Out to Get You

by Josh Allen

  I stepped out and closed the door, but the cats didn’t move. They just kept staring. I had to tiptoe past them to get down the porch stairs.

  As I headed to school, the cats finally shifted. They crept off the porch and began following me without a sound. They stayed about five feet behind, slinking along in the quiet way that cats do.

  Please leave me alone, I thought, but the three cats, like three silent ghosts, kept following. I crossed Mirror Avenue. I passed a row of houses. I cut through Tanner Park. And they stayed with me the whole time, prowling. They didn’t hiss or mew or make a single sound. They just followed.

  Finally, when I reached the school, they stopped. In one corner of the parking lot, they circled one another a few times, the three-legged cat limping, and they sat down. I kept walking, and the distance between us grew. Soon I was twenty feet away, then forty, and finally, it seemed, they’d let me go.

  But they kept watching me. They stayed perched right on the asphalt and fixed their shining eyes on me, even as I crossed the parking lot and ducked through the metal double doors.

  I tried not to think about them throughout the day…but everything that had happened, with Mom and Licorice and now these three lurking cats, made my skin feel tingly. My face, my back, my legs—all tingly.

  In Math class, when Mr. Wilson gave us time to work on our assignment, I got up to sharpen my pencil and I peeked out the window.

  They were still there, in the same corner of the parking lot, lying on their bellies. I know this next part sounds crazy, but when I looked out from Mr. Wilson’s classroom, their three heads turned my way all at once. From across the parking lot, one of them—the one with three legs—even stood up.

  I stumbled back to my desk.

  When the day ended and the bell rang, I started for home. But there weren’t just three of them in the parking lot now.

  There were six.

  They’d been joined by a white cat with only one ear, a gray cat with burrs caught in its fur, and a spotted cat with a limp.

  They looked at me. All six of them at once.

  I started running.

  I bolted past them, and all together they slinked behind me, prowling and weaving past one another.

  I ran back through Tanner Park and across Mirror Avenue. I ran over sidewalks and grass and across front yards. And still, they followed—six cats with missing fur and eyes and legs and tails.

  At home, I burst through the door and slammed it shut. I peered through the peephole, panting, as the six cats settled onto my front lawn.

  I breathed. “It’s fine,” I said out loud. “It’s totally fine.” I counted to twenty. I went into the kitchen. Licorice’s litter box was still there, tucked into the corner.

  I tried to eat a snack, but couldn’t.

  I felt them on the other side of the door. I knew they were staring at it—maybe even staring through it—waiting for me to come out again.

  And I knew why the cats had come. Because of Licorice and the cornfield. But there was something I didn’t understand. Sure, Licorice had been my cat, and sure, I had stayed silent when Mom had dumped him by the side of the road. But Mom had been the one who’d done it.

  So why were the cats following me?

  That night, before switching off my light, I peeled back my curtain and peered outside. They were still there, in the front yard, facing my window.

  Only now there were nine of them. One of the new cats had a crooked scar running down its face. All nine looked thin and hungry. All nine were broken in some way.

  I remembered what Mom had said when we’d dumped Licorice.

  Cats have nine lives.

  Nine cats. Nine lives.

  And then I remembered what I had said when we’d dumped Licorice.

  Nothing.

  I walked carefully through the house without waking Mom and creaked open the front door. The night was dark except for the cats’ eyes, which glowed yellow. I stepped out into the shadows wearing only my pajama shorts and a long baggy shirt. The air felt cold on my bare legs. I went down the porch steps and onto the damp lawn. The cats’ eyes followed me.

  “I know why you’re here,” I said.

  The cats didn’t move. They kept looking at me, the same way Licorice had as our car drove away.

  “Look,” I said. “I know it was wrong.”

  The three-legged cat tilted its head.

  “My mom.” I pointed to the house. “I should have said something. I should have stopped her.”

  The orange cat with the missing eye, the one who’d shown up first, sauntered forward. It raised one paw and held it in the air for a few seconds. And then, as if it were some kind of signal, it brought the paw down and scratched the ground three times.

  That’s when the cats attacked.

  They screeched and yowled. All nine of them.

  And they came for my legs.

  Together, they swirled in a blur of fur and claws, their teeth and eyes flashing.

  I ran for the house, trying not to trip on them, but four of the cats leaped onto the porch and blocked the door. They raised their paws and hissed.

  The first scratch, just below my left knee, only stung a little.

  I bolted for the side of the house, thinking I’d go in the back door, but again, they were too fast. They swarmed and swirled, nine blurs, and they blocked the back, too.

  That’s when a tiny paw—I’m not sure which cat it belonged to—raked across my right shin, leaving three thin trails of blood.

  I burst away from my house, running up the street. I didn’t know what else to do. But they came for me, screeching and hissing.

  Heading left up Birch Bark Drive and right onto Harrison, I ran as fast as I could. Barefoot, panting. And they followed. My feet slapped the sidewalk, stinging. But I sprinted. If I slowed, claws raked at my calves. It wasn’t long before sticky blood trickled down my ankles.

  They swarmed. They circled. They turned me this way and that.

