Forget This Ever Happened

by Cassandra Rose Clarke

  Claire stares down at the board. The game seems stupid. They’re just working a maze. Kid’s stuff.

  When she looks at the labyrinth it seems to wriggle and squirm in front of her.

  “Are you ready?” Audrey says.

  Claire nods and picks up the die and tosses it on the bed. Two. Audrey flips the two-minute hourglass. “Go!” she says.

  Claire picks up her pyramid. Ten paths lead out of the labyrinth’s center, and all of them knot up together the farther out they go. Claire chooses one path at random and slides her piece over the board, following its twists and turns—until it twists and turns in on itself in an endless loop. Claire’s eyes water. She goes back to the beginning, chooses another path, begins to follow it.

  “Time’s up,” Audrey announces.

  “Really?” Claire sets her piece down. It feels like thirty seconds have passed, not two minutes. But sure enough, the sand has all spilled to the bottom of the hourglass.

  Audrey rolls a five. Claire is certain that Audrey will solve the labyrinth immediately—this seems like one of those games that the owner always wins, like Trivial Pursuit, because they can memorize the board. But Audrey hesitates and starts and stops just like Claire did. And this five minutes actually feels like five minutes. By the time the hourglass runs out, Audrey’s only a bit farther into the board than Claire.

  They continue on like that, taking turns rolling the die. Audrey flips the hourglasses. Claire inches forward through the labyrinth, constantly turning back and retracing her steps. She has a difficult time looking away from the board, and the labyrinth looms larger in front of her until it seems to take over the entire room.

  The die falls with a soft thump on the bed that echoes over and over in Claire’s mind; it’s amplified, a million times louder. Three minutes. Audrey turns the hourglass, and the movement of her arm is too slow, like she’s moving through honey. Claire is certain she can hear each individual grain of sand as it slips through the hourglass. Three minutes. She turns back to the board. The labyrinth swirls into itself. She touches the green pyramid. The labyrinth writhes, resettles. She gasps: No, she realizes, this is normal. This is the labyrinth.

  She slides her piece forward. The scraping of wood against cardboard is loud and shrill inside her head. She reaches a dead end.

  “Time.”

  It’s Julie’s voice. Claire knocks the pyramid over in surprise and looks up and sure enough Julie sits on the other side of the bed, her long legs folded and her shoulders bare, skin gleaming in the weird pink light of the room. She smiles and Claire feels a fluttering deep inside herself she’s only ever let herself associate with boys.

  “Julie?” she whispers.

  Julie’s smile brightens, and when she smiles her face changes and she’s Audrey again, Audrey in short shorts and a spaghetti-strap tank top. And then she’s just Audrey in her sundress.

  “Six minutes,” Audrey says, and turns the hourglass.

  Claire blinks, rubs at her eyes. Julie’s not here. Julie’s at home, talking to Lawrence, trying to stop the monsters from attacking again.

  Julie does smile like that, though. Sometimes.

  The fluttering returns. Claire tries to shove it away, confused. Audrey slides her piece around the board like she’s dancing a ballet, gliding one direction, stopping, gliding the other. Claire wonders if they’re ever going to finish the game.

  The hourglass empties. “Time,” Claire says, although she feels like some other force is speaking through her. What does she care if it’s time? She’d be just as happy giving up, doing something else. It’s only a game. Games don’t have to finish.

  But still she reaches for the die, rolls it across the bed.

  Six minutes.

  She’s nervous as she goes to move the pyramid, nervous and a little excited, although it’s a cold-sweat kind of excitement, excitement that almost feels like dread. She keeps glancing up at Audrey to see if she’s become Julie again. But it’s always Audrey who stares back at her.

  Claire moves the opposite direction. She doesn’t concentrate as hard on the board as she did before, not with her constant checking for Julie, and she doesn’t move very far in those six minutes.

  “Time,” Audrey says.

  Back and forth they go. It ought to be boring, but it’s not. The maze is such a confusing tangle that looking at it makes Claire feel tired, the way she does whenever she sits for tests at school. Her brain aches like a sore muscle.

