Some Kind of Animal

by Maria Romasco-Moore

  I step out from where I’m hiding.

  “Jo?” he asks, squinting into the dark. He’s got a big bandage taped to the side of his neck, with bruises puddling out from beneath it. I wonder if it hurts as much as my wrist.

  “Jack’s wrong,” I say, walking toward him. “I didn’t attack you. I don’t know what he’s told you, but I swear I would never do something like that.”

  “I know,” he says. “I told him that.”

  “You did?” I’m not sure if I should be relieved or terrified. He must have seen her. He must know.

  “Of course,” says Henry. “I told him it was the ghost.”

  “What?” I think he must be joking, but he looks dead serious.

  “The ghost,” he says, earnestly. “The river ghost.”

  “Oh.” Should I tell him he’s wrong? I’m still not one hundred percent certain he’s not messing with me.

  “We heard her right beforehand,” he adds.

  “Yeah,” I say. I guess, when I heard the wailing, even I thought it was a ghost, for a moment. It makes as much sense as anything, I guess. My sister the shadow girl, the spirit.

  “You saw her too, right?” He’s frowning. He looks so worried, so sad, and I want to laugh, but I stifle it. “No one believes me. They think I have a concussion.”

  “Do you have a concussion?” I reach out and touch his forehead, gently. Graze my fingers along it. It’s so soft. I brush his hair aside. The ground is uneven where we’re standing, so I’m actually a little taller than him. Poor Henry. I know exactly how it feels to have no one believe you. We are in this together now.

  “Just a mild one,” he says, blinking. He looks tired, a bit dazed. “Did you see her? Am I crazy?”

  “I saw her,” I say slowly. No need to mention I mean a different her. He’s wrong, but it’s better than the truth. And why shouldn’t he believe in ghosts? He died, once, and came back. It’s kind of sweet. No crazier than the nonsense the pastor spouts.

  “Oh thank God.” Henry lets out this goofy sigh and smiles at me. That smile is like an island in a hundred square miles of empty ocean.

  I’ve been drowning until now. Every single person in my life is against me. Even Aggie, even Savannah, even my sister, for God’s sakes. Nobody has smiled at me. Nobody has been on my side.

  Finally, though, here’s Henry. He isn’t accusing, isn’t shouting, isn’t demanding. He’s the only one. We could run away. Just the two of us. Steal Jack’s car. Leave all this behind. Like every daydream I had in history class made real.

  “We should tell Jack,” Henry says.

  “What?” I take a step backward, daydream shattered.

  “He doesn’t believe me about the ghost, but you can tell him you saw her too.”

  “Jack hates me.” Doesn’t he realize that? First ghosts, now this. How bad is his concussion?

  “Well, yeah.” Henry’s smile falters and his hand drifts up toward his neck. “But only because he thinks it was you. He’s been trying to convince me.”

  “It wasn’t me,” I say, gripped with a sudden fear. Maybe this ghost thing is just because of the concussion. Maybe when his mind clears, Jack will talk him around. Then Henry will hate me just like everyone else.

  “I know.”

  “But it wasn’t a ghost,” I say quickly, before I can change my mind. I need one person to believe me. One person to be on my side.

  I hold up the phone, fumble with the touch screen a moment until I’ve got the picture of my sister. I turn it around so he can see. He takes the phone, studies it. I reach over and swipe to the second picture.

  I’m nervous now, wishing I’d just let it go, been content with what I had: one person who didn’t hate me. But maybe it will work this time. Maybe he likes me enough to believe me, or at least give me the benefit of the doubt. We kissed, after all. Maybe I’m lit up golden in his mind like Jack is for Savannah. Maybe he can be the only one.

  “I don’t understand,” he says, still staring at the screen.

  “That’s who attacked you,” I say. “Not a ghost. My sister.”

  He looks up at me, brow furrowed.

  “You don’t—” he starts, but before he can get the words out, I lean forward and I put my hands on his arms and I kiss him.

  It’s not like last time. Our lips smoosh together off-center and his are slightly open since he was talking. It’s wet and weird and my thoughts are racing, full of what a stupid idea this was. Coming here. Telling him. Henry pulls away and I take my hands off his arms.

