The Creeping (3 page)

It's the only thing I told the cops until I lapsed into a silence that lasted a week. After that week was over, I emerged from my quiet as though nothing had ever been wrong. I started first grade with all the other normal kids that fall, showed no signs of post-traumatic stress, and by all grown-up accounts, developed like a healthy and happy kid. Translation: I'm not nuts.

Maybe it didn't keep me up at night then, but it does now. Now I lie awake beating back the sharp-toothed dread and horror of six-year-old me whispering furiously, “If you hunt for monsters, you'll find them.”

I shake my head to clear the thought. Zoey sneaks glances behind us as we trudge through the woods. We've worn a trail over the years that makes it easy to reach the clearing off the road where we park. Once inside Zoey's SUV, Michaela's nervous laugh is like a dam bursting, and we all join in. Snuggling up against the soft leather interior, scrolling through Zoey's iPod, and breathing in the familiar smells of coffee sludge at the bottom of paper cups and cake-scented lip gloss make the freaky stranger in the woods seem far away. I'd expect this from the others; they live for drama-induced adrenaline. But I know better. At least I used to.

“Tonight should be interesting, since we're all total crackheads already,” Zoey says with a laugh, steering the car on to the highway and accelerating quickly. The conversation turns to senior trip ideas and boys; within five minutes it's as though our lake day ended just as unexceptionally as it always does.

Six hours later I stand bent at the waist, blow-drying my hair. It's longer than it's
been since I was a kid, and I grimace when I think about how easy Zoey's pixie cut is to style. My hair has a natural wave to it that takes hours of styling to coax it into anything not resembling a rat's nest. I flip my head over and am still working on it when the doorbell rings. Dad is home, but he'll figure that it's for me. I hurry through the hallway and catch a glimpse of him hunched over his desk in the office. Only his small stained-glass lamp is switched on.

“Dad, you're going to go blind if you don't use the overhead,” I say, popping into the room and flipping the switch. He looks up from the document he's skimming. His wire-rimmed spectacles rest low on his nose, and he looks surprised to see me home.

“You look nice. You and Zoey going somewhere?” he mumbles. This is my absentminded father for you. We had his famous pasta primavera with shrimp for dinner just two hours ago, and he's already forgotten I'm home. A lawyer first and everything else second. I understand that this, plus a bunch of other crap I don't know about, is why Mom left us five years ago. Don't get me wrong, she's still a wicked witch for the way she did it. Having an affair with Dad's partner at his firm and then copping to the affair on their anniversary in front of all our friends and family was deranged. Not to mention—surprise—humiliating for me. But that is my whack-job mom for you. A woman who I only see at Christmastime now that she's busy starting her
new
family in Chicago. She and my stepdad, who I despise as much as I do lice or any other grubby parasite, are trying to get knocked up.
Can you imagine?

I nod, but Dad isn't even looking at me anymore. “Day of Bones, you know. I'll be late, and the girls might sleep here. Is that okay?”

“Hmmm? Whatever you think, Pumpkin. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

I take the stairs two at a time and run through the foyer. I fling the door open and yell, “I'll grab my bag!” before leaving Zoey alone on the porch.

“You said you'd be ready for us at eight. Michaela and Cole just drove up too,” she whines. Zoey doesn't like to be kept waiting, even for a moment.

“I know, I know,” I call. The shrill sound of Zoey wailing my name dogs me as I search wildly for my navy Converse tennis shoes. I make it back to the front door, where Zoey is kneeling on the carpet, scratching our cat's tummy. Moscow is a Russian Blue that we've had since I was a baby. Dad jokes that he must have a robotic ticker for a heart.

“Good-bye my chunky prince,” I coo, stooping to pet his chubby belly. I snatch my keys off the table in the entryway and lock the door behind us.

Zoey gives me a sideways glance as we walk to the driveway. “You are aware that tennis shoes are only for PE and peasants, right?” I roll my eyes at her, but my cheeks burn a few degrees warmer when I sneak a peek at her red platform pumps. It's like no matter how hard I try, I always come out dressed like a big kid, while Zoey's clothes scream hotness.

