Tuesday, 6:49 am

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“Good morning, this is Sadie Summers from Channel 6 news. I’m here in the studio today joined by–”

Sadie’s bubbly voice is cut short as my mom clicks off the small television that resides on our cluttered kitchen counter. I watch the news reporter’s face disappear into an abyss of static. My attention returns to my half-eaten bowl of cereal, which has started to get soggy.

“Finish up. You’re gonna miss the bus,” my mom orders, zipping around the kitchen. She stops to bend down and help my sister tie her shoe, which she has unsuccessfully been attempting for the last five minutes. Mom pulls frantically at the pink shoelaces, to which Evie protests. At almost seven years old, she’s insistent on being independent.

I give up on the cereal and toss my bowl into the already-full sink, realizing that it’s going to be my problem later when I get home from school. I collect my essentials: the oversized denim jacket from the back of the chair, a water bottle covered in both dents and faded stickers, and a pair of blue head phones to tune out the noise on the bus.

Noticing the time on the oven, Mom lets out an exasperated sigh and grabs both her and Evie’s belongings for the day. She always drops Evie off at school before going to work. I, however, am not so lucky.

I swing my weighed-down backpack over my shoulder and give a rushed goodbye as I walk outside, hearing their muffled responses through the glass door as it slams shut behind me.

My jacket does nearly nothing to protect me from the bitter October wind. It creeps through the sleeves, and through the holes in my jeans. My arms instinctively cross over my chest in a futile attempt to deter the cold air as I walk to the bus stop at the end of the road. The world is still and silent, except for the rustling of dying branches and the occasional windchime.

When I get to the end of the road, I can hear the low grumbling of the bus making its way up the hill, but can only see the headlights faintly through the fog. In the last few moments of peace I have before it approaches, I try to prepare myself as best as I can. Finally, it creaks to a stop in front of me, the door swinging open with a sigh. The gate to Hell.

I barely hear the “mornin’” from the bus driver as I shuffle my way down the dark aisle. Being one of the first ones on the route, I usually get my pick of seats. I pick the same one in the middle everyday. The ripped, gray cushion is cold against the backs of my legs, despite the sound of the heat attempting to warm us up.

I take out my headphones and place them over my ears, careful to avoid the dark, curly bun that sits at the top of my head. The mob of noise swarming my ears becomes distant, and then disappears altogether as I press the play button on my phone. I turn to the foggy window, where I can just make out my brown eyes staring back at me.

The music drowns out the world around me, and I am no longer in the small town of Callford. No more cracked-pavement roads and broken fences. Brown lawns or broken glass on the sidewalks of the main road. I don’t know where I am, but I’m glad that the song is, even if just for a minute, taking me out of here.

But just for a minute.

A static sound interrupts the music, as if someone is changing a chan nel. I lift one side of the headphones from my ear, thinking that it’s coming from somewhere else on the bus. Only hearing the mechanical growl of the engine, I re-adjust the headphones. The crackling continues, until I faintly make out a familiar voice.

“…restaurant on Main Street…Callford…fire”

The voice cuts off into static for a moment, and then my headphones continue playing the song. I realize where I know the voice; it’s Sadie Summers, the news reporter.

I urgently look out the window, realizing we’re about to turn onto Main Street. My mind races, trying to think of all the restaurants I know of.

We pass the Callford Cafe, which, despite the weathered shingles, looks okay to me. Definitely no fire. Izzy’s, a little further down, is the same. I quickly turn to my left to catch a glimpse of the last few on the street, but everything looks normal. I look around at the bus, which still only has a few people on it, and nobody looks as alarmed as I do. In fact, most people are either asleep or staring at bright screens with tired eyes.

Clicking on my own screen, I type in the words I heard: restaurant… Main Street…Callford…fire. Nothing comes up, except for an article from years ago. I try to rationalize with myself. I mean, I saw all the restaurants. Everything’s fine. It probably was some other station that hijacked my headphones. Either that or I’m imagining things.

By the time I’ve convinced myself that I’m absolutely crazy, the bus rolls to a stop in front of my best friend Hadley’s house. Her dog, Scout, sits alert on the porch next to three messily carved Jack-o-Lanterns with flickering lights inside. The door opens in a whirlwind as Hadley rushes outside, trying to zip up her backpack while running down the steps and across the lawn. I am positive that she just finished her homework, which she confirms when she plops down next to me in the seat.

“I swear, Jenny has it out for me,” Hadley says, complaining about the bus driver. “She comes earlier every day.”

“Well, maybe if you did your homework after school instead of twenty minutes before, you could catch the bus,” I reply with a smirk.

“Hey, I still manage to get on, don’t I?”

She talks to me for the last stretch of the bus ride, and I feel a familiar pit in my stomach as we approach the school, remembering I have a test today. At least this is our last year.

We grab our bags and squeeze through the narrow aisle, thanking Jenny on our way out. I decide not to tell Hadley about the whole fake-creepy news-report-thingy, at least not right now. I’m pretty sure I hallucinated the whole thing anyways, which would make sense considering my lack of sleep.

We walk into the school and head down the hallway in a herd of groggy students towards the shiny blue lockers. For a town that’s pretty run down, the high school is surprisingly nice.

“I’ll see you after school,” Hadley calls, walking away.

My fingers fumble with the combination, and I finally get it on the third try, shoving my bag inside. I create a precariously stacked pile of books and binders for the day and merge my way back into the tired crowd to get to class.

Tuesday, 2:45 pm

While I type away on my keyboard, Hadley sits on the other side of the table, scrolling through her phone. Her anatomy textbook lies open in front of her, but she seems to have no intention of actually studying. I focus my attention back on my history essay.

That is, until Hadley interrupts me to show me a video. I can’t make out what she’s saying through my headphones, so I lift them off my head.

“Did you see this?” she asks, pushing her phone out towards me. “The school’s having a radio station come to DJ the homecoming game. Sounds like it’s gonna be pretty big, tailgate and everything.”

“Sounds cool,” I reply half-heartedly, even though I really have no desire to go.

I go to put my music back on but hesitate.

“Hey, Had,” I start. I want to tell her about what I heard earlier. I want to tell her everything.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to come back to my house for dinner. My mom can take us back there at 4,” I say, changing my mind at the last minute. She would only say what I’ve already decided myself: that it was just my imagination.

She says yes, and we get back to work. Well, work and scrolling.

Tuesday, 6:03 pm

We sit on my bed, legs folded up under a light pink blanket. We’re watching some crime show that a girl at school recommended to us. It’s not that good. I hear a knock at my door, and Evie waits approximately 0.01 seconds before shoving open the door.

“Mom says dinner’s ready,” Evie announces, inching her way closer to us.

“Okay, we’ll be down in a sec,” I say, annoyed. I love her, but she’s always coming into my room to be nosy.

“Can I watch?” she asks while trying to climb up the bed. Her curly black hair–a replica of mine on a tinier body–moves around wildly as she pushes herself up.

I notice the bloody crime scene taking place on my laptop and quickly close it before Evie can see it.

“Nope. Let’s go downstairs.”

This, of course, sends Evie into tears, a tantrum which can only be quieted by Hadley grabbing her hand and leading her to the table.

We sit in creaky wooden chairs at the small, rectangular table while Mom puts a pot of spaghetti and meatballs on a trivet in the center. While I scoop some into a bowl for Evie, I notice the TV playing faintly in the corner.

We sit for a while, eating and talking. Evie tells us all about her day, including what she did at recess, who was being bossy on the playground, and what she painted in art class. Just as I predicted, I get stuck with dishes, and start taking everyone’s plates to the sink. Hadley sits at the table with Evie, playing some game that involves clapping and singing.

As I scrape the rest of the spaghetti into an old tupperware container, I hear Sadie Summers’ voice covering the nightly news. Normally I don’t pay any attention to it; my mom’s the one who likes to watch it. But I hear some thing familiar.

“Earlier today a local restaurant on Main Street in Callford caught f ire, leaving two people injured. Luckily, this disaster did not claim any lives, but—”

I rush over to the small TV, dropping the pot in the sink with a loud clang, and make out the burnt remains of what used to be Izzy’s.

“What’s going on?” my mom asks, alarmed by the sound. She sees the screen and lets out a distracted condolence for the restaurant.

I give Hadley a glance, and she follows me as I rush to the stairs.

“Thea, you ok?” Mom asks.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I reply, even though I’m definitely not.

She says something about finishing the dishes, and I hear Evie com plaining about the absence of Hadley at the table as I push my door shut. I instantly reach for my laptop and start typing frantically.

“What happened?” Hadley asks, sitting down next to me.

“Okay, this is gonna sound really crazy,” I warn. “I heard about the fire.”

“Yeah, we all just did,” she says, confused.

“No, I mean this morning. Before you got on the bus I was listening to music, and I heard that same news report from that lady.”

She gives me a look that confirms that, yes, she thinks I’m really crazy.

“Look,” I show her my search history from this morning. Restaurant… Main Street…Callford…fire. 6:57 am. “I don’t know if I imagined it or what, but I heard this static, and then I heard the news. And then I drove past Izzy’s, and it was totally fine.”

I type some more, looking for when the fire happened. “I think it was around 4:30, maybe a little before. We didn’t go past it when we left the library.”

Hadley thinks for a minute, not sure what to make of the absurdity I just dropped on her.

“It’s probably just a coincidence,” she concludes. “You know how sometimes you have a dream at night, and then the next day something similar happens? It was probably like that.”

I decide to agree with her, even though I’m not really convinced.

“Let’s take our mind off of it. We can drive to the mall tomorrow after school and finally get our homecoming dresses.” Hadley smiles, knowing that’s probably the last thing I want to do.

After I calm myself down, we head downstairs so I can finish the dishes. Once Hadley heads home, I put my headphones on and listen to music uninterrupted for the night, until I drift off to sleep.

Wednesday, 2:14 pm

Hadley and I take the bus home from school so we can borrow her mom’s car and drive to the mall. We have to go a few towns over, since the shopping options here are quite limited. I sit by the window while Hadley sits facing the seats next to us, talking to a group of friends. I’m only listening to the conversation vaguely, but I make out something about the radio booth at the game and how they’ll be giving away concert tickets.

As the bus rolls down Main Street, I see the charred skeleton of the diner come into view. The talking fades away as everyone cranes their necks to look out the window. A few people make comments and theories, but everyone turns their attention back to Homecoming this weekend. Hadley gives me a concerned glance, which I meet with a forced grin. If I pretend like this is okay, then maybe it’ll be okay.

I zone out for a few more minutes until we get to Hadley’s house, where Scout jumps up from her place on the porch to greet us with a wagging tail. We say goodbye to Jenny, and then head inside to leave our bags.

Hadley’s mom welcomes me with a hug, like she does every time I come over. As per usual, the house is pristinely decorated for Halloween, with cobwebs and leaves covering the mantle under the TV. She tries to get us to stay and drink some cider, which makes Hadley roll her eyes.

“Mom, we really gotta get to the mall. I’ll hang out with you later,” she reasons. Ever since Hadley’s older sister went to college, her mom’s been trying to spend as much time as possible with her.

We eventually escape to the car and start the drive to the mall.

“You think I’m okay to turn on the radio?” Hadley asks with a laugh.

Wednesday, 5:24pm

We sit in the food court of the mall, devouring sandwiches and bags of chips. All the trying on dresses has made us work up an appetite. I already found a dress in the first store we went in. It’s nothing too special, but I liked the dark blue color, so I bought it. Hadley, on the other hand, has not found anything, despite all the stores we’ve been in. We decide that after we finish our food, we’ll check the department store at the other end of the mall.

Once we get there, Hadley instantly makes her way to the dresses, stacking them over her arm. We’re gonna be here for a while. Finally, she heads to the dressing room after collecting nearly every homecoming dress in the place.

I plop down on a soft, red sofa and dig around in my bag for my headphones. I put them on cautiously, as if this will somehow protect me. I am relieved when I press play on my playlist and actually hear music, instead of a certain news reporter.

I play the music low, so I can hear Hadley’s complaining through the dressing room door.

“This one doesn’t fit…I hate this color…too long.”

She opens the door slightly, to hide herself from the other people walking in and out.

“Can you help me zip this one? I actually kinda like it,” she asks. I go into the dressing room and start to tug at the zipper, when my quiet music is cut off by a loud burst of static. I jump, nearly crashing into the wall.

“Jesus, Thea, what happened?”

I frantically shush her and listen to Sadie’s voice come through faintly. It’s definitely clearer than the first time, but not by much.

“morning…Callford High… Homecoming…3 students.”

Wednesday, 6:08 pm

“Okay- tell me what you heard one more time,” Hadley asks, eyes focused on the road.

“Had, I told you everything already. Just something about our school and Homecoming.”

“We need to talk to someone about this.”

“Who?” I question. “Should we just go to the police and be like, ‘Hey, I heard about the fire yesterday morning and then it actually happened! And now, my haunted headphones are warning me about Homecoming!’ I’m sure that’d go over super well.” Okay, maybe I’m being a little harsh.

