Dread Locks (12 page)

She said nothing for a moment. Then she laughed. “I’m kidding! Honestly, Baby Baer, you’re so gullible!”

“Ha-ha,” I said as I caught up with her on the steps. Usually basement stairs were short, but these kept turning corners as they went down.

“Trust me,” she said. “There’s nothing down here that can hurt you.”

“Except for you,” I told her.

“Hmm. Good point.”

We finally reached the bottom. My eyes had not yet adjusted to the dim light, but I could see well enough to make out shapes around us. “What are those?” I asked.

She reached out her candle and lit a second one in a candleholder that stood five feet tall. It was gold, but covered in layer after layer of candle drippings. Then she lit another such candle stand and another. Bit by bit the space around us was revealed by the flickering lights of the candles, and I could see what filled Tara’s basement.

Statues.

Dozens upon dozens of pale stone statues, like the finest Rodins or Michelangelos, filled every corner of the massive basement. Some of the figures were in robes, likenesses from ancient times. Others were dressed in clothes from Revolutionary or Victorian times. Some wore modern clothes, and others wore no clothes at all. They stood facing in different directions, stares locked on invisible points before them. I had never looked that closely at the ones upstairs, but here, surrounded by so many of them, I couldn’t help but be awed by the workmanship. It was their faces that struck me more than anything. The perfect textures. The chiseled wrinkles.

“Tara, these are amazing!”

“I knew you’d like them. My family has been collecting them for ages. There are too many to fit up in the house, so we keep them down here.”

We wandered through the maze of figures. They weren’t just people, but animals as well: mythical ones—unicorns and griffins. A man with the snarling head of a bull.

“All this must be worth a fortune!”

Tara just shrugged. “It’s only worth something if you sell it. These will never be sold.” Then she reached behind one of the statues and pulled out something completely out of place. It was a metal baseball bat. She smiled slyly and handed it to me.

“I want you to break them.”

I just stood there dumbfounded, the bat dangling from my hand. “What?”

“Break them. It’s not that hard. Just swing.”

I looked at the stunning works around me. The finely crafted expressions. The details on the hands. “Why would you want me to do that?”

Tara looked around at the statues, and I could hear hatred and disgust as she spoke. “Because these are the only friends I’ve ever had—stone faces that can’t answer back ... can’t show emotion. I’m so tired of them, Parker. I want them gone. I want to start fresh and new. I want you to help me.”

“I can’t destroy things so beautiful.”

“Time will destroy them if you don’t. Time destroys everything. But if
you
destroy them, it will mean something.”

“What could it possibly mean?”

She gave me that sly grin again. “You’ll see.”

I was not much of a vandal. I didn’t go around tagging graffiti. I didn’t go to the old cemetery and push over tombstones, like some other kids were known to do—but as I held the bat in my hand, I did feel an urge to use it. I had never willfully broken anything in my life, but suddenly I felt a need ... I felt a
craving
to break something then. Perhaps it wasn’t a craving for mud, but it was a craving all the same. It had been so long since I had felt much of anything at all, the craving felt good. Its burning need for satisfaction was, in itself, satisfying.

“What are you angry at, Parker?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe that. Everyone’s angry at something. Reach down. Find it. Bring it to the surface.”

It turns out I didn’t have to reach down too far. There were quite a lot of things I was angry about. Angry in a grumpy, brooding kind of way. It was the kind of anger that simmers but doesn’t boil. But I could make it boil. I could make it bubble, steam, and explode if I wanted to. Knowing I had that power was terrible and wonderful at the same time.

“I’m angry at my parents,” I said, “for the way they spend so much time on themselves and so little on us kids.”

“What else?”

“I’m angry at my sister. How lousy, rotten, spoiled she is.”

“What else?”

I gripped the bat tighter. “I’m angry at my science teacher. The way she expects everything so orderly and perfect.”

“And?”

“And the guy at the bicycle store who always rips us off. And the kids at school who think they’re so cool. And the basketball coach; and that supermarket checker; and that nasty neighbor; and the lying, cheating sleazeball at the comics store; and—”

Suddenly there were no words. The pot had boiled over with anger. Anger like I had never felt before. It exploded through the tips of my fingers, filling the aluminum bat, and I swung, taking off the head of a Roman soldier. A second swing crumbled his torso, then I turned and swung wildly, tearing loose the wing of a flying horse. Over and over. Sounds bellowed from my mouth—screams of rage. Rage at my life, so comfortable and plastic; rage at the world, so twisted and confusing; rage at the universe, so large and uncaring. I had opened up a doorway in myself that I didn’t know existed, and the rage blinded me to everything but the brutal, battering swing of the bat. I turned and swung again and again. Tara had to duck to avoid getting hit as well. Either the stone was softer than marble or I was stronger, or both, because it fractured and crumbled with every swing. Then, at last, with a guttural wail that felt like a war cry, I dropped the bat, and it clattered on the ground.

Fine stone dust settled all around, filling my lungs, sticking to the roof of my mouth, leaving behind a bitter, chalky taste. We were in darkness again. I had smashed the candles, too. I heard the flick of a match, and Tara lit the candle in her hand again, to reveal the ruins. Not a single statue remained. Stone arms, legs, and heads littered the ground. Cold eyes looked up from the ruins. A hundred statues, maybe more—they were all gone. Destroyed by my hand. I must have been at it for the better part of an hour, but it seemed like minutes. I knew my muscles should have been sore from it, but they felt strong. Invigorated. As for the bat, it now lay on the ground, dented and worthless.

