Authors: Susan Vaught
Did I hurt her?
No.
But…
Last Saturday is such a mess in my head.
No.
I promised. Don’t talk about it, don’t even think about it, let it go, put it away because I promised and I always keep my promises to Sunshine but maybe I should try because this is an emergency and emergencies change things but when I try my head gets louder and louder and I can’t stand it and I can’t think and I can’t see anything at all but black swirly clouds and the clouds are talking and—
“Son, is there something you need to discuss?” Dad’s voice makes me jump.
“No. I—the pills.” I rub my right ear and the sound of my fingers against my skull eases everything for a few seconds, everything but the horrible pound-hurt-pound in my chest where my heart’s supposed to be. “It’s hard to think sometimes.”
Dad gives me a little smile, so I know I’m acting calmer than I feel, which is good. I think. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and something flickers in the brown depths as he studies me.
Monsters. Dad has monsters in his eyes. God, how stupid is that? Get a grip.
Keep
a grip.
“I know your medication muddles your thinking,” Dad says. “And Chief Smith will understand. You just do your best. Let’s head over to Sunshine’s house. I’ll call your mother on the way.”
She looks like Sunshine
.
That’s about all I can think when I see Ms. Franks. Different last name because she’s married to Karl with his stupid mustache. She’s older, with shorter hair, and darker skin from lying in tanning beds—but she’s got the black eyes, so wide and dark and deep they might be shards of the universe trapped in a person’s soul.
She looks like Sunshine, sitting there with Chief Smith in his blue-and-gray uniform, writing on his notepad while Dad stands beside them and nods and watches and pinches his eyebrows. I’m sitting across from all of them and I’m being quiet because—
Sunshine would be here if you hadn’t been stupid, if you’d walked her home, if you hadn’t done bad things like you knew you shouldn’t, you stupid ass. How could you be so stupid? Stupid
is, stupid does, stupid is, stupid does. Nobody’s stupid. Everybody’s stupid.
—But Ms. Franks really looks like Sunshine, with her petite build, her bird bones and bird fingers and the way her bottom lip trembles and she looks to the side when she talks. She’s sitting with Chief Smith on the nice leather couch in the nice hardwood living room of Sunshine’s very nice, very big three-bedroom townhome. We could put three or four of my apartments in here. The whole place smells like apples and that makes me breathe funny because—
Your house smells like apples your room smells like apples I tell her but you smell like honeysuckle it’s in your hair and on your skin and everywhere around you and she says it’s my shampoo but I know it’s her it’s really her, that she’s made of soft yellow-and-white blossoms with just that one drop of too-sweet honey waiting inside but when I try to tell her that she laughs at me and says no silly I mean it it’s my soap but she kind of likes the idea that she’s made of honeysuckle flowers because she says you really don’t think like everybody else Jason and then before she starts crying really crying with that sobbing that tears me up inside she says there’s lots of times I wish I could think like you
—“We’ve checked the school, the bus,” Chief Smith says from somewhere far away. “We’ve done a first walk of the route, and nothing’s apparent.”
And then his lips move because he’s talking, but I’m
not quite hearing him or he’s not making sense until the last couple of words, which are “… saw her.”
And he’s looking at me, and I’ve got no clue except to think that he’s got even less hair than Dad, and the two of them look enough alike to be brothers.
“Sorry,” I mutter. When I look at Dad, Dad nods at Chief Smith.
The chief of police is a decent guy, polite and nice most of the time, and he eats dinner at our house at least once a month, so he knows me a little bit. I know when he’s being patient and when he’s just trying to look patient, and right now he’s halfway in between.
“I need you to tell me your day, Jason,” he says, sounding like people always sound when they have to repeat themselves to me. “Start with getting to school, the first time you talked to Sunshine, and take me through the last moment you saw her.”
“I got on the bus just after seven,” I tell him, watching Ms. Franks sit with her hands folded and her chin trying to dip down and make her stare at the floor and she looks so much like Sunshine it actually hurts me like a chest punch. “Drip rode with me, but Sunshine wasn’t on the bus, because her brother gives her a ride most mornings.”
“Eli.” Chief Smith makes his notes. “Got it. What did you and your friend Derrick discuss on the ride?”