  “You don’t have a sister,” he says, our faces still so close that his breath puffs against my cheek.

  “Never mind,” I tell him, deflated. I barely know him, really. He barely knows me. Why did I think there was any hope? I could show him my wrist, go through the whole story, but it would sound absurd. I know that. My sister is stranger than a ghost. I got caught up in romantic ideas, as bad as Savannah. Worse. I shouldn’t have told him. I’d take it back if I could. “Don’t mention this to Jack,” I add.

  Henry furrows his brow, but he looks confused, not angry.

  “You’re weird,” he says.

  “So are you,” I say. But he’s not. He’s ordinary.

  He shrugs. “I’m supposed to be resting. Jack’s been checking on me every fifteen minutes.” He tries to hand the phone back to me.

  “Run away,” I say.

  “What?”

  “You should just run away.” I don’t know if I really mean it, but I know I want him to say yes. I want him to want me, to be willing to do anything for me. I want that kind of power. Maybe that’s how Savannah feels.

  I put my hand on Henry’s arm again. His cardigan is scratchy and thick. I squeeze until I can feel his bicep, squeeze hard enough that it probably hurts. Maybe it’s not too late. He can still be the one on my side. I want to steal him. Hide him away in the woods. Nurse him back to health. Stroke his forehead while he gazes up at me as if I’m the only thing in the world.

  “Jack says I could have died,” he says.

  “That’s not true.” I say this too quickly. Wishful thinking. “They didn’t even keep you in the hospital a whole day.”

  “They did give me a lot of drugs.”

  “Great,” I say, grinning, trying to keep things light. “We can sell them.”

  He laughs. I lean toward him, thinking maybe I can try again, but then a voice comes from inside the house, shouting. “Henry?” It’s Jack. I freeze. He shouts again. “Henry!”

  I put a finger to my lips. We need to be quiet.

  But Henry shoots me an apologetic look and shouts back, “I’m out here!”

  I let go of his arm, take a step backward. I feel like I’ve been slapped. Betrayed again.

  “You better go,” Henry says. He holds out the phone. “I’ll see you in history, yeah?”

  He smiles. Not an island, at all. Not even a rocky outcropping. I hear the front door open, close.

  Henry is lovely in the moonlight. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true. His pale skin reflects the light like a still pond. He is shallow liquid. He is water all the way through. I could reach right into him. I could rip him apart.

  I snatch the phone from his hand and run.

  I tear through the woods, heart pounding, until I’m sure that no one is coming after me. Then I turn back toward town. According to Savannah’s phone, it’s nearly ten. I’ve been gone a long time. I figure I’ll keep to backyards, stay low, sneak through the shadows like my sister and I used to do. Maybe, if I’m extraordinarily lucky, I can make it to the alley beside Joe’s Bar without getting spotted, can climb through my window and jump into bed, pretend I’ve been there all along, somehow. Although there’s that damn light.

  I cross the first road I come to, scramble down a hill, up another hill. I’m crossing
the next road, when a car accelerates behind me. I turn just as a beat-up car swerves onto the shoulder and brakes hard, spraying gravel. The driver’s door swings open.

  “Jolene,” says the pastor. “Get in the car. Now.”

  The pastor reaches across me and locks the door as soon as I get in, then grabs his phone from the cupholder. I lean my head back, try to pretend I’m fine with this turn of events.

  “Don’t tell Aggie,” I suggest. “She’ll be mad at you, too.”

  The pastor ignores me, dials.

  “She’s fine,” he says into the phone. “I found her.” So it’s too late, I guess. Aggie already knows. I put a hand to my cheek involuntarily. She’ll be mad again. Out of her skin. “I’m heading to the bar now.”

  The pastor hangs up and jerks the car back onto the road.

  “You made a fool out of me,” he says.

  I cross my arms, stare out the window. I don’t ask him what happened, but he tells me anyway. It turns out Savannah didn’t snitch on me after all, which is something, I guess. It wasn’t until the pastor got impatient and barged in to check on me that Savannah admitted I had crawled out the window.

