Five

TURNS OUT THERE’S truth to Ma’s old love songs. She listens to weird stuff, the Ladies of Country Gold, hits from the 1960s and ’70s—think beehive hairdos and snap shirts, all about standing by your man even though he cheats and drinks and shot your old yeller dog. If my dad tried anything like that, she’d kill him.

But right now, I’m in touch with some of those clichés. Can’t eat, can’t sleep, up half the night trying to calm the thrumming energy in my limbs—kicking off the covers, pulling them back—can’t stop seeing him, remembering five hot pinpoints tickling my side, wondering if it was Kincaid’s hand doing the climbing.

Still caught in the cyclone of last night, I don’t really mind getting up for school today, taking a couple bites of generic frosted wheat squares before pushing the bowl away, watching Ma use her reflection in the microwave door to fluff and spray her bangs. Her work schedule is all over the place: a morning here, three nights there. The usual: her managers know she’s desperate for hours, so they drop her into whatever sucky shifts need coverage.

“So, I’m on eleven to seven. Probably be late if I’m working with the same little peckerwood as last night—you know I counted the drawer and mopped by myself while he hid out back sexting his girlfriend?” I snort, and she looks over, gaze trailing to the floor as she opens that ultra-sweet coffee creamer she loves, one of the few splurges on our grocery list. “Make sure you’ve got your key on you, okay?” Longer pause. “You and Dad will have to figure out supper.”

“It’s all good.”

Ma gives me a narrow-eyed look from the counter, watching me put on my sweater. “It is, huh?”

I tug my hair free of my collar, focusing on the door. Talking about boys isn’t something Ma and I have ever really done—frankly, there’s never been a need, since my longest relationship to date lasted three days (freshman year, with a kid who I’m pretty sure only got the nerve to ask me out once he heard I was moving away at the end of the week)—and it feels awkward now, not something I’m quite ready for. “What, I can’t be an optimist for one day?”

“You?” She follows me, standing on the top step, watching me take the steps with more spring than I should, aiming for the corner of the building, where I can disappear from her view. “Not likely.”

In the parking area, a black Jeep pulls into the spot beside Mom’s RAV4, stopping so abruptly that it rocks on its springs, black fuzzy dice swinging from the rearview. A tall, thin woman with ash-blond hair climbs out, wearing a cracked leather jacket and jeans so tight you could probably trace the lines of her underwear, assuming she’s wearing any. I can’t help staring, and she turns her head to look at me as we pass, her eyes lost behind round retro shades, perfect circles of darkness carved from her face. I look down fast, then glance back at her once I think it’s safe.

She takes the steps to Bree’s apartment and unlocks the door gingerly, hesitating a moment before going inside, like she’s afraid of waking someone, even though both girls would be at the bus stop by now. Bree’s mom, just getting in.

It’s against the rules to sit three to a seat, but the bus driver’s locked in rage blackout mode and doesn’t pay us any mind, too busy bellowing at the freshmen pelting each other with spitballs and bitten-off pencil erasers. Having a place to sit, where you’re expected—this, I could get used to.

Sage produces essentials—lip gloss, a bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans—and we rotate them, Bree talking rapid-fire, everything good between us now that we’re a team, raiders of the dark, the wildness of last night mingling like some exotic perfume, and I know exactly what I’m going to do at school today, exactly who I’ll be hunting the halls for: “—and he doesn’t have a girlfriend, I’m sure of it, because the girl everyone said was his girlfriend doesn’t come around anymore, and he never talks about her—”

“Ask Annaliese.” Sage jots digits on math homework, signs her name in giant, swirly letters. She doesn’t wear the flannel shirt today; Trace must’ve reclaimed it. “They talk sometimes. She’d know.”

“She hates me. All those girls do. Which is fine.” I catch Sage’s tolerant eye roll as Bree crunches the last bean in her molars, flicks the bag to the floor. “I followed him once.” My attention jerks back, and Bree smiles, a slow expression. “From the skate park.”

Sage angles herself against the window. “How did I not hear about this?”

“Because I didn’t tell you. It was this summer. One of the times you went in the woods with Trace.” Hint of accusation. “Figured, why not.” Bree sinks back against the seat, watching her own reflection in the bus driver’s circular spy mirror mounted up front, her lashes lowered. “It started raining, like this warm rain, and everybody left. But he stayed. He was soaked, all his clothes and everything, streams running off his hair. Then he skated down Maple. Just coasting, you know?”

“What’s his house like?” I picture a split-level ranch, struggling flower garden out front, maybe a gnome or a plaster angel by the steps.

