Over You

by Amy Reed

  We don’t speak on the way there. Dylan is lost in his own internal darkness. I am taking him to the light. The night bugs cushion the air with their song, and I feel safe in their company, safe in my own skin. I survived. I have earned my place here among the living.

  We reach the main house and everyone is gone. The fire is almost out.

  “How long were we gone?” I say.

  “Forever,” Dylan says.

  He takes my hand and leads me to his cabin. We squeeze into his small bed. I am not nervous, not scared. He is a boy now, not a man full of sex and destruction. He falls asleep with me rubbing his back, the way I used to rub Sadie’s back when she drank too much, the way I rubbed Lulu’s stomach when she was giving birth, the way all living things want to be touched when they are scared and breaking. Now I have claimed him with this soothing. I have made the magic to calm him. My arms have kept him from falling apart. He is mine now. He is mine.

  The chaos of the night falls away as my breath joins his. In and out. In and out. Our breath is the only thing that exists. It is the only song I hear. There is nothing to be scared of as long as we keep breathing.

  Part III

  Romulus and Remus were the kind of twins who were already fighting in the womb. Not like Castor and Pollux, the other famous pair—bound by a love so strong they became a constellation.

  Sometimes orphans turn feral. Sometimes they are suckled by a she-wolf. Sometimes they acquire a taste for wild milk.

  Sometimes one must die for the other to live. Then the survivor must spend the rest of his life trying to outrun his brother’s ghost. Even death is not an end, not a true victory. The one who survives will always be haunted.

  No one can ever bury his own shadow.

  When you look into the night sky, the stars you see are billions of years old. It takes that long for their light to reach you. By then, the star could already be dead. What you are seeing is only a memory.

  All stars die eventually. If it is big enough, it will collapse into itself and form a black hole. It will suck in everything around it. The bigger a star gets, the messier its downfall, the more it takes down with it.

  But before that, it will explode in a supernova. Before it retreats into the graveyard of the universe, it will light up the sky in one last gasp of beautiful violence.

  I wake up to Lulu licking my face. Artemis is standing on my belly, her tiny hooves like drills into my ribs. Her head is cocked to the side, looking at me as if asking what I’m doing here. “Good morning,” I say. Artemis baas her welcome.

  I vaguely remember waking up in the middle of the night, sore and twisted in Dylan’s narrow bed. I remember the sour smell of his sleeping breath and my acute need to come here. I remember climbing into Lulu’s pen, lying in the opposite corner to where Artemis and Penelope were curled up beside their mother, their tiny eyelids closed in the perfect sleep of babies.

  I taste the residue of last night in my mouth. My head hurts and feels fuzzy, and my back is sore from sleeping on the ground. But mostly I feel tired and kind of sad, like my brain and heart just ran a marathon and now they need a day off. All I want is to be in a bed—a real bed, not my cot in the half-built yurt. I want four solid walls and a roof over my head. I want to eat the meat of an animal whose name I don’t know.

  It is dark in the barn. The sun is low in the sky, barely risen. On a normal day, I might be getting here soon to collect the eggs for breakfast and let the animals out of their pens. But today has been declared a holiday on the farm so everyone can sleep off the madness of last night.

  Except for Doff. I hear the clanking of the barn doors as he pulls them open; I watch everything brighten as he lets the morning in. He never has the day off. The vegetables can wait for everyone else to recover, but Doff has all these animals counting on him. He is responsible for lives other than his own.

  He opens the gate to the goats’ pen and does not seem surprised to see me lying in the corner. Lulu and Penelope run over to greet him, but Artemis stays put on my lap, loyal to me.

  “Crazy night last night?” Doff says, smiling.

  “Kind of.”

  “Didn’t see you there much.”

  “I left early.” He opens the door to the field, and all three goats run out into the day. Without them in the pen with me, I suddenly feel the ridiculousness of my location. I stand up too quickly, and the barn whooshes around me. “Did you have fun?” I say, trying to cover up my dizziness. “At the party?”

