But even she knew.
I could see it in her smirk.
I was that crazy girl from the Emo school, who’d made the false allegations and wasted everyone’s time.
One week prior, the news had reported about the dropped case with no leads or substantial evidence. I’d spoken to a journalist about the fairy-tale book. In that same interview, a university professor, a supposed expert in legends, folklore, and fairy tales, was quoted as saying he’d never (in his thirty years of research and having written two dissertations on the subject) heard of The Forest Girl and the Wishy Water Well.
So, where does that leave me? With zero proof and a bunch of generic sketches of a darkly clothed man with eyes the wrong color.
I check the Jane site, but Peyton isn’t on and I really don’t feel like chatting with anyone else. I log on to Hulu to watch an episode of Summer’s Story, hoping that wherever Peyton is, she’s doing the same, that we’re watching the show together. The mere idea helps make me feel a little less alone.
THEN
14
On the night I got home from the well, I fished the hidden key from the ivy planter by the door and used it to enter the house, just like any other day, like nothing bad had ever happened.
There were no police cars parked out front.
No news trucks.
No missing-person signs.
No one was investigating inside the house.
I went inside, locked the door behind me, and saw the reflection that stared back in the entryway mirror. Layers of dirt painted my face, outlined my eyes, and encrusted my lips. My hair hung down in clay-like clumps.
Somehow, I managed to drag myself up the stairs, straight to the bathroom, where I turned the shower valve to the highest setting and stepped inside, without a second thought, still fully clothed.
The sweet, hot water pounded against my chest, soaked through my shirt. I opened my mouth and drank the water up, nearly choking on the liquid. Dirt and pebbles slid down my throat. My teeth ached. My jaw throbbed.
Once my thirst had finally been quenched, I spat some of the water out as I washed my teeth. I also gargled to clean my throat. Blood and dirt ran from my bare feet.
I scrunched down to the floor of the tub, closed my eyes, and pictured a ball of flames burning up inside me. My hands screamed, the skin raw, blistered, and broken. Where had my socks gone? When had I peeled them off: my protective gloves?
Despite the soap and water, I couldn’t seem to get the nubs of my fingers clean. They were just so dirty. My ears were still so itchy. Was that a rock embedded beneath the skin of my palm?
I watched as the water filled the tub basin. Dirt from my body had clogged up the drain. But I didn’t want to move, didn’t care that my skin was wrinkled like a prune.
Sometime later, a floorboard creaked. My heart instantly clenched. I grabbed a razor and watched the bathroom door through the crack in the shower curtain, listening for the sound of footsteps up the stairs, like a wild animal awaiting its predator.
“Terra, is that you?” My aunt was home. Her voice didn’t sound urgent.
I heard the clamor of her keys against the hallway table, followed by the clapping of her heels up the stairs.
I closed the gap in the shower curtain.
“Hey, stranger.” She rapped on the open bathroom door. “What have you been up to? I called Jessie’s grandmother. She said that you and Jessie were still at Jessie’s sister’s sorority house, but you didn’t answer my calls. I was starting to get worried.”
Just starting? “What day is it?” How much time had passed?
“Seriously? It’s Wednesday.”
How was that possible? “Are you sure?”
“What do you mean? I think I know what day it is.”
I’d only been gone for four days?
“Wait, do you have a cold?” she asked. “Your voice sounds funny. Are you not feeling well?”
When was the last time I’d felt even fine?
“Terra?”
Rule number six: Take your time to think things through. Except I couldn’t really think. My body froze, and yet my mind raced. Logic wanted me to tell her what’d happened. But it felt too big to convey. What words would I use?
When had I taken off my clothes? Was it me who’d wound the leg of my sweatpants around the tub faucet? Had I also rolled up my tee and set it on the soap dish?
“What’s that?” she asked.
It was only then I noticed: the stains of dirt on the rim of the bathtub, the glob of mud on the edge of the shower curtain. Had I also made a puddle on the tile floor?
“Terra? What happened here? Why won’t you answer me?”
I bit my knee, making a circle of tooth marks, still unsure what to say.
“Terra?” she repeated, peeking inside the curtain. Her eyes widened at the sight of me. My dirty self. In the dirty tub.
The water looked like the dirt soup I used to make back in my sandbox when I was four and five.
I watched her mouth move, but I couldn’t process the words. Her face contorted into shapes—wide, gaping, scrunched, shriveled. So much expression; I’d never seen it from her before, not even after my parents died.
She grabbed a towel and got my robe, then sat with me on the ceramic tile floor; its hardness reminded me of the ground in the well.
Aunt Dessa held me tight and patted my back, asking over and over again, “What happened?”
I remember the sensation of her pendant charms against my forehead: the letters O and M, for O’Dessa and Maeve (my aunt and my mother), two sisters who’d once been so inseparable they wore each other’s initials around their necks.
“What happened?” she repeated. “You can tell me anything, sweetie.”
Sweetie. The word didn’t make sense, because she’d never used it on me before, had never held me so close either—not even after the fire.
“Tell me,” she repeated. Did she always smell like cinnamon? Was this softer version of her voice the one she reserved for her patients at the hospital?
