by Carrie Jones
I reach out a hand. "I was scared. I was scared before you came. I thought I heard… I think I'm going crazy. Does Maine make people crazy? Does the cold or something get into people's brains and not allow them to think rationally or I don't know, maybe freeze their neurons or something?"
I stop talking because even I can hear this sort of hysterical edge taking over my voice. My hands grab onto air, nothing but air, looking for words or something to hold on to.
He shakes his head and his hair moves in the air the way a dog's does. "You're not crazy."
"I feel crazy."
"Why?"
"It's just… I don't know what's going on. Ask me about the situation in Darfur, I can tell you all about it.
You want to know how many people are waiting on death row in the United States? I know that too. But no, I can't understand why there are pixies in some hick Maine town."
"I don't really understand it either."
I sigh and touch my hand to my cheek, then rub it across my eyes. I'm so tired. The floor sways a little and I manage to shuffle into the living room and flop down on the couch. He moves beside me instantly, putting his hand on my shoulder, peering at me. He moved so fast I hardly noticed it.
"I'm a little woozy," I say. "Which is probably why I'm acting like… like…"
"Woozy?"
"I know, it's a dumb word. My mom says it all the time. My mom sent me here, you know. She said that word, woozy."
He pulls a wool blanket from the back of the couch. "You miss her?"
"Yeah. She was spunky before my dad died. I'd like to be spunky. Do you like spunky girls or unspunky girls? I always wondered that. Not about you, but about guys in general. Am I spunky?"
"You're spunky."
"Yeah, right. I feel the opposite of spunky."
"Which would be, what? Spunkless?" He wraps the blanket around me and sits down next to me, right next to me. I move closer to him without thinking about it.
"I hate this," he says, "not being able to figure out what's going on."
"Because it makes you feel helpless?" I ask.
He touches the thread on my finger. "Yeah."
"We'll figure it out." I inhale the pine smell of him, like Christmas trees.
"We better."
"I was scared," I say, remembering the voice.
"You said that." He puts his arm around me. Right over the top of my shoulders the way Blake Willey did on our first date in seventh grade when we went to see one of theShrek movies.
I let him keep his arm there and bite my tongue so I don't start babbling again. And I don't think about what Ian would think. Ian, who wants to go out with me. Ian, who, despite his weird friendship with Megan, is always nice, totally unlike Nick.
Nick.
Nick has thick dark hair.
Nick has big chestnut eyes.
Nick has nice white teeth.
Nick has a big chest with runner's lungs so he could huff and puff and blow my house in. And I do not care. I lean in. He's so cozy warm but I shiver anyway, remembering the woods. My eyelids just don't want to be open and I really want them open, because Nick is so cute when he isn't bossing me around.
"Thank you for getting me," I try to say. My lips are so tired they don't want to move.
"Anytime, Zara. Really. I mean it." He seems to be smelling my hair.
"I know you hate me and everything but we should be friends," I tell him, closing my eyes.
"I don't hate you," he says. "That's not it at all."
"What is it then? Are you a victim of parthenophobia?"
"Parthenophobia?"
"Fear of girls."
"You are so strange." He moves back even closer to me, this wicked glint in his eye like he's trying hard not to snort-laugh at me. His hand presses against the side of my head. Nobody has ever touched me like this before, all gentle and romantic, but strong at the same time. "I'm not afraid of girls."
"Then why haven't you kissed any?"
For a second his eyes Hash. "Maybe the right one hasn't come around yet."
"That is such a line," I say. I watch his lips. For some bizarre reason I say it again. "We should be friends."
"Yeah, we should," he agrees and something warm seeps over me, making me nestle even closer.
"I mean, I'm not going to be like one of those annoying women in movies who falls in love with the guy who rescues her, because I don't think you even rescued me, okay?"
"Rescued you?"
My stomach cramps. "Whatever."
He starts laughing. I tap him on the thigh. "Stop it."
"I can't."
