Little Creeping Things

by Chelsea Ichaso

  It isn’t just that breath stuck in there. It’s also my secrets. My guilt. I thought they’d be purged along with any statement to the cops, but the sickening feeling refuses to budge. “I couldn’t do it,” I say, staring at the gum-encrusted sidewalk. “I’m sorry. I panicked.”

  Gideon doesn’t speak. I wait for him to get up and drive off without me, but he just sits there. I don’t know what else to say. I failed him. I failed this town. Most of all, I failed Melody. It doesn’t matter what I discovered. It doesn’t matter that I single-handedly found her killer and worked up the guts to turn him in.

  Melody is not coming back. She’s gone. My fears, my selfishness, kept everyone from helping her, and nothing I ever do will change that.

  Gideon stands up, offering me a hand. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. But he doesn’t look at me as we walk to his truck.

  I made a choice. And I lost him.

  Now I have to go home and wait. Wait to see if Seth talks his way out of this, using me as the scapegoat. And I have to do it without Gideon, which is fine because I don’t deserve him.

  I guess I never did.

  22

  After practice the following afternoon, Asher and I turn on the TV for the first time in weeks. We’re watching a reality special about the world’s most brilliant jigsaw puzzle–solving teens, when a local news story breaks. An update on the Melody Davenport case.

  My heart thumps in time with the blue lights flashing on the screen.

  The news reporter finishes going over the basics of the case—not that I need a recap—and a photograph of a young man appears on the screen. Seth Greer. The reporter goes on to explain that this young man has been arrested concerning Melody’s alleged homicide.

  “Wow, Cass.” Asher’s eyes are fixed on the screen.

  “I know,” I breathe. After Gideon dropped me off yesterday, I apologized to Asher about the Brandon stuff and the way I’ve been acting lately. I needed someone on my side. He said all was forgiven, but he still seemed wary of me. His eyes were vacant. I broke something between us, and my attempt to fix it felt like slabbing on cheap glue.

  At least we’re on speaking terms now. He wasn’t happy about my investigative work, but he eased up when I told him about Seth’s collection and the threats.

  Now, my hands shake as I look at Seth’s photo on the screen and listen to the story of how my efforts actually ended in someone’s arrest.

  The reporter continues, explaining that Melody’s DNA was found in the trunk of Greer’s car. Anyone with information concerning the case is encouraged to call the Oregon State Police Department. A telephone number flashes in yellow at the bottom of the screen.

  A little cry of relief escapes my lips. I clear my throat as Asher’s eyes drift to me. My chest relaxes, but not all the way. An unsettling thought needles its way into my mind and takes up residence there: I wish the reporter had mentioned the necklace. Just to eliminate all questions forever and put me in the clear.

  Still, the police found Melody’s DNA. The fact the detectives haven’t come for me means that DNA evidence prevailed over the notebook.

  “You did good, Cass.” Asher scoots closer to me on the sofa, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “That creep is getting what he deserves.”

  * * *

  I’m setting out forks and plates for dinner when my phone buzzes.

  I grab it. Gideon.

  It’s over.

  I heard. They got him. Giddy, I’m really sorry.

  I go back to the table, letting the utensils clink against the plates. Then I push my pride aside and send another text.

  Do you want to come over? Asher’s here. We can watch a movie.

  Sorry, I can’t.

  Of course not. You’re busy with Gracie Davenport. I growl, slamming a knife down so hard it pierces through the tablecloth.

  Over by the stove, my mom startles. “Cass, what’s wrong?” She checks and stirs her dish one more time before setting the spoon down. Then she steps closer, straightening her apron and peering at me.

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. It’s just Gideon.”

  My mom hasn’t asked about Gideon. She probably figured I was fine with my replacement friend. I expect her to ask now, but she doesn’t.

  “Also, I just… Did you hear about what happened with Seth?”

  Mom winces. “Yes, sweetie, I did. I know you’re close with Emily. Is that what this is about?”

