Dirty Dancing at Devil's Leap

by Julie Anne Long

  “I’ve been looking into grants for at-risk kids,” Gabe mused, as if he was reading his thoughts. “We just don’t have enough programs for after school. I wish there was a place for them to go to learn actual life skills. To build some self-esteem and confidence when their home lives are just shit, or outright battlegrounds.”

  “Yeah, otherwise they might end up singing Goth folk songs at open mics.”

  Gabe laughed.

  But the wheels of Mac’s Sierra Nevada–moistened brain began to spin. “They have grants for that sort of thing, huh?” he said idly.

  Gabe left it at that. But a seed had been planted. You didn’t poke at a seed after you planted it. You had to give it a chance to grow.

  “This song is called ‘Rainforest,’” Mikey McShane finally said. He cleared his throat again and dragged the mic stand toward him, and the mic squealed so aggressively everyone’s head contracted into their bodies like the audience was comprised of so many turtles.

  “Gosh, what do you think the song is going to be about, Gabe?” Mac asked his friend.

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s about the rainforest, Mac.”

  “I hope so. I really hope so.”

  Open mic nights at the Misty Cat were sporadically attended and unfailingly entertaining in a variety of ways for the person willing to see them multi-dimensionally.

  “The woman I can’t stop thinking about hardly knows I’m alive.”

  Mac turned toward his friend slowly.

  Gabe had issued this so wryly, out of the blue, that it cut right through Mac’s four Sierra Nevadas. But Gabe wasn’t looking at him.

  Given that Gabe was six feet four and usually knee-deep in PTA moms and even a few dads who all but performed acrobatics in order to get his attention, Gabe was the proverbial catch. He didn’t really seem to know it.

  “Given that you’re a conspicuous bastard, Gabe, I doubt that.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Gabe said, easily.

  “Rainforest . . . disappearing like your love for me,” Mikey sang and strummed. “Rainfooooorest . . .”

  Somehow the song proved to be much more moving than either Mac or Gabe had anticipated. So they just listened.

  Chapter 13

  Avalon had read up on all the best methods for removing wallpaper, all of which involved spraying and steaming and so forth. She’d dutifully watched a number of achingly tedious videos about the process, keeping her promise not to bug her parents.

  And she’d given it her best shot. But none of the methods were foolproof. Only once or twice did that hideous black-and-gold wallpaper neatly peel away from the wall in little satisfying sheets, like a sunburn. The rest of it seemed to have become one with the wall.

  She wound up doing a lot of scraping. It was brutally hard work but jabbing a metal implement at a wall was both punishment and reward.

  The reward part was burning off a little angst.

  The punishment part was because she felt like a shit for being mean to Mac.

  She jabbed at the wall a little harder.

  Chick Pea was happily dozing in the sun in her doggie bed downstairs, after gnawing for a while on a toy with what teeth she had left. Avalon was fully aware that she could have a heap of vet bills in her future. It hadn’t mattered a damn once she saw Chick Pea. The house felt like it actually had a soul now, a furry one. And truthfully, having a pet felt like exhaling a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

  Mac had known that. But he also knew of her inclination to fall in love with creatures whose lives tended to be startlingly finite.

  Funny that he’d been able to identify Corbin’s face even when it was rolled into a tube. Mac had clearly done some Googling, which on the one hand was normal and rather gratifying. On the other hand, there wasn’t much she could do to find out about him.

  Apart from take jabs to see where it hurt.

  There had been zero satisfaction in watching him go still when she hit her mark, though. She might as well have jabbed herself.

  She had to hand it to him, though: Tools Monthly was actually pretty damn funny. Funny because it was true.

  And Mac had said “we.” When “we” go to the vet. He included his cat as a little partner in that sentence, and this struck her as almost unendurably poignant and cute.

  As she worked, she’d attached her phone to one of her Bluetooth speakers and set it to shuffle. That was a mistake, because some of the songs were songs Corbin insisted she listen to, by bands so obscure that he might actually have been the only person to have ever heard of them.

