Eight
“We need to talk.” Dad accosts me in the kitchen the next afternoon when I go for an apple. I've been camped in the living room doing massive amounts of homework, but I need some sustenance. It's the first time in six days Dad's really talked to me. Mostly he's talked at me, and only when my mother is around. She's out in her garden. He glances out the window to make sure.
I wait for him to start. I'm not initiating this, because I know where this is going before he says a word. He's easier to read than one of those Dick and Jane books from first grade. See Dad. See Dad talk. See Dad yell an wave his arms. I fiddle with the sticker from my apple so I don't have to look at him. His face is doing that thing where he tries to look all superior. It makes me want to scream.
“You need to help your mother out more. She's taken on so much and you need to contribute more. It isn't right for her to work so hard when she should be resting.” What he's not saying is that soon she's not going to be around, so someone needs to pick up the slack. Someone named Ava. Not that he'll say any of that out loud. I'm supposed to be smart enough to understand that it's implied. Lucky for him, I'm not a moron.
“I will.” I'm not the only one who hears the whiny teenage edge to my voice. I could have controlled it, but I chose not to. Now I'm going to pay. He opens the fridge to get some cream for his coffee, like he needs to take a second before exploding on me.
“No, don't say that you will. Just do it. This is a hard time for all of us, and we need to make it easier on her,” he says, shutting the fridge with so much force the ketchup and salad dressing bottles rattle against each other.
“I know.” Does he think I don't know? That I'm trying to be difficult? That I want to make my mother's life harder? Yeah, I'm just that cruel and self-centered.
“Ava, you're not listening.” He's the one who's not. “I don't want her upset. I want to do everything I can to make sure that nothing like that happens.” He's about as subtle as a hurricane.
“I know,” I say again as he comes around the counter. I try not to flinch as he touches my shoulder, like he's going to hug me. Instead, he pulls his hand away, as if I bit him. I pretend not to notice and take a bite of my apple, hoping he's done, but knowing he's not.
“I want to make this a peaceful time for her, which means if she asks you to do something, you do it.” Why does he keep telling me this?
Whenever she needs something, I get it. I'm always bringing her coffee and baking her favorite cookies and offering to do the dishes and making sure she's not cold or hot or uncomfortable. She hates asking for things, but I know her so well she doesn't have to. His way is to pester her constantly, until she makes something up she doesn't really need just to make him happy, like giving an overactive child a useless chore to keep them busy.
We're too busy glaring at each other to hear her coming in. I'm surprised when she doesn't slam into the wall of tension Dad and I just put up. Either of us would need a sledgehammer to break it down. She just walks right through it.
“Everything okay in here?” She brings with her the whiff of fresh dirt. It's all over her clothes and there are leaves in her hair. She has a smudge on her nose and a glowing smile on her face. She looks better than she has in days.
“Just talking about the camping trip,” I say, putting on a smile. The lies seem to come easier and easier. Dad puts on his smile and hers widens. She gathers us both in her dirt-covered arms.
“I love you both.” I don't look at Dad as we hug. Anyone looking into our house would see a lovely family moment. How wrong they would be.
Avoiding Dad is my goal for the rest of the day. I spend it wrapped in a blanket on the couch, my face stuck as far into a book as I can get it without crossing my eyes, but my effort is futile. I end up reading the same sentence over and over and not remembering which chapter I'm on or what the love interest of the main character's name is. My mother senses the tension and suggests in a soft voice that she has a hankering to take a walk. Dad jumps right to concern mode, asking if that's such a good idea. She kisses his cheek and tells him not to worry so much. Good luck with that. Of course he acquiesces and she says they'll be back later as they head out the door. I go back to my book, trying not to feel nervous about being alone.
They come back hours later with pizza and we spend the rest of the evening planing our camping trip, sans tension. Dad seems a little more calm, and I can talk to him without wanting to roll my eyes or scream.
I am not a big fan of sleeping on the ground, being eaten alive by mosquitoes, and going to the bathroom in the woods, but my mother loves it, the whole shebang, so we're doing it. If she wants to picnic on the moon, we'll find a way. Buy space suits and learn how to moonwalk.
“It's been so long since we've gone. I hope I can find all of our gear.” She picks an olive off her pizza and pops it in her mouth. She always gets extra olives. I can't stand them, but I've eaten three slices covered in them. Don't rock the boat, I say.
