It’s not unusual for any of us to be at the storage trailers, picking up or dropping stuff off. But it is a private road. Anyone driving by at that speed would draw suspicion.
“What did she say?”
“She asked if I was lost, so I asked if she knew which house was yours.”
Good god. He has no idea how much that must have bugged her. Especially after seeing us in the woods.
Please say she didn’t tell you. Please say she didn’t tell you. Please say she didn’t tell you.
If Annalise decides to knock me down a peg because she sees me as a threat to her position in The Nest, telling Dieter an Outsider showed up at our bogus houses looking for me would work perfectly in tandem with catching me and Rémy in the woods.
“She told me to hold on and went to talk to the two guys dressed like G.I. Joes that were moving boxes into her house. When she came back out, she leaned into my window. Kind of intimidating, actually. I’ve never been less than a desk away from her. Anyway, she pointed to one of the houses and said you weren’t home.”
“I wasn’t,” I tell him. “I was at the library. We need to do the soluble part before the end of class.”
My lie feels as liquid as the next step in this lab. The potential reaction and ramifications just as unpredictable. Inside, I’m roiling. Everyone interacting with Annalise lately is acting strange, and something about it doesn’t add up. Size up the situation. That’s something I know how to do, but it’s difficult when there’s so much secrecy. I get that Annalise is a force to be reckoned with. Hell, I’m glad she’ll be on our side when the SHTF. But she’s not in charge of everything, regardless of her ambition. I put a small amount of each powdery compound in a tray that looks like a plastic egg holder. I top them with plain water and wait to see how they’ll dissolve.
“So we’re just gonna gloss over the part where she shot you in the arm?” Rémy asks.
“I told you. She was out hunting with us in a greater group.”
“Right. I got that. But, I spent the whole night thinking about what I saw and … Have you ever watched that TV show Doomsday Preppers?”
“I’m familiar with it, but I’ve never watched.”
“I’ve only seen it a few times with my granddad, but your whole aesthetic. The vibe of you and your sisters…”
Bend Over, Here It Comes Again. The BOHICA moment.
“Yes,” I answer before he can ask.
“You’re a prepper.” Rémy’s eyes globe before he blinks several times, letting it sink in as he connects dots. “And so is Annalise.”
No question. Fact. If I say yes, maybe he’ll stop showing up places unannounced.
“That would be the thing that bonds Annalise and I together.”
I’m grateful he’s whispering. Discretion is everything, but I have a sinking suspicion Rémy isn’t the type to accept an answer and let it go. I keep documenting the solubility of each compound, anticipating the volubility of words destined to flow from Rémy’s mouth. It’s my own fault. I violated the first rule of prep club.
“The whole thing? Doomsday, grenades, rocket launchers, fear of an impending zombie apocalypse, Stephen King’s The Stand?”
“Can you stop judging me through whatever lens you saw on TV for a second?”
“The Stand is a book.”
I’ve read it, but flip him an exasperated huff anyway. “Through the pages of a book, then.”
“Sorry. Those are my only frames of reference.”
I put my pencil down, take a breath, and try to think of a local disaster. Some correlation that will make prepping more logical for him. “Has your family always lived in Washington?”
“In different parts. My grandparents used to live in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains.”
“When Mt. St. Helens erupted?”
Rémy nods. “They lost their home and moved to Seattle. Eventually, we all migrated back here.”
“That volcano’s eruption is a good example of why we’re preppers. Horrible things happen all over the country, the world, all the time. Shootings, terrorist attacks, bombings, natural disasters. There’s a shelter under the U.S. Treasury in Washington, DC, built for Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Supposedly, it was temporary and they built something more permanent later. The bottom line is, our government knows things could turn for the worst on any given day. A nuclear bomb could be fired at us. The economy could collapse, causing people to revolt. Preppers take steps and measures to ensure we have provisions and shelter in place, so we can defend ourselves and our belongings if necessary. Not all preppers are like the ones you see on TV.”
