The Whisper

by Aaron Starmer

  “She lived a perfect life,” he said when I joined him at the cemetery yesterday.

  “How so?” I asked.

  “She tried not to hurt people,” he said. “And if she did hurt people, without realizing it at first, then she tried to make up for it.”

  “That’s not perfect,” I told him. “Perfect is perfect. It’s never making a mistake.”

  He shrugged and said maybe, and we walked home together and he told me stories about when he and my dad were kids and how they tried to build a human slingshot out of two trees, a hammock, and some inner tubes, and even though it’s a story I’ve heard a million times, I laughed again.

  * * *

  Mom came to my room tonight and I could tell she’d had too much to drink already. She sat on the foot of my bed and said that she was sorry for being … well, not so much a mom.

  “I spent all my momness on Maria and Derek,” she explained. “Spent it all up like tickets at a carnival. I didn’t mean to. One moment I had lots of tickets … but then my pockets were empty. I wish I hadn’t been so … lazy.”

  In some ways, it was nice to hear, but mostly it sounded fake. It was like we were in a play.

  “You don’t have to say that,” I told her.

  “But I’m … I’m supposed to say it,” she slurred.

  “You’re not supposed to say anything,” I replied. “You’re supposed to live your life. And say what comes to your mind.”

  She looked around my room, and her face twisted like she was sniffing something gross, and she said, “Okay, then I’d like to go downstairs and sit for a while.”

  Later, I went downstairs and she was sitting in the kitchen with the lights off and she was doing nothing. Sitting there, hands on her lap. A wine glass was nearby, but she wasn’t drinking. Very creepy.

  My dad was in the living room watching TV, but when I went in there, the TV was playing rainbow bars. He got up from the sofa and he hugged me, but it was like his arms and chest were made of paper bags, crumpled up inside him like stuffing.

  I think I might have to start over with my parents. New versions. Tweaked. Slightly. More for their own good than for mine. I know I said I wasn’t going to use my power to interfere with lives, but I’ll make this one exception. One do-over. Only for them.

  * * *

  A month now that I’ve been here, and life is settling into more of a routine. School is as good as school can be. The teachers focus on the things we all enjoy, and it’s a lot of reviewing stuff I already know, but that can be fun. Sometimes after school a bunch of kids meet in the park, and they all ask me questions. They have no idea that I created them, but they can sense that I’m different, that I know things they don’t.

  Alistair comes by every time and he’s often quiet, but when he asks questions, it’s things like What lives out in the void beyond town? I told him that nothing lives out there, that this is the only world there is. Well, except for maybe other planets, far, far away beyond the stars. This seems to calm his nerves. He’s nervous a lot.

  Compared to the first try, my new parents are … better. They’re more lively, more engaged. Dad sings now, in the shower or when he’s out mowing the lawn. And Mom dances and plays air guitar when the radio is on. So weird, but that’s fine. Better than sitting there like bumps on a log. Like school, my parents are now fun.

  * * *

  Four months have gone by since I started this, and it isn’t that I don’t love you, Kilgore. It’s that I don’t have much time to talk to you anymore. Between school and friends and family, life is full in ways it never was before.

  It’s not always amazing. My friends aren’t exactly the same as they were. They look at me cautiously. They speak to me like I’m an adult. The quirky parts of their personalities are amplified, I guess. Which is cool. Except when it isn’t. Maybe it’s because I didn’t know everything I needed to know about them. Maybe they weren’t complete when I created them, and the empty spots in their personalities had to be filled in with something. Beats me. I’m in control, but it doesn’t mean I understand everything.

  Alistair follows me around like a puppy dog, and it’s flattering and sweet, but I worry about him. It’s like all he cares about is me. I didn’t create Charlie Dwyer, or the entire Dwyer family for that matter, because I figured who needs a world with annoying people like the Dwyers in it. Maybe Alistair does. He needs friends, at least. I know that. Trevor Weeks and Mike Cooney are here, and he sits with them at lunch sometimes, but they don’t really hang out. And guys like Boaz and Rodrigo don’t seem that interested in Alistair anymore. I could make everyone like him, but that’s not how friendship should be.

