Little Creeping Things

by Chelsea Ichaso

  Instead, I’m selling this fake smile and this fake fun girl who dances, and I can tell by his face he’s buying every second of it. And he’s probably thinking that this is his moment—dancing to this cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” and me holding on so tightly—when he finally gets the girl and the rest will be history.

  With this thought, the nausea finally courses its way high enough in my throat that I panic. I tear myself away from Peter and attempt to locate the nearest exit. My kitten heel turns sideways and I stumble, nearly falling onto the squeaky wooden floor.

  “Cass, are you okay?” Peter calls, trying to catch up.

  “Yes, I just need a minute. Be right back!” I shove my foot back into the silver pump and do my best to dash through the whirling dresses and arms that fly about, despite the rocking of the room.

  Bursting into the crisp night air, I’m blinded by the streetlights lining the parking lot. These blaze in comparison to the dimly lit gymnasium. I can’t find a trash can to vomit into, so I weave toward the bushes that flank the lot. I bend over and empty the contents of my stomach, heaving and moaning as my body convulses and my mind becomes darker and cloudier than the sky above.

  I feel a hand on my back and jump. Humiliated, I back away from the disgusting scene, its odor already filling the air. “I told you not to follow me,” I mumble.

  “Yeah, but you didn’t mean it,” comes a deep voice that doesn’t belong to Peter. I try to turn my head, but Gideon has pulled my hair up into a temporary ponytail.

  I scowl at the bushes but allow him to keep holding my hair. It’s too early to tell if I’m done expelling my insides. “Shouldn’t you be with your date?” A sardonic edge floats off my question.

  “She’s the one who told me you looked like you needed help.” Great. So Gracie isn’t just a pretty little damsel in distress; she’s a saint.

  I dry heave again, feeling slightly better afterward. Retrieving my hair from his grasp, I wobble a few feet away from where I just vomited. I sit down on the curb, straightening the skirt of my short dress as best as I can.

  “What are you doing, Cass?” Gideon’s deep brown eyes, whose disapproval I’ve grown accustomed to, now reflect concern as well.

  “Just having fun. This is supposed to be fun, right?” I throw him a silly face before burying my head in my dress. “Oh, that position is worse,” I groan, forcing my head upright and directly into his line of sight. We exchange glances in silence until I can’t hold it in anymore. “Why did you have to start going out with her, Giddy?”

  “We’re just friends. She asked me to the dance.”

  “You look like a lot more than friends.”

  “I could say the same about you and my tutor.” His eyes avert to rest on the asphalt.

  So he was watching. I should feel satisfaction. But the pain between us is too great. I can’t find the words to explain any of this, so I settle on an accusatory statement: “Yeah, well, Peter isn’t Melody Davenport’s sister.”

  Gideon takes a breath. “It wasn’t on purpose, becoming friends with Gracie. I just…wanted to see her. To see if she was all right. We started talking, and I felt like I needed to be around her. Like if I couldn’t wind the clock back and save Melody, I could at least make sure Gracie was okay. I never told her about that day, though. I wanted to—want to. Being with her is nice, but you’re right. It hurts.” His eyes shut tightly.

  I turn around to vomit again, remembering a moment too late that we had moved away from the bushes. Chunks vaguely resembling noodles splatter over the asphalt. I move farther down the parking lot, taking a seat on what appears to be a spot of clean curbside. Then, having lost all sense of timidity along with my dinner, I blurt, “Why did you kiss me on the log in ninth grade?”

  Gideon lets out a faint, bitter laugh. “Come on, Cass. You really want to talk about this now? Things are so messed up. And besides—”

  “Yeah, I know,” I cut in. “You don’t want to be with me because of Asher.” I wince as my whiny voice comes to rest on my ears.

  “It’s not about that.” He doesn’t elaborate, so my mind is left to wander.

  “You like her.” It’s a statement—one he doesn’t correct.