I was breathing heavily, but I couldn’t catch my breath, because the stone dust kept filling my lungs. My hair was heavy with it. I shook my head to get rid of some of the chalky dust, but then I realized it wasn’t dust that made my hair heavy. It was my hair itself.

I reached up to find I now had a full head of twisting curls, and every one of them writhed ever so slowly, like the tentacles of a sea anemone. I was too numb now to feel anything about that, although I knew that I should have felt something.

“There,” Tara said. “All better now” Then she reached down into the rubble and picked up a stone hand that had fractured at the wrist and gave it to me, like a trophy for my efforts. “Save this, so you can always remember your triumph today.”

I went home in a daze, put the stone hand on my desk, and fell into a sound sleep.

12

DARWIN’S CURVE

I
takes seven years to change, according to my science teacher. We shed layer after layer of skin; we lose cells each time we go to the bathroom; we breath out our substance with every breath, and after seven years, not a single molecule in our body is the same. You could say we become different people.

Sometimes, though, change comes much faster. It comes like a chemical reaction, like bone dissolving in sulfuric acid. Like the explosive reaction of nitroglycerin. I know it was that way for me.

When I went into school on Monday, it was like I was looking at the world through different eyes. Certain things seemed dull and colorless. The brightly painted mural on the side of the gym looked washed out. The sky, though I knew it was a bright, clear blue, seemed fundamentally gray ... but the trees, the grass, and the flowers in the garden stood out for me like I was seeing them in a different dimension. It felt like I was perceiving them through a new sense I couldn’t understand. It was sharp and not all that pleasant, like coming out of a movie theater into the bright light of day In this new, strange light, people stood out the most, and I felt a certain craving I couldn’t name. While passing between classes I was overwhelmed by this new sense as kids bumped past me in the halls, but I found that not everyone had the same effect on me. There were certain kids who seemed as colorless as the walls and floors. These were the ones who walked more slowly, their eyes cast down. By third period I came to understand that these were also the ones Tara had already befriended. Nils Lundgren, Leticia Hernandez, Josh Weinstein, and a whole lot of others.

At lunch, I felt a strange urge to sit with other kids-kids I barely even knew. I felt a need to “schmooze” the way Tara did. I had always had my own clique and wasn’t very social beyond my friends. Now I found myself barging into other kids’ conversations, sitting down with them like I’d been invited.

“Hey—you’re in my English class, right?” I would say Or, “That’s a cool watch you’re wearing.” Or, “I still don’t get quadratic equations—do you?” Anything to start a conversation. At first they treated me like I was some sort of weirdo, saying things like “Whatever,” trying to dismiss me. But I was not dismissed so easily. And soon I became part of whatever conversation the group was having, and they didn’t mind. This would have been great. It would have been amazing if it weren’t for that glaring change in me; that new, painful sense that pulled me toward them. It made me want to intrude into their lives. I felt I could barge my way into their conversations—even into their homes, sitting in their chairs, eating their food.

Just like Tara.

It wasn’t just that—I could sense things about people, too. In some weird way I could sense what they were like on the inside. It’s hard to put into words. The closest I can come to explaining it is that some kids kind of felt too hard, while others felt too soft. Then there were other kids who felt ... well... just right. I wanted to ask Tara about it, but at the same time didn’t want to talk about it at all.

Tara was in school that day, but she kept her distance. Still, I noticed her noticing me. In all the conversations I shouldered my way into that day, one thing became clear: not a single person met my eyes. They would look away, or at each other, but no one could make eye contact. No one but Dante.

“If you’re gonna stare at people like a ghoul, at least smile when you do it.”

“Huh?”

It was the start of history Mr. Usher was late, as usual. Dante sat next to me. “You’re staring at people like you want to eat them.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. And by the way ...” He pointed at my hair. “Your new ‘do’ is a ‘don’t’.”

I reached up and brushed the tangled, dangling curls back from my face. I actually liked the way they felt. Like silky, coiled springs.

“Most people like it,” I said, not really knowing or caring what most people thought.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Then he studied me. He looked at my eyes, then he shivered. “What’s happening to you, Parker?”

I answered him honestly. “I’m not sure ... but I think I kind of like it.”

Then he looked away “Man, if you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to hide it.” He reached into his backpack and scrounged around for a few seconds until he pulled out an old pair of sunglasses, all scratched and crusty from being in the bottom of his pack. “Here.” He tossed them on my desk, and they wobbled themselves still.

I picked them up and slipped them on. Even though they were dark, they didn’t change my vision of things at all. They might as well have been clear. But I guess they did hide my eyes. “Better?” I asked.

“Yeah. Now you look just like Tara.”

I was unlocking my dirt bike, preparing to go home, when Tara finally came up to me.

“Give me a ride home?” she asked.

“I don’t have the extra helmet,” I told her.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t need one.”

“Everyone needs one,” I told her. “It’s a law.”

“Laws were made for people like them,” she said, tossing her gaze toward the many kids funneling out of the school. “Not for us.”

The fact that she included me in that statement made me feel both deeply chilled and deeply warm. It was like that with everything nowadays. My life was this jumble of opposites that couldn’t possibly fit in the same body, but did. I was feeling terrified, yet somehow I was at peace. Feeling revolted, yet somehow attracted to this strange thing I was becoming.

“What did you do to me?” I asked her.

Tara shook her head. “I didn’t do much at all. Most of it was your doing. I just planted a seed in your heart. But you’ve been making it grow better than I ever thought you would.” Then she flicked back her hair, and I found myself doing the same. “So are you giving me a ride, or not?”

“Sure.”

I started to put on my helmet, but it hurt when I tried to yank it down over my hair.