The Accidental Siren

by Jake Vander Ark

  Her hand retreated from leg. Before I could apologize or explain my reaction, the bathroom door creaked and Livy finally emerged.

  She was a train wreck, but not in the way we expected. Her hair was not just beadless, but straight, uneven, and white.

  We stood... but nobody spoke.

  Livy stepped with forced elegance, one foot in front of the other like a busted drunk driver. As she approached, she carried with her the stench of singed hair. Her eyes were encased with liner, thick like melted wax.

  She was trying to look older, but the caked makeup and sickly saunter had the opposite effect, evoking the blind loftiness of a teenage prostitute.

  “Oh, Livy...” we said. “What did you do?”

  “Sorry I kept you waiting,” she replied, her voice hoarse from crying. “I thought I’d try something new!” She cocked her head and brushed the blonde behind her shoulder.

  Mom stirred in the kitchen. “Do I hear that sweet child of mine?” she asked. “You missed a beautiful summer day all locked up in–” She emerged from the archway, saw her daughter, and gasped. Her eyes welled as she crossed the room. She bypassed Livy, took hold of Mara’s head, and seethed an inch from her face, “What are you doing to my family?!”

  * * *

  “You look a little better,” Mom said. “How do you feel?”

  “A little better.”

  “You scared me tonight, Liv. I know it’s been a rough couple of days...”

  “Why’d he say it, Mom?”

  “Because boys can be cruel.”

  “I knew he liked Mara...”

  “You did?”

  “...but I thought that maybe a part of him liked me too.”

  “Here, sweetie. Wipe your eyes with this.”

  Livy sniffled. “Thanks.”

  “You know you’re perfect, right?”

  “I know you think I’m perfect.”

  “Every time you look in the mirror, you need to tell yourself that.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Do it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Right now. Look at yourself.”

  “Uhg.”

  “You see?”

  “I see a monster.”

  “Do you see how pretty you are? Do you see how strong you are?”

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “You know why you have to be strong?”

  “No... but I bet you’re gonna tell me.”

  “Because Fantasia is coming home next week. She’s only an infant, but you’ll still have an effect on her. Whether you like it or not, you’re a role model to all of our temporary blessings. And who knows what colors they’re gonna be!”

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “You’re a good mom.”

  “Now who’s the liar? Did you hear what I said to that poor girl?”

  “Mara? Yeah, that was pretty harsh.”

  “I have no idea what came over me. I need to apologize.”

  “Hold this for me? Thanks.”

  “Tell me something, sweet child. How exactly did your hair turn white?”

  “I found bleach in the laundry room. Works wonders.”

  “Olivia Jean Parker.”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  * * *

  “You told your sister, you pickle-pricked bastard.”

  The phone cord tangled my waist and thigh as I paced the living room. “How’d you know that?” I asked Whit.

  “Mara told me.”

  “When did you talk to Mara?”

  “I called you earlier and she picked up. Said you were busy takin’ a dump. How’d Livy react?”

  “Like you’d expect.”

  “Poor girl.”

  “She had a right to know. And at least I never hafta see Ryan Brosh again.”

  “Too bad you’re grounded,” Whit said. “They’re already settin’ up the Zipper and the Gravitron. The whole street smells like cinnamon.”

  “I don’t have time for rides. If I don’t spend the next two days editing...”

  “How far are we?”

  “The opening and the red room scene are both finalized. The war needs sound. The evil prince and the ending are still under construction.”

  “Damn. How ‘bout the credits?”

  “Still gotta write them on poster board, but my penmanship sucks.”

  “Ask the girls.”

  “It’s impossible to stay focused in this house.”

  Whit scoffed. “It’s only gonna get worse, my friend.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.”

  “I’m just sayin’... you can’t contain the chaos forever.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you read Jurassic Park?”

  “I saw the movie. Seven times.”

  “You remember Malcolm?”

  “The guy with greasy hair.”