  He still asks questions at our after-school get-togethers, which Boaz has dubbed “happenings.” The toughest question was one about his memories.

  “They don’t seem real,” he said. “I mean, I have images all crammed in my head of being seven, eight, nine years old. But I don’t feel them, if you know what I mean.”

  The other kids nodded, because they definitely knew what he meant, and I said, “What came before is less important than what you do with your lives now.”

  Those kinds of answers used to get oohs and ahs, but these days they only satisfy for a short amount of time, and then people are asking again.

  * * *

  Nearly a year in and I don’t worry about the Riverman much anymore. At first I was trying to push him out of my brain, but that never works. Tell someone to not think about unicorns and—you guessed it—they’ll think about nothing but unicorns.

  I know he’s still out there. I know he’s probably hunting other kids. But it’s up to them to figure out how to do what I did. Right? If you don’t get greedy in Aquavania, then you’re fine. If you don’t wish for the impossible, if you learn to be satisfied, then you’re fine.

  He can’t touch me. He can’t do a damn thing to this place. Which means that I won.

  * * *

  I invited Alistair up to my room today. He’s so, so lonely, and that absolutely kills me. I thought maybe that my friendship was enough for him, but I can tell that he wants more than that. At school, he’s always showing up where I show up. He’s always lingering around the bike racks after last bell. So I humor him.

  Today, in my room, I shared a secret with him. I showed him a hollowed-out book full of cigarettes.

  “Only on special occasions,” I whispered. “My one true vice.”

  I could tell it worried him, and I don’t know why I did it, but I leaned over and gave him the littlest kiss. It was a lousy kiss.

  Actually, that’s a lie. The knowing part, at least. I do know why I did it. Same reason I showed him the cigarettes. To make him feel special for a moment. You’re in on a secret, Alistair! Then to make him realize that the secrets are stupid. Stupid cigarettes. Not much excitement there. Stupid kiss. Lips touching lips. Nothing more. No meaning. No feeling. Nothing.

  But I’m pretty sure it backfired. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m his girlfriend now. If only he were the original. If only he had that spark.

  * * *

  I started dating Rodrigo about two weeks after I kissed Alistair, and in the four months since I’ve seen less and less of Alistair. He doesn’t show up. Doesn’t pop in. He stays inside at home and creeps through school with his head down.

  I feel bad. I do. But I can’t force things here. I have to let life be life. The inevitable is happening, though. It’s been over a year and everyone is growing, but I’m staying the same. Rodrigo doesn’t seem to notice, but Kendra sure has. She’s got boobs now and I’m still as flat as a board.

  “When are you coming to sit at the big girls’ table?” she joked the other day at lunch. She and Fay-Renee and Chua were all hanging out, laughing at their own private jokes while I was walking by with Rodrigo. I would have sat with them, but Rodrigo likes to have “romantic lunches,” which is sweet, but really it’s just the two of us sitting alone and sharing chicken nuggets.

  My parents l
ove Rodrigo. They think he’s the smoothest guy in the world. “He can stay the night if you want,” my dad said once. “Or move in. We’d love to have him.”

  Mom did a little happy dance in agreement.

  What? No thank you. God, what a weird thing for him to say. As much as it kills me, I might have to start over with them again. Last time I started over, I told myself no more do-overs, but there have to be exceptions to the rule.

  * * *

  Rodrigo and I are through. It lasted nearly a year, which is pretty good for a first boyfriend. Our differences were more than a few, and as tempted as I was to change him the easy way, I tried the hard way. The hard way is hard.

  Dorian hasn’t been getting along with Mom and Dad, and that’s a problem. Since Derek and Maria decided to leave last year, all we have is the four of us. We have to be a family, and while families can have their differences, there shouldn’t be this much shouting. It makes me want to stay outside all the time, which is fine when it’s nice, but the winter has found its way in here too.

