The Frenzy

by Francesca Lia Block

  I wanted Carl Olaf to kiss me, then. I wanted it because I didn’t want to be the weird girl without any friends. I was sick of being weird. My mother had never been weird. Beauty queens were not weird. Bridge club presidents were not weird.

  Carl Olaf pulled me behind the chicken coop. He told me that my lips were the reddest he had ever seen. I do have very bright red lips—it embarrasses me. “You’re not wearing lipstick, are you?”

  I shook my head no.

  He pulled me down into the straw and kissed me and I let him. I didn’t mind. I kissed him back.

  Then Carl Olaf put his hand up the back of my shirt. He hesitated. His fingers made their way around to the front. He let them linger over my breast. He pulled my bra to the side and stroked. He gasped. He pulled his hand away.

  “What the fuck,” he said.

  I jumped to my feet with my hands across my chest.

  “It’s true,” he said. “It’s true.” He was laughing. “Hairy teets!” He got up and staggered away, sniggering.

  I had a thin layer of downy, reddish hair on a lot of my body that had started growing when I turned thirteen. When I saw it I thought I looked beastly; no boy would ever love me. My mom took me for painful laser treatments to remove it but they hurt so much. Waxing and shaving didn’t last. Sherry Lee and Kelly Reddy must have told Carl. They were girls without even a trace of stubble on their smooth, tan bodies and they had roared with laughter when they saw me change my clothes in PE. Once they tied my hair to the back of my chair during math class.

  I suppose I am lucky that I didn’t have my period that night, that it was one night short of a full moon, that I was on Lexapro to quiet my anger, so that I didn’t try to attack Carl Olaf the way I had tried to attack my mother.

  But Carl Olaf was really the lucky one. At least that night.

  Something had risen up in me when he laughed. The animal smell of the barn grew overwhelmingly strong and seemed to have seeped inside of me. The heat of the bonfire where we had stood before now seemed to burn on my skin. I wanted to scream with rage and lash out at Carl with my nails and teeth. I knew these feelings had to do with what happened on my birthday the winter before, but I didn’t understand them. What I did know was this: This thing, whatever it was—it was inside of me and I knew I had to keep it there.

  Carl Olaf was lucky that night but not the next. The following night Carl’s father, Reed Olaf, was the first known victim of the full moon murderer, killed in the woods while he was out hunting deer. My father and his men never caught the killer. I felt terrible for Carl but I never got to give him my condolences because he always leered at me and called me names before I had the chance.

  As I was leaving the party on my bike, that night before Carl’s father died, before I had any sympathy for him at all, I saw by moonlight seven boys coming up the dirt road that ran through the cornfields from the town. The boys all had sleek features, dark hair and gold-colored eyes. One of them walked ahead of the others. He was the tallest and he had a fierce expression on his face. The best-looking boy I had ever seen.

  Something was wrong, I could tell; the boys seemed angry about something, or just very determined, in the way they walked so precisely, two rows of three behind the tall boy, shoulder to shoulder, trudging along the road. I was afraid of them but also drawn to them. I hurried past, trying to keep my head down, but I wanted to stare. When I passed by, I looked back. My face was burning with blood as if I were still gazing into the bonfire. The tallest, most beautiful boy had stopped in his tracks and fixed me with his golden gaze. I could feel him reaching inside me, illuminating the dark, hidden tissue of my brain with the flashlight of his mind. It hurt and felt pleasurable at the same time and I gasped.

  What happened? he asked me, without words.

  How could he do that? I wondered. How could I hear him? But just in case he could hear me, too, I thought back at him as hard as I could: I was shamed.

  He nodded as if he understood.

  Who was this strange boy and why was he here with the six other boys and why did he notice me? But I didn’t want to know the answers to these questions, not really. Somehow I knew that I shouldn’t go there, that it was dangerous. So I tried to forget about him.

  I rode my bike as fast as I could all the way home.