  “In the novel, Malcolm gets high on morphine and starts ranting about how it’s impossible to constrain complex systems. The dinosaurs are an epic force of nature, and nature can’t be controlled.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “The scientists do everything they can to contain the dinosaurs. They build massive electric fences, implement state-of-the-art security systems, hire hunters and archeologists and lawyers to test out the park... they even engineer the dinos so they can’t breed.”

  “Right.”

  “But what happens? The raptors escape. They build nests. They reproduce. They conspire. They learn the patterns of the supply boats and–despite every effort to contain them–they get off the island.”

  “Are you calling Mara a dinosaur?”

  “Mara Lynn is a complex system; way more complex than a dinosaur. She doesn’t belong in our world, much less your sister’s bedroom. If you think she’s gonna sit, stay, and roll over because you pet her, you’re gravely mistaken.”

  “What ever happened to the nerd who once traded candy for a picture of a naked girl?”

  “It happening, James. It’s right in front of you and you don’t even see it.”

  “What’s in front of me?”

  “Expectations of stability. You buy school supplies. You ask Mara to go out with you and she says yes. You beat up Ryan as if it matters.”

  “It does matter.”

  “While you’re busy planning a nice, linear path for your future with Mara, your dad is outside shooting kids outta the trees.”

  “That was an accident!”

  “Your mom sent the twins away.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Your sister went berserk.”

  “Get to the point. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Ms. Grisham tried to contain her too. Look what happened.”

  “That was different. There were boys spying on her from the...” I caught my mistake, but it was too late.

  “Precisely,” said Whit.

  “Sheriff Beeder’s patrolling the woods as we speak. Those boys are done for. Besides, I’m way smarter than kookie Ms. Grisham.”

  “You said she had three locks on her front door.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And barbed wire in the bushes.”

  “What about it?”

  “She kept Mara on the second floor, handcuffed her ankle to a pedestal, pulled her out of the fifth grade, never let her out of the house alone, and slept in bed with her.”

  “What’s your freakin’ point?”

  “All those precautions... and you know what toppled her master plan? An ad for a camera. Grisham spent ten years perfecting her security system. Then a twelve-year-old boy responds to a classified ad and two days later, she’s rotting in prison and Mara’s gone forever. You really think you have a tighter grip? There’re too many factors; too many variants. Mara Lynn is the personification of chaos and sooner or later, she’s gonna break free.”

  “But I’m different.”

  “Why? Because
you were the only boy she ever ate crackers with in a tree?”

  “Yes!”

  “After months of staring at boys outside her window, the hottest girl in the world sees pudgy James Parker and says, ‘I pick that one!’”

  “She didn’t sneak out with other boys! And even if she did, she chose me. And that’s got nothin’ to do with dinosaurs.”

  * * *

  T-minus two days until the Fairytale premiere.

  That morning, I glued myself to my chair and attempted to edit the remainder of our summer project, but my conversation with Whit had annihilated my ability to concentrate. What if he was right?

  He wasn’t right, but I had to prove him wrong. That afternoon, I crept into Livy’s room to inspect the corners of Mara’s sheets. They were clean, wrinkle free, and never used for climbing. I rifled the junk beneath her bed. I scoured the colorful depths of the shared closet. I looked anywhere a picnic basket might hide, but came up empty.

  Trash bags were taped to the window’s trim as protection against the tree-top perverts. It was a temporary solution, but the bags looked like cancerous membranes and gave the room a dismal, horror-show quality.

  Despite a lack of evidence to support Whit’s musings, his dire premonition lodged itself in the coiled crannies of my brain, took root in the tissue, and squeezed.

  It got worse at night. My mind digressed every time I pressed “pause,” switched tapes, or spent more than a second considering a shot. I recalled our first night together; Mara’s rapid preparation of the crackers and cheese, her intimate knowledge of the ladder’s rusty nails, her deft footwork and lack of trepidation when scaling the wall and hurdling the hidden wire.

