Twenty-Four

COPS MOVE AROUND our kitchen, visible to me only from the waist down as I sit, head bent over the cup of coffee Ma made me out of desperation, the need to do something. Face bathed in steam, blanket around my shoulders, I watch legs clad in navy uniform slacks pass back and forth. Outside to the cruiser, back in; outside to the stoop to make some clandestine call to the station. Back in.

Murmured conversation among the adults. I’ve answered the same questions enough times to write the cops’ script. Did you get a look at him? What was he wearing? I described the mask; didn’t say who it belongs to. They’re already thinking Halloween prank gone wrong, another gotcha on par with Jell-O bombs and Ping-Pong balls; one of the hoodies, probably, coming back to finish the scare.

The eye, though. That damned eye glittering in the recess behind the molded plastic—the iris was dark. Not Trace’s coyote greenish-gray. If that guy has the mask, maybe he hurt Trace before he took it. All I want is my phone so I can text a quick you ok? at him, but it’s still out there on the street somewhere; the female officer, Donohue, is looking for it. My school stuff has already been gathered, stacked on the counter.

The next time the door opens, Dad says, “Found him yet?” his voice sharp.

“They’re searching the woods.” It’s Donohue, not liking Dad’s tone. Her footsteps, lighter than the rest, come up beside me. “Sorry. I found it in the road.” She sets my phone on the table. Crushed, the screen shattered, obviously run over. “If you press charges, you could be compensated for it.”

Right now, my one compensation is picturing Aidan’s face when the cops knocked on his door tonight. I didn’t even have to know his last name; apparently, he’s acquainted with the Pender PD already.

The male cop is making leaving sounds now—still searching, etc., keep us posted—making Ma hit her Excuse me? pose. “What’re we supposed to do until you catch this guy? What if he comes looking for her again?” She’s got the officer trapped halfway out the door. “That man was after my child, and you’re telling me you’ll keep us posted? What the hell is going on in this town? You got one kid dead in that marsh—a whole pack of flying monkeys chase my girl around and nobody does a damn thing—and then some crazy person tries to get ahold of her, and you people got nothing but ‘we’ll look into it’?”

“He was after me.” I finally lift my gaze to Donohue, tightening my grip on the blanket. “He was.”

“And we believe you.” She holds up a hand when the other officer starts to speak. “We’re taking this very seriously. But we also have to look into the possibility that this was a stunt pulled by kids in the neighborhood who knew you were locked in there. We’ve got somebody speaking with Aidan and the other boys right now. One of them will probably admit to as much.” I hear Ma’s noise of protest; I told them about his size, how he seemed to be hunting Yellow Hood through the trees. “That said, until you hear from us, stay calm”—raises her voice when Ma tries to interrupt—“and take normal precautions, like keeping your doors and windows locked, leaving lights on. I promise you, we’ll find out who did this.”

When it’s just the three of us Morrisons again, Ma grabs the dishrag and tosses it into the sink, staring out the window at the night. “This is some great place you brought us to, Jay.”

“Didn’t have a whole lot of choice, did I?”

She doesn’t fire back right away, shaking her head. “Just seems to me that a kid’s life goes pretty cheap around here. That’s all I’m saying.” Looks out the window for a second longer, then drops into the chair beside me, pulling me close for a kiss on top of the head. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there.”

For some reason, after everything, this is what makes me cry.

I spend the night on the futon, sneaking into Ma and Dad’s room to snatch her phone off her nightstand. Still feels safer out here than in my bedroom, with the TV flashing faces, products, and promises at me, the overhead light left on. I text Trace first. No answer for a minute, two. My fingers can’t wait, blasting out a message to Sage: Where’s Trace?

I should’ve told the cops everything, sent them to make sure the person in the mask didn’t hurt Trace, even if it meant blowing the lid off everything we’ve done in the name of disobedience. What if he’s hurt, what if—

Ping—Sage. Crack gave him a 3 day vacay. Mom took his phone ???

I sink back against the cushion as my body remembers how to breathe. Then I sum up what happened in as few characters as possible, pretty much a lost cause, but between the two of us, we come up with a plan for tomorrow. I put the phone down, stretch out, close my eyes, but there’s no sleep back there, behind my lids, sure as hell no peace.

My closet, the place where bad dreams come from, waits down the hall. The memory of Kincaid—unable to speak, arms crossed over the soft shifting of his coat, the hidden movement below the surface—waits behind the door. I try not to think of him as missing; I just have no idea where he is.

