The Missing Season

by Gillian French

  The drive to Trace’s house is even longer than I remember—on foot, it would’ve taken the better part of an hour. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t checking out the window for Kincaid, silently hoping we’ll pass him on his board somewhere, see that he’s okay, that he must’ve spent the night somewhere safe. Because now I know that the cold isn’t the biggest threat in those woods.

  The driveway is steep and rutted, Moon’s truck nearly bottoming out on the last hole before we park behind Trace’s car. The dogs are barking, giving themselves whiplash against their chains, all of them some strange spotted mutt breed.

  “So . . . this will be weird,” Sage says to me as I slide out the passenger door behind her. It’s strange, not having Bree with us. I don’t know if Sage told Bree that I was coming here with her today, or if she told her about the guy who came after me last night. If Bree would even care. “Just warning you. His mom is—”

  “Different?” I finish.

  “You think she’ll even let him come out?” Moon walks with us toward the paint-peeling steps. Now that we’re closer, the dogs are whining, wagging tails, desperate for love. “Sounds like she’s pretty pissed about Crack giving him the boot.”

  Sage shrugs. “We’ll see.” Leads the way up the steps, opens the crooked screen door to knock. In the glass pane, between limp curtains, a white macramé cross dangles from a length of yarn.

  After a long time, a tall, loose-fleshed woman opens the door, staring at Sage from beneath fierce, unkempt brows shot through with gray, just like her long, brown hair. She wears a white sleeveless muumuu, the floral pattern washed to a memory, her feet in open-toed terry bedroom slippers. She doesn’t speak, just takes Sage in with a beady stare.

  “Hi. Is he around?” Sage has my respect forever; I don’t think I could force a word out if I tried, let alone have this be my boyfriend’s mom, who I had to make nice with on a regular basis. But Sage’s smile is forthright, no apologies in her tone.

  Ms. Savage gives a short laugh, her voice hoarse and low. “Oh, yeah. He’s home. Home for three days, thanks to his fresh mouth.” She gives us an agitated glance. “Suppose you think I should let him see you anyway.”

  “Only if it’s okay with you.”

  As I look past Sage, I get a glimpse of the mudroom behind Ms. Savage. A big framed painting hangs on the wall, one of those blond Jesuses with a mournful look in his blue eyes and light beaming around his sacred heart. Ms. Savage shifts to the left, shouts across the yard, “Trace-y! You got comp-any!”

  She shuts the door on our thanks, watching us through the pane as, a second later, Trace comes around the back of the barn, wearing coveralls flecked with dried mud and bits of hay.

  He dabs his brow with the back of his glove. “Hey. Heard you guys pull up, but I was hiding from my mom.” He glances over at the door; Ms. Savage steps back from the glass. “Friggin’ Crack welshed on our gentleman’s agreement. Goat-sucking bastard.” He kisses Sage, who kisses him back, keeping as much distance as possible from his coveralls.

  “Does he know?” I ask.

  “Nah. I mean, he suspects. But he’s got no proof.” Trace shrugs, starts walking back to the barn. “Sending me home was, like . . . a preventive measure. Get me out of school for a couple days, hope the pranking will die down once the bad seed is gone.”

  “We wanted to make sure you were okay.” Sage watches as he picks up a shovel leaning against the wall. “If I didn’t know your mom had you on lockdown, I would’ve been freaking.”

  “Somebody took your mask,” I say.

  He pauses in the open bay of the haymow, looking back at me. As I tell him what happened, he gradually gets back to mucking out the stalls, turning shovelfuls of manure and soiled hay into a wheelbarrow. A couple of brown-and-white goats wander over to stare at us, jawing in a terminally bored fashion. “He was tall, like you—I don’t know, maybe he wanted me to think he was you. Or maybe he just wanted me to know that he knows who we are.” I try not to lose my temper as Trace focuses on scraping the edge of the shovel across the floorboards. “I think he knows we pulled those pranks.” I make a frustrated sound. “He was trying to get me.”

