The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  Some guy comes over and stands by Garret’s side. “Hey, man. Is everything okay over here?”

  Both he and Garret stare at me, as though I’m the one with the problem. And maybe they’re right, because Katherine comes over too.

  “Terra?” she asks. “Do you need some help?”

  One of the singles at a nearby table—some guy in a puffy jacket—keeps stapling papers together: staple, staple, staple.

  Clobber.

  Clank.

  Swish.

  The noise is grating. My head is pounding. Did I take my medication? I remember spilling a pill onto my palm, over the spot that’s lost its lines. But did I swallow it down? Yes, I think I did.

  “Did what?” Katherine asks.

  “Terra?”

  I open my mouth to speak, spotting a textbook tucked under Garret’s arm, The Art and Science of Forensic Psychology, prompting me to remember. He’s a criminal justice major. We talked all about it. He wants to be a cop.

  I look once more at the title he wants to check out. It’s changed now, not Girl Missing but Gil Messing: The Autobiography of a Former ATF agent.

  “Can I help you?” Katherine asks him.

  “Terra’s been plenty of help already,” Garret says. “Thanks again.” He gives me a wave and turns away, heading upstairs, leaving the book behind.

  “What was that?” Katherine asks, her brows raised high.

  I go to take a breath, trying to get a grip, but the air is caught in my lungs. “Just an old friend,” I manage to say.

  “A friend I wouldn’t go kicking out of my sandbox, if you get what I’m saying.” She keeps on talking—something about a sand pail and shovel.

  I’m not really listening.

  Katherine nods to my coffee mug, asking if I need another cup. What I really need: a moment to breathe. And so that’s what I do, turning away, closing my eyes, picturing Story Land and the maple syrup packets.

  When I open my eyes again, Katherine’s gone. The door to her office is shut.

  I sit down and grab the key ring from my bag. Was I wrong about those other titles too? The ones on the return rack?

  No, I wasn’t.

  Because Katherine saw them too.

  Plus, I scanned their barcodes into the computer.

  I squeeze the troll charm again and again, making the eyes bulge, hoping the motion will soothe me. Still, my insides race.

  In the bathroom, I splash water onto my face. My eyes are swollen from a lack of sleep. I pat them with my dampened fingers. The sensation flashes me back—to my time in the well, the night it rained, my waterlogged skin, the quenching of my thirst …

  “It really happened,” I tell my reflection in the mirror, popping one of my meds just to be sure.

  My skin has chills, and yet every inch of me feels like it’s sweating. Still, I go back to my desk. My article on research is still up on the computer screen. I start to type, only just noticing.

  What is this?

  A folded piece of paper sits on my keyboard. It’s not exactly small, about the size of a cocktail napkin. How did I not see it?

  How tired must I be?

  I peer over my shoulder, toward Katherine’s office. The door is still closed but maybe she came out to leave me a to-do list. I unfold the creases and flip the paper over, feeling a knot form in my gut.

  How can this be?

  Be logical, Logic says. Remember: The mind plays tricks. Obviously, the eyes do too. Recall the magical rainbow bird that hovered at the top of the well, that brought you a sparerib and lit up the walls like a nightclub … You had the common sense not to tell anyone about that bird. And you know why? Because it sounded like one of those fantastical stories that you and Charley used to make up, freshman year, in the quiet room, to pass the time.

  Charley.

  Was it a coincidence he disappeared not long after I gave him the mood ring with its power of invisibility? Weeks after his departure, when I brought up his name—to see if anyone knew where he’d gone—none of the other students were able to place him, as if he were just an imaginary friend, like TumTum, the monkey I had in preschool.

  “There’s a big difference between reality and fantasy,” Dr. Mary used to tell me time and time again. “But sometimes perspective gets skewed, and the difference can feel quite small.”

  Sitting at the computer, I blink hard—once, twice, three full times. But nothing changes.

  The reality remains: A paper map of Hayberry Park lies stretched across my keyboard.

