Perennial (3 page)

I cut through the library and straight past the assistant
principal and media specialist, both of whom say nothing to me as I exit the
massive media center. I’m in a terrified haze that I figure must be some sort
of panic attack. My heart thumps wildly, and I’m dizzy to the point where I
fear I might pass out in the hallway. Dad’s voice is in my head, saying what he
always says when I have an especially bad freak-out moment:
Breathe slowly
and deeply, Alix. Be a master of your actions as opposed to a prisoner of your
reactions.

It takes a minute, but I manage to calm myself just as I
reach my locker, where I get what I need and head down the wide, empty hallway
toward the student parking lot in the back of the school. I’m skipping out
early, and if a hall monitor or any other adult questions me I’ll say I’m sick
and ready to puke, which isn’t too far from the truth.

Information. I need it. I need to know what happened in our
house, if anything. Maybe Lewis is simply messing with my head. Regardless, I
need to know what Perennial is and why I dreamed about it. Am I some kind of
psychic? Is this some new ability I’m developing? I hope not.

God, just keep me normal. I don’t want any weird shit in
my life, okay? Now or ever.

I’m fifty feet from the rear entrance doors and only steps
away from a hallway to my left when it happens. A large, fast-moving figure in
dark clothing rounds the corner with lightning quickness and squeezes me in a
bear hug that feels like a powerful vise. He lifts me off my feet and presses
my face so hard against his chest that I’m unable to speak. I try screaming but
manage nothing more than a muffled grunt.

He carries me a few feet and stops. I know how to fight. Dad
has taught me hundreds of self-defense techniques over the years, but I can’t
do anything against this kind of strength. I try to at least squirm a little
but can’t move an inch. Something squeaks. It’s a door opening. A few more
steps and we’re inside. The door thumps closed behind us.

Silence. Just my heavy breathing. Whoever he is, he’s calm.
I can barely hear his breathing. Smells like chemicals and soap in here.
Probably a custodial closet. I stop resisting in order to conserve energy. If
this sicko has any sexual intentions, all I need to make sure he never pees
again without medical assistance is one free limb.

“Listen to me, Alix.” Definitely a male voice, deep and
scratchy, but I can tell he’s exaggerating those aspects to mask his real
voice. He tightens his grip around me. I grunt again as the wind escapes me.
“Stay away from Perennial,” he says, sending a fresh wave of nausea through me.
“You don’t want anything to do with it.” He pauses. “Think of me as your
guardian angel, but I can’t help you unless you listen to me.” He relaxes his grip
slightly, but nowhere near enough for me to strike. “I’m leaving now. Don’t
make a sound until you count to ten in your head. I’ll know if you cheat, and
you won’t like the consequences, understand?”

All I can do is emit another grunt. He must take that as a
yes, because the next thing I know he shoves me. I stumble over what must be a
bucket and crash onto a concrete floor lined with plastic and metal containers.
Sharp pain ripples through me as he exits and slams the door, but I don’t even
count to one before I’m up and yelling for help.

I reach for the door handle and turn it. Locked. I
repeatedly pound both fists on the thick metal with everything I have,
constantly shouting for somebody to open the door. I want to burst into tears,
but I realize that won’t solve a thing. I have to keep myself together and get
through this.

It takes a few minutes, but the door finally opens, and an
elderly male hall monitor with bad posture and thinning gray hair stares at me,
wide-eyed.

“You okay, miss?”

“I think so,” I say, stepping out of what is indeed a
custodial closet. “Somebody played a joke on me. It’s nothing. Thanks for letting
me out.”

“Teenagers,” he says, shaking his head as I slide past him
and exit Beaconsfield High just as the dismissal bell rings.

Tuesday night, sitting on the living room sofa with my
tablet, debating whether to dig deeper into what I want to know but am afraid
to learn. Dad’s working, but even if he was here I wouldn’t tell him what’s
happening. He has enough to worry about with his job. The closet encounter was
terrifying, but the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced my “attacker”
actually was trying to protect me from something.

What is Perennial? What happened at 1326 Maple Grove Street
in Beaconsfield, Michigan?

The slim computer in my lap is a potential gateway to
answering these questions, but shouldn’t I bury my curiosity and resist the
urge to turn it on and search the Internet? Dad and I chose Beaconsfield so
that I could enjoy a quiet senior year in a great school. Despite all the drama
of day one, I should do what I’ve always done and what Dad’s always suggested: keep
my nose clean and stay out of trouble. I’ve always been good at that.

