Attack of the 50 Foot Wallflower

  My whole body started to shake. “What kind of sister are you?”

  “The kind that cares about you and your mother and every other person in this world.”

  “Every person?” I said.

  Liz sighed. “I’m sorry to say this, Phoebe, but if you don’t acquiesce to our demands within the next twenty-four hours, you will receive a package with your mother’s fingers instead of the usual food. Here.”

  There was a fumbling, and I heard a tinny sobbing, as if coming through a second speaker.

  “Ma?”

  I suddenly felt as tiny and helpless as a little girl.

  The sobs cut short.

  “I look forward to reading about your exploits in the paper,” Liz said. “Over and out.”

  The line fell silent. I sat in shock. I realized that back in the buried lab, Liz had let me hear Ma crying in order to lead me out of my room and down the halls toward the charcoal pyramids . . .

  The thought brought me to my feet, and I stomped toward the church’s doors. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but it wasn’t going to be pretty. Liz wanted someone to die? She’d get her wish.

  Before I could reach the door, Marsh stepped in my path. He held up his hands, even though they only came halfway up my thigh.

  “You cannot go out there. People will see you.”

  “What do you care?” I said, wiping my eyes. “You were gonna kick me out anyway.”

  He kept his hands raised. “I said that in order to get you to behave.”

  “Yeah, well, how’d that work out for you?”

  I tried to step around him, but he pressed himself against the door, so I’d have to physically grab him if I wanted to leave.

  “Don’t say anything about God changing me back,” I said. “I’ve been good. I haven’t done any fornicating and I haven’t hurt anyone. All I’m guilty of is being hungry and liking rock ’n’ roll music. So far your prayers and your confessions have done nothing. If anything, it’s a bunch of hot air that’s making me bloated.”

  “Phoebe,” Marsh said, dropping his hands.

  It was the first time he’d said my name. The moment he said it I realized I was wound tight as a tightrope. Air huffed in and out of my nose like a rabid bull. My hands were in fists. Marsh watched as I unclenched them. My breathing stuttered, just a little. I leaned against a pew for support and I let out a sob.

  Ma’s fingers . . .

  A bucket-size tear splattered across the carpet.

  Marsh ran a hand through his greasy hair. “It is easy to forget that it is the devil who does not want us to have choices. It is God who gave us free will. I don’t know what I just heard over that . . . radio. But I must admit it sounds as if someone else’s sin is making you this way.”

  “That doesn’t do me any good,” I said. “I need to eat. Who’s going to feed me? You?”

  Marsh had no answer for that.

  A knock came at the door, shave and a haircut, and Beth came in with her duffel bag. My stomach revved like a chainsaw.

  “Beth,” I said, flooding with relief. “You’re saving my life.”

  Then I saw her face. She didn’t say a word as she unzipped the bag and turned it upside down. Three cans rolled out: creamed corn, corned beef hash, and green beans.

  “Sorry, Phoebe,” she said. “I guess people aren’t feeling too charitable these days. They’re putting all their food in storage for the Shiver they think is on the way.”

  It was the first time I didn’t have fuzzy feelings toward her, even though I knew it wasn’t her fault. I opened the cans and poured them on my tongue, finishing them all in a swallow. They only made me hungrier.

  Now, in order to eat, I’d have to hurt someone.

  I lifted my foot and then brought it crashing down, splintering a pew in two. Marsh and Beth pressed against the front door. I brought up my other foot and smashed another pew, trembling the ceiling. Then I fell to the ground and curled up in a ball.

  “Phoebe?” Beth said. She couldn’t hide the fear in her voice.

  “Get out,” I said. “Both of you.”

  They left the church without another word.

  As dusk darkened the stained glass that night, the locusts slipped through the cracks of the church and made shapes between the rafters: Rhoda licking Lear’s face at the drive-in. Ma screaming and clawing at the walls of her concrete cell. Liz’s pretty lips telling me to kill Beth.

  I was a monster. Lear knew it, and that’s why he wasn’t coming back. Now Beth and Marsh, the only people who were there for me, knew it too. I was a monster all alone.

