Sweetly

by Jackson Pearce

  “Speaking of, Gretchen, do you have a red dress?”

  “It has to be red?”

  “Everyone who graduated the May before the chocolate festival wears red—it’s the color of the old Live Oak high school. Kind of a ‘hey, look, I’m one of the people who didn’t drop out and get knocked up instead of graduating’ thing. I guess you could call it tradition,” Sophia says.

  “Well, technically, I didn’t graduate from Live Oak. In fact, I didn’t even go to high school,” I remind her, and she laughs before turning around to face my brother.

  Ansel, clearly exhausted from hauling half the chocolatier into town, is planted in a lawn chair toward the back of the booth. “Ansel?” Sophia asks in a sugary voice, and Ansel narrows his eyes teasingly at whatever she’s about to request. “Would you watch the booth for us for a few minutes?”

  “Why?” Ansel asks, but he’s already kicking his legs off the cooler and rising.

  “Your sister and I are going to go get our fortunes read,” Sophia answers, biting her lip excitedly as she looks toward me.

  “Oh, come on,” Ansel grumbles, but he takes Sophia’s place behind the counter. Sophia chuckles and kisses him on the cheek so swiftly that he seems confused by it, and we skip off, leaving my brother touching the spot on his face where Sophia’s lips were.

  “That was cruel,” I tease her. “He’d do anything for you, even sell truffles to people in fanny packs.”

  Sophia looks over her shoulder as she links her arm in mine. “He’ll survive. Besides, he shouldn’t fall in love with me anyway.”

  “Too late for that,” I say, raising my eyebrows. Sophia frowns, but at the same time her cheeks flush hopefully.

  The bulk of the audience meanders back toward their blankets now that it’s nearly dark, making it difficult to move in the opposite direction. Sophia forges ahead, fingers wrapped in mine, toward the blue tent. The line isn’t short, but it’s died down considerably. We take our spots in the back, behind a duo of middle schoolers with tricked-out cell phones and belly shirts.

  “So what are you going to ask her?” one says, twirling her hair.

  “If I should go out with Cody or Sean,” the other says. They launch into a conversation that’s entirely too fast to follow.

  “She should go with Cody,” I whisper to Sophia.

  “Yeah, all the Seans I’ve known have been asses,” she replies. “And Miss Nikki hates it when girls ask about boys. Says it sets feminism back a hundred years.”

  The line draws closer, until finally the middle schoolers duck inside, one at a time. The sky is blackening, and people are staring up as if they expect the fireworks to appear from nowhere. Sophia points out a group of men on the roof of the hardware store twisting wires and moving things around, preparing for the show.

  The first girl emerges looking bored, followed by the second, who looks bitter. Apparently the reader told her to date neither Cody nor Sean, and they complain about the inaccuracy of tarot cards loudly as they walk away.

  “Wish me luck,” Sophia says, and her voice betrays the grin on her face—she sounds worried, as though this is much more than just a block-party card reading. Then she disappears under the dark blue fabric into the booth. I shove my hands into my pockets and rock back and forth on my heels, unsure where to look now. I glance toward the sky, letting my eyes run across the stars and down to Live Oak’s rooftops. Samuel is up there, somewhere. I wish I could find him among the chimneys.

  Sophia emerges, looking something between irritated and sad, though she does a decent job of hiding it with a bright smile.

  “Your turn!” she says cheerily.

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  Sophia falters, then shrugs. “Nothing exciting. Oh, wow, I need to go help Ansel…” She points through the crowd. I can just barely see him, scrambling to make change and turning over boxes of wax paper and toothpicks. Sophia laughs and brushes past me as I duck into the blue unknown.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The inside of the tent almost makes me forget that there’s a festival going on outside. There’s a single table covered in purple cloth with a lamp on it. The lamp’s red shade casts the room in pink and creates dark, heavy lines on the card reader’s face. She gathers Sophia’s cards and looks up at me.

  “Ah. The Washington girl,” Miss Nikki says as I enter. She leans on one elbow, tapping her pointer finger against her cheek in undisguised judgment.

  “Yes. Gretchen,” I say quickly, lowering myself onto a tiny wooden stool. “And, um… Miss Nikki, right?”