In the driveway Michaela's leaning against my car door, and Cole's
sitting cross-legged on the hood. Cole tips a pink flask to her lips, and Michaela says, “Did you drink driving over? James Hammer got a DUI last summer and his college found out and they didn't let him come back for sophomore year. Now he lives in a studio with two roommates and buses tables at a Denny's.” Cole winks at her and tips the flask to her lips again. I think (not for the first time) that Cole is a lot more like Zoey than Michaela.

Once in the car, Cole's excitement for the bonfire is infectious. She practically vibrates. Zoey sits shotgun and turns the music up full blast; the thumping bass makes my old Volvo's speakers rattle. Despite the bizarre afternoon, this is normal. This is my comfortable. I smile at Michaela's reflection in the rearview mirror as she studiously applies her lip gloss. Her parents get weirded out by their “baby girl” wearing makeup, so she usually forgoes the argument and does it once she's left the house. She could probably apply flawless eyeliner during a rocket launch after doing it in the car enough times.

We follow Savage's main street through downtown and keep going when it narrows into a snaking two-lane highway, running toward Blackdog Lake.

“So why this one place? Is Day of Bones always at Blackdog?” Cole hollers above the music. Zoey swats my hand when I reach to turn the volume down. She cranes her neck and twists to face the backseat.

“Yes, it's always at Blackdog!” she shouts. She'd rather holler than stop swaying in her seat. “Most Wildwood High bonfires are, even though there are a shit-ton of lakes around Savage. But there's only
one spooky cemetery, and it's right along the shore.” A chill runs up my arms, and I alternate holding the steering wheel with each hand to rub the eerie sensation away. I hope no one notices me spazzing out before I can get a grip.

“Omigosh, a cemetery? That is so spectacularly morbid,” Cole says, straining against the seat belt and pumping her hands in the air.

Michaela pipes up, “You don't know the half of it. It's our equivalent of a lookout point. Everyone drives there to make out, and the place is packed with cars on the weekend. Windows all steamy. Everyone hooking up among the dead.”

“Have you ever?” Cole asks Michaela. Michaela gives a fluted laugh and falls into being engrossed in the contents of her clutch. She's the least experienced of us—by choice, obviously—but she's still spent a handful of nights getting groped at Old Savage Cemetery. Who hasn't? She's just not the type to kiss and tell.

“We all have,” I say. Most girls are shy talking about hooking up. I refuse to be. Guys shouldn't be the only ones talking about that stuff.

Zoey shrugs and winks at Cole. “Sure, it's actually kind of romantic when there's a big bonfire. Some of the tombs are absolutely to-die-for gorgeous. It's not like we're making it lying on top of a mausoleum, although I'm sure that's happened. We at least do it in our cars.”

We wind deeper into the woods, following the serpentine highway to the lake's secluded eastern shore. The pine trees grow denser and taller, their boughs weaving a tight canopy, until they shut out even the pale light of the moon. For miles there are no houses, no
signs of life, no buildings, no other cars. After a while I turn off the highway to take a dirt access road. A gleaming white skeleton is fastened to a wooden post marking the drive. It's secured with a thick rope, limbs dangling limply in the breeze. I'd know the turnoff even if not for Scott Townsend's dad's skeleton. Dr. Townsend is a pediatrician, and every Day of Bones, Scott kidnaps the skeleton from his study. It's even kid-size, for God's sake.

“Gross, is that real?” Cole asks.

“That's Scott Townsend's. Our girl Stella here went out with that loser for a whole year,” Zoey shares gleefully. “Alas, though, in eighth grade she broke his heart.” I roll my eyes at Zoey's melodramatic tone. It was way more sitting at the same lunch table and exchanging locker combos than it was dating.

“Zoey thinks every guy who isn't varsity in at least two sports is totally worthless,” I explain.

“Um, and they are,” Zoey replies, scandalized. “Why would any of us waste a single minute on someone who isn't killing it in high school? It only gets harder from here on, folks, and if you can't cut it in high school, the world is going to chew you up and spit you out.”

