When They Fade (15 page)

“Everyone is acting weird,” Mary whispers to me. “After you left. I can't explain it, but your outburst got them all riled up. Like a bunch of peacocks fighting over a mirror.”

“What do you mean?” I look over at the crowd of people, who are sitting in the exact same spots they've occupied since they crossed over. Nothing looks different at all. The black iron chairs and tables are still standing. The unlit patio lanterns still don't move. But when I look at some individual faces, they avert their eyes.

“People were talking,” Mary says. “And guess what. Crazy dog lady stood up for you. Called everyone a bunch of gits and said you've got the right idea. Became a loud ragger, she did. Gave this long speech about how just 'cause we're dead don't mean we can't actually have a good chat now and then. Added a bunch of rubbish about how we should be sharing our Fading experiences and being all nice and fuzzy friends. I swear, at one point even her little doggy started barking like he was agreeing with everything she was crapping out.”

I glance over at the dog lady, but she's moved over to the far corner of the beach. She looks like she's talking softly to herself, but her dog is sitting on her lap, so she's probably rambling away to him. The more I stare at her, though, the more I notice that she looks terrified. She's rocking back and forth, stroking the dog's ears as if she's afraid he's going to disappear on the spot.

“And then get this,” Mary says. “It started raining.”

“What?” Parker and I both say in unison.

“It was the weirdest thing,” Mary says. “No clouds or anything. But all of a sudden, rain came out of nowhere. Soaked the beach. Got everyone into a right ol' tizzy.” She grabs my hand and leads me over to our spot. “There, look!”

It takes me a moment to notice what she's pointing at. Our wood log, the place where I've planted my behind for over forty years, looks different. It's
wet.
I touch the spot with my fingers. If I were to sit down right now, my skirt would most definitely get damp.

Then I remember Graham and Levi fighting with Parker. I lift up the corner of my hem and look at the stitching. There, along the bottom, is the tear in the fabric. Permanent. In the many decades I've been here, I've never even gotten a stain or a piece of lint. I poke my fingers through the hole, carefully, not wanting to let anyone else see.

This is a sign. But of what?

And how is this related to the fact that we just had our first-ever change in the weather?

“It can't be, can it?” I ask Parker.

“I don't know.” Parker looks as stumped as the rest of us.

“Don't you see what this means?” Mary says. “We've been wrong. This place can change. Parker, you know this. Remember when the pretty tables showed up? I was so sick of those drab wooden benches. Reminded me too much of those nasty pubs in Whitechapel. I swear, I used to look at them and could almost smell them drunkards and remember the way they used to grope me. Kept bringing up bad thoughts. Maybe that's what happened. Someone else got so tired of the décor, they managed to change things without even knowing it. Imagine what we could do if we really started thinking about it. Could turn this place into the Queen's palace if we so wanted.”

Mary can't control her excitement. She thinks she's onto something here, and the desire to make things different has taken over.

“I could get me a new dress, I could,” she says. “Get rid of this damned corset once and for all. Something modern and pretty. Gonna have to find meself a magazine or something next time I Fade.” She reaches up and tugs at her curls. “And a new hairstyle too. Something short and daring.”

“I'm not sure that's quite what happened,” Parker says. “If we could change this place that easily, don't you think we would have figured it out by now? Come on, Mary, you've been here longer than I have. You know how things work.”

Mary pauses. She marches straight over to Parker. “You know something.”

Parker shakes his head, but his eyes give him away. Even I can see it.

“Yes, you do,” Mary says. “What do you know? Spit it out.” She turns around and looks me over long and hard. “You know something too.”

Close beside us, a group of people overhears our conversation. I can see them from the corner of my eye, listening intently.

“Not so loud,” I say.

“Then tell me what you know. How did you make it rain?”

“It wasn't me.”

“Of course it was.” Mary throws her arms up in the air. “You're the one who was ranting and raving earlier. Then you and Parker disappear into the mountains and everything goes all wonky. You did something and you know it. I can see it all over your face.”

“I didn't. At least I don't think I did.”

Mary hoots loudly. More eyes turn in our direction. Parker shakes his head and starts walking away toward the trees. He nods at us to follow.

“Come on,” I say. “Not here. Let's go somewhere more private and talk. We've got something to show you. You're gonna just die.”

Mary does a little jig, her petticoats flying. She's acting like a little girl who just discovered Santa Claus is real.

Great. So much for being able to keep a secret. At the rate we're going, it'll be less than a few hours before everyone knows. And I need to get back to Tatum. I think of all the people on the beach and wonder what places they'd try and go if given a pebble and a bit of chalk.

No, it's not going to happen. Not until I save Tatum. I will not let them take that from me. After that, I don't give a damn if they use up all the energy, or magic, or whatever force keeps us locked away. They can travel to the moon or Mongolia for all I care. Once I've helped Tatum, there's nothing back on earth I need to see. Not really.