  “It was okay.” He doesn’t elaborate. I can read his silence; I can sense the absence of Lark. There is a hole in his evening where she should have been.

  “Let me help,” I say, “with the animals today.”

  “No way, kiddo,” he says, trying to mask the sadness in his voice. “You have the day off.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t mind.”

  “Nope,” he says. “I’m putting my foot down. Go have some fun. It’s an order.”

  Have some fun? Doesn’t he realize how much harder that is than it sounds?

  I leave him at the barn and walk toward the camp. I don’t know what I expect to find there—people strewn about in various stages of undress, upended tables and broken chairs, buildings half burnt to the ground. But all that’s there is a smoldering pile of embers where the bonfire was. Dishes have been washed, chairs have been returned to their tables, and drums have been put away.

  The patio is quiet and surprisingly peaceful. A handful of children eat breakfast with bedraggled-looking parents. The majority of adults are probably still sleeping. Maybe I can grab a quick breakfast without anyone talking to me. Maybe I can sneak away and find a quiet place by the lake and make myself invisible for the day.

  But when I walk into the kitchen to find food, I quickly realize that is not what’s going to happen. There is Sadie with Lark and Skyler, drinking coffee and chatting. She’s pale and skinny from her weeks in quarantine, but her eyes are full of fire. Just like that, she’s the star again, like she was conjured out of the bonfire by last night’s ritual.

  “Max!” she cries when she sees me. She runs over and throws her arms around me. “I’m back!”

  “Yay,” I say, but it sounds like a lie as soon as it comes out of my mouth, like she squeezed it out of me with her hug, like I’m one of those dolls that’s programmed to say things little girls want to hear.

  Sadie looks at me, her eyes wide and already hungry. “Mom told me about the party last night, so don’t bother trying to hide it from me,” she says, and I feel a moment of panic, like my feet aren’t touching the ground, like I’m about to be thrown against the wall by some force outside my control. But then Lark and Sadie laugh. “Oh, Max,” Sadie says. “I wish I could have been there. It sounds like it was quite a show.”

  “I left early,” I say, still not sure I’m off the hook.

  “I figured,” Sadie says. “Mom said it was pretty nuts.”

  “There’s a lot I love about this place,” Lark says, then leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “but they can go a little overboard sometimes with the woo-woo shit.”

  Lark and Sadie laugh, and I feel a little sorry for the people who took last night so seriously, who really believed they were doing magic. Skyler looks confused, like she doesn’t understand what they’re laughing at. This is the only world she’s ever known. This is the only thing she’s ever been taught to believe in. “What’s so funny?” she says, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for her.

  “Oh, nothing,” Lark says. Then, “I’m just so happy my little girl is finally feeling better.” She puts her arm around Sadie and gives her a squeeze.

  “Me too,” Skyler says, and throws her skinny arms around them.

  They all look at me, like they’re waiting for me to join their pile of love. “Me three,” I finally say, but I cannot bring myself to take part in the group hug. I have a brief flashback of last night, that sudden feeling of freedom and clarity, of being unbound and unafraid. And now I
can feel it slowly slipping away. Maybe it was just a hallucination. Maybe nothing ever really changed. Maybe everything’s the same as it was before Sadie got sick.

  “What should we do today?” Skyler says.

  Sadie’s eyes sparkle. “We should definitely start with some swimming,” she says, ready to reclaim the lake as hers.

  Sadie says she feels better than ever. She wants to go to town, wants to party, wants to do anything besides sit around while everybody works. The doctor said she still shouldn’t do any physical labor for a couple weeks, even though I’ve never seen her so energized. She’s like one of those hyperactive little dogs that pulls so hard at its leash it chokes, then as soon as it’s released it rockets into space like a slingshot, a blur of fur and high-pitched yapping. It runs around, sniffing everything, jumping up on everyone it sees, shaking with pent-up energy, ready to explode. I told Sadie yesterday that she reminded me of a Chihuahua, and she got so mad she said she’d never speak to me again. The silent treatment lasted fifteen minutes, which is a long time for someone who usually needs to fill up every silence she finds.

