Fade (6 page)

Lucy woke to the raucous yells of a busload of teens and went cold.

“Boo!” A thin girl, her long, blonde hair bouncing as she plopped down in the seat next to Lucy, cracked up laughing when Lucy jumped.

“Whoa! You just scared the crap out of me,” said Lucy.

“You were so in another world.”

“Yeah, just… fell asleep. Had a funky dream.” She stilled herself. “Can’t really remember… what it was now,” she said, for the most part to herself.

“Well, wake up to the wonderful world of Benson Junior High bliss, honey. We’re almost there.”

“Whoopee.” Lucy said with an empty smile.

The girl went on talking, but Lucy was stuck on the needling idea that she needed to remember something. Her friend went back to her own seat after a while and the smile Lucy had been wearing for her went with her, a face from her dream sending it away. Something about that face made her angry and afraid; it made her think of that morning and the things that had happened with her stepfather. Her eyes strained to push back tears. If she could run, she would run. If she had anywhere else in the world to go, she would be gone forever. But that wasn’t how the world worked. Lucy would be there tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. She would be the happy, good girl until some knight in shining armor took her to a distant land, far, far, away. And that would never happen.

The bus pulled in and the kids began pouring off. Lucy gathered her things, then pulled her backpack into her lap as she sat down again, watching as every other person got off. It did not seem odd to her in the least as they wandered down the sidewalks to their respective classes while she sat. An intense blue light caused her to squint, cover her eyes, and in that moment before she was taken Lucy remembered her dream.

***

Cynthia sat hunched over her drawing pad. The teacher, white noise; everyone in their desks around her, a mile away. She concentrated on each line like they might be angry at her if she put them on the page wrong. Blocks of black, red and orange filled the white, making what might have been anything. It was nothing, but at that moment it was everything.

Cynthia had been up all night. Joey called, starting the afternoon off with a little pot. Then someone had pulled out some ecstasy. After the weird stuff she’d seen that day, she’d hemmed and hawed for half an hour before taking the X. But the little, yellow pill with a cartoon duck stamped on it ended up winning that argument. She’d rolled right into sunset, which was when someone had shown up with dope.

In the past, she was a straight pot smoker, like a lot of people at Black Oak. But she had, in recent times, started experimenting with a little coke here and there. She liked it. It took the edge off. It also
had
one hell of an edge, but of a much better kind than reality. But Meth was something she said she’d never try. Cynthia liked her teeth, and had no ambitions to put drain cleaner, and whatever else those loser mad scientists decided to throw in for good measure, into her body. But after the X, the Meth seemed like the perfect icing on her crazy cake.
In for a penny, in for a pound
, she’d hollered. Besides, the night was young, and her roll was diminishing.
Why not, right?

Her mom was pulling an all-nighter at the factory and Taco Bell did not require her expert services that evening, so she was free to do her thing. That night, like many nights these days, her thing was to put vast amounts of narcotics into her system and just let it all go. She didn’t want to think about the junk she had to put up with at school because she wasn’t a prep, or a cheerleader type, or the damned homecoming queen. She didn’t want to think about her mom’s constant worry that they weren’t going to be able to pay the rent on their pile of shit apartment. She had no desire to feel the constant push of her mind, telling her how worthless life was, and that checking out was better than wading through. She especially wanted to forget the
occurrence
—which she was calling it—even if drugs
were
the cause of it. (
User Logic
, she called it.) Cynthia wanted to forget. And she did.

She swept a bright red line down the side of the page and began the tedious job of penning in filigree. The bell rang, but she sat a while longer, determined to finish the creative thought.

“Cynthia. Get to another class you won’t pay attention in,” her teacher said icily; Cynthia didn’t look up. One more line and she reached down, took up her book bag and trotted down the hall to…
Geometry,
she thought.

“Dude!”

A hand grabbed her and she stopped. “Hey, Jan.”

“I tried to call yo—” A smile broke out across Jan’s face. “You are so freaking messed up right now.” She laughed.

Cynthia looked around, then laughed an awkward laugh back. “I know.” She pulled her notebook free from under her arm. “Check out my drawing.” The book fell open to the colorful page she’d been working on, on and off (mostly on) for the past six hours.

