I didn’t wake her. But I went back to the kitchen and took one of the pink-gold apples from the crisper drawer, still left from the sack she’d bought last week. I washed it and left it beside her coffee cup.
Now I know this wasn’t what she meant.
I didn’t notice the apple tree the other night. It was dark. Very late. I only noticed the clearing. The rusty remains of an old threshing machine, like the dried carcass of a grasshopper. The convenient stones left from a house or barn that must have tumbled down in this spot long ago. But Aunt Mae must have seen the withered apple tree. She must have known. She’s helping to guide me back.
On the ground, several yards from the apple tree’s bent trunk, I find the pile of stones I left behind. I brush aside the disguise of leaves and needles and twigs. The cell phone, dead faced and shiny as a mirror, lies beneath. I pick it up and slide it into my jeans pocket.
I straighten and take another look at the apple tree.
It’s clearly ancient. It’s warped and gray and nearly dead, cut off from sunlight by the canopy that’s grown above. Its arms twist sideways, reaching for something, never quite catching it. A few tiny, worm-blackened apples dangle from its twigs.
I’m still looking at it when I hear the sound. A small sound. A shift in the leaves.
I skirt the apple tree. Ahead of me is a crumbled stone wall. Past the wall, in a deep hole that used to be a cellar, coated with mud and moss and decaying leaves and other long-dead things, is a creature.
It’s small and furred. It’s the color of wet dust.
At first I’m not even sure if it’s alive. But then it moves. Two reflective gold eyes stare up at me.
Mrrk? it breathes.
It’s a cat.
It’s his cat.
I’ve seen it stalking around Anders’s yard, bony shoulders working, long tail flicking. But even without those memories, I’d know this cat. His touch is all over it. I swear, I can even smell him.
This is what Aunt Mae saw. This is where she was guiding me.
“Hello,” I whisper. I crouch on the edge of the hole. It’s deep, rotting, slick sided. With a wrong move, I might be stuck down there, too. And wouldn’t the woods love that.
I glance all around. Nothing nearby. No one to see.
I stride back to the hulk of the ancient combine.
It’s heavy. Its bottom edges are buried in years of damp earth. It takes me more than one try to lift it out of the ground and then to drag it to the edge of the crumbling cellar. I tip it in.
It creaks as it hits the mud below, but the old machinery stays intact.
I climb down its side into the cellar. Rotting leaves sink under my shoes. Mud and standing water suck at my feet as I step, slowly, closer to the cat.
I remember its name. I’ve heard him use it. I’ve seen him, through his window, stroking this same gray fur.
“Hi, Goblin,” I whisper.
The cat is a long way from home. It didn’t come here on its own, of course. They caught it. They brought it here. The woods would have swallowed it up for good.
But they’ve lost this one.
The cat inches toward me. It’s wet, cold, hungry. It lets me gather its body into my arms. I wrap the sides of my flannel shirt around it, keeping it warm and close, and it begins to purr.
With Goblin in one arm, I climb back up the combine.
We walk back through the woods to the Crow’s Nest.
A few searchers have already given up and come back to the parking lot. They stand around their cars, talking, checking phones, kicking bits of gravel. I can hear others shouting and crunching in the trees. Most of them haven’t gone far. No one glances at me. It’s twilight now, dark enough that the air is thick and smoke colored. Lights flicker through the woods, here and there, brighter and larger than fireflies.
With my fingers kept inside my cuff, I pull the phone out of my pocket. I leave it just beyond the edge of the parking lot, near a jumble of lilacs that will bloom like wild in another month. Someone will spot it soon. They’ll hand it over to the police. The police will comb the area, search the ground, the lot, the grass. They won’t find anything else.
I climb onto my bike, Goblin still hunched against my rib cage.
I could take him to Anders now. I could leave him on the stoop, or even knock on the window. But I don’t want to let go just yet. I want to bring the cat home, feed it, dry it, comb the bits of broken leaves out of its fur. I want to feel it sleeping on my bed, curled up near my side, just like it does with Anders. I want to sense his touch when I run my fingers over the cat’s smoky fur, just for a few more hours.