  I wrapped Frank around myself like a blanket and tried to fall asleep so my thoughts would leave me be. But my heart wouldn’t stop pounding, as big and loud as a war drum. My stomach wrenched like it was devouring me from the inside. I writhed on the floor. There came a hollow whistle through the frames of the stained glass. How could a church make such an ungodly sound?

  I turned on the radio just as “It’s Only Make Believe” was ending.

  “Hello, all you swinging cats out there in radioland,” the DJ said. “I hope you’re having a lovely evening filled with good music. Make sure to get on down to the carnival that’s happening in Pennybrooke’s fair field. Although, folks will be in for a slight disappointment. The famous Loretta Lane, the one kidnapped by Emperor Ook himself and hauled to the top of the Chrysler Building, is still MIA. I for one will sure miss seeing her in that nice little torn number.”

  I sat up. They would have food at the carnival. Hot dogs and cotton candy and caramel apples and popcorn—food enough to feed people from three counties . . . or one giant girl.

  • • •

  The carnival was lit up like a galaxy, giving the stars a run for their money. Sounds wormed into my ear—screams and smashing bumper cars and warbled merry-go-round music—making my fists want to silence every last one of them. Spotlights shone on the big top tent that held Ook’s bones.

  I peeked over the concrete barrier that separated the town from the dusty field. My heart pounded something awful. The closer I got to the bright carnival, the more exposed I’d be. The problem was getting there unnoticed. If I could make it to Emperor Ook’s tent, I could hide behind it while I sniffed out where the food was kept.

  When I stepped over the wall, a cigarette fell to the asphalt, bounced a few inches, and then smoldered next to my foot.

  A tiny voice below said, “Mother Mary, have mercy.”

  Leaning against the opposite side of the wall was Calvin Marple. He’d dropped his cigarette and was looking up and up and up until he met my eyes.

  “It’s you,” Calvin said, bracing the wall. “You’re the one who’s been . . . Oh God. Look, I’m sorry I took the money, all right? You just weren’t at the motel, and . . . and I thought that was a real lousy trick to pull on a guy, and—and I still have plenty left, I swear. I—oh God.” He couldn’t stop shaking.

  Calvin stole the money?

  I imagined him showing up to the motel, finding the room empty, and then digging through Ma’s suitcase.

  The locusts fluttered from my eyes to my fingertips. It was one thing to stand someone up for a make-out date. It was another thing entirely to rob a person blind out of revenge.

  “You little rat,” I said.

  Calvin’s pants darkened with urine.

  “You put me in this position,” I said. “If it weren’t for you, I would have had plenty of money to feed myself.”

  Shaking, Calvin tried on a smile and gestured to my large form. “M-m-maybe I did you a favor?” My giant face crumpled into a scowl, and Calvin fell to his knees. “It was a joke! I swear! I’m sorry. Oh God. I’m sorry.”

  I realized then that Calvin just might be my saving grace.

  I rose to my full height, towering over his trembling form. “If you don’t return every last cent of the money and promise to never breathe a word about me, I am going to eat you whole.”

  Calvin’s jaw started to shake.
Instead of running to get the money like I thought he would, he screamed. And not just any scream. It was so high-pitched and terrified it put the women in the pictures to shame.

  I panicked and looked toward the carnival. “Shh! You’re gonna get me caught!”

  Calvin sucked in a breath and tore another hole through the night.

  In order to shut him up, I flicked his forehead. Problem was, I was thinking with my old brain—the one that controlled small, pudgy Phoebe fingers. I shut him up all right. My giant fingernail connected with his forehead like a bat to a softball. His head whipped back, his skull thudding dully against the wall. His limp body slid down to the concrete.

  The locusts evaporated. My hands flew to my mouth.

  “Calvin?” I said, crouching over him. “Calvin, are you okay?”

  He let out a groan. Blood spread across the concrete.

  Someone called out from the carnival. “It came from over here!”

  I watched, horrified, as carnival-goers gathered at the edge of the lot and then leapt over the concrete barrier. Hopefully, their attention would be on the boy on the ground and not the girl giant careening down the street.