  Instead, he scoots toward me again to gently rub my arms, which are plagued with goosebumps and frozen to the touch. “How are you doing?”

  “Better than I was, I guess.”

  “How many cups of punch did you have, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Five?”

  “You could give that girl from The Exorcist a run for her money in a puking contest.” He peers down at me, biting his lip like he’s trying not to laugh.

  I give him my best attempt at an irritated glare. “There’s the light at the end of the tunnel.”

  He chuckles. “No, but seriously. You look worse than the time we ate that green lunch meat we found in the back of your fridge.”

  I punch his arm weakly. “You were the one who said that nasty meat would be fine.”

  “Never thought I’d see you at a school dance.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  He shrugs. “Kinda always figured if you ever went to one, it would be with me.” His eyes are distant now, perched somewhere off in the large trees bordering the school. I feel a pang in my chest. How many other hopes and dreams and firsts will pass us by while we remain stranded on opposite sides of this schism?

  He pulls me to my feet and we wander away from the harsh streetlamps. He turns to face me, and in that second, beneath the faint moonlight, his eyes focus on mine the way they did on the log when we were fourteen. “Cass.” His voice is soft and low.

  I hold my breath, wishing. “Yeah?”

  He smiles. “Stay away from the punch.”

  I force a smile in return, but my heart plummets. “I will. Giddy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “A minute ago, when you said it wasn’t about Asher. What did you mean?”

  “Just forget it.”

  “I don’t want to forget it. I want…” I step toward him, reaching out to place a hand on his firm jaw.

  His eyes shut as my hand moves up his scruffy cheek. “Cass, stop.”

  “This can work. I know it can. And I spoke to Asher—”

  He pries my hand off and steps back. “Cass, it’s not about Asher! It’s about the fact that I can’t even look at you anymore. I see you in the halls, and I can’t breathe. I see you in English, and I can barely find the strength to write my name on the paper. When I look at you, I go back to the day Melody disappeared and I didn’t help her. After everything that day, the way you kept things from me—from the cops, what you did to Brandon… I love you, Cass. I always will. You have this power over me. My mind isn’t my own.”

  I don’t try to contain the tears. My legs feel weak, my head impossibly heavy as Gideon continues. “I used to think that one day we would be together. But now, I know it was all a fantasy. I’m looking at a total stranger.”

  My vision blurs and I bend over. My heavy head sways in circles as I rest my hands on my knees. Black tears drip onto my dress. It’s over. Our moment beneath the lights was just that: a moment, ephemeral and fleeting. Our old times have as much chance of returning as Melody Davenport herself. I knew turning Seth in wouldn’t bring her back, but I thought it would bring back Gideon.

  He puts his hands on either side of me. “Here, let me walk you inside.”

  “Don’t touch me,” I snap. “Wouldn’t want you to fall under my evil spell again.”

  “Cass, you can barely walk.”

  “I’ll manage. I’m going to have to get used to doing stuff without your help.” I pull my head up, swallowing back the nausea, and whip around. I rush toward the side door of the gymnasium, praying I won’t pass out before I make it inside the restroom.

  * * *

  Th
ough the queasy feeling subsides, I’m in no shape to remain at the dance. I can’t face anyone in there. After briefly entertaining the idea of walking home, I think better of it, due to the difficulty of the journey and the inability to ever face Peter again if I ditch him.

  After cleaning up in the restroom, I head back out to Peter.

  He’s no dummy, and immediately takes my hand and leads me to the exit. Judging by the glare he shoots Gideon on our way out, he also guessed who picked up the pieces during my absence. Or left me in pieces.

  On the car ride home, I’m quiet. My shame and the ebbing effects of the alcohol push my now-tousled waves back against the headrest. Peter reaches over to smooth a strand of my hair. His fingers remain threaded there, tickling my ear for a moment before moving back to the steering wheel. “What happened back there?”

  I shrug. “I drank the punch.”