“I don’t remember what Drip and I talked about,” I tell him, using Drip’s nickname because to me it’s his real
name like Freak is mine, and it’s not anything bad or to be ashamed of, being who and what we are. When you’re an alphabet, you have to be real about the things you can be real about, since everything else is so complicated. “Something about
Quest Nine Thousand
, probably. It’s a game we’re playing. We got to school around eight, and—”
And she’s waiting near the front door so quiet and turned away and almost invisible because I see her before Drip and my heart jumps funny and I leave him digging through his book bag to see if he forgot his English homework and I get to her first and her black eyes shine when she looks at me actually looks at me right at me and way down deep inside as she asks are you okay and my heart jumps funny again because I can’t believe she’s asking me that because I should be asking her that but she promised me and I promised her and whatever I need to remember it’s all gone from my head because I promised and there’s nothing but black swirly clouds where last Saturday used to be and then Drip’s there and
—“And we all met up at the front door of the school, and we went to class.” I try to smile but I probably don’t because of my alphabet and—
Liar. You lying little piece of trash. Liar, liar, pants on fire. Not lying, just not telling. Not telling isn’t lying. Not telling is lying. It’s all a lie.
—“That’s it?” Chief Smith’s eyebrows are almost as
thick as Dad’s and they look funny when they’re raised up so high.
“My life’s pretty routine.” I shrug. “Nothing much goes different—not most days, anyway.”
He makes me go through each part of the day, class by class. Yes, Sunshine had her homework. No, she wasn’t upset about anything
that I’m telling you
, she didn’t get in any trouble, no, nothing happened out of the ordinary
on Monday
and his face is starting to blur until it looks more and more like Dad’s, and I have to glance at Dad to remind myself that they aren’t the same person and that Dad hasn’t disappeared or turned into something other than Dad, so Chief Smith can have his face.
Yeah, I know I told you I don’t see things, and I don’t, but sometimes I have trouble thinking about what I’m seeing. Everything can get weird, especially when I’m tense and I’m way past tense at this point and maybe yeah, sometimes I do see things.
Where is Sunshine? This isn’t really happening, is it? I mean, she’ll show up in a second, won’t she? And where is Drip?
I wish he’d get here. I want Drip to come so badly it’s almost like I can will it to happen, but the knock on the door that stops me from talking about the math test and how I hate negative numbers doesn’t sound like Drip’s bumpy thunder-pound. It’s a crisp rap, exactly three knocks, exactly evenly spaced, and I know who it is before Dad nods to Ms. Franks and goes to open the door.
The colonel says a quick hi to Dad, then strides into Sunshine’s living room with a younger woman trotting beside her and slightly in front like a medieval herald. The colonel’s wearing her desert fatigues with a white T-shirt underneath barely showing through the collar. Her light-brown leather boots look dusty. She kisses the top of my head, then says something to Ms. Franks about what she’s wearing, and sorry, training maneuvers.
The medieval herald stands silent, wearing dress greens that probably got pressed an hour ago. No training maneuvers for her. She’s blond, young, looks uptight—but she does have bars on her collar. I rifle through what I know about rank insignias, and I realize she’s a captain, so she’s probably older than she looks.
“This is Captain Andrea Evans,” the colonel says, and she doesn’t say anything else about older-than-she-looks Captain Evans. At a gesture from the colonel, Captain Evans heads to the fringe of the room, near the front door, and just keeps standing there, quiet as can be.
Stupid witch. What’s she doing here? She’s probably just watching you because you’re more stupid than she is. Stupid is, stupid does, stupid is, stupid does. Nobody’s stupid. Nothing’s stupid. There’s no such thing as witches.
Before I can think much more about it, the colonel’s on the couch beside Ms. Franks, and she’s saying, “Do we know anything yet?”
Ms. Franks sits, hands on her knees, staring at the floor, and she shakes her head. Mom pats her hand, and I
realize they’re both tanned, only the colonel’s hands have bigger knuckles and lots more lines. Like her face, her fingers look weathered, and her short brown hair seems windblown with a smattering of natural sun bleach, and frayed at the edges.
Dad joins the circle, and for a few minutes, it’s just the five of us—Dad and the colonel and Ms. Franks and Chief Smith and me, sitting in the quiet living room with Captain Evans the not-witch who is probably older than she looks floating like a light-haired ghost at the left edge of my vision.