“Don't worry about it. Ava and I will take care of it. You can plan out our hikes and make the menu.” Dad kisses her on the nose, making her giggle. My smile is almost painful, my cheeks cracking under the pressure.
“This trip is just for you to relax.” She holds her spare arm out and I climb under it.
“You guys spoil me.”
“You deserve to be spoiled,” Dad says, putting his arm around both of us. Two family hugs in one day. Not since I was little have we hugged so much. Dad and I aren't huggers by nature. It's natural for her, like calling me by silly nicknames and being so good with children.
Tex interrupts the Kodak moment via my new phone, causing Dad to give me another glare as I answer it. How dare I spoil the perfect moment?
“Hey, you've been MIA. What's up with you?”
“Nothing, just busy,” I say, mouthing her name to tell them who I'm on the phone with. Mom nods and makes a shooing motion with her hands. Dad keeps his glare on. I follow her directions and ignore him.
“Doing what?”
“Homework.” It's true that I had a ton of reading for my AP English class, but I'd done it already. She doesn't need to know that, though. I stub my toe on one of the steps and bite back a curse.
“You are such a dork.”
“Yeah, says the girl who's in AP history.” Using my foot to shut the door, I breathe a sigh of relief that I can talk without having Dad glare at me, which he's probably doing through the floor.
“It's not my fault I have a freakish memory for dates.”
“D-Day,” I fire at her.
“June 6, 1944.” She says it through a mouthful of something without even thinking about it. “Give me something that's a challenge.” At least I think that's what she says. It's hard to tell.
“I can't believe you got out of working this week,” she says with more crunching.
“It helps to know people.”
“Yeah, right. So, I am totally making a pilgrimage to Portland next weekend to go shopping. I thought we could make a day of it.” My heart sinks as she says it. I would love to go shopping with Tex. Spend an afternoon just walking around the mall and talking and eating giant pretzels and staring at cute boys like we used to. I miss it. How could I not have realized I miss it?
“I can't. I have to go camping with my parents.”
“Uh, okay. What are you, five?” The slurping sound is probably her licking whatever it is she's eating off her fingers. I really hope.
“It's my Dad's idea. Family bonding and all that. What are you eating?”
“Salt and vinegar chips mixed with cheese doodles.” Uh, excuse me while I hurl. Tex loves to mix her snacks. I hear her licking her fingers.
“Ugh, I hate family bonding. My parents keep trying to do that, but it always ends up with Coby sulking in the corner and me getting yelled at for trying to cheer everyone up.” Of course she forces all the blame on her younger brother, like she's all innocent.
“That's because you make a scene.”
“I do not make a scene!” The crumply sound must be her rooting around in the bottom of the bag for crumbs.
“Um, do you remember Applebee's?”
“What was I supposed to do? That drunk guy dared me.” What an understatement. She'd hopped on top of the bar, and, suffice it to say, she was banned for life from Applebee's.
“My point exactly.”
“You're such a pain in the ass.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Well okay, if you can't come shopping, can you at least visit me at work tomorrow? I can't stand talking to Toby all day. He's going to ComicCon, and if I hear one more word about his hobbit costume, I'm going to scream.” The thought of it makes me shudder, but I'd really be a horrible friend if I leave her to deal with it.
“Fine, fine. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, bitch.”
“See you later, ho.” My mother is going to die. The words try to struggle their way out, like I've got that disease that makes you yell nonsense words and swears. I swallow them back for the hundredth time.
I don't want to go to the cemetery tonight. I don't want to see Peter, to hear his strange voice. To feel the way I do when he's around, like I'm seconds away from death. Does that make me a masochist? Or suicidal? Or one of those freaky people who's into whips and chains and pain?
I pace my room instead, the pizza I've consumed churning around like a storm of cheese and sauce. Ew.
I really don't want to go camping. If it were just me and Mom, I'd be there in a heartbeat. For some reason adding Dad to the mix just throws everything off. She says it's because we're too much alike, which I think is insane. The reason we argue so much is because we don't understand each other. I can follow the twisted logic of his mind, but I don't see the point in it.
I wish I had someone I could talk to. The one person I could always talk to was her, and I can't talk to her, about her.
There is someone who might understand. At least I hope so.
***
“Don't you sleep?” I say when I'm close enough for him to hear me. As usual, he's standing there, like he's been waiting his whole life for this one moment. For me.