  “What—you think it was one of those Father Knows Best drones from Perfect Street? Come on.” He laughs. “Their idea of risk is letting the warranty expire on their electric hedge trimmers.” I watch as he drops the shovel and walks past us, saying to the goats, “You guys have to stop shitting so much. Seriously.” He goes to his car and we follow, watching him root around inside for a while before he comes out and leans against it, arms resting on the roof. “Huh.”

  Sage tosses up her hands. “Did you think she made it up? Some psycho got into your car and stole the mask, numbnuts. He wanted to hurt Clarabelle.”

  “He came out of the woods, dude.” Moon’s expression is grim. “Ivy? Gavin? Dabney’s head? Know what I’m saying?”

  “And Kincaid and Clarabelle said they saw someone in the marsh the night Ivy disappeared.” Sage rubs her arms. “Maybe he started following all of us after that.”

  Trace stares at his house for a second, a humorless grin passing over his lips. “A serial killer. In Pender.” Burst of barely contained laughter. “Letting the Mumbler take the fall for everything, when we really got a homegrown Dahmer picking off the bad-kid population. Hells yes. I can buy that.” Thumps both hands down on the roof, starts back to the barn with us on his heels.

  My air escapes in an exasperated gust. “What are we going to do?” My near shout makes the goats look up. “Thoughts? Anyone?”

  Trace grabs his shovel, scoops another load. “Well”—pauses, hefting the weight—“this guy’s a traditionalist. So, far as I can tell”—manure lands in the wheelbarrow—“all we’ve got to do is survive Halloween.”

  After we leave Trace’s, Moon drives toward the Terraces. I promised Ma this morning that I’d come straight home after school and keep the doors locked; the ominous way she said, “We’ll talk later,” after the meeting with Mrs. Mac made me want to be extra sure I don’t get caught breaking my word. I don’t know if Trace took anything we said seriously; maybe that’s just how he processes, by being a smart-ass. Sounds familiar.

  I glance over at Sage, wedged between us in the cab. “You and Bree hanging out after this?”

  She nods, watching how hard I try to keep my expression neutral. “Have you tried talking to her at all? About—” Gestures, meaning the obvious: Kincaid.

  “Tried.” I shrug. “I don’t think I got through.” Not sure how well-versed I am on the subject of Kincaid, anyway, if I’m even qualified to guess at what he really wants from me. I stay silent a second, then blurt, “I just feel so bad. I mean . . . with her parents, and being the only one watching out for Hazel and everything. I never thought—”

  “That he would like you back.” She smiles a little, shaking her head. “Bree didn’t, either. So when he crashed your little crush party, it kind of blew everything up, right?” She holds up a hand. “Not judging. I’ve been there.”

  “You have?”

  “Not with Bree. A different friend, back in middle school. Crushing on this one guy was like this game we played every day, until shit got real. I don’t know which sucks more—being the one he doesn’t pick, or getting the guy, losing the friend.” She pauses, chipping at the clear coat on her fingernails. “But if you’re feeling bad because you think you have things better than Bree, don’t.”

  I give a short laugh. “Seems pretty legit to me.”

  “Bree having jackholes for parents has nothing to do with Kincaid liking you. Okay? There’s no cosmic connection there. Trying to find one isn’t going to make things any better with her. Sometimes you come out on top. Next time, maybe it’ll be Bree’s turn.” Sage rests back against the seat. “End of speech.”

  “Any idea what I can do to make things better?”

  “Um. You can’t make Bree do or feel anything. And I’m saying that as her best friend. Sorry.” She turns to Moon.
“Don’t you repeat a word of this.”

  He laughs, switching radio stations. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Twenty-Five

  I’M HOME BY myself when somebody knocks so quietly that I don’t move right away, paused over my homework, listening.

  Another soft knock, almost like a branch tapping in the wind. Ma left me her phone so I could call Dad in case anything happened, and I bring it with me as I go to the window, peeking out at the back stoop.

  Kincaid stands on the top step. Relief has me pulling the chain off the door, and the chill air is in my face before I can process anything but his expression, guarded, like he wasn’t sure if I’d be the one to answer. I put my arms around him immediately, squeezing; somehow, his body feels fragile to me today, impermanent, and my anger and confusion only come back as I say, “Where have you been?”