  “Right.” His silence is sharp and telling. I feel the need to explain myself, to try and salvage this relationship that’s about to end before it started. Peter wanted to come here with me, despite the whispers that follow me everywhere. Why did I throw that away for a chance with someone I’d already lost? “I did warn you about that,” he adds, playfully.

  “You did.” I’m an idiot. We both know it.

  “It seemed like more than just the punch, though. You looked upset. Was it Gideon?” There’s concern in his voice, but Gideon’s name comes out like it tastes bitter.

  “I’m fine.” My face heats up, so I lean toward the window. I remember how Peter looked at me in the restaurant, the thrill I felt when his lips brushed mine and how, for a few seconds, I forgot about Gideon Hollander altogether.

  Could I let go of Gideon and be happy with Peter? Maybe I could be content with Peter’s eyes, his deep laugh, those lips. If nothing else, he’s been my friend and savior since Gideon disappeared. I should try to fix this.

  I twist around, an apology forming in the back of my throat. But Peter’s eyes are blank and focused on the road. His hand no longer reaches out to caress my aching head.

  So that’s it then. Peter caught a glimpse of the real me—pathetically infatuated, hopelessly destructive. Sometimes lethal. After tonight, I’ll never hear from him again. It’s just as well. I doubt I could handle opening myself up to another person and getting rejected anyway.

  Peter drops me off at home early enough that some of the lights are still on. I slip into my room and tumble onto the bed. I barely manage to kick off my pumps with my toes, leaving my dress and makeup untouched. Then, shutting my eyes so that the swiveling of the world around me becomes the swiveling of my own brain, I allow the darkness to take me.

  That night, I dream that termites have infested the hobbit house, covering the wood walls in decay. The little creeping things made a home here in our absence. When I try to inspect the damage, my foot crashes straight through the rotted floor. The bugs crawl from their honeycombed walls toward me. My foot won’t budge. Frantically, I look around for Gideon to pull me out. To help me fix this.

  But he’s gone.

  25

  The next week drags on in the wake of my Sadie Hawkins catastrophe. Emily seems shocked I even took a sip of alcohol. I don’t tell her about Gideon, just that I felt experimental and everything ended awkwardly with Peter—who might never want to talk to me again.

  It turns out though, Peter does want to talk to me at school. I’m not sure how or why he’s forgiven my behavior. Apparently, he likes wild, vomiting, dancing wrecks. Emily’s problems put things in perspective. She nearly withdrew from school, but Peter and I convinced her to press on. We help to keep the media and the bullies away.

  Nothing fills the crater Gideon left behind, but having two solid friends—one who needs me desperately and one who clearly wants to be more than friends—at least cuts down its size. It permits me to slip through the days without needing to curl up into a ball in the darkness of my room.

  But my mistakes are never far from my mind. News coverage of the Melody Davenport case comes at me like a blizzard. I try to avoid the television and the newspapers, which my parents always leave strewn about the kitchen table, forcing me to avert my eyes. But I still get pelted with updates and occasional visits from the detectives, leaving me anxious and restless.

  Seth is facing trial. It’s months away, but everyone is certain he did it. The town of Maribel can’t forget how he was always lurking around, watching girls. And that hair investigators lifted from the trunk of his car and his lack of an alibi are stacked against him.

  Still, I get flickers of doubt every time I remember the old Seth. I can’t help wondering about Melody’s necklace, and if the cops found it tangled among the books at Seth’s place. Sure, he could’ve tossed it into the water along with her body.

  But I wish I knew for certain.

  Emily and Peter take my mind off these unsettling thoughts when I let them. Other times, Peter in particular is a little too perceptive.

  “You must’ve known Melody Davenport pretty well, being in volleyball together,” he says offhandedly as we sit eating our lunches in the indoor courtyard. Gideon and Gracie just passed by and I pretended not to notice, focusing intently on my sandwich.

  I shrug. “We were only on varsity together for a year. We obviously spoke. She was quite a volleyball player.”