But what do you do when trouble finds you? I haven’t asked
for any of this. It’s come to me, like an unwelcome illness. I want it to go
away, which means I need to know what it is in order to figure out a way to get
rid of it.

Information.

I Google “perennial Beaconsfield, Michigan.” The search
results are discouraging and consist primarily of perennial garden plants that
thrive in Michigan. Not at all what I need, of course. I scroll pages and pages
into the search results and even change the search terms a few times. Still
nothing, not even a hint of what or who Perennial is.

After a quick mental break, I type our complete address into
the search bar and add the word “history” after the zip code. All I see are
real estate links from when the house was for sale. I click through some of
these but don’t find anything of interest besides how much Dad paid for the
house, which was actually far less than what I imagined. After several pages of
unproductive browsing and increased frustration, I decide to call it a night.

And that’s when a link that reads “What Happened to
William?” catches my attention. The title is so different from the other
listings. What can a question like that have to do with this house? I squint to
make sure I’ve read the text correctly. Sure enough, I have. I take a deep
breath, click the link, and find myself staring at a two-year-old blog entry.

Then my phone vibrates with an incoming text.

The text is from an unknown number. The message reads: “
U
should’ve listened, Alix
.”

I drop the phone, cover my mouth, and stare at the computer
screen, hoping this is all one bad dream and that I’ll awaken in the safety of
my own bed at any moment.

Part of me wants to scream and run out of the house, but all
that will do is attract unwanted attention and upset Dad. I could calmly leave
right now and drive to Dad’s station, but his current undercover status means
he doesn’t really have a home base. There’s the emergency cell number of his
that I’ve never had to call or text, but he’s reminded me more than once that
the number is a last resort. In other words, I’m not to contact him unless it’s
a true emergency.

Hmm … let’s see: a mysterious man shoved me into a
custodial closet today and told me to stay far away from the elusive and
mysterious Perennial. And now that same so-called guardian angel just sent me a
threatening text because I’m trying to learn about the history of my new house.

I’d say that qualifies as a true emergency.

Still, I rely on Dad so much. Rely on him for everything
really. Always have. I’ve never made a move without his blessing. Last night I
had a dream that’s proving to have some strange connections today. There’s not
much he can help me with there, and he’ll think I’m insane if I mention
anything remotely related to psychic powers. Dad despises the paranormal world,
especially psychics. He says psychics have harmed far more criminal cases than
people are aware of. According to Dad, for every psychic who actually provides
useful information to law-enforcement authorities, there are at least
twenty-five who lead them in the wrong direction.

Think and breathe, Alix. Don’t react. Just think. Handle
it on your own. You’re safe here. Nobody is in the house, and Dad should be
home soon. Besides, you know where the emergency gun is if you ever need it
.

I retrieve my phone from the floor and lay it beside me. No
new texts. Good. Next I focus my attention on my tablet, where the two-year-old
“What Happened to William?” blog post awaits me. Somebody obviously has my
phone number and is tracking everything I do on my computer, meaning I won’t
use our wireless network or this tablet again, but the blog-post page has
already loaded, so I might as well read the entire thing. After all, my
guardian angel–stalker knows I’ve accessed it.

The post is from an obscure, short-lived, and quite
anonymous blog called
Vagabond’s Warrior
. I say short-lived, because
“What Happened to William?” is the only post on the site. The blog has no page
links and no mention of an author for the lone post.

This is what I read:

W
HAT
H
APPENED
TO
W
ILLIAM?

William Weed was no saint. He had serious problems. We all
know that. But William is dead now, and there’s nothing we can do to bring him
back. The official story is William committed suicide in his own bedroom by
firing a bullet through his brain—he was another addict who took the easy way
out—but anybody who knew him knows that scenario is highly unlikely.

William wasn’t suicidal. He was trying to break Perennial’s
hold on him. But Perennial won. William knew Oval City better than anybody,
even Face. In the end, that’s what killed him. William knew too much and got
too close. Rumor is he had something big on Face, something to do with Aruna’s
disappearance.

Anybody reading this needs to know that somebody murdered
William Weed. What happened at 1326 Maple Grove in Beaconsfield that night
wasn’t suicide. It was murder. Problem is places like Beaconsfield don’t want
murders on their hands. Best to make it a suicide, then. That’s easier to
explain and accept.

Bottom line: the Beaconsfield orchard of goodness and
perfection lost an imperfect apple, and that suits the citizens of Beaconsfield
just fine.

Somebody needs to dig Perennial out of the ground and expose
it. Only then will the truth emerge. Only then can William and others find
peace. I wish I could do the digging, but that’s impossible due to
circumstances beyond my control.

