by Kim Savage
“Temple,” I whisper. “What the heck?”
“Ansel Carter is a beast!” you rasp, fingers around your throat now, massaging wildly.
I am sitting on the bed, doing nothing, and you’re too worked up to notice how odd that is.
“Who?” Because there is no other reply.
“He accused me of plagiarizing!” You storm around my room, and if your eyes were focused and you didn’t have a hurt throat you’d see your tennis racket sticking out from under my bed.
“Ansel Carter?”
“Yes, Ansel Carter! My English teacher? And you know how? Not because he’s comparing my essay on Poe to some other text. Oh no. He accused me of plagiarizing because he said it was too sophisticated for me to have written it!”
“But—you’re smart. Everyone knows you’re smart.”
“He doesn’t think so. He thinks I’m a math head who can’t write. Basically, he’s profiling me!” you say, crying with rage.
“He has to prove it. And he can’t, right?”
“Of course he can prove it. All he has to do is find the text I lifted it from.”
“Wait. What?”
“I said he just has to google it. It’s a matter of time.”
“You’re saying—wait. You’re saying you did plagiarize?”
“I was rushed. I’m so angry at myself, I want, I want—” You hold clumps of hair and stare into my mirror, like you might rip your hair out, or maybe rip your own head off.
“This is the kind of thing you get flagged for,” you rage on. “This is the kind of thing you get expelled for. This is the kind of thing you don’t get into college for.”
You drop your hair and lunge around the room, herky-jerky, muttering, “Stupid stupid stupid.” You’re scaring the crap out of me, and if I was hoping for a distraction from the mess I left in your father’s desk drawer and the bag of loot sticking halfway out from under my bed, then I got it.
I grab your shoulders and sink you down onto the bed. “It’s okay. Don’t be hard on yourself. You’re under so much pressure.” I search for the right words, something between a sitcom mom and the phrases printed on the Lululemon bags in the pantry. “Everyone makes bad choices. Humans are flawed. You’re human.”
You look up, biting your lip gently.
“Deep breaths,” I say.
You exhale long and hard. Finally, you say, “I guess everyone is flawed in some way, right?”
“Absolutely definitely yes.” It comes out fast, too fast, Jo. Creepy. Pull back. “And on the upside, you’re interesting. And incredibly fun. And a generous friend. These things count for something.”
You drop back onto my bed and I do the same beside you. Our heads are close, and your hair falls across my bare arm. It must feel good to have hair like that, brushing against your own arms, down your bare back, and against your cheeks, when you want to hide inside it. I lift a chunk of it and tickle your arm, and you laugh, and it’s a little bit of music.
“There are flaws that are worse than mine.” You say it like a fact. Or maybe a test.
“Of course there are.”
“You believe that?”
“I do.” This is the truth, and the truth causes you to snuggle against me.
“You know, after you left, I kept pictures of you in my room. I made myself look at them every day,” you say.
Yes you did, you poor thing. I’m starting to understand why you are so messed up. “Wasn’t that tough?” I say.
“That’s the point,” you say. “I was trying to feel something. But there was nothing.”
“I get that,” I say, and I don’t, but whatever. “I mean, there’s something weird about a person just vanishing. What are you supposed to feel?”
You laugh at the ceiling, deep and lusty. “You are empathy incarnate. You’re like an exotic pet.”
I don’t know how to take that, but you feel so good next to me, better than anyone has felt, even Wolf, whose heat was comforting, where your heat is exciting. You roll onto your side and prop yourself on your elbow. “I didn’t know how I felt about you being back. Now, I can’t imagine you gone,” she says.
I stare at the ceiling. How am I supposed to scramble down that fire escape now, when you are the closest thing to love I have? I can feel this very thing flashing across my face, and I am losing it, until you lean over and whisper in my ear.
“Just to be clear. I don’t regret that I did something bad. I regret that I got caught. I’m so much better than that.”
I snap my head to look at her, and we burst out laughing. Temple Lovecraft, you are dazzling. You grab my hands and play with them. “You make my life so much better. I wish there was something I could do for you.”