“Never found out. He turned right onto Summer, picked up his board, and cut through somebody’s backyard. There’s a path worn through there, like kids do it all the time. When I came out on the other side of the garage, he was gone.”

Sage snorts. “He saw you stalking him and gave your ass the slip.”

“He didn’t see. Nobody did.” Bree pauses, biting her lip, then seems to come back to us. “Anyhow. Zero intel collected, other than he lives close.” A slap across Sage’s bare arm, startling her. “Don’t you dare tell Trace.”

“Like I would.” Sage settles back, saying under her breath, “Even though he could just tell us where—”

“No. Let’s find out on our own.” I look between them. “We must get this information.”

Bree nods. “Must.”

“So, he didn’t grow up with you guys?”

“He moved here . . . four years ago?”

Sage thinks. “More like three. He’s older. A senior.”

“Is Kincaid his first name or his last?”

Bree grins. “I’m not sure. Even the teachers call him that.”

“That’s so weird.”

“I know.” And we’re giddy.

There’s a soft sniff behind us. Bree stiffens, rises to look over the back of the seat, ignoring the driver’s voice, worn to sandpaper, face front face front. “How long have you been back there?”

“Just a couple seconds.” Hazel’s defensive. I look around the edge of the seat and find her pinned by Bree’s stare, a blue-mascaraed friend seated beside her, smiling nervously around a nibbled hangnail. “We didn’t hear anything.”

“Then how do you know there was anything to hear?” Without breaking eye contact, Bree slides slowly back onto our seat. “Curiosity killed the cat, Hazel Mae.”

“Satisfaction brought him back.”

“No, it didn’t.”

In the school hallway, congestion, suffocation. Bree and Sage pair off against the masses, already in private conversation, not needing me now, and I want so badly to follow. The words I should’ve said on the bus—Will you cut again today?—Are you going to the skate park?—and most definitely Take me with you—sit on my tongue like something Ma would’ve forced me to eat as a little kid—creamed spinach, cauliflower—bringing tears to my eyes and bitterness to my mouth because I won’t swallow them. I’ll just walk around like this all day, tongue-tied.

I’m called in for the usual guidance office meet-and-greet first thing. After two days without a summons, I thought I’d gotten out of it. Guidance is a closet-size space reserved for someone named Mrs. Mac, according to the bright quilted sign hanging from a tack on the door. I knock, hear a muffled reply.

Inside is lamplit—a Tiffany-style stained-glass number on the filing cabinet used in favor of the overhead light—and there are enough potted plants and climbing vines to give the room a cool, shadowed feel.

She’s too big for the room, the woman sitting at the desk, though a large part of it may be her hair, a platinum-blond cloud framing a plump face behind pearlized glasses. She beams at me. “Clara! Has to be Clara Morrison. I know everybody around here, but you’re a new one on me.” She takes off the glasses and waves me in, adjusting her position at the cluttered desk. “Please, come right in, take a seat.”

The seat is padded, egg-shaped, covered in geometric-patterned fabric, obviously something she brought from home. I sink in until I’m looking at her from an odd half-reclining angle, one hand still gripping my backpack strap like a lifeline.

She clasps her hands on the desk. Her pink sweater pattern involves pom-pom balls. “Let’s have a proper introduction. I’m Mrs. Macintyre, head of guidance.” She laughs. “I just like saying that. I’m the whole department.” She rests her elbow on the desk, chin on fist. “How are you settling in so far?”

“Pretty well.” I shift my butt around, trying to scoot up.

Mrs. Mac’s smile fixes, not sure how to take me—probably trying to figure out how much trouble I’m going to give her, if my epic hair fail is a cry for help, if I’ll be a daily-visit drama queen or just one of the faceless multitude who don’t need her at all. “Are your teachers helping you catch up on classwork? I know that you came to us a little late.” When you’ve had as many get-to-know-you meetings with guidance counselors as I have, that air of client-attorney privilege takes on a distinct aroma of bull. If I mentioned that, uh, actually, my teachers hardly seem to register that I’ve missed five solid weeks of the first quarter, she’d be scheduling a conference faster than you can say college brochure, which she has a nice collection of, fanned out on the blotter within easy reach.

“Everything’s going good so far.” Bulletproof answer. Reassuring, without necessarily ruling out the possibility of us meeting again.