Hadley sits for a moment, silent.

“Well,” I start. “I didn’t hear anything bad. In the first one, Sadie liter ally said the word ‘fire.’ Maybe this time it’s something good?” I offer, trying to console both her and myself. Technically, it’s a possibility.

I watch the red and yellow leaves fall from the trees onto the road, where they’re instantly plowed over by the tires of the car.

“I guess you’re right,” Hadley says finally. “We’ll just have to see.”

And that’s what we decide to do.

Friday, 5:14 pm

I tug at the skin under my eyes, trying to smudge white eyeliner into my waterline. Hadley, who stands next to me, wraps her blonde hair on the barrel of a curling iron. I sneak glances at her reflection in the wide mirror to try to copy her eye makeup, but it’s not working out as well for me.

“So, if the game starts at seven, we need to leave in twenty minutes so we have time to park and hang out at the tailgate,” Hadley thinks out loud, unraveling the spiral of hair from the iron.

I’m focused on perfecting my mascara, so I absentmindedly reply. I blink accidentally, stabbing myself in the eye with the wand. I have to grab a tissue and rub my eye, which only ruins the eyeliner.

Hadley combs through her hair with her fingers, separating the curls and asks, “Are you sure you want to go?”

I think for a moment, still unsure of our earlier decision.

“Of course I do. You’ve been waiting for this weekend all summer.”

We finish getting ready and leave our supplies scattered on the bath room countertop. After a final check in the mirror, we grab our jackets and are ready to go.

Friday, 5:59 pm

Hadley pulls into one of the few remaining parking spots in the lot, the car shaking from the bass of the music. It’s coming from the booth of the radio station, where the hosts sit, giving out contest forms to students. The Homecoming game is a huge deal; just about the entire town shows up. Despite the fact that the weather is near freezing tonight, everyone’s here, sporting their best blue and white blankets and hats.

We step out of the car into the cold, abandoning the heat. Hadley goes to the trunk and pulls out two folding chairs and extra blankets. I grab some soda and snacks from my bag, and we sit for a while, chatting with people who pass by. Not everyone is drinking just soda, which is obvious from the kids screaming and stumbling across the parking lot.

It’s getting dark pretty early, and soon the streetlamps come on, illuminating random cars and people. Country music blaring from a car to my left overlaps with the loud pop of the radio booth. I can’t stand the sound for too much longer, so we decide to head into the stadium to get a spot on the bleachers. People are already packed together with posters and pom-poms, talking excitedly to one another. Surprisingly, the buzz of the crowd soothes me.

Hadley and I grab a spot in one of the last rows, squeezing in with a few other friends, and as we wait for the game to begin, it’s the only thing on my mind.

Friday, 9:16 pm

Callford wins the game. As the students race back to their cars, we are pushed in a swarming herd of excitement and screaming. I can’t feel my ears or toes (thankfully I have my jacket, which spares my fingers), but I don’t mind.

The parking lot is a maze, with students weaving in between moving cars and each other. The sparse lighting doesn’t help, either.

When we make it to the car, Hadley opens the driver door to get the heat running. I open the trunk, throwing in our pile of blankets.

As I close it, I hear a jarring car horn, followed by a crash.

Saturday, 7:40 am

“Good morning, this is Sadie Summers with Channel 6 news. Our top story this morning: a crash last night took place after the Callford High School Homecoming game, injuring 3 students. We are–”

This time, I click off the TV. My mom shoots me a concerned look.

“I know this must be hard for you, baby,” she offers, “but they’re okay. I called all of their parents this morning.”

I feel tears start to well up in my eyes, but I wipe them away with my sleeve. I see Evie through my blurry vision, who looks up at me from her bowl. My mom comes over to my chair to hug me.

“Thea, I promise you, they’re going to be fine,” she says, bending down to look me in the eyes.

I push my chair away from the table and run upstairs to my room. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial Hadley’s number. I count four rings before she picks up.

“Hello?” she asks groggily.

“Hadley, did you see the news? It was the same thing I hear—”

She cuts me off mid-sentence.

“Yeah, Thea, I know. And I told you that we should have talked to someone about it.”

I hesitate.

“Well, yeah, but nobody would have believed me. I didn’t know that was going to happen,” I say, choking through tears.

“Thea, one of those people is my friend. And because I didn’t do anything about it, she’s hurt. Three people are hurt,” Hadley answers sharply.

I don’t really know what to say to that. I mean, her friend was prob ably drinking. It’s not like this is my fault. Now I hear Hadley tearing up, sniffling through the phone. We stay silent for another moment.

“Thea, I still think you should tell someone, at least your mom,” she suggests.

“Nobody would believe me,” I repeat quietly.

“I believed you, Thea. And I regret it,” she says, and then hangs up with a definitive click.

I sit on my bed, unsure of what to do. I try calling her again, and when she doesn’t answer, I send her a few texts. I’m sure those won’t get a reply.

Saturday, 12:01 pm

A group of people are going to the hospital to visit the three kids who were hurt. Everyone feels bad that they won’t get to go to the dance tonight.

Evie makes a couple of cards, scribbling hearts and backwards letters across white printer paper. The three of us stop at the store to get flowers, and then we make our way to the hospital.

The white walls seem to close in on me, almost as if they want to accuse me of something. The overwhelming smell of hand sanitizer makes me nauseous, so I hold the flowers closer to my nose. It doesn’t really help.

We have to wait a few minutes to see them, because nobody wants to overwhelm them with visitors. As I sit in the chair, I consider listening to music to take my mind off things, but ultimately decide that it’s a bad idea.

I see Hadley come through a door towards the exit, with her mom and dad standing behind her. She glances at me, and I offer her a wave, but she just keeps on walking. Luckily, Evie is focused on her coloring book, or she would have been devastated.

“Did something happen?” My mom asks.

“Kinda. Just a little fight,” I lie.

I watch her disappear out the doors and wait until it’s our turn to visit.

Saturday, 5:32 pm

So, the dance is at 7, so I need to leave at 6:45? Or will the line be really long? I don’t want to stand outside in the cold. Especially in a dress.

Usually Hadley’s the planner, and she would tell me exactly when to leave and when to start getting ready. But I still haven’t talked to her since this morning.

I step out of the shower into the foggy bathroom, a drop of blood falling onto the white carpet. I look down at my legs and see an array of cuts, thanks to the razor. Apparently I was a little lost in thought. I put band aids on the bigger ones, which stand out against my skin. Those will be a great accessory tonight, I think, exasperated with my own distance from reality. I wasn’t planning to go to the dance by myself, but it’s the only way I’ll be able to talk to Hadley, since she won’t answer me.

The school sent out an email that there will be officers at the dance to make sure nobody’s drinking. Nobody wants a repeat of last night, which reassures me. That, and the fact that I haven’t heard any more news reports today. Granted, I had stashed my headphones in a drawer in my room, but still.

I use my fingers to re-curl some of the hair by my face, and pin some of it back. I’m okay with hair, but makeup is a lost cause without Hadley here.

I work on it for a while, painting my face with liquids and powders until I’m satisfied with the final product. At least I manage to not poke myself in the eye with my mascara wand.

I check the time on my phone, seeing that I’ve spent much more time than I’ve planned on my makeup, and realize I need to get into my dress. My mom’s on the phone, so I call Evie to my room to help me zip it up. She tugs at it with surprising force for her age until she manages to pull it up my back. I stare at myself in the mirror for a minute, pleasantly surprised with how I look.

That is, until Evie comments on the band aids all over my legs.

“Okay Evie, I gotta go. Thanks for your help,” I say, grabbing my small bag. Even though it doesn’t match at all, I grab my trusty denim jacket, just to keep me at least slightly warm.

She responds by running out of my room to finish watching her show.

I follow close behind her, trying to grab my keys and sneak out the door before Mom notices. But of course, she does, and hangs up the phone to snap a ridiculous amount of pictures of me before I leave.

“Okay, come outside and stand by the tree. It’ll look so pretty,” she commands. I carefully maneuver my way over to the spot she’s pointing to, careful to not let my heels sink into the soft dirt. She makes me take off my jacket and pose awkwardly in every possible location around the yard.

“Evie,” she yells towards the house, still snapping pictures. “Come out here and take some pictures with your sister.”

Evie complains all the way to me, then puts on a fake smile while posing in front of me. After Mom’s finally content, Evie gives a loud sigh and rolls her eyes, making us laugh. I think she picked that up from me. I’ll have to be more careful around her.

I’m finally able to escape, and I make my way to the car, shivering. Goosebumps line my arms as I throw the jacket over my shoulders. I click the heat on, but not the radio. It’s a short drive, and I’m not taking any chances.

Saturday, 6:55 pm

I pull into an empty parking spot, scanning the lot for Hadley’s car. I spot it a few rows down, and I wonder if she came by herself or with other friends. I get a little jealous at the thought of the second option, even though I kind of deserve it.

I get out of the car and join the small groups of people who are walk ing inside. Everyone is either with friends or a date, and I suddenly feel very lonely.

I make it inside, relieved when the wind is no longer attacking me. I get in line behind a girl I know from history class, and I say a quick hello.

“Hey, have you seen Hadley by any chance?” I ask her, desperate to find my friend.

“Um, no I don’t think so. Maybe she’s already in the gym?” she suggests.

I nod, and hope that’s true. Although it’ll be tricky to find her. Pretty much every student at the school is in there.

The line moves pretty slowly, since the officers at the front of the line are making sure nobody’s drunk. Even though I’m not, I get worried for a second, as if they somehow know what I’ve been hiding. I run my fingers down the shiny row of lockers, which feel cold against my hands. I pass the police without any problems, and hand my ticket to the volunteer teachers who are running the check-in table. Luckily, I haven’t had any of them for classes. I don’t feel like having a conversation right now.

The pop music gets louder and louder as I step into the gym, which has transformed into a dance floor for the night. Piles of heels, bags, and jackets line the side of the room, abandoned by girls who would rather dance comfortably than stand against the wall, like me. I balance on my tiptoes, but can’t see Hadley anywhere. In fact, I can’t really make out anyone’s faces. The whole room is a dark box, illuminated by flashing LED lights and random phone flashlights searching for lost belongings on the floor.

Before I can protest, I get pulled into a circle of girls who I barely know. I think one of them is named Lena, but I’m really not sure. As a new song starts, they scream along to the lyrics with the crowd, and I try to enjoy myself with them for a few minutes. We dance, sing, and laugh until I get light headed. A song comes to an end, and I take the chance to sneak out to get to the bathroom.

The light in the hallway nearly blinds me, as does the flash from a camera at the photobooth. I turn towards it and see Hadley, posing with a few girls from one of her classes. I can tell she sees me, since her expression changes slightly, but she quickly pastes on a smile before the last flash goes off.

As she starts to walk back down the hallway, I cut her off. The other girls give me a weird look, which I try to ignore.

“I’ll find you guys in a minute,” Hadley says to them, avoiding eye contact with me.

“Had, can I please talk to you?” I plead. She agrees, and I lead her into the bathroom, where we can escape the noise. She leans against a sink, and I stand awkwardly across from her in front of a stall. She waits for me to say something.

“You’re right, I should have told someone,” I finally say, not sure I fully believe it. But I’ll do anything to make up with her.

She stays silent for a second, then replies, “I get why you didn’t. I mean, I kinda thought you were crazy after you told me,” she laughs. “I’m just glad that nobody else got hurt.”

“Me too.” I’m just glad she’s talking to me again.

“You haven’t heard anything else?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“Okay,” she decides, “let’s just forget about it. Everyone’s okay, and there’s nothing we can do to change it now.”

I let out a sigh of relief, shedding all the stress that’s built up over the last few days. We hug, and then start to walk out of the bathroom. I stop when I hear a buzzing from my phone, and take it out of my purse. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer it anyway.

I hold it up to my ear, and hear nothing for a minute. I am about to hang up when I hear a blast of static. Hadley looks at me alarmed, and I hear a familiar voice, but this time, it’s clearer than it has ever been.

“Good morning, this is Sadie Summers with Channel 6 News. Tonight, the town of Callford is struck with tragedy yet again as we mourn the loss of 18-year-old Thea Abbot.

She Rode Her Bike in Circles

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Lizzie’s first kiss happened in her mom’s white minivan, in the rain, driving home from the Blue Lagoon.

“Hey,” Dylan said, sliding into the passenger seat. “Sorry.”

“You’re soaked,” Lizzie said, looking up and down at her dark denim ensemble which clung to her body in a way that reminded Lizzie of how her old Newfoundland, coming in drenched from a walk, looked fifty pounds thinner. She half expected Dylan to shake herself dry and splatter her with drops. “How long were you waiting outside for me?”

“Not long,” she lied, clearly. “Couple minutes.”

Lizzie didn’t push it. She felt bad, but she was doing her a favor, after all. General Chemistry wasn’t going to study itself—and yet, here she was.