  “Not exactly—it’s the full name tonight. Tourists don’t pay for Miss Nikki. They pay for Miss Zuelika,” she says, slumping back in a peacock chair that’s seen better days. She fiddles with a deck of tarot cards for a moment while I drop three dollars into the fishbowl on the table’s edge. Miss Zuelika smiles and sets the cards down in front of me.

  “Cut the deck, sugar,” she instructs me. I reach forward and split the deck into two uneven halves; the cards are worn and don’t lie flat.

  “Now shuffle ’em, thinking about what you want to know,” Miss Zuelika says. I do so, struggling to keep the cards from flying off the table.

  I can’t think of a question.

  I shuffle as slowly as possible. I mean, there are a thousand things I want answers to—most involving Sophia and witches. Question, question…

  I don’t have any questions.

  No, that’s not true. I have questions—I just don’t know how to put them together.

  Layla. Emily. Whitney. Jillian. Danielle. Allie. Rachel. Taylor.

  Naida.

  My sister.

  There’s the question—the one I’ve always wanted the answer to. Why my sister, and not me? Two little girls, exactly alike, and the witch chose her. She vanished, and I didn’t.

  Why her, why those Live Oak girls, why Naida, and why not me? Are they special, or am I?

  The cards pop and snap together as Miss Zuelika takes them from me and drops them onto the table. I sit up straight, inhale. Miss Zuelika rubs her palms together and lifts the deck carefully, then draws out three cards.

  “This is you,” she says, dropping a card featuring a mermaid holding a single oar out of the ocean. The Ace of Wands, according to the caption.

  “This is the other—the thing? Person?” she asks as she lifts another card.

  “Um… person,” I say meekly. People?

  “This is the person your question is about. Ace of Chalices.” The card has an elegant hand wrapped around a pink conch shell that reminds me of the shells on Sophia’s porch and in the back shed. “And this,” she says, pulling the last card, a grin spreading across her face, “is your solution.” She drops the card onto the table.

  The Devil. The card displays a large, sinister-looking merman with angel’s wings looming above two kneeling mermaids wrapped in chains.

  I cringe. My stomach twists around in my gut.

  “Oh, calm the hell down—don’t act like a tourist,” Miss Zuelika says, rolling her eyes. “Devil card don’t mean you’re doomed. Wait for the damned reading first.”

  I nod and try to relax, though the twisted feeling in my stomach doesn’t go away entirely.

  “So you, hon,” Miss Zuelika says, tapping the Ace of Wands with a long, painted fingernail. “Ace of Wands. Undertaking a new endeavor? Something bold, something you’ve never done before?”

  “Yes,” I say, surprised.

  Miss Zuelika continues, “You’ve got the power, got the skill. But you have to give it direction, honey, or all that talent is gonna burn right out. A hot flame can only stay lit for so long ’fore it fizzles. Gotta choose your path wisely so you don’t burn right out of this world.”

  She taps the second card, the Ace of Chalices. “The mirror of your card, if I say so myself. This person, they’re just like you. Pure potential, pure skill, pure love, pure peace. They’ve got the same problem as you—have to make a choice before all that potential
vanishes. You and this person, you’re the same. Same problem, same choices, same future, same truths.”

  The Live Oak girls, my sister, Naida. We’re the same.

  “You’re both held captive by the same thing. Same force, holding you both down, chaining you both up. That’s why you gotta make the right choice, hon—to get away from this, this darkness,” she says, waving her arms around with a frown. “You and this other, you have the same destiny right now. You gotta look the Devil in the eye and shake free of the chains holding you down. Look at their hands.” She points to the card, to the mermaids at the Devil’s feet. “Those chains aren’t attached to them—but they believe they are, and that’s enough to hold them there. Be strong, fight back, or the Devil’ll burn your potential right out.”

  “What if,” I say, and my voice is hoarse. I swallow and continue. “What if they’re already burned out?”

  “You asking if that means you’ll burn out too?” Miss Zuelika says, glancing toward the Ace of Wands.

  I nod.

