CHAPTER

Eleven

CLAIRE

Claire can’t sleep. It’s nearly five in the morning and her thoughts are spinning with everything she’s learned in the last few days: the letters, the thwarted kidnapping, the first appearance of the monsters. Plus Grammy’s reaction when she finally came home yesterday, after running out on her chores. She was grounded for a week.

So that’s another worry, the knowledge that she has to spend the rest of the week trapped in a house with Grammy and her lies about her medication.

Claire rolls over on her side, staring at the wall. The picture of Julie’s house is still gone—she wonders where Grammy put it. Grammy has to know about all this history. Maybe it’s the real reason for her opposition to Julie.

Maybe Grammy can even fill in the blanks.

Claire doesn’t sleep, she just lets the mystery of Abigail and Javier and the monsters roll around in her brain as she listens to the humming of the fan. Sometimes she thinks about Julie too, the way they sat so close together to see the microfilm screen, and that moment the other night when Julie told Claire she was pretty, how there was the slightest tremor in her voice—

The memories give Claire a shuddery feeling that isn’t entirely unpleasant. It kind of reminds her of how she feels—used to feel?—about Josh. The longer she lies there, the more her thoughts seem to elongate away from her until they become their own independent entities. She sees herself taking Julie’s hand. She sees Julie brushing her hair away, and then kissing her, once on the cheek, once on the forehead, once on the mouth.

Claire flops over again. She feels embarrassed, as if Julie might read her thoughts across town. Julie’s her friend, and she’s not supposed to think about friends that way. Especially not if they’re girls.

When the sun starts to peek through the blinds, Claire is still awake.

She watches the room brighten. At 7:30, she finally gets up for lack of anything better to do. When she looks at herself in her vanity mirror, she sees that her eyes are ringed in dark circles.

Claire dresses, pulling on a long, light dress that ties in the back, and trudges into the kitchen. Grammy is already awake, eating the cereal Claire prepared the night before.

“Did you take your pill?” Claire asks automatically. The question jars her, and she looks away from Grammy, toward the refrigerator.

“I did, thank you.” The pillbox isn’t sitting on the windowsill. Claire glances over her shoulder, sees it on the table beside Grammy’s cereal.

“I take it you’re ready for a day of cleaning,” Grammy says.

Julie pulls a grapefruit out of the refrigerator in response.

“Oh, don’t pull this attitude with me. Your mother did the same thing and it was never becoming on her either. And look where it got her, having to work for a living.”

“I told you I was sorry,” Claire murmurs. She sits down at the kitchen table, as far from Grammy as possible. As she slices her grapefruit into halves, she can feel Grammy staring at her. The air sparks.

“It just doesn’t seem like you,” Grammy said. “Running away like that. I told you that Alvarez girl is a bad influence.”

Claire looks up. The sunlight pours in through the windows and lights up Grammy’s white hair so that it look like a halo. The light reveals all the shadows in Grammy’s face too, and the sharp lines of her cheekbones and collarbones jutting out of her skin. It’s not that she looks old but that she looks sickly, and for the millionth time Claire wonders why she isn’t taking real medication.

“Her name’s Julie,” Claire says.

Grammy turns back to the newspaper. “I know what her name is.” She lifts up one corner and reads. Claire stares at the headline on the back—something about baseball.

“She’s not a bad influence.”

“Then why did you run out on your chores?”

“I was tired. I needed a break.” Claire digs her spoon into her grapefruit, but she doesn’t have much appetite. “I think the real reason you don’t like her is because the Alvarez family bought their house from ours a long time ago.”

Claire can’t believe she just said that. It’s like her words have separated out from her the way her thoughts did earlier.

The refrigerator’s hum seems too loud.

Grammy turns a page of the newspaper. Takes a bite of her cereal.

“Now where would you get an idea like that?”

She doesn’t look at Claire, but her voice is cold and sharp-edged. It’s not the same sort of sharpness it had when Claire came home yesterday afternoon, sheepish for running away. This seems—dangerous.

“I read about it somewhere.”

Grammy looks up. Her eyes glitter. She doesn’t seem like herself.

“You’re right,” she said. “They did buy our house out from under us. From under your great-great-grandmother Abigail Sudek.”

The name rings in Claire’s ears. “Don’t you mean Abigail Garner?” she says. “Because I read about her too.”

“What sort of things have you been reading, Claire?” The question is like a gunshot going off.

“I read that she and Javier Alvarez were in love, even though she had to marry someone else. Then Javier bought the—”

Grammy flings the newspaper toward Claire. It erupts in midair, pages scattering like birds. Claire freezes. The pages drift slowly to the table, to the floor; one covers Claire’s grapefruit. On the other side of the pages sits Grammy, her expression furious and filled with something Claire has never seen face-to-face before. She thinks it’s hatred.

“Don’t you dare talk about Javier Alvarez,” she hisses. “That man brought shame upon Abigail. Brought shame upon the entire family. He seduced her, put ideas in her head—she almost abandoned her family because of him, did you know that? She had a child!”

Claire doesn’t answer. She was going to take her too.

