My Side (2 page)

I'm no Cinderella, and John is no prince. He's just John, the guy I've been crazy about ever since I can remember. The guy who just got cuter and more popular year after year and who never once seemed to notice that I was anything but the daughter of his mom's curling partner until, well, until he looked at me from across the room and smiled.

At
me.

Later, he asked if he could borrow my notes after he'd missed class for a dentist's appointment.
My
notes, not Kayla's or Jen's or Shayna's. All of this happened after he and Kayla broke up.

And then…I couldn't believe it was happening, but it was. The doorbell rang, and I opened it, and it was John. He had a measuring cup in his hand. When he saw it was me, not my mother, he smiled again and said,
Addie
, as if he were surprised—pleasantly surprised. His mom had sent him over to borrow a cup of milk, but it took him forever to get around to telling me that. Instead he asked me if I had any plans for spring break and said he had been planning to go away for a week, but that was before he broke up with Kayla and now he wasn't sure what he was going to do. It wasn't until his mother shouted from his house across the street to ask what was taking so long that he seemed to remember what he had come for. His face turned red, and he spluttered a little. I gave him the milk and he hurried home.

The next thing I knew, there was a note on my locker.

It was from him.

From John.

It asked me to meet him.

So, feeling like Cinderella and with butterflies in my stomach, there I am, clutching the note and walking away from school. I glance around, wondering if anyone is watching. For once, I
want
someone to be watching. But no one is. And even if they were, even if the whole school were staring at me, no one would have any idea what I was doing or where I was going, because I haven't told anyone. I wish I could. I want everyone to know that Addie Murch is on her way to meet John Branksome, at his request. I especially want Jen and Shayna to know. And double especially, Kayla.

But there is no one around.

That doesn't stop me from strutting like one of those boys who wants everyone to know how cool he is. I strut across the schoolyard. I strut through the gap in the fence. I strut along the rocky little path that leads through the woods, past the new subdivision and out into the conservation area. I keep right on strutting as I follow the path to where it forks and goes deeper into the bush, taking you, if you follow it far enough, to where kids hang out for parties. I strut past the party zone and the big blackened circle with burned wood in the center, and cinder blocks and tree stumps all around it, where kids sit and drink or make out or whatever they do at their parties. I keep going, glancing at the note to make sure I haven't taken a wrong turn.

I find myself in the smallest clearing I have ever seen. It's as if someone planted a ring of trees in a tiny circle, and I'm standing in the middle of them, listening, waiting, breathing hard from all the strutting.

That's when it happens.

Twigs snap. Something rushes at me.

Something is pulled down over my head, covering my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my ears. When I open my mouth to scream, whatever is blanketing my head gets sucked into my mouth. I panic and fight for breath. The material closes around my nostrils too. I am suffocating. When I start to raise my arms to rip the bag or material from my head, someone clamps my arms to my sides. I try to break free, but I'm being held too tightly.

I flash back on the rumors swirling around school the past few days. Kids have been saying that a weird guy is lurking out here. I overheard two girls talking about it in the washroom. One of them said a man had followed her and creeped her out, and that she's lucky he didn't catch her. She said she was never going to come out here again, it didn't matter who was having a party. The other one said she'd heard the police were searching for the guy because there had been so many reports, but that so far they hadn't found anything.

I am cold all over, and not from the temperature.

Someone is holding me. Someone is smothering me. Someone is stopping me from screaming.

And the whole way out here, I haven't seen another soul.

Not one single person.

I am alone in the middle of nowhere.

With a stranger.

I keep struggling, but it doesn't do me any good.

I thrash around, trying to find some way to tell whoever is there that I am going to suffocate. But I can't speak. I can't move. I can't breathe.

I feel as if I'm going to black out.

My knees buckle.

I try to stop myself from falling.

I tell myself that if I fall, whoever is out there will have won. He will be able to do whatever he wants with me.

I wonder if anyone will find me.

Of course someone will—eventually. Because eventually someone will come out here to party. Or to walk in the woods. Or to hunt. Or something. And they will stumble on something. A shallow grave. My grave.

I try again to break free.

Instead I feel myself being lifted off the ground.

Whoever he is, he is strong. I imagine him—a hulking man, bearded, filthy clothes, boots, maybe a bush jacket, jeans, flannel shirt, hunting hat. Maybe with a hunting knife. Maybe with a gun. The girl in the bathroom, the one who said she was followed, also said she never saw him clearly. She just saw flashes of red flannel every now and then, and that's how she knew he was trailing her.

I kick. I try to scream, but when I breathe in, material—I think it's burlap— fills my mouth and everything goes black.

The next thing I remember, I am still being carried. I hear a murmur. A voice. More than one voice. Two? Three? I can't tell.

But I am definitely being carried. I am being carried down something— maybe down some stairs. Or down a hill.

Suddenly it's colder than it was before.

I hear a creaking sound.

Then I am dropped.

I hit the ground. I hear the creaking sound again. Then a bang.

It takes me a few moments to realize that my hands are not tied. I lift them to my head, and I pull off whatever is covering my head and face. I still can't see. I panic. Am I blind?

I reach out, gingerly. I have no idea where I am or what I might touch in this blackness.

I touch rock.

I touch wood.

I walk my hand up the wood and touch a latch.

A door latch. I try it. It doesn't give.

I'm inside a room. From what I remember and from the dankness I feel, I guess it's a cellar. But what cellar? The last I remember, I was out in the bush. I don't know of any houses out here. I don't even know of any abandoned cabins or shacks. But I don't spend as much time in the bush as most of the kids I know. I don't come out here on weekends to party. I've never been out here with a boy. It's never been my thing.

