The Medium Place

by Erin Huss

  “Girl, it’s time to face reality. There is nothing between you and Brian. I’d tell you my honest opinion on the man, but you and your stupid boundaries won't let me.”

  For which I’m thankful. There’s no time to deal with reality. Not when there’s a half-dead spirit hovering by and I’m currently Fernn Valley’s most wanted.

  Right now, I need to find Penelope. To find her, I need to figure out who hurt her. Mike has just jumped to the top of my suspect list, but there’s still Tag. I need to find more information on this un-poetic poet.

  I’m back on Instagram, scrolling through Penelope’s pictures, looking for clues. Her art is stunning. This isn't snowflakes, paper hearts, and construction paper as I had earlier imagined. Penelope has created an entire forest scene using nothing but paper. A picture of a blue bird made with multilayers of precisely cut paper has been liked over ten thousand times. I can't help but wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Muffin have seen this. If they have, I don’t understand why they wouldn't support Penelope. She's beyond talented. I can barely cut a straight line and yet, she has created a stunning bridal bouquet out of nothing but paper (that has over five thousand comments).

  "This is incredible. Has your dad ever seen your work?"

  "He's seen a few pieces,” she says. “He doesn’t do social media."

  “And all these pieces posted on your account are missing?”

  “The newer ones. They were in my closet. Should we call the police?”

  “I’m more concerned about your missing body right now than about your missing art, and calling the police didn’t work out so well for us last time.”

  “True. Continue,” she says with a wave of her hand.

  I keep scrolling. She’s posted several of Tag’s poems. One is a gray picture of a bicycle:

  I ride all day.

  I ride all night.

  I go nowhere.

  I see no one.

  I do nothing.

  I am not a bicycle.

  I am the road.

  “I don’t get Tag’s poems,” I say and look up at Penelope. “Do you?”

  “It’s art, and art is viewed with personal bias. His poems mean one thing to me, and they mean another to you. Read one again with an open mind.”

  Okay. Open mind. I reread Tag’s bike poem. I ride all day. I ride all night. I suppose riding could mean going through the motions. He goes all day, and he goes all night, but he doesn’t actually go anywhere or do anything. And in the end, he isn’t the mode of transportation: he’s the road being ridden on. He’s stationary. He’s providing a way for others to travel.

  I am not the bike.

  I am the road.

  Wow. I guess Tag isn’t a terrible poet after all, because I’ve never related more to anything in all my life.

  “It is beautiful,” I say.

  “Told ya. It’s like Tag gets me. I go nowhere. I do nothing. I’m stuck in this small crap town with the same small crap people. And, like, I’m really the strong, solid road that stretches on forever and leads people where they need to go.”

  Not exactly my interpretation—at all. But then again, art is subjective.

  Moving on.

  I check Penelope’s DM (aka: direct messages, ’cause I use cool modern lingo now). The first message is from Tag.

  Can’t wait to meet you in person.

  Penelope hasn't responded, being that the message was sent last night.

  I scroll through the rest of their conversation. They talk a lot about art. She tells him she's decided to quit school. A decision he appears to support. She vents about her stepmother, and Jack, and her lack of funds. Tag offers very little personal information. She asks to meet several times, and he declines each invitation until last Wednesday when he agrees.

  Two weeks ago, Tag sent a picture of himself. He has dark skin, brown eyes, and big circles in his earlobes, purple shaggy hair, and a smolder. His skin is so smooth it looks airbrushed.

  "You almost done?" Penelope asks.

  “Almost—” I’m interrupted by three rapid knocks on the front door. Oh, hell.

  "Go see who it is," I say.

  Penelope disappears while I concentrate really hard on not having a panic attack.

  Penelope reappears. "It's a police officer."

  Chapter Eight

  This is bad. This is so bad. The police cannot see me here. Breaking and entering is not going to help my I had nothing to do with Penelope’s disappearance argument. Not at all. I hold my breath. Why? I’m not sure. Fear seems to have taken over my ability to react rationally.

  "Should I go yell in his ear?" Penelope asks.