  “Depends on what you do next. Right now, you’re headed down the same path as them, same dangerous road. Like I already said, you and them are mirrors. It’s no easy task to break free of your reflection, but you gotta do it.”

  I stare at my cards, burning the images into my mind so that the mermaids’ faces are replaced with my own and Naida’s.

  Naida started this in Live Oak. And my fate is to mirror her, to vanish, unless I break free. All this time, all this surviving, learning to shoot, learning not to be afraid, and I still have the same destiny I feared when I was a little girl. I can still disappear.

  “Anything else, hon?” Miss Zuelika says, raising her eyebrows. I can feel the color draining from my face and shake my head weakly. “Right, then. Next!” she barks loudly. I rise to my feet shakily and make my way to the tent door.

  I think I’m going to be sick. The shuffling of the people outside and the weight of my thoughts make me dizzy. I want out of the crowd, out of the lights and movement and the scent of stale beer. I glance at Sophia and Ansel, who are standing so close that, from this distance, they blend into one person. Sophia is eating lemon peels, Ansel is picking at chocolate potato chips. They look happy, carefree, as if there’s nothing to Naida’s disappearance or Live Oak’s distrust or the chocolate festival.

  As though everything is okay, when in the post office just across the street there are eight pictures of missing girls. And under Sophia’s bed, there’s a ninth.

  I hurry away from the Confederate soldier statue, toward an alley between two storefronts. The Live Oak girls’ names race through my mind, images of their faces, of witches coming… When I make it into the alley, I keep walking, letting my fingers trail across the brick. The deeper I go, the darker it gets, and it helps me breathe, helps me think.

  I have to break free. I can’t vanish; I don’t want to vanish. Make a choice, do something different, something to escape…

  I shake my head, unsure what exactly I’m talking myself into. There’s movement at the deeper, blackened end of the alley I’m headed toward, light scuffling of what I think are cats fighting over Dumpster scraps. I try to breathe as I hear something else: footsteps. They’re somewhere near the mouth of the alley, following me in. I gulp and prepare my speech for whomever is coming—probably Ricky.

  Of course, what will I really tell him? That I’m scared? Afraid of a witch—no, a werewolf—in the forest? But even more afraid that I’m bound to a destiny I thought I’d finally escaped.

  I guess I could just tell him that I’m a scared little girl. The exact thing I was years ago, when I was running with my brother and sister through the trees.

  I stop walking and turn around to face Ricky as he approaches. Breathe, Gretchen, or he’s bound to think you’ve been drinking moonshine too.

  As my head clears, the fog that was surrounding my thoughts floats away. And I now realize the footsteps aren’t coming from the mouth of the alley. They’re coming from the black end.

  I turn to look.

  A dark figure emerges. He lumbers toward me with slow, long strides. My mind scatters; a scream lodges in my throat. Already? The witch is coming for me already? I turn to run—but where to? I can’t take a monster into the crowd, can’t watch him feast on girls on their summer vacation. My feet scramble to find direction as the figure nears—I can hear him breathing, hear some noise from his throat, the scent of sweat—

  Think. Think, Gretchen, think. I take off down the alley—I can run away from the festival once I get out. He’ll follow me, I think, I hope. The girls out there will be safe for now. I hear feet behind me. Dirty water splashes up around my legs as I run through old puddles in the near blackness. Go, faster, go—

  The monster hits me, slamming his body into mine and trapping me in his arms. I scream, but his hand clamps down on my mouth. I bite down; he yanks his hand away and roars but doesn’t release me. I thrash, try to yank away. The monster is yelling, shouting, grabbing my wrists and squeezing them so tightly that I feel the blood vessels popping.

  “Christ, Gretchen, stop,” a voice hisses angrily at me. I flail once more before finally allowing the words to connect with my brain.

  That scent—leaves and forests and fresh rain—cuts through the darkness and winds around my head.

  “Samuel?” I ask, scared of what the answer might be.

  “Who the hell did you think it was?” Samuel snaps, lightening his grip on my wrists.

  “I…”

  “You bit me. I can’t believe you bit me.”

  “S-sorry,” I stammer. “I thought you were a witch. Are you hurt?”