  I am spending more time at the barn than I have to. I stay late, cleaning things I’ve already cleaned. Doff doesn’t say anything, just pats me on the shoulder when he leaves and says I’m doing a good job. I think he understands why I’ve been stalling, why I’ve been making up chores for myself. It’s not only me who prefers the company of animals to people.

  This is the only place I can really relax anymore. When I’m back at camp, I’m always nervous I’m going to run into Sadie, Lark, Skyler, and even Dylan. I haven’t seen him at all since the night of the bonfire, haven’t walked by him lounging on the porch of his cabin drinking beer in the afternoon, haven’t passed him on his way to do one of his mysterious chores. It’s like he disappeared into thin air again and took his truck with him. I have a vague memory of feeling a new connection to him, but with him gone I’m afraid it’s quickly dissolving. Part of me is afraid to see him, afraid to find out that our connection was only a hallucination.

  But I barely have time to miss him, now that Sadie’s healthy and bored and on the prowl for entertainment. She always seems to find me within minutes of my stepping foot in the main house, like she’s hiding in the shadows getting ready to pounce. Skyler is always close behind, ready to laugh at every joke Sadie tells, ready to ooh and ahh at every one of her stories, but I’ve heard them all already.

  And so I hide. I pretend my life exists only in the confines of this barn and the fenced-in fields around it. So far, it’s been working. So far, this is a place Sadie hasn’t bothered to visit.

  “Max!” a voice yells from the barn doors.

  Until now.

  I look to the doors and see her black silhouette outlined by sunlight. I see the smaller cutout of Skyler behind her. “Hi,” I say, not bothering to yell.

  “Damn, this place stinks!” Sadie announces. As she gets closer, her features solidify. She has spent her first few days of freedom soaking up the sun, making up for lost time. Her skin is tanned, giving her a healthy glow. Skyler is red-nosed and burnt beside her, freckles like mud splatter on her cheeks.

  “How can you stand it in here?” Sadie says. “It smells like shit.”

  “Literally,” Skyler says.

  “You get used to it,” I grunt as I shovel a load of manure and dirty straw into a wheelbarrow.

  “Oh my God, Max. You are so butch!” Sadie laughs.

  “These guys are cute,” Skyler mews from the goat pen, where she is sticking her head over the fence. I feel a surge of protectiveness. I don’t want anyone near my babies, especially not them.

  “Come here, Sadie!” Skyler says. “You have to see this.”

  Sadie peers into the pen. “What are those?”

  “Baby goats,” I say. “They’re only a couple weeks old. I helped deliver them.” I can’t help but feel proud, even superior. I have done something amazing that Sadie has never done.

  “What do you mean, you helped deliver them?”

  “I mean, I was here when the mother gave birth. I helped pull them out. I wasn’t even wearing gloves.” I don’t know why I expect her to be impressed by this, but I guess I’m not surprised when she looks at me in horror.

  “Max, that’s disgusting.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say. Skyler is dangling a piece of straw into the pen, luring the babies with it, then pulling it away as soon as they get close. “Don’t do that,” I say, my voice rising.

  “We’re playing,” she says.

  “Those goats are so stupid,” Sadie says.

  “No, they’re not!” I shout, pulsing with so much anger the barn seems to wobble around me. Sadie and Skyler both look at me like I’m crazy. I wish the barn had locks to keep them out, I wish it were hidden, I wish they had never found me here. They have ruined it by just breathing; they have poisoned the air with their words.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Skyler asks Sadie, like I’m not even here. I think for a second how satisfying it would be to throw this shovelful of manure at them.

  “Yeah, Max,” Sadie says. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me? You walk in here and start insulting my work and expect me to not be pissed? And you’re just walking around like this is a fucking resort, like you’re on vacation, with your little troll following you around. What’s wrong with you, Sadie?”

