by May Cobb
“But it’s your favorite.”
“You’ll need it,” she said. And she was gone.
When I woke up, I rolled onto my side and stared at Lucy’s nightstand. There, next to her little alarm clock, was the bracelet. A smile spread across my face as I slipped it on. I tried to remember if I had noticed it before I fell asleep but couldn’t. But in that moment, I decided to believe that the bracelet had somehow come from Lucy, and this dream, more than any of the others, was the one I’d cling to the most; it was the one dream that nobody could take away from us.
I went to my room and started to pack for the sleepover—toothbrush, pjs, my retainer case. But I also grabbed my backpack and threw in a flashlight, a whistle, my compass from summer camp: things you would need if you were going to Big Woods at night.
43
Sylvia
One night while I was sitting up late talking to Delia, a dark look crossed her face. She had started to look better, healthier. The color had returned to her skin, her cheeks were flushed pink from the shower and her hair was shiny and glossy with the drugstore shampoo I’d picked up for her. But when she started telling me about the children, all the color leached from her face and the bags under her eyes were so purple they looked like bruises.
She stared out the window as she spoke, gazing out over the dingy lights of town, a yellow neon sign from the corner liquor store and the flickering fluorescents of a nearby service station.
Sometime in the weeks before her escape, the men had started to bring children to their ceremonies. Young girls. Probably five and six years old. They forced the girls to watch, she said sadly, and she could still hear their constant, terrified crying, and the sick way the men would try and calm them down, and reassure them with cookies, candy, and soda.
She overheard the sheriff tell his deputy on the way out to the cemetery one night that he was done with these “sassy, older bitches,” that they needed to start with younger girls, so they that they could groom them.
My stomach formed itself into a pit as she told me about the children, and a murderous rage I’ve never felt before or since shot through me. When she was done, I brought her a hot cup of chamomile tea, drizzled with honey, and I sat there and cried with her until she rolled over and slid into sleep.
44
Leah
Saturday, November 11th, 1989
Lucy missing 6 weeks, 1 day
The Shermans’ house is a red-and-white brick mansion perched aggressively close to the street, pushily announcing its presence. No long, winding, suggestive driveway for them—just an immaculate, half-moon chunk of concrete that practically gleams in the sun and cuts through a yard so perfectly manicured that it almost looks plastic.
Mom dropped me off just as the afternoon sun was starting to drift behind the treetops, splintering light over the gray streets.
“I’ll just get Ali’s mom to bring me home tomorrow.” I leaned over and kissed Mom on the cheek. “You know how she loves to make us pancakes for breakfast, so I’ll have her drop me home after that.”
Before I even shut the car door, Mrs. Sherman launched herself from the house in a lime-green pant suit and marched to us. Mom’s eyes deadlocked straight ahead and she eased out of the drive, pretending not to notice Mrs. Sherman, who waved frantically after her.
She opened the door and guided me into their dramatic, polished foyer, placing a bony hand on my shoulder, her chunky gold ring digging painfully into the bone.
“Sweetie, how are you?” she asked in the same annoying tone Ali uses, as if there is something inherently wrong with me, like I’d been bit by a rabid dog or just had a lobotomy.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Sherman,” I found myself saying, trying both to reassure her and to end the conversation.
“We’ve been praying for you, dear,” she said and then shouted to the second floor, “ALI! Your guest is here! Get off the phone!” She turned back to me and smiled and motioned for me to have a seat in the living room.
Even though the Shermans’ house is gigantic, it always feels strangely suffocating to me: wall-to-wall cream carpet blankets the whole house and there is all this wasted, unused space everywhere—soaring ceilings with weird ledges that serve no purpose other than to display dusty knick-knacks in front of tall windows that trap light, making their house feel perpetually hot. And the whole entire house smells chlorine-soaked, even though they cover their pool for the winter.
Ali leaned over the railing, the phone dangling from her hand and shouted, “Hey! Come on up!”