  There’s an idea. “Yes … wait, no!” Too late, she's gone. While I don't want the police to find me here, I do want them to see the footprints and cigarettes outside her window.

  I grab everything I touched—the scrap of paper with the list of suspects, the colored pencil, and the iPad.

  The officer has stopped knocking on the door, and I can only hope Penelope isn't yelling in his ear to go away. We need him to pause for a moment, give me time to escape, and then check the perimeter of the apartment building.

  I crawl out the window, which is really hard to do without touching anything. There's also the matter of the footprints in the dirt directly below. I don’t want to add my own to the mix, but I'm not exactly agile, and leaping a good three feet isn't a feasible option.

  But I do it anyway.

  In my mind, I'm soaring through the air in slow motion, like a secret agent leaping from a building just as it explodes. In reality, I fall face first less than a foot from the window, because I’m smooth like that.

  With a mouth full of dirt, I scramble to the narrow cement walkway. The cleat prints are still there. Hallelujah! I smooth out the area where I face planted using the backside of my hand. I should close both the windows, but I one) don't have the time. Two) open windows could catch more attention.

  I tiptoe down the walkway and peek around the corner. There's a patrol car double-parked with its lights on. Great!

  A shiver runs down length of my spine, my fingertips go numb, and my breath huffs out in a cloud. The spirit is here. She’s more present than she was before, but I still can’t see her. I press my back against the rough stucco siding of the building and close my eyes. This spirit has a peaceful soul.

  And she wants me to run.

  So I do.

  I’m going on blind faith, moving as fast as my legs will take me with Penelope's iPad clutched to my chest, dirt in my mouth, and the spirit telling me to go faster. I zigzag through a group of runners, jump off the curb, and … hold on a second.

  I come to a sliding halt on the street’s gravely asphalt. There are fresh tire marks on the curb, and the street sweeping sign is tilted. Someone hit it! Could it be the same person with the cleats? I don’t know. But I figure out how to take a picture using Penelope’s iPad and go.

  Brian's car is parked three spaces behind the officer. I open the door with a shaky hand and manage to drive away without having a heart attack—a huge accomplishment in my book.

  “Where to now?” I'm not sure whom I’m asking. Penelope? The new spirit? Myself?

  Probably myself, since I don't feel anyone else here.

  Okay, think, Zoe. Think.

  The cop is at Penelope's apartment, which means either Sheriff Vance sent him, or he contacted the Trucker PD to do a well check. This is good, unless the officer leaves without checking the back of the building—then it's bad.

  Of course, he could be there looking for Shly.

  I turn onto L Street, not exactly sure where I'm going.

  "We're in the clear," Penelope says, appearing in the passenger seat. Ah! I nearly ram the car stopped in front of us at the light. "I told him everything was fine and to go away. He was stubborn, took a while to get him to listen. But he did. Ya wel-come.” She snaps her fingers—except they don’t make the snap sound.

  “No ya welcome.” I snap my fingers. “I
f you would have let me finish my thought, then you’d know that the police officer should not leave. He needs to see the footprints, the cigarettes, and the missing art!” We’re still at the red light, and I suddenly notice the man in the car next to me is staring, probably because I’m taking out my frustration on the steering wheel—using my forehead. Gah!

  “I did exactly what you asked.” Penelope gives me a scathing look. “We wouldn’t even be in the mess if weren’t for you.”

  “How is this my fault? I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t ask for you to come. I was perfectly fine before you showed up at my work looking like the bride of Frankenstein.”

  Penelope isn’t even listening. “I’m probably in Fernn Valley near a creek, like you said, and we’ve spent the last several hours in Trucker!”

  “That’s because you said you came to Trucker this morning!”

  “Well, obviously I didn’t.”

  She’s so freaking self-righteous and so frustrating; I want to punch a hole through a wall. One, two, three, four, five … nope, still doesn’t work. I take a few breaths until the feeling passes. Then a few more after that …

  … still breathing …

  The light turns green. I step on the gas, not quite done working through my anger.

  “If you weren’t Looney Lane then Sheriff Vance would have believed you!” Penelope flickers as she continues to berate me. “My dad would have believed you. They would have found me by now. You broke your promise and ruined my life!”