“That’s good, because this one guy had a pregnant girlfriend and he was trying to teach himself how to do a C-section, and all I could think was that he’s going to kill her and the baby.”
“This is why preppers despise that show. Anybody serious about preparing for the end of the world wouldn’t dare make a spectacle by appearing on TV. We have all the spectacle we need watching our POTUS. Luckily, our mother is a nurse practitioner, and so far nobody’s gotten pregnant.”
“I still don’t get why Annalise shot you in the arm. It doesn’t really scream, Hey, we’re on the same side.”
No. It doesn’t. He’s right about that, and having to ignore and excuse her actions is beginning to make my prepper psyche crumble. I don’t know if I owe him an explanation. That’s not my usual tack, but I’m going to tell him the truth. Consequences be damned. He’s in too deep now.
“Her father, Dieter Ackerman, is the leader of our whole group. When she saw you and I talking in the woods, she thought I invited you there.”
I don’t explain the distinctions between The Nest and The Burrow or Mother’s new role. I’ve already told him too much.
“She thought you invited me hunting?” He suppresses a laugh. “My mom is the town librarian. The only thing I’m hunting down is the next book in the series I’m reading.”
“Fair enough. One of the rules of our coalition, our prepper group, is to not get too close to Outsiders or tell them about our lifestyle. Annalise saw what she saw and made assumptions about us. I’m breaking a bunch of rules by telling you anything, which I wouldn’t if you weren’t so persistent all the time. If I were you, I’d just forget what you saw.”
“That’s kind of hard to do.”
“Try. Nothing good will come from you trying to get close to me.”
“You can’t know that. It’s like saying you won’t like a new flavor of ice cream without ever trying it, or you won’t go on a roller coaster because you’re afraid to get hurt.”
He tries to take my hand again. I pull it away and tuck it between my thighs.
“Rémy, I’m not ice cream and roller coasters. I’m not made of sugar and spice, or prom and yearbook photo ops, or cheering for cute soccer players from the sidelines. That’s what you’re used to dealing with in your crowd. I can’t change who I am. Being with me would either squash your spirit or your heart.”
“You called me cute, so maybe I’d squash yours.”
“Nobody can squash mine, Rémy. Not even you.”
The bell shrills, mercifully ending our conversation until I have to see him again in art next period. “Shit. We’re not done with this.”
“You’re right. We’re not.”
Rémy studies me like I’m a Rubik’s Cube with three sides completed. I understand he’s not talking about the lab, but don’t react this time, even though I know I’m lying to him about more than Annalise. I knew the first time he looked at me with that misplaced dimple drawn to its deepest depth.
“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “I’ll finish this lab and turn it in for both of us, but I get to ask a few more questions.”
Outsider tested, Mother disapproved.
He’s gone before I can object, and I’m left to deal with a separate but related issue with Mr. Whitlock.
TOBYISMS FOR ACTION
5
LIVING YOUR BEST LIFE
A STRANGE THUMPING sound is coming from Mom’s studio, louder than Banquo’s tail and more varied. I crack open the door and see my mom slithering in a circle on top of a massive sheet of paper, smearing black paint. She gets on her knees and pretends to dig through the center of a giant bird’s nest. I can tell she was dressed in bike shorts and a white T-shirt before she started, but she’s transformed herself into one of the distressed ravens from my last piece.
Anyone who didn’t grow up with an artist would be thinking about calling a psychiatrist right now. Convinced their only living parent had finally lost her mind completely. When I size up this situation, I see a woman working out the grief of a near empty nest after seeing new photos of her grown daughters.
A paper tube is lying askew near my feet after being flung frantically across the room. She uses the Baroque music playing in the background to determine her moves, like a contemporary dancer wanting to leave a visually arresting record of every chord. It would be fantastic if she did this live, but then she’d have to talk about her inspiration, what drew her to this new method of working, stirring up old gossip about what happened to her kids.