  I recalled my attraction to her playful personality. Was this another example of manipulation by the “It” that created her? Did I view Mara as a free-spirit because that’s what my personality needed in order to fall head-over-heels? If she really did visit other boys in the trees, how did she behave for them? If they were sickos, was she bound to their perversions? How far would she go to maintain her personalized, universal appeal?

  I re-watched the church scene on the TV. It felt stilted. Uninspired. And the more I imagined cracker crumbs and smeared brie between Mara and some other boy, the uglier my film became.

  * * *

  Sheriff Beeder had left a lawn chair and an empty pack of Camels in the woods beneath Livy’s window. I seized the seat, buried the cigs with my toe, and aimed my flashlight casually through the midnight trees.

  The movie could wait.

  * * *

  One day until the Fairytale premier.

  Ryan’s apology was a formal affair arranged in the castle driveway and supervised by our mothers.

  Livy went first. From my perch on Leo’s stone pelt, I watched my sister exit the front door with Mom by her side. They walked hand-in-hand to the hood of Ryan’s own Toyota Tercel; a rusty gas-guzzler that seemed to be assembled from discarded toasters. The large hood doubled as a conference table with Ryan on one side, his victim on the other, and the mothers keeping the peace at the headlights.

  Ryan removed a letter from his back pocket, opened it, and read it to Livy.

  She didn’t speak, nod, or provide any indication that she cared about Ryan’s apology.

  The mothers exchanged a glance, suggesting they were either capable of telecommunication or–as I always suspected–part of a singular mind shared by every other mom on the planet.

  Ryan finished the letter. Livy avoided his eyes, grappled for Mom’s arm, kept herself composed for the length of the sidewalk, then collapsed on the inside of the door.

  My turn was next. I told Mom I could talk to Ryan alone, but she pinched my neck and ushered me to the presence of my ex-leading man.

  The yellow remains of a bruise poked from Ryan’s collar. He didn’t have a girlfriend to powder his sores.

  Ryan didn’t write me a note. “I’m sorry I choked you,” he said, less reluctantly than I anticipated. “And I’m sorry for the name I called your sister.”

  “Mara doesn’t like you anymore!” I blurted.

  “James Parker!” Mom said. “What did we talk about?”

  “Anymore?” Ryan asked. “She changed her mind?”

  I gouged my fists into the metal hood. “She’s mine now and you stay the hell away!”

  “James!” Mom said again, then apologized to Mrs. Brosh.

  I groaned. I was happy to parley with my valiant nemesis, but the presence of the moms emasculated my victory and turned our month-long war into nothing but a boys-will-be-boys brawl over a sideways glance. “I’m sorry about how I handled the situation,” I muttered. “I’m sorry I beat you up.”

  We were made to shake hands. As Ryan released his grip, he looked through tears in his blue eyes. And for that moment, I actually believed he was sorry.

  * * *

  Twenty hours until the Fairytale premiere.

  Orion was hunting the night sky above our heads. I pointed to the constellation as Mara leaned closer to follow the tip of my finger.

  “Three in a row?” she asked.

  “That’s his belt.”

  “I see it. Neato.”

  Autumn was still a month away, but the air was cool and crisp and brought back memories of shucking corn with my sister. The roof was hard against our backs, but we didn’t care.

  The lake was a puddle of ink without the moonlight, but its distant lapping provided our date with a dreamy, undulating soundtrack.

  Mara was eating gummy bears, red ones first, then white, green, and finally the yellows. She named every bear, then watched as they marched along her waist, waged wars across her tummy, and fell in love atop her chest. Eventually, every gummy either lost their heads in battle, killed themselves by jumping off her torso, or met their end in another creatively morbid way, giving Mara the excuses she needed to gobble up their remains.

  The movie was waiting for me in my room, but my girlfriend requested company. Besides, we both needed a break from our punishment and the dreary confines of the castle.