  My lungs burned. But I ran. My legs ached and pulsed. But I kept going. I would have cried if I’d thought to, but they kept coming and coming and coming.

  The smell of my sweat filled the night.

  Finally, after what felt like forever, the one-eyed orange cat darted in front of me, turned, and hissed.

  I stopped, panting. I’d run down streets and sidewalks, through intersections and neighborhoods, barefoot. The soles of my feet ached and burned. Where was I?

  Around me, the other cats stopped, too. Everything fell quiet. A night breeze blew, and beside me, corn rustled in a field.

  And I knew where they’d brought me. It was the spot where we’d dumped Licorice.

  I was tired, scratched, and bleeding. The nine cats stood still.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am sorry. I should have said something. I should have stood up to her.”

  The cats hissed as they formed a circle.

  I waited for their final attack. I hunched my shoulders and shielded my face with my arms.

  The wind picked up, and the corn rustled in the night breeze.

  But the cats didn’t come.

  Instead, the white one stepped into the swishing corn and disappeared. Then the one with half a tail did the same thing. One by one, the cats stepped into the corn. There had been nine of them. But soon there were six, then four, then two. Finally it was just me and the one-eyed orange leader.

  I sank down in the dirt by the side of the road. My legs burned with scratches and sweat.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. The orange cat paced before me. “Please believe me.”

  At last the orange cat slunk into the corn and, like the others, disappeared.

  I was alone by the side of the road.

  Like Licorice.

  I put my head between my knees, and te
ars finally came. My legs were streaked with half-dried blood, but they’d let me go. The cold breeze licked my skin, and I shivered.

  Then I heard a rustling in the corn, and two green-yellow eyes appeared in the shadows. A completely black cat—black ears, black legs, black paws—stepped out of the corn.

  “Licorice,” I said.

  He slinked up and nuzzled his head against one of my scratched legs.

  “Are you okay?” I said. I wiped tears from my cheeks.

  He licked one of my cuts with his sandpapery tongue.

  “It’s okay,” I said. I picked him up and put him in my lap. “We’re going to be okay.”

  I stood, bleeding and tired, holding Licorice in my arms. The moon came out from behind a cloud. In the rustling corn, there were no signs of the nine cats, no glowing eyes peering out. And I knew why the broken cats—the nine lives—had come for me and not for Mom.

  I cuddled Licorice. I fondled his velvety ears between my fingers and thumb.

  “Let’s go home,” I said.

  And cradling my cat, I began the long walk back.

  “YOU’RE such a klutz, Janet,” said Malia as the dimes she’d been holding clattered to the tile floor. She’d been feeding them to the soda machine in the cafeteria, hoping to buy a Dr. Bubb to go with her lunch, but Janet had just crashed into her, hard, for what must have been the millionth time that year, and sent the dimes scattering.

  “Sorry.” Janet dropped to the floor and chased after the dimes that were scrambling away like escaped lab rats.

  Malia sighed. It wasn’t easy having a klutz for a best friend. Just this week, there’d been crashes into lockers, stumbles over garbage cans, and even wild trips on sidewalk cracks.

  And now…a scattering of dimes on the cafeteria floor.

  One dime arced into a corner near the vending machine, and Malia went after it. She tried to stomp on it to stop its rolling. But she missed, and the dime headed toward a moldy-looking stain she’d never noticed before.

  Eww, Malia thought. The stain was black with green speckles, like mildew, and it was the shape and size of a peanut, with two bulgy ends. The idea of the dime—her dime—touching that stain made her stomach lurch. But the coin was too far away and moving too fast.

  It rolled right onto the stain.

  And then something happened that made Malia gasp.

  The dime vanished.

  Like a popping bubble, one second the dime was there, spinning on the cafeteria tile, and the next second it touched the stain and…poof!…it was gone.

  Malia shivered. “Whoa,” she said. “Did you see that?” She moved closer to the stain.

  “See what?” Janet gathered the last few scattered coins, stood up, tripped on her untied shoelace, and dropped all the dimes a second time.

  Malia shook her head. “One of the dimes,” she said. “It just, like, disappeared when it touched…that.” She pointed.

  “Are you sure?” Janet said. “Did it maybe roll under the machine?” She crouched and peered under the vending machine.

  “No,” Malia said. “It rolled onto that.” She pointed again.

  Janet scrunched her face. “Gross.”

  Malia took a step toward the stain, but Janet grabbed her by the elbow.

  “Don’t go near it,” she said. “It’s nasty.”

  “Give me a dime,” Malia said. Janet picked one up and passed it. Slowly Malia moved into the corner. She knelt and held the dime a few inches over the stain.

  “Okay,” she said. “Watch.”

  Malia let go of the dime. It hit the stain and it should have plinked on the floor and spun to a stop. But it didn’t. It didn’t clink or ping at all. Instead, it fell into the moldy stain, like it had been dropped into a hole. Malia peered at the stain. In its very center, the dime spun and grew smaller, going down, down, down.

  “No way,” Malia said. She listened for a plink but heard nothing. “Did you see that?”

  Janet didn’t answer.