Mrs. Sherman shuffled out of the kitchen and foisted a tray of ham and cheese sandwiches on me. “Here, darling. Why don’t you take those upstairs to Ali’s room? I know you girls have a lot of catching up to do.”
I nodded robotically and climbed the steps up to the second floor.
“Um, I’m so sure,” Ali giggled into the phone. “Okay, gotta go now, Leah’s here! But see you soon.” Her face was flushed. “Sorry, that was Brett.”
I handed her the tray of sandwiches and we plopped on her cushy bed and started attacking them. Her whole room was done up in Laura Ashley—her bedspread, curtains, and the wallpaper were all the same creamy-yellow tone with sprays of deep maroon flowers. Tacked up all over the walls were hand-made signs in bubble letters: Ali + Brett = forever! Ali LOVES Brett!
And then the cheerleading slogans: GO LOBOS! LONGVIEW LOBOS ARE THE BEST! Her green-and-white pompoms were tossed in a corner with a megaphone planted on top.
“So, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Ali said, between mouthfuls of sandwich. “Scott’s been talking to Kelly Hayes lately. I saw them in the locker bank together last week. He was whispering something in her ear and twirling her hair and she was like laughing hysterically!”
My face burned with anger.
“I know, ewwww, right?” Ali crinkled her nose up in disgust. “She’s such a skank! I can’t believe he’s interested in someone on the whore core.”
The whore core was the derogatory name given to our school’s drill team. It was just understood that the rich, popular girls were cheerleaders or majorettes and everyone else was on the drill team.
I said nothing. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach, but I didn’t want to show this weakness to Ali.
“So, I just thought you should know, Leah. And that’s why I thought you should definitely be here tonight, to hold on to him. I mean, I’m sure you guys are totally fine but—”
Mrs. Sherman appeared in the door with two red plastic cups fizzing with Coke. “This is the last time I’ll interrupt you girls tonight, I promise,” she said, winking.
Ali rolled her eyes. “Anyway, there’s something else we need to talk about, too,” she said, chomping on ice. “The church wants to have a candlelight vigil for Lucy on Friday. And Pastor Mike wanted me to ask if you could be there to speak.”
Just hearing Pastor Mike’s name made bile rise to the back of my throat. He was the youth minister at East Texas Methodist, and the few times I’d been around him, he icked me out. Ali dragged me to a lock-in once—basically a co-ed sleepover at the church where nobody gets any sleep—and there was something too eager about Pastor Mike that gave me a hollow feeling inside. He’s too chummy with the teenagers and tries overly hard to fit in and every time he shakes your hand he holds on to it too long, clasping his other, cologned hand on top and saying things like, “We’d love it if you’d join us on a Sunday, Leah.”
“I don’t know, Ali,” I muttered.
“Well, I’ve been working on some t-shirt designs. Pastor Mike asked me to,” she said, blushing and smiling. She pulled out her overstuffed Bible and unzipped it, the gold cross on the zipper catching the sunlight, sending dizzying, gold glitters across the room. “And well, here they are,” she said, thrusting it toward me. There were loose sheets of typing paper in there, assorted versions of the
same messages like, FIND LUCY, BRING LUCY HOME, and LONGVIEW LOVES LUCY.
Before I could even respond Ali started up again. “And it’s not just about Lucy, Leah,” she said, twisting her James Avery charm bracelet around her wrist. “It’s a whole movement of us standing up against the Satanists. We’re brainstorming on some slogans for posters and I wanted to see what your vote would be: Christian Youth against Satan Worshipers or just Christian Youth against the Devil?” She leapt off the bed and headed to her closet to pull out the posters. She was talking about the vigil as if it was another pep rally she was organizing—she had that same giddy, hungry look she gets when she’s making posters at school: spread-eagle over the poster board, armed with a rainbow of tempura paint bottles.
My stomach lurched. I had to get out of there.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I stammered and headed down the hallway. I stepped inside the bathroom and shut the door. I collapsed on the fabric-covered toilet lid and rested my chin in my hands. I stared at Ali’s sea of mint-green Clinique bottles strewn across the countertop. I had no desire to see Scott ever again and the whole talk of Lucy and the church was making me sick. I fake-flushed the toilet and fake-washed my hands and went back into the hallway. I picked up the wall phone and pretended to make a call.
