Another Little Piece (11 page)

“Lots of things are nuts,” I said softly, letting the acoustics carry my voice to him.

“Yeah, but this . . . The night before that Spanish class, I had these dreams. You know those kind of crazy dreams where they feel so real, like realer than real, and then you wake up, and you’re still kind of in the dream, and you want more of it, but as you start to think about it you begin to lose it, and the more you try to remember, the more you forget, until the only thing that’s left is your hard-on?”

He paused then added, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to say that.”

“It’s okay.” Wanting to get past the moment, I quickly added, “So the dreams were about . . .”

“Annaliese. Yeah.”

He didn’t seem to notice that he’d just referred to Annaliese as someone other than me, and I didn’t stop him to correct his mistake that wasn’t a mistake at all.

“The dreams suddenly came back to me; I remembered them completely. It was . . . I didn’t even know I could imagine stuff like that, and I’d been watching late-night Cinemax since I was eleven. And Annaliese, she’s just staring at me, and then says, ‘Did you need a pen again?’ And well, the pens had played a part in the dream, and it was like she knew or something, I mean, of course she didn’t, but the way she was looking at me . . . I had to get out of there. So, I just said no, and my voice cracked like I was a fucking freshman again, and I ran for my desk, practically falling into my chair.”

Logan sat up and let out a long breath, as if he’d finished something difficult. Then he lay down once more.

“Of course, that day Mr. Fields did have a pop quiz and, of course, I didn’t have a pen, and I didn’t even fucking care. I was like, screw it. But by the end of the quiz, I kind of got my head back in the game, and then Mr. Fields says to find a partner ’cause we’re gonna practice our conversational skills. It was weird. He never did that kind of thing, said it was just an excuse to goof off. But whatever, I would take it, because I knew that I had to talk to her. And that’s how it was, all the time after that, until she disappeared. I had to talk to her, see her, touch her, be with her. It was like I couldn’t stop thinking about her.”

Logan’s foot tapped a few times against the wall, and then he spun onto his feet, and with a few quick steps was in front of me once more.

“Did I say
her
? I meant
you
. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He looked into my eyes. “I still can’t stop thinking about you.”

And then he knelt in front of me, grabbed hold of my shoulders, and drew me in for a kiss. It was passionate. But not with love. Or desire. With desperation. As if this kiss could bridge the gap between now and everything that had happened since he’d had sex with Annaliese on top of last year’s fallen leaves.

I pushed him away. Gently.

I might as well have slapped him. He stumbled back, down the bleachers and to the edge of the pool.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Maybe I’m losing my mind, because I really can’t stop thinking about you.”

Annaliese would’ve gone to him, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him from the edge. I wasn’t her, though, and I didn’t want this boy kissing me. Even if it was the only thing that might save him.

“But it’s not in the same way, is it?” I asked, in response to Logan.

If he gave an answer, I didn’t hear it. I’d already walked out the door.

NOTEPAD

Even though I’d left Logan behind, his hoodie still covered me. It had been protection and a kind of comfort, but now it was a weight and a reminder. His smell—a mixture of cologne liberally applied, sweat, and something else that I couldn’t quite pinpoint—clung to me even after I put the hoodie back into my locker. This was what guilt now smelled like.

I stopped in the middle of the hall, trying to remember which class came next. But not really caring. English, math, biology. It all felt like repeats.
Julius Caesar
, the cosines, the chromosomes—I knew it all and had seen it presented better.

A girl’s laughter pushed me back into the present. It wasn’t at my expense for once. She wasn’t even aware of me. A boy had tripped and fallen. Maybe she’d pushed him. When I looked, he was on hands and knees, already struggling upward to scramble away. I only saw him out of the corner of my eye, because my attention was on the laughing girl. Her orangey tan skin, bleached blond hair, and heavy-handed black eyeliner. At the same time I took in all these little details, my stomach growled. The strange hunger pang I’d experienced when I first saw Logan had struck once more. I gulped, starving.

I spun away. Away from the girl. Away from the thought. And right into the redheaded boy.

“Hey, watch it,” he said loudly, but a second later he was whispering in my ear. “The hunger’s getting worse, isn’t it? The Physician give you the names yet?” He studied me for a moment. “Okay, you look confused, so I’m thinking that’s a no. Don’t worry, little Anna, they’ll come soon.” Pressing something into my hand, he pushed me away. “Watch where you’re going next time.”

I stumbled back, relieved to be released. With any luck he’d leave me alone for the rest of the day. Leave me to my fantasy of being a normal girl. A normal girl like Annaliese. Annaliese before she met me, anyway.

But being hungry for your classmate’s flesh makes it hard to pretend. And that’s why I pressed through the crowd, reached toward the redheaded boy, and grabbed hold of his arm. If I was going to look for the truth of who I was, then I had to stop running from him.