  Something inside of me snaps. “Maybe it’s time you think about why someone did this to you. Think about how you treat people!”

  “Ooooh, so this is my fault. Right, good to know that’s how you see it.”

  “I didn’t say it was your fault, but it’s certainly not mine. And I am not Looney Lane! My name is Zoe Lane, and I’m a medium, and the only person who can see you! If you think you can do better on your own, then be my guest.”

  “Maybe I—” Penelope slaps her hands over her ears and lets out a horrid scream.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask in a panic.

  “It’s-it’s happening—” Penelope fades in and out until poof, she’s gone.

  Oh, no.

  No.

  No.

  No!

  I swerve into a strip mall parking lot and step out of the car, surveying the area. I don’t see her. I slap my phone to my ear and weave between cars. “Penelope?” I dodge a runaway grocery cart and squeeze between two SUVs in compact spaces. “Penelope?”

  No. No. No. No.

  “Penelope?” I whirl around on the asphalt, desperately searching for her. But she’s not here. I close my eyes and try to summon her back.

  It doesn’t work.

  She’s gone.

  I drop onto a bench—which has my parents’ new advertisement plastered on the back—and cradle my head in my hands. My mind is a whirl of frustration and distress. Penelope is gone She’s probably back at the brown place, and my last words were not nice. I told her to do this on her own. I didn’t mean it—okay, maybe I meant it in that moment—but I don’t mean it now. I shouldn’t have yelled at her. I snapped, because apparently that’s who I am. A snapper. And Penelope’s delicate state couldn’t handle it.

  If only the police could see the cleat prints, the cigarettes, the Nike prints, and the tire marks on the curb. But if I tell them, they won’t take me seriously.

  I guess I could call 911 from a different number or from a payphone and not use my real name, give them all the information I have, and let them take it from there. I’d have to find a payphone first. I’ve never seen one, but I’ve read about them in books. Or maybe one of the businesses in the shopping center would allow me to make a call.

  I have a look around. A dry cleaner, a Starbucks, a music store, a Starbucks, and … “I’ll be damned.”

  Trucker Beauty Academy!

  According to the corkboard in Jack’s room, she’s a student at the academy.

  Isn’t that convenient.

  I can speak to Jack and have her call the police! Surely they’ll listen to her.

  I go back to my car and grab my briefcase before I walk in. The Beauty Academy smells like perm, and there are students hustling around in black scrubs. I go to the counter and speak to a woman who has a shaved head and nose piercing. "I need to speak to Jack, please," I say.

  The receptionist doesn't bother making eye contact. "What service would you like?"

  "Huh?"

  She flips open an appointment book. "Jack has room for a lip and brow right now."

  Aha! Got it. Book a beauty service. This is brilliant. I can talk to Jack as a client! She’s bound to listen to me if I’m paying. "Yes, please book me for a brow and lip right now. It’s urgent."

  The receptionist gets on the loud speaker. "Jack, you have a client for a lip and brow wax."

  Geez, does she have to announce it to everyone?

  A girl with spiky pink hair and dark eye makeup comes around the corner. I recognize her from the photo in her room.

  “Jack!” I say with way too much enthusiasm. Jack jumps back into a display for conditioner. Oops. Dial it back a notch, Zoe. Dial it way back. I need Jack to think I’m sane. “I’m sorry to scare you.” I keep my voice pleasant but not overly cheery. “I’m your client.”

  “Hold on a second.” Jack stops to fix the display. “Okay, come on back.” She waves for me to follow her.

  "Our mutual friend, Penelope, sent me,” I say as we walk through the shampoo area. “When was the last time you talked to her?" Not exactly smooth, but smooth is not a quality I possess.

  “Oh, lawd! She's fine," Jack says, exaggerating the words. "There is a nut running around Fernn Valley telling everyone Penelope has been kidnapped. Her name is Zoe Lane. Seriously. If you hear from her, you're supposed to call the police."

  I almost choke on my own spit.

  Jack pulls open a curtain. We enter a large room with a row of massages tables and students applying masks to relaxed-looking individuals.