“And then Javier drew up those dreadful treaties, which forced your great-great-grandfather to give up a portion of his oilfields to accommodate the monsters. Meanwhile, Alvarez is rewarded by the city governance, given a big fat check for those treaties. Ten years later, my grandfather’s fortune had dried up without the oil. They had to sell Abigail’s house—yes, it was hers, built by her father when he moved here from Poland. Everything is Javier’s fault.”

“What?” Claire snaps. “It’s not Javier’s fault that Garner had to give up some of his oilfields! If anything, it’s the monsters’!”

“Exactly!” Grammy’s voice is shrill and Claire shrinks away. “There are forces in this world you can’t even begin to understand, and Javier exploited them!”

Grammy leans back in her chair. She’s even more drawn and worn-out-looking than she was a few moments ago. She smooths one hand over her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she says, not looking at Claire. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper like that. But it’s a sore spot in our family, you must understand.”

Such a sore spot, Claire thinks, that this is the first she’s hearing of it.

“It’s the reason the women in our family give their children the name Sudek—and the reason we prefer to keep it ourselves.” Grammy smiles bitterly. “Except for your mother, of course. But your aunt, she kept the tradition, at least.” Grammy sighs and drops her head back, her gaze wandering up to the ceiling. Claire doesn’t dare move. “Abigail reverted back to her maiden name, Sudek, when Gregory Garner died. She said the name was all she had. There were no sons, you see. And Abigail’s daughter, my mother, Charlotte, saw that if you give away your name, you give away everything else too. So she kept it, and it’s all we have left now.”

Grammy looks at Claire then, and she seems almost grandmotherly again. “You understand, don’t you? The Alvarez family was our ruin.”

Claire doesn’t know how to respond. She looks at the newspaper pages scattered across the kitchen table. “I should clean these up,” she says, and she pushes her chair away and stands.

Grammy doesn’t say anything, only turns her gaze toward the window. Claire gathers the papers on the table, uncovering the white pillbox. Seeing it gives her a sick feeling in her stomach. It’s all just aspirin. Grammy looks like she’s dying, and all she’s taking for it is aspirin.

“Oh dear God,” Grammy says. “I didn’t need this so early in the morning.”

Claire thinks that she’s talking about their conversation—but then she looks up, out the window, through the slats in the blinds, into the backyard.

She drops the papers and they scatter anew.

A monster stands on the back patio.

It doesn’t look like the others she’s seen—it’s closer to animal than to human, crouched on all fours, its hind legs bending high over its back like the legs of a grasshopper. It has a long, thin face and eyes that glitter like gray stones, and it’s staring at Claire through the window.

She totters to the side, dizzy. Grammy pushes away from the table with a sigh and goes to the phone.

The monster leaps forward and slams against the window. The glass cracks.

Claire screams and falls backward. Grammy whirls around, dropping the phone so that it clatters to the tile. The monster presses its face against the window, its breath forming a perfect circle of fog on the glass. Claire stares at it in horror.

The monster opens its mouth, long tongue lolling. Saliva drips down the pane.

“Get away, Claire!” Grammy shrieks. “Back into the bathroom! Away from the wind—”

“The astronaaaaaaut,” the monster says, dragging the word out into a long, low hiss. “The astronaaaaaaut is heeeeere. Avooooooid.”

Claire scuttles back a few paces, but she makes no move to leave the room. The monster rears its head back and slams up against the window again. Grammy screams. Claire can hear her fumbling around for the phone, but she keeps her own eyes fixed firmly on the window, on the long, dripping tunnel of the monster’s open mouth.

“The astronaaaaaaaaut,” it says. “Cooooming for yoooooou, Suuuuuuuudek.”

Sudek. Her grandmother’s name. Abigail’s name. It bounces around inside of Claire’s head like electricity.

The monster lifts up one of its hind legs and rams it against the window. Tiny fractal cracks blossom farther out along the glass.

“Yooooooou muuuuuuust gooooooooo. It is heeeeeeeere.”

“This is Mrs. Sudek down on Magnolia Road. I’ve got another one—”

Claire hears Grammy’s voice through a constant buzzing. A buzzing, she realizes, distantly, that comes from the monster pressing so close to the glass. She can almost see the atoms in the air, churning up the space around it.

The monster drags its tongue up the glass and the sight of its dark throat makes Claire’s stomach lurch, like she’s looking at a dead thing.

“Get someone out here right away, it’s trying to break in—”

“Astronaaaaaaaaaut,” the monster says. Its eyes flash.

“But don’t send the Alvarez girl—”

“What?” Claire whips her head around to Grammy. But then there’s another sound of cracking glass and Claire turns back to the monster again. It’s pressed its other back foot against the window, its body twisted around itself, foot-face-foot. Claire’s stomach roils again. This is not natural.

“Suuuuuuudek,” the monster hisses. “Yoooooou—”

Grammy digs her fingers into Claire’s shoulder and jerks her to her feet. The monster tilts its head, and it tilts it too far, to an unnatural angle.

“We’ve got to get away from here,” Grammy says, pulling on Claire’s arm with a strength that doesn’t suit her frail, shuffling body. “Into the bathroom. The exterminator will be here soon.”