“Wait.”

His eyes lingered for a moment on the point of connection between my hand and his arm. I expected a smirk or a triumphant grin. He had the power. The answers. And I’d come running after him. But when his gaze moved to meet mine, his smile was almost warm. I’d reached for him instead of flinching away. That’s what made him smile. The very simple fact of a touch—voluntarily given—made this horrible, frightening boy happy.

I smiled back, thinking it might be easier if we weren’t enemies. And I kept my hand on him even though he made my flesh crawl.

“What’s your name? You call me Anna. That’s my name, my real name. Isn’t it? What’s your real name?”

It was the wrong question to ask. His smile flatlined as he jerked from my grasp. “I don’t have a real name. Not since I watched the boy I once was turn to dust, and his name went the same way. Just like your beloved Anna. Anna is dust blown to the other end of the earth by now and sunk to the bottom of the sea. Anna is nothing. And I call you Anna because without me you’re nothing too.”

The bell rang, and I ran. Not to make it to class on time, but to get away from him. It wasn’t until I sat down, and the American history teacher began one of his painful lectures where he tried to compare Benjamin Franklin to Snoop Dogg in an effort to make him more relevant, that I finally unclenched my trembling fingers and remembered the object the boy had pressed into my hand.

It was a cell phone. Hiding it beneath my desk, I began to click through the different menus and options, looking for whatever he had wanted me to find. It took nearly the entire class, but I found it in the notepad section. Another poem.

Reading it, I knew with a terrible certainty that this was what Annaliese had been tapping into her cell phone in those moments after Logan had left her in the woods, right before I’d approached her. These were in essence Annaliese’s last words.

I walked out of class. Didn’t even make up an excuse, just got up and left. Without consciously planning it, I went back to the pool.

I pulled out the cell phone and read Annaliese’s poem again. Her body lived. Her poems lived. But Annaliese was gone.

If I asked the redheaded boy, he would probably say that she was nothing too.

If I asked the mom, she would say that Annaliese was something special. And she would back that up with a hug, solid and reassuring. You don’t hug nothing.

And if you asked me . . .

I looked down into the depths of the pool. The water was clear and blue, not a speck of dirt anywhere.

Annaliese was gone. Anna was dust. We might never be found.

STERILE

IT WAS TRUE

it was true

he wanted me

just like I’d wanted him

to want me

or not

i was a craving

like a hamburger

with fries

and now he is full

and I . . .

I am eaten

—ARG

ICE CREAM

“Do you want ice cream? I feel like ice cream! Let’s go and get some ice cream.” As I got into the car after school, the mom was bright and overly chipper. Every time she said
ice cream
, she put so much stress on the two words that it felt like a code for something else.

But it was a beautiful Indian summer day, and having ice cream sounded so good that I couldn’t resist. We ended up at Anderson’s, sitting out in the dipping afternoon sun, licking vanilla ice-cream cones with sprinkles. It felt like a moment you’d be willing to steal someone else’s life for, and even that thought wasn’t enough to ruin it for me.

Of course, when you steal those moments, you also have to deal with all the other ones that come in between. Like the mom blindsiding me.

“I talked to your principal,” the mom said as we walked back toward the car.

“Oh?” I said, silently adding
shit
.

“He told me about the fight yesterday.” She paused long enough for all the good feelings to curdle. Long enough for me to realize she’d been buttering me up for this interrogation.

I wasn’t giving anything away until I had a better idea of how much she knew.

“He said Logan Rice defended you?”

Okay, so she knew everything. I wondered if she’d given the principal ice cream first too, to get him to spill it all so quickly.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” I said, which was true. Except I should’ve known that she’d find out anyway.

“Well, I am worried. I’m worried that you’re not telling me things.” Another pause. This one shorter. Not that it mattered. I already knew what was coming. “Again.”

And there it was.

I wanted to tell her that if she weren’t so neurotic, maybe I would tell her things, and maybe Annaliese would’ve too. Except I knew it wasn’t true. No daughter would’ve told her mother she traded her very soul to make a boy notice her.

So I gave the mom something instead.

“Logan and I had lunch together today.”

“You did
what
?” It was like I’d said I had lunch at the local prison.

“I know you don’t like him.”

“That’s not—” The mom shook her head, and then seemed to remember we were standing in a parking lot, talking over the top of the car. She pulled out her keys. “Get in.”

We both climbed into the car, but we didn’t buckle up and she didn’t start it. Instead, the mom grabbed hold of the steering wheel, her hands clenched tightly at precisely ten and two. To someone walking past, it probably looked like we were in the middle of an incredibly tense driving lesson.

