Ariel
For more than a week, Ariel couldn’t bring herself to make the call. Each time she thought about it, a feeling of nervous dread would rise up so forcefully she sometimes had to bend over, put her hands on her knees. SHE’S YOUR EFFING MOM, Sunny texted her one afternoon. JUST DO IT ALREADY.
OK, OK, Ariel sent back. Tonight—I promise.
When she got home, Dex was on the couch, playing on his phone. Probably Candy Crush or Two Dots. She noticed the windowsill held a new succulent, a peach-colored flower pushing up through a spiral of dark, waxy leaves. Dex was obsessed with plants. He bought a new one every other week, imbuing their otherwise cramped and unextraordinary house with a lush, jungle feel. It was one of the many things she loved about him, how he could transform a space into something textured and alive.
“Good day?” he called from the couch.
“Not bad,” she said, setting her things down. “Got peed on by a corgi.”
“That’s my lady.” He was still looking at his phone. “Want to get food somewhere?”
“I thought you were making lasagna.” All day, she had looked forward to a home-cooked meal. When he wanted to, Dex could be an excellent cook.
“I was going to, but then I started craving India Palace.”
“I’m not hungry right now,” she said, trying to mask her irritation. “Maybe later.”
“When is later?”
She went to the kitchen table, where her laptop was. “If I had to guess,” she said, starting up the machine, “it’ll be sometime between now and the future.”
She ignored his groan as she searched for the most recent article about the fire, a shock running up her neck as she found one dated just the day before. When she read the suspect’s name, the world flickered, froze, and then grew fuzzy. Sydney Fuller. The same Sydney who taught her how to play Risk, who showed her how to dance the Macarena, who gifted her a package of strawberry-flavored reeds for her clarinet when Ariel’s mom kept forgetting to buy them. The same Sydney she’d hurt all those years ago. He was now in jail, his bail set at $200,000. If sentenced, he could face up to fifteen years in prison. Arson. Hate crime. Cruelty to animals. “What I did was wrong,” he was quoted in the article. “I see that now and can only hope God will forgive me.”
She stared at his mug shot. Despite his shaved head, he had grown more handsome over the years, his chin stronger, his acne gone. She recalled the first time she ever saw him. It was seventh grade, third period, band class. He was short and scrawny, with red hair that stuck up in the front, stiff with gel, and elbows so dry they appeared gray. He’d dressed up for his first day at a new school: khaki cargo pants, Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt, and a hemp necklace with green-and-red peace-sign beads. Ariel was alarmed when Ms. Kahn assigned him first-chair clarinet, a distinction that had always been Ariel’s. Jealousy soon gave way to pity when she learned Sydney’s parents had died in a car accident that winter, while heading to church—that he and his older brother, Big John, had moved to St. Clare to live with their grandma Loretta. This was why he would sometimes tear up in the middle of band practice—this, and he’d hurt his neck in the wreck and sometimes felt a shooting pain in his upper back. As if things weren’t hard enough, he was also first-chair clarinet in a town where boys, if they dared play an instrument at all, chose drums, tuba, or trumpet. In the hall, kids began to shout faggot and fruitcake. Watching the awkward drama of Sydney’s bullying—the way he cowered, how kids threw balled-up paper at his back—horrified Ariel. Having always been the target, she had never witnessed this abuse from the outside. To her surprise, when she invited him to sit with her at lunch, he said yes. From there, a friendship unfolded. At first, Ariel assumed their connection was based on circumstance—they were both lonely band geeks who lived in St. Clare—but as they spent more time together, she began to genuinely like Sydney’s company. He was funny, with a grim sense of humor like her father’s, and often talked about the movies and shows his grandma let him watch—The Matrix, American Idol, The Real World. He had grown up in St. Louis and felt bigger than St. Clare, his life still tethered to the outside world. She was happy when, on his insistence, they began practicing clarinet together after school, in her mother’s garage or sitting on metal chairs in the pasture, the horses pacing, curious, around them. Occasionally they would go to his house, which smelled of mothballs and Lysol and made Ariel feel inexplicably sad. Loretta would bring them crustless sandwiches or pouches of warm Capri Sun, kissing Sydney on the forehead whenever she left the room. Mostly, he was nice to Ariel, but sometimes, if he was having a hard day, he could be cruel. He’d ask if she was retarded when she couldn’t figure out a line of music. Or he’d say she smelled like a barn—didn’t she take showers? There was also the time he patted the top of her head, and when she’d asked, giggling, what he was doing, he said he was feeling for her horns. Still, she cared for him. He was her only friend, and despite his occasional unkindness, she believed that, deep down, he was good. She was the one who had hurt him in the end, and she wondered now, in a flash of anxiety, whether this hurt had something to do with the fire. If, all these years later, Sydney had wanted to hurt her back.
Ariel continued reading the article, anticipating whatever quote her mother had given the journalist. When she got to it, her heart wrenched. “We’re devastated,” said Mona Siskin, owner of Bright Side animal sanctuary. “All we want is our horses back, and that’s the one thing even justice can’t give us.”
She was gathering the courage to call when a text came through from Dex. He was still on the couch, just a few yards away. Since my lady isn’t hungry, would she care 2 bone instead? Ariel ignored the text and put on her jacket.
“You going somewhere?” Dex leaned over the couch to look at her. A tuft of his copper hair flopped in front of his eyes in a way she had always found endearing.
“Just outside to make a call.”
“Did you get my text?”
“I did.”
“Would you say you’re for or against boning?”
“Currently undecided.”
“Who are you calling?”
“Nobody. I’m just—ordering more contacts.” It was a dumb lie, but she was anxious. She grabbed a beer and went out onto the back porch. There was a bite to the wind, but the fresh air jolted her to attention. Her hands shook as she dialed the sanctuary’s number, which she still knew by heart. When the phone started to ring, she nearly hung up but forced herself to keep going, gulping down as much beer as she could. She pictured the black cordless in her mother’s kitchen, next to a stack of wholesale pet-supply catalogs and overdue vet bills. She was both disappointed and immensely relieved when the voicemail picked up.
Her mother’s voice, like a song she hadn’t heard in years. The sound of it gutted her. You’ve reached the Bright Side. If you’re calling about adopting an animal, please leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. For a moment, Ariel thought it was the same message from when she’d left. This would be just like her mother, keeping the same voicemail recording for nearly a decade. Well, Ariel, if it ain’t broke why fix it? But the message continued. If you’re interested in the property, please call Shirley Donahue at Midland Realty to set up a showing. Thanks! This last part made her stomach turn.