“Why’d you tell them not to send Julie!?”

Grammy drags Claire out of the kitchen, into the living room. The monster watches them go, but only for a second—then pushes itself away from the window with enough force that the cracks deepen. Its shadow darkens the living room window.

“Because she’s just a girl!” Grammy pulls Claire into the hallway. Claire stumbles after her, afraid the monster will break in someplace.

The hallway bathroom door hangs open, and Grammy shoves Claire in first and then follows, switching on the humming fluorescent light and locking the door.

“Get in the tub,” she says.

“It’s not a tornado!”

“Dammit, Claire, now’s not the time to fight with me. Do as I say.”

Claire steps over the tub’s edge. Her whole body is shaking, and she’s struck with a sudden wave of dizziness: The monster must be on the other side of the wall. There’s no window here, but Claire can feel it anyway, in the way the air jumps around.

Grammy joins her in the bathtub and puts one arm around her shoulder and pulls her in close. Claire shivers against her frail, bony frame. The tub feels claustrophobic and at the same time full of echoes, as if it is an enormous place. Claire’s breath bounces off the
tiles.

“Don’t worry,” Grammy says in a bedtime-story voice, a voice that’s almost soothing. “They’ll be here soon. And we’ll be safe.”

But Claire doesn’t feel safe. Not at all.

That afternoon, Claire nails flat pieces of wood over the kitchen window to protect the cracked glass until the repairman can come out to fix it.

Grammy sits on the porch with an iced tea in one hand, watching Claire work. Her presence puts Claire on edge, but at the same time Claire doesn’t want to be out here alone.

The broken window isn’t the only evidence of the monster. The colocasia plants growing up next to the house are trampled, the soil ripped up: an unsettling sight that Claire tries to ignore. There’s also the lingering scent of metal, sharp and burning and tickling at the back of Claire’s throat.

“When you’re finished with this,” Grammy says, “I want you to call up Audrey.”

Claire pauses, her hammer poised to strike. She looks at Grammy over her shoulder. “What?”

“Audrey Duchesne. I want you to call her up when you’re finished.” Grammy sips her tea and settles back into her chair. “You haven’t seen her in a few days and you know I’d rather you spend your time with her than with that Julie Alvarez.”

Claire hammers the nail into place, remembering the man who’d shown up at the house. He’d gone around back, but the monster had already vanished. That’s another reason why they’re boarding up the window. Just in case the monster comes back.

“I thought I was grounded.” Claire steps away from the window and plucks another nail out of the old coffee can. The wood’s in place; at this point she’s just fortifying it. She doesn’t ever want to see that monster’s face peering at her between its own clawed feet again.

“I figured you’ve been punished enough,” Grammy says. “And besides, I’m sure Audrey’ll want to see you. It’s summer and she doesn’t have to work. Give her a call.”

It sounds not like a suggestion but a demand. Grammy uses the same tone of voice as when she informed Claire that Claire would be covering the window.

“Are you sure it’s safe for me to be out?”

“You’ll be safe,” Grammy says.

Claire sighs and hammers in another nail. She doesn’t want to see Audrey Duchesne. She wants to see Julie. After the monster attack, and cowering in the bathtub for nearly an hour, Julie’s the only who will make her feel protected.

“Call her,” Grammy says.

Claire sighs and admits defeat. “Fine.” She picks up another nail.

“I think it’s secure enough,” Grammy says. “Go on in, give Audrey a call.”

Audrey, Audrey, Audrey. Claire’ll be happy if she never hears that name again. She tosses the nail back into the coffee can and then gathers up her tools and goes inside. Grammy doesn’t follow, only stays in her spot on the porch, staring out at the empty yard.

The kitchen is darker than usual with the board across the window. Claire puts the tools back in the cabinet and then goes over to the phone. Might as well get it over with.

Audrey’s number is written on a Post-it note and stuck on the wall next to all the numbers that Claire’s mother left behind. It’s written in a girlish, loopy handwriting that Claire doesn’t recognize. It must belong to Audrey. Feeling pliant from the heat, she dials in the numbers, listening to the click-whir of the rotary. Grammy really is stuck in the 1960s.

The phone only rings once before Audrey answers.

“Duchesne residence,” she says in her cheerful voice. “Audrey speaking.”

Claire shivers despite the muggy heat inside the house.

“Hey Audrey,” Claire says, “it’s—”

“Claire! I know, I recognized your voice. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. I’m afraid I might have gotten a bit caught up in seeing Lawrence Reyes.” She giggles, a grating sound. “Sorry I’ve been such a bad friend! A girl should never give up her friends for a boy, that’s what I always say, and yet look at me now.”

“Yeah, well—” Claire doesn’t want to think about Audrey dating Lawrence Reyes. She feels a prickle on the back of her neck, as if someone’s watching her. But the window’s boarded over, and Grammy’s still outside.

Suddenly all Claire wants is to be out of that house, away from the place where the monster attacked.

“Can I come over now?” Claire says. “I don’t have anything to do.”

“Of course! I’ll totally make up for neglecting you. I’ve got another game we can play, what do you think?”