Over the next several hours, I told her everything—every last bit. She acted like she believed me, grabbing her phone, calling the police …
“Is that why you called me that night?” she asked. “You didn’t leave a message.” Because her mailbox was full. “I assumed it was because you were going to stay with Jessie, just like your text said…”
We spent the blur of days at a hotel in the city—one with a king-size bed and soft white sheets—while investigators collected evidence from the house. When we got back, Aunt Dessa continued to shower me with love, brushing my hair, reading me books, and apologizing over and over: I’m so sorry. I should’ve known better. Should’ve made sure to talk to you. Shouldn’t have listened to Jessie’s grandmother …
She drew me salt baths (I still hadn’t felt clean) and set up the living room sofa with fresh sheets and a pillow and blanket.
And made me food.
And urged me to talk.
But my answers weren’t good enough. Investigators told her I wasn’t reliable enough. Doctors shook their heads and said I wasn’t strong enough:
“Don’t you hear it? She’s still humming.”
“You know she needs serious help, don’t you? You need to consider the repercussions five, ten, even fifteen years from now when she still hasn’t received the support she needs.”
Enough. Enough. Enough.
Need. Need. Need.
“Terra…” Detective Marshall’s voice.
I’d come to know it well. It sounded extra loud, as if being abducted meant I could no longer hear well.
“I need you to answer a few more questions now, okay?”
Not okay.
She asked anyway. “When you exited the park, did you pass through the city square?”
“I did.” I nodded.
“The police station is on the corner of Main Street and Langley Terrace. The fire station, as well. These are places that are open
twenty-four hours. Are you aware of that?”
“Yes. I’m aware.” I only stopped for water at the fountain, by one of the park’s entrances. I’d already told them this; why did we have to go over it again? “I wanted to get home.” My eyes slammed shut. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “I really just wanted to clean myself up.”
“Do you think the police would’ve cared that you weren’t looking your best, that you needed a shower?”
I shook my head. “I wasn’t thinking about them.”
“We’ve talked to some people and gone through your records,” Detective Marshall said. “We know about the shoplifting, as well as your habit of disappearing. According to your principal, you have a record of ditching school, taking off, not to be found again until several hours later. Might this habit of making yourself scarce be the situation in this case too?”
“Tell us the truth now, Terra,” another voice said. “If you’re honest, you won’t get in trouble.”
I could no longer argue. What could I possibly say? It seemed that everyone had already gotten my story figured out.
Everyone.
Except me.
NOW
15
JA Admin: Welcome, NightTerra. Remember the rules: no judgments, no swearing, no inappropriate remarks. This is a safe space for honesty and support.
TulipPrincess: The warped part? I blame myself.
RainyDayFever: For your mother’s BS?
TulipPrincess: For letting everything happen to begin with.
CityGirlSal: Do you realize how screwed up that sounds?
TulipPrincess: Screwed up or not, I shouldn’t have been hanging with my mother’s bf. I should’ve said no when he insisted we watch movies together every Tuesday night, then twice a week.
Paylee22: It wasn’t your fault.
TulipPrincess: It was my fault I didn’t trust my instincts. I should’ve suspected he was garbage when he started giving me money to spend on the weekend.
RainyDayFever: Paylee’s right. It wasn’t your fault.
CityGirlSal: My therapist says the victim almost always blames herself.
TulipPrincess: The victims are also the ones who have to relive the trauma over and over again with everyone’s questions and with the consequences of whatever happened.
CityGirlSal: You can pretty much tell what people are thinking just by the questions they ask. “Why didn’t you tell someone?” “Wasn’t there a parent or teacher you could talk to?” #Gross
CityGirlSal: What’s the right answer anyway? “Yes, there was someone, but I was too stupid to think of that”? Or, “Yes, there was someone, but I didn’t go that route so I probably deserved what I got”?
TulipPrincess: On top of everything else, my bf broke up with me because he couldn’t understand why I took that guy’s money, why it didn’t set off warning bells.
TulipPrincess: The thing is, it did, but I took the money anyway. I’m not even sure why.
TulipPrincess: Maybe because I felt like not taking it would’ve hurt his feelings. How messed up is that?
RainyDayFever: It isn’t your fault, Tulip!!
Paylee22: Def not!
NightTerra: I’m really sorry.
NightTerra: But I’m also really thankful for everything you’re sharing. It’s helpful to know I’m not the only one feeling stupid for her choices.
TulipPrincess: You’re def not the only one.
TulipPrincess: But you shouldn’t feel stupid. None of us should. We’ve all been through enough crap.
TulipPrincess: Notice I can say that clearly, but feeling it is something else entirely. #SelfBlameIsABitch
JA Admin: Remember the rules. Please, no swearing.
TulipPrincess: Sorry! #pottymouth
TulipPrincess: I need to get some sleep.
TulipPrincess: Thanks for listening, everyone.
NightTerra: Thank you!
CityGirlSal: We’re here for you, Tulip!
RainyDayFever: Always here!
Paylee22: Always willing to listen!
TulipPrincess: Thank you, thank you, thank you.
