The Creeping

Maybe it didn’t keep me up at night then, but it does now. Now I lie awake beating back the sharp-toothed dread and horror of six-year-old me whispering furiously, “If you hunt for monsters, you’ll find them.”


I shake my head to clear the thought. Zoey sneaks glances behind us as we trudge through the woods. We’ve worn a trail over the years that makes it easy to reach the clearing off the road where we park. Once inside Zoey’s SUV, Michaela’s nervous laugh is like a dam bursting, and we all join in. Snuggling up against the soft leather interior, scrolling through Zoey’s iPod, and breathing in the familiar smells of coffee sludge at the bottom of paper cups and cake-scented lip gloss make the freaky stranger in the woods seem far away. I’d expect this from the others; they live for drama-induced adrenaline. But I know better. At least I used to.

“Tonight should be interesting, since we’re all total crackheads already,” Zoey says with a laugh, steering the car on to the highway and accelerating quickly. The conversation turns to senior trip ideas and boys; within five minutes it’s as though our lake day ended just as unexceptionally as it always does.

Six hours later I stand bent at the waist, blow-drying my hair. It’s longer than it’s been since I was a kid, and I grimace when I think about how easy Zoey’s pixie cut is to style. My hair has a natural wave to it that takes hours of styling to coax it into anything not resembling a rat’s nest. I flip my head over and am still working on it when the doorbell rings. Dad is home, but he’ll figure that it’s for me. I hurry through the hallway and catch a glimpse of him hunched over his desk in the office. Only his small stained-glass lamp is switched on.

“Dad, you’re going to go blind if you don’t use the overhead,” I say, popping into the room and flipping the switch. He looks up from the document he’s skimming. His wire-rimmed spectacles rest low on his nose, and he looks surprised to see me home.

“You look nice. You and Zoey going somewhere?” he mumbles. This is my absentminded father for you. We had his famous pasta primavera with shrimp for dinner just two hours ago, and he’s already forgotten I’m home. A lawyer first and everything else second. I understand that this, plus a bunch of other crap I don’t know about, is why Mom left us five years ago. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still a wicked witch for the way she did it. Having an affair with Dad’s partner at his firm and then copping to the affair on their anniversary in front of all our friends and family was deranged. Not to mention—surprise—humiliating for me. But that is my whack-job mom for you. A woman who I only see at Christmastime now that she’s busy starting her new family in Chicago. She and my stepdad, who I despise as much as I do lice or any other grubby parasite, are trying to get knocked up. Can you imagine?

I nod, but Dad isn’t even looking at me anymore. “Day of Bones, you know. I’ll be late, and the girls might sleep here. Is that okay?”

“Hmmm? Whatever you think, Pumpkin. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

I take the stairs two at a time and run through the foyer. I fling the door open and yell, “I’ll grab my bag!” before leaving Zoey alone on the porch.

“You said you’d be ready for us at eight. Michaela and Cole just drove up too,” she whines. Zoey doesn’t like to be kept waiting, even for a moment.

“I know, I know,” I call. The shrill sound of Zoey wailing my name dogs me as I search wildly for my navy Converse tennis shoes. I make it back to the front door, where Zoey is kneeling on the carpet, scratching our cat’s tummy. Moscow is a Russian Blue that we’ve had since I was a baby. Dad jokes that he must have a robotic ticker for a heart.

“Good-bye my chunky prince,” I coo, stooping to pet his chubby belly. I snatch my keys off the table in the entryway and lock the door behind us.

Zoey gives me a sideways glance as we walk to the driveway. “You are aware that tennis shoes are only for PE and peasants, right?” I roll my eyes at her, but my cheeks burn a few degrees warmer when I sneak a peek at her red platform pumps. It’s like no matter how hard I try, I always come out dressed like a big kid, while Zoey’s clothes scream hotness.