Claire feels a dull emptiness in the back of her head. “Sure, whatever. I’ll ride my bike over to your place.”

“Wonderful! I’ll see you then.”

Claire hangs up. The kitchen door scrapes open, and Grammy steps inside. “Did you call her?” she asks.

Claire nods.

“Good. It’s nice to see you spending time with someone more—”

“White?” Claire says.

“That is absolutely not what I was going to say.” Grammy shuffles past her and sets her empty glass in the sink. “Really, Claire, you ought to know better.”

Claire feels that emptiness in her head again. Her thoughts seem to swell. Grammy never clarifies exactly what Audrey is more of.

“I’ll be back for dinner,” Claire says.

“All right. Have fun!”

No mention of monsters, no mention of danger. She wishes Grammy would do more than call an exterminator.

But she won’t. So Claire needs to ring Julie and tell her what happened. Maybe she can call from Audrey’s house.

Claire doesn’t bother changing or rinsing off. It’s just Audrey. She goes into the garage and pulls out her mother’s bike, swiping away the cobwebs—she rode it yesterday to Julie’s house, but weirdly the webs have already returned—and wheels it out to the driveway. Fluffy white clouds line the sky. A hot breeze pretends to be cool. Claire rides to Audrey’s house through the muggy air and the hum of cicadas, her hands tight on the handlebars. She expects a monster to leap out of the shrubbery, but the streets remain empty.

The house is as neat and well-manicured as Claire remembers. The rosebushes are still offering heavy pink blossoms beside the front door. The grass is greener here than in any of the yards Claire passed.

She rings the doorbell. Audrey answers, dressed in one of her pretty sundresses, this one a honey-colored silk shift. Her hair shimmers in the sunlight.

“Claire!” she cries. “So good to see you! I’m sorry again about neglecting—”

“I’m fine,” Claire says. “I’ve been hanging out with Julie.” The AC trickles outside, cool against Claire’s sweaty brow.

“Julie Alvarez? That’s nice.” She says this in a vague way, as if to suggest she’s trying not to have an opinion. “Why don’t you come in?”

Stepping into Audrey’s house is like stepping into a television show. No messes, no stains on the white furniture. The contrast between colors is too bright. It’s more real than real.

“Well, hello there!” Audrey’s mother materializes in the hallway with a tray of cookies. “Audrey told me you were coming over. Would you like a snack?”

She brandishes the cookies. They’re big and fluffy, chocolate melting in the crevices. And they smell amazing.

“I just love baking,” Audrey’s mom says.

“These look awesome.” Claire takes a cookie, hoping that means Audrey’s mom will disappear back into the cavern of the kitchen. The cookie is still warm.

Audrey’s mom beams. Audrey stands off to the side, watching this exchange with a bland, unreadable expression.

“Wonderful!” Audrey’s mom swirls around on the heel of her stiletto—stilettos? Weird. Not even Julie’s mom, with her stylish, expensive clothes, wears stilettos inside. “You girls have fun.”

She walks back through the living room. Claire looks down at her cookie, then takes a bite. Soft and chewy and chocolaty. Perfect.

“Let’s go up to my room,” Audrey says. “I think you’ll really like this game.”

“Okay.” Claire nibbles on her cookie as they walk up the stairs. The house is as quiet as a museum. Claire feels like she shouldn’t be eating here. A thought niggles at the back of her head—

“Oh,” she says. “Wait.”

Audrey stops and looks over at her.

Claire’s head swims. “Your phone,” she says. “Can I borrow your phone?”

“My phone?”

Claire nods. “I need to call someone. Just real quick. I—forgot to call them at my house.”

“Oh,” says Audrey. “Of course. The phone’s back downstairs. In the hallway. I can show you if you like—”

“No, I can find it.” Claire scurries back down the stairs. She can’t believe she almost forgot to call Julie. This town gets in your head and changes things.

The phone sits in a little alcove at the base of the stairs. Claire grabs it and dials Julie’s number. She hopes Julie’s not at work, since she doesn’t have the exterminator number memorized.

“Hello?”

“Julie!” Claire breathes a sign of relief. “Oh God, I need to talk to you—”

“Claire! It’s about the monster, isn’t it? The one at your house this morning? I heard from Brittany. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Claire glances up at the stairs; Audrey’s standing at the top of them, her hands on her hips. “Just rattled. I can’t talk long. I just—I wanted to tell you what happened. Grammy’s acting like it was no big deal, but I just—isn’t there something we can do?”

“Forrest said the monster had taken off by the time he’d gotten there.”

“Yeah, but—” Claire glances up at Audrey again. Despite the blasting AC, she’s starting to sweat. “Maybe you can talk to your cousin?” She doesn’t want to say Lawrence’s name in front of Audrey. “See if he can help?”

“I can try.” Julie sounds doubtful. “I can talk to Mr. Vickery too, the guy in charge of the monster committee. He wasn’t useful before, but since the thing basically attacked you—”

“That would be great,” Claire says. “Listen, I really can’t talk now—I’ll try to call you tonight, okay? Just—see if you can figure out something.” She hesitates. “It would really mean a lot to me.”

There’s a pause on the other end, a rush of static. “Sure thing.”