“Your parents took me in. I would have been with foster parents, probably, living in some sketchy home with twelve other foster kids. You and your family are doing everything you can for me. What else is there?”
You make a short disgusted snort. “My parents don’t do anything without getting something in return.”
“Most people don’t.” It was a Jo thing to say, but you’re on a roll and don’t notice.
“You disappeared at a time when people still remembered the story about the little girl who got kidnapped from the resort while her parents ate dinner. Unfortunate timing for Henry and Clarissa. Now they get to sweep in and make it right, be the parents who take in the girl they wronged, now an orphan. It’s like a freaking Dickens novel. It’s amazing how far a little goodwill will take you in this tiny town.”
“It was the right thing to do,” I say lamely.
“I’m not complaining. Mom and Dad are easier to deal with because they’re happy about the good buzz, for Dad’s business, and for the useless things my mother does. She’s back in standing with the Junior League; I bet you didn’t know that.”
“I did not.” I picture Clarissa Lovecraft in a baseball uniform, though that cannot be right.
“And there are other things.” You roll back over and run your finger behind my ear, and I freeze, because there are three earring holes in that lobe, faint marks, barely noticeable, a weak moment in Immokalee when I was bored with a pin and ice, and I’d be willing to bet Vivi did not have thrice-pierced ears.
“Other things like…?”
“It’s like we got to exhale when you came back.”
I pretend your touch tickles and squirm, burying my ear and its telltale holes in my shoulder. “Because of years of worry.” My voice cracks.
“Something like that.”
You stay in my room through supper, faking cramps, and I go along with it though I’m starving and really needed one last good meal. Mr. and Mrs. Lovecraft leave for “date night” and we watch Friends reruns on Netflix (reruns I’ve never seen, because: shed!) on your phone until I can’t keep my eyes open. Once I am sure you’re asleep, curled up like a ball with your sharp bum sticking out, I slide out of the bed, pull the bag out from under it, and head for the window.
I reach for the window sash, and there is Wolf.
He signals for me to raise it. I shake my head hysterically, mute, dropping the bag to the floor and kicking a blanket over it.
“The Last One,” he mouths. My mouth runs dry and I tell myself Wolf can be silent: silent is what he does best. I check your sleeping body, watch the rise and fall of your breath for three counts, before sliding the window open. I sign for Wolf to follow me out of the room, across the hall into yours, and he does this, at my heels, and I smell cold night air trapped in his clothes. I press the door to your bedroom shut with a soft click.
Wolf stalks the room. “So this is your new sister’s room?”
I whisper hoarsely, “What do you want?”
“If this is her room, then why was she sleeping in your bed?” he says.
“‘The Last One.’ You said, ‘The Last One.’ What do you know?” I say.
He looks at me, long and pained.
“Wolf!” I cry.
“I don’t ev
en know why I’m here.” He tries to push past, but I step in front of him. Jo is leaving tonight, and Jo needs to know what she’s up against out there.
“You’re here because you know the Last One will betray me,” I say. “Now where is he?”
Wolf draws his hand over his face. “Tell me why I should even tell you.”
“So I can be ready.”
“You can be ready at Tent City.”
I take his face in my hands. “I’m safer here.”
“You don’t need this family. I could keep you safe.”
My eyes fall to the photos of Vivi on the vanity. The changes Vivi has brought. A thriving charity. Social acceptance. Goodwill. Mr. and Mrs. Lovecraft might know I’m not Vivienne Weir, but they don’t care.
“Vivienne Weir is the only one who can keep me safe.”
“A dead girl?” he says.
“A missing girl,” I say, dropping his face and turning over his arms to check for new burns, and there they are, the puckers pink and fresh.
“I won’t put you in danger,” he murmurs, pulling his arms down and wrapping them around my waist. He presses against me, and what kind of mind-erasing place is this house that I’ve forgotten how perfectly Wolf and I fit together?
I finally understand his lie. “You’re not here because the Last One has come. You wanted to be together one more time.”