  Apparently Aggie’s driving around right now too, looking for me. Which honestly surprises me. She hates leaving Jessi in charge of the bar. Aggie always likes to say that Jessi is as dumb as she is pretty, and that girl sure is pretty.

  But when we pull up I see that the bar is closed. Which is absolutely crazy. It’s Friday night. It’s not even that late. And yet all the neon signs are off. I knew she’d be mad, but as Savannah would say, I am fucked.

  The pastor and I wait outside in stubborn silence until Aggie pulls up in the rusty pickup she inherited from Grandpa Joe. I’m thinking maybe she’ll slap me again; I’m bracing myself for it, but she doesn’t even look at us. She just goes straight for the front door, unlocks it, lets it swing shut behind her with a bang.

  * * *

  —

  “You’re grounded,” she says. I’m sitting at one of the scratched wooden tables downstairs. The pastor’s at another table nearby and Aggie’s pacing in front of me. There are empty glasses and bottles on some of the tables. She must have closed up in a hurry. “Hell, you’re on house arrest. You are locked up. Life sentence. No parole.”

  The bar is dark, except for the one Budweiser ceiling lamp with the little plastic horses caught inside like a snow globe. I stare at the long shadows they cast on the wood-paneled wall. Aggie never would have tried to ground me a year ago. A year ago, she didn’t believe in stuff like that. This is all the pastor’s fault. It was probably his idea, even.

  Not that I don’t deserve it, I guess.

  “I should send you back to your grandmother,” Aggie says, banging a hand on the table in front of me. “She’d whip you into shape.”

  I cringe, but she can’t mean it. Right? Aggie would sooner bleed out than ask Grandma Margaret for a bandage. Stubbornness runs in the family. God knows I’ve got it, but so does Aggie. She took me away from Margaret for a reason.

  I know that for all the punishments I endured from Grandma Margaret, Aggie and Mama had it far worse when they were kids. Aggie blames Margaret for what happened to Mama. If Margaret hadn’t kicked her out of the house, she’d still be alive today. I know Aggie blames herself too, though.

  “I expected better than this from you,” says Aggie, turning to pace again.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. I’m tired and my wrist still hurts like hell and I don’t feel up to this. I’ve had enough from Savannah, from my sister.

  I slump in my chair. The floor is uneven here and the chair wobbles drunkenly. Aggie stomps to one end of the bar, wheels around, marches back.

  “I hardly know who you are anymore,” she says when she passes my table.

  I could say the same of you, I want to point out, but I bite my tongue. Maybe I’m wrong. Things have changed. Maybe she really would send me back to Margaret. The thought is sobering.

  Aggie marches over to the bar. Makes herself a drink. A long pour of Jack. Shorter shot of Coke from the nozzle. She takes a sip. Turns back to me.

  “Everyone is saying you attacked this boy Henry.”

  “I didn’t.” I can tell I don’t sound very convincing. My heart’s not in it. I’m worn out, tired of trying to convince people I’m not a monster.

  “Everybody’s talking about it. You should have seen the looks I got when I was out there just now asking people if anyone had seen you. They all heard what you did.” She waves an arm, spilling some of her drink.

  “I didn’t, though. I swear, Aggie.” Does she truly not believe me? It hurts that she’d be so willing to think the worst of me. Surely she should know not to put too much stock in gossip.

  “How am I supposed to believe a word out of your mouth?” She marches back toward me. “After you lie to me twice? After you lie to him?” She jabs a finger at the pastor, who is brooding silently over a beer. “After you run off to God knows where?” I fidget with my sleeve, try to avoid looking at her. This isn’t how it used to be. We used to be like sisters, coconspirators. It was us against Margaret, and Aggie was always on my side.

  I want to go back to that.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Aggie leans on the table in front of me, eyes searching my face. “Is that it? Are you going crazy too?”

  I’m not sure what she means by too. I shrug. I just want to go to bed.

  “Is it drugs?” She grabs my chin, tilts my face up so she can scrutinize my pupils.

  “No.” I pull away, hunching lower in my seat. Aggie downs the rest of her drink.