“I wish that Logan had come forward at the beginning, when you first disappeared, with the information that he had been with you. The detectives said that it would only have helped confirm the timeline, but you never know, when the whole thing was fresher in his mind, he might have remembered some small detail that could have helped us find you sooner. Other than that, I have no reason not to . . .”

I could see her mouth trying to form the word
like
, but she couldn’t quite seem to get it out.

“I don’t think he’s a bad boy. And he seems sincerely sorry. I wish you and he hadn’t chosen to embark on a sexual relationship. And his having a girlfriend at the time certainly doesn’t speak well of him, but it seems it was consensual, and for that I can’t blame just him. I have to blame you as well.”

It was a lot of words for the mom, and when she got them all out, she burst into tears.

“If it helps,” I said softly, “I don’t like him like that. Not anymore.”

“Oh, honey,” the mom said with a half sob, half laugh. “It actually does kind of help. But it would help even more if you would not like any boys for a while. At least until you finish high school, or college.” She was joking. And totally serious.

I pretended only to hear the joke, and laughed, and tried really hard not to think about Dex and how I was determined to see him soon. And how even though we were friends, there was a part of me that couldn’t help thinking about kissing him.

The mom wiped her eyes and started the car. It seemed the grilling was over, but then her hand landed on my leg instead of the gearshift and gave it a little pat.

“So, is school okay then, Annaliese? The other kids haven’t made it too difficult? Mr. Hardy said that Gwen was there today, and, well, I admit I was never her biggest fan, but she was always a good friend to you.”

“It’s fine,” I said with a little shrug, not wanting to get into the whole Gwen thing, not wanting to think about her at all, and what kind of friend Annaliese might have been to her. “Probably no better and no worse than it ever was before.”

The mom’s eyes filled once again, and I wondered if I should’ve been more falsely upbeat about the whole situation. She quickly blinked the tears away.

“Sorry, no more watering pot today,” she said, giving my leg a reassuring squeeze. “Sometimes you sound so much like your old self, it just . . .” Her voice broke and she shook her head.

I waited for her to finish. I wanted to know what came after
it just
. Did it just make her wonder who the hell I was the rest of the time?

But she released my thigh, and then we were backing out of the spot and driving home. And it was—like so much else in my life—just forgotten.

WAVES

The sun is warm against my face, burning as I listen to the waves wage their constant campaign of attacks and hasty retreats against the shore. My toes curl into the sand, seeking the comfort of something solid. But none of this is enough to hold me here in the now. I am falling.

The hands find me. Six of them press against my back. Slowly they leach away the pain, leaving only the memory.

It is a bad one. Filled with blood. And regrets.

This is not unusual. Many of them are bloody. And all of them are bound by the common theme of regrets, remorse, and wrongs that can never be righted.

The three women at my back take their hands from me one by one, slowly allowing me to stand on my own.

“You are okay now?” one of the
brujas
asks in Spanish. I don’t speak the language, and yet I understand her perfectly, and the other two as well. And though they never speak English, they understand me just as easily.

Turning to face them, I take turns touching their hands, letting them feel that I am fine.

When I woke in their small cottage many days and weeks—or maybe even months—ago, they were gathered around me. I’d woken up screaming. In the middle of a dream about a scream that I couldn’t stop. One by one they touched the tip of a finger to my lips. The scream faded away to ragged breaths, and then more regular ones as they hovered over me. They were nearly identical with their weathered faces and gray hair hanging loose and heavy over their shoulders before flowing to their bare feet and the packed-dirt floor.

A bucket of cool water appeared along with ragged bits of cloth that wiped at my face and came away red. Cooing a chorus of sympathy, they’d washed away the blood that had crusted over my eyes, coated my lips and teeth, and left stripes running down my arms all the way to my fingertips.

Brujas.
The word appeared in my mind then, and I knew they were witches, and I knew this was not something to be afraid of, and I knew they would take care of me. “Thank you,” I rasped through raw vocal cords. Then I closed my eyes and fell into a peaceful sleep.

In many ways it feels like I have stayed in that peaceful sleep—except for when the painful memories intrude.

They tell me not to fight it, that there is no future without the past. But I must fight, or perhaps run. Every time the past comes rushing toward me, I only want to get away. What those memories reveal makes it impossible to believe the future can hold anything good.

No, I’d rather stay here in the now, with the sun, the surf, the sand, and most importantly—the peace.

The
brujas
understand this as easily as my untranslated words. They are hiding from the past and future as well. This is a between time, they tell me, and between can be a dangerous place.

“We will keep you with us as long as we can,” they promise. “As long as we can.”

I hope it will be long enough for my hair to grow long and gray like theirs. But they always look toward the horizon when they make this promise, as if watching for something coming, something that will take me away. They whisper softly then. Words not meant to reach my ears, but the ocean breeze brings them to me anyway. “Our brother, the Physician. He will return. We must prepare or she will be lost.”

