Little Creeping Things

by Chelsea Ichaso

  I spot him by the fountain in front of the school, which is only a fountain in name. Water never flows from it—it was shut down years ago after one too many giant bubble bath pranks gone wrong. So it’s just a gray stone statue of our mascot, Maribel the Mermaid, surrounded by a circular concrete wall. Students usually sit here, waiting for the morning bell or for their rides after school.

  Peter waves in the brisk but affable way people do when they expect the other person to return the salutation and continue walking. But I stop in front of him, so he’s caught off guard. His intensely focused eyes broaden the slightest amount.

  “Hey, Peter.”

  “Hey, Cassidy.” The end of my name drifts upward, like a question. He scoots over on the wall, making room for me. Sitting down is clearly not an option in case this conversation ends abruptly and unfavorably for me; however, standing before him at the entrance of our school makes me feel like an enormous attraction.

  My gaze sinks to his sneakers. Stop it. I bring it back up to focus on his green eyes instead. But his eyes make my head swirl. “I just wanted to ask really fast if you had a date for Sadie Hawkins.”

  His eyes widen and narrow again. Just when I’m sure I’ve made him uncomfortable, he answers, “Nope, nobody asked me.” He shakes his head, slowly. “That’s why I’m sitting here, waiting for one of your kind to come to her senses. I figured if I did a little posing, modeling out here by the stunning Maribel”—he gestures to the statue behind him—“some pretty girl would have to stop and think, I need to be the mermaid who gets to go to the dance with that model guy. So far, no girls have experienced such a revelation.”

  I try to restrain the smile stealing across my lips. “Oh, okay, well, I was just wondering. Hope it works out for you. See you later.” I wave and stride toward the steps leading to the parking lot.

  “Seriously?” comes the deep voice behind me.

  I laugh, whirling back around to see Peter wipe fake tears from his eyes. I take a couple steps in his direction. “You know, when I woke up this morning, I had no intention whatsoever of going to the dance, but when I saw you next to the mermaid…” I shrug, wielding a look of incredulity. “I just… I want to know. Can I be that mermaid, Peter?”

  He tilts his head, resting it on an index finger. “I think that might be okay.” His grin is subtle and crooked, and my heart quickens. “Pick you up at six?”

  “Yeah, sounds perfect. You’ll have to do some searching for a corsage to match a long green flipper, though.” I practically skip down the steps as he calls after me.

  “I’ll start looking today!” I have the most ridiculous smile plastered across my face as I fly to my bike. Maybe Emily is right. Maybe this is exactly what I need.

  * * *

  Poor Emily was right about one thing: her Sadie Hawkins’s prospects. I never did find her a date. I asked two guys, but one laughed in my face and one heard the name Emily Greer and just looked at me like I was lost. Then he practically ran away. Emily said it was fine and would free her up to help me get ready for the dance. After all, there’s a lot to do in just two days.

  We work after school on Friday, getting the last bits of my ensemble together on Saturday morning. I skip lunch to hang Emily’s posters before the rest of the committee shows up to finish the decorations. I sneak in and out of the gym, heaving the enormous ladder all around the room, without running into a single babbling committee idiot.

  In the afternoon, Emily curls my hair into loose, polished waves and does my makeup, painting smoky gray eyes and glossy pink lips to create a version of me that looks out of place above my jeans and T-shirt.

  I slip into the short, blush-colored dress we found at a little boutique in Rosedale, its color like an extension of my own pale skin. Emily says Peter won’t believe his eyes when he sees me in the dress, with its spaghetti straps and form-fitted bodice that flows into a bouquet of tulle. The hem kicks slightly outward, forming a splash about my thighs. I secretly hope it will make that impression on another guy at the dance.

  When Peter rings the doorbell, Emily sends me on my way with a smile.