The Julian I used to know is gone. If he's still alive, he'll be a lot different from the boy he once was. He'd be even older than my father was. Would I really want to see him again? I may not have changed, but for him it's been a lifetime. No, some things are better left alone. I'm not that selfish.

Not anymore.

The day I left Dixby behind, I took the coward's way out. I went into my bedroom and gathered all my clothes. Julian packed up my albums and the battered old record player Dad had given me for my twelfth birthday. I grabbed my photo album and the few pieces of jewelry I'd collected over the years. Afterward, I looked at my bedroom and marveled over how empty it felt. Less than a week ago it had been my sanctuary. The hiding place I could go to when I needed to get away from the rest of the world. I'd painstakingly decorated it the exact way I wanted. The rock posters with the bands I loved. The dresser I'd painted to look like a psychedelic rainbow. The thick blanket with the daisies, which kept me warm on cold nights. My old slippers, which always ended up pushed halfway under the bed.

I looked at all these things for several minutes while Julian took my possessions out to his truck. I studied the things I was rejecting. They no longer had a place in my heart.

None of it mattered. All these things I had once loved, I would leave them behind. I wondered what Dad would do. How long would he stand at the door, wondering when I might come home? When he finally realized I was gone for good, would he throw everything away and make the room into a spare bedroom? An office?

When Julian came back, he wrapped his arms around me and we stood in silence while I said my goodbyes. With the warmth of his body pressed against me, any last regrets and fears faded away. I was ready. I would not have a fight with my father while trying to convince him I was old enough to strike out on my own. I wouldn't give the neighbors the chance to listen to every heated word. I wouldn't allow Marcus to side with Dad and yell about how I was too young, too stupid, too foolish to believe that I was in love.

I was too chicken.

I wrote my father a letter.

I told him about Julian and how I was in love. I said there was nothing he could do to change my mind. I begged him not to try and find me or call the police. I pointed out several times that I was, in my eyes, an adult, and ready to make my mark on the world.

I cried as I wrote it. My tears blurred the ink at one point, and I had to scribble over the words and rewrite them. But as difficult as it was to leave my family and my life, I knew I was going where I wanted to be.

I wanted Julian.

I ended the letter by telling Dad I'd call him once I got settled and let him know where I was. I promised to keep in touch. I'd answer all his questions about Julian. I left the note on the kitchen table and walked out the door, hand in hand with Julian, embracing my new future.

You see, I said earlier I have no regrets. But I do have one.

I never spoke to my father again.

There's a glaring A+ across the front page of her biology test. A grade that Tatum knows is bullshit because she deliberately answered four questions wrong. The answer to question three, for example: the flobberworm dying from too much lettuce is not a definition of biological structure. The zombie apocalypse isn't a good example of natural selection, either.

There was a lot of discussion about allowing Tatum to continue taking biology with Mr. Paracini. Some of the staff insisted she not be allowed anywhere near him; others argued that she shouldn't be denied the college credit. Sadly, Tatum's high school is small, and it wasn't as simple as placing her with another teacher. Mr. Paracini is the only biology instructor around for miles. Finally the decision came down that she deserved the chance. Rules were set in motion. Tatum is never allowed to be in the empty classroom with him. Heaven forbid she might get the idea to remove her clothing again and prance naked around the hamster cage. She can't meet him in private or in his office either. If she has something to discuss about her lessons, she is to do it in the hallways while other teachers are around to witness.

All this to protect the child-molesting monster.

Life is cruel sometimes.

It didn't take Tatum long to realize that her biology grades were suddenly improving. Her normal B average suddenly skyrocketed to the top of the class. She found bright red check marks next to answers that weren't worthy of anything other than a creative writing class.

Someone must be feeling awfully guilty.

Tatum contemplated her newfound academic status carefully. Part of her wanted to out Mr. Paracini, but at the same time she knew he would have a multitude of answers if questioned. He could say he simply made a mistake because he's been under so much stress. Of course, the easy answer would be that since Tatum is such a crazed hormonal mess, he felt that giving her a few good grades might boost her self-esteem. She did get slammed down pretty hard with her teacher crush.

Whatever the excuses Mr. Paracini might give, they wouldn't get him in any trouble. Teachers are allowed to give out whatever grades they want. It's not like Tatum is popular and loved enough to go bragging to her classmates. She's not going to win any awards for outstanding student anytime soon.

What upsets Tatum the most is the fact that her pervert teacher, the man who loves giving young girls pregnancy scares, seems to have a conscience, while her former best friend loses no sleep at night over destroying Tatum's life.