“Claire?” calls out Audrey. “Are you almost done?”

“Gotta go,” Claire hisses into the phone, and then she hangs up. “Yep!” she calls out. “Thanks.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.” Audrey smiles beatifically. Claire bounds up the stairs, her heart hammering. Julie will do something. She’ll figure out a way to stop the monsters.

Audrey’s room is at the end of the hall. Claire expects it to be white and black and red, like the rest of the house, but when Audrey opens the door, Claire is met with a wash of pink: pink walls, a frilly pink bedspread, pale pink carpet.

Claire isn’t sure what to say, so she takes another bite of cookie.

“It’s like the other game,” Audrey says, breezing through her room. Claire follows her cautiously. The light is different in here because of the pink curtains, filtered and hazy. Claire feels a moment of dizziness, but when she sits down on the edge of the bed, it disappears.

Audrey rummages around in her closet. All her clothes are arranged according to color, and the top shelf is lined with neat plastic boxes. She really is perfect.

“So did you ever get the dress for the Stargazer’s Masquerade?” Audrey calls out over her shoulder.

“Oh.” Claire has forgotten about the dance. She and Julie never talk about it. But she pictures the dress hanging from the back of her closet door and nods. “Yes. I haven’t tried it on yet. I don’t think it’s going to fit.”

Audrey emerges with a thin cardboard box. Claire’s heart jumps: It’s probably just a normal board game, Monopoly or Clue, but it makes her feel weird.

“It’ll fit,” Audrey says. “I’m so excited. The dance is the most fantastic thing that happens in Indianola. The event of the season.”

She does not appear to be saying this ironically.

“You’ll get to meet all the kids from the school,” she adds.

“Well, I’m just here for the summer.” Claire’s heart kind of twists at that, though—she’ll miss Julie back in Houston.

“I know.” Audrey flounces over to the bed. “But it still might be good to meet some new people, don’t you think?” She balances the game on top of one of her pillows and sprawls out. Claire looks down at the name on the box: Fallow.

“I’ve never played this before,” Claire says. The truth is she’s never even heard of it. The box looks old-fashioned too, illustrated with 1960s children sitting around a table. Something about it gives Claire the creeps.

“Oh really?” Audrey doesn’t sound surprised. “It’s super fun. Here, let me show you.” She opens the box and dumps it upside down. Playing pieces spill across the bedspread, and then the playing board drops out. Audrey unfolds it. A multicolored track winds around in a circular, complex labyrinth. Claire can’t tell where it begins or ends.

“What color?” Audrey asks.

“Green,” Claire says. Audrey hands her a green triangle.

“Start in the center,” Audrey says. “You’re trying to work your way out.”

“So it’s just a maze?”

“Sort of.” Audrey sets her own piece, yellow, at the labyrinth’s center. Claire does the same, and for a moment she feels swoony, like she’s been out in the heat too long.

“You roll the die,” Audrey says, “and that tells you how long you get.” She pulls out six hourglasses and lines them up, one next to the other, on the bedside table. “One minute to six minutes,” she says, sweeping her hand across the hourglasses. “You have however long to try and work your way out of the maze. Once your time is up, the next person gets to go.”

Claire stares down at the board. The game seems stupid. They’re just working a maze. Kid’s stuff.

When she looks at the labyrinth it seems to wriggle and squirm in front of her.

“Are you ready?” Audrey says.

Claire nods and picks up the die and tosses it on the bed. Two. Audrey flips the two-minute hourglass. “Go!” she says.

Claire picks up her pyramid. Ten paths lead out of the labyrinth’s center, and all of them knot up together the farther out they go. Claire chooses one path at random and slides her piece over the board, following its twists and turns—until it twists and turns in on itself in an endless loop. Claire’s eyes water. She goes back to the beginning, chooses another path, begins to follow it.

“Time’s up,” Audrey announces.

“Really?” Claire sets her piece down. It feels like thirty seconds have passed, not two minutes. But sure enough, the sand has all spilled to the bottom of the hourglass.

Audrey rolls a five. Claire is certain that Audrey will solve the labyrinth immediately—this seems like one of those games that the owner always wins, like Trivial Pursuit, because they can memorize the board. But Audrey hesitates and starts and stops just like Claire did. And this five minutes actually feels like five minutes. By the time the hourglass runs out, Audrey’s only a bit farther into the board than Claire.

They continue on like that, taking turns rolling the die. Audrey flips the hourglasses. Claire inches forward through the labyrinth, constantly turning back and retracing her steps. She has a difficult time looking away from the board, and the labyrinth looms larger in front of her until it seems to take over the entire room.

The die falls with a soft thump on the bed that echoes over and over in Claire’s mind; it’s amplified, a million times louder. Three minutes. Audrey turns the hourglass, and the movement of her arm is too slow, like she’s moving through honey. Claire is certain she can hear each individual grain of sand as it slips through the hourglass. Three minutes. She turns back to the board. The labyrinth swirls into itself. She touches the green pyramid. The labyrinth writhes, resettles. She gasps: No, she realizes, this is normal. This is the labyrinth.