  Voices shouted behind me. “There she is!”

  At first I thought they meant me, but then someone else said, “That isn’t a her! That’s Calvin Marple!”

  “He’s bleeding!”

  “Calvin? Calvin! Can you hear us?”

  Then someone gasped. “Look! There!”

  “My God! What is it?”

  I didn’t have to look back to know they were talking about me.

  • • •

  My fifteen-foot legs left the people of Pennybrooke in the dust, and I managed to make it back to the church without anyone seeing where I went. I barely managed to wriggle and squeeze my way through the entrance, splintering the frame, before slamming the doors and catching my breath.

  “Oh God,” I whispered. “Please let Calvin be all right.”

  Stained-glass Jesus gave me an accusing look. For once I deserved it.

  The ham radio crackled and Liz’s voice came through. “Phoebe? Are you there? I don’t know what you did, but Daddy looks more pleased than ever! Well done!”

  I crossed the church and brought my fist down on the radio, smashing it. I didn’t stop until it was in a thousand pieces.

  I couldn’t stop crying. Not even after I consumed the mountain of food the officers delivered to the church’s doorstep. Pan-Cake was hiding under the pews from her monster mother. I couldn’t blame her. I’d smashed Marsh’s Roebuck radio after it reported that a boy “got his head bashed in” at the carnival by a mysterious figure “as tall as a skyscraper.”

  Well, Calvin, it wasn’t television, but you sure made it on the radio.

  When the food was finished, I knelt at the pulpit and put my hands together and tried to perform the act of contrition Marsh had taught me. But I couldn’t remember the words.

  At eleven, a knock came on the church door. My heart started to pound. The carnival-goers had found me. They were going to tie me up and drag me away. And I wasn’t about to stop them.

  The knock came again. Soft as mouse feet. Lear.

  “Hey,” he said when I opened the door. “Sorry I disappeared.”

  I wiped the tears from my cheeks and the food from my lips. My knees were shaking from kneeling so long. Had he heard about Calvin? Had he come to ask me what I’d done?

  He held up a plastic-wrapped basket tied with ribbon. “This was sitting on the stoop. I’m guessing it’s for you?”

  It was a basket full of jams and fruits. A special gift from the Buried Lab, I assumed, for entertaining Daddy. I let it fall to the floor.

  “It’s dark in here,” Lear said.

  I didn’t answer, just crawled back to the pulpit and drew my knees to my chest, trying not to look too big. I never wanted to be scary again.

  Lear lit votive candles until the stained glass flickered with soft light. Then he came down the aisle, carrying a booklet. “I went away for a while because I’ve been, um, working on something. It was the only way I knew how to . . . um, explain stuff.” He stared at the booklet. “Kids aren’t allowed to read these things anymore. Most have been burned up.”

  I wiped my eyes, suddenly curious. I reached my arm down the aisle and opened my hand, which was almost big enough for Lear to crawl into. Lear gave the booklet one last look, then set it in my palm. It felt as tiny as a matchbook between my fingers. I had to squint to read the title.

  TALES OF THE UNSPEAKABLE

  It was a comic book—homemade on plain white eight-by-ten paper, folded in half and tied with string in the middle. The drawings weren’t as high quality as the ones I’d seen at the drugstore, but they weren’t too shabby, either.

  “Did you make this?” I said.

  Lear nodded.

  A number in the corner of the cover of the comic caught my eye.

  10¢!

  “Do I have to pay you ten cents to read it?”

  “Nah,” Lear said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I just drew that on there because all comics have that.”

  Our eyes met briefly. He didn’t ask about the tears, of course. I was grateful.

  “I’m gonna sit in the corner while you read that,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  I hadn’t forgotten about Calvin or Ma. Not for a second. But this was a chance to get my mind off things for a bit while I figured out what to do. I lay on my back, and by flickering candlelight, I read Lear’s comic book.