That's ridiculous. He isn't waiting for me. He's just... always here.
“No.” I click on the lantern I've brought with me. Dad had found it in the basement when he went looking for the camping stuff. It's old, but still works, and casts a slightly blue light over everything. A moth flutters toward the light as I crash against the broken angel.
“Aren't you tired? Don't you have something better to do than hang out with me?”
Silence.
“Probably.” He flows into a sitting position as I try not to stare. When he moves it's like he isn't made of bones and muscle, but water. I've never seen anyone move like that, not even dancers are that smooth. Something else that tells me he's not what he seems. The thought has been building in my head since that first night, and everything I've seen has only done more to confirm my suspicions. I just don't know what he could be.
“I don't get you.”
“What do you mean?”
“This whole thing,” I wave my hands around, indicating his person. “When I surprised you, that one time, you seemed sooo, I don't know. I thought you were in a gang or something. You seemed dangerous.” I try to look into his eyes, but I feel so foolish, I can't. “And then all that stuff went down and I have to say, I was really freaked out by you and your brother and then you saying you want to kill yourself. I don't know why I came back here. Maybe I'm just nuts.” I bang my fist against the angel's foot.
“You were correct the first time.”
“You're in a gang?”
“Of sorts.”
“No way, do you have one of those secret handshakes?” His head tips to the side, as if he's confused. “Never mind.”
“I want to kill you.”
“What?” I hear the words, but they don't make sense. I thought he wanted to kill himself, and his brother was the one who wanted me dead.
“Very much,” he says. Now I look up at him, and I get that feeling. The one where you know you should stop poking your fingers through the tiger cage because something's going to happen and it's not going to be pretty. I stare into the eyes of the tiger, and then it happens.
He lunges at me and I'm on the ground, his hand on my neck, making it nearly impossible to breathe, his body crushing mine. Panic takes a fraction of a second to set in and then I'm losing it. His face is hard in the bluish light. Somehow he pumps fear into me, and I feel it soaking into my skin from his. The fear is a knife, slicing through me as I pray for it to end.
“Do you understand?” he says, voice as cool and even as glass. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but I kinda can't breathe. Thrashing, I try to get my knee free so I can kick him in the groin. God, he's heavy. Somehow he's got my legs trapped so I can't move them. My hands are busy trying to pry his arms from my neck. I convulse, trying to put him off balance. No dice. My vision's getting spotty, so I give up. Guess he is going to kill me. The pressure lessens on my throat and I'm able to get enough air to say something.
“Got it.” It comes out as a rasp, but he lets me go. His weight disappears and I cough a few times. Cold oxygen pours back into my body like water. My throat hurts from the pressure and my lungs spasm, trying to get themselves working again.
“What the hell was that for?” I sound like a man when I speak, or like I'd lost my voice. I lunge out to shove him away from me or punch him or hurt him in some way but he moves so fast that I end up digging my face into the ground and getting a mouthful of grass instead. I spit out the dirt and push myself up. The lantern's fallen over and gone out, so I'm in almost complete blackness.
“I told you that you were reckless,” his voice says in my ear. As quick as I can I whip around, but he's gone again. Blindly, I scan for him. The only way I can find where is is the the shush of his clothes as he moves, but that's hard to hear over my insanely pounding heart.
“What the fuck?! I should turn you in for assault,” I say, my voice trembling as much as I am.
“But you won't.” Once again, he's positive. He's accomplished what he wanted. My hurt neck, my trembling hands and my beating heart are all telling me the same thing. Step away from the door of the tiger cage; you've already been bitten once, don't try it again. It makes me think of that old saying they used to put on maps. Here be dragons.
“I will kill you. I want you to know that.” His eyes do that thing again, pulling me in like a fish on a line. Only I don't thrash and struggle for the safety of the rushing river. I let him drag me in like an old boot. “Never forget it. No matter what.” All I can see are his eyes. It's still too dark to see what color they are. Someday, I will see them. If I live that long.
“Well, this has been lovely, but I've got to get home.” I'm trying to hide how freaked out I am. I've never met anyone like him. So... without emotion. I almost forget the fallen lantern and trip on it when I get up. Great, it's broken, which is not my biggest problem right now.
“Goodbye, Ava.” His voice is close, but I can't find it. The lantern bangs hard against my leg as I start walking back to my car. Fast.