  I stand from the desk. Blood rushes from my face. Who did this? I look out over the room. People’s heads snap up.

  A girl turns from the printer.

  Some guy spins around in his chair.

  “Terra?” Katherine comes storming out of her office once again. “What’s wrong? What happened?” Her mouth’s parted; her eyes are gaping.

  I look toward the fire alarm light. It isn’t flashing.

  Katherine asks, “Why were you shouting?”

  Was I? Shouting?

  I look out at the students. Did one of them shout? They all appear to be awaiting an explanation. From me?

  From me.

  “Sorry, I just…” I have no words. I turn away, avoiding the pressure of their glares, the questions in Katherine’s gaze, the judgment in everyone’s mind. I fold up the map, quickly, quietly, and keep it clenched in my fist.

  “Look, I get it,” she says, softening her voice.

  I want to block my ears.

  “The transition to working the overnight shift isn’t an easy one,” she continues. “It can make everyone a little off-kilter.”

  Is that what this is? If so, what does it mean? That when I look at the folded-up piece of paper again, after some rest, it won’t be a map?

  Katherine continues to talk, but I’m no longer listening. I’m focused instead on the table of girls by the photocopy machine. Jessie’s there. They’re all laughing at something, sneaking peeks in my direction. Did one of them do this?

  Katherine’s still talking: “It isn’t right for everybody. Why don’t you take the rest of the shift off and try to get some sleep? I don’t mind. Miguel’s here early anyway.”

  I manage a nod, sucking back tears. I don’t even clock out. I just head for the door, eager to get inside my car.

  But I’m intercepted along the way. A dark-haired girl with big purple glasses, one of the girls from the laughing table. I look over from where she came. The others are watching. Jessie pulls down the visor of her cap to shield her face as though I haven’t already spotted her.

  “Do you know this book?” the girl asks me.

  It’s only then I notice. The front cover. The blazing title. Burning Down the House. It doesn’t go away, no matter how many times I blink.

  My head starts to spin. I take a step back, able to feel the cover’s penetrating heat.

  “I’m really sorry,” the girl mutters. “My friend put me up to this. Can you just give it a good look and then I’ll get out of your way? Sorry,” she says again. “This wasn’t my idea. I’m not even sure what it means.”

  I cover my ears and back away some more, able to hear a blaring siren inside my head.

  Fire, fire, fire.

  Fire: inside my heart, searing my lungs, collapsing my ribs.

  I struggle to take a breath as the girl goes back to the table.

  Someone asks, “Terra, are you okay?” A male or a female.

  I can’t quite tell. I don’t stop to check. Somehow, I end up back in my car, where I turn on the engine and lock all the doors.

  Why, why, why?

  Why would Jessie do this?

  Why do I let it burn me? It’s not as if I don’t know Jessie’s secrets too, as if I didn’t sit with her on the floor of the locker room as she cried about being abandoned by her mother at ten months old. This obviously wasn’t the first time she betrayed our friendship. Back at Emo, when Ms. Melita, one of the group counselors, pulled me aside and sugg
ested I seek out more compatible peers, I still glommed on to Jessie’s sparkling ways—one day getting me out of cleanup duty, the next sneaking us into the teachers’ room, where we scarfed down pound cake and cheese puffs.

  “You have to choose who you allow to hear your story,” Ms. Melita said, after Jessie had made a comment in group about “some of us” being pyromaniacs.

  “It was a joke.” Jessie laughed when I called her on it later. “Lighten up. Why do you always have to be so serious?”

  I miss Ms. Melita a lot. But, even sadder, I miss Jessie too.

  The folded-up piece of paper is still wadded in my grip. I open it up, hoping that here, in the safety of my mom’s Subaru, things will look so much different, become so much clearer. But unfortunately, they don’t.

  The map is still a map.

  And I am still me.

  NOW

  27

  As soon as I get back to my aunt’s house, I grab the yoga blanket and go upstairs to my room, where I log on to Jane. Peyton isn’t in the chat room, but she’s left me a message.