  Part of her wonders if this game is a test, if all of Audrey’s games are tests. But why would Audrey test her? She’s just a pretty cheerleader on summer vacation.

  Claire rolls a four.

  Audrey rolls a two.

  Six.

  One.

  Three.

  Two.

  Two.

  Four.

  Back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes it’s Julie sitting across the bed, sprawled out in skimpy clothes, tangled hair falling around her shoulders. Sometimes it’s Audrey. And even though Claire understands, on a subconscious level, that Audrey is real and Julie is not, Claire realizes that she feels safer when she sees Julie on the bed. Hallucination, she thinks when it’s not her turn, when the fake Julie is hunched over the board, moving her yellow piece through the labyrinth. The word gives her a little chill of fright. She’s hallucinating. But if you know you’re hallucinating, is it really a hallucination? Or is it something else?

  The fake Julie looks up from the board and smiles. Claire’s heart squeezes. It doesn’t matter if this is the real Julie or not, she will keep Claire safe from whatever it is Claire fears—not just monsters but the strange fear creeping around the edge of the room, faint but insistent. It’s like walking down a hall by yourself, late at night. You know there’s nothing there, but you still feel eyes staring at you out of the shadows.

  Only Claire feels eyes staring at her out of the maze.

  She waits until the fake Julie has been replaced by the real Audrey. Waits for the hallucination to disappear, along with that warm sense of safety. Audrey rolls a five. As she reaches to turn over the hourglass, Claire says, “Wait.”

  It takes a tremendous amount of effort to say that, more than Claire expects. Even she’s startled by the word when it bounds around the room, sounding like a trumpet.

  Audrey looks over at her, fingers on the hourglass.

  “Why don’t we do something else?”

  The words are like molasses, sticky and slow. Like the way time gets whenever it’s Claire’s turn to play. But asking that question makes her head feel clearer than it has all afternoon.

  “Something else?” Audrey frowns. “Do you not like playing?” Her lower lip juts out in a childish pout and Claire is struck with an overwhelming wash of grief.

  “No, it’s fine, it’s just—” Claire flounders for the words. “I’m a little tired of sitting here, you know? I didn’t realize it would take so long.”

  “We’re almost done.” Audrey’s expression brightens. “Look how far from the center we are.”

  Claire looks even though she knows the exact location of her piece. She is far from the center, crawling her way around the edge. But it’s a maze. Just because you’re far from the center doesn’t mean you’re close to the exit.

  “It really shouldn’t be that much longer,” Audrey says. “I promise.”

  “I really don’t care if I win or not—you can say you did. I mean, I’ll just forfeit.”

  “Forfeit? This isn’t football.” Audrey giggles. “Why don’t we see it through to the end? It’s important to finish things.”

  That last sentence bangs around in Claire’s head. Yes. It is important to finish things. Hasn’t she been taught as much all her life, by her mother and father and teachers at school? It makes sense to her even as she knows her will is weakening.

  “Especially this,” Audrey says, although she speaks in Julie’s voice. “If we stop early, then the obfuscation won’t be finished.”

 
Claire jerks her head up. Audrey is Julie again, and Julie is stretched out on her side, one hand draped over her hip.

  “The obfuscation?” Claire says.

  But Audrey-Julie ignores the question. “Come on,” she says, “it’ll be fun. You’ll feel so satisfied once you get out.”

  That’s too much. Claire doesn’t want to say no to Julie. So she nods, and on her next turn, she rolls a three.

  Two.

  Six.

  Six.

  One.

  Two.

  Four.

  On it goes. There’s a rhythm to the game—the thump of the die on the bed, the click of the turned hourglass, the whisper of falling sand. Sometimes when Claire looks up, Julie’s staring back at her with an expression that reminds Claire of the covers of certain magazines, and her stomach flip-flops around and it’s difficult to concentrate on the maze.

  Claire is distantly aware of the light changing in the room, the glow of pink sunlight fading until there’s only the harsh, sharp light from the ceiling fan. She’s distantly aware that this isn’t a good thing. But at the same time, as she inches forward on the maze, she’s struck with a shivering thrill—I’m almost out, I’m almost out—and so they keep playing.