She slides her piece forward. The scraping of wood against cardboard is loud and shrill inside her head. She reaches a dead end.

“Time.”

It’s Julie’s voice. Claire knocks the pyramid over in surprise and looks up and sure enough Julie sits on the other side of the bed, her long legs folded and her shoulders bare, skin gleaming in the weird pink light of the room. She smiles and Claire feels a fluttering deep inside herself she’s only ever let herself associate with boys.

“Julie?” she whispers.

Julie’s smile brightens, and when she smiles her face changes and she’s Audrey again, Audrey in short shorts and a spaghetti-strap tank top. And then she’s just Audrey in her sundress.

“Six minutes,” Audrey says, and turns the hourglass.

Claire blinks, rubs at her eyes. Julie’s not here. Julie’s at home, talking to Lawrence, trying to stop the monsters from attacking again.

Julie does smile like that, though. Sometimes.

The fluttering returns. Claire tries to shove it away, confused. Audrey slides her piece around the board like she’s dancing a ballet, gliding one direction, stopping, gliding the other. Claire wonders if they’re ever going to finish the game.

The hourglass empties. “Time,” Claire says, although she feels like some other force is speaking through her. What does she care if it’s time? She’d be just as happy giving up, doing something else. It’s only a game. Games don’t have to finish.

But still she reaches for the die, rolls it across the bed.

Six minutes.

She’s nervous as she goes to move the pyramid, nervous and a little excited, although it’s a cold-sweat kind of excitement, excitement that almost feels like dread. She keeps glancing up at Audrey to see if she’s become Julie again. But it’s always Audrey who stares back at her.

Claire moves the opposite direction. She doesn’t concentrate as hard on the board as she did before, not with her constant checking for Julie, and she doesn’t move very far in those six minutes.

“Time,” Audrey says.

Back and forth they go. It ought to be boring, but it’s not. The maze is such a confusing tangle that looking at it makes Claire feel tired, the way she does whenever she sits for tests at school. Her brain aches like a sore muscle.

Part of her wonders if this game is a test, if all of Audrey’s games are tests. But why would Audrey test her? She’s just a pretty cheerleader on summer vacation.

Claire rolls a four.

Audrey rolls a two.

Six.

One.

Three.

Two.

Two.

Four.

Back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes it’s Julie sitting across the bed, sprawled out in skimpy clothes, tangled hair falling around her shoulders. Sometimes it’s Audrey. And even though Claire understands, on a subconscious level, that Audrey is real and Julie is not, Claire realizes that she feels safer when she sees Julie on the bed. Hallucination, she thinks when it’s not her turn, when the fake Julie is hunched over the board, moving her yellow piece through the labyrinth. The word gives her a little chill of fright. She’s hallucinating. But if you know you’re hallucinating, is it really a hallucination? Or is it something else?

The fake Julie looks up from the board and smiles. Claire’s heart squeezes. It doesn’t matter if this is the real Julie or not, she will keep Claire safe from whatever it is Claire fears—not just monsters but the strange fear creeping around the edge of the room, faint but insistent. It’s like walking down a hall by yourself, late at night. You know there’s nothing there, but you still feel eyes staring at you out of the shadows.

Only Claire feels eyes staring at her out of the maze.

She waits until the fake Julie has been replaced by the real Audrey. Waits for the hallucination to disappear, along with that warm sense of safety. Audrey rolls a five. As she reaches to turn over the hourglass, Claire says, “Wait.”

It takes a tremendous amount of effort to say that, more than Claire expects. Even she’s startled by the word when it bounds around the room, sounding like a trumpet.

Audrey looks over at her, fingers on the hourglass.

“Why don’t we do something else?”

The words are like molasses, sticky and slow. Like the way time gets whenever it’s Claire’s turn to play. But asking that question makes her head feel clearer than it has all afternoon.

“Something else?” Audrey frowns. “Do you not like playing?” Her lower lip juts out in a childish pout and Claire is struck with an overwhelming wash of grief.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just—” Claire flounders for the words. “I’m a little tired of sitting here, you know? I didn’t realize it would take so long.”

“We’re almost done.” Audrey’s expression brightens. “Look how far from the center we are.”

Claire looks even though she knows the exact location of her piece. She is far from the center, crawling her way around the edge. But it’s a maze. Just because you’re far from the center doesn’t mean you’re close to the exit.

“It really shouldn’t be that much longer,” Audrey says. “I promise.”

“I really don’t care if I win or not—you can say you did. I mean, I’ll just forfeit.”

“Forfeit? This isn’t football.” Audrey giggles. “Why don’t we see it through to the end? It’s important to finish things.”

That last sentence bangs around in Claire’s head. Yes. It is important to finish things. Hasn’t she been taught as much all her life, by her mother and father and teachers at school? It makes sense to her even as she knows her will is weakening.

“Especially this,” Audrey says, although she speaks in Julie’s voice. “If we stop early, then the obfuscation won’t be finished.”

Claire jerks her head up. Audrey is Julie again, and Julie is stretched out on her side, one hand draped over her hip.

“The obfuscation?” Claire says.

But Audrey-Julie ignores the question. “Come on,” she says, “it’ll be fun. You’ll feel so satisfied once you get out.”

