I hit the glass. “Asshole!” But they’re at the crest of the hill now, then out of view.
Twenty-Three
SILENCE IS MY enemy. Not only because it drives home how alone I am, but because it means none of the washers or dryers are running. Which means there’s a good chance nobody’s coming to get their laundry anytime soon.
Still stoked on adrenaline, I look for an obvious way out. Two small windows covered in wire mesh on the wall facing the hill. A back exit that I test and find locked. Washers beneath the window, dryers against the far wall. Two molded plastic lawn chairs with curling magazines stacked beneath, a folding table.
I bang on the door for a while, yelling for help, not holding out a lot of hope. The closest thing is the deserted bus shelter; the laundry building’s set back from the units, embraced by the woods.
I sit in a chair, tapping my legs, facing a wall clock—4:10. Dad won’t be home for another hour at least, maybe two. Ma, not until seven thirty. I’ve been skidding in right at curfew most nights lately, so they won’t worry until after eight. I go to the window, look out at the trailhead, only a stone’s throw from where I stand. Bree and Sage will come that way, eventually. Probably. Unless Trace gives them a ride home.
For now, the only thing that makes sense is switching the lights on and off, like an SOS. Should be enough to catch somebody’s attention, eventually, especially as it gets darker out. Or maybe somebody will decide to stop in with their dirty socks and towels. Hopefully before tomorrow.
For the first hour, I pace from the switch plate to the windows, periodically checking for any sign of Bree and Sage. My palms and knees sting with scrapes from hitting the pavement, and I’ve got a patch on my chin, too. Maybe Kincaid and I can compare road rash. If I ever see him again.
Around five, cars start turning into the Terraces, people coming home from work. I flash the lights, bang the door, yell for help, look to see if any brake lights come on. Nobody stops. I growl frustration in my throat and kick a washer. Seriously, people—look up!
When I cross the two-hour mark, I grab a magazine. Woman’s Day. Dated two years ago, featuring a photo of a mom who lost one hundred pounds on an all-soup diet, beside a headline advertising the perfect Easter layer-cake recipe, inside! I slide down the wall into a sitting position beneath the switch panel, turning the light on and off as I page through.
Laughter. My head snaps up. Boys, somewhere nearby.
It’s the hoodies. I watch them thread around one another down the hill. Coming to make sure nobody’s let me out yet, probably.
They laugh some more, call a few insults down to me, then tires pass over dirt as they turn down the woods trail. No more sounds.
More time passes. I keep flashing the lights. Full dark outside now.
The whisking of pedals and gears draws me back to the glass: one hoodie emerges from the trees, Yellow, from what I can see by the streetlight glow. Maybe he’s the only one with a curfew. He doesn’t spare my prison a glance, taking his time riding up the center line toward home, steering with one hand, using his phone with the other.
I rest my forehead against the glass, breathe out, leaving a fog. When something else moves along the tree line, I don’t react right away, expecting another hoodie to pop out.
The movement’s not on the trail, but in the bushes, a shadow that shifts, goes still. Something’s over there.
I stare, trying to convince myself it isn’t real, more space junk drifting through my mind, but something stirs in me, an instinctive prickle. Big beast coming.
It moves farther out, clear of the trees. Takes a couple steps.
Tall, broad silhouette. A hood up over its head, maybe, or long hair, I can’t tell which. Staring up the hill, where Yellow Hood has disappeared. Another step, turning back toward the woods, ready to blend into the night again.
Then it hesitates, like maybe instinct tapped it, too—the primal sense of being watched. It looks toward the laundry building, where I stand, frozen, unthinking, the light framing me in the window. Slick, pale gleam off the face, somehow too small for the head, misshapen, like a crumpled paper plate.
I jerk back, lunging for the light switch, sending the room into darkness, praying I ducked in time, that maybe you can’t see as much from the outside as I think. Hold my breath, counting seconds—only reach nine before I hear a heavy footstep on dead leaves. It saw. It’s coming.
I whirl, eyes half-adjusted to the dark, only the white lawn chairs having any distinction. I lift one, jam its leg through the door handle and across the frame as hard as I can—the leg’s too wide, only slides about two inches through before it sticks. I hear the scrape of the cinder block being pushed away from the door.