His photograph appears below the last sentence, the caption
“We miss you, William” centered below the photo in a tiny font. He looks about
eighteen, shirtless in black cargo shorts and sporting two full sleeves of
colorful, fresh-looking tattoos. I squint in an attempt to detect a theme to
his body art, but the picture is too small and not of the greatest quality.
Although he’s wearing sunglasses and a backwards black baseball cap, I can tell
from his high cheekbones and muscular body that William had no trouble finding
dates. I’d always pictured drug addicts as scrawny and weak, so I figure this
photo must be from before he developed his habit.

Despite all the initial fear, a surprising calmness washes
over me as I experience further connections to Dream Guy. Words like “Oval
City” and “Face” dart through my mind, smaller pieces of a larger puzzle I
can’t seem to pull away from. As crazy as it sounds to my structured and
analytical mind, I sense that Dream Guy was perhaps William Weed or a type of
spirit energy of his making contact with me.

Two years ago something violent and awful happened in one of
the five bedrooms in this house. As much as I’d like to push it all away, last
night’s experience with Dream Guy seems to make more sense by the minute. I’m
deeply connected to real danger for the first time in my life, but I’m now
convinced that I possess some sort of psychic ability that can help people. Of
course, I’m basing all of this on one dream I had less than twenty-four hours
ago. This could simply be a one-time experience, but there’s no way I can
ignore feelings this strong. I’m involved in something whether I like it or
not.

It’s terrifying, yes. But what’s more terrifying is that I
find the danger exciting as hell.

I give in to a sudden urge to click the Refresh button on
the browser. The page reloads with something new, a blank white page with six
words centered across the top:

You just broke ground. Keep digging.

Three loud raps on the thick front door take my breath away.
I nearly drop the tablet onto the floor. I think about the gun again but first
decide to crouch and dart across the huge living room toward the large window
overlooking our palatial front yard. I glance at the clock on the TV and notice
it’s just after nine—not as late as I thought. The surprise visitor rings the
doorbell, and I take a moment to peek through the lower corner of the drawn
plantation blind

Lewis Wilde stands on the long, white, well-lighted wooden
porch that spans the length of the front of the house, Lewis wearing stylish
dark jeans and a long-sleeve black V-neck tee, his wavy black hair looking
salon fresh. My heart rate spikes at the sight of him. There’s something about
him that is unlike anything I’ve ever seen in a guy. I suppose “perfection” is
the word. What worries me most is that he seems like the type of guy I might
make regrettable decisions over. Good Lord, Mom would lecture me something
awful if she knew I was having thoughts like this over a guy. As for Dad … well,
I can’t even imagine.

I’m just crouching here, gawking at Lewis’s improbable
beauty, when he looks my way with surprising speed and waves to me. All I can
do is roll my eyes and stand, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels when I
open the door and stand face-to-face with Mr. Supermodel.

“Hi, Lewis,” I say, finding it easy to get lost in his
aqua-green eyes.

“Hey, Alix.” His minty breath blends with the late-summer
smells of leaves, pine trees, and freshly mown grass. “I told myself I wouldn’t
come over here, but here I am. I would’ve texted, but I don’t have your
number.” He pauses. “Is everything okay? I mean, one second you’re listening to
me explain my research topic, and then,
boom
, you’re freaking out over
some stupid rumor about how Mr. Watkins died.”

“I owe you another apology,” I say, forcing myself to look
away from him as I step onto the porch. There’s a surprising chill to the air.
I wrap my arms around my shoulders as I scan the street for any sign of
somebody watching. Satisfied, I turn and lean on the porch railing, saying to
Lewis, “I overreact sometimes. I’m sorry. It’s been a lifelong problem I’ve
never quite gotten under control. Drives my dad crazy.” I shrug and raise my
eyebrows. “I know what happened, by the way.”

“Everybody knows now,” he says. “I can’t believe somebody
shot Mr. Watkins seven times at close range. The news said he was killed
execution style. And how they found him in one of those abandoned buildings in
Oval City …” He makes a disgusted face.

“I’m not talking about Mr. Watkins,” I say, although I find
the new details interesting, especially the mention of Oval City. “I’m talking
about this house.” I nod toward the front door behind him. “No wonder my dad
got such a good price.”

“You know about William, then?”

I nod and say, “I don’t see why you didn’t just tell me.”

He steps toward me, barely three feet separating us now. I
notice hints of muscularity beneath his tight long-sleeves that were impossible
to detect under the black Beaconsfield hoodie earlier.