TulipPrincess: G’night.
NightTerra: Good night, TulipPrincess.
Paylee22: Sweet dreams.
TulipPrincess has left the chat room.
Instead of logging out, I send Peyton a direct message: Exit to private chat?
She replies: YES! I’ll send you a link.
When the link pops up for the private room, I click it, excited to tell her I watched an episode of Summer’s Story.
Paylee22 has left the chat room.
NightTerra has left the chat room.
There are currently 4 people in the chat room.
THEN
16
A couple of weeks after I got home from the well, Aunt Dessa took me to the grocery store. Despite her obsession with all things healthy, she told me to pick out whatever snacks I wanted, and led me down aisle after aisle, pointing out chips, chocolate, and cartons of ice cream.
As we headed for the checkout, I spotted Jessie’s car pulling into the lot and parking by the entrance. A gaggle of Emo girls burst out the back, laughing at something funny. Jessie lagged behind, pulling on her jacket, trying her best to keep up. I hadn’t seen her since I’d gotten back from the well, but we’d exchanged a few texts just days before:
Omg, Terra!?! I can’t believe what happened!
Is it true? Everything I’m hearing???
Everyone’s talking about it, asking me questions, like if I’ve talked to you and what I saw.
Do you think it was that guy you were talking to at the party?
Omg, you totally should’ve crashed with me at the Theta house.
I’m pretty sure it wasn’t him. He was already questioned.
So was I!!! Which made me feel guilty, even though I wasn’t.
Totally freaky!!!
How are you, btw? People are asking.
Is there anything I can do?
Maybe you could come visit.
Definitely. Just tell me when.
Friday?
Sounds good.
It did sound good. But Jessie never came. And I never called to ask her why. And so, days later, at the grocery store with my aunt, when I spotted Jessie’s car pull into the parking lot, I was looking forward to seeing her.
But the group of Emo girls spotted me first through the window glass.
“Are those friends of yours?” Aunt Dessa asked.
I shook my head because, aside from Jessie, they honestly weren’t. I’d had classes with a couple of them, had gone to group therapy with a few more … But none had been girls I’d spent any real time with.
“Are you sure?” Aunt Dessa persisted. “That dark-haired girl looks a little familiar.”
Hannah Cahill. She blew me kisses.
Juanita, class dancer, came right up to the glass, smooshing her nose against it.
As soon as we stepped outside, the gaggle of girls swarmed me like flies to roadkill. Jessie fought her way to the forefront, wrapping her arms around me. “Hey, friend! I’ve missed you,” she said. “I’m so glad to see you.”
They stood all around me, trembling, teary-eyed, and clutching one another. It took me a beat to realize their tears were for me.
“I’m so relieved you’re okay,” one of them said.
I turned toward the voice, not knowing where to look.
Asia from English class reached out to touch my shoulder.
Juanita couldn’t stop crying.
Betsy from bio held out her potato chips: therapy in a bag.
Their voices competed, talking over one another, mixing together, and stirring like chicken soup inside my hungry soul:
“I was so scared when I heard the news. Thank god you got away.”
“My older sister was at that party too. Do they know who did it yet?”
“I can’t even believe how amazing you look.”
“Rock star amazing.”
“I thi
nk I’d be hiding under my bed right about now.”
“Oh my god, me too.”
“Me three.”
“Please, don’t even think twice; if you need anything, call me. I’ll be there in a second.”
“I’ll be there in a millisecond. We’re practically neighbors.”
“I’m here for you, Terra.”
“We’re all here for you.”
“Terra … You’re so, so brave.”
“So strong.”
“So unbelievably heroic.”
I found myself spinning in circles, in the center of their love, feeling more accepted than I ever thought possible.
But where was Jessie? No longer part of the gaggle. Instead, she sat on the pavement, several yards back, sucking her pinkie finger (a nervous habit she’d given up years before).
In the days that followed, I tried texting her, but she didn’t respond. And then, a short week later, on a dark and desperate night, when Aunt Dessa had been working and Felix couldn’t be reached, I called blowing-kisses Hannah, hoping for that shoulder she’d offered, imagining all of us (her, Juanita, Betsy, Asia, and Jessie) meeting at one of their houses—one big, happy gaggle.
Hannah picked up right away. “Who’s this?” she asked, not having recognized my number.
“It’s me. Terra. I was hoping that maybe we could get together to talk.”
“Are you kidding me?” she snapped. “How could you lie like that? Some people have real problems.”
My chest tightened. What was she talking about? “What are you talking about?”
“On second thought, I’m not even that surprised. I knew you were a liar as soon as you opened your mouth at Emo—all that talk about your parents, in the present tense, as if they were still alive and you weren’t the fire girl…”
“Wait, what?”
“I saw Jessie’s post. Actually, I’ve seen a lot of posts. Famous yet?” The phone clicked off.
I went online to see what she was talking about. Jessie had blasted me on social media, saying I’d once told her I’d do almost anything to be famous: I never thought she’d stoop this low and waste everybody’s time and money, she wrote. But obviously I was wrong. #FireGirl
The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep Page 7