  He hugs me, gaze moving over the doorway—wondering if there are parents lurking back there—then going to the scrape on my chin. “No place. Hanging around.” He gently runs his thumb over the scab. “I heard about yesterday. You okay?” I nod. “Want me to kick their asses? Aidan and those guys? I’m not buff or anything, but I’ll do it.”

  “Nah. I’m sure they crapped themselves when the cops tracked them down.” I get quiet, looking at him. Remembering how it felt, running down the trails searching for him, realizing I’d been dropped. Feeling like a fool. How it made me question everything, doubt myself. My tone is flat when I speak again: “Better come inside.”

  He steps through the doorway, taking a quick survey of our kitchen, a glance at the hall. Tea—I know he likes that, and we have it, so I put the kettle on, grab a mug just to keep busy. Everything we did in his bedroom—it’s vivid, present, a third party listening in on us. I drop the bag of Lipton’s into the mug, then turn to face him, my arms folded. “Why’d you ditch me?”

  He looks back. “I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. You moved your shelter.” My voice is tight. “I looked everywhere for you.”

  Kincaid shrugs, stopping beside our table, looking at the flowers painted on our salt and pepper shakers. “I always do that. Stay in one place too long, somebody will figure out you’re sleeping there.”

  I swallow, working up my nerve. “Do you know how that made me feel? After what we did, and then you were just—gone?” He’s still not meeting my eyes, not getting it. I press my hand to my chest. “Did you plan it that way? Hook up with me, then drop me?” Kincaid’s gaze lifts sharply, eyes widening. “Or was that, like, payback for trying to get you to fix things with your mom? Trying to be a part of your life?”

  “No. Clara.” He shakes his head, hard. “I heard what you were saying that night.”

  “Did you? I let you know that I care about you, and you can’t get rid of me fast enough. Right?” He opens his mouth, doesn’t speak. “You’re pissing everything away. Your whole life. And it kills me, because you’re smart, and talented, and it’s like you don’t even know it. How bad did your mom screw up that you don’t even know that?”

  “I told you. We fight. It doesn’t work, us living together, and I said some stuff—”

  “She kicked you out of your own house. She changed the locks. I don’t care what you did, that’s a shitty thing to do to your kid. She’s supposed to look out for you—”

  “You don’t”—tone the sharpest I’ve ever heard it, raising a hand to his brow, clamping down on his words for a second—“you don’t know her. Okay?” A pause. “It’s not all on her.” A pause. “I made things hard.”

  I stare at him, breathing hard, arms still crossed tightly over my chest. “Sounds to me like she matters to you.” He frowns, looks at the floor. “Kincaid. She’s your mom. We can fix it. I know you guys fight, but we can talk to her together.” More silence. “You can’t tell me that she wants you sleeping outside in the cold, especially if there really is somebody out there in those woods, going after kids. And I don’t think she wants you flunking out and not being able to graduate this year.”

  He turns away, gripping the top of a chair. I go over, touching his back gingerly. “It’s just . . . you can’t go away like that. I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t reach you.”

  “I know.” His voice is quiet, and he closes his eyes, moving into my touch as I stroke his cheek. “Sorry.”

  He kisses my temple, my cheekbone, and we go together down the hallway to my bedroom. Erase the bad-dream memory of him with this reality, him in my bed, my safe place, and this time the room is full of sun and tree shadows.

  Later, I rest my head against him, tucked between his arm and chest. This is the first time my bed has felt small to me, like something meant for a little kid. Still an hour and a half until Dad’s due home—plenty of time for us to stay here together. I watch the branch shadows play across the blinds as the wind kicks up. “When you say the Mumbler’s real, that you’ve seen him,” I say slowly, “do you mean it?”

  “Somebody’s out there.” Shrugs slightly. “There are signs. And at night, sometimes . . . he’s there. It’s like with you, that night on the banks. I wake up, and I feel him, so close—and I don’t want to open my eyes.”

  I glance up at him. “The person who tried to get me last night was real. Not some monster. I think that’s who you’ve been seeing.” I press my palm against his chest. “You’re lucky he hasn’t come after you.”

  Kincaid’s gaze goes to the closet door. “Why do you think he hasn’t?” He waits. “If he wanted to get me, he could have. Anytime. What’s he waiting for?”