Is Claudette still secretly dating Mr. Paracini? Are they still planning their yacht tour over the summer once she turns eighteen? Or did he decide she was too much of a risk and he'd be faithful to his wife for a while? It's hard to tell. Tatum hopes he dropped her like a hot potato or, even better, found himself some poor ninth grader to harass. And if there is a god or goddess, this ninth grader will scream loud enough that everyone will learn the truth. All Tatum can hope for is that one day he does get caught and loses everything the same way she has.

And may Claudette die a bitter old hag.

With herpes.

Yep, a great leaking cold sore on her face would make for some good karma.

At lunchtime, Tatum decides to sit in the corner of the cafeteria, ignoring the corn dog on her plate. She's brought her laptop and is busy searching the Internet for information on Molly. Aside from some more newspaper articles, she can't find anything new. It's not surprising. Molly lived in a world without Facebook statuses. She didn't do anything extraordinary like walk on the moon. She wasn't a movie star or a model. She was a normal girl who accidently got murdered. Sadly, there's a lot more information on her killer, Walter Morris, than on her. Tatum finds his name on several serial-killer fan sites. He's lurking everywhere, being compared to the likes of Ted Bundy and the Green River Killer. He pops up in discussions about how Washington State has always been a hotbed for psychotic monsters. Criminology students have uploaded their term papers, and psychologists dissect his brain in detail. There are interviews with him, court transcripts, pictures of him smiling and waving at the camera. She even found a site that offers memorabilia. For $19.99, you can get a coffee mug with his photograph on it. Fifty bucks will get you a nice hoodie.

Molly's school picture comes up a lot, mostly in lists of the girls Walter killed. She is often labeled as girl number seven, or twenty-two if you count the ones whose murders he was suspected of but not charged with. Tatum finds it creepy, all these young ladies smiling in their black-and-white pictures, forever frozen in time. They'll always be remembered as victims, not as the promising people they should have become. They were high school and college students with hopes and dreams. They planned on being architects and secretaries. Two of them were married. One had a small child. Now they are nothing, just names for people to forget. Carol. Marcia. Annabelle.

Molly.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Tatum looks up to see Scott standing across from her. He's got his lunch tray in his hands, but the food is already half eaten. He must have been watching her for a while, trying to get up the nerve to come over.

“Yeah, sure,” she says. “If you want.”

Scott plops into the seat across from her. Tatum doesn't close her laptop. She doesn't need him to think she wants to actually talk. She hasn't decided if she's forgiven Scott or not. Yes, he's a jerk for not doing anything. Yes, he could have told the truth. But no, he probably would have been ignored. Tatum understands this.

But it still hurts.

Then again, what doesn't these days?

“How're you doing?” Scott picks up his fork and begins pushing cold French fries around on his plate. He's avoiding eye contact. Must be feeling guilty. Good.

Tatum shrugs. She clicks off the website of America's Worst Killers. Walter came in at number sixteen. The Commune Killer. The nickname doesn't really inspire the sort of fear to make the top ten. His long white hair and friendly dad-next-door smile don't inspire the disgust that Charles Manson's swastika-tattooed face does. He doesn't have crazy eyes. Or John Wayne Gacy's love of clown suits.

“How's the story coming along?”

Tatum shrugs again.

“Getting lots of writing done?”

“Not really.”

“You know, you could try giving me a second chance.” Scott picks up a fry and drenches it in ketchup. He pushes it around on his plate, leaving a red smear that could easily be mistaken for a bloodstain. Tatum watches with fascination and disgust.

“Yeah, I know,” she says.

“I'm sorry for being such a douche bag,” Scott says. He abandons the French fry and starts to fondle his empty Coke can. Anything to keep his eyes on the lunch remains so he doesn't have to look Tatum in the eyes. Guilt is funny that way.

“I know,” she repeats.

“I have the night off,” he says. “I was hoping you might want to hang out with me after school. I know a really cool place we can go. If you want to.”

“You don't have to feel sorry for me.” The words burst from her mouth, not exactly what she wants to say, but she still can't believe that Scott wants anything to do with her, except to make up for whatever guilt trip he's experiencing.

“I don't. No, I do, but that's not what I mean.” Scott's hand tightens around his empty soda can, slightly crushing it. “I just want to hang. I've always wanted to, ya know. But you never even noticed me before.”

“You're the one who doesn't talk to anyone. You blew Claudette off, big-time. She was pissed about it for weeks.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I don't know. I just figured you didn't care.”

Scott smiles. “So because I turned down your friend, you assumed I wouldn't care about you? Why do you think I'm always walking the dog down your street?”

“Guys don't usually blow off Claudette.”

Now it's Scott's turn to shrug. “She's not my type.”

Tatum grins. “Did you really walk your dog down my street just so you could talk to me?”

“Yeah.”

