Another Little Piece (3 page)

As if he knew, Rice Sixteen’s gaze turned toward the stands and latched on to me. Surprise, shock, and something I couldn’t name rippled across his face—and then the other players surged around him, hiding him from view. 

Nausea replaced hunger. Drool turned to dust. Had I really wanted to take a bite of another person?

In that moment it became clear: there was something seriously wrong with me. But was this something new to Annaliese or a problem she’d already had? I turned to the mom, already knowing she wouldn’t react well to the question of whether I’d had a problem with cannibalism before I’d disappeared, and trying to think of another way to phrase it. Instead, she was the one who had a question for me.

“Annaliese, did you recognize Logan?” Her eyes, even I had to admit, looked amazingly similar to my own. A cloudy shade of blue that shifted chameleonlike depending on what other colors were in close proximity. Right now they were twin wishing wells, begging me to toss a penny in and give her a chance to make my dreams come true.

“Who’s Logan?” I asked. The light faded away, and the mom’s eyes sank back into the dark circles beneath them. Not for the first time, I regretted causing this nice lady so much pain.

She wasn’t giving up that easily, though.

“Logan Rice? The running back?” She pointed toward the field, although Rice Sixteen had, along with the rest of the team, headed back into the school, leaving the field empty.

“Were we friends?” I asked, trying to remember, trying to understand my disturbing reaction to him. But I already knew the answer. That boy was one of the popular kids—the kind with the inner spotlight, drawing others closer. I’d already figured out enough about Annaliese to know she couldn’t have been anything but another mosquito, hovering nearby.

“Well, no, I don’t think so,” the mom admitted hesitantly. “He’s one of those boys who everyone knows, and I thought you might remember him.”

Next to me, the dad snorted. “She doesn’t remember us, you think she’s gonna remember a boy she probably never even talked to?”

The mom didn’t say anything in response, just made this soft little mewing noise that was her response to being hurt. Hearing it, the dad, as he always did, immediately apologized. And then we stood, and were carried out with the rest of the crowd.

When we’d arrived at the game halfway through the first quarter, I’d caught whispers of “That’s her. There she is. Annaliese.” Now, though, in the parking lot, my classmates were braver . . . or drunker. They yelled “Welcome back” at me in the same rowdy way they did “Go, Panthers,” with a long “Whoooooo” tacked on to the end of the phrase, as if my return was something to be celebrated along with their football victory. With the slightest encouragement, they might have picked me up onto their shoulders and paraded me through town like a trophy.

I couldn’t think of anything worse. The mom’s fingers brushed against mine, and I gladly grabbed hold of her hand. When we finally reached the car, she sat in the backseat beside me and kept the same steady grip the whole way home.

It would have been comforting, except I couldn’t escape the thought that maybe I should warn her. There was a chance I might one day try to bite that same hand off.

ANSWERS AND QUESTIONS

A COULD-HAVE-BEEN

A could-have-been destroyed.

Although “might have” only in my mind.

How awful to have mini moments of maybe slain.

A betrayal—the worst kind.

One that exists only in my mind.

How tragic to know

I’m not second best.

I wasn’t even in the running.

How horrific to make such mistakes.

To mourn a fantasy,

and find it meant so much.

How . . .

how pathetic.

—ARG

DETONATION

By eight thirty that night I was in bed, staring up at the ceiling, where star-shaped stickers arranged into smiley-faced constellations glowed dimly in the darkness. It was early to be in bed—even I knew this—but I couldn’t stand to sit in front of the TV watching it while they watched me.

As I lay there, I did what I’d done during every free moment since I’d woken up in that cabin a few weeks ago. I tried to remember. Dr. Morgan, the hospital psychiatrist, told me not to try so hard, that the straining could actually make it more difficult for the memories to resurface.
Resurface.
That was the word he used, and even then, I thought of them as bobbing beneath murky waters, just out of reach. Still, I couldn’t stop going on my fishing expeditions.