I stare at the chair, wedged horizontally, as if by levitation. Praying that thing out there will test the door, think it’s locked from the inside, give up.
It tries the outer handle; the door moves, as if with a breath. Stopped by the chair leg.
Counting seconds again: one, two—another tug, harder. Go away. Go away.
Thud, thud, thud. Harder. Sensing some give, working at the leg. I’ve got nothing to fight with, nothing but light, so I slap the switch again, casting it all into brilliance. Fine curls of plastic peel up from the friction of the handle; he’s making headway, working it down, widening a gap to show a sliver of darkness beyond the jamb, so little space between me and it.
“Leave me alone.” My voice. Shaky, but there. “Get out of here.” Louder, shouting: “Get out of here!”
The door saws back and forth, the leg developing a sickening bend against the frame.
I run to the folding table and push, skidding its rubber-stoppered feet over the floor until it slams across the width of the doorway, bracing my palms against the edge, teeth gritted, leaning my whole weight into my barricade, as if it’ll do anything once that thing gets through the door.
The gap of darkness widens—then holds in place as it looks in at me.
The wetness of a single eye. Face coated in peach-hued plastic, showing a slender, painted eyebrow. A mask.
The head tilts, face bobbing in the gap. Pink lips with a hole punched in the center, a circle of airbrushed blusher on the cheek. I know it, of course I do, but there’s no time to process—too busy screaming, “Leave me alone!” Turn, seizing the first thing I see—trash can—heaving it at the mask. Garbage explodes. Grab the magazines, pelt them at the door, heave the other chair, grab it on the rebound and throw it again. “Get out of here!”
When I stagger back, gasping, the mask is gone. The door is closed.
I breathe, waiting. It worked. I scared him off. Then headlights flash through the windows, the real reason he stopped trying to get in: someone’s coming down the hill, slowing, signaling a left turn.
I run to the door, start to yank the chair free so I can make a dash for the road, flag them down. A spiderweb-thin strand of chill adheres to my spine. I look over my shoulder.
The princess mask is there, in the far window. Just looking. I stare back, hands locked on the chair, unable to do anything but watch as it gives a slow, condescending dip of its head . . . and leaves.
Twenty-Four
COPS MOVE AROUND our kitchen, visible to me only from the waist down as I sit, head bent over the cup of coffee Ma made me out of desperation, the need to do something. Face bathed in steam, blanket around my shoulders, I watch legs clad in navy uniform slacks pass back and forth. Outside to the cruiser, back in; outside to the stoop to make some clandestine call to the station. Back in.
Murmured conversation among the adults. I’ve answered the same questions enough times to write the cops’ script. Did you get a look at him? What was he wearing? I described the mask; didn’t say who it belongs to. They’re already thinking Halloween prank gone wrong, another gotcha on par with Jell-O bombs and Ping-Pong balls; one of the hoodies, probably, coming back to finish the scare.
The eye, though. That damned eye glittering in the recess behind th
e molded plastic—the iris was dark. Not Trace’s coyote greenish-gray. If that guy has the mask, maybe he hurt Trace before he took it. All I want is my phone so I can text a quick you ok? at him, but it’s still out there on the street somewhere; the female officer, Donohue, is looking for it. My school stuff has already been gathered, stacked on the counter.
The next time the door opens, Dad says, “Found him yet?” his voice sharp.
“They’re searching the woods.” It’s Donohue, not liking Dad’s tone. Her footsteps, lighter than the rest, come up beside me. “Sorry. I found it in the road.” She sets my phone on the table. Crushed, the screen shattered, obviously run over. “If you press charges, you could be compensated for it.”
Right now, my one compensation is picturing Aidan’s face when the cops knocked on his door tonight. I didn’t even have to know his last name; apparently, he’s acquainted with the Pender PD already.
