by Mia Kerick
Who is this version of Seven Moreau-Maddox?
I don’t know who he is. But I like him.
I KNOW we’re in trouble when I see that Morning has not a single bag from a single store in her hands. Renzy looks at me with panic. He assumes she couldn’t find anything she liked and we’re going to need to look for another mall. That, or he’s picturing her going out, wearing nothing but a towel.
From the smug expression she wears, however, I’m quickly certain that the opposite is true.
“We need to get right back to the Duval Honeymoon Cottage Suite.” She speaks with such innocence. “I mean, we need to get back there, bientôt.”
“And why is that, ma jolie Matin?”
“I offered the salesboy at J.Crew five hundred dollars to deliver my bags to our suite.” She heads for the exit near the food court. “So get your pretty asses in gear, mes garcons, and maybe I’ll give you a fashion show tonight!”
Chapter Twenty-Four: Renzy
I THINK I’d be pretty okay if we packed the car and drove straight out of Missouri right now. We could go to the edge of forever. Where’s that anyway? California maybe? I’ve never been. We can settle down in LA or Hollywood and the Moreau-Maddoxes will become movie stars or models or whatever glamorous things impressively beautiful people like them end up doing with their lives.
I don’t know what I would do on the coast, but that’s no different than not knowing what I’m doing back home. I’m resourceful. I’ll find a way to make it work.
I’ve been trying to convey this plan to Seven all afternoon: No, we don’t need to go to the library. No, we don’t need to look any further into my mother’s past sins. No, I don’t care about Laurence and, God, no, we do not need to confront the ghosts in my head.
Let’s just drive.
Let’s charge up your parents’ card until we hit the limit. (Assuming there is one.)
Let’s smoke a little weed.
Let’s have a lot of sex.
Let’s just go.
But Seven is stubborn, and he won’t give up on this mystery, especially not after he sees the picture I drew last night. I shouldn’t have left it out on the counter, and the second he glances at the one of the woman with the missing face, I know California and its beautiful people aren’t going to happen anytime soon.
For a long while he walks around the cottage carrying the notepad, frowning at it like it’s a Magic Eye puzzle he can’t figure out. If he’d sit down, I could explain it—but he won’t stop moving.
Morning walks into the room, finally having settled on a wool dress with pleated skirt and leopard pumps I think might be meant for a runway. I say finally because she’s been in and out of the bedroom to change clothes five or six times. Each time she’d ask us our opinion and then ignore it. I liked the ’90s slip dress with the jean jacket. Very retro.
“That’s the hallucination Renzy’s been having,” Morning explains as she takes a seat on one of the breakfast nook stools.
I nod and tap my temple. Then remembering, I cup my ear as well.
“He’s seeing and hearing it,” she further explains to her brother. He sends her a withering glance.
“I am getting better at understanding him.”
“I’d hope so,” Morning mutters. “Helps if you actually understand the guy you’re sleeping with.”
“But it’s not a hallucination,” Seven says loftily and then quickly corrects, “Well, it might be a hallucination if it’s speaking to you, Renzy, but what if it’s a real person from your past?”
I shake my head—no, I’ve never seen her before. But then…
What about the voice? I’d be a total liar if I said I didn’t recognize the voice.
Duck and cover…
“It’s definitely ’80s,” he concedes, staring even harder at the picture. “I saw something… sort of… like this at Alexander’s.” He hesitates on the words “sort of,” and I get the impression that he’s reaching way out there. “Sort of like one of those old Glamour Shots things,” he continues.
“Didn’t you send me a link about Glamour Shots pictures from Buzzfeed one time? Ten Early Nineties Photography Disasters, or whatever?” Morning asks. “I still have nightmares about those photos. Absolutely revolting.”
Seven nods. “Exactly like that. This person in Renzy’s head, what if it’s a photograph he saw? What if he’s remembering a picture of the person instead of the actual person? That would explain the time-traveling.” A virtual light bulb comes on over his head and he practically beams. “I saw one of those pictures on the mantel at Alexander’s house. If I could draw worth a shit, I’d fill in the face.”
Oh, good. I thought he was just reaching. Nope, it’s like he’s casting a net in the junkyard and expecting to come up with piranhas.
“You could tell Renzy what you saw and he’ll draw it. He can be your boy toy and your police sketch artist.” She glances at me briefly, and impatiently. “In other words, Renzy, you can sketch the face.”
“And the sticker from the back of the car too,” Seven agrees enthusiastically.
They’ve been speaking so quickly and enthusiastically with each other, they don’t notice when I pick up the notebook and quietly tear out the page with the thing on it. It isn’t until I tear the paper in two that matching sets of wide, blue eyes turn toward me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Seven demands, lunging toward the paper I’m ripping again and again and again. I didn’t realize how annoyed I was until I hear that question.
What the hell do I think I’m doing?
Like I don’t have a say in this.
Like I don’t have a right to say no.
Like this is the Seven Show and I should butt the fuck out.
No way, man.
I’m not drawing her. I’m not drawing it!
They can’t make me.
Angry color stains Seven’s cheeks. “That was an important clue!”
Clue.