“Beautiful,” Jan grabbed her friend’s arm, “now come with me to the car. You gotta go home, chick.”

“No,” she pulled away. “Seriously, I’m straight.”

“Oh, how I wish you weren’t, you sexy vixen. But you are
not
okay to be here.”

Cynthia coughed a laugh, leaned close, and whispered in a confidential tone, “Seriously?”

“’Fraid so, my friend.” Jan took her arm again and began to lead her to the door. “You will thank me later. Even though my history test grade will give me a stern talking to when I get back.”

Jan pulled Cynthia into the parking lot and all but tossed her into her passenger’s seat. “We’ll go let you chill for a while and then come back and get your car.” Jan climbed in and stared at her friend. “What the hell have you been doing?”

Cynthia smiled. “I tried Meth. I could run a freaking marathon, bitch,” she cracked up and pushed Jan.

“You are one fucked up girl, Cyn. We shall have a serious mother-daughter talk when I come get you from my house later.”

“Ah, don’t get all maternal on me, ho. It was just one time.”

“Shut up, don’t call me a ho, and pick a song.”

“Sublime when I’m high!” Cynthia laughed.

“No. Sublime is weed music. You are high on crystal. That deserves more of an inbred, country music soundtrack.”

“That is
so
wrong. You are
not
cool. …Oo!
I need to draw
. You drive.”

“Deal.” Jan shook her head.

Cynthia breathed in the stale smoke stink of the car and started drawing round curls of smoke on the edges of the page, framing everything that had come before. She was almost through when the crunch of Jan’s driveway broke her concentration. “I don’t think I want to do that stuff anymore,” Cynthia said.

“Yeah. Probably a good idea.” Jan glanced at her friend. “The coke too?”

“No, I’m good with the white stuff. I just don’t like tweaking all day.” She stared down at her pad. “This picture is awesome though,” she laughed again.

“Okay,” she handed Cynthia a key, “you go lay down in my bed, watch some TV and I’m going to make up some excuse about my period and see if Mr. Rakes will let me make-up my history test.”

“Right on.” Cynthia got out of the car in slow motion, stood up straight, stared at her friend’s small, white house for a moment too long and then took a stumbling step toward it. She stopped halfway there and turned to wave. Jan shook her head again and waved back as she backed out of the driveway. Cynthia closed her eyes and smiled at the crunching gravel. It sounded to her like corn popping.

The door whined open, and the jingle-jangle of a bell preceded a small, brown yapping Chihuahua dancing across the frayed, brown carpet at her. It shook and reared to jump, but she waved it away. “No, Kissy.” The dog started away, looked back, then jangled over to its worn bed in the corner and lay down, still staring at Cynthia with unblinking, inky eyes as she disappeared down the hallway.

The smoky smell of the house wasn’t much different than that of Jan’s old Metro, except that the odor of eggs, bacon and biscuits still lingered in the air from that morning. Old smoke, fried breakfast foods and the light bouquet of dog wasn’t the most pleasant of combinations right then. She snarled her lip, holding her stomach, as she walked toward Jan’s bedroom, suddenly thinking that she wanted to draw a dog. Maybe she’d call Kissy in later and have her sit for her. But it would be an abstract version of Kissy—all twirly with detached, wet eyes hovering longingly, like Kissy was unraveling.

“Is that you, Janet?” Cynthia stopped, a chill running down to her gut.
Nice, Jan. Don’t tell me Grandma Lois or Aunt Jude from Ohio, or where-the-hell-ever is here.
“You home early?”

Cynthia took a deep breath and came close to the door. “Um. No, ma’am. I’m a friend of Janet’s, and she told me I could drop by for a little while, if that’s okay with you. I’m feeling sick.” She stared down at the bit of light coming out from under the closed door and found herself lost in it for a moment.

“Oh. Well, that’s fine, dear.” Cynthia brought her head up and laid it on the door.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Pret.”

“What?”

“My name, child. And I’m fully clothed. You can open the door if you like.”

She let out a long sigh and opened the door. Another smell, that of old, soaked-in sweat and what she assumed were various mentholated ointments joined in the olfactory party.

Pret’s smile was pleasant. “Come. Have a seat.” She patted a chair next to the bed with the slow, wavering motion of a fragile geriatric.

