He smiles, shaking his head a bit. Maybe he just thinks I’m nervous. Or hairy.
“No, I’m fine, thanks for asking.” He adds, “I can give you a ride if you want. It’s over a mile. That walk.”
“Oh, I know. I just. Sometimes it’s nice to go for a walk. Morning light.”
He doesn’t know what I mean. Of course he doesn’t. He never went to my shrink. My shrink never told him, “Hey, it’s a good idea to get out in the morning to counter depression. Morning light. You must try to get some morning light.” Yes, she told me it’s imperative to get morning light and yes, I maybe do it once a month. Nobody’s perfect.
“Okay, then. We’ll just get started.” He nods, assuring.
He walks back around the house to where I’m sure the other guys are waiting for him, shuffling around.
I take one last look at the destroyed crabgrass under the wall. It could be anything. A possum. A raccoon. A dog even. It could be anything. I’ll google it. This is silly.
It’s just a natural thing. An animal. An animal from nature.
Nothing sinister at all.
Chapter 14
On my way into town I decide the loneliness is getting to me. That must be it. Just because I decided to come out here all on my own doesn’t mean I have to actually be alone the whole time. I could invite someone over! Some other humans who would come stay with me and help sway me to the obvious conclusion that everything is normal.
But who?
I specifically left “back home” to get away from everyone. And the thing I’m not thinking about. If I invite anyone from back home, then that is out the window. But what about this? A family member. A cousin. Two cousins even. A cousin is the kind of person you can randomly email and get to come to some house in the middle of nowhere, right? Because family.
It just so happens that I have two cousins who might actually do such a thing and are not too annoying. They live with my aunt and uncle in Chicago and they have never been mean to me for being from the middle of nowhere. In fact, they’ve always been pretty nice about it. Intrigued. Curious. Ready with questions about what the kids at my school wear and what we say and how the social structure is ordered.
They go to kind of a fancy school because my uncle, aka the one I’m not related to, is sort of persnickety about that stuff. Like, he’s the kind of guy who takes pride in his kids going to a really good school and having “authentic experiences” when traveling or whatever. Which makes me think . . . If you want your kids to have such “authentic experiences,” why don’t you just send them to an “authentic” school rather than a billion dollar one? But perhaps his authentic-meter can only be filled out of the country. Either way. They’re nice. And, right now, they might have to come here and save my life and/or sanity. I make a note to myself. Yes, I will reach out to them.
Her name is Abby and his name is Ollie. She’s one year older and definitely seems like she might be president one day. Ollie is my age and is more like the kind of kid who wears Converse high-tops and plays the drums. Really well, mind you. I’m not kidding. You should see him. I saw a video my aunt posted and it was kind of like everyone at the school talent show was silenced into submission by his otherworldly ability on the drums.
But there are no drums here. Just “a cat” or something outside, some mysterious scratching noises and a bunch of super-bros working on the guesthouse. I make up my mind to call my cousins. It will be half a plea and half a description of a glamorous getaway-slash-sleepover with no parents. Maybe I will bill it as an “authentic experience.”
In town, there’s a little café called “Mabel’s Muffins,” complete with a mural on the wall of a forest made entirely of pastries. I have to wonder if this was Mabel’s idea or if somebody just randomly came into town and asked her if he could paint a muffin forest on her wall. You never really know. Maybe she built the café just because she was looking for a place to showcase her pastry landscape.
As I walk in, I’m pretty sure that the aforementioned Mabel is standing in the corner over the coffeemaker, in an apron that says, “Kiss Me, I’m Desperate.” But she doesn’t really look desperate. She looks nice, actually. An ash-blond bun in her hair with wisps everywhere. She looks like someone you would cast in a movie as the hardworking hero’s wife. She works hard, too, to keep bread on the table, but she never loses faith and she’s loyal as a lion. Before the hero goes off to fight zombies, she’d look at him reassuringly. She would know that he would never make it through the zombie apocalypse, but that “a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do” and she’d let him go. In the end, she’d be the only one to survive. Here, in the muffin forest.
But then, something changes in the air and, for no apparent reason, I become overwhelmed with anxiety.
I’m anxious at the idea of talking to her. Anxious at the idea of talking to anyone.
What if she starts asking questions about why I am here and what I am doing and why I am all alone?
No, no, I can’t.
I can’t talk to her.
The room seems smaller, shrinking somehow, and suddenly I am terrified of any interaction whatsoever.
I won’t be able to explain myself.
She’ll judge me.
She’ll know.
As if by a kind of catapult, I shoot myself out, in one fell swoop, out of the café and into the street. I don’t look behind me, for fear she might say something to bring me back.
No, I can’t talk now.
I can’t do any of that yet.
I look down at the sidewalk as the few townsfolk walking around come by. No, don’t talk to me. Don’t make eye contact. Leave me alone.
It’s a strange sort of thing to describe, this sudden fear. It started to happen after—
It started to happen after the thing that cannot be said.
There is no understanding of it and no history of it.
There is only one certainty to it.
It’s crippling.
I had the idea that I would go into the little used bookstore in town, but now that seems impossible. A ludicrous idea! Then I will be begging for a conversation.
No.
No, not that.
Best to just turn around and go straight back home.
There, I’ll be safe.
Chapter 15
Halfway back to the house, the memory keeps trying to claw its way out of its little box in my head. But I won’t let it. And this time I have a strategy. I’ll take out just the part I like, like a scientist examining a specimen. A good part. I’ll start with that. Then I’ll put it back down on the shelf before the bad part. A selective memory. A spotlight shone on just one teeny-tiny instance.
And this is the part I choose:
It’s sophomore year at Lincoln Southeast High. The two middle schools, Irving and Pound, have coalesced into one school, this high school. Everyone is still trying to find their footing. How do I fit in here? Who am I? Am I a loser? Am I one of the cool kids? Are they the cool kids? Wait, if they are the cool kids, what does that make me?
You get the picture.
I was in a precarious position. Even though I had come from a slightly normal, not horrible echelon at Pound Junior High . . . Irving was considered the cooler school. By default, they would be the cooler kids. And we unfortunate Pound kids? Well, we could only hope. Maybe, just maybe one of the Irving kids would “choose” us. Maybe they would lift us up out of the depths of mediocrity. Maybe . . . but it was a long shot.