When I got back to Ali’s room, I clutched my stomach and said, “I’m not feeling so well. I called my Mom and she’ll be here in a sec to pick me up, so I’m just going to wait outside for her.”
Ali’s mouth opened in an O-shape. “But what am I going to tell Scott?” she screeched at me.
I grabbed my overnight back and shrugged. “Goodbye, Ali.”
It was still light out, but the sun was beginning to slide behind the mansions in Ali’s neighborhood so I walked as quickly as I could. And when I thought nobody was watching, I sprinted. Nicolette’s house was eight long blocks away (she lived on the outer edge of the development), and I knew even if she wasn’t home, her parents would be.
I made it to her block just as the street lights were starting to flicker on, my lungs on fire and my hair wet with sweat. I walked up the stone path leading to the front door and rang the bell.
Mrs. Rossi swung the door open wide and pulled me into her. “Oh, Bella,” she gasped. Her breath was warm and tangy and her lips were stained with red wine. “We’ve been so worried about you,” she said with her rich accent. “How is your fam-a-lee? How is your mother? Your father? Oh, I can’t imagine what you’ve all been going through. Here, come, come,” she said, taking my bag from me, pulling me into their brick-red living room. I could hear the sounds of a dinner party trickling from inside the dining room: silverware clinking, gusts of laughter, party music.
“Do you mind if I spend the night, Mrs. Rossi?”
“Of course not! You can stay all week if you like,” she said, smiling. “Nicolette is getting ready upstairs. Damien will be here shortly. Go on up!”
I climbed the polished wooden staircase and went to Nicolette’s room. She had her back turned to the door and was hunched over her vanity, applying makeup. A clove cigarette smoldered in the ashtray. The Rossis don’t care if Nicolette or Nick smoke, and they share wine at dinner with them.
“Hi,” I said.
She spun around, crossed the room, and grabbed me. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she said, her eyes searching mine. “Any news?”
Tears sprang to my eyes. I just shook my head. I wanted to tell her all of it—about the dreams, about the sheriff and my parents, about Ali—but I knew Damien would be showing up soon, ringing the doorbell, so I decided to wait until later.
“Your mom said I could spend the night. Do you mind?”
“Don’t be silly! Of course not! Damien’s taking me to Monaco’s tonight. Wanna go?”
Monaco’s Uptown is the only underage club in town. I’ve never been there. Neither has Nicolette, or any other freshman that I know of.
Before I could even answer, Nicolette said, “Here, let me give you a make-over.”
She pulled back my hair with a headband and tilted her head before deciding where to begin. She shook a bottle of orange base and coated a makeup sponge with a few drops of it and rubbed it deftly across my skin. I looked around her room while she worked. When we were kids, she used to have Holly Hobby wallpaper up, but now it was a modern-looking white pattern with geometric shapes in primary colors. Her walls were covered in music posters, mostly of the band The Cure. She had a map of the world up, with thumbtacks marking the places her family has traveled. Nicolette never seemed to study but she was in all honors classes and was fluent in four languages and could graduate early if she wanted to.
She took a sip of something out of a coffee mug and passed it to me. It smelled sharp, and I looked at her with my eyebrows raised.
“It’s just a little peppermint schnapps,” she said, pushing it back to me. “Don’t be such a pussy, Leah” she said, smiling, an old joke between us.
I took a small sip, the alcohol burning my tongue as it went down, and I made a spattering sound.
“Here, look down,” she commanded and ran black liquid eyeliner across my eyelids. It felt thick and cold. She dusted my face with powder and rubbed pink blush into my cheeks.
She finished with some dark red lipstick and then slid a pair of black-laced gloves over my hands—like the ones Madonna wears—before she finished getting herself dressed. My face felt tight with the base on, like it was wrapped with cling wrap, like my skin couldn’t breathe, but when I looked in the mirror I looked sixteen. I looked brave. I looked like I could be mean, even.