That’s too much. Claire doesn’t want to say no to Julie. So she nods, and on her next turn, she rolls a three.

Two.

Six.

Six.

One.

Two.

Four.

On it goes. There’s a rhythm to the game—the thump of the die on the bed, the click of the turned hourglass, the whisper of falling sand. Sometimes when Claire looks up, Julie’s staring back at her with an expression that reminds Claire of the covers of certain magazines, and her stomach flip-flops around and it’s difficult to concentrate on the maze.

Claire is distantly aware of the light changing in the room, the glow of pink sunlight fading until there’s only the harsh, sharp light from the ceiling fan. She’s distantly aware that this isn’t a good thing. But at the same time, as she inches forward on the maze, she’s struck with a shivering thrill—I’m almost out, I’m almost out—and so they keep playing.

Claire rolls a six. The hourglass flips. When she looks at the maze she can’t exactly see her way out, but she can sense it, a light at the end of a tunnel that exists only in her head. She picks up her pyramid and slides it along the board. The way clicks into place. Left turn, right turn, loop back around.

The sand falls.

The pyramid moves across the board.

And Claire sees it, the exit. It’s so obvious now that she’s at the end, the way it snakes and threads through itself.

Claire pushes her piece out of the maze.

Audrey bursts into applause. “You won!” she cried. The hourglass runs out, but it doesn’t matter; the game’s over. “See, wasn’t that worth it?”

Claire rubs her forehead. She feels like she’s waking up from a fitful sleep.

Those thoughts that had been in the back of her consciousness come rushing forward. “My God, what time is it?”

“What?” Audrey frowns. “Oh, did you need to be home by a certain time?”

“Yes! Five o’clock.” Claire twists around, trying to find a clock in the frilly decorations of Audrey’s room. She finally spots one on the dresser drawer, an old-fashioned alarm clock beside a neat stack of Seventeen issues. It takes her a moment to decode the jumble of lines and numbers.

Nine thirty-five.

It’s nine thirty-five.

“Oh my God!” Claire jumps up from the bed, knocking over the board. The two pyramids and the die go rolling across the floor. “Oh my God, Grammy’s going to kill me!” The strangeness of the game has been forgotten; she only has a vague memory of seeing Julie in Audrey’s place, and of Julie’s voice saying the obfuscation.

An SAT word. Claire learned it last year in English. Obfuscate. Verb. To render obscure or unclear.

None of that seems real now. The only real thing is Grammy’s fury. “I have to go. Why didn’t you tell me?” She glares at Audrey, who sits primly on the bed, her hands folded in her lap.

“I didn’t know,” she says.

Claire glowers and runs out of her room, out into the black and white of the rest of the house. All the lights are on. Audrey’s little brother sits watching an old TV show, Father Knows Best, in the upstairs landing. He looks at her when she rushes past, the TV light shining across his face, his eyes blank.

A chill ripples through her.

She bolts down the stairs. There’s a strange smell down here, like sugar burning. When Claire goes through the living room a man is reading the newspaper in a sweater and house slippers. Smoke twists up from a pipe.

He sets the paper in his lap and looks at her with the same empty expression as Audrey’s brother.

For a moment Claire is frozen, like his eyes have caught her. Why didn’t Audrey come downstairs with her? Isn’t that the normal thing to do? But then, she rushed out of the room so quickly.

The man lifts his paper again.

Claire turns around. Her heart’s beating too fast. The house hems her in. The rooms and hallways remind her of the maze on the board game. Like she has to roll a die to find her way out.

No. It’s just a house. The foyer is attached to the living room, like most houses.

She leaves the living room without saying anything to the man, who she assumes is Audrey’s dad. She doesn’t see Audrey’s mom. But she makes it to the front door. It looks the same as when she arrived. Claire turns the lock and pulls it open and she has a moment of terror that she’s not going to see Indianola.

But of course she does: There’s the neat front yard, the weird rosebushes, Audrey’s car parked in the driveway. Her bike leans up against the garage.

It’s full dark.

Shaking, Claire leaves the house and picks up her bike. The day’s heat lingers on the air, a reminder that it’s not too late. But she’s probably going to get grounded again.

She climbs on her bike and rides home.

The porch light is on at Grammy’s house, glowing a sickly yellow. June bugs flit around it and cast pale shadows against the wall. Claire wheels the bike into the garage.

She starts formulating stories, excuses: We went to the beach and Audrey’s car broke down. No, better: Someone sideswiped her and we had to deal with the insurance claims. Her parents took us to dinner and I didn’t want to be rude. Her little brother got sick and we had to take him to the hospital—

Claire takes a deep breath. None of these sound believable; all of them could be checked on. Maybe she should just tell the truth. We played a game and lost track of time.

She goes inside.

The TV’s blaring. It doesn’t sound like the ten o’clock news. Northern Exposure, maybe. Claire creeps in, easing the door shut. The kitchen lights are off.

“Claire?”

Grammy doesn’t sound angry. She doesn’t sound worried either.