  Claire rolls a six. The hourglass flips. When she looks at the maze she can’t exactly see her way out, but she can sense it, a light at the end of a tunnel that exists only in her head. She picks up her pyramid and slides it along the board. The way clicks into place. Left turn, right turn, loop back around.

  The sand falls.

  The pyramid moves across the board.

  And Claire sees it, the exit. It’s so obvious now that she’s at the end, the way it snakes and threads through itself.

  Claire pushes her piece out of the maze.

  Audrey bursts into applause. “You won!” she cried. The hourglass runs out, but it doesn’t matter; the game’s over. “See, wasn’t that worth it?”

  Claire rubs her forehead. She feels like she’s waking up from a fitful sleep.

  Those thoughts that had been in the back of her consciousness come rushing forward. “My God, what time is it?”

  “What?” Audrey frowns. “Oh, did you need to be home by a certain time?”

  “Yes! Five o’clock.” Claire twists around, trying to find a clock in the frilly decorations of Audrey’s room. She finally spots one on the dresser drawer, an old-fashioned alarm clock beside a neat stack of Seventeen issues. It takes her a moment to decode the jumble of lines and numbers.

  Nine thirty-five.

  It’s nine thirty-five.

  “Oh my God!” Claire jumps up from the bed, knocking over the board. The two pyramids and the die go rolling across the floor. “Oh my God, Grammy’s going to kill me!” The strangeness of the game has been forgotten; she only has a vague memory of seeing Julie in Audrey’s place, and of Julie’s voice saying the obfuscation.

  An SAT word. Claire learned it last year in English. Obfuscate. Verb. To render obscure or unclear.

  None of that seems real now. The only real thing is Grammy’s fury. “I have to go. Why didn’t you tell me?” She glares at Audrey, who sits primly on the bed, her hands folded in her lap.

  “I didn’t know,” she says.

  Claire glowers and runs out of her room, out into the black and white of the rest of the house. All the lights are on. Audrey’s little brother sits watching an old TV show, Father Knows Best, in the upstairs landing. He looks at her when she rushes past, the TV light shining across his face, his eyes blank.

  A chill ripples through her.

  She bolts down the stairs. There’s a strange smell down here, like sugar burning. When Claire goes through the living room a man is reading the newspaper in a sweater and house slippers. Smoke twists up from a pipe.

  He sets the paper in his lap and looks at her with the same empty expression as Audrey’s brother.

  For a moment Claire is frozen, like his eyes have caught her. Why didn’t Audrey come downstairs with her? Isn’t that the normal thing to do? But then, she rushed out of the room so quickly.

  The man lifts his paper again.

  Claire turns around. Her heart’s beating too fast. The house hems her in. The rooms and hallways remind her of the maze on the board game. Like she has to roll a die to find her way out.

  No. It’s just a house. The foyer is attached to the living room, like most houses.

  She leaves the living room without saying anything to the man, who she assumes is Audrey’s dad. She doesn’t see Audrey’s mom. But she makes it to the front door. It looks the same as when she arrived. Claire turns the lock and pulls it open and she has a moment of terror that she’s not going to see Indianola.

  But of course she does: There’s the neat front yard, the weird rosebushes, Audrey’s car parked in the driveway. Her bike leans up against the garage.

  It’s full dark.

  Shaking, Claire leaves the house and picks up her bike. The day’s heat lingers on the air, a reminder that it’s not too late. But she’s probably going to get grounded again.

  She climbs on her bike and rides home.

  The porch light is on at Grammy’s house, glowing a sickly yellow. June bugs flit around it and cast pale shadows against the wall. Claire wheels the bike into the garage.

  She starts formulating stories, excuses: We went to the beach and Audrey’s car broke down. No, better: Someone sideswiped her and we had to deal with the insurance claims. Her parents took us to dinner and I didn’t want to be rude. Her little brother got sick and we had to take him to the hospital—

  Claire takes a deep breath. None of these sound believable; all of them could be checked on. Maybe she should just tell the truth. We played a game and lost track of time.

