eat. There’s so much salt in this we’re about to get high. You’re harshing it.”
Don’t tell me to shut up either.
“Really?”
The cold look in her eye says, Really.
The cold look I return says I can say whatever the fuck I want. “Shut up.”
She chucks her 7-Layer at me so hard it sprays me in the face. Sour cream, for the taste I get off my lips. And when I see how she’s watching me lick my lips, I stand up fast because shit, that brings back memories, and shit, there’s something tragically wrong with me. I know this because the move I have prepped as response to someone who does that to me—the jarring upheaval of pain I get when imagining it done to her has flushed the thought far away. So I take my food and drink and move to another table.
Lucky for us the restaurant’s empty. The scene we caused ordering food at the counter was nothing compared to this.
I finish before her and go outside. The sun is gone, its orange light draining before my eyes. Cars hiss by on the road, anonymous economical heaps lit up and moving like autonomous beings. The level of noise and activity is both exciting and disturbing. A semi-truck passes, rumbling in the pavement. This tiny pointless town swarms with people who make minimum wage, have probably never left a fifty-mile radius, and have seen more of the world than I have.
Sloane joins me minutes later, pointing a few buildings down to the Budget Motel. I drive us there and park, trying to remember what I’ve seen people do on TV when it comes to motels. So much of TV is fake though, so I get out my phone and search around on the internet. A much more trustworthy source of information, right? Sloane unbraids and rebraids that long piece of hair, and I keep my screen safely tilted away from her. If she knows what I’m doing, she decides to leave it alone. Maybe she knows nothing about motels either.
Feeling more confident after a five-minute internet search, I head into the office. She trails behind, keeping enough distance so she can shove me toward the wolves and run. Which won’t be necessary because I’ve got something most people don’t have: loads of money.
Stepping inside is like walking into a box. The ceiling is so low I feel like I’m about to scrape my head. The clerk takes no time to look us over. “Too young.”
“I’ll double the rate.”
“Still too young.”
“Triple it.”
He pinches at his chin, considering. “Just the two of you?”
“Yes.”
“Pardon for saying, but you look like trouble, son. You gonna be any trouble?”
Should I make up some lie about the condition of my face and knuckles? Nah. Nothing would make it look better. “No trouble. You have my word on that, sir.” Southern manners always get them.
Chapter 15
Sloane
Alone in the motel room’s bathroom, I completely lose it. He’s on the other side of a paper-thin door but let him judge. He doesn’t know what’s in my head. I can handle one crisis. Even two. But now I have so many I can’t see where one ends and the next begins. There’s no Winnie here to help me process them. There’s no Marcas to distract me. No Mom or Dad to put an arm around my shoulders. No wooded mountainside to lose myself in. No dogs or coyotes to sit and share the breeze.
I blow my nose, knowing it’s probably loud, not giving a care. He killed so many people back there. Did they have families? Kids who expect them to come home? Dogs now unattended, cats locked in a house to starve and die? I know they attacked us, but Rex considers nothing else. He shoots off their faces and cuts their throats and waits for more. He doesn’t question, he doesn’t grieve.
Oh, and news flash: I have black magic blood. And my mom! Does she know? Did she and my dad keep it from me? I’m not just practicing non-native magic co-opted by my family like my dad taught me to do. That messed-up trick I did in the Moore mansion—I’m playing with magic native to me. I’m feeding it and growing it, and I have no idea what to do with its power. That woman, whoever she was, woke a kinship in me, stirring up that new magic so it reached and danced and begged for release. Her presence brought a new order to it, a validation I didn’t realize was missing. And oh my gosh, when she put words inside my head? If I could master that power, I could talk to anyone.
Don’t forget I’m on the run with Rex Moore. And enjoying it way too much. That alone is a problem so extreme it has no legit outcome.
I let my hair down and finger-comb it out. My reflection in the chipped mirror shows a girl who just cried her eyes out. I use cold water on toilet paper to ease the puffiness but it does no good so I forget it. I let myself out.
Rex is flat out on one of the beds. He’s grown butterfly wings. It’s nice to imagine even though it’s just the print on the bedspread underneath him. He’s covering most of the butterfly’s body with his own so the wings seem to belong to him. He lifts up, tosses me his phone. Why are you crying?