  I nod. “People already teased her relentlessly because of Seth. And that was when it was all just rumors. Now…” My eyes wander to the sizzling meat on the stove.

  “What if you invite her over? She probably needs a little time to process things with her family, but in the meantime, you could reach out to her. Let her know you’re still her friend and you’re here for her.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course she doesn’t mind,” comes Asher’s voice from the doorway. “Why would she mind?”

  “Well, things are probably going to be chaotic for Emily and her family. And if she comes over here—”

  “We’ll handle it.”

  He pats me on the back as my dad wanders into the room, headed straight for his chair. He mutters, “Terrible,” clears his throat, and takes a sip of wine.

  My mom returns to the stove, motioning for Asher to help her.

  “What’s terrible, Dad?” I plop down into my seat.

  “This whole ordeal with the Greer boy.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised.” Asher gathers up the pan with a potholder. “He was very strange. Disturbed, I guess.”

  “The Greers have been my patients for years,” continues my dad. “It’s unreal.”

  Asher and I nod. His knife punctures a steak still steaming in the pan. As he drops the meat onto my dad’s plate, I watch the bloody liquid seep to the edges. A few drips leak onto the cream-colored tablecloth.

  Seth wasn’t always strange and disturbed. I made him that way with the rumor I spread. A little of this destructive part of me leaked out and dripped into his life. And then into Melody’s.

  Gideon was right to drop me. I’ve already left my mark on him; he’ll never be the same after all this. Maybe I shouldn’t invite Emily over; maybe I should tell her to get away from me while she still can.

  * * *

  Emily, understandably, does not attend school the next two days. Over the weekend, she texts me that reporters are camped outside her house. Her devastated parents contacted a lawyer and then hid under their bedcovers. Emily has been doing her best to comfort them and assure them it will all be cleared up soon.

  The following week, when the reporters finally fall away like the last leaves of an autumn oak, she agrees to come over for dinner.

  I open the front door to find her bouncy red curls hidden beneath a navy-blue beanie. She wears large sunglasses, though clouds block out every last ray. She peeks behind her before ducking inside. I shut the door and pull her into a hug, letting her cry on my shoulder for a change.

  But every tear tugs on my conscience. I did this to her. And though I’m certain her brother killed Melody, it doesn’t make it any easier.

  At dinner, Asher is charming as usual. Emily nearly starves herself—maybe due to her traumatized state, maybe out of some self-conscious delusion that her eating will ruin her chances with him. Asher makes getting a smile out of Emily his personal mission.

  “How did the big decade project turn out?” He flashes his crystal eyes from her to me. Emily practically swoons straight into her full plate of spaghetti.

  “I think it went well,” I answer for both of us. “Mr. Samuels seemed to like our old movie clips.”

  “I still think you should’ve presented in costume,” Asher says with a devious grin. “You know, bowler hats, gabardine suits.” He winks at Emily and her face suddenly res
embles a giant strawberry, bright red with freckles dabbled about.

  I laugh. “So we blew it because we didn’t dress like 1930s businessmen.”

  “I’m sure you two did fine,” my mom says. “You’ve been hard at work on that thing for weeks.” Fine, not great, the word she would have used to describe any project of Asher’s. Still, my mom is doing her best to make Emily comfortable. She doesn’t think I’m capable of making a friend stick.

  She’s right.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Pratt,” says Emily, recovering from her spell as a mute strawberry.

  My dad, on the other hand, seems confused by everyone’s treatment of the elephant in the room. He’s quiet, refusing to join in the conversation. He keeps squinting across the table at Emily, like she might try to use her knife on someone. I’m not sure if she notices, but my stomach clenches. I can’t wait to flee the dinner table.

  “Don’t you two have a big dance this weekend?” my mom asks suddenly. “Sadie Hawkins, right?”

  “Mom,” I whine. “We don’t want to talk about that.” I sip my water and look to Asher for help. He sees my pleading eyes and his mouth twitches. I sigh. That twitch only means one thing.