Shifting the minivan into reverse, she glanced over at Dylan, whose eyes were glued to something outside the window as she took off her glasses and attempted to dry them on her shirt. She maneuvered a three-point turn, splashing through a puddle on the side of the road.

“So,” Lizzie said, once she pulled out of the side street. “Fun night?”

Dylan’s shoulders move halfheartedly. “Not exactly. I probably should’ve taken a page out of your book.”

“Not unless you like the molecular structures of organic compounds,” Lizzie said, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose before quickly re- turning her hand to its vice-like grip on the steering wheel. Hydroplaning was no joke.

Putting her own glasses back on, Dylan laughed dryly. “I don’t, but. Still should’ve stayed home and studied. Don’t know why I thought coming here was a good idea.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t go well,” Lizzie said. As much as she wanted to know the juicy details of what went down between Dylan and that girl she was meeting—Clare? Clarisse?—she didn’t push, because she wasn’t a pusher. Especially not with Dylan.

The friendship she had with Dylan, like most, was not a tight bond, but more of a loose slipknot that could come untied with one half-hearted tug of the thread. The only reason they even had something at all was because over twenty years ago, Dylan’s parents had bought a house next to Lizzie’s.

They had crawled around in the yard together as infants, or so they were told. As far as Lizzie could recall, Megan—who lived across the cul- de-sac—was always Dylan’s best friend, until one day she wasn’t. She wasn’t sure how that had happened, exactly. They could’ve easily blamed—probably did blame—Megan going to a private junior high school that was forty-five minutes away, joining the dance team, flitting between shitty boyfriends and never spending more than a month away from them since she was fourteen. But that’s around when Lizzie started believing any knot could be untangled. Because when Megan slipped out of Dylan’s life, Lizzie was just about the only thing she had left in it. Quiet Lizzie, unassuming Lizzie. Lizzie who sat out after school on her front porch and read Young Adult bestsellers in her rocking chair.

In middle school, John Green was her favorite. She would never have admitted that, of course. But she was pretty sure that rocking chair was still stained with tears from when she first read The Fault in Our Stars, and from when she read it a second time.

It was during that second time that Dylan was buzzing around their tiny cul-de-sac in circles on her green bicycle, pedaling so fast that watching her made Lizzie dizzy, so fast that she was never moving upright, always bent over at an angle, making an endless turn.

Brakes squeaking, Dylan skidded to a stop at the end of Lizzie’s driveway.

“What are you reading?” she called.

And as much as Lizzie wasn’t a pusher, she wasn’t a shouter. She ig- nored her, looking back down at the open page.

Gears clicking as she sighed and put her feet back on the pedals, Dylan rode closer, all the way up to the steps below Lizzie’s feet.

“Can you tell me now,” she said, using what Lizzie’s favorite sixth grade teacher would call her library voice, “what you’re reading?”

Lizzie held up the book so Dylan could see its bright blue cover.
Dylan squinted. “I’m not wearing my glasses.”
Lizzie put it back down into her lap. “Why?”

Dylan gestured to the bike on which she was perched. “They’d fall off my face.”

Lizzie huffed. “Maybe they wouldn’t if you rode it like a normal per- son.”

“Huh?”

“You’re just doing tiny circles the whole time,” she said, miming the motion with a finger in the air.

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” Dylan asked. “We live on a tiny circle street.”

“You could go somewhere else,” Lizzie said. “Go bike to Francisco’s and get some ice cream.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to get you some ice cream?”

“No. I’m asking you to leave so I can read.”

“You’re no fun,” Dylan said. And then: “Can I borrow it when you’re done?”

Lizzie held the book close to her chest like she was going to run up and snatch it. “Why? You don’t even know what it’s called.”

She shrugged. “If you’re reading it again, I’m guessing it’s good.”

“How do you know I’m reading it again?”

“You’ve been out here every day for the past week holding that same freaking book. I know it can’t take you that long.”

Lizzie was struck by the thought that Dylan paid attention. That when she was whizzing by on her bike, instead of focusing on rounding the endless turn, she might actually be looking. “Really?”

Dylan shrugged again. “Just a hunch.”

Lizzie glanced back down at the page. She was almost done, again. “Well. I guess you can borrow it, then. When I’m finished.”

“Great,” she said. “Shout for me.” And she pedaled back into the street.

But Lizzie didn’t shout, so instead, she walked across the grass to Dylan’s house, left it on her front porch, and then went back inside. It was get- ting dark, and Dylan had abandoned riding in circles in favor of going down the main road, maybe to Francisco’s.

Afterwards, that summer, they started hanging out.

Before that—one-on-one, at least—they never really had. Except for when they were infants, maybe, if Lizzie’s mother was to be trusted. Only at neighborhood cookouts, or snowball fights, or birthday parties. They never even had the same teachers at school.

But then they did hang out, almost every day. Sometimes they rode bikes, Dylan showing off by lifting her hands from the handlebars and pedal- ing like she was on a unicycle, Lizzie wobbling along in first gear because she didn’t want to go too fast. When they could scrounge up enough spare cash, they went to Francisco’s, where Lizzie ordered cookies and cream and Dylan ordered mint chip, but mostly, they stayed in the cul-de-sac, and many days, they sat on Lizzie’s porch—Lizzie on the rocking chair, Dylan perched on the stairs—reading. Dylan was, Lizzie supposed, finally putting her glasses to good use.

When, after three days, Dylan finished The Fault in Our Stars, she slammed it on the wooden steps at Lizzie’s feet. The Newfoundland (named Lucy; seven-year-old Lizzie was a C.S. Lewis fan), resting her head on her paws, flinched at the sound.

“Why the hell would you wanna read this?”

As she demanded an answer, Lizzie tried her best to look offended instead of feeling her heart race at the tears streaming down Dylan’s face. She had never seen her cry.

“It’s good,” she said. “It’s a great book.”

“But it’s so sad. Why would anyone want to read such a sad story? It just makes you feel like shit.”

Lizzie flinched at her language. Her mother might never let her back onto their front porch if she heard her say that. For a moment Lizzie imagined her, like a cat, picking Dylan up by the scruff and carrying her right back over to the house next door, but she realized then that she was thinking of a version of her mother that hadn’t existed for a few years. Lizzie was in middle school now; maybe she was allowed to swear.

“It’s a great book,” she repeated.

“Well, give me something happier next time,” Dylan said, scrubbing at her cheeks with the back of her hand.

So, next time, she did. She got her started on the Percy Jackson series. She figured Dylan might like something with a little adventure, a little magic.

And she did. She showed up on Lizzie’s doorstep the next day demanding the second book, and then the third, and the fourth.

That summer marked the closest Lizzie ever was to having a best friend, she thinks.

Then they were in middle school, and they joined different extracurriculars—soccer for Dylan, orchestra for Lizzie—and they no longer had the time to sit on the front porch passing books back and forth, because as soon as they got home, for one, it was already dark, and only growing darker as the months passed. They also had to get right to studying, because soon enough they were in high school, and eight AP classes between the two of them weren’t going to finish themselves.

So Dylan stopped riding her black bike in circles around the cul-de- sac, and Lizzie stopped going outside altogether, for the most part.

They had a snowy couple of winters, during one of which Lucy passed away, and hot summers, during which Lizzie spent most of her free time in the library’s air-conditioned study rooms when she wasn’t volunteering behind the front desk.

And then, not feeling bold enough to leave behind her hometown, she accepted an offer to the same college that Dylan did—unsure if it was for the same reason—and they didn’t need to formally reconnect, because social media made it easy to know exactly where everyone from your past was living, who they kept as friends, what they ate for breakfast. It wasn’t hard for Lizzie to notice Dylan again, posting dimly lit photos of the sidewalk between the library and the humanities building.

It was a tiny frog she saw on the path, on the first truly brisk October night, and Lizzie wrote to her, Cute frog. And that was that. A friendship, or something like it, rekindled.

Meaning: Dylan waved to Lizzie when she passed her waiting in line at the cafe between classes; Dylan chose to sit next to her (or maybe it was the only empty seat) in their second-semester French 102 class; Dylan asked to join her at a table in the library during finals week, when all the others were occupied.

The library became the place where they saw each other, mostly. The library was quiet.

Lizzie had always enjoyed the quiet. That’s why she liked to read out- side, on her front porch, where during the day, all she heard was the occasional rattling of a garage door, the shouts of younger kids as they threw wiffle balls and failed to hit them, and the click of a bicycle chain as it shifted gears.

On her front porch, she was soothed by the grating drone of the television, in front of which her mother sat for eight, ten hours each day, eyes reflecting her shows right back at the screen; on her front porch, she could pretend her father wasn’t on his way home, already loosening his tie, already prepared to ask if the bills had been put in the mail and if the expired milk in the fridge had been thrown out, already knowing the answers, already dialing the number of the local sub shop, placing an order for two, one of which Lizzie and her mother would share.

In the library, Lizzie enjoyed the quiet, but she also longed to hear Dylan’s voice.

Dylan called and asked if Lizzie could pick her up from the Blue Lagoon.

They were both in their junior year. Lizzie had a job in the library’s archives, where she spent twenty hours a week doing her homework, wrapped in a cardigan, listening to the air conditioning—and, on a few occasions, pointing a lost professor in the right direction to find some historical college document. She lived in an off-campus apartment, in a bedroom of her own, with a few girls she didn’t know very well. Each month, her dad sent her half the rent, and he made sure she would never forget that act.

Dylan happened to live in the triple-decker next to hers, so maybe asking Lizzie to pick her up from the bar just made sense.

Or maybe it was because she had told Lizzie about that girl she was seeing. Clara—that was her name.

Dylan had arrived at one of their study sessions a few weeks prior with her lips upturned a bit more than usual, a little more bounce in the step of her Doc Martens. Lizzie didn’t comment on this observation, because she wasn’t a pusher. But she could be known to pry—a slower, more careful, more discrete tactic.

“What are you working on?” she asked, behind her own book as Dylan hunched over her laptop.

“Group project,” she said.

Lizzie groaned. “The worst.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dylan said. “This one’s not so bad.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. My partner’s alright. I mean—she’s nice. And she’s getting her work done.”

“That’s a first,” Lizzie said. “Can I please have her name and contact info to make sure I get into all of her classes next semester?”

Dylan laughed—softly; they were still in the library, after all.

“Clara O’Connor,” she said. “Marketing major. I don’t know if you’d know her.”

Lizzie did, in fact, know her. Know of her. Lizzie followed a lot of people on Instagram. Clara was…she was in student government, wasn’t she? She was always in their party photos, at the very least.

And student government members were perhaps the most egregious frequenters of the Blue Lagoon. So, when Lizzie eventually managed to wriggle the information from Dylan that she was going there one weekend, it wasn’t difficult for her to understand why.

Sitting in the dark kitchen of her empty apartment, sipping a hot tea and thumbing through John Milton’s Paradise Lost as rain streaked down her dirty window, her mind couldn’t help wandering to two potential outcomes of Dylan’s adventure.

Outcome one: Clara really does like Dylan in the same way Dylan seems infatuated with her; Dylan and Clara start going out; Dylan gets in with a new crowd; Dylan stops coming to the library.

Outcome two: Clara is playing with Dylan’s feelings; Dylan and Clara never see each other again; Dylan is heartbroken; Dylan decides love is never worth pursuing, ever.

In either outcome, Lizzie realized, she was screwed. Because, she had also come to realize—slowly—she had feelings for Dylan. Feelings you’re not supposed to have for your next-door neighbor turned college study buddy.

It was something that felt inevitable. It was something that felt like it would be written into a John Green book. It was something so eye-rolling-ly embarrassing and coo-worthily, sickeningly sweet.

She was not sure when it started. Maybe it was when she sat down next to her in French 102. Maybe it was when she first asked to borrow The Fault in Our Stars. She didn’t think it mattered.

Their friendship was a slipknot. More accurately, Lizzie was the knot, and Dylan was the needle. She could hold onto Dylan as tightly as she wanted, but it was still so easy for Dylan to simply slide out of the whole equation. To finally move on to some better friends, some more ambitious life, some fancier cul-de-sac in some faraway city. And Lizzie would be left right where she was, probably returning to her parents’ house when she graduated, unraveled.

So, when her phone vibrated on the kitchen table at 10:35 p.m., the screen lit up and displaying Dylan’s name, she answered.

And she threw a rain jacket on over her baggy, ratty high school sweatshirt (whose cracked, peeling vinyl barely said GO TROJANS anymore in its maroon lettering), cursed to no one but the dark clouds above when she accidentally left her keys on her nightstand, and drove the two miles around the corner to pick Dylan up from the Blue Lagoon.

Lizzie had never been to the Blue Lagoon, and she never imagined that this would be her first experience with a bar.

Parked on the curb, she couldn’t really see the inside of it. It didn’t have windows, and the glass in the door didn’t display much other than darkness. She didn’t roll down her windows, and the rain was too loud to hear anything else, anyways.