I toss it back and sit on the floor to stretch out my legs. There isn’t much floor space,
so I angle one leg between the two beds and the other in the walkway between the end of the bed and the TV table. Up close to the bedspread I see it’s covered in smaller butterflies too. Pastel green, blue, and lavender wings floating among a backdrop of ivy and wildflowers. Above each bed is a matching framed butterfly print. It all has the look of another decade, and I’m not sure why, but it’s oddly comforting.
Rex’s phone lands in my lap. I can’t really help being an asshole. It runs in the family.
I look up at him. That’s such a cop-out and he knows it. Anyone can change. Everyone has problems. Some have problems worse than his. But he’s directed his attention to the ceiling like it’s too hard to look at me and admit that at the same time. He’s provided me the perfect segue, though, so I get up and sit on the bed next to him. He startles at the accidental contact against his leg and bolts upright. Gosh, he’s such a touch-me-not. I start typing.
I know how to turn your family good, but you have to help me and you can’t back out, and it’s going to take some time. But when it’s done, our families won’t be at war anymore and you and I can both go home.
When I’m finished I hand him the phone so he knows I’m not discussing it. This is what we’re doing. I consider moving to the other bed but no, I have to be close enough to see his face if he does respond. He guards his expression too well. I’ve learned some of his tics which are better viewed and harder for him to hide the closer I am.
He’s staring at the screen instead of speaking, so long he must be reading it again after the voice finished. And I’m beginning to lose the nerve. My palms tingle, about to turn sweaty. A spotlight has been turned on somewhere, and I’m melting in the light. Please don’t let him look at me until I’ve gained control of this. I rub my palms and think about the cathedral of pines encircling my house, how resolute their spirit, how eternal. The comfort of their scent in the winter cold. I picture myself there beside the sparkle of the river, coyotes brushing my side. Fresh mountain air finds me in this little motel, and I draw it in, cooling the melt of nerves. Just in time for Rex to speak and return his phone to me, so calmly I have to read it. I can never go home.
I type, You can if we do this.
He shifts away from me, passing a hand over his hair, back to front, front to back. When he starts in the back like that, it means he’s unsettled. His hand pauses at the nape of his neck, gripping hard. I see his lips moving, so I glance at the screen.
Why were you crying?
I wait for him to say more, but he only drops his hand to his lap and side-eyes me. So he’s bargaining. His response to my proposal exchanged for my answer to his question. Fair enough.
Because you killed sixteen people back there.
He makes a face. Not sixteen.
Yes, sixteen. Plus those other guys on the road before. If you’re not counting, it must not bother you. Of course it doesn’t bother him. Why even say it?
Whatever. Don’t forget they came for us.
We can do so many other things. We don’t have to kill people.
He leans closer to me. No, you can do so many other things. Not me.
He’s enclosed his thumbs inside fists, squeezing tight enough they’ve probably both popped the knuckle. The bruising around his eye has started changing color so it looks worse, not better. It’s strange to see actual healing taking place. My wounds don’t go through these stages. Or maybe they do, but it’s too fast to notice them.
I’ve changed my mind. I do deserve an answer from him. So are you going to help me?
Eye contact becomes a deadlock. He doesn’t want to answer even though he owes it to me, and getting me involved in a staring contest is a way to buy himself some time. I break first and go back to the phone, pretending to collect my thoughts for my next message to him. He gets off the bed and paces at the foot. I don’t realize he’s speaking until I see it pop up on the screen.
I’ll help you if you teach me all your magic. He leans against the dresser, crosses his arms, and waits. I can tell his wounded arm still hurts by the way he’s bracing it against his body.
If my plan works out, Bevan magic won’t be a hazard in Moore hands. Teaching him will do no harm. But that’s a big risk to take if my plan doesn’t succeed. Is there really any other way though? Now that this is on the table, he’s not going to back down, and he’ll never help me unless I agree.
Screw it. What’s life without risk? I sign, OK.
He says, Yeah?
A little at a time.
He sits on the other bed, facing me. Mulling it over while staring straight at my face. He must be trying to read my tics as I’m trying to read his.
So how are we going to turn my family good?
You’re going to take me to every Moore household, and I’m going to do to each of them what I did to you.
The slightest widening of his eyes, a quick look away, two skinned knuckles against his lips. He’d forgotten what I did to him, that couldn’t be more blatant. And now the brows have lowered, and I get a dark look along with a dose of my own guilt. He was full of hate, but he never asked me to remove it. Neither will any of his family. But if they weren’t preying upon my family, I wouldn’t have a reason to drain them of it without their permission.