  “Oh, but Cass, you must tell us who you’re asking to the dance,” says Asher, a chuckle escaping halfway through his words.

  I glare at him. “You know I don’t go to dances.” Especially one where I’d have to watch Gracie throw herself at Gideon all night.

  Emily perks up in her seat a little, like she’s enjoying the show. “Why not, Cass?”

  I take a bite of spaghetti, just to buy time. How can I explain to someone like Emily, who lives and breathes school spirit—who is on the dance committee—that the idea of a school dance triggers the same physiological response in me as imagining a thousand needles stabbing me in the face?

  My noodle has disintegrated to nothing by the time I swallow. “Um, I don’t know. It’s just not my thing.”

  My dad sighs loudly and takes a long gulp of wine.

  Point taken. “Well, I’m finished. Want to go to my room, Emily?” I look at my mom hopefully, and she smiles her approval.

  “Sure,” Emily says, picking up her plate.

  “Not necessary.” Asher reaches a hand across to stop her. “You two go. I’ll clean up.”

  Asher’s finger must have skimmed Emily’s, because she freezes and stammers, “O-o-k-kay. Th-thanks.”

  Once Emily and I settle onto my bed, the topic can no longer be avoided. I hand her one of the sugar cookies my mom baked earlier today and lean back against the bed frame. “So, what’s been happening?”

  Emily shakes her head. “Just”—she shrugs—“a lot. And my parents don’t know how to deal with it. I don’t even think they would have gotten Seth a lawyer if I hadn’t mentioned it.”

  “Didn’t he ask for one?”

  “Well yeah, but just the state-appointed guy. He needs somebody good. This is murder we’re talking about.”

  I nod. It’s strange staying silent, pretending to agree while everything in me screams that Seth needs to remain in prison for the rest of his life. Still, that tiny, nagging thought is fighting to surface again. Despite my efforts to smother it, I have to know for certain. “This is ridiculous,” I huff, shaking my head. “What was this supposed DNA evidence they found?” It’s a natural enough segue; the media hasn’t revealed this detail yet.

  Emily’s face turns ashen, and I regret asking. “I don’t know.”

  “Did anyone mention the necklace?” I nibble on a cookie, trying not to seem too interested in her answer. “You know, Melody’s necklace that went missing? Was it part of the evidence?”

  “I don’t think so. But no one’s telling me anything—that’s part of this nightmare.”

  “Have you talked to Seth yet?”

  “No, I…” Her words catch as she blinks away tears.

  “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

  “It’s all my fault,” she whispers.

  “What? No, Emily. None of this is your fault.”

  “You don’t understand,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “I didn’t go talk to my brother because I never talk to my brother. I haven’t in the last two years.”

  “Well, you’re very…different.”

  “He wasn’t always this way. He changed. He was always smart and reserved, but he wasn’t this loner guy.”

  Guilt curdles in my stomach. “Really?”

  “I think it’s because of me. I see you and Asher, and you’re so close. If I’d had that kind of relationship with Seth, maybe he wouldn’t be the way he is now. Or maybe I would’ve seen it. Maybe I could’ve stopped it.” Her eyes widen and she claps a hand over her mouth. “Not that I think he killed Melody. I—oh no.” Her head falls onto her knees.

  “Emily, I know you don’t.” I reach out to touch her shoulder. “I know you don’t. You can trust me. I promise I won’t say anything.” There it is again. That sick feeling, like my spaghetti sauce is climbing back up my throat. Because if it comes down to me and Seth again, I know I won’t keep that promise.

  The truth is, as Emily’s true thoughts spill from her mouth, the knot I’ve had in my gut since that day in the woods eases. Even Seth’s own sister believes, deep down, that he killed Melody.

  “Okay,” Emily says, that cheery look working its way back onto her face, “let’s talk about something else. I’ve had nothing but Seth’s problems on my mind for the past week.”

  “Sure. Name it.”

  “Let’s talk about why you’re so against going to the dance. Even Asher thinks you should go.”