  Hey, Terra,

  I got your msg. You aren’t on right now, so I’m thinking you might be working (???). I’m about to take a nap, but as soon as I get up I’ll go in the chat room and stay until I see you. I hope things have gotten better. I’m still freaking, btw. At least we’re freaking out together.

  Xoxoxo!

  Love,

  Peyton

  As I wait, I start season two of Summer’s Story. But I’m not sure how far I actually get, because the next thing I know, the episode’s stopped.

  It’s light outside my window. Somehow, I managed to drift off to sleep. I check the chat screen:

  RainyDayFever: I ended up feeling so overwhelmed that I ate two pints of ice cream.

  LuluLeopard: Which flavors?

  RainyDayFever: To be honest, I’m not even sure. I wasn’t paying attention. I just kept shoveling cold and sugary goodness into my mouth.

  LuluLeopard: Lol!

  NightTerra: Hey, everyone.

  Paylee22: Terra, so glad to see you!!!

  A message bubble from Peyton pops up on my screen: an invitation to go into a private chat room. I click the link.

  Paylee22: Hey, are you there?

  NightTerra: Yes, here.

  Paylee22: Sorry I missed you before.

  Paylee22: How are you? What’s going on?

  NightTerra: You first.

  Paylee22: You sure?

  Paylee22: Ok, so, I found something. That page in my mailbox … About the junkyards. It had a message.

  Paylee22: It said, “To be continued.”

  NightTerra: Wait, what?

  Paylee22: When you look at the page up close, you can see that some of the letters have been shaded in with pencil. When you put all those shaded letters together, in order, they spell out “to be continued”!!!

  Paylee22: But don’t take my word for it …

  Peyton posts a photo in the chat box. I click to enlarge it; it’s a picture of the page from the nonfiction book about junkyards. I give the page a quick scan. The author explains his ranking system for junk.

  I enlarge the photo more, able to see that some of the letters have been shaded in, ever so lightly, with what appears to be pencil. I grab my sketch pad and copy the letters, deciphering the message right away.

  Paylee22: Believe me now?

  NightTerra: It can’t be what you’re thinking.

  Paylee22: It’s exactly what I’m thinking. He isn’t done with me yet.

  Paylee22: The question is when will things be continued? In a day? A month?

  NightTerra: Have you told anyone about this?

  Paylee22: Not yet.

  NightTerra: Are you going to tell anyone? Because I really think you should.

  Paylee22: Well, I just told you.

  NightTerra: Yes, but you don’t even know me, really—at least not in real life.

  Paylee22: Are you kidding?!

  Paylee22:!!!

  Paylee22: I feel closer to you than most of the people in my real life.

  NightTerra: I feel the same.

  Paylee22: So, then…???

  NightTerra: I need to ask you something.

  Paylee22: You can ask me anything.

  NightTerra: Are you really from Chicago?

  Paylee22:??? What?!

  NightTerra: You told me you were from Chicago, but when I went searching for your case I couldn’t find details that matched what you’ve said.

  Paylee22: Where did you search? Online? As if investigators put all those details out there for anyone to find.

  Paylee22: Why were you searching for my case anyway?

  NightTerra: I was just curious.

  NightTerra: Does that bother you?

  NightTerra: I searched under your first name, plus the fact that you were locked up in a shed, in the middle of a cornfield, in a suburb of Chicago …

  Paylee22: I was put in a shed, but it wasn’t in a cornfield.

  Paylee22: It was in a remote area, though, in the woods. That’s all I want to say about that.

  NightTerra: What happened to burrowing through a hole?

  Paylee22: I did burrow through a hole.

  NightTerra: In the Chicago area?

  NightTerra: Are you really 24?

  Paylee22: Ok, to be completely honest … I haven’t wanted to reveal everything, esp. online.

  Paylee22: And, yes, you’re right. It wasn’t in the Midwest. But does where really matter?

  Paylee22: I’ve been through a lot, so you can’t really blame me for being guarded about what I put out there, esp. when it comes to specific details.