  I don’t have an answer. “Do you think one person could’ve killed all of them? Going back to Ricky?”

  He shifts onto his side and reaches for the origami jack-o’-lantern. “That’s what I’ve been saying for years.”

  I watch the folded hexagon play between his fingers. “When I went to the bridge yesterday, my jack-o’-lantern was gone. Just mine and Ivy’s.” I look at him. “What do you think it means?”

  His gaze follows the folds pressed into the paper. “Maybe it means he’s watching you.”

  It snows on Halloween morning. Fine powder covers everything. Seems like there’d be folk sayings about that, old wives’ tales, calling it a harbinger of bad luck. Feels like a sign to me, but then again, I tend to look too hard.

  Candy corn coats the floor of the bus. Our anxiety turned to lethargy, Sage rests her head on Bree’s shoulder; Bree’s head lolls against the seat. Me, an ocean away on the other side of the aisle, keeping my distance like I know Bree wants me to, replaying memories of Tuesday afternoon: Kincaid’s hair on my pillow, rippling shadows on the wall, the feeling of his lips so at odds with the words he’s watching you.

  School. Candy wrappers litter the floors, float in water fountains. Twix, Three Musketeers. I drift from class to class, taking nothing in, some amplified heartbeat seeming to follow me, forcing blood down these long intravenous corridors. At one point, a girl in a Zorro mask and cape pirouettes by me in the crowded hall, pauses, flashes the cape open at all of us, revealing a black bralette underneath. Boys roar approval, banging on lockers, and then she spins away, a teacher in hot pursuit.

  I have a Kincaid sighting between classes, but when I turn, it’s somebody else, nothing in common with him but dark coat, light hair. I didn’t really expect him to come today; I gave him a lot to think about on Tuesday, a lot to decide. I’m not going to chase after him. In some ways, it really is like loving a ghost. And for the first time, I let myself wonder, Is this love?

  No Trace, so I get on the bus after school, the talking-to Ma and Dad gave me on Tuesday still ringing in my ears. Such a smart girl—always said you were, so why—and for the first time I didn’t really mind hearing it, because it means they give a damn. About school, about me, for no reason other than they choose to. That love isn’t necessarily guaranteed. So. Straight home. Keep the doors locked, the phone close. Halloween is no excuse for taking stupid chances.

  I watch as Bree gets on the bus by herself
, glimpses me, sits five seats ahead. I settle in to wait for the overpass and Fear Him.

  Ma bought candy, thank God, because the first knock on the door comes a couple hours after I get home. Bree’s forecast was right: one look out the window shows trick-or-treaters crawling all over the Terraces, following paved walkways to hit every apartment. It’s still daylight, so moms with really little kids are out doing the rounds now. Some of the mini monsters are wide-eyed and completely in awe of me as I drop candy into their buckets; others are power-mad with their ability to get free chocolate from an almost-adult just by saying trick or treat. I realize we don’t have any decorations up. We are so pathetic.

  I tape Kincaid’s origami jack-o’-lantern in the window. I think he’d like that.

  Trace got his phone back. Around five o’clock, he sends me a GIF of a twerking skeleton. Last I knew, he’d talked his mom into letting him hang out with Sage at his place tonight, too.

  I’m searching for a good comeback GIF, tearing into my fifth or sixth fun-size Hershey bar, when another bang on the back door pulls me away from Killer Klowns from Outer Space with my bowl of treats. When Dad gets home, this is totally becoming his job.

  Bree stands on the stoop. Strands of hair blow loose from her ponytail, phone in her hand like she’s forgotten it’s there, or like maybe she’s forgotten how to speak to me.

  I stare, hurry to swallow. “Hey.” Wait. Carefully: “How are you?”

  Thinking, This is it, we’re finally going to talk. But what she says is, “I can’t find Hazel.”

  Twenty-Six

  “WAIT, WHAT—?”

  “I don’t know where she is.” Barely restrained ferocity, no time or patience to wait for me to catch up. Bree comes in, making me step back against the door, pacing as far as the table before seeming to remember that she’s Bree and would never be comfortable barging in anywhere. Gestures with her phone. “I’ve texted, called her like fifty times. She’s just not answering.”