  She kind of just wanted to hear Erasure’s greatest hits right now.

  But then, suddenly, up popped a song by one of those Corbin-curated bands she actually loved: The Antlers. “Stairs to the Attic.” It began urgently but quietly, barreling toward an anthemic climax. It was all about the unbearable lure of closed doors, about the wonder and pain of them. And how when the singer made it to the top of the stairs, all he found was a whole universe of stairs.

  “Whatever you do, don’t go in the attic,” Mac had said to her.

  Damned if that wasn’t a metaphor for Mac in general.

  Right then and there it seemed important to drop everything and go up into the attic.

  The narrow flight of stairs—good dark wood mounted on a system of heavy chain pulleys—was down the hall in a modest-sized room probably used as an office over the years. She’d dumped the bean bag chair her parents had brought along in that room.

  She experimentally put all of her weight on the bottom step.

  No groaning or ominous creaking ensued; the chains held her.

  So she took another step. Jounced a little. Again: no ominous creaking or groaning suggested she might not want to continue.

  So she scaled the next and the next and the next.

  When she was near the top she stood on her toes and looped her hand around one of the handles on the square door in the ceiling and pulled.

  Nothing happened. It simply didn’t give at all.

  So far the Mac metaphor appeared to be holding.

  She peered up at it. It was likely sealed stubbornly by a decade of old paint and dust.

  She scaled another step for leverage, then looped both of her hands around the door handle and yanked. Hard. A grinding crunch almost toppled her from her perch, but she caught her balance just in time. This time her yank had yielded an intriguing wedge of darkness. Her heart gave an exultant little leap.

  She scaled the final step to give herself more leverage. Took a breath. And pulled at the door with all her strength.

  The door banged wide open in a cloud of agitated dust.

  When she leaned eagerly toward the opening, the stairs lurched and swayed as if they’d just hit an iceberg. She gasped and flung her torso forward, arms flailing, scrabbling for a handhold inside the attic. She’d managed to sling one leg up there, in a froglike splay just as, with a hideous, metallic shrieking groan, the chain gave way.

  She screamed, threw her entire body forward, and crouched in a fetal position.

  BAM.

  The door snapped shut again behind her with a thunderous Armageddon-like crash and thud which shook the house.

  “Holy shit!” she said out loud after a blankly terrified, stunned fifteen seconds or so of sitting in the pitch dark of the attic.

  Her heart was pounding so hard for a moment she could hear nothing over the whine of blood in her ears. That easily could have been her toppling ten feet to the floor instead of the stairs.

  That had certainly happened quickly.

  But then she supposed none of the disasters of her life had happened at a leisurely pace.

  How the fuck was she supposed to get out of here?

  She remained motionless, allowing her breathing to settle, willing her eyes to adjust to the dark. She hesitated to let her hands crawl blindly lest they encounter something else out crawling with more purpose. The attic was festooned with cobwebs; they
tickled her face. Her fingertips sank into velvety dust when she touched the floor. Shadowy outlines of boxes came into view. But there wasn’t much stuff, on the whole. Some random crap leaning in the corner, the typical flotsam of everyday life that wound up in the attic: an umbrella, what looked like a music stand, a pair of what might be barbecue tongs or those things you use to pinch stuff off high shelves, a solid-looking Ebenezer Scrooge–style cane.

  A few patience-testing seconds later, she could just make out the outline of the door handle. She tugged. Hard.

  It wouldn’t effing budge.

  She tried pushing.

  That didn’t do the trick, either.

  She tried kicking it, thumping her feet against it like a trapped rabbit.

  Nothing.

  She yanked back hard, gripping it in her hands and letting the rest of her body act as a lever and pulled. “GnnnNNNNNNNNNARGH!” She staggered backward and landed hard on her butt. She drew her hand tentatively along the contours of the door, investigating a suspicion: yep. It was wedged at an angle. One of the hinges had likely broken.