  “No, see, he was purposefully trying to embarrass me.”

  “Cass, I’m supposed to go to that dance. And we both know I can’t, not after everything that’s happened.” She sniffles. “And right now, you’re my only friend.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Would you consider going in my place? You wouldn’t have to do much. Just hang some posters before the dance and then report to the rest of the committee if any issues come up during the event.” She leans in, hopefully.

  “Oh, Emily, you know I would… Isn’t there, like, any other way I can help?”

  “Why don’t you want to go? Really? I know it might not be your favorite thing, but you look terrified at the thought. I trusted you. Trust me now.”

  I lick my lips. “Okay. This is going to sound ridiculous in comparison to everything you’re going through”—Emily nods for me to go on—“but it’s about what Laura said in the hall a couple days ago.”

  “About Gideon.”

  “Right.” I proceed to tell Emily about Gracie Davenport asking Gideon to the dance. “I don’t think I’m jealous of him going to the dance with Gracie,” I say, finding it difficult to explain my feelings while leaving out a million details. “I just…”

  “It’s like he’s moved on,” Emily graciously cuts in. “I get it. You guys were best friends and now he spends all of his time with her. Totally makes sense.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s it.” And that is it, mostly.

  “I think getting your own date to the dance will make you feel so much better.” She grins exuberantly. “And I know just who.”

  “I’m not sure.” But suddenly, her plan strikes me as brilliant. By going to the dance, I can keep an eye on Gideon—just to make sure his mission to help Gracie Davenport doesn’t include disclosing my part in Melody’s death. And if my being there with a date happens to make him a little jealous in the process, it would only be a bonus. “Who’d you have in mind?”

  “Peter, of course. It’s obvious he has a thing for you. And he’s totally hot.”

  Peter McCallum, with his blond hair and narrow green eyes, is the polar opposite of Gideon in the looks department. But it’s funny I never noticed it before, because Emily is right. He is attractiv
e, which always made his single status a bit of a mystery. I’ve seen his glances and heard Gideon’s jabs, but I’ve never given him much thought. “You think he likes me?”

  “Everyone knows it. And I have insider knowledge.” Her eyebrows lift playfully. “The other day when Peter sat with me at lunch, he spent the whole time asking about you.” She pauses like I need a moment to let the meaning sink in. “Seriously, Cass. He’ll say yes.”

  I smile nervously, disbelievingly, at what I’m about to say. “I guess I could ask him.”

  Emily squeals and claps her hands. “Yay! Oooh, you guys are going to be the cutest couple ever.”

  “Are you sure I can’t convince you to come? You’re kind of my only friend right now too. I want you there. I promise to be your bodyguard.”

  “No one would go with me. Unless it was in a Carrie sort of way.”

  “Let me handle that.” I begin rattling off the names of the worst guys at school in an attempt to cheer her up. Dougie Melborn, the only junior in high school who is perpetually dirty, is first on the list. He isn’t dirty in a simply hygienic manner. He is actually, physically filthy—like he was rolling around in the mud before school.

  “Just imagine the red-haired, dirty babies the two of you would make one day if everything goes well.” I laugh, clutching my sugar cookie–filled stomach. “But I wouldn’t spend too much money on a dress for the dance, because one slow dance with him will have you covered in mud and probably whatever bugs live inside the dirt clods on that guy.”

  Emily struggles to breathe between giggles. “Fantastic. So you get Pretty Peter and I get Dirty Dougie.”

  “Oh, let me think a bit more. I’m sure I can come up with someone—maybe not quite as good of a catch as Dougie though.”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself,” she says. But her enormous grin and red, tear-streaked face only make me laugh harder.

  23

  I wait until after school to approach Peter. There were plenty of opportunities earlier in the day, as Emily made clear by repeatedly tugging on my sleeve. But I’d rather do it when I’m free to run home and hide under my covers if he turns me down. Emily assures me he won’t, but the dance is only three days away; he must’ve been asked by now.