“I… I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to get you sick.” She lied again.

“Oh, I’m a strong old lady. A little bug won’t kill me. I won’t keep you long.”

Cynthia eyed some pain pills, hydros, sitting next to the bed and wondered if she could abscond with a few at some point without the old lady knowing. “Okay,” she said.

“Good girl. Now… where are you from, um…?”

“Cynthia.”

She smiled that grandmotherly smile again and repeated her name like it tasted sweet. “
Cynthia
. Where are you from?”

“Um, I live on the other side of town.”

“Always?”

“I mean, I’ve lived in other apartments. A house when I was smaller. But, yeah. Always here. What about you?”

“I’m from here and there, sweetie.”

Cynthia nodded, and looked about the room. She didn’t think she’d ever been in this room all the time she’d known Jan.

“Do you play checkers?” The woman asked.

“Huh?
Oh
. Not since I was little, no.”

The sagging skin around Pret’s mouth bunched, the wrinkles deepening as she frowned. “Too bad. I like games.”

“I mean, it’s not a hard game. I can play if—”

The woman interrupted her. “Oh, no. I thought of something better. I do
palm
readings. That’s
fun
. Would you like to indulge an old lady in an old parlor trick?” Pret smiled once more and Cynthia shrugged with her own half-smile, finding herself sort of interested in what the woman might say. She didn’t believe in that sort of crap, but it was the closest thing to fun she’d gotten since being pulled into the lady’s room.

Cynthia poked her flattened hand out, and Pret sat up, taking it like it was food and she hadn’t eaten in weeks. She stared at it, serious, examining each crease and curve, and then began to explain. “This line here,” she dragged a thin, bone-white finger down the arch of the line closest to her thumb, “is your life line.” She moaned in dulcet tones to herself. “Far too long, child.”

“What does that—?”

“This here,” she poked a long, thick, yellow nail into another line. “Well, you’ve had a hard life. It will get harder. I promise you that.”

“Wow, a little morbid for a parlor trick, Pret.” She joked, but something about the way Pret’s eyes gobbled up her hand shook her.

Her almost white eyes lifted to Cynthia’s. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to enjoy a kill like this.”

Cynthia stood, pulling her hand with her as she took a step back.

Pret smiled. “Some of my people think it’s pointless. But they don’t understand that ripping someone apart from the inside out is
just
as fun as the other way.”

Cynthia was crying now. She turned, confused, ran to the door, which was a wall now.

“You don’t even know Jonas, do you?” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t understand that. He didn’t die. He’s how we found you.” Her head shook. The bed was gone, and Pret stood where it had been. “
But that’s a question for him
.” Her chest jumped up and down like someone were trying to escape from inside as the old woman laughed.

Cynthia beat against the wall until it felt like her bones would break. The walls began to creak. Dust from the drywall puffed out. The room closed in on her like a hand. Blue light began to show through the cracks that became gaps that became a foggy real world, cast in cobalt. The last thing she saw before she passed into unconsciousness was the thing from the hall at school. The last thing she saw was its jittering, horrible face.

***

A cool palm seemed to caress Jonas’ throbbing forehead. Coming in and out of wakefulness, he imagined that it was Elizabeth who’d somehow found him, across worlds, and would smile that smile of hers if he opened his eyes. But they were so heavy, and he didn’t want her to stop touching him. It had been far too long since he’d felt that. He could have sworn that he heard her whisper her love right before full consciousness rushed at him like a possessing spirit and he opened his eyes.

His head rested half in the mud and half in a slough, its water rocking into his face due to a quartet of ravens bathing several feet away. He moved. They fled. A few squawks and the sound of beating wings against the air followed them. There was no Elizabeth, and he frowned, weakening. Sitting up, he flung his long, wet hair out of his face, then wiped at a wad of mud on his cheek. A deep breath. It was the sole sound to be heard in the woods aside from the low, chirping buzz of locusts. The time he had spent in these woods was a fuzzy mess, in and out of reality. But as he sat there, he felt stable. The mind-quakes were over and he was himself again. How he had gotten there in the first place was still a mystery though. He had a vague impression of teenagers standing in the back of a truck, laughing down at him. But the memory felt untethered, frustratingly without context, like a half-remembered dream that seemed important.