  NightTerra: I’ve been through a lot too, but I’ve told you the truth from the very beginning.

  Paylee22: You may want to reconsider how open you’re being, esp. online. The internet isn’t exactly a trustworthy place. I’ve had to learn that the hard way.

  Paylee22: And, btw, I’m 22, not 24. The stuff about the shed is true. I just changed the location because I don’t want people knowing where I am.

  Paylee22: Can you understand that at all? I have to be careful about who to trust and what I make public.

  NightTerra: Even in our private chats?

  Paylee22: The private chats are a little bit safer, but still … You never know.

  Paylee22: I hope you understand.

  Paylee22: I’m just trying to protect myself.

  Paylee22: Helllloooooo???

  Paylee22:???

  Paylee22: Are you still there?

  Paylee22: I can tell you’re upset.

  Paylee22: Hello again???

  NightTerra: Let’s chat about this later.

  Paylee22: Promise???

  Paylee22: I’m really sorry, Terra. I should’ve told you sooner. I’d never do anything to intentionally hurt you. You’re like a sister to me.

  NightTerra: I’ll talk to you soon.

  I exit the chat and close the lid of my laptop, feeling like I’ve just been punched in the gut. Am I hurt that Peyton lied to me? Jealous she follows my parents’ rules of survival* so much better than I do? Or angry for defying my own rule—the one about not sharing my truth, not letting people in?

  Cut.

  Cut.

  Cut: the list of survival rules. How did these scissors even get in my hand? I continue to use them, cutting out a paper heart, as if serrated scissors (or any of my defenses) could ever possibly save me from the blazing inferno that’s swallowed me whole.

  THEN

  28

  I still couldn’t find the sparerib bone, as hard as I looked …

  Where was it?

  The spotlight was on, but it was still dark—so dim. And there were so many rocks now—those I’d managed to prod out.

  I raked my fingers over the ground to search. The book and blanket were there; the troll doll and sheet of burned paper were too. So, what did it matter? I knew the bone existed. I’d eaten the sparerib meat.

 
Hadn’t I?

  How many days had I been off my meds? What were the side effects of missing so many dosages? Delusions? Hallucinations? What was the difference between the two again?

  Eventually, when I could no longer see straight, I pulled my socks over my fingers like gloves and dug a four-inch crevice into the wall—enough to fit the width of my foot. I tested it to be sure, wedged my foot right in.

  I kept working, making more crevices, creating a ladder of sorts. How high could I go? If I used the rungs as leverage …

  The spotlight blinked, snagging my attention. I looked up. It was daylight now; there was a patch of gray.

  The light blinked again—three more times—before shutting off altogether.

  I froze in response.

  Was he up there? Would he pull up on the chain? And close the lid? Did he know what I was doing?

  A whistling sounded: the tune to “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

  I clenched my teeth—so hard one chipped. A jolting pain shot through my gums. I went to spit the piece out, accidentally swallowing it down. It got caught in my throat, choking me. My chest convulsed.

  I shoved my fingers into my mouth, reaching toward my throat, trying to force myself to throw up. But it wasn’t working. And meanwhile, my body was shaking. I couldn’t breathe. My face felt chilled.

  I scrambled for the book, tore half a page out and crammed it into my mouth. The muscles at the back of my throat strained as I worked to swallow the paper down—to get the piece to move, taking handful after handful of water from the makeshift basin I’d made. I splashed the water into my mouth until there was no more left and I was just clawing at dampened dirt.

  My tooth ached where it’d broken—a throbbing pain that radiated to the crown of my head. The chewed-up paper moved downward into my throat, making me gag. I threw up. A stream of acid spouted out my mouth and nose. Somehow, I could feel it inside my ears. But at last, I could breathe.

  Exhausted, I lay with my cheek pressed against the ground. The whistling was gone. Was it ever there to begin with? Eventually, I fell asleep and dreamed of drowning—of dirty beach water filling my sandpaper lungs as I floated out to sea.