Ma’s on the phone to the school first thing the next morning, asking for Crackenback, giving him the rundown of yesterday, explaining that I’ll be in class today because she thinks it’s safer than staying home alone, but for somebody to call her at work in case of anything. I hear her agree to be put on hold; next thing I know, Mrs. Mac’s got the ball, running all the way back—crap. We’ve got a conference scheduled for eight thirty a.m.

When we walk through the doors of PDHS together, Ma gets to see this morning’s stunt: a big drawing done hastily in Sharpie on the wall beside the mascot mural. It’s a slapdash reproduction of the Mumbler by some new guerrilla artist—a black outline, fingers long and jagged, mouth a gaping maw of razor teeth. A cartoon bubble stems from the Raging Elk’s head; some teacher taped a piece of printer paper over it until the custodian gets in, but you can still read the words aw shit. The Mumbler’s bubble reads nom nom nom.

Mrs. Mac has dragged an extra chair in for Ma, which means I get stuck in the egg again.

She bustles around, getting Ma coffee from the outer office. It’s so weird being with a parent at school, worlds colliding in the most unwelcome way, all the people with power to destroy you in the same place at the same time, Godzilla vs. Megalon in an ultimate death match. Ma doesn’t seem like she’s loving it, either. She doesn’t put her big purse down, instead keeping it in her lap, making a statement up front that this isn’t going to take long. She is, after all, the mom; these people are only in charge of my pseudo education.

“There, now.” Mrs. Mac settles behind her desk, her smile on low beam in deference to my pain. “Clara. Sounds like you had quite a scary experience last night. Do you want to talk about it?”

I glance at Ma. “It was just . . . some guy. Trying to get in at me.”

Mrs. Mac’s look is sympathetic, not only her expression, but her outfit. Today’s sweater hue: Compassionate Coral. “That doesn’t sound like ‘just’ anything. You must’ve been scared to death. The police are looking into it?” At my nod, she turns to Ma. “I really appreciate you notifying us, Rose.” Ah, she’s done her homework.

Ma nods, the two of us like a couple of those novelty dippy birds. Mrs. Mac folds her hands on the desk. “This seemed like a good opportunity to check in with both of you, see how Clara’s transitioning into the Pender state of mind.” Small laugh, fading quickly. “The past month has been hard. First Gavin, and now what’s happened to Ivy Thayer. And you couldn’t have missed our new student artwork in the hallway on your way in.” Ma laughs a little. “Mmm. Well, it’s that time of year. People take Halloween seriously around here. Mr. Crackenback’s been dealing with some pranksters, handing out some suspensions. The kids always get a little”—wiggles her shoulders—“you know. Overexcited.”

That’s one word for it. I shift in my padded womb-chair, distracted, wondering if Bree even asked about me when I wasn’t at the bus stop this morning. Really hope Moon was able to borrow his brother’s truck like he said he’d try to when I texted him last night, so Sage and I can go see Trace after school. I’ve texted everybody but Bree to ask if they’ve seen Kincaid around; nobody has, but that’s normal. I won’t tell Trace about his shelter being gone, how he ditched me. It would be like admitting we were a hookup, and the only person who didn’t know it was me.

Mrs. Mac studies my face. “Socially, you seem to be doing great, Clara. I pay attention . . . notice when somebody looks like they’re making fast friends. So, kudos to you on that.” Wait to see if she’s going to nail me on my choice of friends, maybe mention Kincaid, but she moves on. “Grades are another story. I took a look-see at your averages, and to be honest, they’re not quite what I’d expect to see from a student who came to us with a GPA of 3.52. Also, Mr. Smythe noted an unexcused absence last Friday afternoon. He says you never showed up to his calculus class.” Ma’s gaze cuts across me like a Ginsu knife, and suddenly, I can’t sink deep enough in my seat, my gaze seeking the potted vine climbing the file cabinet.

“Granted, you’re only a couple weeks in, so I don’t want to cause a panic. Plenty of time for these things to even out. But I have to ask”—she plops her chin on her fist, small, sapphire eyes bright behind her glasses—“what’s going on here?”

Ma adjusts in her seat to face me. “I’d like to hear it.”