From the outside, it looked utterly drab and uninviting. It was a short, stout building wedged on the street corner between two competing auto repair garages—Luigi’s and Big Anthony’s. Ironic, Lizzie thought, that you could try driving home drunk and end up in a fender bender, and both of the nearest places to get your bumper fixed were right back where you made your bad decision. Like they were watching you, waiting, preying.

Though slightly annoyed, Lizzie was glad Dylan called her for a ride, just to avoid something like that happening. But Dylan didn’t have her own car, anyway. She likely walked here, if she hadn’t hitched a ride with Clara, probably before the storm began.

Lizzie had tried to decipher what had happened based on Dylan’s tone in the phone call. Maybe it was hard to tell over the tinny speaker and back- ground noise, but she hadn’t sounded too distraught. It was a simple, “Hey, so sorry to bother you, but would you be around to do me a huge favor?”

Normally, Lizzie hated when people posed a question that way. Hey, can you do me a favor? How about telling me what your favor is before I give you a definitive answer. Because maybe you’re asking me to pick you up a package of toilet paper while I’m at Dollar Tree, or maybe you’re asking me to proofread your twenty-page British Literature essay (for which you clearly didn’t do the reading) at eleven o’ clock the night before it’s due.

But in this case, it’s Dylan, and Lizzie thinks she might drive across the entire continent if Dylan said she needed to be picked up at a bar in San Francisco. Or go to a supermarket to get her the ultra-soft, luxury toilet paper instead of what she usually buys at Dollar Tree.

Clearly something must be wrong if she’s thinking about how she’d like Dylan’s ass to be comfortable and un-irritated.

She hoped, as she picked up speed (but not too much speed—hydro- planing), that Dylan’s ass was at least somewhat comfortable in the passenger seat of her mother’s minivan, which Lizzie was allowed to keep at school and drive because her mother lived ten minutes away, so if she needed groceries or to get to a doctor’s appointment while Lizzie’s father was at work, Lizzie could have it covered, and because Lizzie’s mother never drove anywhere, anyway.

Still, taking the minivan was a tough decision. Lizzie nearly let it go when her mother nearly cried, saying she would be trapped and stranded and all alone in the house. But her father retorted that she was the one trapping herself here all day, by her own choice. And that Lizzie had classes and a job and would pick up all the groceries, just like she did in high school.

Lizzie thought sometimes that the only reason her father stayed with her mother was because he made just enough money to do so. Her father was a very meticulous man, an accountant by trade and by lifestyle, who kept every receipt and counted every online purchase and scanned it all with a grimace.
If things weren’t adding up, Lizzie thought, he would leave her. Because that would’ve cost money, too, of course, and he wouldn’t’ve failed to factor that in. So, everything must’ve been coming out even.

A glance to the right told her that Dylan was leaning against the door, looking out the window at the passing streets and houses and storefronts.

Set against the darkness, the glow of street lamps refracted through the beads of water on the glass, and it looked like Christmas lights.

Lizzie turned on the radio, which she usually didn’t. It was playing “Ain’t No Sunshine.”

She was a bit surprised when Dylan started humming the melody. But it wasn’t exactly a cheerful singalong. There was a melancholy in the roughness of her voice, in the way it caught and cracked on certain notes and turned into something like a whisper.

Neither of them said a word until they were back on campus, pulling up to Dylan’s apartment building. That’s when Dylan finally looked back at her, let her shoulders fall in a movement mimicking the second half of a shrug, and sighed.

“Sorry again,” she said.

Lizzie shook her head. “No big deal.” Silence, except for her squeaking windshield wipers. She turned them off. “I’m sorry again, too. That your night didn’t go as planned.”

Half of Dylan’s mouth tightened, and she turned to look out the windshield. “It was nothing, anyway.”

Lizzie paused. Agree and let her go—that was her instinct. No push- ing.

But here she was, in her mom’s minivan. Over her shoulder, piled in the backseat, lay stacks of books written by other people. The sweatshirt she was wearing bore the name of a school she didn’t go to anymore—not to men- tion she’d never once gone to a Trojans football game. And in her passenger seat waited a girl who wasn’t her best friend, wasn’t ever really her best friend, because maybe she was Lizzie’s, but Lizzie was never hers.

So:

“It wasn’t nothing,” she said. She stared at Dylan, unblinking. Taking her in, running mascara, wet hair, black denim, and all. Squinting through her streaked glasses.

Lizzie reached out, slowly, cautiously, like a fox attempting to follow a bear, hoping to maybe get a piece of its prey—and slowly, cautiously took them off of Dylan’s face.

Dylan said nothing, but she watched as Lizzie used the hem of her dry sweater to rub them clean.

When they were done, she handed them back—silently, with nothing but a hint of a hope of a chance of a smile. Dylan didn’t lift her hand, so she left them on her lap. Like she left The Fault in Our Stars on her front porch.

“Thank you,” Dylan said.

Lizzie nodded. “No problem.” Her voice cracked a little.

“I guess it wasn’t nothing,” she said, glancing down at her lap and then back up again. “It sucks. It really sucks.”

Lizzie nodded again. “I know. Trust me—I know what it’s like.”

“Yeah?” Dylan said. Lizzie didn’t miss how her eyes widened for a moment. “Yeah,” she continued. “I guess I just have to move on, though.”

Lizzie hummed lowly.

She smiled a little, then. “Do you have any recommendations?”

“Well,” Lizzie said, glancing at her backseat.

“Excuse me?”

When she turned back, Dylan was red-faced. Lizzie’s skin quickly prickled.

“Oh, God, no, I didn’t mean…that,” she managed. “Um. I just meant—I mean, I have a lot of books back there. If you want to borrow one.”

Dylan blinked, paused, and then laughed. Lizzie liked the way she laughed. She looked like she had swallowed a lemon, but then saw somebody trip and fall over their shoelaces, which she had undoubtedly tied together.

“You’re telling me this MILF mobile doubles as a personal library?” she asked.

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “You’re gross. But, yes. Kind of pathetic, I know.”

“Nah,” Dylan said, shaking her head. She leaned closer, still looking at Lizzie, and for a second, she thought—but then she was unbuckling her seat- belt, reaching over the center console, and rummaging through the stacks. All the while, her body was uncomfortably close. Uncomfortably in the sense that she smelled like a cedar balsam candle and her denim jacket stretched tight around her shoulders.

“Oh, this is a thick one,” she said. And when she came back into her seat, she was holding The Goldfinch.

“Indeed,” Lizzie said, smiling. “You can have it, if you’d like.”

“Would I like it?”

She hummed. “It’s pretty sad. But it does have a somewhat optimistic ending.”

“Okay.” Dylan placed the book gingerly on the dashboard. “To be honest, I can’t even read what the title is without my glasses on.”

“It’ll be a fun surprise, then.”

The left corner of her lips turned upward. Lizzie noticed a few freckles on her cheeks, mimicking the raindrops on the window behind her.

“Maybe that’s just what I need,” Dylan said.

Until that moment, Lizzie hadn’t noticed how much she was leaning on the center console with her elbow, and how Dylan wasn’t backing away, sitting sideways in the passenger seat with her right leg folded up.

“I—” Lizzie started, and it was like the final drop that tipped the whole bucket. “I’m kind of in love with you.”

It came out in one breath, one sudden icy rush of water.

Lizzie was not a pusher. She hadn’t pushed for anything at all for so long that the potential energy inside of her had no choice but to explode.

Dylan blinked—once, twice.

Lizzie couldn’t shut her eyes or look away; she had more pride than that. She thought about how Dylan could barely see without her glasses on, how at least her face probably looked like a blur. Maybe that impacted her hearing, too. Maybe she heard I’m craving some guava juice.

“Oh,” Dylan said.

There was no book that told you what to say after that. They always kissed, fell in love, and you turned the page to read the epilogue. There was no oh, I’m not.

“Sorry,” Lizzie said. “Sorry. You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, no,” Dylan said, shaking her head. “No. It’s okay. I’m just, like… processing.”

“It’s not a big deal,” she muttered.

“No, it is.” Dylan had the audacity to laugh a little. “I’m always falling in love with the wrong people.”

Inside, Lizzie fumed. “Are you saying you’re the wrong person? Or I am?”

“Aren’t we both?” Dylan asked. She motioned between them, like they were tied together by an invisible string, and she could run her fingertips along its length. “Wrong places, wrong times.”

Lizzie blinked. “So you’re saying you were.”

“I was. In love with you.”

“When?”

“When we were twelve. Obviously.”

“When you rode your bike up to my house? And stole my books every other day?”

“Yes. Didn’t you notice the little hints I left for you? The parts of sentences I’d underline, or put little squiggles next to?”

“Those were hints? I was just mad that you were marking up my books. Idiot.”

“Oh,” Dylan said. She sounded genuinely remorseful. “I’m sorry.”

Lizzie shook her head. “I don’t care. I really don’t.” The pressure in her chest makes her feel like she’s underwater, like she’s holding her breath. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway, she thought. She didn’t know what it meant to be in love with someone when she was that young. She didn’t even fully understand what it meant to be gay or straight. It was just a word she heard on the news, while she passed through the living room.

“Well,” Dylan said. She picked up her glasses—finally—and put them on her face, pushing the bridge up with her index finger. “I do. I care about you, Lizzie. Maybe not in the same way you care about me.”

“Okay,” Lizzie said. Because what else can you say to no?

“But,” Dylan said, and the t sound hangs like a brown leaf in late September. “I’m not saying never.” Lizzie stared.

“I’m saying that maybe—potentially the part of me that was in love with you then hasn’t died.”

“You’re being ridiculous. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“I know.” She adjusted her glasses again. “But, fuck, Lizzie, I don’t know what else to say.”

Lizzie grimaced. “Well. Neither do I.”
Her heart beat about ten miles per minute.

The rain kept streaking its way down the windshield.

“Goodnight, Dylan,” she said. Because there was nothing else.

The pressure inside her had pushed; she had burst. She was now empty.

She put her hand on the stick shift and moved it into reverse, assuming that would be enough of a cue for her to leave.

But Dylan covered Lizzie’s hand with her own, and moved it back into park.

“Would you wait for me, Lizzie?” she asked. “If I needed time?”

Oh.

Would she?

“I’ve waited twenty-one years and haven’t even held hands with anyone,” Lizzie mumbled.

Staring down at the shifter, Dylan slowly linked their fingers together.

“Well, I can do that for you,” she said, voice quiet.

“You know what I mean,” Lizzie said. “In a romantic way. With some- one who actually liked me.”

“I do like you,” Dylan said.

“Not in that way.”

“Well, I don’t know anymore.”

Lizzie wanted so badly to tear her hand away. She felt like screaming. But it was cold, and Dylan’s was warm. “You just feel bad for me.”

“That’s not true,” Dylan said. “I always thought you felt bad for me. I thought that was why we were friends.”

“What? That’s ridiculous.”

Dylan laughed. “I’m serious. I thought that you thought I was stupid. And you were giving me all those books because you thought I finally took an interest in something that wasn’t riding my bike in circles.”

“You don’t still ride your bike in circles. I hope.”

“I don’t. But I do run after girls who don’t want me like a puppy chasing its tail.”

Lizzie swallowed. Her knuckles must have been white. “I should get home,” she said. “It’s late. We can talk about this another day.”

“Okay,” Dylan said. “That’s okay.”

Then she lifted Lizzie’s hand from the shifter—slowly, cautiously. “Don’t start backing up before I get out. You’ll run over my foot or something.”

She couldn’t help rolling her eyes.

This girl really was ridiculous, in every possible way.

“I won’t,” she said.

And then Dylan raised Lizzie’s hand to her face, and like a foreign prince bowing to a queen, kissed it.

Immediately afterward, she dropped it like it burned. “Sorry if that was stupid.”

Lizzie was too busy listening to the pounding of her pulse. No Bill Withers music could possibly drown it out.

Dylan opened the door, offered an awkward, tense smile and wave, and ducked her head under the back of her hoodless denim jacket as she ran through the pouring rain.

Lizzie turned on her windshield wipers again.

Maybe one day, she thought as she watched a blurry Dylan disappear behind the blurry entrance to her blurry brick building, she’d live to tell the tale of a ridiculous girl who rode her bike in circles, breaking hearts and stealing books—a real playboy—and making promises she couldn’t keep.

Or maybe she’d write a different story.

The Scripts of the Ancients

---

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.”
-H.P. Lovecraft, “The Call of Cthulhu”

I.

When I first met Doctor Gregory Bolstari in his cramped Columbia office, I had no idea what to expect. In the interview, he seemed an honest man, quiet and humble as true geniuses are wont to be. Despite the growing heat of the late May air, he wore a three-piece suit and a beige overcoat over skin devoid of a tan. As we talked, he kept trying to fix his necktie. Something about the way he had tied it that morning made it always look crooked, and every few minutes he’d ask me if he had fixed it. He never did. I can’t imagine mine was tied much better, though, with my nerves about the interview and all. It was difficult at times to tell who was the more nervous one.