“I’m so sorry,” Claire starts, moving into the living room. “We lost track of time—”

“It’s all right.” Grammy mutes the TV. Claire stops short. This is the last answer she expected.

“I didn’t fix your dinner—” she starts.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I asked Carol Chase to bring me something from Munro’s.” Grammy twists around in her chair. “There are leftovers in the fridge, if you’re hungry. Did Audrey feed you?”

Claire stares at Grammy. She has no idea what to think. Grammy gives her a pleasant smile.

“Well, I hope you had fun at least.” She turns back around in her chair and picks up her remote. “Oh, and that Alvarez girl called. You know I don’t like her.”

She sounds angrier about Julie calling than about Claire coming home late. Claire backs out of the living room, into the kitchen. The refrigerator hums. Claire realizes she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten all day. They were playing that game. She can barely remember it now, only that it took a long time. Monopoly? It must have been Monopoly.

Claire opens the refrigerator. A little foam box sits on the shelf next to the bread and the pitcher of tea. She takes it out, dumps its contents on a plate—some kind of meatloaf, it looks like—and sticks it in the microwave. When it’s done she takes the plate and a Coke and a fork into her bedroom. She wants to be away from Grammy and the constant chatter of the TV.

She’s got a hollow feeling that stems from more than hunger, a sense that something’s been carved out of her. That it’s been hidden away, tucked out of sight. Obfuscated.

She puts on her music as she eats, that mix tape from Josh. Josh. God, she’s hardly thought about him all summer. Funny how he was all she could think about in the spring.

When Claire finishes eating she doesn’t feel satisfied, but she doesn’t think food’s going to help her. She thumps the plate on her desk and lies back on her bed and listens to the music swirling around the room. The lyrics seem nonsensical to her, the music discordant. She switches it off. The house is silent; no TV noise. Claire pushes off the bed and steps out into the hallway. All the lights are out. Grammy must have gone to bed.

She creeps into the kitchen and picks up the phone and dials Julie’s number.

It rings twice. Julie picks up.

“Hey,” Claire says. “I’m sorry about calling so late—”

“Not a big deal. We’re all still up.”

Julie’s voice is like a favorite blanket. Claire slumps back against the wall, feeling relieved.

“I’m sorry about calling you earlier like that. My grandma wouldn’t let me get to the phone and then she made me go hang out with Audrey.”

“Oh God. I can’t escape that girl, between you and Lawrence.”

“It’s not me!” Claire says in a fierce whisper. The last thing she wants is for Julie to think she actually likes Audrey. “It’s Grammy. She keeps pushing us together!” She sighs. “Anyway, did you find anything out?”

“I talked to Mr. Vickery. The committee’s big thing is that they can’t intervene unless a monster actually hurts someone. But since there was property damage he said he’d look at the report.”

Claire is struck with a kind of desperate hopelessness. “But that’s his job, isn’t it? To deal with renegade monsters?”

“Theoretically.”

“What about the police? Or Lawrence? Did you talk to Lawrence?”

“The police don’t handle the monsters. Out of their jurisdiction—human bad guys only.”

Claire sinks back on her bed. “Are you sure we can’t call, like, the National Guard?”

“Wouldn’t work. If you try to talk about the monsters to someone who’s not in town they just act like they didn’t hear you.”

This is basically what Audrey said, weeks ago, when Claire first learned about the monsters. She sighs.

“But I’ll see if I can get Lawrence to help. I couldn’t talk to him today, he was working and then studying, but I’ll try to find out something tomorrow. And my dad’s out of town right now, but when he gets home, I’ll talk to him too.”

Claire closes her eyes. “Thank you,” she says softly.

“It’s nothing, really. I don’t like the idea of monsters messing with you.”

Claire looks up at the ceiling. She feels warm. Flushed.

“Anyway,” Julie says. “Do you still want to see Aliens next week? At the theater?”

“What? Aliens?” The word clangs in her head for a moment like a warning bell. Then she remembers. The first one was Julie’s favorite movie. Monsters—fake monsters—stalking through a spaceship. They’d watched it together. It was good.

“Sure. I know it sounds nuts, but movies with made-up monsters always make me feel better about the real thing. It’s like—if you make a movie about monsters, you can control what they do, y’know?”

“I guess.” Claire rubs at her forehead. “But yeah, I’ll go see it. Is there really a movie theater here?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty crap and only has one screen, but they like to show old movies every now and then, and we are super lucky to get Aliens.”

“Cool.”

“I know! Friday night only. Do you want to come with me?”

“Sure,” Claire says, and then her brain fills in, It’ll be like a date. She blinks. Why did she think that?

“Awesome. I’ve already taken some time off work. I promise seeing this movie will make you feel better. It always does me. Works like a charm.”

Claire isn’t sure about that, but she still likes the idea of spending an evening out with Julie. It’s a little glimmer of light in today’s darkness. “I’ll just have to butter up Grammy a bit. Do plenty of chores. But she did unground me, so I should be all right.”

“Excellent.”

They chat for a few minutes more, mostly about the movie and all of Julie’s favorite parts. But then the conversation shifts, away from monsters entirely. They wind up talking for another hour. When Claire finally hangs up the phone, she no longer feels empty.