Godzilla and Megalon just formed a tag team. “Nothing. I”—work that new-kid angle, work it—“got overwhelmed, I guess? And I got sick. Last Friday. I was here, just . . . in the bathroom.” Hard swallow. “Everything’s changed so fast.” Ma hasn’t budged. “I started the semester late, and I was already so far behind. . . .”

Mrs. Mac nods, like I’ve confirmed some suspicion; Ma presses her lips together and chooses her own plant to glare at.

“I think I know what you’re saying, Clara.” Mrs. Mac shakes her head. “I could kick myself for not thinking of it sooner. I should’ve set you up in our tutoring program right from the beginning. You must’ve been feeling like a miner’s mule, with that load on your back!” Scribbles a note to herself on a sticky pad. “This is my failing. I don’t want either of you”—a shaped mauve fingernail points between us—“taking this on yourselves. Relocating is one of the biggest challenges a family can go through. We want to do everything we can to help you make this move a success.”

I think we’re done. Ma shakes Mrs. Mac’s hand, turns to follow me to the door, jumps when Mrs. Mac gasps, “Oh!” Hurrying around the desk, shaking her basket. “Don’t forget your Raging Elk pin.”

Hesitantly, Ma takes one, dropping it into her purse. “Thanks.”

“Pleasure’s mine. Always happy to spread around a little school spirit.” Mrs. Mac opens the door, just in time for us to witness a secretary race across the hall with the coffeepot and douse a smoldering trash can.

The drive to Trace’s house is even longer than I remember—on foot, it would’ve taken the better part of an hour. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t checking out the window for Kincaid, silently hoping we’ll pass him on his board somewhere, see that he’s okay, that he must’ve spent the night somewhere safe. Because now I know that the cold isn’t the biggest threat in those woods.

The driveway is steep and rutted, Moon’s truck nearly bottoming out on the last hole before we park behind Trace’s car. The dogs are barking, giving themselves whiplash against their chains, all of them some strange spotted mutt breed.

“So . . . this will be weird,” Sage says to me as I slide out the passenger door behind her. It’s strange, not having Bree with us. I don’t know if Sage told Bree that I was coming here with her today, or if she told her about the guy who came after me last night. If Bree would even care. “Just warning you. His mom is—”

“Different?” I finish.

“You think she’ll even let him come out?” Moon walks with us toward the paint-peeling steps. Now that we’re closer, the dogs are whining, wagging tails, desperate for love. “Sounds like she’s pretty pissed about Crack giving him the boot.”

Sage shrugs. “We’ll see.” Leads the way up the steps, opens the crooked screen door to knock. In the glass pane, between limp curtains, a white macramé cross dangles from a length of yarn.

After a long time, a tall, loose-fleshed woman opens the door, staring at Sage from beneath fierce, unkempt brows shot through with gray, just like her long, brown hair. She wears a white sleeveless muumuu, the floral pattern washed to a memory, her feet in open-toed terry bedroom slippers. She doesn’t speak, just takes Sage in with a beady stare.

“Hi. Is he around?” Sage has my respect forever; I don’t think I could force a word out if I tried, let alone have this be my boyfriend’s mom, who I had to make nice with on a regular basis. But Sage’s smile is forthright, no apologies in her tone.

Ms. Savage gives a short laugh, her voice hoarse and low. “Oh, yeah. He’s home. Home for three days, thanks to his fresh mouth.” She gives us an agitated glance. “Suppose you think I should let him see you anyway.”

“Only if it’s okay with you.”

As I look past Sage, I get a glimpse of the mudroom behind Ms. Savage. A big framed painting hangs on the wall, one of those blond Jesuses with a mournful look in his blue eyes and light beaming around his sacred heart. Ms. Savage shifts to the left, shouts across the yard, “Trace-y! You got comp-any!”

She shuts the door on our thanks, watching us through the pane as, a second later, Trace comes around the back of the barn, wearing coveralls flecked with dried mud and bits of hay.

He dabs his brow with the back of his glove. “Hey. Heard you guys pull up, but I was hiding from my mom.” He glances over at the door; Ms. Savage steps back from the glass. “Friggin’ Crack welshed on our gentleman’s agreement. Goat-sucking bastard.” He kisses Sage, who kisses him back, keeping as much distance as possible from his coveralls.

“Does he know?” I ask.

“Nah. I mean, he suspects. But he’s got no proof.” Trace shrugs, starts walking back to the barn. “Sending me home was, like . . . a preventive measure. Get me out of school for a couple days, hope the pranking will die down once the bad seed is gone.”