  When I got there I called Corey but I never told him what happened at the party. I was afraid he wouldn’t like me if he knew so I wrote about it in my diary later that night and left it at that. But just hearing Corey’s voice made me feel better, soothed.

  We hadn’t kissed or anything yet at that point. We just hung out in the woods and talked. Or sometimes we were just quiet for hours.

  We listened to music, too. Corey was always finding the perfect music for me, for us. I asked him to try to find something that would make me cry because I was sick of how numb the meds left me and even though I loved the carefully mixed CDs with names like Tears for Liv, they never quite worked. He brought me every version of Sia’s “Breathe Me” and that finally did the trick one night, even with the antidepressants.

  I didn’t even know how in love with Corey I was. It was more the way you feel about your eyes, or your hands. You just can’t imagine it being any different.

  We kissed finally when we were fourteen. I hadn’t really wanted to before, not after the thing with Carl Olaf and also that other thing. Meaning the thing with my mom and the wolf—whatever it was—that I didn’t like to think or talk about. I was afraid that what happened to me after I saw the dead wolf in the truck could happen again if … I didn’t know if what…. If I got angry, of course, but also maybe if I got too excited, or let myself go out of control. But at a certain point Corey and I couldn’t resist and we just kissed and nothing bad happened. It was so sweet and magical and natural, and I didn’t change in any bad way. I just started liking myself a little more and having more confidence. I guess I just felt more complete.

  Now, three years later, I touch Corey’s short brush of dark hair. I can almost feel it buzzing with growth under my fingers. I run my hands over his slender forearm, the well-formed slope of bicep with its delicate tracing of veins. His skin is smooth and very dark. I try to understand, but I don’t. I can’t understand why it would matter. Corey could have scales or fur and I would love him, but this is skin, beautiful skin. He smells musky and clean. Today he feels healthy, frisky but calm; I can tell. He stares out into the dark forest and then he looks back down at me. The almost-always-tense muscles in my neck and shoulders relax under his gaze. I know he won’t judge the length of my fingers, the way soft hair grows on my body. He doesn’t seem to mind anything about me at all.

  He tells me, “That’s love, Liv. When you accept everything about the other person.”

  I hope that he can accept everything about me, I really do.

  We were in the woods, just like this, when we saw the gray wolf.

  She came and stood watching us from the underbrush, her pale eyes glamorously lined and her muzzle quivering with information.

  The wolf population is very small. They are endangered, those wolves, and you almost never see them.

  Corey grabbed my wrist and we sat motionless watching her before she vanished into the woods again.

  “She reminds me of you,” he whispered. “Beautiful and wild.”

  When I looked back at Corey there was awe in his eyes.

  The day dissolved into evening around us. We were so mesmerized by the wolf and each other that it seemed we could not move from the spot, until it got very late. Corey kissed my neck and pressed his face against mine. We shivered. The night was coming and we would have to go home.

  When I stood up, Corey grabbed at my legs and wrestled me back to the ground. We rolled in the soft mulch and leaves caught in our hair. I pressed my face into his chest and tried to curl up smaller against him so I would never have to leave.

  How will we leave this place? How will we return home? When this is the only home.

  M
y mother looked up from the kitchen sink where she was washing the pots and watching American Idol. My dad and Gramp were watching the news on the TV in the living room. There was a TV in almost every room of the house and my parents usually left them on when they went out of the room—I was always going around turning them off. All I could see of my father was his ex-quarterback shoulders and the top of his dark hair. My grandfather was a little white head peeking over the top of the overstuffed floral sofa. I could smell corn dogs and coleslaw.

  “You missed dinner, hon,” my mom said. “Are you hungry? I’ll make you something.”

  My stomach growled in answer but I shook my head. “I’ll just get a sandwich.” I opened the refrigerator.

  “Wash your hands!” she said.

  I took out cheese, bread and mustard and laid them out on the table. I glanced at the cold cuts and shut the refrigerator door. I have to admit I crave meat but I am still a strict vegetarian.

  My mother was watching me. “You have leaves in your hair.”