  I pressed Lear’s comic to my chest. A story like that should’ve turned on the waterworks—even with the cheesy dialogue. But for me it had the opposite effect. Finally, a boy with a history more tragic than mine. Running from motel to motel, escaping Shivers my whole life, even slowly transforming into a giant felt like a breeze compared to Lear’s story.

  He made sense now. The wrinkly forehead. The quietness. If my dad drank blood from my side, I don’t know how I’d function, let alone look a person in the eye.

  I flipped back through the comic’s pages. “You mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead,” Lear said from the darkness of the corner, Pan-Cake curled up in his lap.

  “You’re not a . . . are you?”

  “No, I would have had to drink my dad’s blood to become one too.” Lear felt his side. “I’m just, um, deformed.”

  I wanted to see the bite marks, but I figured we could take this one small step at a time. I flipped the pages backward, playing the horrifying images in reverse until Lear’s dad was right as rain again.

  “Why is it called My Father Was a Ghoul?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well . . . ,” I said carefully. Lear was opening up so much, I didn’t want to say something that would scare the secrets back to their hiding places. “The story is from the perspective of the dad, but the title of the comic sounds like it’s from you.”

  The corner of the church was silent a moment. “I guess I wanted to figure out what it must have been like for him. Transforming. Seeing his own son as something to . . . eat.” Lear took a breath. “My uncle decided my dad was a bad guy and deserved to die. But he wasn’t the bad one. It’s whoever transformed him into that . . . that thing. Those are the real bad guys.”

  It felt like someone punched me in the stomach. What if the Buried Lab had done this? If I hadn’t smashed the ham radio, I would have contacted Liz right then and demanded answers.

  I flipped to General Spillane on the last page, glowing with morning light and grinning in victory. I remembered the part of Lear’s file that said he wanted to join the army.

  “Is that why you wanted to join the reserves?” I asked. “To . . . feel stronger?”

  My heart skipped a beat when I realized I’d given away that I’d read his file, but Lear didn’t seem to notice.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” he said. “I just want to be in a position where I get to make
the decisions, you know? Even though it’s tough to figure out what the right thing is. My uncle killed my dad. But he also saved my life. I just wish I could’ve found my voice and told him that my dad wasn’t bad. That he just . . .”

  Lear made a pathetic sound—like the wheeze at the end of a deflating balloon. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

  “Sorry,” he said, sniffing.

  “Don’t apologize.”

  I slid my giant hand across the floor until it was right next to him. He rested his head on my pinkie, like it was a big pillow.

  “I just—” Lear began. “I just never knew what my dad was thinking is all,” he said. “And I wanted to know. That’s why I like to be around girls. It’s easier to tell what’s going on in their heads. When my mom, um, lost her mind, that felt like an appropriate response to what was happening. I think I might have lost mine, too, but I’m a boy, so I’m not supposed to let it show. And that’s the thing. I don’t ever—I don’t ever know what’s going on in guys’ minds. It scares me.”

  Boy, he wasn’t the only one. The police. The men at the lab. Daddy.

  I could tell Lear didn’t want me staring at him, so I flipped through the pages and looked at a drawing of little Lear’s face instead. One where he was happy.

  “How did you break your nose?” I asked.

  Lear rubbed his face. “I accidentally walked into a wall when I was eleven.”

  My little snort came out as a big snort.

  “Thank you for sharing this with me,” I said, touching the comic to my lips. “It’s beautiful. You know, in a terrifying way.”

  “Promise you’ll never tell anyone?”

  “Promise.” I looked at the comic. “Did you make this just for me?”

  Lear nodded and hugged himself. “It feels weird being on the outside like that. It doesn’t feel good. If the guys at school found out . . .”

  I wanted to keep the comic, reread it over and over, but . . .

  “Grab a candle,” I said.

  He brought one over, and I handed him the comic. He looked at it a moment and then touched its corner to the flame. We watched Lear’s story burn. After it was nothing but ash, I lay on my side in front of the pulpit and patted the floor between my breast and my arm. Lear stared at that space for a few seconds, not budging. Then he sniffed and lay beside me, and I bent my arm around him, careful not to touch his side.