Locked Inside

by Nancy Werlin

  “Marnie, this is ridiculous!”

  With difficulty, Marnie pulled herself out of her semitrance. “Can’t. Talk.”

  “Well, you might hurt yourself. Let’s walk awhile, okay?”

  Marnie kept running. So did Jenna. Marnie wondered vaguely why she’d never been interested in this kind of thing before. Finally she’d found a way to make her mind just shut up. It was thoroughly occupied with alarm about her legs and lungs … with pain … lovely pain, numbing pain. Gasping, she increased her speed again.

  Jenna grabbed her arm and skidded them both to a halt. “Marnie, stop it! I won’t be a party to this.”

  Marnie wrenched free and ran on. She heard Jenna shouting after her but ignored it. After another minute, Jenna raced up beside her.

  “Stop it! You utter bitch, just stop already! … Would you stop … you have to stop!” This time Jenna grabbed Marnie with both hands, and when Marnie tried to pull free again, Jenna threw herself on top of her. They tumbled to the ground. “Stop it!” Jenna said again, desperately. She rolled so that she was on top of Marnie’s legs. “What’s wrong with you? Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

  Marnie’s cheek lay in the dirt of the road. Her legs cramped violently. She suddenly stopped struggling and lay still. Her heart was beating wildly. She could hear it, feel it, almost taste it. For a moment she thought that only the fact that she was sprawled flat on her front would keep her heart from exploding out of her chest.

  “I hate you.” Jenna was crying now. Marnie could hear it. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. After a while she felt Jenna roll off her. As soon as she did, Marnie curled into a ball, trembling.

  “Oh, God,” Jenna whispered. “Marnie! Marnie, you have to get hold of yourself, we’re miles from school. Marnie …”

  Marnie thought of the Rubble-Eater, pounding its head against a wall. Leah Slaight, she had thought. But now …

  “Marnie …”

  Jenna sounded frantic. She was leaning over Marnie now. Shaking her. Saying all kinds of things that didn’t penetrate, about school and trouble-making bitches and no excuses, intermixed with pleading diatribes about people who worried even though Marnie didn’t deserve it, some babble about boyfriends and sonnets, and, of course, one frantic cry of that perennial favorite phrase of faculty and staff alike, who-the-hell-did-Marnie-think-she-was. And then Jenna pulled back her right hand and slapped Marnie hard, right across the face.

  And then again. “Get a grip on yourself!” she yelled.

  Marnie stared into Jenna’s alarmed eyes. She sat up with difficulty and then touched her cheek. It stung. Her whole body … She felt something moist on her hand. Blood? She pulled down her hand and looked at her palm. No … there was more moisture on her cheeks; she could feel it. More and more. She blinked hard, but it didn’t help. She stared at Jenna. She felt her shoulders begin to shake. Jenna was staring back, horrified, reaching out. “Marnie—”

  Marnie buried her face in both her hands. Her shoulders shook even more. She heard a distant, low gasp and knew it had come from her own mouth. And then another, another. She couldn’t stop shaking, she couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t—

  And then Marnie could feel Jenna’s arms. Tight, warm, soothing, desperate. “I don’t want to cry!” Marnie wailed.

  “Tell someone who cares,” said Jenna grimly. But she held on. Marnie could feel Jenna’s chin on her head. And then Jenna said something else, low. And then kept saying it over and over and over, with a catch in her own voice.

  “I know. I know.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  Marnie felt shame and humiliation steal over her as soon as she stopped crying. She shook herself away from Jenna. Her legs ached so much that she wondered, remotely, if she’d even be able to get up. Her face felt swollen and blotchy. Her ears rang so that, when Jenna spoke, at first she thought she hadn’t heard properly. Then she knew she had.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  Marnie cautiously turned back toward Jenna. “Ha ha,” she said huskily.

  Just for a second, Jenna’s face brightened with relief. Her eyes scanned Marnie’s for clarity and found it. “You all right now?”

  Marnie found she couldn’t lie. She shrugged. “Well. Probably not.”

  Remarkably, Jenna flushed. “Sorry. Stupid question.”

  “No,” Marnie found herself saying. “It’s …” She paused, thinking how inadequate the English language truly was. “It’s okay. I mean, well …”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Jenna.