I recall him asking me why I wanted to be his research partner. I had two answers to give. The simple one was I was a young man in need of the money. I was qualified, having just recently earned my doctorate in archaeology from that past year, and I was eager to enter my field on a professional level. The deeper answer was a book that Dr. Bolstari had written in my youth. I remember the day I bought it from that bookstore in Montclair. Cleveland had just been elected president for the first time, and my father had given me a few dollars for my birthday that past week. Even then at fourteen I was an avid reader. In that shop, as I browsed the shelves waiting for a novel to inspire my intrigue, one finally did. It seemed almost hidden among the other volumes, a small tome only six inches in height and scarcely wider than my pinky finger. The only identifying marks could be found as a strange geometric symbol on the front cover, a circle within which were lines seemingly scribbled at ran dom. I was already sitting at my home desk and two dollars poorer by the time I had read its first page.

I discovered as I read that the author’s name and the title, “On the Scripts of the Ancients,” was apparent on the cover for all to see but written in a manner I had never seen before. The lines I thought were scribbles were in fact letters spelling the title! I became enraptured by the book straightaway and especially by the people the script belonged to, an Indo-European (then called Aryan) people called the Ikamil, as Dr. Bolstari spelled it. It was that book that inspired my higher educational pursuits, and to this day I cite it as the foremost inspiration of my studies.

I had this book in mind as I sat face to face with its author. I told him the same story, how I read his book in my youth and how it inspired me, and he seemed both delighted and disappointed to hear it. His disappointment he did not explain, but his delight he did. The book had sold quite poorly, he said, as potential buyers were afraid that by the title, the book would hold some sort of dark magic, which I thought was ludicrous. When I shared my skepticism, Dr. Bolstari only smiled. We spoke no more of dark magic that day.

Beyond the book, he asked me the usual questions one might expect at an interview. “What are your qualifications?” A doctorate from Princeton. “What brought you to academia?” An obsession with books and consequent ostracism from my athletic peers. “Where will you go after this job?” That question gave me pause. I was already interviewing for my dream position, my ultimate goal. After this job? There was no after, at least not yet. Not until I was fully satisfied in scouring the depths of his research into the ancients would I finally move on, and that day would surely never come. I did not tell him this. I instead gave the answer I thought he was looking for: pursuing a research professorship here or elsewhere. I watched his eyes narrow and detect the half-truth, but we moved on without question.

After the questions were asked and the responses given, he told me that while he could not guarantee that another applicant wouldn’t surprise him, I was at the forefront of his personal choices. I was thrilled to hear it, but I bit my lip to hold my tongue and nodded curtly like the professional I had yet to become. When I shook his hand at the conclusion of our meeting, I re member feeling how cold his palm was in mine. We didn’t speak of that either.

II.

I began my position as Dr. Bolstari’s assistant on May the 29th in the year 1910. It was a Sunday and my first experience with my employer’s queer working habits. He would work Sunday through Thursday, spending the remaining days at home. The university had granted him a special privilege exempting him from teaching on Fridays. On that day, I would be in the office alone, doing whatever little tasks I could to lighten the doctor’s workload, and on most Sundays the doctor would be alone. The Fridays would serve as a brief reprieve from the sweltering temperature at which the doctor kept our workspace. He seemed to detest the cold, and I learned quickly to dress for the office in the lightest fabrics.

In those early days I found myself most often grading papers of undergraduates and helping to formulate examinations for his students. New research was slow in coming as tensions in Europe were growing every day, and Dr. Bolstari apologized profusely for every Friday I spent doing an intern’s work. I didn’t mind, really. The easy tasks gave me time to think on other things, such as what my own research would be. There had been interesting developments of other Aryan peoples that year, some scholars beginning to decipher fragments of language found in Mesopotamia. Dr. Bolstari and I read every report that came from that team, but it was hard to formulate valuable opinions on another’s research.

Very early in our partnership, I began to see Dr. Bolstari’s expertise and genius firsthand. It seemed like there was no language that he didn’t know. He threw around phrases in Latin as if he had spoken to Caesar himself, and during his breaks he read Homer’s Odyssey in Greek from a book that looked older than the college itself. He was no linguist, but I was astounded at the depth of knowledge that resided in his magnificent brain on all the world’s tongues, and I aspired to attain his level of expertise. I asked him once how he attained this proficiency and commented that it was like magic. He replied simply and with a coy smile: “something like that.”

On one of the Fridays when I was alone in his, or rather our office, I was overtaken by curiosity regarding how much exactly he knew of the peoples he was researching. We had yet to talk at length about it, although he knew it was my foremost desire to do so. He seemed to dodge every question about them that I threw at him, becoming a different man for a moment. Sometimes he would happily discuss his research, but about some things, especially details of the Ikamil, he would fall silent. A certain feeling I could only liken to fear would enter his eyes, and he would immediately terminate the conversation. In my unsatiated intrigue, I set to finding his notes on the subject. My search led to a locked drawer in his desk for which I could not find the key. I had never witnessed Dr. Bolstari open it, although owing to his secrecy he likely only opened it at times I was not present. Having hit a wall, I gave up on my search for the day, although my curiosity persisted.

After a year spent as Dr. Bolstari’s partner, we became good friends as well, although I never once referred to him as Gregory. Despite being nearly three decades older than I, we had much in common to discuss. It became our ritual on Thursday evenings to talk over a glass of scotch that one of his Ger man friends had smuggled into the country, kept in that same locked drawer that eluded my gaze. Despite his shy exterior, Dr. Bolstari was one of the finest conversationalists I knew. His favorite thing to talk about was, of course, his research into the Aryan peoples, with one exception. He had grown so proficient during his research that he could write in the Ikamil’s strange circular script at will. He often signed his letters and memos in the same script, and I was among the few fortunate souls who knew its meaning, although I could not read it. I asked him once how I could sign my own name in the script, but his ordinarily kind and helpful demeanor was replaced by a wary one. He told me that it was something I would have to discover for myself. I tried to change the subject, but he had to leave the room, apparently in distress. I spent the rest of the night wondering what I had said wrong, and as I pondered this, my eyes drifted over to his serving of scotch and at the frost that had formed on the iceless glass. I said nothing of it, and by the time the doctor had composed himself and reentered, profusely apologizing for his behavior, the frost had melted away.

III.

In the summer of 1912, after two years working with Dr. Bolstari, I found him in our office uniquely happy. As soon as I entered through the door, he gleefully jumped up and thrust a ticket in my face. He said the time was finally here, and that I was finally going to have a good research opportunity. I took the ticket and glanced it over. It was for a ship leaving New York next week for Morocco and then on to Istanbul. I knew as soon as I saw our destination in Anatolia what he meant: we were finally going to visit the Mesopotamian archaeologists. I shared his joy at the prospects, and we both enjoyed a tall pour of scotch before discussing our plans. We would be met in Istanbul by one of his friends, a German archaeologist named Dr. Altemose. He would escort us on to their dig site near the Euphrates River, and we would see for ourselves what they had found. When I asked him if they had found any artifacts with the circular script, he seemed happy to tell me that they had not, adding that there was sure to be other curious objects that a young doctor could write about. I did my best to act content with that. Before he left for the day, the doctor reached into his desk and asked me to deliver a letter detailing our travel plans to the college president, Dr. Butler. I made my way to his office immediately and caught him as he was preparing to leave for the day. Dr. Butler opened the letter in front of me and read it over quickly, casting subtle glances at me as he read. Once he was finished, he placed it on his desk and asked me if I was to accompany the doctor. When I told him I was, he frowned and clicked his tongue. He said he would be sorry if I did because each of the past two assistants Dr. Bolstari had brought on an expedition had elected to stay at the dig site indefinitely. On his way out the door, he tapped me encouragingly on the shoulder and said he would hate to lose me too.

I stood alone in the president’s office for a moment, thinking on what he had said. If the sites were as good as Dr. Bolstari promised, I would be happy to stay there to research their finds in person, but something stuck with me about that word “indefinitely.” Had his assistants really chosen to move to a foreign land just for the sake of research? No, he hadn’t said “move,” he said “stay.” Had they not asked for their belongings? Perhaps the president did not know either way. Perhaps, I thought, I am just scared of going abroad for the first time, making a big deal out of one four letter word over another to justify it. Despite how much I rationalized my feelings, my heart continued to race. I felt a chill come over me for a moment and looked out through the office’s open window at the setting sun. The cool breeze of the summer evening roused me from my fit of anxiety, and I closed and locked the window before I left.

IV.

The heat was nearly unbearable as I stepped out of the car and onto the banks of the Euphrates River. It was my first time ever leaving the United States, and this was quite the jarring first excursion into the wider world. I had never seen so much sand, and our small automobile struggled to pass along the rustic, sandy roads the archaeologists had prepared. I cupped my hands around my eyes to get a clearer view through the sun glare. There was a massive hole in front of where I stood, and beyond it sat a patch of green, and beyond that the Euphrates. I felt like a starving traveler staring at an oasis, and I instinctually stepped toward it.

I felt a hand on my shoulder as Dr. Adolph Altemose stepped up next to me. He handed me a canteen, and I drank the warm water eagerly to replace the moisture that had been leaving me as a torrential rain of sweat. Dr. Bolstari stood at my other side, still somehow standing to wear his full suit and coat, even through the desert heat. I felt the soaked patches of cloth beneath my armpits and truly envied his resistance to temperatures like these.

The three of us walked together down a rickety flight of wooden steps to the bottom of the crater, where multiple white tents were set up. Lanterns were hanging from posts strewn about the place, and piles of books and papers stood tall as mountains upon every table I saw. Within the rock and sand the archaeologists had excavated, I could see a pitch-black rectangular opening within one of the crater’s sides. I was immediately curious what lay within, but I kept still this time, knowing my time would come.

The time came after I had been introduced to the archaeologists working on the site. I recognized their names from the papers the doctor and I had read. Dr. Bolstari knew most of them as friends and greeted them warmly. I kept an ear open for one of his previous assistants, but they were nowhere to be found. I spent nearly two hours discussing the site with them, all the things they had discovered and artifacts they had dated to be tens of thousands of years old, inconceivably ancient. They sensed my incredulity and told me they had shared it at first, but the numbers did not lie. I saw my opportunity and asked if I could see these impossibly old artifacts myself. They laughed at my eagerness and happily escorted me to the opening I had spotted before. One handed me a lantern and ushered me inside. I passed beneath the sand with the glee of a child at Christmas.

The lantern revealed little at first, as my eyes had to adjust from the harsh brightness of the desert. I entered a rectangular chamber with a flat ceiling scarcely taller than me supported by wooden beams. Another doorway led into another room filled with sand that I suspected they had just started clearing. One artifact after another was brought to my attention, and Dr. Bolstari and I examined each one carefully. I recognized some script resembling the carved cuneiform of the Assyrians, a few cups and bowls, and a humanoid figure of clay that I supposed was a child’s doll. Dr. Bolstari agreed with my perceptions and encouraged me to move into the next chamber to see what I could find.

I found a larger rectangular room nearly filled with sand and rocks. A large wheelbarrow and some shovels had been pushed to one side, and I immediately set to excavating. The other doctors joined me in short order, and by the time my lantern began to dim, we had cleared a significant portion of the room. The other doctors had left to find something for dinner, but I was too curious to leave now. I wiped the sweat from my brow and surveyed the newly cleared area. A couple of small tablet fragments were unearthed from beneath the rubble, but they did not seem useful compared to what we had already discovered. I used my foot to brush some remaining particles away and noticed a smooth and flat stone sticking out from the pile we had yet to move. I tugged it out, sadly undoing some of the clearing I had just completed, and glanced it over. On one side was a strange carving of figures seeming to drink from what looked like a horn, almost like a mead horn of the Norse Vikings.

On the other side, I was greeted with a familiar circular script.

My heart seemed fit to burst from excitement, and I sprinted out of the chamber and into the desert sun grinning. Some archaeologists tried to question my energy, but I paid them no mind as I rushed over to the tent where Dr. Bolstari had made his bed. He was writing in a journal when I burst in. My words jumbled together as I tried to articulate what I had found. I must have looked like a raving madman mid-hallucination, and the doctor frowned at me as such, his brow furrowed in incomprehension. After a fruitless moment of rambling, I gave up trying to explain and thrust the tablet at the doctor. A profound horror replaced confusion as he gazed upon the carvings. He ripped it from my hands and demanded to know where I had found it. I breathlessly told him, and he pushed past me out of the tent without another word.

I followed shortly behind and exited in time to see the doctor lift the tablet into the air and throw it at the ground. A loud crack rang out through the air. I cried out in surprise, and the other archaeologists began to gather around us in curiosity. I shouted at the doctor, asking him why he was trying to destroy what I thought would be an extremely valuable resource for the both of us. He gave no reply. The impact against the ground had only chipped off a corner of the piece, and the doctor bent down and grabbed it, positioning his grip to throw it again. His eyes were wide and crazed. Dr. Altemose rushed in to grab his arm, commanding him to stop. Dr. Bolstari tried to wrest himself free, but the younger man overpowered the older. He dropped the tablet, and it clattered against the excavated sandstone. The doctor’s wide eyes glossed over, and he collapsed into Dr. Altemose’s arms. Altemose shouted for a doctor.