  Not many kids come to the “happenings” anymore. Alistair returned, now that Rodrigo is out of the picture, and I try not to treat him any differently. But while everyone else looks at me with suspicion, he looks at me with such longing that I want to shout, “It’s not going to happen! I care about you, but it will never happen.”

  The sequel is never better than the original. That’s what they always say. Is it always true? I don’t think so. But in Alistair’s case, I know it is.

  I know the Alistair in Aquavania. I can sense what he will do. He’s predictable.

  I don’t really know the original. And that’s what’s great about him.

  CHAPTER 20

  There was a knock on the door to Fiona’s room. Alistair paused the tape.

  “Who’s in there?” came Dorian’s voice.

  “Um, I…” Alistair ejected the tape and put it back into the book, which he tucked under one arm. He tucked the tape player under the other.

  The door opened and a glassy-eyed, older version of Fiona’s uncle Dorian stood in the threshold. “Alistair?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You look so…”

  “Young?”

  Dorian nodded. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

  “No. I’m real.” Alistair stood from Fiona’s bed.

  “You find the fountain of youth or something?” Dorian reached out as if to touch Alistair’s face, but decided against it at the last moment, and his hand withered back.

  “The Alistair you know is still here. He went home. I’m a different person. I realize that must seem strange.”

  Dorian ran a hand across his stubbly face. “I’ve seen stranger. I’ve seen things that’ll curl your nose hairs. A time-traveling doppelgänger ain’t about to throw me for a loop.”

  “That’s not what I am.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “I’m Fiona’s friend from her … Well, what’s important is that I’m here to find her.”

  “You’re looking in the wrong place.”

  * * *

  They drove in Dorian’s pickup slowly through the neighborhood. “She didn’t age,” Dorian said, one hand on the wheel, “which weirded people out. And she had magic, control over her mom and dad. My brother and his wife, that is. Fiona was wise beyond her years. Not quite one of us, if you catch my drift.”

  “I’m not quite one of you either.”

  “Figured. Don’t really care. You’re Alistair. That’s clear enough.”

  “And you’re not afraid of me. You’ve seen ciphers around here, haven’t you?”

  “No clue what you mean.”

  “Monsters,” Alistair said. “Things that’ll curl your nose hairs.”

  “I’ve been to war. To prison. You want monsters, look there. Around here, there ain’t nothin’ like that.”

  “Did Fiona ever tell you about the Riverman?” Alistair asked. “About the Solid World?”

  Dorian shook his head. “Fiona asked me to tell her stories. She loved to hear me ramble on. And I was happy to ramble on. She didn’t confide much of nothin’ in me. And I was cool with that. Her smiles and laughs were enough. I liked her the way she was.”

  Lights were on in most of the houses in the neighborhood. Dogs sniffed about in yards. The windows on the truck were down and the smell of lighter fluid lingered, remnants of late evening barbecues.

  Dorian had told him where they were going, but Alistair hardly saw the point. “Won’t it be too dark out there?” Alistair asked.

  “Naw,” Dorian said. “We’re equipped for the dark.”

  * * *

  They pulled into a muddy parking lot next to a grassy runway. Lights mounted on short posts drenched everything in pale orange. Dorian cut the engine, jumped down, and retrieved a remote control and a model airplane from the bed of the truck.

  “An expensive demo, but seeing is believing,” Dorian said.

  He led Alistair out into the field, where the grass was mown short. The model was a bright pink biplane with a white lightning stripe down the side. Dorian set it in the grass and used a small device from his pocket to flick the propeller to life. The plane buzzed, vibrated, and waited.

  “Why do you play … I mean, why do you fly … remote control airplanes?” Alistair asked.

  Dorian shrugged and poised the remote. “Clears my mind. Never had the eyes to fly in the service. Guess this is the next best thing.”

  The plane rolled down the runway, hopped twice, and took off, buzzing its way out of the glow of the lights.

  “How will you know where it is?” Alistair asked.