  She goes inside.

  The TV’s blaring. It doesn’t sound like the ten o’clock news. Northern Exposure, maybe. Claire creeps in, easing the door shut. The kitchen lights are off.

  “Claire?”

  Grammy doesn’t sound angry. She doesn’t sound worried either.

  “I’m so sorry,” Claire starts, moving into the living room. “We lost track of time—”

  “It’s all right.” Grammy mutes the TV. Claire stops short. This is the last answer she expected.

  “I didn’t fix your dinner—” she starts.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I asked Carol Chase to bring me something from Munro’s.” Grammy twists around in her chair. “There are leftovers in the fridge, if you’re hungry. Did Audrey feed you?”

  Claire stares at Grammy. She has no idea what to think. Grammy gives her a pleasant smile.

  “Well, I hope you had fun at least.” She turns back around in her chair and picks up her remote. “Oh, and that Alvarez girl called. You know I don’t like her.”

  She sounds angrier about Julie calling than about Claire coming home late. Claire backs out of the living room, into the kitchen. The refrigerator hums. Claire realizes she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten all day. They were playing that game. She can barely remember it now, only that it took a long time. Monopoly? It must have been Monopoly.

  Claire opens the refrigerator. A little foam box sits on the shelf next to the bread and the pitcher of tea. She takes it out, dumps its contents on a plate—some kind of meatloaf, it looks like—and sticks it in the microwave. When it’s done she takes the plate and a Coke and a fork into her bedroom. She wants to be away from Grammy and the constant chatter of the TV.

  She’s got a hollow feeling that stems from more than hunger, a sense that something’s been carved out of her. That it’s been hidden away, tucked out of sight. Obfuscated.

  She puts on her music as she eats, that mix tape from Josh. Josh. God, she’s hardly thought about him all summer. Funny how he was all she could think about in the spring.

  When Claire finishes eating she doesn’t feel satisfied, but she doesn’t think food’s going to help her. She thumps the plate on her desk and lies back on her bed and listens to the music
swirling around the room. The lyrics seem nonsensical to her, the music discordant. She switches it off. The house is silent; no TV noise. Claire pushes off the bed and steps out into the hallway. All the lights are out. Grammy must have gone to bed.

  She creeps into the kitchen and picks up the phone and dials Julie’s number.

  It rings twice. Julie picks up.

  “Hey,” Claire says. “I’m sorry about calling so late—”

  “Not a big deal. We’re all still up.”

  Julie’s voice is like a favorite blanket. Claire slumps back against the wall, feeling relieved.

  “I’m sorry about calling you earlier like that. My grandma wouldn’t let me get to the phone and then she made me go hang out with Audrey.”

  “Oh God. I can’t escape that girl, between you and Lawrence.”

  “It’s not me!” Claire says in a fierce whisper. The last thing she wants is for Julie to think she actually likes Audrey. “It’s Grammy. She keeps pushing us together!” She sighs. “Anyway, did you find anything out?”

  “I talked to Mr. Vickery. The committee’s big thing is that they can’t intervene unless a monster actually hurts someone. But since there was property damage he said he’d look at the report.”

  Claire is struck with a kind of desperate hopelessness. “But that’s his job, isn’t it? To deal with renegade monsters?”

  “Theoretically.”

  “What about the police? Or Lawrence? Did you talk to Lawrence?”

  “The police don’t handle the monsters. Out of their jurisdiction—human bad guys only.”

  Claire sinks back on her bed. “Are you sure we can’t call, like, the National Guard?”

  “Wouldn’t work. If you try to talk about the monsters to someone who’s not in town they just act like they didn’t hear you.”

  This is basically what Audrey said, weeks ago, when Claire first learned about the monsters. She sighs.

  “But I’ll see if I can get Lawrence to help. I couldn’t talk to him today, he was working and then studying, but I’ll try to find out something tomorrow. And my dad’s out of town right now, but when he gets home, I’ll talk to him too.”