Sweetly (22 page)

“Haircuts,” Sophia says. “I just want a trim, and Gretchen wants the rainbow cut out of her hair. And maybe some highlights or something for her too?” I raise my eyebrows at Sophia, who shrugs.

“About time,” Ms. Minor says to me. She leans closer, as though she’s letting me in on a great secret. “People talk here, Gretchen, and that hair has been the topic of much conversation. Ladies come in here like hens in a henhouse, bitchin’ about how such a nice girl has gone and ruined her pretty head with colors like a two-dollar hooker. I’ll trim that right out and they’ll be beggin’ you to come to church!”

“Oh,” I say, because I can’t figure out how to respond to all that.

Ms. Minor begins on Sophia’s hair first, washing it, then trimming the ends and talking rapidly—Sophia hardly gets a word in edgewise, except to politely decline Ms. Minor’s suggestion that they do something “really fun and innovative—something with bangs!”

Ms. Minor steps away from Sophia’s hair and toward me. She hacks off the color quickly, leaving remnants of my former life curled on the floor like tiny rainbowed coins, then proceeds to process my hair with chemicals that make my eyes water. She’s just gearing up to convince me to try layers when a bell rings as the door swings open. Our heads turn toward the front of the shop in unison; a dark-haired woman with streaks of gray walks in. Her face is saggy and tired looking, and there are dark crevices under her eyes. Something is familiar about her, but I’m not sure what; I’m certain we haven’t met before.

“Merilee! Goodness gracious, hon, I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me!” Ms. Minor exclaims. She catches my eye in the mirror. “Merilee comes in on the first Thursday of every month to get her colorin’. Missed last week because of the busy holiday,” she explains.

“And Deb gives away the secrets of my youth, tellin’ everyone I get it colored,” Merilee teases back. Merilee looks as though she’s about to head to one of the waiting-room chairs but then sees Sophia, who must have been hidden behind me and Ms. Minor’s wide hips. Merilee’s face doesn’t quite darken—it becomes wounded somehow, as though Sophia has just insulted her. I look toward Sophia, who is trying hard to avoid Merilee’s eyes.

“I’ll come back another day,” Merilee says, voice flat. She turns to grab the door handle and I see Sophia wince.

“Merilee, come on, now,” Ms. Minor says in a no-nonsense tone. “If you can’t be civil at the hairdresser’s, where can you be civil?”

“I won’t—” Merilee begins.

“I’ll go,” Sophia offers at the same time, but Ms. Minor shakes her head.

“Sophia, we’ll finish you and Gretchen up. Merilee, it won’t be but a minute. Sit down. I’ve done your hair since the day I left beauty school and I’m not about to let you walk around town with your roots showing another day. People will think I’ve gotten too old to hold a pair of scissors,” Ms. Minor says firmly. She’s trying to keep it light and I’m grateful, but even her attitude can’t lift the weight that’s descended over the room.

“Merilee, why don’t you go ahead and grab a smock while I finish Gretchen?” Ms. Minor says, tousling my hair with her hands. Merilee rises, jaw tight, and vanishes into a tiny bathroom. She shuts the door and I hear the water running.

“Poor thing,” Ms. Minor says in a low voice, pursing her lips together and stepping away from me. “You don’t mind her, Sophia. People always want someone to blame. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time where Jillian is concerned—I know that.”

Everything stops.

Layla. Emily. Whitney. Jillian. Danielle. Allie. Rachel. Taylor.

Jillian was the one who always wore the cross necklace. Last seen with Taylor and Allie, wearing a red sundress.

I feel cold. I knew I recognized that look on Merilee’s face—I saw it for years. It was the look on my mother’s face. The way she watched the forest, the way she convinced her heart that Abigail would come back, even though her head knew it wouldn’t happen.

I realize that Sophia never wears that exact expression. She looks sad, she looks hurt, but she never looks like someone whose loved one has vanished.

Ms. Minor flicks on the deafening blow-dryer, sending my hair cascading around my face. I’m relieved—I’m sure Sophia would be able to see the worry, the frustration, in my eyes.

When we’re both through, Sophia pays for our cuts and we go to leave. Sophia lingers, however, and finally turns back toward Merilee, who is just taking her place in one of the salon chairs.

“Here, Merilee. Thought you might like these,” Sophia says warmly, and pulls a bag of candies from her purse. Merilee looks at them but doesn’t move to take them.

