Authors: Tara Altebrando
Her feet had orders.
Marched toward the playground.
Stood at the center on the springy blacktop.
A warm wind woke an old swing. It squeaked and swung a ghost child.
“I’ve been here,” Scarlett said to no one.
The others came in, too.
She stopped at a red horse on a springy coil, the kind you sit on . . .
. . . and rock.
Sarah was all panic. “Why don’t we remember
where we live
?”
Good. Question.
Better question: Why don’t we remember . . .
everything
?
The horse’s eyes spied. Crickets pulsed. The wind whipped palm trees into whispers.
The world folded in.
This was the Cliff of Scarl e t t.
No idea how she’d gotten here.
The path behind her was wiped clean.
She
knew
the others . . .
. . . and she could not think of a thing they’d done before . . .
. . . this.
Her mind clicked its blankness at her . . .
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/
/
. . . three times.
“We must have been drugged,” Adam said. He was taller and more muscular than Lucas but somehow not as confident.
“Does anyone remember who was driving?” Lucas asked. “Or where we were when we got into the van? Were we all at a party or something?”
Heads shook.
The wind died and the swings froze, a still photograph.
Adam said, “I don’t remember . . .
anything
.”
“It has to be a drug. It’ll wear off,” Lucas said.
Another car drove by: extra lights under the body and bass-heavy music blasting. Scarlett’s heart rattled and settled.
Probably drugs.
If not that . . .
/
/
. . . what?
/
/
Sarah was shaking her head. “I don’t understand what’s happening.” She walked in small circles, rubbing her hands together.
“We should go home.” Lucas held up his map. “Someone will know what’s going on.”
“What if it’s a trap?” Sarah’s eyes were drowning.
“Why would there be a
trap
?” Kristen looked like she was about to hail a cab or hitch a ride. Anything to get away from them.
Adam said, “Why should we trust whoever dropped us off here and gave us these?” He wagged his map around.
“There’s no point standing here talking about it, is there?” Kristen bent, retied her shoelace, and then stood. “I guess I’ll see you guys around.”
She started to walk off, but Lucas grabbed her. “Wait. Just wait.”
“Why?”
“We should have a plan,” he said. “We should, I don’t know, get our story straight.”
“
There is no story
,” Kristen said. “The story is we have no idea what’s going on. So let’s go home. What else is there to do?”
“We’ll go, yes.” He released her arm; she rubbed it. “But let’s meet back here tomorrow night, like eight o’clock. Just to make sure we’re okay, just to make sure we’ve gotten some answers and snapped out of it, whatever it is.”
Scarlett was running into dead ends, circling back on herself.
She was n o n l i n e a r.
L o o p e d.
Cycling back, again and again, to a memory of riding in a hot air balloon—happy, unafraid.
So, yes.
Definitely
drugs.
Had to be
.
“Somebody will be able to explain,” Lucas said. “Somebody will know what happened.”
“What if we can’t get away tomorrow?” Sarah’s circling was surely making her dizzy. “Maybe we should go to a hospital and get checked out.”
“No hospitals.” Lucas shook his head. “Meet back here. Tomorrow night at eight. Okay? And if that doesn’t work out for whatever reason, we try the next night, same time.”
Sarah stopped circling.
Everyone nodded except Scarlett, who looked at her map again.
That red star.
Was the address familiar or just . . . generic? “Scar?” Lucas said.
There was something between them.
Something . . . extra.
Something . . . else.
“Tomorrow night.” Him, again. “Okay?”
Lucas
He couldn’t walk fast enough, pushed his calf muscles to the limit, stretched the very definition of walking.
Not good enough.
Started to run.
Slowly at first—a jog—then faster, his sneakers slapping the pavement hard and loud.
Faster and faster.
The red star promised answers.
Relief.
Sleep.
But he had to stop, bend, breathe, because the world spun.
He was standing perfectly still, but he was on a carousel—
WHITE HORSE GOLDEN REINS
A
BUBBLE-GUM
-PINK TONGUE.
He was being carried around and around while the
SUN BLAZED OFF THE OCEAN, LIKE WHITE FIRE.
He was holding on for dear life and loving it.
He closed his eyes, shook his head and arms, started to walk again, focusing on a point far ahead to try to fight dizziness.
It was annoying, the spinning.
CAROUSEL
HORSE
CAROUSEL
TONGUE
CAROUSEL
WHITE FIRE
What carousel?
He had no time for it.
He took off again, overshot the address he was looking for and had to double back, winded, to find the old red trailer house.
But between there and here, there was . . . what would you even call it?
A sculpture park?
A monument?
Hundreds—no, thousands—of rocks formed a pathway that his feet started to follow. To the right, the path divided off toward a rain-collecting pool. To the left, some kind of tunnel, and ahead, more spiraling walkways and stairs and bridges. It felt ancient. Sacrificial.
Like built on bones.
Still.
Red star.
Answers.
He kept walking, then spotted a figure way up back on the slope: a man in a lighted hat holding a chisel.
His father?
Had
made
this?
Was
still
making it?
“Dad?” he called out, hearing his uncertainty and confusion, and the figure in the distance turned. Standing on a tall platform of stone, the man took his hat off, dropped it, and squinted into the night.
“Ryan?” Sounded confused.
“No.” Ryan was . . . a boy? A brother? “Lucas.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” Now angry.
He started to approach, and Lucas called out, “Not a joke!”