The male cop is making leaving sounds now—still searching, etc., keep us posted—making Ma hit her Excuse me? pose. “What’re we supposed to do until you catch this guy? What if he comes looking for her again?” She’s got the officer trapped halfway out the door. “That man was after my child, and you’re telling me you’ll keep us posted? What the hell is going on in this town? You got one kid dead in that marsh—a whole pack of flying monkeys chase my girl around and nobody does a damn thing—and then some crazy person tries to get ahold of her, and you people got nothing but ‘we’ll look into it’?”
“He was after me.” I finally lift my gaze to Donohue, tightening my grip on the blanket. “He was.”
“And we believe you.” She holds up a hand when the other officer starts to speak. “We’re taking this very seriously. But we also have to look into the possibility that this was a stunt pulled by kids in the neighborhood who knew you were locked in there. We’ve got somebody speaking with Aidan and the other boys right now. One of them will probably admit to as much.” I hear Ma’s noise of protest; I told them about his size, how he seemed to be hunting Yellow Hood through the trees. “That said, until you hear from us, stay calm”—raises her voice when Ma tries to interrupt—“and take normal precautions, like keeping your doors and windows locked, leaving lights on. I promise you, we’ll find out who did this.”
When it’s just the three of us Morrisons again, Ma grabs the dishrag and tosses it into the sink, staring out the window at the night. “This is some great place you brought us to, Jay.”
“Didn’t have a whole lot of choice, did I?”
She doesn’t fire back right away, shaking her head. “Just seems to me that a kid’s life goes pretty cheap around here. That’s all I’m saying.” Looks out the window for a second longer, then drops into the chair beside me, pulling me close for a kiss on top of the head. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there.”
For some reason, after everything, this is what makes me cry.
I spend the night on the futon, sneaking into Ma and Dad’s room to snatch her phone off her nightstand. Still feels safer out here than in my bedroom, with the TV flashing faces, products, and promises at me, the overhead light left on. I text Trace first. No answer for a minute, two. My fingers can’t wait, blasting out a message to Sage: Where’s Trace?
I should’ve told the cops everything, sent them to make sure the person in the mask didn’t hurt Trace, even if it meant blowing the lid off everything we’ve done in the name of disobedience. What if he’s hurt, what if—
Ping—Sage. Crack gave him a 3 day vacay. Mom took his phone ???
I sink back against the cushion as my body remembers how to breathe. Then I sum up what happened in as few characters as possible, pretty much a lost cause, but between the two of us, we come up with a plan for tomorrow. I put the phone down, stretch out, close my eyes, but there’s no sleep back there, behind my lids, sure as hell no peace.
My closet, the place where bad dreams come from, waits down the hall. The memory of Kincaid—unable to speak, arms crossed over the soft shifting of his coat, the hidden movement below the surface—waits behind the door. I try not to think of him as missing; I just have no idea where he is.
Ma’s on the phone to the school first thing the next morning, asking for Crackenback, giving him the rundown of yesterday, explaining that I’ll be in class today because she thinks it’s safer than staying home alone, but for somebody to call her at work in case of anything. I hear her agree to be put on hold; next thing I know, Mrs. Mac’s got the ball, running all the way back—crap. We’ve got a conference scheduled for eight thirty a.m.
When we walk through the doors of PDHS together, Ma gets to see this morning’s stunt: a big drawing done hastily in Sharpie on the wall beside the mascot mural. It’s a slapdash reproduction of the Mumbler by some new guerrilla artist—a black outline, fingers long and jagged, mouth a gaping maw of razor teeth. A cartoon bubble stems from the Raging Elk’s head; some teacher taped a piece of printer paper over it until the custodian gets in, but you can still read the words aw shit. The Mumbler’s bubble reads nom nom nom.
Mrs. Mac has dragged an extra chair in for Ma, which means I get stuck in the egg again.
She bustles around, getting Ma coffee from the outer office. It’s so weird being with a parent at school, worlds colliding in the most unwelcome way, all the people with power to destroy you in the same place at the same time, Godzilla vs. Megalon in an ultimate death match. Ma doesn’t seem like she’s loving it, either. She doesn’t put her big purse down, instead keeping it in her lap, making a statement up front that this isn’t going to take long. She is, after all, the mom; these people are only in charge of my pseudo education.
“There, now.” Mrs. Mac settles behind her desk, her smile on low beam in deference to my pain. “Clara. Sounds like you had quite a scary experience last night. Do you want to talk about it?”