For our big mystery.
Right. Here we are: a little bit Hardy Boys, a little bit Nancy Drew, shaken up with Encyclopedia Brown, and maybe the goddamn Boxcar Children thrown in there for good measure. Except… oh, wait. No, we aren’t fictional characters on an exciting race to solve a mystery. We’re three kids skipping school. Mutey and his friends, the McWealthies, poking around in a mess that is none of our business.
No, not even mine.
I take the pad of paper and slap it down hard on the counter. Then I write.
Seven barely glances at my words. “Not until we get you better.”
Morning sighs audibly and rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to be part of this tired argument again. This place is supposed to have a masseuse. I’ll go find them while you two argue.”
It’s like Seven doesn’t even hear her, he just bears down on me.
“Don’t you understand I am trying to help you, Renzy?”
I give as good as I get.
I may like this guy a lot, may be starting to more than like him, even. And the way he holds me and touches me is everything I never knew I wanted. But I am not going to tolerate this “let’s fix Lorenzo” for one more minute. Not when—
“They did something, Renzy.” Seven’s voice is harsh, desperate almost. “I don’t know what. I don’t know how. But I know they did. Someone, somewhere, at some time, did something to you, and I’m going to use every resource at my disposal to make them pay for it.”
His eyes are burning with anger, but not at me.
No, he’s not mad at me at all.
He’s mad for me. I can’t remember anyone… ever… being mad on my behalf. Or sad on my behalf. Or happy. Or feeling any emotion for me.
As if someone’s pulled the plug, all my animosity drains, leaving me feeling tired and vulnerable.
“No one hurts the people I care about and gets away with it.” Seven’s smile doesn’t crinkle up the corners of his eyes. He reaches out and touches my cheek. “
Let me protect you.”
Jesus, Seven.
“Please?”
Doesn’t he know he needs some protecting of his own? I touch his cheek, as well, and nod. We’ll protect each other, I guess.
“Lord, I need a boyfriend,” Morning—who hasn’t quite made it out the door—says dramatically, and I glance at her. She’s smiling.
IT TAKES a while, but we reach an agreement. For the moment, I won’t sketch the woman—but I will sketch the parking sticker Seven found on the back of Laurence’s car.
I’ve never seen anything like the symbol and, of course, the initials don’t mean anything to me either. So Morning does a quick “hammer + lilies + saw” Google search and the top results were symbolism for St. Joseph. I sign a cross to Morning who nods.
“Good point, it could be for a church.”
“Yeah, but what does that do for us?” Seven asks, pacing the kitchen floor.
I scribble on the notepad.
Morning swipes in the search, but then turns the screen toward us. Nothing useful.
Seven nods and lets his head fall back so his gorgeous blond hair sweeps back from his forehead. I want to reach out and touch it, but I’m supposed to be pretending I’m interested in figuring out the big reveal in The Truants Book 1: Mystery of Renzy’s Probably Not That Interesting Past.
That does get us some results, but they’re in Columbia.
For a second Seven seems to perk up but then, as if a bell chimes in the distance, all of us look at one another.
Some church in Columbia?
What the hell are we going to find there?
Oh, hey, is Laurence Alexander a member of your congregation? Yeah? Cool. Um… do you know why I’m having hallucinations?
You were such a smart little boy, Ren-Ren! But tech-tech-technology has made you so gosh-darn stupid.
I startle and whip my head around, fully expecting to see it, but there’s nothing there.
The movement, though, alerts my friends and they stiffen a little, ready to help.
“What’s wrong?” Seven asks.
I tap my temple.
“You see her?” Morning is quick to jump in.
I shake my head and cup my ear.
All right, bitch, you want to talk? Let’s. Talk.
I close my eyes and concentrate on the sound of her mocking voice. It’s like cotton candy, wispy and sugary. Hearing too much, and it makes my stomach hurt just like I’ve overeaten. I don’t like it. I never liked it. Even in the hallway that day when the tornado sirens were going off, I didn’t like that voice.
“What are you doing?” Seven asks, but I raise a finger to my lips.
Taking the pencil and paper in hand, I begin to write. I’m really not sure how legible my handwriting needs to be for a hallucination to understand it.
Oh, Ren-Ren, you know who I am. I’m Mommy when Mommy isn’t around. I am the one who will take care of you.
Rude. You never were rude before. So polite in your knee socks and your little jumper. St-st-stuttering your “th-th-thank you, Miss.”
Missed me, missed me, now you’ve got to kiss me.
<7 saw you. Saw your picture. 7 knows you. He knows how to stop you.>
She laughs then, long and high-pitched. Her laugh becomes a set of scaling giggles, and I try to keep focusing. I can feel Morning’s small hand on my arm and Seven’s warmth behind me. He encircles me with his arms. I don’t know if they realize I’m drawing strength from them or if they just think I’ve lost my mind. Right now I don’t care.
Come here, Ren-Ren. Miss will take you to school today. Yes, it’s okay. I don’t need to say your daddy’s safe-person word, because you know me.
You know me.
Why are you crying, Ren-Ren?