I fell to my knees in shock and exhaustion. I couldn’t take my eyes off the chipped tablet, at the strange circular script and the unharmed carving that eluded my understanding. As I knelt panting, I felt watched, but not by my colleagues. It was as if the stone circles were eyes, gazing at me and through me, mocking my ignorance. I stared back at them with defiance.

V.

We were fortunate that there was a British army base two hours down the river, and they graciously lent us a medic to care for the poor doctor. His fit had rendered him nearly comatose, barely able to stomach any food and sleeping most of the day. The excavated chambers had been blocked off from further study until it was determined what happened to him. Some suspected poisonous mold that had not yet been discovered, still others feared a slumbering plague that their surveys had awakened. I knew better. I could not explain it in terms that did not make me sound mad, but I knew that my friend’s illness, the tablet I had found, and what was written on it were all connected. The way he reacted was as if he had seen the carving before, or was at least familiar with what was depicted on it. I still could not read that cursed circular script, and the only one who could had refused to tell me how. If I was to get to the bottom of things, I was going to have to confront my friend.

I sat by his bedside until he awoke. It was mid-afternoon, his lips were cracked from dehydration, and his usual kindly aura had long since evaporated. There was not much the doctor could do but try to keep him cool, and he discovered as quickly as I that doing so was surprisingly easy. The shade of his tent did little to ward off the desert heat, but at least we were free of the sun.

When the doctor awoke, I handed him a glass of water, which he drank eagerly. He seemed relieved to see me, and I was glad to see him awake and apparently lucid. After his cup was drained, the two of us set to conversation. The event was some time ago, and much has happened since, but I will do my best to relay what was said as exactly as possible from memory.

“You gave us all quite the fright,” I told my friend. “When you collapsed I feared the worst.”

“The fault is mine,” he replied. “I forget myself often. I’m a young man no longer, and I can’t afford a young man’s outbursts. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You have assuaged my fears by speaking to me now.” I reached over to a nearby table and grabbed a pitcher, refilling the doctor’s glass with water. “You should drink more.”

The doctor grunted in assent and took the drink from my grasp, draining it nearly as quickly as the first. “Where is the medic?”

“Outside, leaving us to our meeting. He graciously complied in my wish for privacy.”

“Privacy?” He stared at me inquisitively “Why on Earth would you ask for that?”

I took a deep breath and began my attack. “You know we must discuss the cause of what placed you in this bed.”

The doctor rolled over, facing away from me. “I am tired. Come back tomorrow.”

“You won’t fool me with that.” Anger began to creep into my tone. “Why did you behave like that when I showed you that tablet?”

“I do not wish to speak of it. Come back tomorrow.”

“You have been telling me that for two years!” My curiosity finally exploded from its cage as indignation. “I have aided you faithfully and without question all this time. I think I am entitled to a little enlightenment regarding what the hell is going on with you! Why will you not teach me the Ikamil script?”

The doctor gave no reply.

“What is that ritual on the stone?”

Silence.

“And why are you so damned cold all the time?”

All of my questions were met with nothing. I stood from my seat and glared at my friend, although he did not see it. “Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll go back underground and find out myself.” I turned to leave.

“Wait!” The doctor flipped over to face me once more. “You’re right. Perhaps to save you from the fate which awaits you down there, I must explain myself.”

I turned back, more confused than ever. “Fate? What are you talking about?”

“Listen to me. Do not pursue the Ikamil. I was a young man and a fool when I published that damned book. I was glad to see it sold poorly, but its influence on even a few minds remains my life’s greatest error. When we met, we spoke of a ‘dark magic’ that some perceived in the title. You may not believe me, but there is a truth to that fear.”

“My friend,” I interrupted, “dark magic? You are speaking madness. Must I summon the medic outside?”

“Listen! The ritual on the tablet, I have seen it before! It is a sacrifice, but not of life. It… It’s a…”

I watched in horror as the doctor’s speech failed and his body was overtaken by convulsions. Fearing the worst, I cried out to the army doctor waiting outside. He rushed in and ordered me out of the room. I complied with a deep fear in my heart, a fear that persisted until the sun set and the doctor informed me that Gregory Bolstari was dead.

VI.

I could not sleep the night my friend died. The desert had grown cold in the darkness, and a shiver kept sneaking up my spine despite how many blankets I threw upon my cot. He had died so suddenly, so violently that I struggled to believe it a coincidence that he died in the midst of a confession that I had long awaited. The medic guarded his tent fiercely, so I could not see him if I wanted to. I doubted he could give me any more information about the tablet from beyond the grave. I shed no tears for the doctor that night. I would not grieve until I determined what it was that took him, and in my resolve, a fear was growing. I feared that in order to discover the truth, I would have to disregard his final wish.

I would have to go back underground.

The moon was high in the sky when I peeked my head out of my tent’s flaps. All was quiet and still. Tents fluttered in a faint breeze, and most of the lanterns had gone out. Even in the darkness of night, the blackness of the rectangular doorway into the ancient chambers was striking, like an inky sea blocking my gaze. It was toward that inky sea I crept, careful not to disturb any piles of sand or pebbles that would give away my passage. I was so on edge as I walked that I nearly shouted in surprise at a sudden snore emerging from a tent nearby. When near the opening, I gently tugged a lantern free from its hanger. It cast a dim light upon my feet as I approached the entranceway. A rope had been tied between two posts to block entry, and a sign was hung upon it.

NO ENTRY

POSSIBLE HAZARDS WITHIN

I placed the lantern on the other side of the rope as quietly as I could. Taking one last look around, I swung one leg over the rope, followed by the other. The darkness of the underground was open to me, and I held the lantern up like a blind man in search of a wall to cease his wandering. I was swallowed by the blackness.

The first chamber looked identical to when I was there last. Some tools were haphazardly strewn about, and artifacts were placed on tables with dusting brushes and other such instruments of discovery. My tablet was not among them, but the way into the second room was wide open, even blacker than the first. I entered.

There was less sand now than there was the day I had cleared it. The outline of a top step to a staircase emerged from beneath the rubble and I wondered what might be lying within the lower chambers. I quickly put the thought out of my mind and resumed my search. I figured that there would be more time for exploration afterwards.

I found my tablet on the ground at the far end of the room. I placed my lantern at the center of the chamber and walked towards it with both hands empty. It was placed with the circular writing face down, and I could see the carved artwork clearly in the lamplight. There were five figures depicted, three to the left with hoods, a fourth to the right with their mouth open, and a fifth in the center bearing the horn I had discerned upon finding it. The horn was certainly a vessel for a liquid of some kind. Could it be the soma that the Vedas spoke of, a precursor to the Olympian Ambrosia or the divine mead of Asgard? I was not sure. If this tablet was like others the archaeologists had found, if it was tens of thousands of years old… would that not predate the oldest religious ritual known to archaeology?

I bent down and took the tablet in my hands to get a closer look. The figure on the right with the open mouth had distinctly different features than the other four. His nose was sharper, his chin thinner. He had long hair, whereas the others were either hooded or bald. The bald man in the center seemed to gaze at him with purpose, but what purpose could be conveyed in stone? The purpose of a priest? Was this a baptism of some kind, an initiation? There was no way to know for sure. No way unless I could figure out how to read their words myself!

I turned the tablet over to gaze at the writing, although I knew it would not help. Rows and columns of swirls with harsh lines overlaying them filled the stony surface, carved with a detail and fluidity most experts would deem impossible for the time. In my mind, almost speaking aloud, I demanded to reveal their meaning to me. I commanded it! I needed it!

As if responding to my request, the script appeared to swim before my eyes, enlarging and shrinking, as did the rest of the room. I tried to stand but found my legs failing me. I was overcome with such an intense lethargy I thought I must have been drugged, but as I threw a last look around the room in my stupor, I saw nothing but shadows. The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was the face of the fifth man with the open mouth, long hair and a sharp nose that almost looked like my own.

With a last gasp for air, an inky blackness took me.

VII.

When my consciousness was returned to me, I was against a cold stone wall. My wrists were chained so that I was forced to stand. I tried to cry out for help, but I could not find my voice. Only a pained cough escaped my mouth. Trying not to panic, I surveyed my new surroundings. I was in a large antechamber of stone with a high vaulted ceiling. At the center there was a pool filled with a murky liquid. I could see in a dim light, but I could not find the source of it. Whatever it was, its rays colored the room the deep green of pine needles. A doorway was carved into the far wall from me, but beyond it I saw only darkness.

I tried to call out again, but my voice refused to return. My heart raced, and my breathing quickened. How did I get here? Where is here, anyway? Question upon question entered my mind and found no answer. My wrists began to ache where the chains suspended them, and I began to grow truly and deeply afraid.

This will not do, I thought. If I were to find the cause of my friend’s death, I would have to be brave. Perhaps the people who took me were behind it all, and I would get my explanation once and for all. But what if that explanation cost me my life? I was still young. Was it worth it? Seeing that there was no escape and no way out of these chains, I realized that it was not worth thinking of hypotheticals. The danger was here and now. How I faced it was all that mattered. If I was to die, I would die with the dignity of one who searched for the truth until the very end.

“I will not die here,” I whispered, my voice finally coming back to me. “Not until… I know.”

As I spoke, I heard a rustling echo throughout the chamber. From the dark doorway across from me, four hooded figures wearing long black robes entered the room. I could make out little of their faces from beneath the cloth, but they looked nothing like each other. One looked Arabian, one African, another Caucasian, and the last Indian. My heart sank when I got a glance beneath the African man’s garments. At his waist hung a long, hollow ram’s horn.

As they approached I asked them who they were and why I was here. They gave no response to me, but they whispered among each other in a tongue I had never heard before, a strong, guttural speech that sounded primal in nature. The African man took the horn in his left hand and knelt near the pool. His three fellows stood above him, raising their hands to the heavens. They began to chant something, a repetitive verse in their primal tongue that I dare not translate here.

Glovbhir Sthaloch Kozoliava, Fiar Zoa Gogh!

This they chanted as the kneeling man ran his horn through the pool of liquid, catching some of it within the hollow vessel. I thought at once that my assumption was correct, and that this was a baptism of sorts. But as I thought of this, I remembered the fifth man’s open mouth. Where exactly was this liquid going?

As the African man with the horn rose and the four turned towards me, I feared I was going to have that question answered sooner than I would like. I exclaimed my protestations for the length of their approach, but they gave me no reply. Two of the men took hold of my face, one holding my head back and the other forcing my jaw open, resuming their chant as they did so. T he third stood back and observed as the fourth raised the horn to my face.

As he lifted, he spoke to me. “One has gone away to the Beyond. Another must take their place.” Before I could inquire into what he meant, the water from the pool filled my mouth. I call it water, but it was only identical in feeling. The taste was among the worst sensations I had ever experienced, an assault of bitterness and bile as if five men had vomited into a cup and fed it to me, so foul it was almost painful.

The man with the horn spoke again, louder over the steadily increasing volume of the chanting of his fellows. “It is foolish to resist. Take Her in.”

I had no time to question, nor ability with my mouth full of the disgusting substance. The chanting men were shouting now, shouting at the heavens or something far beyond. Seeing no other option, I shut my eyes and swallowed.

At once, everything was still. As soon as the foul liquid left my tongue and passed my throat, time seemed to stand still. The men seemed frozen as if in ice, their mouths wide and eyes bright in a zealous joy. The forest green light of the room seemed to pulsate above me, and I searched again to find its source.

And that is when I saw it.

What I saw I fear I cannot adequately describe. For the sake of this exercise I shall try my best, but know that no description uttered by mortal men could ever do justice to my vision that night. I sincerely hope it was a vision, because such a sight having happened in the real world would surely have driven me mad, more crazed than I was then. Even now while writing I can feel the remnant of a primal scream echoing from the back of my throat as I gazed up to the ceiling and found out what the African man had meant by “Her.”

At first I thought it was merely a shadow, an odd pattern of discolored stone catching in the light. It was sprawled out upon the ceiling like a blood stain, perfectly random in its array. As my eyes peered more deeply into the shadows, I began to perceive a larger shape from within the black. I saw movement in the darkness, twisting and curling and spinning shapes each somehow darker than the last. Parts of the shadow seemed to bubble and pop like boiling water, churning like an inky soup. Spikes and tendrils appeared at random, each reaching out to me but falling just short. Each tendril that passed within my frozen stare churned on its own like a miniature version of the whole horrible mass that I was forced to witness.

And then it opened its mouth.