  Before the dance, we go to dinner at a small but fancy Italian restaurant thirty minutes from Maribel in the middle of nowhere. Inside, candles illuminate a dimly lit room. This amplifies the whole “date” aspect of the experience, it being just the two of us sharing a cozy meal with a single red rose displayed on the table between us. In the spirit of Sadie Hawkins, I inform Peter I will be paying. To this, he simply laughs and responds, “We’ll see.” The challenging edge to his tone reminds me of Gideon, momentarily coating our outing in a gloomy film.

  We settle in and place our orders, and Peter’s upbeat nature eventually puts me at ease. “So, you and Laura seem like you’re on really good terms.” He smiles slyly behind his water glass.

  “Is it that obvious?” I make an embarrassed grimace. “Have you ever seen The Omen? Not the remake—the original?”

  “No,” he says, letting the word trail. He stares at me, the corner of his mouth inching upward. “Isn’t that movie, like, a hundred years old?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say, “but Gid—my brother and I have something of an affinity for classic horror.” I make a twirling gesture with my hand, knowing how nerdy I sound. “Anyway, there’s this old hag lady who’s actually a demon sent from hell. And, I swear, Laura reminds me of her pretty much on a daily basis.”

  Peter’s mouth drops open for a moment. Then he bursts into laughter. “Wow. So you like her a lot then.”

  “Yeah, I really hope she comes tonight. I’m sure she’ll find a way to make my first school dance more memorable. You know, by introducing the Antichrist to the masses of dancing students. Or by letting us all take part in whatever evil plot she’s working on to destroy the universe.”

  Peter tries to compose himself, shaking his head like he can’t believe me capable of such remarks.

  “Sorry, I should shut up now. You probably think I’m horrible.”

  “You don’t know what I’m thinking.” That little corner of his mouth is still raised. Heat fans out across my face, like wildfire. “I hope her news,” he says, adding air quotes, “wasn’t anything too terrible.”

  The waiter comes with our plates, and I see it as my window of escape from answering his question in any manner of detail. “Oh, of course not. Laura just gets her kicks out of trying to make everyone else believe their problems are worse than hers. This looks great.” I motion to the plate before me.

  I’ve ordered this fettuccine here before with my family, so I know exactly what it will taste like.

  “Yeah, it does,” Peter says, blowing on a forkful of noodles. “So, tell me. What else should I know about you, other than your unique taste in movies?”

  I used to have a starting spot on the volleyball team. I used to have a best friend. I’m responsible for one death, maybe two. I take a sip of water, eyes planted on my plate. “I’m pretty boring. You know I play volleyball?”

  He cocks a brow. “Small school, remember?”

  “Sorry. You go first. What should I know about you, Peter?”

  “Easy. I order a double chocolate milkshake from Gina’s twice a week, even when it’s snowing outside.”

  I frown dramatically. “That’s very disappointing.”

  “Well, it hasn’t won me any awards or anything, but is it really that bad?”

  “I’m afraid it is.” My eyes travel up to his, a grin inching over my lips. “To a Daisy’s Ice Cream fanatic. Gina’s milkshakes have got nothing on Daisy’s.”

  Peter laughs and I take a bite of my fettuccini, trying not to choke as I chew through giggles.

  “Battle of the milkshakes might make for a decent second date,” he says, halting my laughter. “I’m glad you asked me to this thing tonight.”

  I go back to staring at my food. As if twisting the noodles on
to my fork is the highest form of science, requiring my full concentration. “Well, I was kind of forced into it, remember? Maribel the Mermaid made me do it.”

  “That’s right. Well, I take it back then. I’ll just thank her on Monday.”

  I don’t want to look up because my face is probably as red as it feels, but I venture a glance. Peter has stopped chewing. His emerald eyes peer at me through those slits, a smile cracking beneath.

  The flutter I felt at the fountain returns. I nod. “I’m sure she’d appreciate a thank-you.”

  We make our way back to Peter’s car after dinner, and I realize things are going quite well. Maybe because Peter never explicitly asked me about Gideon, and also because Peter’s personality is a lot like mine. And it’s easy to get along with yourself at first, having so much in common and everything—that is, until the dark things nestled deep within emerge, and you find that you might not like yourself as much as you thought.