“You were going over what happened after school,” Chief Smith prompts, and I tell him about the math test and the teacher Mr. Watson standing too close to Sunshine and making her nervous.
“He does that all the time,” I say. “I’ve asked him not to. I’ve told my folks—pretty sure Sunshine’s told hers, too, but he keeps doing it.”
“I see.” Chief Smith glances at Ms. Franks.
“It’s his job,” she murmurs without looking up at anyone. “He’s supposed to challenge her.”
Whatever. I wish he wouldn’t do it. I keep telling Mom and Dad something’s wrong with that guy, but no one listens.
Chief Smith makes his notes, and then I get to the part about going to the bus. “Roland Harks was there with his friend Linden Green.”
“Harks and Green,” Chief Smith says like he’s talking with his teeth clamped shut. “Familiar with them.”
“They’re in our class, and Roland, he likes Sunshine but she doesn’t like him, and he tried to bother us but Eli stopped him.”
“Likes her?” Chief Smith glances at me, surprised and obviously not quite believing me, which irritates me because what, people can’t be interested in Sunshine? Why? Because she rides a short bus?
Nobody
believes what alphabets say. Not ever.
“Likes her,” Chief Smith repeats. “As in… ?”
Everybody looks at me, Dad and the colonel and Ms. Franks and Chief Smith and even the ghosty-not-witch on the left, and the noise in my head gets louder because of all the eyes staring. I shift in my leather seat. Clear my throat. My face gets hot and so does my throat, and—
Talk, you idiot. If you don’t say something, they’re going to know. Know, know, know your boat, gently down the stream. What boat? Nobody’s talking about boats.
—“Roland calls Sunshine
pretty girl
,” I manage to say, then get double tense at the memory of that and how I wanted to hold her hand or hit him or do both and protect her and make sure Roland knew he couldn’t have her—but I didn’t.
Stupid idiot. Freak. Coward. Yellow, yellow, yellow, freak, freak, FREAK…
“He tries to get her to go out with him,” I finish
lamely, all full of rage and shame and I know why but not really because it’s too confusing, everything I feel about Sunshine especially when I don’t feel much about anything else at all, thanks to my alphabet. “She doesn’t want to. He won’t stop sometimes, but Eli made him stop before we got on the bus.”
Because I didn’t.
Because I couldn’t.
Freak, freak, freak, freak, freak, freak…
“Why didn’t I know about this?” Ms. Franks asks, and she’s staring at me now, which rattles me because she’s Sunshine-Older-Model and she hardly ever stares at anybody. The question sounds like an accusation, or maybe that’s just my alphabet, but the look on her face says that she thinks Roland liking Sunshine is some kind of crime.
“I—” I have no idea what to say, so the colonel says it for me.
“I’m sure the kids didn’t think it was a big deal.” She pats Ms. Franks’s hand again. “Just daily stuff.”
I nod and feel grateful to my mother. At least colonels in the army have a clue about which battles to fight when every day is a war. It doesn’t do any good to try to talk about bullies, because nobody really hears us, and nobody can really do anything. They’re alphabets, too, right? And alphabets like me, we might be confused. We might be making too much out of nothing. We might be a little… suspicious. Paranoid. Maybe we imagined the whole thing.
Chief Smith has been turning pages, and I realize he’s writing names on the top of each one. I see
Eli
go by, and
Roland
, and as I finish my story, he adds
Linden Green
. After some hesitation, I see him write
Karl Franks
on the next page, and Dad’s name on the one after that. When he’s finished, he turns his attention to Dad.
“You were at work when this happened, right?”
Dad nods. “At work, then leaving for home. I follow the same schedule every day because of—”
He breaks off. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say my name. “Because it’s a good idea,” he finally manages.
Chief Smith makes notes under Dad’s name, then turns the page and I’m wondering why everybody got a page and whether or not I have a page and why that would matter, but Chief Smith keeps asking questions, like what time Mr. Franks was leaving to go out of town after Eli’s appointment, and he makes some notes under
Eli
and
Mr. Franks
, and like an afterthought he makes pages for Ms. Franks and even the colonel but not the not-witch, and there’s finally, finally a knock on the door and Dad goes to let in Drip and Drip’s mom, and Chief Smith turns pages all the way back to the front of his notebook—and that’s where my name is.