  Peter nods. “What about her sister?”

  I know it’s unintentional, but he’s getting a rise out of me. I take a deep breath. “She’s nice, too. I don’t really know her, though. She doesn’t play volleyball. Plus, she’s a grade below us.”

  “Right.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  But he says it like he wants to say more, and is restraining himself. I know I’m in the clear with the cops. They have Seth. Still, my heart races and I can’t control the nervous tapping of my feet against the concrete.

  “You sure?” I anxiously squish my peanut butter and jelly sandwich between two fingers.

  “Yeah.” He’s staring down at his cafeteria burrito. “Well, I guess I’m asking because you’re always looking at her. Or is it at Gideon?”

  I choke on my sandwich. The sticky peanut butter becomes lodged in my throat. I cough and then spit out, “It’s no secret we’re—we were friends, Peter.”

  “It’s not more than that?” His narrow green eyes finally meet mine, crackling with a fervid spark.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Friends don’t look at each other the way you look at him.”

  I don’t blink for a long beat. How could he presume to read my feelings? How could he know anything about me? It doesn’t matter if he’s dead-on about Gideon. One kiss at a dance doesn’t give him the right to call me on it. I grit my teeth, fury settling into a scorching sensation in my cheeks and a pounding in my head, like nails being driven in slowly.

  “You don’t know how I look at my friends,” I snap, standing up, “because you’re not one.” I wad up my half-eaten lunch and hurl it into a trash can, then bolt down the hallway in a white-hot rage in search of Emily, leaving Peter sitting stunned.

  By the time I make it to the end of the hallway, regret already needles its way through the blinding wrath.

  * * *

  The next morning, I wake up groggy. I spent most of the night obsessing over the way I treated Peter, who’s been nothing but nice to me. Before bed, Emily called to cheer me up. She said I should just apologize—that only someone who really liked me would worry about another guy.

  Still, I should probably leave Peter alone. Even Emily should stay far away from me. Everyone I touch gets burned.

  I enter the kitchen in a zombie state, with half-shut eyes and rigid limbs. Two steps in, I hear rustling. Asher is seated at the kitchen table, steaming mug in hand. He’s reading the morning paper.

  I’m slightly a
nnoyed; I’d hoped to have a peaceful moment to let my coffee and shower work their wonders. “Morning,” I mumble, and it comes out raspy. I proceed to the cabinet and reach for a mug.

  “Good morning.” His tone is rather perky, considering the hour.

  I bury my face in my coffee mug.

  “Anything interesting going on at school today?” he asks.

  “No, what about you? You’re up early.” A couple sips of the warm drink has my voice on its way to recovery. Even my eyes are progressing toward being fully open. I sneak a glimpse at the newspaper article spread out on the table; it doesn’t appear to have anything to do with Melody.

  “I’m headed to the office. But after seeing this beautiful sky, I don’t know if I’ll be able to sit cooped up for long.” He motions toward the kitchen window.

  “You could go for a walk,” I suggest. “It might warm up enough at some point today.”

  “Yeah, a walk would be good.” A nostalgic expression slips onto his face and his head tilts toward the window. “The woods are real therapy for the soul.”

  Sadness fills my throat. Maybe they used to be. I get up, mug in hand, and walk to the doorway. “I think I’ll take this back to my room.”

  Asher picks up his own mug and follows me into the hallway. I turn and raise an eyebrow at him, but he ambles mindlessly behind me. When I get to my room, he rolls right in without invitation, plunking down onto my bed. I take a seat at my desk, noticing for the first time that my doll has been returned. It rests on the shelf above the bed. “Thanks for fixing Edna.”

  “No problem. Like I said, it was an easy fix.” He sips his coffee and looks up. “So, what’s going on with this guy from Sadie Hawkins?”

  I slide lower in my chair and pick at the peeling desktop veneer. “I don’t know. I messed it up the way I mess up everything.”

  “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh, with me, it’s usually worse than you’d imagine.”