  Skyler’s face falls, and I immediately feel bad for bringing her into it. But I wanted to hurt Sadie, and I feel a sick satisfaction at her shocked expression. She doesn’t say anything for a long time, just stands there with her mouth open while Skyler slowly backs away, then turns and walks out of the barn.

  “Say something,” I demand.

  Sadie closes her mouth.

  “Sadie, say something!”

  “I’m sorry,” she finally says.

  “Sorry for what?” I want her to list off every single way she’s ever hurt me, every thing I’ve had to do for her, every time I’ve held her hair while she puked, every time I’ve had to lie for her, apologize for her, every time I’ve been terrified because of something she’s done, every time I’ve been ashamed and hurt and sad and lost. I want her to apologize for getting sick and leaving me. I want her to apologize for getting better and coming back. I want her to apologize for all the pain I’ve ever felt, because in this moment it feels like she’s the cause of all of it.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was just joking.”

  I search her face, but I’m not sure what for. Maybe I want to see some kind of recognition of what she’s guilty of, some acknowledgement of blame. But I see nothing. We catch each other’s eye for a second, and it feels like one of those awkward moments when you make eye contact with a stranger on the street—except this is supposed to be my best friend. I have spent my whole life watching her and learning her cues, but now we have exchanged places. She’s trying to figure me out. Attention has shifted. The gaze has been reversed, and neither of us knows what we’re looking at.

  It is me who looks away first. I shovel another load into the wheelbarrow. I focus on the movement so I don’t have to think or feel.

  “Dylan’s back, you know,” Sadie says, breaking the silence. For a moment, I think she knows about us, and I feel a surge of panic. I am not supposed to have secrets. I am not supposed to take the boy she wants. But then I realize she was just looking for something to say, something to change the subject, something neutral that has nothing to do with us.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t want her to get off so easily. I want her to suffer.

  “Max, come on,” she pleads. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I was an asshole.”

  “Yes, you were,” I agree.

  “You’re my best friend, Max. I miss you. Forgive me?”

  “I’ll think about it,” I say. It is comforting to see her grovel.

  “I love you,” she says, coming close
and wrapping her arms around me. She smells like clean hair, like flowery deodorant, like the absence of sweat.

  “I love you too,” I say, relaxing a little, hugging her back, hoping I get a little of my stink on her.

  “Oh,” she says, perking up. “Like I was saying. Dylan got back late last night.” She pauses for dramatic tension. “And he has a black eye.” She’s grinning proudly at the delivery of this news.

  “What? A black eye?” I say, not even trying to hide my shock. “How? From who?”

  “How should I know? It’s not like he talks to me.”

  I think about our wild night in the cornfields, Dylan following me even though I was blind, how frail and lost he looked when I finally got my sight back.

  “Let’s go see him,” Sadie says. “Right now.” I know this tone in her voice. It is the sound of her wanting to get into trouble.

  “I have work to do.”

  “It’s quittin’ time,” Sadie says, pulling the shovel out of my hand and throwing it to the ground. “I’m kidnapping you. If Doff complains, blame it on me.”

  I sigh. I am too tired to fight anymore. “Can I take a shower first?”

  “No,” Sadie says, tugging me toward the barn doors. “No time.”

  “But I’m covered in shit, Sadie.”

  “That’s what the lake’s for.”

  We are walking so fast it doesn’t hit me where we’re headed until we’re almost there. Dylan’s cabin. As much as I’ve missed him, and as much as I’ve fantasized about his mouth and his hands since he’s been gone, I don’t want to see Dylan right now. I don’t want him to see me in these baggy jeans Doff gave me, this stained men’s T-shirt rolled up at the sleeves, this farmer’s tan on my arms, this ratty ponytail pulled through the back of a baseball cap. I don’t want him to see me like this next to Sadie, with her evenly tanned skin, her short dress just out of the laundry, her long bruise-free legs and arms, her perfect cleavage. Is she wearing makeup? Jesus, Sadie, who wears makeup on a farm?