“We wanted to make sure you were okay.” Sage watches as he picks up a shovel leaning against the wall. “If I didn’t know your mom had you on lockdown, I would’ve been freaking.”

“Somebody took your mask,” I say.

He pauses in the open bay of the haymow, looking back at me. As I tell him what happened, he gradually gets back to mucking out the stalls, turning shovelfuls of manure and soiled hay into a wheelbarrow. A couple of brown-and-white goats wander over to stare at us, jawing in a terminally bored fashion. “He was tall, like you—I don’t know, maybe he wanted me to think he was you. Or maybe he just wanted me to know that he knows who we are.” I try not to lose my temper as Trace focuses on scraping the edge of the shovel across the floorboards. “I think he knows we pulled those pranks.” I make a frustrated sound. “He was trying to get me.”

“What—you think it was one of those Father Knows Best drones from Perfect Street? Come on.” He laughs. “Their idea of risk is letting the warranty expire on their electric hedge trimmers.” I watch as he drops the shovel and walks past us, saying to the goats, “You guys have to stop shitting so much. Seriously.” He goes to his car and we follow, watching him root around inside for a while before he comes out and leans against it, arms resting on the roof. “Huh.”

Sage tosses up her hands. “Did you think she made it up? Some psycho got into your car and stole the mask, numbnuts. He wanted to hurt Clarabelle.”

“He came out of the woods, dude.” Moon’s expression is grim. “Ivy? Gavin? Dabney’s head? Know what I’m saying?”

“And Kincaid and Clarabelle said they saw someone in the marsh the night Ivy disappeared.” Sage rubs her arms. “Maybe he started following all of us after that.”

Trace stares at his house for a second, a humorless grin passing over his lips. “A serial killer. In Pender.” Burst of barely contained laughter. “Letting the Mumbler take the fall for everything, when we really got a homegrown Dahmer picking off the bad-kid population. Hells yes. I can buy that.” Thumps both hands down on the roof, starts back to the barn with us on his heels.

My air escapes in an exasperated gust. “What are we going to do?” My near shout makes the goats look up. “Thoughts? Anyone?”

Trace grabs his shovel, scoops another load. “Well”—pauses, hefting the weight—“this guy’s a traditionalist. So, far as I can tell”—manure lands in the wheelbarrow—“all we’ve got to do is survive Halloween.”

After we leave Trace’s, Moon drives toward the Terraces. I promised Ma this morning that I’d come straight home after school and keep the doors locked; the ominous way she said, “We’ll talk later,” after the meeting with Mrs. Mac made me want to be extra sure I don’t get caught breaking my word. I don’t know if Trace took anything we said seriously; maybe that’s just how he processes, by being a smart-ass. Sounds familiar.

I glance over at Sage, wedged between us in the cab. “You and Bree hanging out after this?”

She nods, watching how hard I try to keep my expression neutral. “Have you tried talking to her at all? About—” Gestures, meaning the obvious: Kincaid.

“Tried.” I shrug. “I don’t think I got through.” Not sure how well-versed I am on the subject of Kincaid, anyway, if I’m even qualified to guess at what he really wants from me. I stay silent a second, then blurt, “I just feel so bad. I mean . . . with her parents, and being the only one watching out for Hazel and everything. I never thought—”

“That he would like you back.” She smiles a little, shaking her head. “Bree didn’t, either. So when he crashed your little crush party, it kind of blew everything up, right?” She holds up a hand. “Not judging. I’ve been there.”

“You have?”

“Not with Bree. A different friend, back in middle school. Crushing on this one guy was like this game we played every day, until shit got real. I don’t know which sucks more—being the one he doesn’t pick, or getting the guy, losing the friend.” She pauses, chipping at the clear coat on her fingernails. “But if you’re feeling bad because you think you have things better than Bree, don’t.”

I give a short laugh. “Seems pretty legit to me.”

“Bree having jackholes for parents has nothing to do with Kincaid liking you. Okay? There’s no cosmic connection there. Trying to find one isn’t going to make things any better with her. Sometimes you come out on top. Next time, maybe it’ll be Bree’s turn.” Sage rests back against the seat. “End of speech.”

“Any idea what I can do to make things better?”

“Um. You can’t make Bree do or feel anything. And I’m saying that as her best friend. Sorry.” She turns to Moon. “Don’t you repeat a word of this.”

He laughs, switching radio stations. “I didn’t hear anything.”