A little movement of her chin, a quirk of her mouth. Translation: I’m a tough nut, but she likes a challenge. “Well. I just wanted to check in and let you know where I am. My door’s always open.” Except when it’s not? “Also . . . you should know that we recently lost a student. A sophomore. Gavin Cotswold.” She clears her throat. “There’s a good chance it was drug-related.” Shifts a pad of sticky notes three inches to the left. “So, don’t be surprised if things seem a bit off.” Her gaze returns to me. “Can we chat again in a couple weeks? I’d really like to get to know you better, Clara. Touch base about your plans for after graduation, that kind of thing. Sound okay?” I nod. My plans involve a state university, major undeclared. Right now, all I’m sure of is that I don’t want to work at a quickie mart for the rest of my life, and that Ma and Dad will kill me if I don’t put my grades to use. Ambition, thy name is Clarabelle. “Lovely.” She holds out a wicker basket, gives it a shake, like calling a cat for yum-yums.

With effort, I lean forward. Inside are pin-back buttons featuring the PDHS Raging Elk. Hooves raised in combat, upper lip curled. Mrs. Mac smiles over the rim. “I think you’re really going to like it here.”

They find me at lunch. I spot Trace immediately, table-hopping, eating everyone’s chocolate pudding. Bang onto a stool, talking while he shovels, plucking the plastic cups from every reachable tray, then moving on to the next empty seat before his victims know what hit them. He demolishes both freshman tables in under five minutes; by the time he reaches the upperclassmen, the pudding cups are piled and waiting for him. His “Yes. You are my people” rises above the cafeteria buzz to the rafters.

The scrape of a tray touching down, and Bree and Sage sit across from me at the flotsam table. I pinpointed it easily on my first day: sparsely populated, large gaps between occupants, obviously the place where people wash up when the social current doesn’t pull them in any direction. Sage brings the hot-lunch tray, but Bree has nothing, sitting sideways on the stool with one knee bouncing in the aisle, keeping a watch on the room at large. Kincaid-watching.

“Look at you, bringing your own.” Sage takes a bite of mystery meat potpie, points at my paper bag with her spork. “Bet you’ve got a little box of raisins in there.”

“Right next to my Power Rangers thermos.” A bang as Trace reaches the far end of our table, palming a girl’s pudding cup with a “Hi,” not bothering to make small talk; everybody knows this table takes the path of least resistance. “You guys have this lunch period?” I ask.

“Occasionally.” Bree looks at me. “Have you been sitting here alone every day?”

“Didn’t know I had a choice.” Why haven’t I seen you? is the real question, and I’m not surprised when Bree doesn’t acknowledge the subtext, instead going back to staking out the double doors. I didn’t notice which door they came in, from which part of the school. Dropped in via the gym class ropes, maybe.

Trace lands in the empty space beside me, the table vibrating with force. “S’up.”

“I’m curious. Do you know how disgusting you are?” Bree swings around to tuck both legs under the table, pulling a can of diet soda and half a plastic-wrapped BLT from the à la carte counter out of her fleece pockets. “Because I can break it down into small words for you.”

Trace gazes back. He looks marginally less crazy than he did in the streetlight glow last night, but apparently, he spent the morning drawing on the backs of his hands with a Sharpie. A smiley face with a scribble of hair and a soul patch stares at me from his knuckles. “Look who’s trying to ruin pudding day now. Little Miss Buzzkill. Is it my fault they hand that stuff out in shot glasses?”

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to ingest it by the pound, either.”

Trace grins. “Hey, I’m a growing boy.” He reaches across the table, gathering Sage’s free hand into his. Fake out—his other hand goes for her pudding. Sage slaps it away faster than a cobra strike, making him suck air and shake out his fingers in pain.

“Do I have ‘dumbass’ tattooed on my forehead?” Sage bangs her pudding cup down on the edge of the table, away from him, flips her hair over her shoulder. “Please.”

He leans forward on his elbows. “Why are we over here? It’s lonely. This place is for sad people.”

Sage nods to me. “Clarabelle exiled herself.”

Trace seems to notice me for the first time, a smile beginning. “Oh, yeah. The girl who isn’t scared of the Mumbler.” Did I say that last night? “You better be careful, talking like that.” Hushed tone: “Has he come into your room yet?”

I whisper, “Who?”

“The man with the hands. The master of ceremonies. The candy man, dude, the Mumbler!” He laughs. “He listens, you know.” Taps the tunnel in his lobe. “Always has an ear to the ground.” Voice goes up, pastor-mode: “He shall bring every deed into judgment, every secret thing, whether it be good or bad.” People glance over, then turn back to their lunches, obviously used to him. “Today’s the fifteenth. Only sixteen more shopping days until he devours your soul. Will you be ready?”

“I’ll get my affairs in order.”

Trace flicks a look at the girls. “Still doesn’t believe.”