  Silence. Marnie concentrated on massaging her calves. Jenna was keeping her distance now, which was good, but Marnie could feel her watching. Even feel her thinking. And when Jenna finally spoke, it was as if the words burst from her. “I know there’s a lot going on with you—I mean, my God, being kidnapped and nearly killed and all—but I can’t help wondering … just now … I mean, I know it’s not my business, but I—was it your boyfriend? Something he … I’m sorry.” She averted her face. “Not my business.”

  Somewhere in the middle of all this, Marnie had looked up sharply. Her boyfriend? Did Jenna mean the Elf? Er, Frank? But how would Jenna know—why would she assume … And then Marnie remembered Jenna crying that night … like Marnie now …

  I know, Jenna had said. She didn’t, but … but she thought she did.

  Suddenly Marnie had to know. “Jenna, what exactly happened with hockey boy?”

  Jenna looked bewildered. “Hockey boy?”

  “Your boyfriend or whoever. You spent that weekend with him, right?” Marnie’s voice was still husky, but somehow also peremptory. “Then you came back crying. And now you ask me about—anyway. What happened with hockey boy?”

  Jenna’s mouth had fallen open. Her hands reached to clutch her own arms. “I don’t see why it’s your business.”

  Marnie’s voice went quieter. “I know it’s not. I’m just asking. I want—that is, I—I could listen. If you want.” And from somewhere, she knew to add: “And not tell anyone, ever, if that’s what you want.”

  Jenna’s chin was up. “Did you—are you … ?” She paused, searching for words, but Marnie didn’t need them. Maybe this was what was meant by mind reading. When you were utterly focused on someone else, watching the tiny movements of their fingers, their eyebrows, the way they turned their head, and you knew even a little bit about them, you could tell what they were thinking … almost….

  “No,” Marnie replied. And then, as if the words were pulled from her, she added: “I’m—for me … it’s something to do with my mother. Today, I mean.” She gestured aimlessly at her blotchy face. And then she blinked, astonished at how easily the words had emerged. How simple they were. But how inadequate … how almost silly … She hadn’t said a thing, hadn’t even begun to confide, not really … And yet …

  “Oh,” said Jenna. She had been watching Marnie as closely as, a moment ago, Marnie had been watching her. “I see.” Jenna’s voice was gentle. “You loved her? You miss her? Especially now, after—after last week?”

  Marnie’s mouth opened with something almost like shock. She stared at Jenna. It wasn’t so simple. Was it? She felt her eyes begin to fill again. Her throat had completely closed, all at once, and yet it was important—vitally important—to answer Jenna. To share, even this tiny little bit. But she couldn’t speak.

  She nodded instead. Yes.

  Oh, yes.

  She looked up after a moment to find Jenna watching her. For what was only a few seconds, and yet seemed like much longer, they looked at each other. Marnie found that her throat had loosened.

  And then Jenna said, calmly, still looking straight at Marnie, “Well. Okay. About hockey boy. It’s not what I think you’re thinking. It’s—I didn’t even like him, you see. That was what was wrong.” She paused. “I wanted a boyfriend. And he seemed to like me. Enough, anyway. And then …” She shrugged and looked away for an instant. “Stupid thing to get so upset about, huh?
Nothing like what you’ve gone through … Anyway, there I was with him, and I suddenly realized. And when I told him, he got angry—which he should have, of course. Stupid. I was focused on all the wrong things.”

  “No,” Marnie found herself saying. “Not stupid, Jenna.” She knew what Skye would have said. “Human.” But Jenna shook her head. “Okay, then,” Marnie said. “At least no stupider than anyone else. Than, say, me.”

  Jenna’s lips twisted. She seemed to be hesitating over something else she wanted to say. She wasn’t looking at Marnie anymore. Finally she said it, almost in a whisper. “I felt so filthy. I can’t describe it. I still feel it … all along I was condescending to him, and then, when I realized what I was doing … for no good reason, just because … I was the one who decided to go to a girls’ school, you know, I thought it would be better, no distractions except when I decided to be distracted. My parents expect … no, I expect … oh, God, I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

  Marnie didn’t, either. All at once she had a real glimpse of how hard it could be—would be—opening up to people. Sharing what you felt. Listening to what they felt. She thought about curling up in the dirt again, bawling, alone. But that time was past. Past and over.