  “You mean, did getting bitten hurt? Yeah, actually. Believe it or not,” he says in the darkness. I wince as he releases my wrists, then rub the skin tenderly.

  “Are you okay?” he asks with a sigh.

  “Yeah, I just… there was this thing and then my sister and…” I struggle for words. How to explain myself without sounding crazy?

  A sharp light flicks on at the mouth of the alley, shining directly into our eyes.

  “Hey! What the hell do you two think you are doin’?” barks a voice. I squint in the light and Samuel and I both raise our hands to block the glare.

  “Nothing, Ricky,” Samuel says, though I imagine he must recognize Ricky’s voice—god knows I can’t see anything but spots at the moment.

  “Hey, now,” Ricky says, voice suspicious. He lowers the light a little, till I can make out his beetle-shaped eyes staring at me. “You okay, Washington? This guy didn’t hurt you, did he?” Ricky gives Samuel a hateful glare.

  “No, no,” I answer quickly. “I’m fine.”

  “Fine, huh? Then what were you doing with him in an alley?” Ricky asks, hitching his pants up. Samuel grits his teeth next to me, shakes his head angrily. I glance from him to Ricky, then take a step closer to Samuel.

  “Really, Ricky, I’m fine,” I say, looping my arm through Samuel’s. I feel Samuel’s muscles tense and his eyes dart from the ground to my face. I ignore him, staring at Ricky. “We were just after some alone time.”

  Ricky snorts, then laughs heartily. “Oh, darlin’. Of all the boys in Live Oak… he’s the one you oughta be afraid of.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” I answer shortly, and my words have more bite than I expected.

  Ricky raises his eyebrows. “Whatever you say, honey. Now move on outta here.” Ricky gives a curt nod, then flicks the light off, casting us both back into utter darkness. I hesitate for a moment, and then Samuel and I pull our arms apart.

  “He hates me,” Samuel mutters.

  “He’s afraid of you, if you ask me,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “And you’re not at all?” he asks, voice serious.

  I pause. I wish there was at least a hint of light down here so I could see his eyes. “No,” I answer.

  Samuel laughs, a faint, light sound I wouldn’t recognize as laughter if I didn’t know him. “I might be afraid of you,
Gretchen,” he answers, then breathes out loudly. “I saw you from the roof. You looked freaked out.”

  “I was.” How close are we to each other right now? It’s hard to tell—I dare to stretch out a hand and my fingers brush across his T-shirt. I pull my hand away as Samuel inhales.

  There’s a moment before he speaks again. “You want to go back out there?” he asks. “The show is about to start.”

  “Not really.”

  “Come on,” he says, and I feel his fingers close around my right wrist. I pull away—it’s tender from where he had to hold me back earlier.

  “Sorry,” he says, yanking his hand away. “It’s just hard to find in the dark, if you don’t know the way.”

  There’s a long pause; I focus on the sound of Samuel breathing, trying to figure out what he’s thinking. He reaches forward, finds my wrist in the black again, but this time his hand runs down to my palm. He folds his fingers over mine; I instinctively grip his hand tightly.

  Neither of us says anything, but there’s a second, a tiny moment, where we stand in the darkness, hands intertwined, and I know he’s as fully aware of my skin on his as I am.

  Samuel inhales again. He turns, tugging me along behind him gently. He leads me farther down the alley, then slows to a stop, lifting my hand to a ladder rung.

  “Climb straight up,” he says. I gaze upward, where the ladder emerges from the darkness to a rooftop. I pull myself up, focusing on one foot after another and not the fact that we’re getting scarily high off the ground. I finally heave myself over the edge of the roof and crawl away from the side, then stand. Samuel hops up with practiced skill. I find his gaze in the pale yellow glow from the lights that are strung off the roof’s edge.

  He looks at me for a long moment, as though I’m someone he hasn’t seen before, then drops his eyes and walks over to the edge of the roof. I follow, afraid to get as close as he is. A guy with a bullhorn is blasting out instructions, that the show will begin in three minutes and everyone should find seats before the lights are turned off. I can see Sophia and Ansel settling down together in front of the chocolatier’s booth and Miss Zuelika’s tent by the telling tree. Samuel follows my gaze.