This is where I fail, even when I win.
I’m not good at letting go.
Anders
I’m not sure how I get to school on Tuesday. I don’t know how I get to my first class. All morning it’s like someone with an invisible remote control is pushing a Pause button on my brain. Flash: Pulling a clean T-shirt out of my dresser. Flash: Sophomores chugging energy drinks in the commons, whispering Last Things . . . breakup . . . Frankie Lynde. Flash: I’m in the science room for physics class, in my usual desk. Everyone is pretending not to be staring at me.
Everyone except Sasha.
She sits two desks to my right. Her eyes are like razors.
I slide lower in my seat.
Now the invisible remote control hits Rewind. I’m passing Frankie in the high school hall, and she turns to give me a smile so long and bright anybody around us could see it, and I’m sure most of them do. I’m with her in my bedroom, late on Friday night. I’m above her on that smoky-smelling couch on Blake Skoglund’s porch, her body under me, pressed against me, even though it feels like I’m the one being completely enveloped by her. I’m telling her to fuck off in the dark Crow’s Nest parking lot.
And everyone is watching.
My head pounds like the beater against Patrick’s bass drum.
All the things you love. One by one, says the music executive with the slate gray eyes. Oh, Anders. . . . You are going to be so, so sorry.
I heard someone found Frankie’s cell phone last night, near the Crow’s Nest. Near the spot where everyone saw us fight. Still no sign of her car, though. No sign of Frankie herself. It doesn’t seem possible that Frankie Lynde could go from the center of everything to someplace where no one can find her at all.
Mr. Norales is at the board, talking about mass units and velocity units, and I can’t follow anything. I stare down at my open notebook.
I haven’t written a song in days. Not unless you count that song I played to the live audience on Saturday, the last time I played with Jezz and Patrick. Maybe the last time we’ll ever play.
Now I can barely remember the words to that song. Only the chorus sticks around. Don’t forgive me, don’t forget.
Freaking perfect.
When the bell rings, I stumble into the hall. In the last couple of hours, somebody has posted flyers everywhere. There’s Frankie’s name in big print above her family’s phone number and the police tip line, a picture of her gleaming blue car, and three photos of her smiling into the camera, like anyone who goes to this school doesn’t already know her on sight. Somehow I make it up the stairs, to the right classroom, to the right desk. I sit through American Literature. Then I find my locker. It takes me three tries to get the combination right.
Lunchtime. I almost don’t go to the cafeteria. I could find some corner or classroom to hide in, but before I can settle on one, autopilot steers me through the swinging cafeteria doors.
Across the huge room, I see Jezz and Patrick and Lee and Ellie and Mac already clustered around our usual table. There’s a huge bag of tortilla chips open in the center of the table and a metallic rainbow of cans from the vending machines.
From a distance, Patrick glances up at me. He doesn’t even frown. His face stays blank, like he’s looking at a total stranger, someone he’s never spoken to and probably never will. He glances away again. The rest of t
hem don’t even look up.
“What did you do with her, Thorson?”
The voice comes from behind me.
I turn around.
“What did you do? Did you eat her?”
The voice is nasty and loud enough to cut through the cafeteria buzz. It’s coming from a table of guys in camo and hunting gear. Chase Pokolski, Kev Burr, Dustin Barrino. And Austen Marks. It was his voice. His wide, pasty face is grinning at me.
He’s talking about Frankie. At first I think he means something dirty. I learned half of the rude terms I know from being stuck on the same school bus route as Austen and Chase. But he keeps on grinning at me, with that mean, eager face, and then I realize he means something else.
“You did, didn’t you?” he goes on. “I bet you chopped her up, put the nicest pieces on your Satan altar, and ate the rest. I bet she was tasty. Wasn’t she.”
They’re all grinning at me. All those bared teeth.