  “I heard they found her car at the train station,” I say at a whisper, not wanting to ruin the ambiance. “And no one has been able to get ahold of her.”

  Jack peers over her shoulder at me but doesn’t respond.

  We pass a storage closet and enter a small room hidden behind another curtain. Inside is—what looks like—an exam table. The kind you see at the doctor’s office.

  The walls are pink, and there’s a picture of a woman caressing her hands with a strange smile on her face hung above the wax station. Smooth jazz bumps through the speakers, and every nerve ending in my body is on high alert.

  "What was your name, hun?" Jack asks.

  “Errr … J-Jill." I have no idea where that name came from. But if she can be Jack, then I can be Jill. I mentally slap myself on the forehead. I really need to make a list of aliases to use.

  If Jack is suspicious, she doesn't show it. "Lay down on the table." She snaps on a pair of gloves.

  Gloves!

  Why does she need gloves?

  I lie down and try not to appear as anxious as I feel. There is no time for waxing. There is no time for chitchat. I just need Jack to call the police, and I need to convince her to do so without using my real name. This interaction is going to require more social skills than I currently possess.

  Jack rubs white powder on my upper lip. "How do you know Penelope?"

  “Um … we … Instagram. Yes, we met on Instagram."

  "Are you a paper artist, too?"

  "No, but isn’t Penelope’s work incredible?"

  Jack is not impressed and quickly changes the subject. "Do you want me to take the hair off the cheek area, too?"

  "Wh- what? I don't have cheek hair."

  "Yes, you do. Quite a bit of fuzz.” She hands me a mirror to see for myself. “Do you want that gone?"

  When did I get cheek hair? Why do I have cheek hair? Yikes. “No, thanks." I hand her the mirror and make a mental note to deal wi
th the peach fuzz later. "So, about Penelope. I'm worried. Aren't you?"

  Jack grunts and wipes a stick of hot wax above my lip. It feels quite nice. "That girl is dramatic." She places a strip of cloth over the wax and rubs it hard, gritting her teeth.

  "She said you got in a big fight last night …" I leave the question open-ended, hoping Jack will fill me in. Like what the fight was about. If she decided to kill her over it. You know, the basics.

  "Get this." Jack pauses to rip the cloth off my lip and—

  “Mother … ahhh!" It feels like she peeled the skin off my face. Tears spring to my eyes.

  "Girl, your skin is a little inflamed. When was the last time you waxed?"

  “Never.”

  "Hold still." Jack applies a soothing gel. Then she comes at me again with the stick of wax.

  This is torture, but I need to keep Jack talking. "The fight?" I remind her as I wipe my eyes and prepare for another rip.

  “First, what did she tell you the fight was about?”

  “Um, she couldn’t remember.” Which is the truth.

  “Seriously? That’s what she said? Ugh! I swear that girl can be so self-centered. What really happened was Penelope came with me to my uncle's burial yesterday, and she was on Instagram the entire time. I get that my uncle wasn't a good guy, but he's family. Penelope came for moral support." She hooks her fingers into air quotes. "Except she barely said one word to me the entire time. Then she took a picture of the coffin and posted it to her Insta-story and tagged me. So all our friends were texting and wanting to know who died. Do you know how many followers she has? This was a private burial. Like, I didn't want anyone to know that I was related to a murderer."

  Jack rips the other part of my upper lip off so, you know, I'm evenly red, and keeps talking. "You can't choose your family. The guy was my mother's brother, and she was devastated when he died."

  I wipe the tears spilling down my cheeks—not because I’m sad over her uncle’s death, but because my face is on fire. "Did Penelope apologize?" I ask with a sniffle. Holy hell, this hurts.

  “No! She said she's sorry that my feelings were hurt. That's not an apology.” Jack grabs the torture stick of wax again, red in the cheeks. "She never apologizes for anything she does. All she says is, 'I'm sorry you feel that way.' Or, 'I'm sorry your feelings are hurt,' or she makes an excuse. I get that she's passionate about her art, but she needs to be considerate of other people's feelings."