I think again about the creepy guy who's supposedly lurking out here, the one I overhead that girl talking about. Maybe this is his place. Or maybe he's been squatting here and has been waiting patiently for someone to stumble into his territory. Someone like me. Now he's caught me and I am in this cellar—and nobody knows where I am.

Nobody except John.

Is he out there somewhere waiting for me? Is he looking for me? Did he see or hear something? Is he close by?

Is he too close?

What if the guy who grabbed me has seen him? What if he managed to sneak up on John and used his hunting knife to…to get rid of John?

Oh my god.

Or…

What if John thinks I didn't show up?

What if he thinks I ignored his note, and he's given up on me and is on his way back home? Or maybe he's there already. I realize I have no idea how much time has passed, how long I've been here, whether it's dark outside or light. I just don't know.

All I know is that I'm in this room, behind this door, and that on the other side is the person who grabbed me and carried me here and who is now preparing to…to do something with me.

I feel like I'm going to throw up.

I hear a sound, a click. Is he out there? I wait. Nothing happens.

I fight to keep calm. To steady my nerves.

I touch the door again. I touch the latch. I wrap my fingers around it, catch my breath and push down.

The latch gives.

But what if he's out there? What if he's sharpening his knife or preparing… to do whatever it is he intends to do?

I hesitate.

I don't want to stay here. But what if this side of the door is safer than the other side?

If it is, it won't be forever. The minute he decides to open that door, I stop being safe. I have to get away. I have no choice. I have to open the door and run.

My whole body is shaking. I draw in a deep breath and whisper one word to myself.
Courage
. Then I push.

I push the door open and take off like a sprinter, shooting out of the small room and into impenetrable darkness. Panic rises in my throat. Where am I? Which way do I run? Where is out?

Where is he?

My eyes adjust a little. I see shapes. Are those stairs over there? Is that a sliver of light above?

I race for the tiny gash of brightness. They
are
stairs. They're made of stone, and they're narrow and steep. I race toward them.

A shape comes at me.

A huge blacker-than-black shape, bigger than any man I have ever seen. It zooms toward me and is about to engulf me.

I scream.

I scream and scream and scream as I flail at the thing with both hands, trying to beat it away from me. I am screaming as I stumble and fall.

I force myself to my feet again, still screaming. I feel wetness—I've peed myself.

Something flashes, brighter than a thousand lightning bolts, completely blinding me.

After the flash, the whole cellar goes black again. It's blacker than ever now. My eyes can no longer make out anything. Every hair on my body stands up. I hear breathing. Is it me or him?

Something touches me.

Some
one
touches me.

I scream again.

Chapter Four

I'm still screaming when, as if a switch has been thrown, the darkness is replaced by brilliant light.

I'm still screaming as my eyes adjust again, this time to being able to see, and I realize that the shape I've been fighting off, that large mass of evil blackness, is a person in a cape, his arms up over his head.

I see a hand. It's a girl's hand.

There are more shapes. More people. They're all dressed in black and all wearing masks. All except the person holding a light. That person is wearing a hat and a wig, but she hasn't hidden her face. She's holding the light high above a camera on a tripod.

Camera.

There's a masked person behind the camera. I am being filmed.

It takes longer than I like to admit before I stop screaming. Then I just stand there with my mouth hanging open, staring at all the masks. I have no idea what I'm thinking. I've looked at those pictures of myself, that footage, maybe a thousand times since then, and I still have no idea what I was thinking. I look at myself, at my open mouth and my wide eyes, at my heaving chest, at the look of terror on my face, and I can't remember what was going through my mind. Maybe nothing. Maybe that was my brain's way of protecting me— it blocked off all my thoughts.

And then it comes. The part where I turn and run up the stairs.

Or
try
to.

Because I trip and fall and let out an unworldly sound. That's when everyone laughs. I pick myself up, and, arms waving like a wild thing, legs pumping, I fly up the stairs. At the top there is nothing but a floor surrounded by scrubby trees and bush, which is why I've never seen this place before, because all that's left of it is underground. I hear muffled laughter behind me. I run. I keep on running. I don't even realize until later that the person I pass as I run is John. I think he calls my name. Or maybe I imagine that. But I don't stop. I run until I am out of the bush and back behind the school. Then I run home, to my backyard, to the space under the back porch. I crawl under there just like I used to when I was little, and I curl up and cry.

The whole time I'm under there, I think about how scared I was. Terrified. I thought some maniac had grabbed me. I thought he was going to kill me. I thought I was going to die.

Now I don't know if all that stuff I heard about a man out in the bush was even true. Maybe those girls said what they said because they wanted me to hear it. Maybe they planned it.

Because there is no doubt in my mind that the whole thing was planned. Why else would there have been so many people in that cellar? Why would there have been a camera? Why so much laughter? This was someone's idea of a joke.

Then I think, What did I ever do to deserve something like that?

I think, How could anyone pull a prank like that? What's so funny about scaring someone almost to death?

I wonder if John was involved. Did he leave that note to lure me out there?

But he wasn't in the cellar with the rest of them. I remember now that I ran past him when I finally escaped. I remember that when he looked at me, he had a puzzled expression on his face, as if he didn't know what was going on.

Still, I wouldn't have been out there if it wasn't for his note.

There's something else.

There were a lot of people there. One of them—the one without a mask— was Neely.

My former best friend Neely.

I can't decide if that hurts more than thinking John may have been involved. What did I ever do to Neely to make her want to pull a practical joke like that?

By now, everyone knows. While I'm curled up in a little ball under my porch, crying like a baby, everyone is probably talking about what happened out there. Everyone is having a good laugh at my expense. It's not just the kids who were out there. By now, they will have told everyone they know.