85. Nervous Laughter

It’s always strange how life moves on after something dramatic or even tragic. But it doesn’t have a choice. The world keeps spinning and the story keeps going whether you like it or not.

The following week is uneventful, and in many ways, things go back to the way they were before the warnings and the drama occurred.

For whatever reason—I don’t think it’s even a conscious decision—I’m back to talking to Jocelyn in the halls, eating with her and the girls at lunch. I invite Newt to join us, but he doesn’t. Jocelyn scares him.

The thing is this: I’m not disguising my friendship with her anymore.

It’s as if both of us know that I shot someone in her defense.

As if both of us are thinking, If it happened once, it will happen again.

I can’t say that I’m feeling bolder or stronger since the incident. In fact, every day I half expect to see a bloody Wade step into my path like some sick and foul-smelling zombie.

Yet the teachers drone on and the dirty snow sticks on your jeans and the cafeteria food all begins to taste the same—this is how I believe the world moves on. You get lulled in by the action of one period after another, of the days being shorter and your mom’s shifts being longer. Of exams coming before Christmas break. Of homework that takes your mind to another time and place. Of life that moves faster than you can or ever will.

The week passes, and it seems like things are better.

Then Friday comes and ruins all that wonderful, boring momentum.

I’m on the side of a road—I’m not really sure exactly where—and I’m running.

Why am I here? Why am I running?

These are good questions.

If my hands weren’t covered in blood, I’d probably answer them too.

But soon enough, when things don’t exactly add up—like how I can just keep sprinting without actually slowing down and hurting and sucking wind—or how I’m not even sweating—or how I’m wearing the sweetest Nike shoes ever when I don’t own anything by Nike—when all of these things suddenly seem to not make sense, I understand why.

That’s when I open my eyes and wake up.

What was I doing on the side of the road, blood on my hands, running? It’s not a good way to start a day. Even if that day is the last day for the school week.

I see him on my way to school that morning.

See him standing at the edge of my driveway.

The big redheaded man in the trench coat, the one I saw in town right after we moved here. I see him standing down there as my mom backs the car up to drive me to school.

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Slow down.”

The man stands there for a moment, his big German shepherd at his side, almost deliberately blocking our path. He looks like a ghost in the early morning fog.

I glance at my mom in surprise and shock, then turn back around to find the end of the driveway clear.

“Where’d he go?”

“He just disappeared.”

And he did. Just like that, the figure is gone.

I think about those large tracks on our deck and suddenly figure out who they belong to.

But what’s this creepy guy doing around our house? Does he live close by? Is he spying on us for someone else?

“That’s strange,” my mom says.

I can only agree with her. It’s becoming a cliché to say something is strange around here. Everything is strange.

Strange and unexplained.

“Still no sign of him?”

Jocelyn shakes her head. We’re talking about Wade, her step-uncle, who disappeared with a slug in his calf. “I don’t think we will either.”

“How’s your aunt doing?”

Jocelyn rolls her eyes but doesn’t answer. I can’t tell if it’s just because she thinks her aunt is flaky, or if there’s something else.

It’s so hard to read you, even though I feel I know so much about you.

Maybe that’s just how it is with other people. Specifically other girls. Or maybe the entire female population. I don’t know.

We round the hall on our way to history when we see them.

The creepy vibe just keeps continuing.

Pastor Jeremiah Marsh stands at the end of the lockers next to an open doorway, his hands stretched out as if he’s making an important point. He’s talking to Mr. Meiners, who looks at him in a grim manner, as if he’s being told someone in his family just died.

As we pass them by, both men look at us and stop talking.

“Chris, Jocelyn,” the pastor says to us, nodding.

We mumble hellos as we pass them.

“What do you think that’s about?” I ask Jocelyn.

“I can only imagine.”

“Imagine what?”

“I have a vivid imagination,” she says. “You have to remember that.”

“How do they know each other?”

“Everybody in this town knows everybody else. Especially all those living inside of Solitary.”

“But Mr. Meiners—does he go to that church?”

“I don’t know,” she says sharply, as if to say, “Drop it.”

I don’t pursue the question any more.

Surely it’s nothing. Surely the pastor is just visiting the school for some reason.

Please don’t call me Shirley.

I want to laugh out loud and squeeze the insanity from my brain cells. I can probably fill a bucket from it.

“What’s that smirk on your face for?” Jocelyn asks as we arrive to class.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Sometimes I just—it seems like all I can do is laugh.”

“It’s better than crying.”