  “You can’t know what I mean,” Jenna said finally, looking up. Her eyes were very dark. Haunted. “You can’t know.”

  No, thought Marnie. No, not exactly. But … she knew enough.

  “I know what pain is,” she said to Jenna. “And sometimes I feel overwhelmed. There’s a lot of …” She stumbled. “A lot of …” She gestured vaguely.

  “Stuff,” Jenna said. “Just too much stuff to think about.”

  They sat in silence, not quite understanding each other, but almost. Almost.

  “Listen, we ought to start back,” Jenna said. She got to her feet and offered a helping hand to Marnie. “It’ll take a while because we’ll be walking, but if we go now we’ll probably make it there before the sun sets.”

  Marnie let herself be pulled up. She brushed futilely at the dirt on her sweatpants. Something was nagging her. “Jenna, before. When I was crying. You said something weird….” Marnie frowned, and discovered that she did, after all, remember precisely. She quoted to Jenna, “You said, ‘What’ll your boyfriend think if you fall apart like this?’ and then you said, ‘He’ll be sorry he ever wrote you that sonnet.’”

  Jenna looked a little self-conscious. “So?”

  Marnie shook her head. “What sonnet?” she asked softly.

  Their eyes met. Jenna was looking acutely uncomfortable. “You left your e-mail on in my room. Remember?” Suddenly she flushed. “You were using my computer! What did you expect? That I wouldn’t check out what you were doing?”

  “You read my e-mail that night. After I left.” Marnie felt like a fool. She’d known at the time it was likely. She had just … forgotten.

  “No, not then. The next morning.” Jenna paused. “I deleted it all after I’d read it, too. There were several messages. Just the one poem, though.” Another pause. Then, defensively: “I’m sorry. I was angry … and … and confused. Well, you know.”

  Marnie couldn’t seem to find anything to say.

  “It was a very derivative sonnet,” Jenna said, after a minute or two of silence. “My guess is, he’d been reading a little too much John Donne.” And then: “Not that there’s anything wrong with John Donne. Anyway. I’m sorry.”

  Marnie said, feebly, “Forget it.” She watched Jenna’s shoulders sag in relief.

  “He’ll have a copy,” Jenna said. “You can just ask him for it.”

  Could she? Marnie wondered. Could you ask for a poem that was written for you before the writer really knew you? Would the Elf want her to have it, now that he did know her? He hadn’t mentioned the e-mail recently.

  Another thought flickered into Marnie’s head. “You were the one who told people I might’ve run off to visit a guy I met online.”

  “You didn’t know that?” said Jenna, surprised.

  “No.” Marnie flushed. She should have; it was obvious now.

  “Let’s go,” said Jenna tersely.

  They began walking. Something still felt unfinished, Marnie thought. Then she knew what it was, and she stopped in the road. Jenna stopped too, and turned, her face apprehensive.

  “What now?”

  “Just—thanks,” Marnie said with difficulty. She cleared her throat and said it again. This time it came out more strongly. “Thank you, Jenna.”

  After a second, Jenna nodded. Shrugged.

  “And … I’m sorry,” Marnie continued steadily. “For … you know. I misjudged you. I was … well, wrong. About a number of things.”

  “Yeah,” said Jenna. For a long moment they looked at each other, still wary. “Me too,” Jenna said unexpectedly.

  They walked the rest of the way back to school together in silence.

  CHAPTER

  36

  Marnie felt unutterably weary. As she approached her dorm room, she wanted nothing more than to throw herself on the bed—without showering, without even undressing—and sleep, sleep, sleep. But when she pushed her open door wider and entered, there was her computer. And Marnie found herself sitting, turning the machine on for the first time since she’d come back. Yes, it was fine; it booted up smoothly. And now she ought to test the Internet connection … good … and e-mail … yes …

  Nearly two weeks’ worth of messages downloaded smoothly into her inbox. Most of them were garbage. Nine of them, in a little cluster, were from the Elf. Nine, not fifteen. So Jenna had gotten into six of them, including the sonnet. But the rest …

  Marnie felt as if her lungs hadn’t begun to recover from her mad run, after all.