I glance at Ma. “It was just . . . some guy. Trying to get in at me.”
Mrs. Mac’s look is sympathetic, not only her expression, but her outfit. Today’s sweater hue: Compassionate Coral. “That doesn’t sound like ‘just’ anything. You must’ve been scared to death. The police are looking into it?” At my nod, she turns to Ma. “I really appreciate you notifying us, Rose.” Ah, she’s done her homework.
Ma nods, the two of us like a couple of those novelty dippy birds. Mrs. Mac folds her hands on the desk. “This seemed like a good opportunity to check in with both of you, see how Clara’s transitioning into the Pender state of mind.” Small laugh, fading quickly. “The past month has been hard. First Gavin, and now what’s happened to Ivy Thayer. And you couldn’t have missed our new student artwork in the hallway on your way in.” Ma laughs a little. “Mmm. Well, it’s that time of year. People take Halloween seriously around here. Mr. Crackenback’s been dealing with some pranksters, handing out some suspensions. The kids always get a little”—wiggles her shoulders—“you know. Overexcited.”
That’s one word for it. I shift in my padded womb-chair, distracted, wondering if Bree even asked about me when I wasn’t at the bus stop this morning. Really hope Moon was able to borrow his brother’s truck like he said he’d try to when I texted him last night, so Sage and I can go see Trace after school. I’ve texted everybody but Bree to ask if they’ve seen Kincaid around; nobody has, but that’s normal. I won’t tell Trace about his shelter being gone, how he ditched me. It would be like admitting we were a hookup, and the only person who didn’t know it was me.
Mrs. Mac studies my face. “Socially, you seem to be doing great, Clara. I pay attention . . . notice when somebody looks like they’re making fast friends. So, kudos to you on that.” Wait to see if she’s going to nail me on my choice of friends, maybe mention Kincaid, but she moves on. “Grades are another story. I took a look-see at your averages, and to be honest, they’re not quite what I’d expect to see from a student who came to us with a GPA of 3.52. Also, Mr. Smythe noted an unexcused absence last Friday afternoon. He says you never showed up to his calculus class.” Ma�
��s gaze cuts across me like a Ginsu knife, and suddenly, I can’t sink deep enough in my seat, my gaze seeking the potted vine climbing the file cabinet.
“Granted, you’re only a couple weeks in, so I don’t want to cause a panic. Plenty of time for these things to even out. But I have to ask”—she plops her chin on her fist, small, sapphire eyes bright behind her glasses—“what’s going on here?”
Ma adjusts in her seat to face me. “I’d like to hear it.”
Godzilla and Megalon just formed a tag team. “Nothing. I”—work that new-kid angle, work it—“got overwhelmed, I guess? And I got sick. Last Friday. I was here, just . . . in the bathroom.” Hard swallow. “Everything’s changed so fast.” Ma hasn’t budged. “I started the semester late, and I was already so far behind. . . .”
Mrs. Mac nods, like I’ve confirmed some suspicion; Ma presses her lips together and chooses her own plant to glare at.
“I think I know what you’re saying, Clara.” Mrs. Mac shakes her head. “I could kick myself for not thinking of it sooner. I should’ve set you up in our tutoring program right from the beginning. You must’ve been feeling like a miner’s mule, with that load on your back!” Scribbles a note to herself on a sticky pad. “This is my failing. I don’t want either of you”—a shaped mauve fingernail points between us—“taking this on yourselves. Relocating is one of the biggest challenges a family can go through. We want to do everything we can to help you make this move a success.”
I think we’re done. Ma shakes Mrs. Mac’s hand, turns to follow me to the door, jumps when Mrs. Mac gasps, “Oh!” Hurrying around the desk, shaking her basket. “Don’t forget your Raging Elk pin.”
Hesitantly, Ma takes one, dropping it into her purse. “Thanks.”
“Pleasure’s mine. Always happy to spread around a little school spirit.” Mrs. Mac opens the door, just in time for us to witness a secretary race across the hall with the coffeepot and douse a smoldering trash can.
The Missing Season Page 18