  “I’ve flown here so much, I could do it blindfolded,” Dorian said. “And the target is easy enough to hit.”

  “The target?”

  The buzzing of the plane was loud, and then suddenly the sound was gone. Dorian set the remote control down and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Alistair surveyed the dark sky with a furrowed brow.

  “Don’t worry,” Dorian said. “It ain’t gonna crash.”

  “Where is it?”

  Dorian shrugged. “Not long after Fiona left us, I was piloting out here and I noticed this low cloud. Flew the plane into it and zip zap zoom. Gone.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Off the face of the Earth. Haven’t seen it since. And that cloud hasn’t blown away. Hangs there in fair weather and foul. I’ve flown close to twenty planes into that thing, and they all suffer the same fate.”

  “Does anyone else know about this?” Alistair asked.

  Dorian shrugged again. “Not sure anyone else would care. Not many people miss her. Me, the other Alistair, maybe a few others. I got an instinct about that cloud, though. I’m guessing it’s a crack in our world, and I don’t know how she woulda got there, but I’m also guessing that Fiona is on the other side of that crack.”

  “Have you ever tried to get up to it?”

  Dorian chuckled, a phlegmy rumble. “How? With a ladder? It’s low, but not that low.”

  “And nothing weird has ever come out of the cloud?” Alistair asked.

  “Not even rain,” Dorian said. “You have a lot of questions, don’t you?”

  “Like I said, I’m trying to find her.”

  “Build a stairway to heaven, then,” Dorian said. “If you think you can do it. I certainly couldn’t.”

  Alistair didn’t know whether he could do it. He didn’t know if he should even try. But he knew he had to learn at least a little more. “If I were to stay for a few days, where could I sleep?” he asked.

  “You’re not crashing with … other Alistair?”

  “That might be a little strange.”

  “True enough,” Dorian said as he put the remote under his arm and moved back toward the truck. “There’s room in my house, obviously. The fact that you’re a stranger don’t mean I’m leaving you out on the street. Not decent.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I’d prefer
you not bunk in Fiona’s room.”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  Alistair stayed in a room that was once occupied by Fiona’s sister, Maria. The walls were covered in prints of paintings—hay bales and ballet dancers—and posters of heartthrobs—young men with feathery hair and tasseled jackets. The blankets were billowy, and he hid the tape player beneath them. When he was sure Dorian was well out of earshot, he finished listening to the tapes. The recordings had been more infrequent, spread out over twelve years.

  Some of it was mundane: “I love tomato sauce, but not tomatoes.”

  At times, it was a bit cryptic: “Late at night, I use my finger to write poems on the wall. Invisible ones. Free verse or iambic pentameter. Invisible ink, but I know it’s there.”

  Often, melancholy: “Now that Chua, Fay-Renee, Boaz, and all of them have grown up and I still have the body of a kid, we don’t talk anymore. Sure, there are new kids. But I don’t have anything in common with them.”

  Mostly they were an account of life in a small town, from the perspective of an observer, an outcast, a freak. People got older, friendships bloomed and faded. People left, though it was never clear exactly where they went. Fiona watched it all and commented. Or didn’t. There were gaps, things that Fiona either didn’t know or didn’t want to tell.

  By the time Alistair had gotten to the last entry, he knew infinitely more about Fiona than he had ever known at home. He knew her pet peeves, her guilty pleasures. He knew the things that Charlie said he should know. She did love archery. And purple and neon green. And so much else.

  Then he listened to the last entry.

  FIONA’S STORY: CODA

  Twelve years. It goes slow until it goes fast. And then it’s gone, like it never happened. You’ve been a good friend, Kilgore. A confidant. I sometimes question why I’m making these tapes, though. I’ve never listened to them, and if people found them, then feelings would get hurt. Which was never my intention.

  My intention was to leave evidence, a document of my time here. Because I’ve decided to go back to the Solid World. If the Solid World can convince me to stay there, then I’ll stay there, and these tapes will be history, an account of how things turned out. For someone to find, somewhere down the line.