I don't say it back.
I'm shaking so hard by the time I make it, I can't get my key in the door.
“Come on, come on.” I have the distinct floaty feeling of shock. I need to get away, right now. I fling myself and the lantern into the driver's side, shutting and locking my door, wishing I had automatic locks.
My stupid Honda doesn't want to start. “Come on, you jackass.” My voice still sounds funny from my damaged throat. God, was I going to have bruises? Try explaining that to the parents. I fell down wasn't going to cut it.
Finally, the ignition catches and I slam out of the parking space.
I'm so lost in driving that I nearly hit a deer on my way home. If it wasn't for the glowing eyes in my headlights, I would have hit it. Then I'd really go into shock. I slam on my brakes and wait for the deer to cross the road, two others behind it. I sit there in the middle of the road for what feels like hours, making sure they don't come darting back. They have a tendency to do that. Going right back into the path of danger, like me.
My neck is hot. I turn on the internal light, cringing at the red marks that are blooming already. Shit. I'm so screwed.
***
I nearly killed her. It would have been so easy. Her neck would have snapped with a simple twist of my fingers. I could have fed without her dying face watching me. I liked it better when they were still alive. The struggle was like a drug to me. It was not my intention to kill her. Only to make her understand a little about what I was. I had met people before that didn't fear me. Usually, I ended up killing them. I didn't want to kill her, so I filled her with that fear. Used the power I had to make my victim run and scream so I could chase them. Increase the excitement in the hunt. Not for her.
I looked down at her, counted the breaths that no longer filled her lungs because I blocked them.
There was nothing else I could have done. I had to scare her. She watched me the entire time, making me even more excited. Her air swished over me as I squeezed her lungs with my body. Being this close to a living person made me want her so much I couldn't even see anything else.
I pushed harder on her windpipe. Her skin turned white and gray. Her eyes bulged and I saw that she believed me. Saw that I could kill her. Understood, on some level, what I was. I let up and she got out two words. I stopped.
She coughed and sputtered, an engine starting up again. Her body struggled to get itself back to its normal state. It took her several seconds to be able to speak. Her body shook, and I smelled the fear on her, making her scent dark and delicious. As if I was a troublesome creature she wanted to punish, she tried to catch me. I moved away, watching her. She was interesting, for a human. If my past experiences were correct, she should have screamed and run away. She did not.
I told her she was reckless. There was something about her, something that glittered like the blade of a knife. Something sharp that would only flash out when it was needed and stay folded up and hidden the rest of the time, ready to snap and cut. She hadn't used it with me, but she might. It would surprise both of us.
***
The first thing I do when I get home is lock all the doors and windows and curse myself for telling him my name. No, I'm not reckless. I'm just freaking stupid. Really dumb. Award-winningly foolish. I want to slam myself in the forehead for my folly. Instead I sit on my bed, trying to figure out how I'm going to pretend like nothing happened when my parents wake up tomorrow. Figure out how I'm going to cover up the marks that look exactly like what they are. Fingerprints. For the second time in less than a month, I've almost had the life choked out of me.
Frantic, I search my scant make-up kit for anything thick enough to slather over the marks. I really need Tex. She's the hickey-hiding queen. No, I have to tackle this on my own. I've gotten myself into this. No need to drag anyone else down. This is my complete and total mess.
No matter how much I try, the make-up won't blend enough so that it doesn't look like I've smeared it on my neck by accident to cover a bruise I don't want anyone to see. To my closet I go, trying to make as little noise as I can while I'm tearing through piles of shoes and random books and myriad other things to find that scarf my Aunt Jenny had given me for my last birthday.
She's my dad's sister and the two are as opposite from each other as day old white bread is from my mother's raspberry and white chocolate swirled fudge. Guess which one my dad is. Speaking of Aj, I have an e-mail waiting in my inbox from her that I have yet to respond to. I knew she could smell a lie, even when that lie is typed. We emailed nearly every week, and she'll freak if I don't answer her soon. One more thing I have to worry about. One more person to lie to. I haven't told her about Mom. Well, she knows about the cancer, but she doesn't know about the most recent development. I'm not going to be the one to enlighten her.
Finally, after much digging, I find the scarf. It isn't really my style, but it will have to do. I practice tying it the mirror so it covers as much as possible while my hands still tremor.