Like a water droplet leaking from a gutter, the darkness dipped from the ceiling, descending ever lower toward me. Like lips parting to utter a sound, the darkness opened and revealed a thousand rows of black teeth, each with an eyeball fixed on me. The same liquid that I drank leaked down from the eyes like teardrops and into the pool below. I knew I was shouting, screaming, crying for help, but no sound found my ears, save for a faint rumble like a train passing in the distance. A black tendril like a tongue dripped from above and coiled around my neck. All the warmth left my body. I felt as if I was naked in the arctic, drowning in the icy sea. The cold burned as fiercely as a hot iron, my sweat froze upon my brow. The tendril around my neck grew tighter, and the black gaping maw closer. I tried in vain to cry out again, but its grip was too tight. I was lifted into the air, my wrists burning from the friction of the chains, the rest of my body burning from the freezing cold. I did not hear the chains snap. It raised me higher until my vision passed beyond its horrid lips and into the countless rows of teeth beyond. I felt thousands of eyes pierce through me, horrible eyes with myriad black pupils. Everywhere I looked I was greeted by a new horror, and yet I could not scream nor struggle. All I could do was watch as the creature’s shadowy jaws flexed outwards.

I remember a blur, a crash, and then the void.

 VIII.

A shiver passed through every inch of my body to wake me. My eyes flew open, and I shot upright in fear, frantically searching my surroundings for a sign of the horrible creature. To my surprise and relief, I was back in my tent. The sun was peeking through the flaps, and there was no sign of a hooded man, nor tablet, nor monster of shadow. I tried to laugh but my throat was raw and sore. As I tossed my legs over the side of my cot, I told myself that it was all a nightmare. After all, shadow monsters don’t exist. It was impossible to magically transport from one place to another. How could any of that have been real?

I nudged my blanket off of my shoulders and immediately began to shiver. I knew I was in the desert still, and the sun was up which meant the heat had returned. Then why was I so damned cold? I wrapped my blanket tightly around me. I felt at once warmer, but my heart had sunk into a cold, dark pit. It was not a dream.

I had to be sure that I was not sick, so I set out at once to find the doctor. As I threw open the flaps of my tent, I stepped out into the sunlight. I put one foot forward and slipped. Some liquid had fallen on the ground, and I lost my balance. I crashed down into the sand, and I felt more wetness where I landed.

I raised my left hand, which had taken most of the impact, and found it soaked with red.

I jumped up as fast as I could and found the army medic lying beneath me. His neck and arms were covered in small, deep cuts, and a massive pool of blood into which I had accidentally tread surrounding his corpse. The stench was overwhelming, and I stepped around him to survey the rest of the camp.

Every last one of the archaeologists were dead.

Dr. Altemose was leaning against a table, his throat slit and shirt dyed crimson. I saw one archaeologist in a fetal position, several holes punched into his shirt and chest. Another was beside him, a knife sticking out of his heart with his own hand still around the handle. A third had fallen in the doorway to the subterranean chamber, equally as bloody. There were others, but I couldn’t bring myself to examine them. My stomach evacuated its contents. My throat burned even more as I doubled over, retching amongst the dead. Despite my pain, I still found it within my freezing soul to cry out for them.

I had lost my voice by the time I stood again. Steeling myself, I knelt down next to the corpse that was once Adolph Altemose. I took my right hand and closed his eyelids while my left searched his pockets for the keys to his automobile. As I closed his eyes, I noticed a marking on my palm. It was a circle, filled with jagged edges and lines. As I gazed upon the mark with equal parts terror and curiosity, a thought welled up inside my mind and revealed to me its meaning: it was my name. Each line was a letter, and the circle was the whole. At once, the mark began to fade until it was little more than a faint discoloration in my flesh. No one would notice unless specifically looking. My left hand grasped a metal object in Dr. Altemose’s pocket. I withdrew the key and looked upon him one last time.

I drove into the desert, covered in the blood of other men, along down the road that brought me to this place. I had no thought in my mind besides going home, back to the United States, back to Columbia.

I now had something to write about. And this is where I find myself now.

I returned to the university, and Dr. Butler offered me Dr. Bolstari’s old position when I informed him of his death abroad. What was once our office is now mine alone. I had a locksmith force his way into the drawer that so intrigued me, and I found a cipher for the Ikamil script.

I had no need for it anymore. Languages came naturally to me.

I speak Latin as if I was Caesar himself, read the Iliad as if I was by Homer’s side while he was composing it. It seemed that whatever the four priests had done by feeding me that liquid and showing me their god had granted me a great gift. For what purpose I could not say, and I doubt I would ever want to know. What I did know was that I would never again visit the deserts of Mesopotamia, where my friend now lies.

Now after writing, I shall honor my friend and mentor as I always have in the thirty years since his death. I shall sit at my desk and toast a glass of scotch in his name, with my three-piece suit and heavy overcoat worn tightly and the window kept firmly shut.

That’s Where You Go

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Early morning. Crisp autumn of the schoolyard. Beginning of the school day. Donna’s father crouches. Squatting he points. To guide Donna. Long high wall. Blocking October sun. In front of the wall Donna’s father. Gray and shadows and dark brick and Donna looking straight. The door. Brown entrance door. Moments for others. Immeasurable length of time inside Donna’s mind. Crispness from shadow. Morning October umbrage. Full sun when it falls upon the pavement. A faint reminder of summer. Just beyond late summer. Its warmth captured in early October school mornings. Donna looking. Feeling resentful to need her father pointing. Feeling proud to show her father she remembered. Car horns intermittent. Parents leaving. Pebbles scraping on pavement. Bits of glass. Crunch under school shoe leather. Quick to praise. Forever patient. Admiring his daughter. For trying on these mornings. Donna’s father in dreams sees the schoolyard. The brown door. The high wall keeping faint warmth away from the concrete. Seeing himself kneeling. Gently holding his uncertain daughter. Feeling the eyes of teachers upon him. Feeling the sting of their pitying eyes. Knowing he brings a burden to them each day. Knowing that on all of the different days there are always the same conversations. Words spoken not too close to him. Words spoken not too far that he cannot hear parts of what is said. Teachers and parents. School aides and counselors. He hears their voices in his dreams. He hears them speak. Talking about the tragedy of Donna. No special place for her. Not in this day and age. Bureaucracy of the mid-century public school system. Prohibiting special treatment. Donna must remain. The same fourth grade class. Same as the other children. The normal children. Donna’s father never uses that word. He never says “normal” in her presence. Nothing helps. Nothing restores what was carefree in her. Nothing reactivates the laughter. Of her infancy. He alternates between helpless weeping and monstrous rage. He weeps only when he is alone. At home. When his wife is shopping. When Donna is at school. His primordial anger bursts across the steering wheel that he pounds. Driving home after dropping Donna off at school. Stopping at traffic lights. Striking the wheel. The fleshy side of his palm turning numb. Donna smiles in his dreams. They run along the shore. The zenith of summer creates true heat and energy. There is nothing in heaven or nature to separate him from Donna. There are no trapdoors of fate or tragedy through which his hopes for Donna must fall. There is no well of infinite depth to swallow and imprison even the smallest of his aspirations for her. Gulls, elegant whitish gray aviators, gracefully circle frolicking father and daughter. Iridescent shells everywhere. She picks up each one and names its color. Spells each word. Recites the alphabet. Names the capitals of the American states. Names all the Presidents since Washington. Then it is morning. It is the new school year. Donna’s father is pointing. She leans against him. Fingers in mouth. Eyes wide trying. Wanting and trying. Her father says, “That’s where you go.”

***

now it’s friday go to grandma’s where’s the pretzels I want a pretzel with the milk wait oh no I don’t have any money look over there donna bought hers sucking it staring at it she’s not normal why is she like that always smelling her fingers her glasses are so thick never looks like she knows where she is I don’t think I ever saw her laugh or anything like that sometimes I hear mom talking over coffee to a couple of the mothers of the kids from down the street talking over coffee and I can hear them in my room they say donna is mentally handicapped I had to ask what that meant I thought it was that she was in an accident but she doesn’t need crutches or anything oh I wanted a pretzel really bad I like that grandma lives on mulberry street it’s near chinatown lots of lights in the windows of all the markets and souvenir stores and restaurants I like to smell all the incense in the stores there’s lots of colored paper lanterns and little dragon figures I like to look at the boxes of incense sometimes they have tiny cones of solid incense packed in rows like a bunch of wizard hats and I can play in the park tomorrow why such weird glasses and nothing about the class seems to get her attention she flips her notebook pages so fast like there’s something secret to find I don’t know it’s not like the rest of us I want to eat something now oh why didn’t I remember to ask mom the teacher had to help donna yesterday when we did the art tracing all the leaves starting to fall so many nice colors and big ones I found some really big ones they haven’t all gotten dry yet we traced the leaves with the construction paper on top of them rubbed the fat flat crayons back and forth making the veins come out from the leaf but donna kept ripping her paper she used the crayon edge and she rubbed too hard she was very rough with the paper why she didn’t just do it like the rest of us it was really pretty easy just rub back and forth back and forth keep rubbing the flat part of the crayon to get the leaf traced donna must have made mistakes three or four times she had ripped papers on her desk some of the kids looked I guess she was embarrassed she took them off her desk and stuffed them into her book bag then she tried again she kept trying to do it the right way

All of the children assembling in rows and columns in the early morning. In the crisp autumn of the schoolyard. It is the beginning of the school day; Donna’s father crouches; as usual, she is confused. So after squatting he points as patiently and gently as he can. He must do this to guide Donna so that she will go in the right direction and enter the building through the right door. There is a long high wall behind Donna’s father. It blocks the early October sun from spreading at least a modicum of warmth across the schoolyard pavement. In front of the wall, focused on his daughter’s mixture of disorientation and fleeting attention, Donna’s father moves his arm with the gray sweater and, pointing for his daughter, shadows and dark brick seem to secure the two of them in a tableau of light charcoal shade. Fingers in mouth, looking straight but without lucid memory, Donna nods, eyes wide, trying
to connect the location of the brown school door with her father’s soothing gesture and calming words. Donna’s entire existence is, of course, a matter of perpetual wanting and trying. There is no impatience or abject pity in her father’s regard of her permanent mental limitations. He strives at all times to show her that he believes she can succeed. It is not only a father’s love. The man fervently subscribes to the notion that those unfortunate enough to be born with emotional and intellectual handicaps deserve all the respect and encouragement one can give. Unfortunately, Donna’s temperament is such that unprovoked hostility and a stubborn streak of irrational anger are never far from the surface of her thoughts, actions, and words. Yet, in all fairness, no one who lives in the world she cannot inhabit, who does not participate in her painful mental life, can truly know how difficult her struggles must be. She wants her father to know that she understands his words (“That’s where you go”). That is what her father says, each time, on these school day mornings.

just sits there staring sucking her pretzel but it’s like she’s not really here like awake but not really never talks to anyone glad it’s friday tonight we’ll have chinese food at grandma’s so hungry now I forgot to ask mom for change this morning what would happen should I try maybe ask donna for some pretzel I see her father in the mornings all the time while he’s squatting with her and pointing to the main entrance where her class has to go but she gets to stay with him until it’s time to go in I guess he wants her to feel good I see the parents talking about her no one ever looks at donna’s father it’s like they pretend he’s not there they all look like they are embarrassed when he leaves the schoolyard after donna finally goes into the entrance sometimes she looks back at her father to wave goodbye and he always waves back with a smile and waits until she goes in before he leaves the schoolyard I like fridays because fridays are always chinese food at grandma’s and when it’s the beginning of school like the first week the way it is now it’s still almost light out when mom and I get to the chinese restaurant to pick up the food there’s a big window by the bar at the front of the restaurant where we wait and I like to watch all the store lights and the street lights go on because it starts to get dark by then it’s night time when we go back around the corner to grandma’s building carrying the food

So this image of Donna standing while looking and Donna’s father crouching while pointing is a tableau quite familiar to the students and the teachers assembling in the schoolyard. The rows and columns of students ready to go inside; the crisp autumn of the early morning. It is the beginning of the new school season. Donna’s father crouches as usual. Which door is the right one? Donna is still confused after her father squats and holds her gently from behind. The distance between Donna and the door is always the same; the direction in which Donna’s father points is always the same; the long high wall behind Donna’s father is always the same; the early October sun blocked by the wall is always the same. There are times when the students hurrying into another school entrance, watching this tableau and feeling chilly, miss the temporary October warmth blocked by the high wall and kept away from the schoolyard pavement. There is an unspoken yearning for the recently ended summer. But there is also the excitement of the new school year. A strange, paradoxical mixture of lament over the loss of vacation freedom and the happy ascension to the next grade, the welcome faces of friends who live in different neighborhoods and haven’t been seen since June, and the compelling morning energy that somehow provides the children with a rush of interest in the continuation of their academic lives. The high wall keeps a large section of the schoolyard in shadow. Acting like an emotional border, it separates the counterfeit warmth of the October sun from the realization that the heat of the real summer is indeed over. Every child in the schoolyard has this feeling, to one degree or another. For young children coming out of the dreamy cocoon of their summertime fantasies, congregating in the schoolyard during this first week of school, there is a kind of therapeutic camaraderie, the way family members and cherished friends try to comfort one another at the wake of a beloved soul. The children mourned the loss of their summer in this way. They sought solace and comfort in one another’s company. Sadly, for Donna, there was nothing in the character of her facial expression, or her demeanor, or her voice that reflected even the most microscopic awareness of these feelings. The weary emptiness in her eyes betrayed no recognition or acknowledgement of the psychological gestalt of the situation. It would have made no difference if Donna were standing alone in a foul wilderness or surrounded by the pleasures and beauty of paradise. Her expression would have remained the same.