  On the car ride to the dance, our bodies seem to be drawn together despite the armrests between us. The game of sideways glances back and forth out of the corners of our eyes is exhilarating. By the time we make it to the school parking lot, one of Peter’s hands has drifted from the steering wheel to rest dangerously close to mine.

  Part of me wants to know what will happen if we stay in the car together another minute. But the other part bolts from the passenger seat the second he hits the breaks.

  “Hey! I was supposed to open the door for you,” he scolds, coming around to meet me. “Mermaids,” he mutters, eliciting a laugh from me. As nervous as I was leading up to the dance, being with Peter is fun. Thrilling, even.

  I might not even have to pretend to like him.

  24

  We step into the school gymnasium lined with the Sadie Hawkins posters Emily slaved over. Inside, the large open room is decorated like a night sky. Long black fabric drapes the walls and thousands of twinkling lights float across the ceiling. Cardboard cutout trees in the fashion of Van Gogh’s Starry Night are displayed around the room, and swirling clouds adorn the walls. A yellow moon painted with a gallon of gold glitter is suspended from above, accompanied by a smattering of gold stars. Spotlights shine from the ceiling, making the girls’ dresses sparkle.

  But the corners of the room remain out of the spotlights, with only the delicate glow of the twinkling lights to illuminate them. In one such corner, swathed in shadows, I spot Gideon.

  At first I don’t recognize him because a girl’s arms are looped around the back of his neck—an accessory I’ve never seen on him before. But we near them, and the two dark figures emerge: Gracie’s head on Gideon’s shoulder, and his hands on the small of her back, his chin tucked into the crown of her head.

  A horrible sensation grabs me. It’s like parts of my body have plummeted to the floor, leaving room for my heart or soul to tumble straight through. I stand in the doorway staring while Peter makes his greetings. I can’t pry my eyes off them. Part of me wants to tell Gracie myself that I let her sister down. To get it out in the open, once and for all. I heard her sister’s pleas and did nothing about it.

  And part of me wants to tell her to stay far away from Gideon Hollander.

  When Peter returns, I have no choice but to lift my silver kitten-heeled pumps from where they seem fastened to the floor, one at a time. I take his hand as he escorts me out to the dance floor.

  The first song is slow and easy, and I worry I’ll never perk up enough if something more upbeat pulses through the speakers. I ask Peter if we can get punch.

  “You’re not tired already, are you?” That lopsided smile lights his face. “I was worried about you, because of the mermaid stuff. I can’t imagine you’re very accustomed to dancing.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Just thirsty. Even mermaids need to drink.” He follows me to the punch table, where I scoop myself some of the red drink, gulping it down as Peter chats with a boy in our grade whose name I don’t know. He nudges Peter and whispers in his ear. Peter nods before leaning toward me.

  “You might want to slow down a little with the punch. Someone already got to it.”

  I stare blankly at him, and he raises his eyebrows a few times, nodding toward the plastic cup. And then it hits me: someone spiked the punch. I glance bemusedly at my empty cup and toss it into the trash. I guess the punch tasted a bit off. Still, I don’t hate the tingly sensation coursing through my body when Peter leads me back onto the dance floor.

  Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I’ve somehow acquired the boldness to direct Peter to a better spot. One with a clear line of sight to Gideon and Gracie. Where maybe they’ll have a clear line of sight to me. With Peter.

  It’s another slow song. Gideon and Gracie are dancing closely and effortlessly, like they’ve been dating for months. It pressures me to make the same sort of display, and the punch is rallying me on.

  My hands begin on Peter’s shoulders, and his rest loosely on my back. He’s making light conversation, joking about how we should’ve had the dance outside if we wanted a night sky theme—which would’ve been ludicrous due to the outdoor temperature. I laugh and slowly inch my fingers behind his neck, drawing myself closer to him in the process. I don’t look around for Gideon, but simply will him to see us as I gaze into Peter’s eyes. My face hovers inches from his, with a demure look I hope will encourage his fingers to move somewhere a little less safe.