  Mara’s head was in my lap. Our faces were amber in the light of a dancing candle. I made a goofy face to calm her nerves. She grinned, then stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes.

  I removed a marker from a plastic bag. Mara adjusted her head, mashing her hair into my thighs like a mortar and pestle, then I marked her exposed earlobe with a black dot. She looked right, and I did it again.

  I capped the marker, dropped it in the bag, and covered my yawn with my arm.

  “Already sleepy, sleepyhead?”

  “It’s been a long few days,” I said.

  The safety pin was next. I unclipped it, then held the tip over the candle until it turned brilliant orange. With my free hand, I reached in the bag and dramatically removed a peach to divert Mara’s attention away from the hot needle. “We’re outta apples,” I said. “Think this’ll work?”

  Her shoulders touched my knees with a shrug. Her smile masked the blood in her broken eye. “Do it quick, kay?”

  I pressed the peach into the soft junction of neck, jaw and hair. Her earlobe rested on the fruit’s fuzzy skin.

  “James, do you ever feel like we’re too young to think the things we think?”

  I touched the metal tip to the center of the dot, then pressed hard through the fleshy lump of ear. “Every day since I met you,” I said. I felt a slight burst of relief as the needle punctured the peach on the opposite side. There was something provocative in the sight of Mara’s wince and the smell of singed fruit...

  “You’ve been a gentleman,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” I removed the needle, used the peach as a pin-cushion, then quickly worked an earring into the fresh hole. It was sterling silver–Mara told me earlier–with a violet Swarovski bead.

  “We’re supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend, but you’re the only one who really acts like it.” She pinched the bead between her thumb and forefinger, then turned in my lap. �
�You’re gonna write about me someday and I’m gonna read every word. I don’t wanna look back and realize how bad I treated you. I’m your first girlfriend.”

  “Mara, you’re–”

  “I know you don’t have a choice but to like me. I know that any other boy would be just as sweet to me, ‘cause they have to. But I want you to know that it doesn’t make your kindness less special. I don’t appreciate you any less just ‘cause other boys like me too. Does that make sense?” She groaned. “It sounded better in my head.”

  Her words hung between us like a white balloon. I torched the needle for a second time, brushed a strand of hair from her eye, and positioned the peach behind her lobe.

  “I see the things you do for me,” she said.

  I punctured her again. She didn’t wince.

  “You gave that film to social services. Most boys wouldn’t do that, even if it meant saving my life. I know you’ve been exercising. I hear you sometimes, grunting, counting sit ups. It makes me feel... warm.”

  The compliment stung. I had a mental list of every nice thing that Mara ever said to me, but they were always part of a game or joke. This time, the words carried sincerity that drove me a little mad; mad because this was the only person who could instill such a feeling of affirmation in my soul; mad because I could never return the favor.

  “I think about your creativity.” Mara sat up, took the pin and peach from my hands, and set them aside. “You’re like one of those scruffy artists who goes totally nuts.” She plucked the second earring form my palm and slid it through her ear like a business woman returning from an affair.

  Whatever color her eyes were before that moment, it didn’t matter. Tonight, they were purple, matching exquisitely the crystals dangling against her cheeks. “Know what else?” she asked.

  I was weightless. Dumbstruck.

  “Sometimes I think you’re so wrapped up in ‘who likes who’ or what line of dialogue to cut... I don’t think you realize how cool you are.”

  My peripherals darkened. I felt faint, but I didn’t black out.

  “I recognize my own faults too, ya know. That day on the hill was bad. You could’ve teased me for weeks ‘cause of that.”

  Every word simultaneously pulled me in and pushed me back, kinda like the zolly shots in Vertigo where the lens zooms in but the camera pulls out. Beautiful anxiety took me over, and the suave boy who pierced a girl’s ears was melting into goo and seeping through his own feet. “I need to finish editing.” I said.

  “Don’t go,” Mara replied and laid her back across the roof’s paper tar.