I keep my face blank. I raise my middle finger slowly, steadily in their direction, almost like I’m giving them a salute. Then I turn and walk away.
I’m not sure if my friends—or the people who used to be my friends—overheard. But everyone at the closer tables did. Their faces are a quiet blur as I stride by.
I head through the doors, back down the hallway, moving against the stream of people still heading into the cafeteria. More blurred faces. One flash of long, pale blond hair. More whispers. More stares.
I’ve just made it around the corner when someone says, “Hey. Anders.”
It’s a different voice. Another guy’s. It’s familiar, but I can’t place it yet.
Then I’m flying forward so fast that it’s like the floor has folded in half. My forehead slams something hard and sharp. It rattles. I reel back. There’s a flare of pain above my eyebrow, where my head just hit the corner of an open locker door. The freshman getting his books out of the locker stares up at me, his eyes wide.
I cup one hand over my forehead. Wet and warm. I turn around.
Will and Sasha and Carson stand in front of me. Sasha’s mouth is pinched tight. Will looks blank and observant, as always. Carson is closest. His face has a look of surprise on it, like maybe he meant to shove me, but not into an open metal door. His eyes flick to my forehead. I can feel the blood trickling down now, sliding over the edge of my cheekbone. I don’t wipe it off. Behind me, the freshman slams his locker shut and scurries away.
“What do you know, Anders?” says Carson. He’s trying to sound hard. But I can see that he’s shaken.
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I say, dry and calm as I can make it.
Sasha jumps in. “About Frankie.” She’s speaking so forcefully, her entire body is quivering. “Everybody saw it. You know that, right? First you sing this song about how nobody should forgive you for what you’ve done. Then you have this huge fight with Frankie, in public.” Her voice is getting higher and tighter. “And then she disappears, and you go into hiding, and—what? We’re supposed to think it’s some kind of coincidence?”
“I’m not telling you what to think.”
Something in Sasha’s twitchy face seems to snap. She lunges forward, grabbing a fistful of my shirt. Maybe she’s the one who shoved me. “Where is she?” she hisses up into my face.
“Look—” I’m trying not to let them rattle me, but I can hear it in my own voice now. “If I knew where she was, I’d be there, too.” I get the words out. Even though I’m not sure they’re true.
Sasha doesn’t let go of my shirt. “Everybody knows about you,” she says. “Everybody knows. We all know how you’ve been toying with Frankie for months. Staring at her, writing songs about her, hooking up with her and then ditching her, never making anything official, never treating her like an actual person, because you think you’re some superspecial rock star, right?”
A crowd is starting to gather. I feel like I’m onstage, but without the armor of my guitar. Totally bare.
“I don’t know anything about where Frankie is,” I say. Blood is trickling over my eyebrow into my eye. “You can believe me or not. I can’t tell you anything else.”
Sasha’s eyes are slits. “Everybody knows there’s something wrong with you.” Her voice is as fast and hard as a drumroll. “I used to think you were just some pretentious loner. But that’s not it. You’re messed up. You’re not normal. Look at you. You’re not even a person.” She finally lets go, pushing me backward at the same time. Hard enough that I hit the row of closed locker doors. “What is wrong with you?” she screams. “Do you even care? Do you have any feelings at all?”
Will grabs her, his encircling arm pinning hers down. “Hey,” he says softly, “it’s all right.”
I take my chance. I turn left, striding off into the hall.
“Yeah, run away!” Sasha shouts after me. “Run away. You coward!”
I don’t run. But I keep walking.
I walk until I’m slamming through the doors, out of the school, into the cool April air.
I drive home.
Mom’s at work. Dad’s gone, too. He must actually have a job today. Thank god.
I head down the hallway to my room.
The guitars on their stands look like a bunch of hunting trophies, like dead things propped up in a row. I don’t even want to touch them.
And Goblin’s still not there.
I crouch down and look under the bed. Not there, either.
I go to the window. A faint trace of that rusty X still crosses the pane. There’s no sign of Goblin through the glass.
I check the kitchen, the garage, the basement, just in case. Then I head outside.