I look at Zoey out of the corner of my eye. “You do realize that I could rattle off a list of, like, a hundred names that proves your theory is crap, right? Like, aren't most bajillionaires losers in high school?” But Zoey has turned her attention to reapplying her mascara and stares mesmerized by her own reflection in the rearview mirror. This is my Zoey: absolutely obsessed with bagging the most popular guys and always pursuing her idea of high school glory. And she does a bloody
good job of it. Three-time homecoming queen, lead in five Wildwood drama department productions, and most Internet-stalked girl in Savage. Zoey is in it to win it, even if it's not a competition. And she's my life raft, my comfort blanket, the sister I never had. She's kept me sane through my parents' divorce, through years of Jeanie aftermath, through high school, which everyone knows is a living hell without a popular girl as your spirit guide.

Michaela and Zoey don't agree on a lot, but they do see eye to eye about killing it in high school. Michaela just doesn't value prom crowns and social chairs. While Zoey has a monopoly on pursuing
social
glory, Michaela's pursuing tomorrow's glory. She believes her ticket to college, a career as the founder of a monolithic social media site, and marrying some czar's son or a progolfer is to take every honors class in math and science, every year. Michaela is likely the only person on the planet who could have made our twosome a threesome in the eighth grade and not gotten herself kneecapped by Zoey over the last four years. They have nothing in common except me and wanting to be the best at what they do. And thankfully, they want different things.

What I want is a little harder to define, blurrier. I'm not possessed to be the best like Zoey and Michaela. I've tried a bunch of activities—from my childhood stint playing the violin, to freshman year as the world's least peppy cheerleader, to sophomore year in yearbook. Dad says I'm well rounded; Zoey says I have commitment issues.

The only thing that's stuck is writing for the
Wildwood Herald
. Originally, I joined the paper to fluff out the activities portion of my college apps, but when my first article about sex trafficking was printed—very
edgy stuff in comparison to the puff pieces on sports teams and marching band trips my colleagues produce—I was hooked. Just staring at my name in bold black font next to the word “by” gave me a sugar rush. Here was an article that was by me instead of about me and Jeanie. Sure our school newspaper is only a four-page newsletter that masquerades as a news-bearing paper, but it's better than no experience if I want to write in college.

Cole—and I'd never say this to her face—is kind of an experiment. Girls have been vying to get in with the three of us for all of high school. It wasn't until Cole strolled through the quad on a Monday morning in white jean short-shorts, strappy sandals, and a
DEATH TO HIPSTERS
T-shirt that Zoey took notice of a newbie. Every guy in a hundred-yard radius froze as her wavy blond hair caught the wind. I think it's the first time Zoey ever felt fear. Don't get me wrong, Zoey's way hotter than Cole, and that's not just my bestie-love talking. But exotic things have a unique appeal to guys, and a girl from a SoCal beach town is as exotic as it gets. Zoey knew she had a choice to make. When we met up in the parking lot to go off campus for lunch, Zoey had Cole in tow.

I've always thought Zoey could be one of those grand-master—although she'd insist on calling herself a grand-mistress—chess players. She understood that it was better to make a friend than to see the new girl become her rival. Don't wage a war you can't win.

My car groans and shudders as I accelerate over the dirt road riddled with potholes. After a sharp right turn, we emerge onto a gravel lot. There must be sixty or seventy cars already. I park alongside
a burnt-orange Mustang that I recognize as Taylor's. Cole jumps out of the car before we even stop. Zoey winks devilishly, leans over the emergency brake, and practically purrs, “You know we won't be mad if you ditch us and end up making it with Taylor.”

“Doubtful. I'm still freaked over earlier.” She flicks her wrist like it was nothing. “Plus, I don't really relish my first time being in a cramped backseat on the anniversary of . . . you know.”

Zoey juts out her pink-gloss-coated bottom lip in a pretend pout and then grins. “I understand. Let's just have the best night ever then, 'kay?”

She tucks a rogue wisp of hair behind my ear as Michaela reaches for my keys and adds, “I'll drive you home the nanosecond you want to go.” I smile gratefully at them both.

“Hurry up, lesbos!” Cole yells from outside the car, dancing on her tiptoes.

Out of the car, the pulsating music makes the ground quake; the bass works its way into my bones, and I can't help but look forward to dancing under the stars. A few hundred yards from the shore, we walk through a labyrinth of parked cars. With every step, the details of the bonfire zoom into sharper focus.