I don’t know what time I drifted off to sleep, but when I woke, the red numbers on the bedside alarm clock told me it was ten after two. In the desk chair at the other end of the room, the mom slept, hunched in on herself, her neck folded so that her chin rested on her chest. It looked horribly uncomfortable, but every night she was there, until around eight a.m., when she tiptoed back out, believing I was none the wiser. I’d come to find the sound of her soft, rhythmic snores soothing in their constancy, like listening to a recording of waves breaking.

Tonight, though, the noise grated against my nerves. I tossed and turned, trying not to think about the way my stomach had clenched with that sudden hunger at the football game. I stared into the darkness, wishing for a distraction. And suddenly, there it was. Whirling blue-and-red lights leaked between the blind’s slats and splashed across the ceiling.

I lay still for several long moments, gazing at the lights, waiting to see if they would wake the mom. When they didn’t, I slipped out of bed and down the stairs. For pajamas I’d taken to sleeping in my hospital gown, feeling now, as I did then, that it was the only thing that truly belonged to me. Reaching into the closet by the front door, I pulled out the first thing my fingers grabbed hold of—a gigantic puffy parka that covered me to midthigh. Even though it wasn’t that cold out, I pulled the fur-edged hood over my head, figuring it would counterbalance my bare feet.

The front door opened soundlessly and I slipped into the night to watch the spectacle taking place across the street. I didn’t know how I’d slept through so much of it. Music with a heavy bass beat pounded from the house, and, almost as if they were running from that punishing beat, the interrupted partygoers streamed out the front door, taking off in various directions. Of course, the reason they were fleeing wasn’t the music, but the two cop cars sitting in the driveway. The cops didn’t pay any attention to the mass exodus of teenagers, except to pull aside those who were obviously staggering.

In the middle of this a girl cried. Loudly. Histrionically even. Despite the tsunami-size tears sliding down her cheeks, it was obvious she was faking. It wasn’t that her acting was all that bad; maybe it’s just impossible to buy the crying of someone clad in a string bikini, especially when she stands in a way meant to show off her body to the best possible effect. And that effect was impressive. She looked like her body had been made for bikini wearing. Or maybe vice versa. Either way, this girl could not simultaneously rock the bikini and look believably distraught.

I drifted across the lawn, wanting to hear what the girl was saying—“But I told you, I was in the hot tub; how was I supposed to know they’d broken into the liquor cabinet?”—when I realized the maple tree that grew out of the patch of grass between the sidewalk and road was staring at me.

When I took a step closer, the tree separated from the person leaning against it. No, not a person. A boy. The same one from the football game. Rice Sixteen.

Except this wasn’t the grinning, confident boy from before. This was a different, stripped-down version. It wasn’t just the absence of his uniform and pads, which had been exchanged for a dripping pair of swim trunks. It seemed like something internal had been removed as well. He didn’t lean against the tree, so much as sag. The expression on his face was limp, too—his mouth slack, the staring eyes heavy-lidded. Despite his muscled bare chest and legs on display, nothing about this boy made me hungry.

I took a step closer and the reason for his inertness reached my nose. He was drunk. I wondered if he even knew who I was, but the answer came quickly enough when he whispered my name.

“Annaliese? That really you?”

Good question, I wanted to tell him, but I figured he was looking for a more direct answer, so pulling back the hood, I said, “Yes.”

“I thought you were dead. Everyone thought you were dead.”

Actually, the first words the mom said to me were “I knew you were alive. I always knew.” Again, though, I didn’t want to complicate things. I nodded.