His whole body just bounces up and down and he looks little and younger and cute. Once when my dad and I were watching this silly NASCAR movie my dad transformed like that. It was like he was a little boy all of a sudden and everything he was worried about-like bills, and me, and human rights relief-was all gone, lost in a fart joke.
Nick takes in a deep breath, so deep I move with it too, since I'm leaning on him. When he exhales he says, softly, almost so low that I can't hear it, "I don't want to hurt you, Zara. I don't want anything to hurt you."
I smile.
"Good. But I'm not a damsel and there is no distress."
Then I fall asleep, which was ridiculously bad timing of course, because the conversation is just getting interesting.
Philophobia fear of falling in love or being in love
I wake up the next morning in my own bed. Not the couch, but my bed. Which means?
I've dreamt everything!
Right?
Wrong.
My hand reaches up to touch the wound on my cheek. It's bandaged with gauze and tape. There are marks on my hand from when I broke my fall. They aren't too deep but they're funny looking. Sitting up is not easy. All my bones creak and pop like I've run a marathon. My abs hurt. I pull myself out of bed and pad over to the mirror. The white bandage almost blends in with my pale face, but not quite. Betty must have bandaged it last night, but I can't really remember that. I can't remember Nick leaving. Color spreads across my face as I think about him Oh God, I asked him to be my friend. You don't ask people to be your friend.
Catagelophobia is the fear of being ridiculed. I think this is a very normal phobia. It is a phobia I should actively cultivate.
"Needy. Needy and pathetic," I say to my ugly mirror reflection.
My ugly mirror reflection mouths the same words.
I yank my fingers through my hair and give up.
Catagelophobia.
Why do I care? There is absolutely no reason to care about Nick. He is just a cute boy who almost ran me over in his beautiful MINI. Sure, he smells good-like comfort and warmth and safety, but he isn't safe. I know that. I know that absolutely. Plus, why would he like me anyway? The girl in my mirror is too pale, too plain, and has a big bandage on her head. I am not exactly supermodel material, or even Megan material.
I start yanking at my hair, trying not to look at myself, trying not to care.
Grandma Betty's hand on my shoulder makes me jump. "Zara?"
Turning around, I lean against the dresser. I'm afraid to meet her eyes.
She lets her fingers drift to my hair. "You need to put some conditioner on it to get these tangles out."
"I know."
Outside a dog barks.
"Damn dogs," she mutters, looking away and then back at me. "That Nick is a nice boy."
I eye her. "He doesn't like me."
"Really? Are you trying to convince yourself or me? Because I found him with his hand pressing a bandage to your head while you were passed out drooling on the couch."
"I was drooling?"
She laughs. "Not too much."
I hide my head in my hands. The air in the room is stale and smells like crusted-up blood and doubt.
Betty pulls my hands away. Her face is smiling. "He likes you, Zara. He took care of you. That's what men do when they take a shine to you."
"He obviously has some rescu
e-the-damsel-in-distress gene, which is totally inappropriate because I am hardly a damsel in distress," I say, a little too bitterly. Even I can hear it.
"Hardly. You're too busy trying to rescue people you don't know." She points at my pile of Amnesty International papers.
"Like that's a bad thing?"
"It's a good thing, Zara. It's just. Well… we all need a little bit of rescuing from time to time. It doesn't make us weak."
"He doesn'tlike me like me."
"You know, there's nothing wrong with admitting he likes you. There's nothing wrong with feeling good things, Zara. Your dad doesn't want any of us to stop living."
My bedcovers are all tangled up on the mattress. None of them are in the right place. I try to straighten them. My pile of books and Amnesty International human rights reports topple against my foot. The book with my dad's name in it awaits.
"This place is such a mess," I mumble, trying to stack the reports up again. "I'm sorry I'm so messy. I bet my mom wasn't messy when you guys took her in."
"She wasn't messy, but she never put the cap back on the toothpaste."