  Along with the stairs.

  And so.

  It occurred to her that this very well might be the reason Mac had told her not to go in the attic.

  She scanned the space carefully and then . . . yes! Hallelujah! A sliver of light, behind stacked boxes. A window. She took two enthusiastic steps toward it.

  Just as something rustled about three feet away from her.

  She froze. Her stomach literally iced over and all the hair on her body stood up.

  So she had company. Something bigger than a rat, from the sound of its scrabbly little feet. As much as she loved animals, it was difficult to be crazy about the ones she couldn’t see.

  The box in front of the window shifted easily enough, but when she reached for the latch, it wouldn’t budge. The damn thing was painted shut.

  Failing Chick Pea leaping free of the house somehow and running out to fetch Mac, barking a message (“What is it, girl? Did Avalon do something stupid again? Lead the way!”), she was going to need to break the glass. She had a hunch Chick Pea was a little deaf.

  She seized hold of that old cane, made a fortress of the boxes, huddled behind them, pulled her T-shirt up over her head to protect against flying shards of glass, and then jammed the cane into the glass.

  Nothing happened, except for a vibration that shot up her arm and into her teeth.

  Now she was good and pissed.

  She hauled back and whaled on the window like the building was on fire until finally, with a crunch and a tinkle, the glass gave way. She kept smacking until most of the glass was clear of the frame. Then stood on her toes and hollered through it. “Help! HELP! HEELLLP!”

  Maybe she ought to yell “Get the paddles!” instead. She entertained a fleeting fantasy of her family convening upon Devil’s Leap, their Spidey senses a-tingle.

  “Mac!” she bellowed. “Maaaaaaaaac!”

  She suspected that even if he heard her, he might mistake her for one of his goats.

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!”

  Now, who wouldn’t get curious about the birthday song emerging from the middle of nowhere?

  Still nothing.

  She really was in the middle of freaking nowhere. And to think, only a day or so ago she’d been pondering why anyone would live anywhere other than in the country.

  “YOP!” she tried finally. “Yop!”

  That’s how the Whos got Horton’s attention, after all.

  “Avalon? Is that you?”

  Mac’s voice was right underneath the window. She nearly crumpled with relief. “Yes!”

  A little silence. “Did you . . . did you just say yop?”

  She hesitated. “I said a lot of other things before you showed up,” she hedged.

  “I thought for a minute one of my goats had gotten out and a coyote had him. That must have been you.”

  “Probably.”

  “Are you . . . stuck up in the attic, by any chance?”

  “Yes.”

  There was more silence. “I’m guessing you kind of understand why I told you not to go up there.”

  He was really going to make her work for it. The sheer effort of holding in his laughter was probably building yet another quadrant of muscle on his abdomen.

  “Also?” she added. “There’s . . . something up here with me. Something that . . . moves.”

  “Oh, you’ve met our ghost?”

  “There’s a fucking ghost?” Her voice went up an octave.

  “Don’t you guys have a ghost at the Misty Cat?”

  “It’s less the idea of ghost than the context in which the ghost is currently occurring.”

  “I see,” he said, gravely as an academic. “So if you passed the ghost in the hall on the way to the bathroom you’d high-five it. But it’s the dark . . . close . . . stuffy . . . cobwebby . . . attic that gives you pause?”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “It’s a her?”

  “One of them is.”

  The mothereffer was really enjoying himself.

  “Um, Mac. Do you think you—oh God oh God oh God it moved again.”

  She could see the shadow rearing up against the wall.

  “That’s what she said.” His voice was trembling with laughter now.

  The shadow shifted; she thought she saw a needlelike nose.

  “Oh, I think it’s just a possum.” She was somewhat relieved. “Wow, that thing is big. And not cute. At least it’s not moving fast.”

  “Those things can be mean. And they’ll eat just about anything. It’s probably hungry. Maybe even rabid, if it’s moving slow.”

  “You really are a dick, Mac.”

  “I really am,” he agreed with purely evil placidity.