Another memory comes; it burns in my chest. They are coming faster now. My eyes close, as the
brujas
’ hands find me once more.

SOFT EDGES

“Annaliese.”

I opened my eyes, not to the three
brujas
, but to the mom, gently shaking me awake.

We were still in the car, now parked in the dark garage. The leather seat beneath my cheek felt immaterial, like with only a few blinks it might turn to sand and me right along with it, all of us crumbling away.

I grabbed hold of the mom’s hand, needing to feel something warm and solid. She couldn’t draw away the pain the way the
brujas
in my dream had, but she squeezed back and then continued to hold tight. I didn’t release her until the cool, quiet garage became more real than the beach with the constant hush and crash of the waves.

“Come on,” the mom said, as I wiggled my fingers free. “Let’s get inside, and you can take a real nap.”

After finally brushing the sand away, I had no interest in letting sleep catch me again, but I didn’t say this to the mom. She looked so exhausted and almost literally drained—her face a chalky white color. When she suggested I might want to take a nap, I knew she was the one who needed it, but she wouldn’t be able to take one until I was safely tucked away.

So I made a big show of yawning and stretching, agreeing that yes, I was really tired and a nap sounded perfect. After she pulled the covers up to my chin and planted a tender kiss on my forehead, I listened to her walk back downstairs. I hoped she’d keep going, all the way to the cots in the basement, but twenty minutes later when I came easing down the staircase, I found her on the sofa. She looked completely out, like she’d collapsed and immediately fallen into a deep sleep.

I almost turned around, resigned to staring at the bedroom walls, unable to betray the mom who may not have originally brought me into this world, but who now helped hold me here. And yet, like the
brujas
, her eyes too were always on the horizon, looking for the next thing that would come to carry me away.

The past was coming for me, the now could only keep me for so long, and the future . . . I had little hope of it holding anything good. But that tiny bit of hope was enough to send me hunting for a way to secure it. And for some reason I felt like Dex might be able to help me with that search. Or maybe I was just looking for an excuse to see him again. To see what it felt like to have a friend.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the mom.

I probably could’ve slid out either the front or back door, both directly within her line of vision, without her knowing a thing. But if she stirred, I was screwed. Then not only would I miss out on seeing Dex, but she would know that I was trying to sneak away, and any semblance of trust would be gone.

Slipping through the storm-cellar doors, just like the ones I used to get into Dex’s, was a perfect alternative. If the mom caught me going into the basement, I could simply pretend that I’d been attempting to raid her Little Debbie supply.

The door creaked loudly as I closed it behind me. I stood on the top step, waiting and listening. Not a sound to be heard. She was still asleep. Flicking on the light, I headed down.

As I’d hoped, our storm doors were in the exact same place as the ones next door. Thank goodness for suburban conformity. Unfortunately, one of the mom’s overloaded doomsday shelves blocked the cement steps leading to my escape. Stacked full of canned goods, I knew there was no chance of moving it.

I wasn’t giving up that easily. If I couldn’t go around, then I would go through. Painstakingly, I began to remove six rows of cans from the second shelf up, carefully restacking them on the floor, until at last there was a hole big enough for me to wiggle through. A padlock held the door closed on our end, but with the key inserted into this side of it, all I had to do was turn it and then climb out and into the backyard.

I darted across the lawn, ducking low when I passed by windows, in case the mom had woken and was looking out. Then I was on the other end of the fence. Remembering that Annaliese’s cell phone had an alarm function, I dug it out of my pocket. Thirty minutes, I decided. Less time than I wanted, but enough in case the mom took a short nap.

His storm doors were flung wide open, and I leaned over to gently tap on one.

“Hey, Dex, it’s me,” I called into the darkness.

A moment later I heard footsteps, and then Dex’s head popped up, a big smile stretched across it. Something expanded inside of me, joyful and hurting all at the same time.

“Anna.” The smile was in the way he said my name too. “Come in. Come in.” He disappeared down below again, and I followed.

There was something different about the basement; I felt it as soon as I stepped fully inside. Not like the furniture had been rearranged. The desk, the metal cabinets, and the man-eating beanbag chair were all in the same places . . . but it seemed changed somehow.

“Soft edges,” Dex said, so close to me that his breath tickled my ear.

“What?” I asked, turning toward him, not to hear him better, or to see him, but to put my lips in closer proximity to his. I wanted his lips to cover over Logan’s.
I’ve had too many unwanted kisses in my life.

I frowned, wondering where that thought came from, and knowing I wasn’t just thinking of the redheaded boy and Logan.

Maybe Dex saw my frown, or maybe he simply had no thought of kissing me. He took a step back, not a great distance, but enough to put us out of kissing range. This time when he spoke, I couldn’t feel his breath against my skin. I missed it.