“Please, don’t be mad at me,” Rice Sixteen said, and his voice cracked. His head dipped into his chest, and it reminded me of the mom, still sleeping in the chair upstairs, making me wonder if he’d fallen asleep as well, but he looked back up at me and there were tears running down his face. These tears were real, and they flowed faster than he could wipe them away, until finally he scrubbed at his face in frustration. All the while the words were coming at me. “I’m sorry, so so sorry. Please believe me. If I’d known you were alive, I’d have said something, but I thought you were dead, so why let people talk, why make things harder, when it wouldn’t change anything. And I know it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left you out there. I shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t have been together at all—not like that. Especially not out in the woods. I shouldn’t have—I shh-shh-shh—”

He stepped away from the tree and lurched toward me, arms out, still babbling about what shouldn’t have happened—although it was impossible to say exactly what that was. His volume increased, his earlier whisper giving way to full-voiced desperation. Then his arms clamped around me, and his big head flopped onto my shoulder. Suddenly, I was the tree holding him up, and I felt similarly rooted to the ground, helpless to shake him. His words were impossible to decipher now, just sounds mixed in with syllables. Not knowing what else to do, and realizing that we were starting to attract attention, I told him, “It’s okay.”

It’s easy to grant forgiveness when you don’t know what it is you’re forgiving, but apparently it’s harder to accept it, because he stumbled away from me, wildly shaking his head.

“No! You don’t understand. I heard you. I pretended I didn’t, but I did. You said, ‘I love you,’ and I walked away. We’d just done it and I walked away and left you alone in the woods. I walked back to Kayla, and I left you there, still . . . still lying there, and I pretended I hadn’t heard you say it.”

His words were a grenade. You could see the shock waves spreading out from the epicenter, hitting the people who had quietly gathered around us. There were gasps of shock. A shriek of anger. More than a few giggles.

But the main detonation was inside of me. Because his words triggered a memory. My first from the time before I woke up to my new life.

LOVE AND LUST

I walk through trees, not a forest, but a dense little copse that separates two subdivisions of oversized houses, giving the occupants on either side the illusion of privacy and seclusion. The bass thump of party music pulses in the distance.

At the deepest part of the almost forest, where the motion-sensored security lights of the houses can no longer penetrate, I slow my pace. I’m listening, looking for something. Then there it is, the crunch of dry leaves. Not the crisp crackle that even my softest footsteps produce, but a softer
shuska shuska
of the same leaves being ground into dust. Another step and I hear ragged breaths, interspersed with an occasional low groan. Not even lifting my feet, I slip closer, until they come into view.

There really isn’t much to see. His dark hoodie covers his upper body, while his jeans are only jerked down to his knees, leaving an inch or two of bare leg exposed before his baggy boxers cover the rest of him. Beneath him she is almost invisible, her dark hair disappearing into a tangle of dead leaves. Only her pale white legs give her away as being there at all. Jeans bunched around her ankles force those legs to jut out at awkward angles on either side of him. Her little silver heels, silly with the jeans, even sillier here in the dirt, are still firmly fastened to her feet by their rhinestone-studded straps.

I’d hoped they’d be done by the time I arrived. High school boys can’t be counted on for a lot, but a quick finish is almost always a guarantee. I wonder what the hell he is waiting for when he gasps, “I’m gonna . . .”

“Yeah, okay.” There is no mistaking the relief in her voice. Clearly, they’ve been here long enough for all the romance of this encounter to be as ground into the dirt as shiny silver shoes.

The corner of my mouth kicks up into a half smile, as if I think it is funny how quickly this girl has been stripped of her romantic illusions. Inside, my gut is twisting. This is the least of what I plan on stealing from her tonight.

The boy doesn’t notice the relief in her words. He has too much going on, what with trying to stay quiet and stalling his imminent orgasm, to worry about subtext. Still, he persists in his questioning.

“But you, you came, right?”

“Um . . .”

“You didn’t, did you?” His movements stall completely. “It’s just I don’t wanna . . . if you didn’t.”

Finally, she grasps the problem. “No, no. I did. Really. A . . . a couple times actually.”

There’s no way he’ll believe that, I think, at the same instant he says, “Oh, wow. Wo-ow.” Overcome by the idea of his own sexual prowess, he gasps and shudders. And into that moment she whispers the words “I love you,” so softly I’m left wondering if I’ve heard them at all.

