22

WE ALL TAKE showers, even Anders. I take mine in Marcy’s parents’ bathroom. As I scrub myself with handmade oatmeal soap from one of the vendors at the Farmer’s Market held in the shopping center parking lot every Wednesday afternoon, I momentarily hear the sheep cry again. This time their mournful wails are triggered by nothing more than the thought of fresh produce grown at one of the farms over the border in Connecticut, or a lady mixing vats of oils on her country kitchen stove, to cool into fancy soaps for privileged folks in rich, suburban Meadowfield.

The thing is, Meadowfield isn’t privileged anymore, unless you want to single us out as one of the few towns across America that is home to a murder house. We’re all damaged now, and a crazy girl that survived some sort of horror inside that house, and whose screams I can’t scrub away no matter how hard I try, is the most damaged of us all.

Suddenly, the soap makes me feel sick.

Lifetimes ago, during World War II, the Nazis had homemade soap, too. Supposedly, that soap was made out of the melted down tallow of concentration camp victims. It was formed and molded by bits and pieces of grandmothers and grandfathers, parents and children, who were murdered by the biggest and most prolific mass murderer of all times.

Jewish kids don’t even say his name. I guess we’re taught not to in Hebrew School. We no more say his name than Hogwarts kids say Voldemort’s name out loud. To breathe either is almost like inviting evil in for a cup of coffee and a nice scone.

Blasphemy.

After I finish showering and get dressed, Myers showers, too. Anders and Marcy are already cleaned up by the time we all come back into the kitchen. The hot, soapy water has invigorated us, if only a little. Anders still looks like shit, but he’s a cleaner, neater version of what he was only a few hours ago.

The television is on and a reporter is talking about the newest scourge on our society.

Dr. Viktor Pavlovich.

Marcy switches the channel but several of the stations are running live feeds from the crime scene. Reporters are talking. Neighbors are talking. When things get slightly boring, snippets of what can be gleaned about Dr. Viktor Pavlovich’s life are plastered onto the screen.

He looks nothing like I imagine. Marcy says something wildly out of character the first time they show a full picture of Pavlovich’s face. Part of me thinks she says it because Anders is right there and Anders has been acting so much like the definition of a douchebag this morning, she wants to hurt him.

I’m not sure it works.

“Wow. I’d do him,” she murmurs, totally echoing Anders’ words from before. “Crazy can be hot.”

“Really?” says Myers, staring at Marcy opened mouth. She’s trying hard to be foul but foul won’t ever look good on her.

“What?” Marcy says. “Well he is.”

“Don’t be gross,” I tell her.

The images of the man they keep flashing on the screen, serial murderer or not, are far from what I pictured. He’s not the sinister Viktor that I conjured in my head. There isn’t a scar on his face and he doesn’t have a gold tooth or dark, menacing eyes that give you the willies just by looking at them. The guy on the screen is smiling and looks completely normal.

As a matter of fact, this piece of human filth is going to unseat that Ted guy as the new poster boy for mass murderers. He has dark hair and a perpetual five o’clock shadow that seems studied and neat. His eyes are an electric blue without a hint of madness behind them. His smile is infectious. Girls are going to swoon all over his picture, and guys who may or may not think about other guys in that way won’t be able to stop fantasizing about Dr. Viktor Pavlovich.

I guess you’d say he looks like a movie star.

Suddenly Marcy gasps, and her eyes grow wide. “Oh my god, you guys. Do you know who that is?”

None of us say anything. Anders, barely in the here and now, only shrugs like he couldn’t give a shit either way.

“That’s Running Man,” she announces, and immediately I know she’s right.

Running Man appears on Primrose Lane every morning, right as we’re leaving for school. He’s a permanent part of our daily routine because Running Man is precise. He’s so perfectly timed that we usually wait for him to prance by at 7:30, his body covered in designer running gear and his feet slapping the ground in more of a dance than a jog, before we set off for school. He’s elegant in his exercise, not like some people who are sloppy when they sweat. Running Man looks more like a cheetah or another creature that is born to gracefully run.

That’s the best word I can think of to describe him. He’s graceful.

Now Running Man is on TV for the whole world to see.

Precious few details have been released so far about the bodies that are coming out of his house on Covington Circle, but phrases like ‘human remains’ and ‘dismembered with surgical precision’ have been hastily uttered before station managers quickly cut and move to something less gory to talk about.

“I can’t believe we know him,” says Myers, which isn’t exactly true. We’ve never talked to Running Man before. Marcy has blushed a couple of times when he’s flashed a wicked grin in her direction while we’ve been waiting at the bottom of the driveway of one of our houses so we can all walk to school together.

“Hey there,” Running Man said to her once, as he floated by on feet that barely touched the ground.

“Um, hi,” Marcy said back, then turned to watch him go. When he was out of ear shot, Marcy said, “Nice ass.”

I remember that day, not so long ago. It was the first time that Anders seemed a little pissed at Marcy for no good reason. Now I’m starting to realize that there may have been a reason after all and there’s no more hiding it. First thing this morning when no one could calm Anders down but Marcy, he lay practically naked at the edge of Turner Pond with his head in her lap. She was there for him. She’s always been there for him.

What’s worse, all he’s doing is shitting on her for it.

I get it.

I don’t get it.

It’s complicated.