I know there’s no point calling his name. He’s too deaf to hear, and he never comes when he’s called anyway. But I need to do something.
“Goblin?” I shout. “Goblin!”
The woods around the yard creak and sway.
I run into the trees. Immediately daytime feels like evening. A few blades of sun try to get through, but the shadows are so thick, they dull everything. It’s chillier here. A few birds scream.
The shadows and creaks and my own panic trigger my imagination, filling it with the stupid stories Greenwood kids tell each other about all the secrets lurking in these woods: animals, monsters, serial killers. It’s too easy to picture bad things happening here. In my head Goblin and Frankie start to overlap, mixing with those old stories. I can see them both running through the underbrush. Trying to hide. Falling into the leaves. Teeth—or knives—flashing closer.
My heart thunders. I look around, the adrenaline burning through me, but there’s nothing to fight. No one to save.
Oh, Anders. . . . You are going to be so, so sorry.
I can’t save my band. I can’t save Frankie. I can’t even save my fucking cat.
“Goblin!” I shout again.
The sound of my voice disappears into the wind. But there’s something else out here, I can feel it. Something wrong. Something nearby.
I hear a snap.
My heart almost shoots out of my chest.
I spin around but there’s no one there. The trees just whisper, shifting in place like an audience that hears your music but doesn’t care. My brain is playing tricks. I’m an idiot. I’m pathetic. Paranoid.
And then—
“I have your cat.”
The voice comes from right beside me.
I think I jump straight into the air.
I don’t know how she got there without my hearing or seeing her, but there she is.
Stalker girl.
She’s wearing her usual baggy, dark clothes. She’s dry this time, so her long, white-blond hair floats around her in frizzy ringlets. It looks like curled fiberglass.
It’s so weird, so much like I summoned her with my thoughts, that I almost blurt out a laugh. Why is she here? Why isn’t she at school? How does she know exactly where to find me?
I’m flipping through one question after another. And then I notice
that she’s holding a big gray cat in her arms.
Goblin.
He’s alive.
I make some other noise, something that’s not any kind of laugh at all, and throw out my arms.
The girl passes him to me.
Goblin grabs hold of my shirt. He puts one paw on either side of my neck and sniffs at my mouth, like he’s checking me for ID.
“Goblin,” I whisper. I’m fighting not to cry. “Hey. It’s you.”
Mrrrk? says Goblin.
He feels bonier than usual, but he’s whole. Not mauled by wild dogs. Not bleeding from an open gash. I’m so stupidly, overwhelmingly grateful that I’m on the edge of sobbing, right here, in front of this delusional girl in her giant flannel shirt.
“Where was he?” I ask, still checking Goblin over, using the excuse to keep my face down.
“He was stuck in an old caved-in basement in the woods,” says the girl. “He must have fallen in during that storm.”
Her voice is soft and polite. It has a faint accent. Then I realize that she’s just speaking so precisely that it sounds like she has an accent. She sounded the same the other night, I guess, but I was too startled and angry at the time to really notice. And it was too dark to get a good look at her. She looks a little foreign, too, or a little old-fashioned, with that long pale hair and soft face and no makeup.
Maybe I should be angry that she’s here, in my yard, almost scaring me out of my mind again. But she’s the opposite of threatening.
Plus, she just handed me my bony old cat.
“How did you find him?” I ask.
The girl pauses for a beat. “I heard him.”
I glance around. My house is in view, through the trees. A prickle of distrust comes back. “So . . . you were just wandering around out here behind my house, and you heard him?”
“No. My aunt heard him,” the girl says. “Or saw him.” Oh, yeah. Mae Malcolm, who’s supposed to be crazy, or a witch or something. I don’t know what to believe about that. I don’t know what to believe about anything. I try to put on a skeptical look, but I feel it crumbling off my face as soon as Goblin takes another sniff at my chin.
“She gave me the clue,” the girl says, softly and steadily. “And he wasn’t here. Behind your house.”
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