Rex abruptly stands, jerks the door open, and leaves. I wait for the door to close before peeking past the curtain on the window. He’s on the sidewalk in a squat, rubbing his head, back to front, front to back. Over and over with such aggression I’m afraid he might wear a hole in his scalp. Half a second later he’s back in the room, the door is closing fast behind him, and he’s stepped up so he’s in my face. I catch nothing on his lips because I’m too consumed by readying a defense.
Since he’s not backing off, I give him a blunt shove. Jerkface needs to get a grip. Then he’s raised his phone into my face. Like I’m interested in anything he has to say while he’s acting like this. So I stare him down until he raises both hands, clearly finding himself in the wrong. Well that’s promising.
I take his phone then and read the screen. He doesn’t deserve it, but I’m too curious not to.
I don’t care what you do to any of them, but you’re going to undo whatever black magic bullshit you did to me.
So he can jump back on the Kill Sloane Bevan train? Right.
I type, Nope, into the phone, flop onto the bed, grab the remote, and power on the TV. He leaves through the door, slamming it so hard I feel it in the headboard. Anger issues much? What a baby.
Even after turning on the closed captions, I can’t focus on the TV. I wish I could video call my family. I wish I could be home, instead of stuck in a box of a motel room, locked away from the song of the elements. When I catch myself nodding off, I get up and take a shower. After so many days without hot water, it’s glorious, like bathing in sunlight. Even though there’s an unidentified stain running down the middle of the floor and the water pressure is so weak it takes ten full minutes just to get the shampoo out of my hair. But the shampoo smells like citrus, and to just be clean again brightens my mood.
Rex is still missing when I get out. I use the hair dryer on the wall to dry my hair then dig through Rex’s bag in search of toothpaste. Lucky for me he packed some. I brush my teeth with my finger and leave the toothpaste on the sink so he knows why I went through his bag. It would be fun to make him wonder, but I’m not the game-playing type.
I wake at three in the morning and swivel the alarm clock so the light from the numbers casts onto his bed. It’s empty and still made. Now I’m worried, but I can’t decide if it’s my place to be. I slip out of bed and outside, connecting with the night creatures like they were waiting for me. Gravel in the parking lot stabs my heel. Forgetting my shoes—not bright. Forgetting a weapon? I pause and consider going back for one. But then the night animals fill in the scene for me. All is calm. Now to find Rex.
He’s in his
car, forehead against the steering wheel, jaw loose with sleep. I open the door so I can poke him awake. It works, with the added fun of getting a .45 pointed in my face. I press its aim away and tilt my head toward our room. He makes a quick grab for my shirt, jerking me against him, gun aimed past me into the parking lot. I tap into the animals, confirm once again there’s no threat out here.
Breaking away from him, I grab his hand and tug, hoping he’ll just be normal and come inside with me. That’s when I notice that panicky, hunted look in his eye. The pulse throbbing in his neck. The rapid in-and-out of his chest. Another panic attack, and this time we’re not on my dad’s secluded property in the woods. There aren’t any other people nearby but that could change fast. He asks me something but it’s too hard to read in the dark. The desperation in it drives in deep. Whatever he’s fighting seems to be winning. I so wish he knew ASL.
I manage to get him back to the room but once the door locks he’s rearranging furniture to barricade us in. He seems to have forgotten about that wounded arm. A grab for his shirt leaves me with air. In full-on crazy mode he’s impossible to track because right now he’s not trying to fight me, he’s trying to get away from something else. When I flip on a lamp, he hauls me into the bathroom with him. Struggling against him seems like it would make all this worse. His terror leaks into me. Yeah, whatever he’s battling isn’t real but it still feels better to be on his side. Wedged between the tub and the toilet, he checks the magazine in the .45, holds up three fingers. Checks the chamber, holds up one more. He can’t shoot up this room. There could be people next door, people within range all over. And the shots will draw attention even if they don’t accidentally kill someone. I need to figure out how to get him out of this and get the gun away from him.
If he went through that fingerspelling app on his phone, he should know some letters. I fingerspell his name. He shifts his gaze to me then away, back to the doorway. I do it again. He cuts a hand through the air—the universal sign for quit it. It’s a detached motion though, not coming from this Rex but from the one I know. This Rex props his arms on the toilet lid, aiming through the doorway.