  I got interested, the Elf had said, when they’d been talking in Leah’s basement, just before Marnie noticed that the door was open….

  Your boyfriend, Jenna had said.

  He’s still interested, whispered the Sorceress. More than ever. You know it. Pick up the phone. I bet he left voice-mail today.

  Marnie moved the mouse pointer slowly over the message listings. But she didn’t click to open any of them. She closed her eyes, and her weariness overwhelmed her again. She’d fall asleep right here at the desk if she didn’t … didn’t get up … and …

  Just for a minute, Marnie rested her forehead on her arms on the desk.

  The Rubble-Eater was dead. All its inarticulate rage and pain finally expended, it lay in a heap on the stone floor of the cavern. Llewellyne stared stupidly at her sword, on which the Rubble-Eater’s blood had already begun to darken and congeal.

  Abruptly she turned away. She leaned one hand against the cavern wall, closed her eyes, and breathed steadily, but it did no good. She kept seeing the Rubble-Eater deliberately hurl itself upon her sword … again, and again, and again. Llewellyne’s stomach twisted itself into an impossible knot and attempted to force its way up her throat. For a moment she thought she would choke.

  But, said the hawk cautiously, It was him or you.

  Was it? Llewellyne wondered. Was it truly?

  Then she remembered the truth glasses. Suddenly she could feel them, an insistent weight against her chest where they hung on their string. They felt … warm. Pulsing. Dread filled her, but she knew she had to put them on.

  She fumbled with the glasses, perched them on her nose, and turned back toward the Rubble-Eater. Then, and only then, did she reopen her eyes.

  It wasn’t the Rubble-Eater there at all. It was a bird, a small hawkling. A baby. And as she watched, it began to stretch its wet, feeble wings. Then it looked up and she could see it fully.

  On its head grew crudely bleached, chopped-off hair. And below that were eyes. Defensive eyes. Eyes ringed with black makeup. Human eyes.

  Her own eyes.

  Above her head, the cyber-construct hawk blinked its own red eyes and suddenly screeched in—fear? rage? No.

  In triumph.

  And then disappeared.

  S
tartled awake, Marnie groaned. She remembered her dream clearly. She muttered, “Where are Freud and Jung when you need them?” If she really wanted, she supposed she could go into her Paliopolis dreams at great depth with that new counselor. Who, to her surprise, she rather liked.

  Still, somehow, she didn’t want to talk about the dreams. They felt … intensely personal. And, oddly, rather separate from their setting. Whatever they were, they were not about Paliopolis, Marnie thought. Not really.

  Speaking of Paliopolis, however …

  In front of her, the monitor glowed in the near-dark. You’ve been inactive for thirty minutes. Do you want to go offline? it asked. Marnie glanced down at the little computer clock; it read 1:03 A.M. She’d been inactive for a lot longer than thirty minutes. Polite little Internet server, waiting uncomplainingly for an answer hour after hour …

  She groped for the mouse and clicked No. She was left staring, again, at her e-mail inbox and its list of Elfin messages. Quickly she clicked the e-mail program closed. Then, of its own accord, her hand moved to the Internet browser icon and double-clicked. She had Paliopolis bookmarked. A few seconds for it to load … and she was there, at the front gates. Take that, Mrs. Fisher, she thought, but without much malice.

  Where are we going? asked the Sorceress.

  You know where.

  On the way, however, Marnie paused to click through the latest ratings; the Sorceress Llewellyne was still on top, but more than two weeks of inactivity had cut severely into her lead. The Elf had lost ground too; he was way down in the thirties from his previous high of seventeen. She clicked on his name to see if he was currently online, and only after it reported that he wasn’t did she realize she’d been holding her breath.

  Disappointed? asked the Sorceress. Maybe he won’t be here ever again. Maybe you’ll have to check voice-mail … or call … or see him in person. Maybe this part is over. Isn’t that what you want, anyway? Truly? But you’re scared … and if you’re not careful he’ll decide you’re a lost cause, give up, find some smart college girl, some Harvard girl … and all because you’re scared.