Lewis says, “I didn’t think today was the best day to tell
you somebody was murdered in your bedroom two years ago.”

“William’s death was ruled a suicide,” I say.

“Do you really believe that, Alix? I hope not, because it’s
a bullshit story, and deep down everybody around here knows it. The police
buried it and made it go away. His death barely made the papers.”

“Did you write the
Vagabond’s Warrior
blog?” I ask.

“
Vagabond’s Warrior
?” he says, squinting and giving
me a look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Whatever,” I say, standing and distancing myself from him.
“What I’m really wondering is how you know where my bedroom is.”

That catches him off guard, and I can tell he knows he made
a mistake. Trying to recover, he looks beyond me toward the yard and says,
“Look, it’s not what you think, okay? I’m not that guy.”

“And what ‘
guy
’ is that, Lewis? You mean the high
school perv who spies on female classmates to a get a look at them in their
most private moments? Jesus, you remember who my dad is, right?”

“Like I said, I’m not that guy. Trust me.”

Somehow I know he’s telling the truth, so I shake my head
and say, “I’m guessing you knew William.”

“Yes,” he says, his stunning eyes locked on mine again. “I
knew William well. That’s why I get pissed whenever somebody says he committed
suicide.” He lowers his gaze. “We called him Willis, by the way. His good
friends did anyway.”

“You said you just moved here and are living with your
grandparents while your parents are in China,” I say. “If you knew William—or
Willis, that is—you couldn’t have lived too far away.”

“Our house is over in Eastland,” he says, referring to Beaconsfield’s
eastern border city. Eastland isn’t as wealthy as Beaconsfield, but it’s
definitely an upper-class suburb. “William and I met at the Oakland County
Alternative Academy during freshman year. We’d both been in a lot of trouble at
our middle schools, so our districts made us start high school at the academy.
We clicked right away. Eventually, I stopped using and got my act together.
William didn’t. I spent a year there and went to Eastland High as a sophomore.
William dropped out of the academy and never went back to school.” Lewis
shrugs. “But we always stayed in touch. I tried to help him turn things around,
but it was pretty clear he preferred me as a friend and not a peer drug
counselor. I could have spent my senior year at Eastland High, but I guess you
could say I needed a change of scenery.” He shifts his gaze away from mine and
looks around the stately neighborhood. “When I found out my parents were off to
China for a year, I jumped at the chance to finish high school in Beaconsfield.
I mean, who wouldn’t?”

“What room did he die in?” I ask, aiming an outstretched arm
toward the house.

“Your bedroom,” he says. “I already told you that.”

“And what room is my bedroom?” I stare hard at him. “Indulge
me, okay?”

There’s a silence during which we gaze at each other and I
feel something important but unspoken pass between us. The cold air seems to
intensify, sending a shiver through my body that reaches my bones. Lewis’s
dazzling lagoon eyes appear brighter than ever. A hint of a smile crosses his face.

“William died in the bedroom above the living room,” he
says, aiming an index finger directly above us. “The room that is now your
bedroom.”

I fold my arms across my chest and study him. “Who are you,
Lewis?” I say in almost a whisper.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never had a day like this in my life,” I say, feeling
heat building behind my eyes.
God, don’t cry, Alix. Keep it inside, girl
.
“I play by the rules and keep my nose clean,” I add, definitely fighting a
flood of tears. “I’ve never been in trouble for anything.”

He smiles in a way that scares me.

“Something’s happening to me, Lewis,” I say. “Good or bad, I
don’t know, but somehow I know you’re connected. And I think Mr. Watkins is
connected. The same goes for William Weed.” I pause. “What can you tell me
about Perennial, Oval City, Face, and Aruna?”

“Aruna? Nobody’s seen her since before William died.”
Lewis’s troubling smile widens, revealing a set of perfect snow-white teeth any
dentist would love to advertise. Then he emits a short but disturbing laugh
that only adds to his overall mysteriousness. “Look at it this way, Alix,” he
says, smile fading, “maybe you’re finally discovering who you really are. And
that’s something you can’t fight no matter how hard you try.”

“You need to leave,” I say, trembling. “Now.”

“I know.” He closes his eyes and seems to sniff the air.
Then he opens his eyes and says, “I’m sure your dad will be home soon. We’ll
talk later. Don’t worry. You’re safe for now.”

He extends his right palm toward the left side of my face.
My heart pounds, but I don’t fight it. Lewis Wilde stops himself at the last
possible moment and pulls his hand away just before his fingertips touch my
skin.