“Chocolate?” Merilee says in a heavy voice.

“With oranges,” Sophia explains. I bite my tongue. There’s so much hope in Sophia’s voice and not even a glimmer of tolerance in Merilee’s eyes. It’ll take much more than candy to make Merilee give Sophia another chance.

Sophia’s hand starts to quiver as Merilee’s eyes slowly raise to hers. Merilee opens her mouth as if to say something, then slams her lips shut and shakes her head, disgust radiating from every line on her face.

Sophia’s hand drops, and she swallows hard. She sets the bag of candy on the counter. “If you change your mind,” she mutters hoarsely, and breaks for the door. I have to jog to keep up with her.

Sophia swings into the car and slams the door behind her—I duck into the driver’s seat. The car interior is sticky and thick from sitting in the summer sun; I crank the engine for the AC but leave the car in park.

“Do you need a minute?” I ask her quietly.

“No. Just go,” Sophia mumbles, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m fine. She thinks it’s just her, that… she’s the only one who’s lost someone…”

She’s so close to telling me about Naida that I can feel it.
Please, Sophia. Just tell me. Tell me everything.
I realize for the first time that Sophia isn’t all that different from the eight other Live Oak girls—she needs to be saved too. I’m just not sure from what, because she won’t let me in.

But she doesn’t speak again, so I back the car up and rumble down the main road, defeated. We pass Ms. Judy’s house, and I peer around it to see Samuel’s place in the trees; when I look back at Sophia, she seems calmer, as if she’s forcing the emotion out of herself. I want to just ask about Naida and the other girls, throw my cards onto the table and let her do the same.

But I’m scared. I don’t know how she’ll react, and I don’t want her to hate me, no matter what secrets she’s keeping.

When we pull up to the chocolatier, my brother’s Jeep is gone; Sophia and I reach the door to find it locked. She groans.

“I gave him my house keys. I figured he’d be back from Lake City by now.”

“You have a spare hidden anywhere?” I ask.

“Nope. I’ll have to climb in,” Sophia says. Confused, I follow her around the side of the house to a spot just below her bedroom window. “I leave my bedroom window unlocked. Not like I have much of a choice, since the lock is broken.”

I look up at the oak and bite my lip. “Okay. But I’m standing underneath because I’m pretty sure you’re going to fall.”

“I guarantee you, I won’t,” she says, and leaps up to grab the lowest tree limb. She swings her legs around it like a gymnast and hikes herself up. She climbs, slowly but sure-footedly.

“You don’t have to be all silent. I have uncanny powers to both talk and climb at once,” she calls down.

But there’s only one thing I want to ask her. I stare at her as she pulls herself into the sky. It seems easier now, without her sitting a foot away from me. I still don’t want her to hate me, but I don’t want to keep up this dance of secrets between us.

I take a deep breath.

“Why do you keep having the festival?” I ask casually, kicking at a fallen branch.

Sophia misses a step; branches swish and sway as she grabs on to a limb and regains her footing. Her eyes dart down to me for a single surprised, angry moment.

“What do you mean?” she says, trying and failing to hide an acidic tone in her voice.

“Just that, if girls keep running away afterward and people keep blaming you… wouldn’t it be easier to just cancel? Wouldn’t that make dealing with people like Merilee easier?”

“Well,” she says, climbing a branch higher, “because… because I shouldn’t have to.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“I shouldn’t have to deal with them hating me. I shouldn’t be the one people blame. It isn’t my fault.”

“Exactly, Sophia. What if we just canceled it this year? So no one blamed you?”

So no one vanishes?

Sophia stretches one leg out from the tree toward the roof, and I can see she’s shaking a little. She pushes off the tree and lands her other foot firmly on the roof, then slides open her bedroom window. She hesitates, then turns to look at me.

“I just
have
to throw it,” she says simply. “It’s the only thing I
can
do. I don’t really have a choice.” She shrugs and smiles, but there’s sadness to it, a secret hidden on her lips. She shakes it off. “Besides, Gretchen, it’s only two weeks away. I can’t cancel on such short notice!”

I nod, bite my tongue. She’s lying. She’s hiding something. She’s keeping a secret, and it might be the reason girls die every year.

But I still want to save her.

Something wakes me in the middle of the night.