He covers my mouth with his before I can speak again, and I ache, an ache I hadn’t known was there but that had been building for days, and all night, on the bed with you, and I drop my head back to let him kiss my throat, thinking about your mouth. The door creaks open. I spin around and stagger away from Wolf. You stand in the doorway, roused from sleep, your hair mashed up on one side. Your eyes are glazed, and you shut the door behind you quietly, and when you turn, your eyes have sharpened.
Words rush to my tongue. Your unkind smile stops me cold.
“Tell me, Vivi. How did you manage to make a friend when you never leave the house?” you say.
“He’s not a friend.”
You raise a finger. “Aha! So, he’s a burglar. Bum who wandered off the street? Home invader?”
“I’m leaving,” Wolf says, heading for the door.
You step in front of him. “Oh no, friend. You’ll leave when I say it’s time. Otherwise, I’ll have to call Slade. And as Vivi knows, Slade needs things to do around here. After all, his only job is to protect his employers from their own daughter. When they’re asleep in their beds, and can’t protect themselves. Imagine what it’s like to be afraid of your own child?”
You take Wolf’s hand and my hand playfully and drag us to your bed, tossing us to the mattress like rag dolls while you lord over. “But it appears I’m not the one they have to worry about!”
“Temple…,” I start.
“Time for introductions!” you sing.
Wolf stands and you push him back down. He would never push a girl. Somehow you know this and use it.
“Sooo,” you say, sarcastic-chipper. “How do we know each other?”
Wolf starts to speak, and I run over his words. “We met while I was missing. He—he was kept. In the shed.”
Your eyes shine. “In the shed? Really? So the evil boogeyman liked little boys, too?”
I nod, flustered.
“Thank goodness you had each other!” You sway with your words. “And from the looks of it, you got to know each other pretty well. Missed each other, even. Had to make up for lost time. Tell me your name, Victim Number Two.”
Wolf looks to me anxiously. I look only at you.
“They call me Wolf,” he says.
“You’re beautiful, Wolf. Look at you, though! You’re perfect. That face. If I didn’t know your … situation, I’d say you were a hot, brooding English actor. Your life hasn’t made your face hard. Yet. Not so much for Vivi here. Life hasn’t been so kind to her.”
I shift in my spot on the mattress. Where are you going with this?
“You see how rough her hands are?” You grab my wrists and yank me off the bed and force my hands under Wolf’s nose. “And the white ridges in her fingernails? The gauntness to her cheeks: okay, I guess that’s gone away. We’ve been feeding her pretty well here.”
I yank my hands back and plead, “Your parents will be home any second. Wolf has to go.”
“Back to Tent City?” you say.
“What did you say?” I say it slowly. This is the end, oh yes it is.
“I’ve known you’re not Vivi since the moment we met. You’re a stranger to this family. Admittedly, the perfect stranger.”
Wolf stands. “We’re both out of here.” He walks toward the door, and this time you don’t stop him. He looks to me, frozen in place.
“You’ve known?” I whisper, falling back down on the bed.
“Of course I’ve known. And it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.” You lean to stroke my cheek. “I’ll give you anything you want if you stay. What do you want most in this world, Vivi?”
“Jo, now. Let’s go,” Wolf begs.
“Love? I’ll love you,” you say.
“Jo,” Wolf says.
“Security? You have it here. You’re safe with us. You aren’t safe on the streets,” you say.
“Temple,” I whisper, burying my face in my hands.
“Money? Comfort? We can give you all of it,” you say.
“That’s not it. I don’t…” I can’t say Momma, because Momma is dead, and she may have loved me but she was not good for me. I can’t say family, because the truth is, I would be happy with just you.
What do I want?
“Jolene!” Wolf cries. “This is the last time I’ll ask you. Are you coming?”
“I see.” Your smile spreads. “I’m already giving you what you need, aren’t I?”
Your eyes are pools and I see my tiny self inside them. I fit inside you and I bet you fit inside me. There is no more need for Vivi. I can be myself with you now, and this is not nothing.