Why would he be joking?
The man inspected him from the top of a ladder-steep set of stone steps—“Oh my god, Lucas!”—and started to run down, and then he slipped and, as if in slow motion, tumbled and bumped and then landed—headfirst—with a dull smack on stone.
Lucas ran to him. “Dad!”
And bent to help him up.
And lifted his head. “Dad!”
And it was all warm and black and all over his hand.
“No.” Lucas stood, backing away. “No-no-no-no-no-no.”
Then, one more try: “Dad!”
Only the hum of the night: distant cars, tree frogs, a far-off motor-boat. The sound of it echoed inside him, his body hollow.
He stood, ran to the house, pounded on the door until it opened.
Ryan.
But not a boy: grown.
“Call an ambulance,” Lucas barked. “NOW!”
“Who the hell—”
“Just do it!”
Then back to the body, ear to mouth.
Hands to chest.
Pumping.
Then, a minute later, Ryan: “Get away from him! What did you do?”
Hands grabbing Lucas by his shirt, hauling him to his feet.
FISTS, ARMS, LEGS,
A PAIN IN HIS JAW.
“It’smeLucas,” between gasps.
They froze.
Ryan stared. “
What
did you say?”
“It’s me . . . ,” he said again. “Lucas.”
Why would his own brother not recognize him?
Then hands again, pushing him back and back and back and his bones hitting stone and Ryan saying, “Where have you
been
?”
And their faces inches apart, Lucas’s skull pressed to the wall and spit from Ryan’s mouth in Lucas’s eye when he said, “Where could you
possibly
”—Lucas now sure his head would crack—“have been?”
AVERY
The phone rang—the clock glowed a red
12:45 a.m
.—but Avery wasn’t going to get out of bed for the landline. It was probably just Dad, all messed up about time zones, on day one of a business trip out west.
And anyway, it was spring break.
The plan was to sleep as late as she could and then make her way to a lounge chair by the pool out back and spend the day there, watching boats go by in the bay. She’d practice for auditions next week and maybe invite Sam and Emma over to hang out and swim. Whenever her dad was away on business, Avery liked to pretend that their house was hers alone. With her mom usually sleeping or shopping, it was pretty easy.
Mom probably hadn’t even heard the phone. She was a “deep sleeper.” Right next to her pill bottles.
But then it rang again and again. Avery heard her mom groan and then say, “Hello?”
Then silence.
Then “Oh my god!” like out of a horror movie.
Then more “Oh my gods.”
Avery kicked off her comforter and went to her parents’ room,
where her mom was on her knees by the nightstand, crying, saying, “No, not yet. I should go. I should get ready.”
“Mom?” Avery crouched down, bracing for some kind of bad news about her dad.
A plane crash, maybe? Car accident?
Get ready for
what
?
Mom looked up and smiled and clutched the phone to her heart. “They’re back.”
Avery’s grandparents had just taken a trip up to New York, but that hardly seemed worthy of a wee-hours phone call. “Who’s back?”
“Your brother,” she said. “The others.” Then she pushed past Avery and said, “I’m going to be sick.”
“But—?”
Avery had years ago stopped imagining it would ever happen and certainly hadn’t pictured it happening this way: her holding her mom’s hair as she retched up nothing at all.
“Where are they?” Avery actually looked around the room. The shower dripped once. “How?”
“That was Peggy.” Her mother wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “She said Kristen showed up at the house and said they’re back. They’re fine. She doesn’t remember anything—she said none of them do—but they’re fine. They turned up with just the clothes on their backs.” Then, with her eyes wide and wild, she said, “Ohmygod, I can’t believe it. I seriously can’t believe it. Can you believe it?”
Like a crazy person.
Again.
Avery followed as her mom walked downstairs and through the kitchen and stopped to fix her hair in the mirror that hung beside a massive floral arrangement—mostly sunflowers that Rita had clipped from the front yard and then gotten an earful from Mom about. Her
mom then turned and opened the door, and Avery half expected her brother to be there, too shy to knock after so many years away.
What would he even look like? Would she like him?
They don’t remember anything?
He wasn’t there.
She and her mom stood out on the porch for a while, looking up and down the quiet road. Eventually, they sat down on the top front step, still in pajamas, and waited.
S
c
a
r
l
et
t
She walked and walked, panic receding some.
Her mind was a void.
But . . .
. . . drip
. . . drip
. . . into it
. . . glimpses.
Her loop
u n w i n d i n g
.
That house over there had a small pond in the backyard, she knew—where frogs hung out; she’d played there . . . with that same boy from the playground.
That road led to the beach, where there was a long walk to water.
By the time she stood where the star was, she thought,
Yes
.
This was where she lived.
Had
lived?
This was
home
.
A pale-yellow shingled house built up on tall wooden stilts.
A fence of white crisscrossed wood that ran down both sides.
An old turquoise car parked under a carport made of more crisscrosses.
Angry fists of hard grass punching up out of the sandy front yard.
There’d been a pink plastic flamingo in that garden right there at one point. Right at the base of that palm tree.
But not now.
The whole place looked storm beaten and crooked, like if she closed her eyes she could see wild winds, diagonal rain.
She knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked again, more loudly, and a light went on inside.
A middle-aged woman with a long bleached-blond ponytail opened the door. Her shirt: a hot-pink polo with a tiny stitched white lantern and the words LAMPPOST BAR AND GRILL. “Can I help you?”
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