At first I think it was the dream I was having—a dream about Samuel with a beautiful, faceless girl who has Sophia’s hair and a muffled voice.

No.

My eyes shoot open, stare at the vaulted ceiling above. I sit up quietly; Luxe raises his head sleepily, golden fur badly tousled. It was a noise—yes, I’m certain I
heard
something. I breathe almost silently, listening past the sound of the wind in the oaks outside and the ceiling fan clacking away above.

There it is. Footsteps.

I kick my legs over the side of the bed, careful to avoid the floorboard that creaks, and walk softly to the door as my heart picks up its pace. Luxe watches me for a moment, then flops his head back down on my blankets. I quietly open the door and slip outside.

It’s not Ansel—that much I know immediately. My brother’s quiet snores rise from the couch in the living room. I pass Sophia’s bedroom. The door is closed—I assume she’s asleep on the other side.
I should wake them up,
I think as I wipe the back of my neck, damp from fear and the nighttime humidity. What if it’s time? Are they here, like they were for Jacob Kelly?

Shredded
. I shudder and look at Ansel worriedly.

The footsteps move, rushed, hurried. I don’t have a gun, just the one over the mantel downstairs. The steps are coming from the kitchen—maybe I can be quiet, slip down and count on the scent of candies to overpower my own. Or if I can’t, at least I can scream—give Ansel fair warning instead of waiting for the monster to find its way upstairs.

When I said it on the rooftop at the Fourth of July party, I meant it: I can’t be the scared little girl anymore.

I squeeze my eyes shut to find some semblance of confidence and open the door to the stairwell, jaw trembling. Were those claws? I listen closer, waiting for the yellow eyes to appear. I’d rather see them now than go another moment waiting.

A voice. A female voice, though one muffled by the walls. Not a wolf. Not a witch. I swallow the lump that had formed in my throat and force myself to take a few calming breaths. They haven’t come for me, not yet. I tiptoe downstairs.

The chocolatier is darkened, though bits of moonlight stream through the front windows and through the glass cases, as though the sky is intentionally illuminating truffles and candies. There’s a dull glow from behind the saloon doors, a single light struggling to fill all the blackness. I edge around the display cases and peer into the kitchen.

Sophia paces. Her hair is down and frazzled, her nightgown wet with sweat. In front of her are a few truffle trays, mostly empty, and a bowl of candied orange peel that’s been tipped over. There’s also a bottle of dark rum, and I can tell even in the dim light that it’s half empty. I remember it was intended for some sort of truffle, but judging from the glass beside the bottle and Sophia’s face, I’d say it’s largely been drunk.

Sophia winds her fingers through her hair and turns so I can see her face. It’s hard to tell what’s sweat and what are tears, but her eyes are watery and red. She slams her hand against the corkboard with the festival RSVPs and mumbles to herself, then stumbles back to the bottle of rum and pours herself another shot. There’s a seashell beside the bottle—I think a new one. She glares at it, then releases another sob.

“Sophia?” I say gently, stepping through the saloon doors. Sophia clangs the glass back onto the counter and stares at me, confused, as if she’s forgotten who I am. Her eyes suddenly flood with recognition and she crumples down to the counter, head in her arms.

“There aren’t enough,” she weeps as I hurry around the counter and put a hand on her back. “There aren’t enough people coming.”

“I’m sure some more people will RSVP. You have two weeks,” I comfort her, quietly screwing the cap back onto the rum. She heaves and raises her head as I step away to put the rum back into a cabinet and toss what’s remaining in her glass down the sink. She watches me mutely, as though I’m in a movie, then finds my eyes again.

“What if there aren’t more?” she whispers, new tears spilling down her cheeks. She jumps off the bar stool and goes to the corkboard, where she begins rearranging the RSVPs frantically, dropping tacks onto the floor. I step around them and wrap an arm around Sophia’s shoulders. I ignore the pounding in my chest, the knowledge that the party will result in some girls’ deaths. That’s Sophia’s power: as much as I suspect her at times, I still care for her. I still want to comfort her.

“Then it’ll still be a great party,” I answer her soothingly, brushing away the strands of hair sticking to her face.

She looks at me and shakes her head, eyes wide with something like dread. “No, it won’t,” she says hoarsely. “I’m sorry, Gretchen. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know…” She reaches for the seashell on the counter, cradling it against her.