  I reached up and felt the crunchy leaves, rubbed them until they disintegrated. The smell reminded me of Corey.

  “Liv,” my mother said, “where do you go? I hope it’s not the woods. We worry.”

  My dad turned off the sound and looked over at us. He was drinking his scotch. “Damn right,” he said.

  “Hi, Liv,” said Gramp. “How’s my girl?”

  I went over and kissed his cheek. “Good, Gramp.

  How are you?” He smiled like a kid and then took the remote and put the TV sound back on.

  “You didn’t answer the question,” my mom said.

  “I was at Pace’s.”

  She squirted more soap into the sink. She was wearing a flowered apron and high heels. She said it was good exercise for her calf muscles to wear them as much as possible.

  “Maybe you want to invite Pace to Gramp’s birthday party,” my mom said.

  I nodded and poured myself a glass of water. “Yeah, maybe.” As I lifted the glass to my lips I smelled my sleeve as surreptitiously as possible for a whiff of Corey’s scent still lingering there.

  “Liv?” My mother spoke eagerly, like she wanted to connect with me, bring me out of my daze.

  I tried not to sound annoyed with her. “Yeah?”

  “I found you a cute dress in the Nordstrom catalog. I want you to look nice for the party.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I was trying to be positive but I knew I wouldn’t like the dress she picked. I also knew I’d probably end up wearing it for her anyway. I took my sandwich and headed for my room.

  “Liv! What did I tell you about walking on your toes?”

  “I always walk on my toes,” I mumbled. I’d given up trying not to sound annoyed.

  “You’ll get shin splints. And put those jeans in the wash; they’re filthy.” I heard her sigh loudly as I closed my bedroom door behind me.

  Pace

  In order to hide my relationship with Corey from my parents I pretend to date Pace McIntyre. Pace looks just the way my parents would want my boyfriend to look. He is tall and fair and athletic, a football player, even. A lot of girls crush on him.

  I’ve known Pace since we were ten. Our mothers play bridge together and our fathers coach Little League. The first time I saw him was at a party at our house. He was standing by himself looking uncomfortable and cringing whenever an adult came up to tell him how tall and handsome he was or to brush his hair out of his eyes. We went to my room and he took a cassette tape out of his pocket and played me Tori Amos songs on my boom box.

  “You even look like her,” he said.

  Well, I loved him from then on and he told me he felt the same way about me, even though the only music I had to play him at that time was Britney Spears. But we were friends instantly; even before we knew the truth about each other we sensed that the other had a secret, although at least Pace actually knew what his secret was.

  Sometimes Corey, Pace and I hung out, too, but I knew it made Pace feel like the third wheel and it made Corey a little jealous so we usually didn’t. They weren’t really close—maybe because of how close I was to both of them—but they liked each other. And when I was with them at the same time I felt the best I ever felt—safe like I had my pack.

  Pace called me the night Corey and I saw the wolf. I could tell something was up with him. His voice sounded excited and a little out of breath. We talked about the usual—summer jobs and music and things. I was working at the ice cream parlor and Pace was a waiter at a quaint little café, with tiny flowers on the wallpaper and paintings of boats in carved wooden frames, where he served cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches with tea to little old ladies. We both tried to play our own music whenever we could get away with it but usually the managers didn’t let us. Both Pace and Corey were always turning me on to new songs and quoting lyrics and trying to decipher what they meant. Which was how I felt talking with Pace that night; he was being so cryptic. “You’re like a song by the National,” I told him. “All mysterious and shit.”

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I met someone.”

  I smiled into the receiver. Pace had been looking for a boyfriend for years. The reason he posed as my boyfriend was as much to hide being gay from his parents and the rest of our less-than-tolerant town as it was to keep my parents from finding out about Corey. He calls me Skirt and I call him Beard, although technically he isn’t really my beard but, as Corey says, my white beard.

  “Dude!” I said. “Scoop, please.”

  “Well, he’s not straight.” Pace always crushed on straight guys and it never worked out.

  “That’s a good start!”