  “That must be what happened to the other dime,” Malia said, excitement rising in her voice. “It fell into this…thing.”

  Janet backed away from the corner. She bumped into the vending machine and stumbled. “It’s just a hole in the floor,” she said, but her voice quivered.

  “No.” Malia peered closer. “It’s not a hole. It’s something else, like a puddle. If you look closely, you can see the tile-floor lines beneath it. See?”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” Janet shook her head. “If we can see the floor beneath it, then how can the dime fall through?”

  “I don’t know.” Malia reached out a finger.

  “No!” Janet said. “Don’t touch it.”

  Malia stopped.

  “We don’t know what it is.” Janet backed away even farther, taking tiny awkward steps.

  Malia looked from side to side. The other kids in the cafeteria were doing the usual things—eating, talking, paying them no attention.

  “Fine,” Malia said. “I won’t touch it.” Still kneeling, she pulled a stick of gum from her pocket. She dangled it by one end. Its foil wrapper glistened. She lowered the gum slowly, and when it touched the stain, it hissed and fizzled like a can of soda opening. Malia startled and dropped the gum.

  Just like the dime, the stick of gum fell somehow past the floor…or through the floor, and, just like the dime, the gum twisted, grew smaller, and disappeared.

  “It’s like a portal,” said Malia.

  “Can we please just get away from it?” Janet said from behind her. “I don’t like it, Malia. Can we just get away?”

  Malia turned. Janet’s hands were white.

  Malia pursed her lips. She wanted to stay by the stain. She wanted to poke it again, to drop in something else—a balled-up piece of paper or a french fry. Maybe she could even lower something into the stain on a string and pull it back out.

  But there was Janet. Her face had gone the color of old notebook paper.

  “Yeah,” Malia said, standing up slowly. She gathered the rest of her dimes. “You’re probably right.”

  She put a hand on Janet’s shoulder as they walked back to their table and nudged her to the left to keep her from walking into Adrian Wingham and his tray of spaghetti.

  “You’re right,” Malia said again when they sat down. “We should leave it alone.” But as she ate her turkey sandwich, she glanced, again and again, to the corner by the vending machine.

  * * *

  The next day, when lunch started, Malia said, “I’ll meet you at the table,” and left Janet in the cafeteria line.

  She headed straight for the stain.

  At the soda machine, she brought her hand to her mouth.

  “No way,” she whispered. She couldn’t believe it. The stain wasn’t the size of a peanut anymore. It was bigger now. Much bigger. As big as Malia’s head.

  She dropped to the floor and crawled close. Not only had the stain changed size, but it had changed shape, too. It had jagged spikes coming out of it from all sides.

  “Malia!” Janet’s voice hissed from behind her. “Get away from that thing.”

  Malia turned.

  Janet was holding a lunch tray. Her lips were pressed tight. “You said you would leave it alone,” she said.

  “But it’s changed.” Malia pointed.

  Janet looked, but she didn’t move in closer. She shook her head slowly. “That makes it worse,” she said.

  “It has spiky things.” Malia pointed again.

  Janet shifted her lunch tray. Her eyes widened.

  “And those spikes,” Malia said. “They look kind of like teeth…or fangs.”

  “You don’t think this is…” Janet trailed off.

  “A mouth,” Malia finished. “It’s not a hole or a portal. It’s a mouth.”

  Ja
net turned and started to walk away, but Malia jumped up and grabbed her arm.

  “If this is a mouth,” Malia said, turning Janet back, “that means this…thing…is alive.”

  Janet didn’t speak.

  “And the dimes and the stick of gum from yesterday,” Malia went on. “They didn’t fall into a hole. They got eaten.” She couldn’t believe it. The stain on the cafeteria floor was alive.

  It was amazing.

  No, not just amazing, Malia realized. It was impossible.

  “We need to tell someone,” Janet finally said.

  “No,” said Malia. She liked that the spot sat just thirty feet away from dozens of sixth graders, and somehow only she and Janet had found it. It was a secret discovery—their secret discovery. And it could stay that way.

  Besides, the stain had grown. It had actually grown. It could eat and change, and maybe it could even breathe and move and feel.

  But how could she explain all this to Janet?

  “We can’t tell anyone,” Malia said. “If we tell, they’ll get rid of it.”

  Janet’s eyes widened. “That’s what we want,” she said. “It needs to go.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Malia said.

  Janet’s body seemed to go slightly limp. Her lunch tray drooped. Her milk carton slid off and landed on the floor with a thwack.

  Malia pursed her lips and thought. She had to convince Janet to stay quiet. But Janet kept looking at the stain and sagging.

  “Whatever this thing is,” Malia said in a low whisper, “it’s ours, Janet. It belongs to us.”

  “It’s not ours. It’s—”

  “It is ours,” Malia said quickly. “It’s ours because…” She thought very hard. It took her a few seconds, but she found what she wanted to say. “It’s ours because we found it and we fed it.” She nodded and moved close to Janet, close enough to smell the cafeteria meat loaf on her lunch tray. “We fed it two dimes and a stick of gum. And it grew, and that’s because of us.”