  “Where did you even go?” she demands.

  “Savannah’s,” I answer.

  “I know. After that.”

  “Henry,” I say. It’s not a lie, though I’m leaving out one stop. “I went to see Henry.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Aggie straightens up from the table, eyes hard. “Did you do anything else to that kid?”

  “No! I wouldn’t. I didn’t. Aggie, please.” My voice catches. Does she really believe that I would do that? Is she thinking about my father now? How there’s evil in my blood? I don’t want to cry. “I just had to make sure he was okay.”

  “So you tricked us and ran off?”

  “I’m really sorry, Aggie,” I say. “I swear it won’t happen again.”

  “You think I’m stupid? He told me how you’ve been going out your window for weeks.” She points at the pastor, who doesn’t meet my eyes. “Right under my nose.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t fuck with me, little girl,” Aggie says, and in that moment she sounds just like her mother. She bangs a hand on the table again. “I don’t want to hear any more excuses. You are going to tell me where it is you’ve been going all these nights and you are going to tell me the truth.”

  I slump down as far in my chair as I can. What can I say? Yes, Aggie, I’ve been sneaking off to shoot up? She’d ship me off to rehab, maybe. Make me piss in a cup every day. Staying clean would be easy. I have zero desire to go anywhere near hard drugs. I’ve seen what they can do. We’ve had enough overdoses at Joe’s that Aggie keeps a supply of Narcan behind the bar.

  I could tell her I’m a thief. Could tell her I’ve got a secret boyfriend. Could say it’s Henry. Why not? I’ve been sneaking off to have sex. I could tell her that. She’d be disappointed, ashamed. Is this how I repay her? She’d yell at me, hate me maybe. Her failure of an almost-daughter.

  But it isn’t fair. I shouldn’t have to confess to a sin I’ve never committed.

  “I went to see my sister,” I say.

  “What?” She reels back. Her expression alone almost makes the confession worth it. She wasn’t expecting that.

  “I went to see my sister,” I repeat, matter-of-fact.

  “You don’t have a goddamn sister,
” she says, still more stunned than angry.

  “I do,” I say. “I’ve always had one. She lives in the woods.”

  It really is satisfying to tell the truth, even though I know Aggie thinks I’m lying.

  “You are testing my patience,” Aggie says, rubbing her forehead with both palms.

  “No, I’m telling you the truth,” I say calmly, because I am, for once. “Mama had twins.”

  Aggie hauls back and slaps me. It hurts, bad. Worse than last time. And I’m no more prepared for it, no less stunned. She doesn’t even look sorry.

  “Don’t you dare bring her into this,” she says, voice hard and burning with anger. “Don’t you even talk about her.”

  I can’t help it, then, I start crying. Not out loud or anything. Just hot tears drying on my cheeks, the salt stinging my skin. It’s too much. When we were younger, I would make fun of Savannah if she cried. Crying is for babies and drunk old men who’ve pissed themselves, I’d say. That’s what Aggie always told me. Apparently when she and Mama would cry as children, Grandma Margaret would show them a picture of Jesus stuck to the cross, jab a finger at his face. See any tears there, little girl? You telling me that you scraping your knee is worse than this man having nails pounded through his hands?

  Crying is a weakness. But I’m feeling pretty weak. My cheek rings with pain. It isn’t fair. I’m telling the truth and it makes no difference. I didn’t even expect Aggie to believe me, but it still hurts that not a single person in my life is willing to trust me.

  I pull Savannah’s phone out of my pocket.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” demands Aggie. “Are you stealing now, too?”

  “No, I borrowed it from Savannah.” I pull up the pictures of Lee and hold the phone out. “Just look.”

  “What is this supposed to be?”

  “My sister. I’m telling the truth, I swear.” I sound desperate.

  Aggie squints at the picture. “That looks like you.”

  “We’re twins,” I say, and realize, much too late, that I should have tried to get a picture of both of us. It seems obvious to me that Lee looks different, despite our similar features. Her face is thinner, eyebrows thicker, unplucked across the bridge of her nose. You can see her matted hair in the picture, and the cut on her cheek. There’s no cut on my cheek.