"She still doesn't!" I shake the human rights report at Betty for emphasis. There are so many numbers in those reports, and each number represents someone's pain, someone's story. My stomach crumples and I put the book gently on the pile. Then I pick up the book from the library. "Dad took this book out. His name is in the back."
She takes the book and stares at it. After what seems like forever, she says in a quiet voice, "Do not fear. Here there be tygers."
"Do you think he wrote that?" I touch her arm. She suddenly seems frail.
"Looks like his handwriting."
"What do you think it means?"
"It was a Ray Bradbury story." I must give her a look because she adds, "He was a science fiction writer. One of the best."
"Oh, I'm not really up on my science fiction."
"Hmm." Betty becomes serious, shuts the book, and hands it back to me. I hold it against my chest for a second, even though it sounds super corny. The book feels kind of special. Like it's a message left from my dad to me.
Betty eyes me. "You went outside, alone, last night."
I place the book on top of the pile of human rights' reports. "I know, I-" "Zara?" Betty's voice turns into a warning. I haven't responded as quickly as I should have.
"I'm sorry," I rush out. "I told Nick and Issie what I was doing. Well, I left them text messages so they couldn't talk me out of it. And I… I just wanted some answers."
"And you thought you'd go looking for answers in the dark?" She picks up a pillow.
I haul in a massive breath. "Look. I was trying to find someone."
"Someone?"
'"That man on the side of the road. We saw him when you brought me home from the airport." I keep smoothing the already pretty smooth sheets. They feel cool against my hands, soft and stable.
Betty sucks in her breath. "Zara, that is not a good idea."
I straighten up. "Why?"
She stops fluffing a pillow. It dangles. "He's dangerous."
"How? How do you know he's dangerous? How is he dangerous?"
She takes a step away from me, backing into the bed. She starts making it all over again, tucking the sheet corners tightly into the mattress. "I think he's the one who kidnapped the Beardsley boy."
"I think so too. So why don't we arrest him?"
"You have to be able to catch someone to arrest them." She fidgets more with my pillow, jerking it around with quick, aggressive movements. The sun shines onto her gray hair and makes it glisten like snow. "And he seems to leave no trace, no tracks, just appears and disappears. I'm surprised we even saw him that evening. I'd like to see him again."
"Why?"
"To catch him," she snarls, and for a moment it's like my grandmother is gone. It's like she's someone different, primal, and then she snaps back. "Anyone who can kidnap boys."
"But you aren't positive it's him."
"No. I'm not positive."
I want to tell Nick and Issie and Devyn. "I'm super late for school."
"I'll drive you."
"You don't have to," I say, whirling back around to look at her. Her shoulders are broad, like a swimmer's, but skinny. I don't know how she can be an EMT heaving all those people around, saving them when she's so old herself.
"I want to," she says, smiling. "Let me be your grammy for a day and take care of you. Okay?"
I smile back. "Okay. If you make me hot cocoa."
"Plus, you might have a slight concussion."
"I donot have a slight concussion."
"Of course you da" Betty drops me off at school. We sit in the truck for a second even though I'm already tardy and I'll have to go get a note from Mrs. Nix.
"Your mother misses you, Zara," Betty says out of nowhere.
Something tightens inside me. "Uh-huh. Did you know that some people are afraid of ugliness? Really.
There's a name for it and everything. It's called cacophobia."
"And some people are afraid of talking about their mothers."
"Oh, nice one."
"Don't roll your eyes," Betty says, but not in an angry way. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel.
"I'm just a little worried about your relationship. It seems like you're avoiding her."
I close my eyes so I don't roll them again. "She sent me away."
"Because she was worried about you. You lost your spunk." Betty reaches over and squeezes my knee.
The skin on her hand is fragile and paper thin. "I think you're getting your spunk back."
I raise my eyebrow, just one, on purpose, to show her what I think of that. She slaps my knee and laughs. "There's talent right there. Now, get going."