Not easy, walking the line between being a good sport and nobody’s fool. “Guess I need more proof. Where’s your Mumbler expert today?” I suck at sounding casual. Bree gives me a sharp look.

“Skipping, probably. Kincaid doesn’t really do school anymore.” Trace smacks the table with his palm, making me and my lunch bag jump. “Got it. Landon/Ivy.” You can hear the slash between their names. “They have proof. They knew Dabney Kirk.”

“No. No-no-no.” Sage sits back. “Not that story. I’m eating here.”

“Sorry. We’ve got to strike the fear of the Mumbler into Clarabelle. Otherwise . . . shit, she might not live to see November.” He stands. “Let’s move out. Cool table.”

Bree almost manages to hide a smile behind her sandwich. “We do not sit at the cool table.”

“Pffft, yeah, you do. If I’m there. Senior. King of the school!” Both fists in the air.

Someone materializes on the extreme edge of my vision, a wavering line, so tall and thin he looks like a mirage. Brown tweedy suit, mustard tie, his face a mournful death’s-head. The teacher—make that Principal Crackenback, I see by his name tag—stops a few feet back from our table, hands clasped behind him. A yellow carnation protrudes from his buttonhole, incongruously fresh, like it’s worked its roots into his circulatory system and is slowly sucking him dry. “Mr. Savage.”

“Yeah?”

“If we could keep it to a dull roar, please.”

“Yeah.” Crackenback recedes to wherever he appeared from—I picture a tweed-lined spring-action casket—and Trace dissolves into laughter, leading us across the lunchroom.

Sage checks back over her shoulder. “Crack’s going to come down on you one of these days.”

“Never happen. He and I have an understanding. I don’t blow his cover, he doesn’t suspend me.” At our looks, Trace lowers his voice. “He’s El Chupacabra. Goat sucker?”

Bree brushes Sage’s shoulder with her own, nodding at Trace. “And you’re seen with him. I ask you.”

Trace gives up on them and faces me as we walk, hands in the pockets of his worn-out Carhartts. “Why do you think he looks like that? He’s starving. Hates what he is. Only feeds when he can’t stand it anymore.” A sigh. “Yep. Caught him in our back pasture one night. Like, in flagrante delicto. But I told him, look, man, we all got our stuff. I’m not here to judge.”

At the cool table, we sit across from the two girls I mistook for identical twins the night before. Now I can see that they’re probably not even related. It’s their Tim Burton−esque makeup—white powder, eyeliner, red lips—and their matching outfits: black denim jackets with popped collars, buttons, and patches; band logo tees; boots visible beneath the table.

When Trace asks his question, the twin with her hair twisted into a crown of little buns reaches into their shared sandwich bag of carrot and celery sticks. “Dabney?” She gazes at me as she chews. “Yeah. She’s dead.”

Her twin swirls a celery stick in ranch dressing. Her hair’s trimmed close to her head, a smooth dark cap. “Four years ago, now.”

“I thought it was five,” Bree says.

The first girl, who I see by the dog tags around her neck is Landon, stares coolly back. “I oughta know. She lived next door to my cousin. We played Barbies when we were little.” Bree snorts. “Anyway. It was pretty harsh.”

“Tell Clarabelle about the . . .” Trace draws his finger across his throat.

“How about not.” Sage pushes her tray away, eyes squeezed shut.

“She was walking home from a party,” Landon says. “Late. Autopsy showed her blood alcohol level was insane. More Orloff than plasma, you know?”

Ivy: “Probably never knew what hit her.”

“Only explanation, right? Hit-and-run. She lost it somewhere between Randall Road and Wright Way.” When I look blank, Landon gestures. “Her head.”

That word again: lost. Like Gavin Cotswold. I laugh, but they don’t. “Lost it? Like it just fell off?”

“Like severed. Not clean.”

Ivy crunches through celery. “Ripped.”

I watch their nearly twin faces, giving nothing away as they solemnly chew their roughage. “How?”

“Cops said it was probably one of the logging trucks headed to the mill. They used to come and go twenty-four-seven. A chain or something could’ve whipped out and caught her under the chin without the driver even knowing.” Landon shrugs. “Or.”

“Or.” Trace leans into me. “You know, they never found the head.”

“Don’t say it like that. ‘The head.’ Like it didn’t belong to anyone.” Landon exhales through her nose. “Her parents had to bury her without it.”

Now there’s an image. “So . . . it’s still in the woods somewhere?”

Landon nods. “They brought in cadaver dogs and everything.” She twists her mouth to the side, laying her half-eaten carrot stick on a napkin and folding it carefully over. “Poor Dab.”