We heard Damien’s Mustang roar in the driveway and I followed Nicolette, bounding down the stairs.
“Ciao Mama!” she called out and ran out the front door without waiting for a reply.
Monaco’s is downtown in an old loft. A man with spiky hair sat on a barstool outside and asked for our IDs (you have to be thirteen). Loud music rattled the giant windows. We went in and my breath stopped short for a second. It was wild. Throngs of older teens danced to a song I’d never heard, light pulsed off the walls, and there was a DJ in a cage. The walls were painted black with Day-Glo spots on them and everybody in there was smoking.
I found a wall in the back and stood there with my back pressed up against it, trying to look casual and cool. The DJ put on “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and couples dirty-danced and made out; it made me blush and I fidgeted with Lucy’s bracelet. The place reeked of stale cigarettes and fresh smoke, the grime of teenage sweat mixed with perfume.
Damien pulled Nicolette into a corner on the dance floor. I felt self-conscious watching them. My eyes scanned the room and I saw Nicolette’s brother, Nick, coming in the front door alone. He normally had his girlfriend, Angie, hanging off of him. She’s a senior like him—blond, gorgeous, and petite with a big chest. But she always looks sullen, her face upturned and pouting at his. Gorgeous, but needy.
I’ve always had a crush on Nick, ever since we were little. His hair is jet black and thick and he’s the tallest guy in school, but not freaky tall, just perfect and handsome. He letters in Track and Swimming. His eyes are sea-green and he has ruby-red lips. I never admitted to Nicolette that I liked him, but she could tell. Every girl who wasn’t his sister liked Nick, and she used to tease me about it and say, “God, Leah, stare much?” when she would catch me drooling over him.
I never let on, but he could probably tell, too. One summer afternoon after seventh grade, while I was swimming at their house I went inside to use the bathroom. Nick and his friend Tommy were playing Nintendo in the living room and I had to cross in front of their game to get to the bathroom. I was gawky in my one piece, shivering from the A/C. When they thought I was out of earshot I heard Tommy say to Nick (to my surprise), “She’s gonna be sexy when she’s older.”
I looked back over my shoulder and could see Nick’s face turn red, and something lik
e jealousy flashed across his face. I stepped into the bathroom and peeled off my suit, but I could still hear them through the door.
“Don’t look at her that way, man,” Nick said.
“Oh! You like her!!! Nick’s got a woody for Leah!”
“Shut up, loser.”
Nick saw me and crossed the club. He came straight over to me and looked me up and down with his eyebrows raised. “You look nice, kiddo!” he shouted over the thumping bass, and tousled my hair. Then he grabbed me in a big bear hug and said into my ear, “I’m really sorry about Lucy,” and held me for a while. He was wearing a black leather bomber jacket and smelled like heaven. He spotted Nicolette on the dance floor. “What are you guys even doing here?”
I smiled up at him and shrugged.
The music was getting even louder and the whole place was vibrating. Nick stuck his index finger up as if to say, Be back in a second. At that moment it seemed like everyone’s heads swiveled to the front door. I looked up and saw why: filing in single line, all dressed in dark clothes like a line of black clouds descending, were the Wavers. I’d only seen them one time in person, huddled at the edge of the school parking lot, smoking. They were a tight clique and never spoke to anyone at school but themselves. They dressed only in black clothes and most of them had their hair dyed black or dark purple. They wore white makeup, so to me they looked like the street mimes I had once seen on a PBS show with Mom about Paris. Their clothes were cut in jagged angles and they all wore black combat boots and chains around their waist. It was understood that most students were afraid of them, and left them alone. They were rumored to be on drugs, to be thieves, and some people (like Ali) thought they were in a secret cult that worshipped the devil. She even thought they were behind the black rose in Brandi’s locker, and couldn’t understand why they weren’t already expelled for that. I hadn’t given them much thought until I saw them at Monaco’s.