Wolf roils with hate and pain. I know what he is going home to do, and there is nothing I can do about it and I am the cause.
“Tell him to go, Vivi,” you say.
“Jo!” Wolf says: a warning.
“Tell him!” you say.
I rise and go to Wolf, kissing him gently on the sharp jut of his cheek. “Please go,” I whisper into his neck. He pours a long look on me that I turn my back on, and I can feel it there, burning a hole, and my eyes fill with tears. We are still and silent, the three of us, but for my hitching sounds as I try not to cry. Wolf and I might see each other again, when we are older and freer and I don’t need what I need. I flash on our moments together, against each other’s skin, in the hot tent and the cold tent and under the stars, and I wonder if I ever really loved Wolf, or just absorbed his beauty while I could, the way everyone who uses Wolf does. Finally, the door closes, and I hear the distant scrape of a window being raised and the jangle of the shaking fire escape.
“For the record,” you say, coming closer, “we never buttered the cat.”
I steel myself and raise my eyes. “How did you know I wasn’t Vivi?”
“Because I know what happened to the real Vivi. Would you like me to tell you?”
“Yes.”
PART II
TEMPLE
“Boston, May 2010. Two girls, both nine. The streets are filled with wine-buzzed lovers. Packs of graduates having one last night out before everyone scatters. Expensive cars driven by European students heading to Newbury Street for drinks before going to the clubs. In her room, the mother sprays perfume that drifts in front of the cold fireplace where the girls sit in pajamas, bowl of popcorn at their feet, mollifying Disney show already on. It is a room the parents make excuses for: plastic covers a square in the wall, an unsightly hole made by their contractor. The parents are young and their lives are exciting. A new deal has been inked, a deal that means enough money to commence their plan of buying the empty brownstone for sale next door, gutting it a
nd expanding. They want to celebrate. They want to forget for a night that their nine-year-old daughter tries to control them by pitching a fit every time they leave her with a sitter. Fits that they joke with their friends about, leaving out the scratches and the bruises and the mortal threats.
“The friend keeps the girl happy. She is the daughter of European friends on the same block, quality people who do not parent like hovering aircraft the way American parents do. The girl is usually content with this friend: a meek, compliant girl who lives happily in the other girl’s shadow. The parents are optimistic. All week the sleepover was the carrot for good behavior. Sleepovers are supposed to be fun, not occasions for hysterics.
“The father’s heavy footsteps, oily fingerprints on his pants from the girl clinging to his legs, desperate for him to stay. Swears from the father, soothing words from the mother, a change of pants. She is nine, for goodness’ sake. The friend is used to the girl’s outbursts, but she is still embarrassed, and pretends to be deeply interested in the Disney show, her nose nearly touching the TV. The girl grows quiet, a slow, controlled burn. The mother takes away the popcorn: choking hazard. Phone numbers are left, promises are made to return early. They will be just one door over, visible from the window of Daddy’s office. They will request a seat on the patio, and the girls can wave to them from the window.
“Doors are locked from the outside. Behind the door, the parents exchange sighs of relief and hold hands. It will be fine. She cannot control their lives. They are good parents. They’re no farther away than if they were sitting on their own front steps and the girls were inside. Inside, the friend wants to play with their American Girl dolls, hers brought for the occasion, a little blond doppelgänger with hard cheeks. The girl has no interest. The girl walks to the father’s darkened office and stares out at the patio, at her parents being seated by a hostess, at her parents looking into each other’s eyes, and never once looking up and waving at the window, like they’d promised. The girl waits and waits and waits. The friend calls her to come, this is no fun, they can watch any show she wants. There is no specialness in this, of course, since the girl is always in charge of what they watch. The parents clink their drinks and smile at each other and touch hands, and the girl watches and grows cold. Inside her, the tiny flame that has burned dimmer and dimmer each passing year finally snuffs out. She turns away and glides into the kitchen on pale feet, big for a girl of nine. She will be tall.