She honks her horn good-bye and leaves me, off to go rescue the world for another day. I drag myself through the freezing wind into school and down the corridors, past the big wooden Eagle statue and the art students' self-portraits. I really don't want to be here, but it's better than being home alone all day thinking about the voice in the woods.
The school secretary's office door is closed but I open it and stand by the counter waiting for Mrs. Nix to turn around and notice me. She's filing and trilling out a country song about wasting time and driving in cars. I clear my throat so she'll know I'm here. It works. She turns around and smiles. "Zara!" She puts down her papers on her desk and walks to the counter. Her eyes narrow in concern as she glances at my bandage.
"Zara, are you okay?"
I nod. "I fell when I was running last night."
Mrs. Nix shakes her head and signs a late pass for me. "Well, I hope your grandmother told you to wear your coat inside out."
The pass dangles from my fingers. "What?"
She slowly meets my eyes and her mouth opens. Her words come out winter slow. "Oh. I thought Betty would have told you that."
I shake my head.
"Your mother didn't either?"
"No. Why would she?" I ask, feeling more and more confused. I know Mrs. Nix is really sweet, but she's acting a little crazy weird, like she's the one who can't believe what's going on.
"Why would she? Everybody's in denial, but it's happening again," she mumbles. Her arm knocks against the top of the counter and a box of colored paper clips tumbles to the floor and scatters all over the picture of the school's mascot drawn into the tiles.
"Such a ninny!" she says and crouches down to pick up the clips. I squat down to help her and our knees almost touch as our fingers scoop up the clips. I can't believe she said "ninny."
"It's okay."
"You are such a sweet girl, Zara, just like your mother." She stands back up. "Thank you for helping."
"Not a big deal." I tuck my hair behind my ears. It was flopping into my eyes so I couldn't see her and I really want to see her, to figure her out. "So, why do you wear your coat inside out?"
She blushes and dismisses her own words with her hand. "You wear your coat inside out when you'
re alone outside at night. It's an old wives' tale. A superstition. I thought everyone knew that" "Why?"
Her face grows even redder and the phone rings. She looks thrilled to hear it. She gives me a little wave and answers the phone in an overly happy way. "Hello, this is Mrs. Nix, school secretary, and how can I help you this fine day?" I take my note and leave. Maine just keeps getting stranger and stranger.
Devyn finds me after Spanish. Ian's hanging on my elbow and Devyn says, "Hey. I need to talk to Zara for a second."
"Sure," Ian says, not changing his pace.
"Alone?"
"Oh," Ian fumbles. "Right. See you later, Zara."
"Sure," I say, watching him stride away. "Poor guy."
"He's fine," Devyn says. "I've been thinking about the book. Do you have it?"
"Yeah." I juggle my books around and show him.
"Can I borrow it?"
My heart drops. "Sure, yeah…"
"I'll take care of it, Zara, I promise. I know your dad wrote in it and that makes it special."
I put the book on his lap while we move down the hall. "I'm that obvious?"
"It would be special to me if I were you," he says. "I just want to read it whenever I get a chance."
"Yeah," I say. "I've been thinking about the quote about tigers."
"And?"
"It seems important."
"I know."
Issie stomps toward us. "I am so mad at you!"
I point at myself. "Me?"
She grabs my elbow. "Yes, you.You went running alone at night.You are an idiot."
"Thanks, Is." I pull my arm away.
"He could have taken you," she whispers. She looks to Devyn for help.
"It was dumb," he agrees. "Nick told us what happened. About how the guy said your name."
I don't say anything. Issie softens, puts her arm around my waist. "We know you were just trying to be a martyr."
"I wasn't-" She interrupts, "We don't want you to be a martyr. We'll figure this out together. No one gets to be a martyr. Right, Devyn?"
He nods. "Right. At least not alone."
"Zara, this is great," Issie says, bouncing up and down between some desks. "Check out all the people here."
I look around the classroom that we get to use for our Amnesty International lunch. Nick is not here.