She’s completely oblivious to my presence in the doorway. I could clang two frying pans together next to her head and she wouldn’t flinch. Not when she’s tranced out and working. As I crouch to pick up the empty paper tube, my eyes land on her new painting. She’s added a woodland scene to the back of Cassandra’s nylon bomber jacket. Tall swirling trees with birds circling above and a sew-on circular patch added to the sleeve with a beaver in the middle. My youngest sister always wanted to dress in Mom’s clothes the most. Even at four years old, she’d try to stitch things to the fabrics, pricking her fingers without care. Mom’s bond with Cassandra went beyond the rest of us. If they were together, Cassandra was attached to her hip. Even before Cassandra could speak, it seemed like they could communicate with their minds. Our mom knowing what Cassandra needed before she ever pointed her chubby little finger.
I know the beaver Mom added symbolizes the nickname my sisters gave me when I still had buckteeth, and it makes my stomach hurt.
I close the door quietly and take a seat on the couch, crossing one ankle on my opposite knee and tapping the paper tube on the edge of my sneaker. Banquo sighs at my feet like he remembers us rolling and wrestling, using the empty tubes from Mom’s art paper as weapons. He was just a puppy then, barking and jumping on us, joining in the fun. I can see it so clearly my eyes sting.
I had just nailed Katherina with a particularly well-placed death blow and was sitting on her chest in victory.
“You’re going to hurt one of them,” Mom scolded.
I asked my sister if she wanted a tap-out word and she nodded.
“How about beaver?” I chucked and chopped my buckteeth in her face, knowing she’d squeal.
“That’s a rude word to use with girls,” Mom told me. “Pick something else.”
I didn’t understand what she meant at the time. I was only seven, and she didn’t bother to explain because she was on commission and had to get a painting done.
“Bucky Beaver,” I argued. “I think it’s good.”
Katherina pushed me off her chest and clapped. “Yes. Because of your ginormous teeth.”
Our baby sister, Cassandra, said, “I wuv it, Toby. You’re our beavey beave.” Then she did a flying jump onto my back right as Imogen bopped me on the head with her tube and said, “Get up, Bucky Beaverman. I want to show you how to fight like a girl. Whap, whap.” Imogen’s blows always came hard and swift.
I’d let her beat me black and blue with a baseball bat if it meant they were still here. Only, I fucked up. Big. Eleven years ago when I was a little kid. Too little to be put in charge of three weird little sisters until our neighbor could come help. I left them alone and skated to Bash’s house, just for a few minutes, so he could show me his new Xbox.
“Don’t weave, Bucky,” Cassandra whined. “We’ll get kidnapped.”
“Good,” I told them. “No more sisters bugging me all the time.”
“But you said,” Katherina started through emerging tears, “we have to stick together no matter what.”
I didn’t intend to stay and play until Bash bet me his new skateboard he could beat me at Monster Mayhem: Battle for Suburbia. I don’t remember how long I was there before the lights blinked out all over San Diego. And then it rained and rained and rained.
That was the last time I saw my sisters. At seven years old, I had a limited concept of time. Now, I’m painfully aware of every passing day.
SOL
SHIT OUT OF LUCK
MR. WHITLOCK IS leaning back in his chair with his index finger and thumb bracing his jaw as he reads something on a tablet. I don’t have to wait long for the classroom to empty. But when it does, I walk past him and close the door, locking it before approaching his desk. When he hears the click of the bolt, he rights himself in his mint-green vinyl seat. It squeaks like it’s from the Reagan administration era.
“Ms. Juniper. To what do I owe this conference?” He puts the tablet on his desk.
I put a plastic baggie of dirt from our garden next to it. “I was wondering if you could examine this for me and see if it’s infested with mold.”
Mr. Whitlock picks it up, turning it over. “I don’t see any. Is this a trick question, or is there a method to your madness?”
“Madness. Yes, exactly, like the mold they found in the grains during the Salem Witch Trials. I was hoping you could examine this dirt to see if there are any toxic mold spores.”
Mr. Whitlock gives me a smile full of curiosity. “This wasn’t extra credit, so you’ll have to be more specific.”
If I didn’t need to rule this out as a cause to everyone’s behavior, I’d be tempted to take the baggie and leave. The best way to handle this is with a half lie.