Why are you crying? Why do you always cry? Why won’t you speak for me? I’m going to be your new mommy. Stop crying. Stop crying! Shut up, shut up, shut up or I’m going to do the bad thing! Don’t make me get the knife and do the bad thing!
My friends clutch me and only against their strength do I feel how hard I’m shaking. My teeth chatter, even. I want this to stop. I know if I open my eyes, she will be flickering there, faceless. I brought the ghoul to our cottage and now we have to leave.
Seven’s lips are on my ear. I feel his breath on my cheek. It’s warm and steadying.
There’s only silence and when I finally find the courage to open my eyes, I’m dizzy. My head lolls to the side, knocking lightly against Seven’s. The siblings wait, letting me recover from what I think they intrinsically know was a clusterfuck of a mental battle. I look down at the notepad. My words are skewed everywhere. Sometimes off the paper, sometimes I wrote over other words. It’s a mess. But I wrote her responses too. I didn’t realize I’d done that.
Tearing off the sheet, I write slowly and purposefully on the clean paper.
“Still at Montrose?” Morning asks slowly. “Did you leave early?”
I nod slowly.
“Why?”
I blink, thinking hard.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Seven
I NEVER thought I’d experience this sentiment, but Dieu merci for the stiff-with-hairspray high hair of the 1980s. I mean, the look is distracting and when I see images of it, on pictures of ’80s rockers or the babes that roller-skated past them, I must say I cringe with an uncomfortable blend of disgust and sympathy. But, in its own revolting way, high hair is memorable.
The image of it must have remained in Renzy’s mind since childhood, and it practically jumped off the mantel above the fireplace at me—tacky lime green frame and all—when we were in Larry Alexander’s living room.
Renzy is not hallucinating when he encounters her in his mind—he is remembering. In his silent world, all his other senses are sharpened. He sees more, he hears more, and, in general, experiences more at a fundamental sensory level than the rest of us.
I want to stop Renzy’s pain—to fix him—but it has become clear that to do this, we are going to have to dive even deeper into his pain and confusion. He won’t do it alone, and I rather suspect he’d prefer to cut and run than deal with it at all. So I will do it with him—for him if I must.
I realize I’m staring, so I force my gaze away from Morning and Renzy as they splash and play like two kids in the outdoor heated swimming pool cut into the hillside beside the spa building. The intellectual part of me is irritated—how can they laugh and frolic as if they’ve not a care in the world when absolutely everything is at stake? But there’s also the other, more disobedient side of me that wants to run, jump and, in midair, curl my long body into a cannonball that causes heated waves to wash over Morning and Renzy’s unsuspecting heads. All in good fun, of course.
“Come on in, grand frère! It feels like swimming in a warm cup of tea.”
Can that sopping wet grinning fool really be my sullen little sister?
The irritated part of me wants to scream, “I haven’t fixed you yet, young lady, so march yourself right the hell back into your surly teenage body and paste that hostile scowl back on your pretty face so I can do what any self-respecting savior would do,” but I continue to watch her goofy antics in brooding silence.
Renzy seizes my attention by clapping his hands and then gesturing for me to join them in the water. He’s grinning too.
How on earth is he able to let go of the evil woman with disturbingly enormous hair who is haunting him long enough to cut loose in this swimming poo
l?
“I’m fine.” I’m not fine. I’m feeling about as fucking disturbed as the mystery woman’s enormous and unnatural tangle of hair looks, and that’s saying something.
“I’m afraid that’s not going to fly, bro!” Morning glances at Renzy, who winks in response, and next thing I know two sloppy, wet sets of hands attach to my elbows, dragging me in the direction of the pool.
“What the fuck?” I yell, and to my horror, my voice cracks. Then I’m in the pool where an amused Morning is pushing water at my face and Renzy’s long, lean body is sliding into my arms and it feels good, so I decide I will obsess about Renzy’s big-haired stalker when I’m once again dry.
“OKAY, MES enfants, it’s time to put our minds on business.”
Morning and Renzy are still licking lunch from their fingers: foie gras terrine that we enjoyed as a pâte on toasted baguettes. The rich, buttery flavor actually took me back in time to a particular night at a street-side café on La Rue Lepic. However, it’s the foie gras that is memorable. I cannot recall my company that night. But I’m certain I shall never forget my lunch companion from today. The way Renzy gasped at what I assume to be his first taste of foie gras was delightful.
“You are a slave driver, frangin.” Morning rolls her eyes and takes the tiny shred of bread left on her plate and pops it into her mouth. Lately, she’s been eating, as the Americans are fond of saying, “like a truck driver.” This is another of Morning’s issues that seem to be resolving itself… without my help.
“Maybe so. But we need to visit some churches this afternoon.”
Renzy picks up his pad of paper and the pencil beside it, and looks at me in such a way that I know he wants me to describe the parking sticker I saw so he can sketch.
“To start with, the background looked like a stained-glass window. It was in shades of blue, not that you have colors but… and across the top was a handsaw… with lots of sharp teeth. Not too realistic looking, you know?”
I stare as Renzy goes to work, an almost glazed-over look in his eyes, like he is lost in this process. He looks at me for more detail.