That's so incredibly sweet.
Tatum finds herself looking down at her computer so Scott doesn't see the blush burning its way onto her cheeks. She's never had a guy straight-out tell her he's interested before. Sure, there was Levi for a while, but they didn't exactly date. They hung around a lot with Claudette and Graham. Once they made out at a bonfire party, but the experience left Tatum feeling a little nauseous. Levi kissed her like he was trying to suck her teeth right out of her jaw.

It was Claudette who always got the dates. When she was around, Tatum became the invisible friend. When boys talked to Tatum, they usually just wanted to know if Claudette was available.

“It's not your fault,” Claudette used to say to her. “You're really pretty, Tatum, but you've got no confidence. When guys are around, you just hide behind me and turn into a wallflower.”

“I never know what to say.”

“High school guys are easy to talk to. They don't really care what you're saying. They just want to get into your pants. They'll listen to you for hours and not remember a single thing the next day,” Claudette told her. “That's why older men are better. They've already copped a feel or gotten nasty. They don't have to be desperate anymore.”

Older guys scared her too. She remembers when Claudette got her to go with her to a party at Seattle University. She spent the whole night leaning against the wall, watching Claudette make out with a freshman. The only guy who talked to her asked her where the bathroom was.

Scott is easy to talk to. Tatum is surprised at this, but at the same time she wonders if maybe it's because she doesn't have Claudette to rely on anymore. She can't relax and lean back against the wall and let her friend grab all the attention.

“So what do you say?” Scott asks her again. “Meet me after school? We'll take my car.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says. She has a quick mental image of her car being alone in the parking lot while she drives off with Scott. Talk about open hunting season. Graham and Levi wouldn't be able to resist. She'd come back and find it covered in toilet paper or pushed into a drainage ditch. “But meet me at my house instead,” she says. “At four.”

Scott nods. “Yeah, no problem.”

She watches him walk off and notices that the others are watching too. Graham Douglas throws the last bit of his corn dog in Scott's direction. Claudette laughs and tosses her hair back. Even from halfway across the room, Tatum can see the hard glare in her eyes.

Tatum smiles to herself as she packs away her laptop. Claudette can be pissy all she wants. Tatum could care less.

“Your mother and I have been discussing things,” said Tatum's dad not long after the meeting in the principal's office. “We think maybe you should go talk to someone. There's a good doctor in Seattle. You could go down once a week by yourself, or one of us can drive you. No one has to know.”

Tatum sat at the kitchen table, Mom and Dad sitting opposite. They were all smiles and happy faces, but underneath the facade, Tatum could see the truth. There were dark circles under Mom's eyes. Tatum had heard them last night, whispering behind their closed bedroom door. A quiet argument, voices low, both of them determined not to wake their psychotic daughter. They'd been having these little talks every night, the light glowing under their bedroom door until the wee hours of the morning. Tatum knew this because she wasn't exactly sleeping well either.

“A doctor? Like a shrink?”

“No, no, not a psychiatrist,” Mom said. “A psychologist. Dr. Bernstein. She's highly recommended. Think of her as a friend you can tell all your secrets to. Everything you say will be confidential. Your father and I don't have to know, unless you want to tell us.”

“Yes, you can tell us anything,” Dad chimed in.

“No, I clearly can't,” Tatum said. “You don't believe me.”

“Of course we believe you,” Mom says. She glared at Dad and nudged him in the side with her elbow.

“Yes,” Dad agrees.

“Really? Then why aren't you taking my side? Why aren't you insisting that I didn't do the things they said I did? Why aren't you trying to get Mr. Paracini fired?”

“You know very well that we stood with you,” Dad says. “We've done everything we can, Tatum. We're lucky they didn't try to expel you.”

“It isn't that simple, Tatum,” Mom says.

“Yes, it is. Go upstairs and check my room. Go ahead. I dare you to find any evidence that shows I did that stuff. I keep my diary in the closet. Go read it. You won't find anything. I don't even have birth control hiding under my mattress. Claudette's the one who screwed all the boys, not me.”

“Tatum!”

“Isn't that what you want to hear?” The tears were burning in her eyes again, and that only made her angrier. She was tired of crying. All. The. Time. She was done. She looked up at the ceiling, willing the waterworks away. If she could just make herself stop this one time, maybe she could be strong enough never to cry a single tear again.

“We want what's best for you. And it seems to me you need someone to talk to. Someone who doesn't know you. Dr. Bernstein is impartial. She won't—”

“Judge me? Like you do?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly.”

Mom frowned. “That's not what I mean. You're going through a difficult time. This will help you.”

“I don't need to talk. I don't want help.”

Dad slammed his fist down on the table. Everyone jumped.

“I'm done with this, Tatum,” he said. “You can blame us all you want. You can say we're the worst parents in the world and pretend we hate you. But we have stood by your side this entire time. Do you really think for a second that we don't believe you? Give us more credit than that.”