“Everyone in my family has been acting strange since we got this new compost. Forgetting stuff they’ve done, having headaches and stomachaches. We have extensive gardens and grow most of our own food, which I’m sure isn’t a shock, but I read somewhere that a man got sick from his compost and died.”
“Forgetting stuff they’ve done?” He arches a quizzical brow.
“Just forgetting stuff.”
I get his skepticism. How can a person not know what they did, right? But what if Birdie wasn’t lying? We’re all questioning things we’ve done. Birdie throwing the flash-bang grenade, Ansel’s behavior in the supply closet, my own behavior with the snake. All of those situations involve Annalise as the common denominator. As much as I’d love to blame her, it makes more sense that it’s our crop soil, because Annalise is one of us.
“I don’t mean to sound so suspicious,” he says after a long pause. “There have been a few reports of robberies in the surrounding area, and eyewitnesses are telling authorities they’ve seen cashiers open registers and hand over cash and supplies willingly, but the people in question say they don’t remember being robbed.”
“That wouldn’t be related to the soil from our garden, though. We don’t sell soil in town.”
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll see what I can find out about your garden soil over the weekend if you give me a good reason why you’d discuss your coalition’s prepper business with Rémy Lamar.”
I know I was whispering. Rémy was, too. There would have to be listening devices under the tables for Whitlock to have heard our discussion.
“I can read lips,” he says, sensing my apprehension. “It’s actually a great skill for a prepper to have.”
I bet it is. Better than our cipher, since it can be used more often.
He jabs his tablet with his index finger so I’ll look down and read the headline.
DOOMSDAY PREPPER IN CALIFORNIA ARRESTED ON ILLEGAL WEAPONS CHARGES
“Do you know why stuff like this happens?”
“Doomsday Preppers on TV?” If he read my lips, there’s no harm keeping on topic.
“Yes. Sometimes. Othe
r times, trust is given to a person who shouldn’t be made privy to certain things. Under the right amount of pressure, even a loyal person will crack and reveal what they know.”
He’s not wrong, but he’s not right, either, and that helps me get my bearings. “I’ll tell you why I confided in Rémy if you tell me why you sent him into the woods with a map that didn’t lead to the abandoned treehouse.”
“It didn’t? That’s the map that was given to me, but I understood from your conversation with Rémy that you ran into each other in the woods.”
“I was hunting and he showed up in the wrong place at the wrong time, which didn’t leave me with a lot of options. Who gave you that map?”
“Principal Weaver. I’m a yearbook faculty advisor for the ASB club, so I asked him about local points of interest. Something to beef up the yearbook. When Rémy and I were looking through photos of what and who interests him in this town, I gave him the map. We had a nice conversation about you, actually, after he told me about the Scholarship for the Arts America. Winning something like that could be your meal ticket out of your situation. A way out of a town like this for someone like you.”
“It’s not that simple,” I tell him.
“Because of your sisters or because someone in your group thinks you’re blabbing?”
“You read my lips, you tell me.”
“That’s the prepper spirit.” He sits up straighter in his chair. “If I were you, though, I’d dissuade Rémy from getting tangled up in whatever dynamics are eroding your coalition.”
“Our dynamics are fine.”
He clocks my offense. “I didn’t mean to strike a nerve. I’m just looking out for both of you. You can talk to me about anything. That offer stands and the invitation is always open. Before you’re SOL.”
“Thanks. I have to get to my next class. Let me know what you find out about that garden soil.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he says.
I leave his classroom with my trepidations about his prepper status turning into agitation. I should have asked him if he was part of a prepper group instead of getting defensive. Because what he said about the newspaper article might mean he’s looking to join a new group. Not that Dieter would approve. We don’t recruit from our everyday life, so he’d be the one shit out of luck. And honestly, I’m still a little confused about why Principal Weaver would have a map that leads to our compound. Unless it was marked up as an empty set of parcels for sale before Dieter bought the land. The potential site for a new high school or something. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
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