  As though controlled by a puppeteer, Peter’s hands wander to the small of my back, and then just a tad lower. My spine tingles. Then he does something surprising: he breaches the miniscule gap holding our faces apart, bringing his lips firmly to mine. I startle, but allow myself to lean into him, returning the kiss as warmth radiates through every inch of my body.

  We part, smiling shyly back and forth. And I feel an undeniable tug—a need as real as breathing itself—to find out if Gideon saw. I excuse myself with a squeeze of Peter’s hand, mumbling that I need to say hi to someone. Really, though, I’m hoping to catch Gideon’s eyes trailing after me. I tiptoe on sore feet toward the punch table, worried I won’t find anyone to talk to.

  With relief, I notice Lena from my English class over by the punch. Might as well sneak a few more sips of red stuff in the process.

  Lena’s short, with a severe black bob. Her hot pink gown is too big, making her look like a child playing dress-up. I focus on the punch, serving myself a bit. Then I step back from the table to face her. “Oh, hi, Lena!”

  She squints a little, struggling to recognize me beneath the extra makeup, before smiling. “Hi, Cassidy!”

  “Who are you here with?”

  She giggles, pointing to a gathering of boys that now includes Peter. I turn my back to them, hiding my punch in front of me. “David Townsend,” she says in a squeaky voice, still giggling. Her face is redder than the punch, which she’s clearly been consuming. “I didn’t want to ask him. But he kept following me around school, so finally I just figured…why not? You know?”

  I nod, though I definitely don’t know. She seems to have invited her stalker to the school dance. Still, I laugh and add dramatic gestures while we speak. It has to look like I’m enjoying myself. “And how is everything going so far?” I ask with an inquisitive raised brow.

  “Not as well as it seems to be going for you,” she says approvingly. “Peter McCallum is like…the most gorgeous guy at school. And you two were getting very close out there.” Suddenly uncomfortable, I take a giant swig of my punch, downing it in one flick of the wrist. “I guess that means you and Gideon Hollander broke up. He looks pretty cozy out there too.”

  “Oh no, we were just friends.” But the mention of Gideon is just the excuse I need to steal a glance. They’re still out there, dancing now to an upbeat song, smiles wide. Gideon spins Gracie, whose blond hair seemingly flutters about her in slow motion. His hand is on hers—the hand that led me to so many adventures wh
en we were kids. The hand that led me to the log when we were fourteen.

  A wild thought crosses my mind: I should just march over there and take that hand back.

  I reach in front of Lena to scoop up some more punch, gulping it down until the tightness in my stomach is eased by fiery warmth. “Well, I’d better get back to my date.” I toss my cup into a nearby trash can along the wall and veer toward the dance floor.

  I’m soon met by the unforeseen obstacle of a spinning, hazy room. It was difficult to navigate before, when it was simply dark and flickering. Now, as I stagger dizzily through the maze of people, I repeat a command to myself: Do not fall and look like a drunken idiot.

  Fortunately, Peter intervenes. He takes my hand and brushes a stray hair out of my face with a gentle stroke. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, let’s just dance.” I lead him toward the throngs of swaying, jumping, and convulsing students. The toasty, fuzzy sensations are accompanied by a feeling of invincibility that makes me want to move until I can’t recognize myself.

  So I do, and Peter dances with me, surprise blooming across his face. He laughs and watches me with fascination.

  “I didn’t think smart girls could dance like that.” He pulls me close as the tempo of the next song slows.

  “Well, you’re a pretty good dancer for a smart guy yourself.” The world spins faster by the second, so I rest my head on Peter’s shoulder. I don’t dare close my eyes; this causes the nausea to roll in like the tide. Instead, I hold on to him with my eyes slightly open, watching the room rotate with Gideon at its center—a distant, beautiful figure, twirling and floating to the vibrations pounding in my brain.

  A twinge of guilt about Peter has been growing steadily as the night goes on. He’s a nice guy who deserves my attention. If things with Gideon weren’t caving in on me, I may have found myself falling for Peter and his intellectual charm.