The Creeping

In the driveway Michaela’s leaning against my car door, and Cole’s sitting cross-legged on the hood. Cole tips a pink flask to her lips, and Michaela says, “Did you drink driving over? James Hammer got a DUI last summer and his college found out and they didn’t let him come back for sophomore year. Now he lives in a studio with two roommates and buses tables at a Denny’s.” Cole winks at her and tips the flask to her lips again. I think (not for the first time) that Cole is a lot more like Zoey than Michaela.

Once in the car, Cole’s excitement for the bonfire is infectious. She practically vibrates. Zoey sits shotgun and turns the music up full blast; the thumping bass makes my old Volvo’s speakers rattle. Despite the bizarre afternoon, this is normal. This is my comfortable. I smile at Michaela’s reflection in the rearview mirror as she studiously applies her lip gloss. Her parents get weirded out by their “baby girl” wearing makeup, so she usually forgoes the argument and does it once she’s left the house. She could probably apply flawless eyeliner during a rocket launch after doing it in the car enough times.

We follow Savage’s main street through downtown and keep going when it narrows into a snaking two-lane highway, running toward Blackdog Lake.

“So why this one place? Is Day of Bones always at Blackdog?” Cole hollers above the music. Zoey swats my hand when I reach to turn the volume down. She cranes her neck and twists to face the backseat.

“Yes, it’s always at Blackdog!” she shouts. She’d rather holler than stop swaying in her seat. “Most Wildwood High bonfires are, even though there are a shit-ton of lakes around Savage. But there’s only one spooky cemetery, and it’s right along the shore.” A chill runs up my arms, and I alternate holding the steering wheel with each hand to rub the eerie sensation away. I hope no one notices me spazzing out before I can get a grip.

“Omigosh, a cemetery? That is so spectacularly morbid,” Cole says, straining against the seat belt and pumping her hands in the air.

Michaela pipes up, “You don’t know the half of it. It’s our equivalent of a lookout point. Everyone drives there to make out, and the place is packed with cars on the weekend. Windows all steamy. Everyone hooking up among the dead.”

“Have you ever?” Cole asks Michaela. Michaela gives a fluted laugh and falls into being engrossed in the contents of her clutch. She’s the least experienced of us—by choice, obviously—but she’s still spent a handful of nights getting groped at Old Savage Cemetery. Who hasn’t? She’s just not the type to kiss and tell.

“We all have,” I say. Most girls are shy talking about hooking up. I refuse to be. Guys shouldn’t be the only ones talking about that stuff.

Zoey shrugs and winks at Cole. “Sure, it’s actually kind of romantic when there’s a big bonfire. Some of the tombs are absolutely to-die-for gorgeous. It’s not like we’re making it lying on top of a mausoleum, although I’m sure that’s happened. We at least do it in our cars.”

We wind deeper into the woods, following the serpentine highway to the lake’s secluded eastern shore. The pine trees grow denser and taller, their boughs weaving a tight canopy, until they shut out even the pale light of the moon. For miles there are no houses, no signs of life, no buildings, no other cars. After a while I turn off the highway to take a dirt access road. A gleaming white skeleton is fastened to a wooden post marking the drive. It’s secured with a thick rope, limbs dangling limply in the breeze. I’d know the turnoff even if not for Scott Townsend’s dad’s skeleton. Dr. Townsend is a pediatrician, and every Day of Bones, Scott kidnaps the skeleton from his study. It’s even kid-size, for God’s sake.

“Gross, is that real?” Cole asks.

“That’s Scott Townsend’s. Our girl Stella here went out with that loser for a whole year,” Zoey shares gleefully. “Alas, though, in eighth grade she broke his heart.” I roll my eyes at Zoey’s melodramatic tone. It was way more sitting at the same lunch table and exchanging locker combos than it was dating.

“Zoey thinks every guy who isn’t varsity in at least two sports is totally worthless,” I explain.

“Um, and they are,” Zoey replies, scandalized. “Why would any of us waste a single minute on someone who isn’t killing it in high school? It only gets harder from here on, folks, and if you can’t cut it in high school, the world is going to chew you up and spit you out.”