from the golden dragon I’ll go with mom we go around seven to pick it up hmmm I really love the hot mustard in that soup donna stares like she is somewhere else I think I’ll ask her just want a little piece break off a piece at the end all she has to do break it off with the round thin slices of pork and then some beef with oyster sauce she could snap it I guess I could ask anita but she’s still up front getting her pretzels she sits in the next desk behind donna and I also like the beef with oyster sauce dish really like all the sauce on my rice but it’s not really from oysters I guess they just call it that for a name I couldn’t eat it if that was true I mean really made from oysters they’re shell fish I can’t eat shell fish because of an allergy and I’m going to have to turn around and face the blackboard soon the milk and pretzels are almost all given out all I had to do was ask mom for change I like all those little shops that we pass on our way to pick up the food there’s so many fish and meat places they are all next to stone steps that go down there are basements all over the block they look kind of scary all dark and a little smelly and in the shops they do these things I don’t understand there’s all these cooked ducks all dark brown hanging in a row from hooks right in front of the big shop windows their heads are still connected but their eyes are closed and their beaks point in different directions when donna walks it’s like there’s a wind or something that moves her the way she swings her book bag she even stumbles sometimes but nothing is there she’s just awkward moving the way the wind gives you a little push when it’s really strong in the winter

It was natural that this daily tableau of Donna looking absently while being held gently by her father pointing steadily would remind some of the students of pictures they had seen, photographs in books of statues of angels in cemeteries, pointing upward, or statues of George Washington, in parks, pointing forward. It may have been that the collective memories and imaginations of the students, the parents, and every other adult connected with the school, used this sameness of Donna and her father, the schoolyard mornings, and the angles of the shadows, to mentally construct a kind of pure visual permanence, an irreducibility of imagery that somehow lingered in their minds, as they mingled or stood apart, observing the dual presence of Donna and her father. As they made their way into the school, they were completely baffled by the power of this imagery, of something so mundane and unchanging. That power created a primitive social element that became embedded within their group consciousness. In an anthropological sense, it negated all other aspects of recollection and understanding, as if no basis for knowing Donna and her father was possible other than the communal status of these shared perceptions and memories of Donna looking and her father pointing. The summers between school years nurtured this subconscious process. Those students who lived in the same neighborhoods had ample opportunities to play together. They would invariably share stories about Donna’s strangeness. Yet the only common ingredient in any of these narratives was the mythological component of Donna and her father as a self-contained image. Donna was always looking and her father was always pointing. One of these students was a boy in Donna’s class, the one who teased her about the pretzel, who pretended that he had taken a piece of her pretzel when it was his other neighbor, Anita, who had given him a piece of her pretzel, and who, by fooling Donna this way, had caused her to become most agitated and upset, to reach out in anguish, to reclaim what she believed to be her stolen property, aggressively exclaiming “Gimmmmmeeeee!” in a tortured howl of anger, until Anita, trying to ameliorate and soothe the situation, hurriedly explained to Donna that it was she who had shared some of her pretzel with the boy, demonstrating the fact by showing the remaining pretzel to Donna. Approximately two inches were missing. Apparently, several minutes before, the boy had asked Donna for a piece of her pretzel. Without looking in his direction, staring off as if the boy wasn’t there, Donna adamantly shook her head, saying blankly, “No, get your own.”

like everybody else there’s something wrong donna sure doesn’t talk or act like us it’s weird it’s like she needs all her concentration just to do the easiest things mom even asked me do you need anything I said no and we kissed then I had to get in line it was almost time to go inside we all looked at donna and her father one more time before we went inside it was just something that everybody did because all the lines of the students had moved up and the teachers usually told us not to stare at them stupid that I forgot I could have gotten change from her right there so hungry now I have that burning feeling in my stomach I really hate that and there’s anita up front getting her milk donna staring and sucking I wonder if she even sees all of us maybe she doesn’t even know where she is who we are like somebody in what they call a trance like I saw in a spooky movie over the weekend I really love to mix that mustard in the won ton soup then the soup turns brown from the last time I went with mom that nice chinese lady was there her name is francis she’s the owner very friendly to me she talks to mom while we wait for the order to come out of the kitchen I guess I have what the grown ups call a crush on francis she talks to me like I’m a young man even though I’m only a kid she’s very pretty but has a few patches of gray in her hair she doesn’t seem too old maybe it’s because she’s not much taller than me I liked that for some reason and I liked that she always wore gray dresses she spoke very quietly I guess because she was being polite and also not to bother the people at the tables near the bar

So this early morning represented, for this early period of her life, and for the rest of her life, all of the trials and frustrations and confusion and anger that, for Donna, were the inherent characteristics of her mental disability. It may be that, after bringing Donna to the same spot on so many occasions, her father often dreamt of the crisp autumn of the schoolyard, when Donna was most frightened, because of the new classes and different teachers and the overall anxiety of the beginning of the school day. It may be that, in his dreams, Donna’s father felt a sense of pride in his protection of Donna, that the high wall did not prevent the early October sun from spreading a few final layers of warmth upon the schoolyard and the students and the teachers, and that the sharp black blocks and angles of shapes of shadow that were only he pointing and Donna looking, had assumed the heroic contours of some great act, some kind of majestic signature of humanity.

“Donna’s father crouches like that every day, showing her where to go,” whispered the art teacher to one of the mothers standing close by.

“I know,” the mother replied, “and every time I see him squatting he points to the same door. What a patient man. Such a shame with that little girl. Maybe she ought to be in a special school?”

“I thought that, too. It’s so hard on her teacher, I mean these classes are up to thirty children and that’s hard enough. A classroom full of fussy, frantic ten year olds! And then to try to get through to a child like that. You know, I’ve never seen that girl Donna smile. It’s like she’s a bitter old woman sometimes.”

“I know what you mean. It’s not fair to the teacher or the school. Not to disrespect the poor girl, and her family, after all, look at what that man does for her, every morning. But there should be something else in the public school system, something that’s designed to work for children like that.”

“It’s really a shame. I don’t know if it’s a birth defect or what. She’s obviously mentally handicapped but not beyond reach, I mean, she does talk, she seems like she can do some of the homework assignments. But I can tell you: she keeps to herself like an old maid praying in church. Nothing friendly about that child at all,” the art teacher declared as she finished muttering her observations to the mother, not wanting anyone nearby to hear her words, although the schoolyard was very noisy with shouting children, the scuffing of the leather soles of their dress shoes on the concrete, the staccato beeping of car horns as some parents drove off after saying goodbye to their child, and the nasal, intermittent bells signaling that it was almost time to go inside.

I saw something on television about what they say are emotionally disturbed people I asked mom what that meant because I didn’t really understand what they were talking about I thought when you disturbed someone they were usually busy concentrating on something and donna never seemed able to concentrate for more than a few seconds then she almost always became angry but mom explained that we should have respect and sympathy for people like that because emotionally disturbed meant being lost or trapped sometimes and everyday things are a thousand times harder to understand for someone like that and the last time I saw francis it was a busy friday night it was the first time she couldn’t really stay by the bar at the front of the restaurant to talk with me and mom people kept coming in she took these dark maroon menus from behind the bar and walked the people over to their tables mom said don’t bother francis now she’s busy I thought maybe it meant crazy I knew that word from before but mom said no and not to ever say that to donna it would not be sensitive or polite to say that word I wanted those circular thin pieces of pork I think I’m going to ask donna what’s the worst that could happen maybe she will say I can have a piece of pretzel I don’t know for sure it’s the soft restaurant lights that make the red lipstick francis wears look so real I mean real like flowers she’s a really pretty lady I told mom I don’t want to ever make donna feel bad so I was glad mom explained about what it all meant because it was really strong mustard they called it the house mustard I don’t know why but when I put too much in my soup my eyes burned a little and my nose dripped a bit I liked it there was something nice about having that next spoonful and getting that tingle in my nose

To give Donna a kind of emotional prosthetic of security and reassurance, to guide Donna in his usual position beside the long high wall, day after day, school year after school year, these humble, self-sacrificing tasks bestowed purpose and grace upon Donna’s father. They became his reasons for living.
It was this almost iconic image of Donna’s father, in front of the wall that was always blocking October sun, crouching behind his daughter who was always agitated, confused, and angry, that teachers and students, attendants and aides, put into the mental storage of abstract imagery, an image that somehow possessed a kind of dignified autonomy, a majestic spirit, like the sight of a forest or a dam or a river. The effect of this image was such that it left an indelible impression upon the minds and memory of all those at the school who saw it. Each of them, as the years passed, in various stages of their lives, by crouching to do something in a certain way or feeling a momentary chill in early October sun, would experience a flash thought of recollection, smiling a little more wisely each year, their souls enriched by the lessons of time, and their minds seeing Donna’s father performing those endless rituals of protection. The unpredictable aggressiveness that sometimes accompanies mentally hindered people was certainly prevalent in Donna. Whether provoked or cajoled, she could often be nasty and mean. Of course, everyone had empathy for the sight of Donna staring blankly, fingers in mouth, eyes wide trying to identify the door that her poor father must have pointed at hundreds of times. In the sweater he always wore, creating the same reassuring image of gray and shadows, by the high wall and dark brick and Donna always looking, wanting (to go to the right door) and trying (to remember while her father pointed).

why is she yelling like that hope I don’t get into trouble good thing the teacher is in the hall I was just making believe I guess I shouldn’t have teased donna like that just wanted to get even with her for being so stingy I only asked her for a tiny piece of pretzel and she didn’t even look at me just kept shaking her head saying to go get my own and then when she wasn’t looking and Anita was coming back with her milk and her two pretzel sticks I asked her and she gave me some right away she’s nice but then after she went to her desk behind donna I turned around to show donna the pretzel and made it seem as though I took it from her she got so excited and upset I didn’t want to make her get so afraid that some of her pretzel was missing and anita even felt bad about it she called out from behind she said no donna I gave it to him see look and she held out the pretzel where she broke some off at the bottom what’s wrong with donna why is she so upset over things like that

***

It is Donna’s twentieth birthday. Pointing to the bus stop, her father still says, “That’s where you go.”

Leading her away from the toy store, he thought of the phrase he had uttered so many times when Donna went to elementary school. That’s where you go. As he pulled Donna away, this recollection made him realize that, although a twenty year old, mature woman, Donna was now no more emotionally and psychologically evolved than she was on those school mornings from the past: forever lost in her own world of petulance, confusion, and dysfunction. The intervening years brought no deliverance. There were no miracles for this daughter cherished by a father who had been so wearied by misfortune and chaos. The gulls used their beaks to penetrate the underbelly of blue and dark green crabs. They tore out the flesh, gulped it down, and flew up again, looking for their next hapless target. There was no beauty in it. The mechanical precision of their hunting skills was accompanied by total indifference to the fate of their prey. They did what nature had programmed them to do. Donna was having a tantrum over something she had seen in the window of the toy store. There was a little birthday party arranged for her at home. Some relatives and friends were already there, so Donna’s father wanted to get back. He refused to buy the toy; there were many gifts waiting for Donna and it was getting late. Holding his daughter’s wrist, rushing towards the bus stop, digging for tokens with his other hand, Donna’s father failed to notice his tall, strong daughter placing her foot in his way. She was angry and upset that he did not buy the toy. As usual, she couldn’t suppress her nasty impulses, her desire to retaliate against her father with all the self-absorption of a bratty child. She wanted to trip her father; she wanted him to fall. Because of Donna’s silence, no one would know the truth; she would never reveal anything about the accident she caused, resulting in an injury that would ultimately take her father’s life. He fell, hitting his head on the concrete, resulting in a massive heart attack because of his life-long cardiac condition. He would go into a coma and die within several days. By expressing her anger over not getting the toy, Donna was demonstrating her resentment like young children committing rebellious acts of violence. Reacting on that primitive level of behavior, Donna thought her hostility towards her father was innocent and harmless. She did not intend to kill him. She would never fully understand that she caused his death.

Sitting next to her father as he lay dying on the street, Donna thought she heard someone calling for an ambulance. Many loud sirens were screeching inside Donna’s head. She was staring at something, her fingers in her mouth, her eyes wide. The words her father spoke seemed to be mixing in her mind with the repeating ambulance noise.

…nee-naw…nee-naw…That’s where you go…nee-naw…That’s where you go…nee- naw…

nee-naw…That’s where…nee-naw…you go…nee-naw…nee-naw…nee-naw…nee- naw…

Something Awful on Nevada 164

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