  “Hottie,” he said.

  I laughed. “Naturally. What’s his name?”

  “Michael. It’s so weird. I was walking home and I passed that old house on Green?”

  “The Fairborn house?” It was a big, old Gothic place with gargoyles cowering under the eaves and years’ worth of old Christmas trees planted in the yard. No one had lived there in forever and it was a wreck, coated in dirt and cobwebs. There was a rumor that the teenage son of the man who built it had hung himself in the dining room. Once I snuck out of my house and met Corey and Pace for a midnight picnic under the fir trees. We took photographs to see if we could find ghosts captured in the shots but nothing turned up except the shadow of the pine needles.

  “Yeah. And there was a light inside. So I thought I’d check it out. It was unlocked and there’s this guy sitting at a table with a jar full of lightning bugs.”

  “Crazy!” I said. “Why was he there?”

  “He said he just really liked it.”

  That was like us—like Corey and Pace and me. We loved to explore places that we thought were haunted, like the old steel mill, a campus dorm called Ravenwood Hall and the cracked stone ruins—some partial pillars, steps and foundation—of the orphanage that had once stood at the edge of the forest. The owner was said to have gone crazy and burned it down with a hundred screaming children inside. We never found anything unusual there except that when we left there were tiny handprints on Pace’s Jeep.

  “Does he go to St. Paul?” I asked Pace.

  “No, he said he’s homeschooled. He just moved here.”

  I heard a click and my mom’s voice. “Oh, sorry. You’re on the phone? Did you get your homework done?”

  “I’m talking to Pace, Mom.”

  “Hi, McIntyre.” I hated when she called him by his last name; it sounded too coy and flirtatious when she did, even though a lot of people called him that and I knew she was just trying to be nice.

  “Hello, Mrs. Thorne.”

  “I don’t want to disturb your conversation but it’s getting late.”

  “We’ll be right off,” I said.

  She hesitated, then hung up.

  “Shit,” Pace said. “Why does she always do that?”

  I flopped onto my back on my bed and let my hair hang down over the side so that it swept the floor. “I told her I w
as with you today.”

  “What else is new?”

  “I know. I just forgot to tell you.”

  “I’ve always got your back.”

  “Same here. Tell me more about this guy you met.”

  “He’s just really cool. Not like anyone else. He asked me a lot of questions but he didn’t talk about himself at all. There was something really sad about him, though.”

  “You and I like those melancholy types, huh?”

  I knew him well enough to be able to hear the smile on the other end of the line. “How’s the boy?”

  I lifted my legs in the air and examined my feet. My toes have very slight webbing between them that had seemed to have become more noticeable in the last few years and I never wore open-toed shoes anymore. There were a few hairs sprouting from my big toes. I reached for tweezers.

  “Pace,” I said. “It was so cool! We saw a wolf today!”

  “A wolf?” I imagined Pace in his big room in his big house—an overdecorated Colonial like ours—wearing sweats and a T-shirt, his golden hair falling across his forehead. He let me comb his hair and sometimes

  I put mascara on his eyelashes. He’s as gorgeous as a model but it just seems to freak him out.

  “Yeah. In the woods. A gray wolf. A female, I think. She just stared at us and then ran away.”

  Pace is the person who knows me best. I want to tell Corey about the strange thing that happened to me when I turned thirteen but I’m afraid. It’s not because I don’t trust him; I trust him more than anyone. But if he got scared by what I told him and decided to leave me I think I would literally die.

  I went to Pace at dawn after the night of my thirteenth birthday and threw pebbles at his window. I stood naked and shivering behind a tree, not sure what had happened or why I was there at all. He came down carrying a blanket, wrapped me up in it, and we sat in his garden and talked while the sun rose bloody above the distant woods.

  I told him about my mother and the wolf, how angry I’d felt and how I’d run to the woods but that I couldn’t remember much after that. Pace listened and stroked my head and told me I was going to be okay but he didn’t try to force me to remember anything that was too scary for me. That was also the night he told me he was gay.