He heard them though. As much as he must wish he hadn’t. An inability to orgasm first and catlike hearing are apparently the double curses of this particular youth. Finished, he keeps his body held stiffly above hers for what feels like an eternity. Long enough for her to hope he might say those same words back. Long enough for her to believe this wasn’t a terrible mistake.

At their feet, his cell phone beeps, announcing an incoming text. He grabs for it and his pants in one graceful movement, pulling the jeans to his waist, the phone to his eyes.

She knows then. As she sits up slowly, her long, dark hair swings forward, hiding her face and the tears threatening to fall.

“It’s Kayla. She’s looking for me.” It’s an apology. Of sorts. And a request.

She grants it. “You should go.”

“Yeah.”

But he doesn’t. He hesitates. Tilting his head back, he studies the shadowed treetops, then his eyes follow the long lines of the branches to where they join the trunk and from there sweep all the way down to the roots in the ground that jut out toward Annaliese. His whole body jerks back, like he’s surprised to see her there. No, like he’s awakening from a dream. Already he can’t quite remember how he got here, what it was that drew him to Annaliese, a girl he’d never even noticed until two weeks ago.

His hand scrubs through his long hair. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

A small sob shakes Annaliese’s body. She chokes most of it back, only allowing a tiny hiccup of sorrow to escape.

“Don’t cry, please. I didn’t mean . . . I’m not saying it was bad. It was great, probably the best I’ve ever . . .” He stops. As if hearing the words out loud and realizing how terrible they sound. “And you had fun too, right? I mean, you came, like, how many times? Not like you were counting, but . . .”

His phone beeps with another text message. Reading the message, he curses softly. “Kayla says someone saw me heading out here. She wants to send a search party.”

These words finally spur Annaliese into motion. She reaches forward, grabbing hold of the jeans still bunched round her ankles. “You should go.” Without looking, she can sense his hesitation. “Really. Go.”

He takes two shuffling steps backward, but his eyes are still fixed on Annaliese, needing some further dismissal or release. “But you’re okay, right? I mean, I know you said it wasn’t your first time or anything but . . .”

Of course it was her first time, you idiot. I want to beat the words into him, anything to transfer some of the responsibility away from myself.

Annaliese forces a little laugh. “Really, I’m fine. It’s no big deal.”

And that’s enough for him. Mumbling, he edges away. “Okay, yeah, okay. See ya around then.”

His words linger behind, even after his body has faded into the darkness.

I shift slightly, but not enough to give myself away. Not yet. Usually when it’s this bad, and goes this wrong, they start to cry right about now. It seems unfair to cheat her of that too.

But Annaliese surprises me. She stands up, brushes herself off, and then pulls out her cell. Flipping it open, she begins tapping away at the keys. Her hands tremble and a few sniffles escape, but mostly she manages to hold it in. Probably waiting to cry until she reaches the safety of her own room, where no drunken partygoers might accidentally stumble across her.

Unfortunately, there will be no safe haven for Annaliese tonight.

Or ever again.

I step out of the trees.

“Hey,” I say.

She blinks in surprise, and then recognition.

“Oh, it’s you.”

I say nothing. Experience has taught me less is more.

“You were right,” Annaliese says now. “Love and lust are different.”

“I’m sorry,” I reply, placing a hand on her shoulder. The apology isn’t for the bargain that didn’t go her way. And the hand isn’t for comfort. It’s a restraint, because this is when many of them try to run away. “It’s time to pay.”

“Now?” She doesn’t know what the payment is; none of them do up front. Some guess. Not exactly, but they know it will be a price higher than they wish to pay. Annaliese, though, has no idea. She has been sheltered and thinks that evil is something you see in movies and on the nightly news. Her reluctance is because she sees my demand as an inconvenience, rather than something she should have been dreading and fearing ever since we made our unnatural deal.