  He fell silent again.

  “Mac?” She hated that her voice was a trifle querulous.

  He was instantly as brisk as a sergeant. “Okay, honey, let’s get you out of there.”

  Did he just call her honey? Exactly as if he’d done it dozens of times before? Funny how instantly comforting the word was.

  She had no idea how he planned to get into the house, but apparently that was no challenge. She heard footsteps thundering right below her within about a minute.

  “Avalon, can you hear me?” he shouted up.

  “Yes!”

  “I’m going to ram that door open and then we’ll just lower you down on my shoulders. I can handle it. Should be nice and cushy.”

  “Cushy?”

  Though ramming something sounded hopelessly macho. The very word gave her a little thrill.

  “Good cushy. Like a peach. Your butt will feel like one of those neck pillows you carry onto airplanes.”

  She closed her eyes and growled a lament that tapered into a colorful string of muttered curses. “I’m glad I can entertain you, Mac.”

  “It’s just different, is all.” She heard the laughter in his voice. “I was outside fixing the sprinklers on my property. I’ve done that at least a dozen times before. I’ve never done this before. Stand well back from the door. Way back. I’m going to count to three and go in for the punch.”

  “Standing back now.”

  The pointy-nosed possum ducked back into the shadows, as if it was listening to the whole conversation. Or maybe it was simply achieving a better position from which to pounce.

  “One . . . two . . . THREE.”

  BAM!

  The door rocketed open in a cloud of dust and Mac’s head poked up into the darkness, dust sifting down all around him like he’d just been conjured.

  “Hi,” he said.His smile might as well have been a lantern in the dim light. “Scooch forward and dangle your legs down through the opening. I’ll turn around and we’ll get you down on my shoulders.”

  He vanished again.

  She scooched as ordered and perched on the edge and peered down into Ma
c’s up-tilted face.

  “I can see right into your nostrils,” she said.

  “Don’t get hypnotized by their depths. You’re going to need to have your wits about you. Okay, I’m going to turn around now and we’re just going to eeeaaaase you down onto my shoulders. How’s your upper body strength? You’re going to need some. Mine is stupendous.”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  She wasn’t going to mention that her upper body, every bit of it, was stiff from scraping wallpaper from the wall. But she didn’t have it in her to admit to a weakness in front of Mac.

  She scooted forward, pressing her palms down on the dusty attic floor behind her to brace herself, and he maneuvered beneath her just as her foot swung down and brushed his face.

  She saw his nose bend a little to the left.

  “Ow! Watch the shoes! That’s my nose!”

  “Sorry, sorry!” Oh, God. This was already mortifying and she wasn’t even on top of his shoulders yet, like some drunk twenty-something at Coachella right before she ripped her top off and waved it around her head.

  Mac gripped her ankles loosely but firmly. His hands slid up a little farther, maybe to gain purchase, maybe to savor a bit, but there was no way he didn’t encounter a little razor stubble. This was easily the least sexy thing she’d ever done with a man as an adult. Nevertheless, a current that could only be described as lust shot from his hand right into her privates.

  When his hands began gliding up her calves to clamp on top of her thighs, her head felt light as a balloon.

  Of all the ways she had imagined touching Mac Coltrane again, none of them involved him guiding her on down like he was a foreman on the Golden Gate Bridge supervising a girder into place.

  But her poor stiff arms wobbled as she lowered herself down and she landed a little too hard on board that shelf of shoulders, which made her arms windmill wildly, which sent him into a staggering lunge to the left to avoid the stair wreckage. She compensated by flexing her thighs to stay on top.

  “Avalon, don’t squeeze with your thighs, for the love of God! That’s my carotid artery! I’ll black out.”

  “Sorry. Sorry.” She relaxed her thigh grip but she didn’t know where to put her hands unless it was to thrust them out parallel to the ground, à la an airplane, or grip his ears like handlebars. He hoisted his knee and took one Frankenstein-esque step forward. Which tipped her hard to the left.